Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Summary: And, really, it would be so easy to kill him, this baker with the soft hands and even softer eyes. PeetaClove, set during THG, oneshot

Sometimes, I really don't know where I get these ideas from, lol. Well, I guess it would be all of the time. I just was thinking about odd, rare pairs for The Hunger Games, and this one was the first one that popped into my head, for whatever reason. So, here this fic is! I hope that y'all enjoy!

Loverboy

Peeta Mellark infuriates her.

She isn't sure what it is about him that just really gets underneath her skin, simply because there are so many things about him that just make her want to go berserk and run one of her precious knives across his throat.

Clove could name many reasons why she just cannot stand the tribute from District 12. There are so many that she believes she might just need to write them down from time to time, just to keep track. A new one pops up every now and then, and it seems almost negligent to not keep track of them all.

As if it wasn't bad enough that he and his star-crossed lover were all over the Capitol's screens, broadcast all over Panem as the darlings of this year's Games. No, that wasn't the worst thing that could happen, apparently.

He had to come and integrate himself into the faction formed by herself, Cato, and the other two idiots she had to keep company with.

Aligning himself with them...it was fishy, Clove gave it that. But if he could lead them straight to that Everdeen brat then it would be worthwhile. So, against all logic that was screaming at her that it was a trap, she had relented and allowed him to join forces with them.

Ridiculous.

Clove figured at the time she could ignore him up until the moment where he was killed by either Cato or herself - or his own damned stupidity.

But this...it couldn't have been harder.

Patience has never been one of Clove's virtues. She was never the one to wait and wait and wait until something falls in her lap. She finds it increasingly difficult to just wait until this fool brings them the Girl on Fire on a silver platter. It does seem too good to be true, but Clove can't help but want it to be.

Everything about him annoys her. From the way his fair hair sits on his head to the way his eyes are still so kind when he talks to them. From the way his shirt sits on his form to the way his footsteps are so damn loud. She swears he still smells of his bakery, despite the fact that it has been so long since they were all uprooted from their families and planted in the Capitol.

She thinks that maybe Peeta can sense her hostility towards him. That maybe he isn't as clueless as she had originally thought. But admitting that would be admitting she had been wrong about him in the first place. And Clove is never wrong.

As they walk through the surrounding forest, Clove ponders all of these things with an increasing sense of rage boiling in her veins.

He tells them where to go, where to find the elusive Katniss Everdeen. Clove wonders if he can hear the strange quiver in his voice when he says her name. She wonders if Cato can pick up on this clear tell. But she knows how Cato is - determined and mindless in his quest.

Determined and mindless often lead to careless.

Clove reminds herself of this as she walks side-by-side with Cato. Marvel and Glimmer trail behind them. She can hear Peeta's voice - soft and smooth even as he discusses the potential location of his love.

She denies the urge to gag.

Clove finds that she keeps her knives with her constantly even now. Especially now. There is no telling what horrors lurk in this arena, no telling what kind of death the people at the Capitol have produced for their own amusement. The feel of danger thrills her, makes a place deep inside of her sing a chorus of chiming pleasure. She knows all too well the fact that even the most insignificant things can lead to death, and she plans to dodge them all.

This is another thing that leads her to believe that Peeta has been ridiculously sheltered in his life. This is where her views of Peeta and Katniss differ. There is a certain look to Katniss that makes her believe that she has lived the hard life. Her thin, almost wasted appearance, and the haunted look in her eyes are telltale. Most people are disturbed after the Games are over, and yet Katniss had looked like she had been on the way there even before she volunteered for her sister, steely gaze determined and her voice certain.

Peeta, on the other hand, looks like he hasn't seen a hard day in his life. Sure, living in District 12 must do a number on the residents there, but Peeta doesn't seem like it gets to him. At all. The only time she's seen him distressed was when he was Reaped, and in the still moments in which she and Cato discuss his counterpart's demise. He probably thinks he's showing no emotion, betraying nothing of his feelings for her, but Clove can blatantly see the pained shadow that falls across his face when she flippantly says she wants to make the Everdeen girl suffer.

Clove tries to rid the images from her mind. Spending too much time thinking about Peeta Mellark is dangerous for reasons she just cannot figure out. There is nothing overtly malicious about his presence. Nothing at all. And yet her mind tries to reach out, to pull her from these potentially damaging thoughts. As if, in the dark recesses of her brain, there is a part of her that knows this man could somehow be detrimental to her...

But she just doesn't know how.

She just keeps walking, the weight of one of her knives comforting in her hand. The woods are unbearably quiet, the sound of an occasional bird being the only thing stirring the silence.

"Clove," a voice calls out. She recognizes it to be that irritating, familiar voice. The tone was soft and calm and almost soothing.

She turns to face him, glaring daggers at him for even daring to address her. For reasons unknown to her, the way he says her name makes her feel...strange. Not angry, not insane with rage, but...odd. Not quite right.

Clove looks at Peeta, studies the way the sunlight breaks through the leaves in the trees and dances on his hair, making it look lighter. She can only imagine what it would look like soaked in his own blood.

He's holding something out to her, a shining object in his hand. Something that brings death as easily as it protects.

One of her knives.

A spike of white hot anger strikes her chest. "What are you doing, loverboy?"

He looks at her as if clueless, his light-colored eyes large in his face. The knife in his hand looks wrong somehow, Clove notes. The very sunlight glinting off of Peeta's hair makes the knife wink at her, as if in conspiration. It is ironic that the very thing that can make that fool look practically angelic can also make the knife look even more menacing.

"I think you dropped this," he says, unperturbed by her snappish tone.

Clove bristles. She is not that careless, but that is her knife.

"Maybe you took it," she accuses, feeling the need for a fight beginning to buzz through her blood. Clove steps forward; not even the twigs snap beneath her light tread. She's staring up at him, studying him with her dark eyes, noting that she can see his jugular so very easily through the thin skin of his neck - and, really, it would be so easy to kill him. But before she can even formulate that thought, she snatches the knife from his hands, the moment of hesitation unnoticed by anyone but herself. Their fingers brush with the contact, and she almost revels in just how soft his skin is, compared to her own. Her palms have more scars than natural creases, after all.

Peeta inhales sharply through his teeth; Clove looks down and discovers his palm has split open. Blood beads on the surface of his skin, and Clove lets out a funny little laugh, one that she doesn't recognize as her own.

"Oops," she says, a liquid cooing from deep in her throat, with just an edge of ferocity - a blade wrapped in silk. Without knowing what has come over her, she presses her fingers to the wound, lightly, without malice. He winces anyway. "You might want to put something on that."

She looks up at him then, sees that his cheeks are flushed a bright red, and then realizes she still has her hand on his. Clove removes her fingers from his palm, smirks at him, and then turns on a heel, leaving him gaping at her as she walks away from him.

Peeta begins walking after her - she can hear his damned footsteps, after all.

As Clove continues walking, following the trail provided by their newest member, she realizes her heart is pounding.

And it is odd, how this feels. She hasn't expended any energy, hasn't run, hasn't been attacked by anyone. The last thing she had done was...

Clove turns to look at Peeta, who is using the hem of his shirt to press on his new wound. Her lips part in reluctant realization as she turns back around, feeling an intense hatred for herself.

As she treks on, she looks down at her hand, sees his blood speckled on her fingertips; her usual feel of excitement is muted by a strange sense of guilt as her heart continues thundering in her chest.

It is then Clove labels herself a traitor.

End.