The wind that forcefully blows my hair from its braid is cold. I don't feel it, though; not really. I'm much too focused on the weight of the bow in my hands. Holding the weapon has never felt heavier or more foreign than it does in this very moment.

Peeta's hand has just left its spot in the crook of my elbow, but I can still feel the ghost of his touch. I turn my head just slightly to the left and see him standing there by my side. Or maybe, judging by the cloudy, haunted look in his eyes as they sweep over the scene before him, it's the other way around. It's hard to tell at this point, and I'm okay with that.

Through all of this, and the years before if I'm being honest, I've always treated our support of one another as a tradeoff of sorts. It took years to come to terms with the fact that not everything is based off repayment of debt. It was hard for me to accept the fact that he would be there for me simply because he wanted to. It's become much easier since I realized that I wanted to always do the same for him.

So when his eyes catch mine, I reach out and lightly grasp the tips of his fingers with my own. The watery half-smile, half-grimace that I give him hopefully tells him what I want it to.

Thank you. Thank you for allowing me the privilege to stand by you. Thank you for standing by me. For understanding what I have to do.

I swallow hard and blink away the unwanted moisture that's starting to collect in my eyes.

Looking to my right, I see Johanna; legs shoulders-width apart, her hands clasped behind her back. She doesn't look at me. Instead, she focuses on the man bound a few yards ahead; the man who stole everyone that she loved from her. She's working hard to seem calm, but I can see the tensed muscles, the clench of her jaw where she's gritting her teeth, and the pure and utter contempt that she radiates from where I stand.

Maybe she'll be the one to actually do it. Maybe she'll be the one to kill him. She should be the one to do it.

Standing only a few feet away from Johanna, Finnick causes me to briefly re-think my decision. War has not been able to dull his physical allure. Now, even covered in sweat and grime, with his bronze hair plastered to his forehead, he is still beautiful. At the moment, this beauty only serves as a reminder of the life he was forced into. The life that he kept up in order to protect those that he loved. Finnick Odair and I both know the importance of security.

Maybe he'll be the one to actually do it. Maybe he'll be the one to kill him. He should be the one to do it.

The crowd gathered beyond the verandah is made up mostly of dirtied, weary rebellion soldiers. Mixed into masses however, I spot Prim, leaning heavily on Rory Hawthorne. Haymitch stands behind them, his eyes demanding my attention. I can't give it to him right now, though.

I can't give it to him because when I look at my baby sister and the boy she clings to for support, all I can see is the 14 year old Gale that I met in the woods only months after we'd lost our fathers. The boy with the snares who'd helped in keeping my family alive. The boy who would eventually become the man that saved my little sister's life.

Primrose will never be the same. The bandages that obscure one side of her face will eventually come off. The scars that they leave behind though, will more than likely remain as a constant reminder that someone tried to take her from me.

I swallow hard and try not to think of his grey eyes and the way they would crinkle at the sides when he laughed. We had grown apart since Peeta's homecoming, of course, but his final act will forever serve as a reminder that Gale Hawthorne loved me enough to save someone that he knew I would fall apart without.

If Snow were truly to blame for that bombing, I would be the one to actually do it. I would be the one to kill him.

I lock eyes with him. It's only for a moment, but that's all that it takes. He knows that I won't be the one to do it, and the look on his face that borders on smug is almost enough to change my mind.

I think of his cold, dark eyes on me as I danced with Peeta during our stop here in the Capitol on his victory tour. I think of that secluded, dark hallway where he confirmed my fears about his plans for my best friend. I think of the bouquet of roses delivered to our house the day after our engagement. I think of my name in that reaping bowl and how that tiny slip of paper condemned not only me, but Prim, as well as everyone else that I love.

And then I think of how the man in front of me, while far from innocent, no longer serves as the biggest threat to the well-being of Panem.

"Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Mellark. I was wondering when you would manage to find your way here."

Adjusting the bracer on my forearm, I can hear Snow's low, raspy words from earlier in my head.

The small pruning shears in his hand when we found him, around the corner of a row of pristine white roses, had been cause for me to panic. I practically threw myself in front of Peeta, causing the old man to laugh. He knew why we were there; knew that death was imminent and coming for him soon. And he actually laughed at me.

"Now, now, Katniss. Always so quick to protect. We both know that I'm not a man of physicality. Were anything to happen to you, or Mr. Mellark here, it would never actually be by my hand."

Reaching over my right shoulder, I pull an arrow from the quiver that hangs there.

"Tell me, though... Do you trust her? My soon-to-be successor."

I adjust my stance; legs shoulder-width apart just as I was taught all those years ago. Just as I had taught Gale to stand during our lessons in the woods. I allow my eyes to flicker upward. Coin is watching the crowd with a cool look and I note that even in this wind, the line of her hair lifts around her chin, but never breaks.

"I know for a fact that your father didn't, Mrs. Mellark. That is, of course, beside the point, however. I heard news of your cousin, and wish to offer my sympathies."

Nocking the arrow, I curl my fingers around it securely. It rests in the well-formed indention between my index and middle fingers, and I think of how proud my father's voice sounded when he had shown me the similarities that had formed between our hands.

"You know, I was just about to issue an official surrender when they released those parachutes."

He had paused, taking the time to note how Peeta's hands clenched tightly at his sides and the way that my head shook slightly from right to left.

"You didn't think that I had anything to do with that, did you? Though I must admit, it was a masterful move on Coin's part. Who would stand up in my defense if they believed I was bombing my own helpless people?"

I raise the bow, drawing its string back as I go. The string grazes the side of my cheek and I remember Prim watching me practice; watching as I found the anchor point that worked best for me. When she had asked if I was scared to hold the weapon so close to my face, I told her no. A moment later, she confessed that she would be afraid of getting hurt. The memory of telling her that I understood, that her sweet little face was far too pretty to risk injury, causes an ache in my chest.

"My failure was being so slow to grasp her plan. To let the districts and the Capitol destroy one another while her precious 13 remained almost fully intact. Make no mistake, it's always been her plan to take over; to take my place. She played it perfectly, using the inhabitants of this room as distractions for one another."

With my left eye closed, I inhale deeply. As I take aim at the rose that's been pinned directly over his heart, I look at his face once more. I search the eyes of the man who has made all of our lives miserable, an absolute living hell, for as long as I can remember. He coughs and when several drops of blood appear on his lips, his deteriorated state serves as a reminder that he will be dying soon. With, or without my arrow.

"She fears you; more than even I did. Surely, you must know this. She's been living, hidden underground for years while the rest of the country has fallen in love with the two of you. She has much more to lose now, of course. And I do fear the lengths that she'll go to in order to assure her position as this country's leader.

The corner of his lip twitches into an amused expression and I don't blink as I shift the point of my arrow upward and release the string. I watch as Coin's body falls to the ground. The second of complete silence just before the chaos is nearly deafening.

My trial, something that I spent my time during, in a cell that was too quiet, and too calm in comparison to the noise in my head, is over two days later. I'm to return to what's left of District 12. I'm not to leave.

When boarding the hovercraft that will take me home, I have to be sedated once I realize that the only person with me is Haymitch. I claw at his arms, my voice raw and wild, demanding to know where Peeta is; where my mother and Prim are. My voice fades out as I can no longer resist the pull of darkness that's invading the edges of my vision.

A week passes before mother and Prim come home. Their arrival is a surprise to me; Haymitch never mentioned it.

Of course, I'm not sure that he's even set foot in this house since he left me sitting by the empty, stone fireplace seven days ago. The first week I've ever had, that anyone has ever had, without the underlying threat of the Capitol, and I've spent it alone.

Before he disappeared for a week, Haymitch did manage to explain to me that the doctors had thought it best for the others to all stay behind for a bit. Prim, I understood. Surely they could do something about the scars she was bound to be left with. I thought of my husband's bare torso that night a lifetime ago, completely free of the scars from both his mother and the arena. Maybe they could do that for her.

Peeta, though... My mind had immediately jumped to the last time that I saw him; his fingers wrapping around my wrists as the grey uniformed men had closed in around me. It was loud then, so impossibly loud. I couldn't hear him, but I could see his lips forming my name.

Had he been hurt? What had they done to him?

My mouth had just barely opened to start my inquisition when the not quite as much of a drunk as he used to be held up his weathered palm. He ventured on to say that surely I had not failed to notice the fact that my husband was no longer the 16 year-old that his prosthesis had been fitted to. Adjustments were needed. The Capitol hospitals are the finest, and he deserves nothing but the best. I nodded to him, not trusting my voice at that moment.

Just hours ago, when the front door had swung open and I'd heard the sounds of mother and Prim, I'd let my hopes get the best of me. While I could only discern two sets of footsteps, I still held my breath in anticipation that Peeta's uneven tread would soon join them.

They arrived alone.

My mother had hugged me tight, her breath catching in her throat as my fingers clutched at her back. Prim knocked the air out of me all together when she threw her arms around my torso. Leaning back to get a good look at her face, I sighed in relief. While still visible, the scarring was nothing compared to what I had been expecting.

Solitude does strange things to a person.

I've spent the past week wondering why I haven't heard from him. I checked the phone in the house, wondering if maybe the bombing had taken out the lines. It was entirely possible, but the dial tone that I heard proved that theory wrong. I even went as far as dialing Haymitch's number; hanging up when he finally answered, even though I'm sure he knew it was me.

The first night alone, I slept wrapped up in the blanket from our bed on the floor of the living room. I fell asleep imagining that he was there with me. The second night, I imagined him lying in a hospital bed; him picturing me there with him. When the days started to pass with still no word, I started seeing him merely wondering how I was doing. Eventually, during what was probably the fifth or sixth night, I started to question if he thought about me at all.

Maybe the pain of being back in District 12, with the ghosts of his family and friends was too much. Maybe his new family, me, along with my mother, Prim, and Haymitch, wasn't enough. I know that Peeta loves me, but maybe it's not enough to trump those things.

Regardless of the way that mother and Prim have tried to assure me that they were certain he'd be on his way soon, I can't help but doubt them. So now, as I'm huddled here on the couch that doesn't seem as large and empty as the bed upstairs, I close my eyes tight at the thought that's currently plaguing my mind.

Maybe he isn't coming back.

When I answer the phone, I discover that I've never been more glad to hear Effie Trinket's voice. When she skips right passed the pleasantries, I realize that the woman on the other end of the line has grown to understand my ways, and how I work. The thought that the former District 12 escort has managed to weasel her way onto the short list of people that I actually care for is something that 16 year-old Katniss would have never expected.

"The phone lines here haven't been very reliable, otherwise I would have contacted you sooner, you see. There were several adjustments needed on the new prosthesis that the doctors originally overlooked. Then, of course, there were the therapy sessions," she informs me in her clear, concise voice as I nervously wrap the phone cord around and up my forearm. "But there's a train coming into 12 today, dear, and I think you should be at the station when it comes in. 3 'o clock."

She waits for the sound of my shaky exhale, insuring that I'm still here, before continuing.

"I suggest you wear something pretty, dear. It's going to be a big, big, big day!"

With that, she hangs up, and all I can do is stare at the receiver and smile.

I'm standing on the platform, half an hour early, in a dress that I talked myself out of wearing half a dozen times before remembering the way that he looked at me when I wore it last. I remember the way that his fingers had splayed across the bare skin of my back that night; just after he'd proposed and I dropped to my knees to kiss him. I can't wait to feel that touch again.

The minutes pass slowly, but I'll wait forever if I have to.

The train whistles in the distance and suddenly, I'm in the same place I was almost two years ago. There are no cameramen today, and the crowd is also missing, but I'm still here, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. My hands are shaking and no amount of deep breathing will be able to calm my heart rate.

I watch as the train slows to a stop, the sound of its air brakes making me jump a little. Obviously, the last time I waited for him here, the crowd had managed to drown the sound of them out. My muscles stay tensed until the hiss of the train car door opening causes me to take an eager step forward.

This time, there is no district escort to announce his arrival. As he comes into view, for a split second, I see the boy that returned home from the 74th Hunger Games. I see the dark circles underneath his eyes and the obvious signs of weight loss. I see the limp in his walk...

But then he smiles, a grin that stretches from one side of his face to the other, and when I blink, the boy is gone. The man descending from the stairs in front of me has the same smile, though.

My cheeks start to twitch, and I realize that I'm smiling, too. We, essentially, have all the time in the world now. This doesn't stop me from breaking into a sprint and throwing my body against his, however. My arms are around his shoulders and he lifts me from the ground. Unable to speak quite yet, I nuzzle my face into the crook of his neck.

When I say that he smells like home, I do not mean that he smells like our house in the Victors' Village. He smells the way that he always has; warm and comforting and so familiar that my throat closes up when I think of how much I've missed it.

He pulls away, letting his forehead rest against mine for the briefest of moments before my mouth finds his. Our lips move against each other for an indeterminate amount of time, my hands cradling the sides of his face while his run through the length of my hair and on downward. When his fingers meet the flesh left exposed by the design of my dress, I feel the corners of his mouth lift into a smile.

We separate, only so that I can run my fingertips along the planes of his face. I watch as he closes his eyes, now rimmed in red and watery. His Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows hard, and I lean forward to place a kiss on the side of his throat. I pull away, but remain in his arms and still close enough to feel his breath on my face.

Before I can stop myself, I say the first words that pop into my mind.

"I almost thought that you weren't going to come home."

An image of a girl in her mother's faded blue dress saying the exact same thing to a boy with a lopsided smile on his face comes to mind.

Peeta smirks and brings his hands up, resting one on each side of my face. I bite the inside of my cheek and try not to grin when I realize what's coming next. He closes the distance between our mouths once more and playfully pulls my lower lip between his teeth. A second later, his breath is hot on my ear and I can't figure out if it's my heart or his that I feel beating hard against my chest.

"Well, then you're a dummy."

The End.

Author's Note: I want to thank all of you that have taken the time to read, review, favorite, or put this story on your alerts list. You have no idea how much the support that it's gotten has made me feel. I'm so sorry that it's taken me as long as it has to bring Maybe It's Just Me to a close, but I hope that you've all enjoyed it nonetheless.