So this one-shot is an outtake for a fic I am currently in the process of writing based off the lives of Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow. I wrote this for PromptsinPanem, and I really enjoyed writing this/the fic that I will post hopefully soon!

The poem Katniss recites is an actual poem that Bonnie Parker wrote about her life on the run with Clyde. I just changed a few words around for this story, but all credit of that poem goes to her. And it's obvious the characters don't belong to me either.

Also for Rumor has It: I plan on updating this week. So no worries, I haven't forgotten it!

Please tell me what you think, and I hope you enjoy!

~Terri

The hot July summer sun blazes on our heads, Peeta's nose already turning a bright red from too much sunlight, as we make our way to the middle of the corn field for some peace and quiet. Our hands are linked⎯ Peeta holding a small basket of food we had managed to smuggle without anyone noticing and me holding a blanket and my journal. It is one of those days I read about all the time⎯ not a cloud in the sky, the humidity isn't too bad, making it bearable to breathe, and the slight breeze blowing past us allows the sweat that clings to my body to cool me down.

It's a perfect day.

We settle on a spot miles away from our get-away car, away from any prying eyes, and Peeta takes the blanket from me, offering up his services of setting up our picnic.

"Such a gentleman," I tease. I watch as he pulls open our checkered blue cloth, his muscles straining from his white undershirt that clings to him in all the right places, forcing me to have to turn away before I suggest we do it right here and now in the middle of this corn field. It wouldn't be the first time.

Peeta takes my hand and we sit down, never once letting go of one another, and I'm so grateful for that. After all these months of him behind bars I don't ever want to let him go again. He slices an apple for us to split, trying to hand feed me with his filthy hands, and I shoo his hand away, laughing at his persistence.

"Eat the apple," he laughs, climbing on top of me, shoving the apple in my face. "You know you wanna." My lips are sealed and I shake my head, the corners of my mouth lifting. "Oh, I know how to get ya..." he mutters darkly, leaning in for a kiss. Our mouths press together and a jolt of electricity rushes through me, so enthralled by the taste of his mouth, and I wrap my legs around his waist, begging him to go farther. It's been so long. So damn long.

Peeta's the one who breaks away first, his face covered in my lipstick, and I bite my bottom lip bashfully, looking up at him with as much innocence as a criminal can achieve. "You sure know how to take control," he breathes, running his hand over his mouth to wipe away the lipstick. My fingers run over the bulge in his pants, playing with his zipper and he shoos my hand away, telling me how we need to eat before doing any of that.

Propping myself up on my elbows I watch him go back to cutting pieces of apple, tossing me a piece here and there to see if I can catch it with my mouth. It's fun and silly and just what I need. What we need.

It's been a week since we succeeded in getting Peeta out of jail, and a week driving across the country to make sure there was no way a state cop could get him. I was so sick of being in a car, of having to be squished between Peeta and Finnick that I thought I was going to take my own revolver and shoot myself in the head to have the torture be over.

"What're you thinking of?" he asks, twirling a piece of dry corn stalk in his hand.

"Shooting myself," I mutter honestly, closing my eyes as I let the sun warm every sense of me up. "Right between the eyes."

"I don't like the sound of that." I can hear the frown in his voice, his disapproval, and I smile.

"I was going to shoot myself if we had to be in that small car for another minute." His body presses against mine as he lays down next to me, our hands finding each other's once more. "I can't think with all those people."

"We have to stick together," Peeta reminds me, running his hand through my curly hair. "Especially now that we're running."

I roll on top of him, pulling on the whiskers growing at his chin. "We're always on the run. Don't you get tired of it?"

He strains his head forward to peck my forehead. "Not if it's with you I sure don't," and his smile is so sweet, so young. It reminds me of when we were the two naive teenagers standing in Madge's kitchen. God that feels like eons ago. "I'd be content in jail if it meant you being with me," he jokes, and I hit him on the chest, pushing myself off him. "I was joking!" he laughs a loud boisterous laugh, finding my outburst of anger funny.

"It's not a joking matter!" I scream at him. "You know the cops are after us for hefty crimes, Peeta. Why would you joke about that? After all we did to get you back?"

"Hey," he says cautiously, walking toward me. "Hey," Peeta turns me around so we're staring into each other's eyes. "I would never be ungrateful that you saved me." His large, sweaty arms wrap around me, holding me, and we stand like this for minutes, just gathering strength from the other like we always do. He kisses the top of my head, asking me if he can see that smile he so rarely sees. My lips tug up on one side in a half attempt and he laughs, saying how that ain't a smile.

"I don't want to smile," I state demurely. Backing away from him I mention how the heat is making me lazy, tired. "I just want to lay here." I stretch myself out on the blanket, my journal propped open. "Let the sun swallow me whole if it wants."

He tells me he's going to practice some shooting over in the distance, so as not to startle me with the sound while I write, and I'm thankful for his consideration.

My journal is almost full, with papers shoved here and there in it, some pages torn from writing letters to Prim, and I stare at my small cursive, wondering what to write next. Peeta's gunshots are heard and if I strain my head up just a bit I can see him through the corn stalks. My eyes follow each bullet as best as they can, wondering how to incorporate the bullets into the poem I've been writing. I stare back down at the poem, rereading it under my breath, and a spark of inspiration strikes as Peeta shoots another practice shot in the air.

"What are you writing?" he asks me awhile later, dabbing his handkerchief across his sweaty brow. The afternoon sun is being brutal, my green shirt and navy blue skirt soaked in sweat, but up until he mentions how he wishes Illinois had more lakes to soak off in, I hadn't paid a spick of attention to the summer heat. I get like that at times when the writing bug strikes.

"Nothing," I sing-song, kicking my legs in the air like a little girl up to no. I scribble another line down, so happy that the words are flowing so easily. This poem's been writing itself since we rescued Peeta, and shyly I think, maybe it has more to do with the man sitting next to me than it does with the writer's bug finding me.

He pulls the journal from my hands, the pencil I was using causing a silver grey streak to run down the paper. "Nothing, ey?"

I try to get it back, reach for it as far as my arm will stretch, but he pulls it farther away, teasing how I remind him of some silly girl writing love poems. I snatch the journal back with more force than I intend and whack him in the arm with the blue book.

"They're not love poems!" I remind him, hitting him again when he starts to laugh. Sometimes Peeta can be the biggest pain in my life, making me wonder why I even decided to stick it out for him. I should have let him rot in jail. "Quit laughing!"

A few chuckles escape through his tightly shut mouth and I raise my journal in the air as a warning, saying I will use this again if I have to. "You have a .38 Colt Detective Special revolver, a pretty nice one at that, and you're gonna use a book as your weapon?"

I tuck a loose hair behind my ear and state haughtily, "I don't want to kill you. I just want you to shut the hell up about my writing."

He loosens my hand from its grip on the journal and gives me a gentle kiss on the hand. "I'm sorry I teased ya about your writing." I pull my hand away, refusing to let him win that easily. I want to see him beg for my forgiveness.

"Hmph!" I huff out like a child not getting her way. I scoot away from him, opening the journal to erase the stupid pencil marking.

"Come on," Peeta encourages, wrapping his arms around my waist and running kisses up and down my neck. "I said I'm sorry."

"Saying you're sorry doesn't mean a thing, Peeta Mellark."

"How 'bout you prove to me it ain't a stupid love poem?" he suggests after a few minutes.

I shake my head. "I don't have to prove anything to you. You either believe me or you don't." His arms leave my waist, his kisses cease, and the cool air blowing doesn't seem so comforting now.

"Please read me a poem," Peeta begs, putting his head in my lap now. I sigh, now tired of his childish antics. "Please?" It's hard to resist his crystal blue eyes and with his light blond hair hanging in his face in a disarray mess, it's nearly impossible to deny him a read.

"And you promise not to make fun of it?" I ask, making sure he keeps his word. My poetry is something I don't like to share with people. It's private. Always has been. "You promise not to tease me after hearing it, Peeta Mellark?"

"You're going to trust the word of a conman and thief?" The damn wolfish grin on his face makes me flick him in the nose, causing him to startle in my lap. "Ow! Alright," he relents. "I won't make fun of it, I swear."

"It's not the whole thing," I warn him. "I'm not finished, and you can't rush things like this. Words take time for some of us." He promises in the sweetest voice possible that he will be on his best behavior while listening. He swears it on his mother's grave, which doesn't mean much, but I clear my throat and begin:

"'Katniss and Peeta are the Mellark gang. I'm sure you all have read. How they rob and steal; and those who squeal, are usually found dying or dead. There's lots of untruths to these write-ups; they're not as ruthless as that. Their nature is raw; they hate all the law, the stool pidgeons, spotters and rats. They call them cold-blooded killers. They say they are heartless and mean. But I say this with heat that I once knew Peet, when he was honest and upright and clean. But the law fooled around; kept taking him down, and locking him up in a cell. Till he said to me; 'I'll never be free, so I'll meet a few of them in hell⎯'"

"Damn straight I will!" Peeta interrupts with a passion. "I'll meet those bastards all in hell!" I flick his nose for interrupting me, saying I'm not finished. "Sorry," he mutters in embarrassment.

I continue: "'The road was so dimly lighted, there were no highway signs to guide. But they made up their minds; if all roads were blind, they wouldn't give up till they died. The road gets dimmer and dimmer, sometimes you can hardly see. But it's fight man to man and do all you can, for they know they can never be free.'" I close the journal, a soft thud coming from the flimsy pages, and let my words settle between us.

Peeta looks up at me and I look down at him. The small glint in his eye makes the butterflies flutter about my stomach, and I wonder what he thought of the poem.

"It's not the greatest thing..." I remind him when he doesn't say anything for the longest time. "It's more of a rough draft, really. And I know I'm not going to be the next Emily Dickinson or anything..." To avoid his eyes I pick at the bits of dirt stuck to his undershirt, nervously biting at my bottom lip. "So, um, what'd you think?"

"I think..." he drawls out, pulling the book from my hand and flipping through the pages. My heart starts to pound and it's so foolish to feel this way because it's Peeta and why should I worry what he has to say? But it's because it's Peeta that makes me so nervous. I want him to like it. "I think you're on your way to winning one of those book prizes they give to smart people."

The smile I give him almost cracks my face in half it's so wide. I lean down and give him a soft kiss on the lips. "You really think my poem is that good?"

He sits up. "This journal," he holds my blue bound book out, "this journal is probably worth a hundred dollars."

A blush creeps up. "I don't think my thoughts and poems are worth that much, Peeta," and I try to take the thing from him. "I don't think they're worth anything at all."

Standing up, Peeta flips through my journal and whistles with approval. "You sure, because I sure think so. You got some gift with words."

I think we have our roles reversed on who's gifted with words.

"It's really not that great, Peeta..." He's starting to embarrass me with his compliments.

"You know," he says with such enthusiasm that I look up at him, now towering over me since I'm still on the ground, "I bet one day we're going to be famous! Everyone talking about us from all over."

"We already are," I remind him, standing to get my journal. "People talk about how terrible we are all the time.

He grabs me by the waist and pulls me in, murmuring in my ear, "Well I want them talking about us in a better light."

"What if I don't want people talking about us?" My voice is shaky, breathless at the knowledge at where his hand is going. "What if I want to be invisible to everyone? What if I'm tired of being headline news?"

"I thought you wanted adventure."

"I do, but people have adventures all the time without making the news, Peeta. Why can't that be us?" I pluck my journal from his hands and step away, straightening my skirt. "I want an adventure that doesn't involve the damn cops making lies about us."

"You're worried about what Prim thinks about us, right?" he asks, and it's the most obvious answer in the world that I don't even bother answering him. "Right. Well, your journal tells it how it is. That poem tells it how it is. You publish that and the phones will be ringing, begging for them movie rights."

I look down at the blue book⎯ a coffee stain in the corner, the blue cover faded and beat up from travel⎯ and wonder if someone besides Peeta would enjoy my thoughts. It all seems so ridiculous and strange. Why would anyone care about what I thought? "I doubt anyone would care about two criminals, Peeta."

He cups my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him, and I have to squint to see him the sun is so bright. "We're as famous as Al Capone, hon. People want us dead, and if that's not a feeling then I don't know what is."

"Doesn't mean they want to read my lousy poems," I scoff, a small laugh leaving from embarrassment. "They'd just rather see us lynched."

"I'd shoot anyone who tried to put a rope around your neck." Lynching is nothing to be taken lightly, but I don't want to think about that right now. It's too serious, and just for one moment can I not have to think about running from the law?

"You always do try to be the black knight, don't you?"

"Nice boys bore you," he chuckles, and I really can't argue with that because it's true. "And you're not too nice yourself, Miss Everdeen." We kiss, and I mean really kiss for the first time in months⎯ his lips warm from the sun, dry⎯ and I laugh when we pull away, his lips as red as mine. "You're talented, Katniss. Your writing, it deserves to see daylight."

"Maybe one day," I lie, pulling him closer by his suspenders that hang loose by his denim pants. "Until then, though..." I bring his mouth back to mine. "How about we enjoy this time alone, forget about writing and cops..." I give him a long kiss, never wanting to let him go, pulling at his bottom lip until he gives me access to the inside of his mouth. Peeta pulls me into his arms, my legs wrapping around his waist, as we deepen our kiss. Our weight buckles down, both of us collapsing onto the blanket, and he pulls my shirt off, squeezing at my breasts until a moan escapes into his mouth. It's been so long. So terribly long since we've had the chance to get this close, and the hunger inside me, the fire I normally have to keep squelched in fear of becoming so overwhelmed with emotions that I can't think anymore ignites.

"You should write a poem about this," he breathes into my neck, sucking at my pulse as it quickens at his touch.

"I do," I hum with pleasure. "I do. Every night."

His hand slips into my underwear and I gasp when I feel his finger push in, making small, quick circular motions. "I didn't see any mentionings of them when I looked through that journal."

I can't think. I don't want to think, but Peeta's conversation is forcing me to be present, focused. "I think of this all the time," I tell him, squirming underneath. "I think about us being alone a lot, and that's far too much for a simple journal to handle." I don't want to talk anymore and crush my lips on his again, forbidding him to speak.

Just as my hands fumble to his jeans the gunshot is heard. Peeta's head snaps up, now on alert. I try to blow it off, tell him it's just the guys messing around with us, but Peeta's jumpy when it comes to gunshots, takes them as a serious sign that danger is near.

"We gotta go," he hurries, pulling his shirt back on. "Come on!"

"It's nothing," I beg, pulling him back to me. "It's nothing, Peeta. It's just Finnick." I kiss him, trying to make him stay. "It's just Finnick."

"He wouldn't shoot his gun for nothing. Someone's coming and they need our help."

And just like that our quiet afternoon together is ruined.

I sigh, watching him run back to the car, back to the gang, and I wonder as I put my shirt back on why I bother with him at all. Why I write poetry about our adventures, or why my heart quickens when I see him. Why do I put up with this dangerous life when I could be with Prim, safe⎯homeless⎯ but safe? I could just run, head straight to Canada where no one knows me, but then he turns around, nearly a hundred feet away, and I hear him whistle our three note call. My heart tugs at the sound. I know we're both in too deep, that there is no turning back, and I gather up our small picnic and run back to our reality, to our life of crime.

I might not ever publish a single poem or thought, but one thing is certain: Peeta Mellark and I are definitely infamous for our crimes and there's no changing that now