Chapter Nine

Clay was right, it was the smoke from the fire that brought Mom and her District 13 army to the bluff. They had been tracking the mutants all the way south to 12 and had come upon a small pack denned up in a dry ravine late on the night Clay, Glade, Lily and I had spent at the cabin. Mom had just rejoined the group after jumping off the train in 13. With the fleet of hovercrafts and fresh supplies, she landed in the woods outside of 12 just to hear that the capturing of the pack of mutants was unsuccessful and they had lost one of their men. The soldier we had seen under the rock shelf, of course. A serviceman named Weaks, originally from District 5.

The team had been regrouping, preparing to head out again with a fresh path to follow in finding the mutants when they noticed smoke on the bluff. Mom told me she knew right away where it was coming from and it all clicked. They weren't just going to find a few mutants, she had told her crew. The rogue half-man had led them all there, and now someone had started a fire.

She admits that she didn't know what to expect upon reaching the bluff, but had a suspicion it was us. "Haymitch sent a message to your father in the Capitol the morning of the attack in the Village," she explains. Sitting at our kitchen table she watches while I attempt to eat a bowl of steaming broth Dad is forcing upon me to keep my mind off of Clay and Glade still being cared for at the clinic in town. I want to be there, but both Mom and Dad refuse to let me go. Lily has wrapped my broken ribs and cared for all my cuts and scratches, stitching up the deepest gashes on my neck and bandaging the rest.

"He told me you and Lily were gone," Dad pours Mom a cup of coffee and sets one down for himself, joining us at the table. "It didn't take much to guess the kid everyone saw run after the mutant after the attack was the president's missing son either. So I borrowed Peaks' hovercraft and flew home, found Mom, and prepared to hunt both you and the mutants down. I figured if we found one, we'd find the other."

I fail to hide a grin. He's right about that. Thankfully he doesn't seem that upset, just tired. Tired and relieved, I think.

"I knew you'd be up there," Mom agrees, "but I didn't imagine we'd find what we did. Yates' description of the half-man didn't even come close. You should be dead, Sage."

"But he isn't," Dad put a stop to that line of thinking. I'm not sure, but I think there is a hint of pride in his voice when he says it. "He isn't."

"And neither are Clay and Glade," Lily appears in the open kitchen doorway. The sun has returned, melting the snow just before beginning to set over the hilltops. There is a refreshing chill in the air, and my stomach does an odd sort of flop at her words. I turn abruptly in my seat, wincing at the pain that erupts in my battered torso. Forgetting even my attempt to eat, I struggle out of my chair despite Dad's command to stay put.

"She's okay? They're okay?" I ask Lily, desperate for answers.

She nods with a watery, tired smile. "They're fine, just sleeping. You can see them now though," she stops me, guessing my next move. "Tomorrow, maybe. They need rest now, and besides, Glade can't talk anyway."

I look at her in surprise. Can't talk? What did she mean?

"Her throat suffered a lot of damage. It's going to take some time to heal. Relax," Lily rolls her eyes. "Eventually she'll regain her full speaking capacity…unfortunately," she mumbles the last under her breath, but I don't even care. I'm just so glad Glade's okay that I sit down too quickly in my chair and have to catch my own breath, jostling my sore ribs once again in my carelessness. I think I'm actually hungry now, and I reach for a roll from a basket in the middle of the table, dipping it in my broth and taking a large bite.

"Take it easy," Dad warns with a raised eyebrow before turning to Lily. "What about Clay?"

I slow down my chewing, actually surprised that he even asked. I thought Dad hated Clay.

"He'll make it," Lily nods, sitting down in an empty chair. She says this with assurance, but far less enthusiasm. Her face is full of worry, and I fear she is going to start crying again. "It's pretty bad, Dad. Healer Rook performed surgery to repair the internal damage, but he couldn't fix it all. They plan on doing another tomorrow, to finish…" she trails off, unable to go on. Lily just sits there, staring at nothing with eyes swimming with tears. Mom's concern shows on her face, but she says nothing, simply getting up from the table and helping Lily to her feet. They both leave the kitchen, Mom leading the way up the stairs, and Dad and I listen for the door to close in Lily's room.

"I think she likes him," I speak eventually.

Dad frowns. "God, I hope not."

I can't help but laugh into my soup. "He could be dying. Can't you forgive a dying man, the president's son?"

He snorts derisively, shaking his head. "A dying man, maybe. But being Peaks' son doesn't help his case."

"Well, he doesn't want to be," I point out. "If that helps any."

"No," Dad assures me. "I hope the kid makes a full recovery. I'll make sure he has the finest care while he's in 12. Then I'll personally see him on the train back to the Capitol once he's all cleared for travel."

I grin, catching his eye across the table. He can always try, I guess. But if Lily likes Clay as much as I think, not even the great and influential Peeta Mellark will be able to keep him away. I hope for more than one reason Clay is alright. I would pay to see him go up against my dad in an argument over Lily. Shoot, I'd sell tickets.

I am not able to see Glade the next day after all. Through the night I come down with a fever, a side effect of an infection that grew as a result of my injuries, despite Lily's best efforts. I spend all day in bed, delirious and jumpy from nightmares that drive me from a fretful sleep. Dad spends the entire time sitting near my bedside, making sure I'm alright. At least I think so; he's always there when I wake up with enough sense to know what's going on. Mom pops in and out too, and Lily, but it is Dad that I remember most. For once I don't care that he is hovering and babying me like he always has. A predominate character in my dreams, I can't get Dad out of my head, or the image of him knifing the hell out of that Humant. All my life I have been told that Peeta Mellark is a heroic legend of the Hunger Games. I never believed it, never could see it, not even after watching all that footage with Clay. Mom was heroic; there is no question about that, but Dad? Dad was a hopeless romantic playing a strategic game. He never even killed any of the other tributes, barely engaged in combat…unless it was to protect Mom.

The sight of him attacking that mutant leaves an impression on me that I can't shake. Dad can be fierce. Fierce when someone he cares about it threatened. And that's why I don't mind if he sits while I sleep, or don't argue when my fever breaks but he still insists I stay in bed for one more day. He's just protecting someone he loves, and I not about to get in the way of that. I've seen what he can to those who dare to interfere.

A few days after the mutant attack on the bluff I am finally deemed healthy enough to leave the house. A fresh layer of snow has fallen again, and this time it sticks, covering the Village with a glittering dusting of dazzling white. The sun is pale behind hazy gray clouds, and I slip into Grandpa Everdeen's old hunting jacket before stepping out of the house to walk to town.

President Peaks had wished to bring Clay back to the Capitol for medical treatment, but the Healers in 12 advised her against moving him just yet. Both of his surgeries went well, but Clay continues to slip in and out of consciousness, hooked up to machines which pump in antibiotics to keep infection at bay. I don't know when I get there if they will allow me to see him or if he will even be awake.

I find Lily in her mentor's office at the clinic, and she manages to get me cleared for a visit in the intensive care unit next door. There are two guards posted outside Clay's room, but other than that he is alone. I'm not sure where the president is and don't bother asking.

"Hey," I speak so Clay knows that I am there, waiting to see if his eyes will open in response. They do, looking a little watery and heavy with the effects of the drugs.

"Hey, kid," he manages a weak grin. Being locked away in doors hasn't done much for his complexion. I'm sure not for his disposition either.

"How're you feeling?"

"Like I've been mauled by a mutant," he grunts, attempting to prop himself up better on his mountain of pillows. Lily steps in without a word and adjusts them for him, helping Clay get comfortable before perching on a nearby stool and slipping her hand in his. I'm not that surprised by the gesture and don't embarrass her by bringing attention to it. It was only a matter of time, though I will be telling Dad first chance I get, just for kicks.

"Well, you look great," I assure him sarcastically.

"Better than you," he grins for real this time. "Seen your girl yet?"

I shake my head no, "Going there next."

"Had to see me first though, huh? Love you too, kid."

"Just thought I'd get it out of the way," I can't help but jab in return. Clay looks awful, but it is a relief to know that his is going to be okay. I have a feeling he'll milk his wounds as long as he can. No sense rushing back to the Capitol when he can be pampered by Lily and the rests of the District 12 Healer staff.

Clay wants to hear all about my fight with the Humant down to the details of Mom's army swooping in from the air and Dad's uncharacteristic rage kill. I told him what I could remember, skipping over my failed attempt to stab the Humant properly in the side. I also may have exaggerated my final, killing blow a little bit, but he would never know the difference.

I am anxious to see Glade, so I let Clay know that I'll be back in to see him sometime before he is released and leave him alone with Lily. I don't even think they notice or care that I leave, really.

The snow on the streets of the Main Square has melted into a muddy, sloshy mush. I pick my way through the pedestrian traffic, knocking on the window of the Gallery to wave to Kit as I pass by. No one answers my first ring at the mayor's door, and I hope that doesn't mean that no one is home. Or worse yet, that they are refusing to let me see Glade and are too furious to even open the door. I try again, and this time I hear the sound of footsteps approaching in the foyer.

"Mellark," Mayor Orwell himself answers the door looking a little worse for well. The president has been a guest at his home during her stay in District 12. I assume this is what has him so…distracted.

"Sage," I remind him, unsure whether or not he thinks I am me or my dad.

"Glade is up stairs," he doesn't seem to hear me, turning and disappearing to the back of the house with other things on his mind. I stand in the open door a little confused, but willing to go with it. I haven't really spent much time in the mayor's mansion, next to no time on the second level, and far less in Glade's bedroom. I find it easily enough since the door is halfway open, a soft light spilling out into the hall.

I knock lightly, peering in to find Glade resting on her bed with an open fashion magazine from the Capitol lying on her lap. She looks up in surprise, smiling with her eyes when she sees me. My heart skips an unexpected beat. God, she's beautiful. The bruising and scarring on her neck also take me off guard, and I can't hide a look of concern as I enter the room.

"It's about time," she croaks through a whisper, trying not to strain her sore vocal cords. "Where have they been keeping you?"

"Locked up under surveillance," I take her offered hand and sit beside her on the edge of the bed. The lighting in the room is low with the curtains half drawn over the windows. I'm a little nervous being in Glade's room, even with her father's permission. It still feels rebellious somehow, and I think she senses my awkward discomfort.

Smiling coyly, Glade plays with my fingers with one hand while reaching up and gently touching my own set of bruises below my jawline. "Look, we match."

I laugh at her lighthearted spin on the situation. "Almost," I run my own finger under her chin, lifting it for a better look at the jagged gash running from below her ear and stopping just short of her collarbone. Another half an inch and… "Does it hurt?" I ask, swallowing hard and trying not to think about the what-ifs.

"Only a little," Glade admits with a minor shrug.

I can fix that. Leaning in, I brush her wound softly with my lips, then her cheek, finishing at her lips. She responds by kissing me back, and I hope very much that Orwell doesn't wander in unannounced. "I'm glad you're okay."

"What about you?" Glade raises an eyebrow, moving so I can settle back against her pillows, drawing in close with her head on my chest. "I thought that thing was going to kill you."

So did I actually, but I'm not going to admit it. "Mom and Dad to the rescue again," I reply blandly. I'm grateful, sure but, in front of Glade, it's just slightly embarrassing.

"You didn't need their help," she assures me generously. I appreciate her confidence and don't correct her.

"I guess our hunting trips to the woods are over."

"Why?" Glade glances up at me.

"Hasn't your dad thrown a fit about you being out there?"

"Of course," she shrugs and then smiles. "But when has that stopped us?"

I don't want to leave the mayor's mansion at the end of the afternoon, but I promised Dad that I would be home in time for dinner. When I arrive, I find him in the office in front of his canvass with a brush in hand. He was there when I left, and I have a feeling he hasn't moved this whole time. If his progress says anything it's that he done nothing but paint all day. It's an amazing piece, but I can't look at it. It's too real, to close to a perfect match. Dad paints as a form of therapy. He copes with a situation by capturing it in color and brush strokes to confine it to make sense of the horror and chaos. I get it, but I don't. I would rather not see the image of those blood red eyes and vicious fangs ever again.

Turning away from the painting, I take a seat in Mom's desk chair and swivel toward the window, looking out at the hills shadowed in the dying light.

"How's Glade?" Dad asks without looking up from his work.

"Fine," I shrug, playing with a pen on the desktop. "Doesn't look too great, but she's okay."

"I hope you didn't tell her that."

"No, I mean…" I try not to laugh. "You know what I mean."

Dad sets down his brush, picking up a paint-stained towel and wiping his hands clean. Sitting down on a nearby stool, he reluctantly draws his eyes away from the canvass and focuses on me.

"Did I interrupt," I start to get up, preparing to leave him to his work.

"Sit," he shakes his head. "I need to quit and start dinner soon."

I nod and relax back into my seat.

"I talked to your mom today," Dad informs me.

Okay… "About what?"

"You. Katniss is leading a hunting party to track down game in the Northern Wild. Peaks hopes to offset the threat of famine this winter if at all possible, and it will require a lot of skilled hunters. Mom wants you to go with her."

I raise an incredulous eyebrow.

"I agree that you should," he tells me honestly. "Who else can I trust to keep an eye on your mother?"

I'm so surprised I nearly laugh. What happened to my dad? I almost don't trust him, waiting for the punch line. "For real?"

"Yeah, for real," he scoffs.

"What about school?"

"I'm confident you'll keep up," he presents it as a challenge; one I'm willing to take. "They need you, Sage," Dad meets my eye seriously. "If anyone can survive out there, it's you. God, you're so much like your mother," he shakes his head, looking baffled. "I always tried to protect her too. She never needed it either."

He's referring to the Games, I know, and now I'm really taken back by the direction of this conversation. Maybe I'm dreaming or something, who is this? "You protected her," I try to assure him. "You kept those Careers from killing her in the first Games."

"She would've made it without me."

I have never heard my dad admit so much in my life. Everyone always acts like he's so perfect; I just always assumed he believed it too. "I wouldn't have," I tell him. "That Hu— mutant would've killed me."

Dad frowns thoughtfully, considering what I just said. "No," he says. "I don't think so."

I don't know what to say to that, so I look away, glancing back out the window with a tired sigh. "Well, maybe I can take care of myself around wild animals like Mom, but I don't have a clue what to do around girls like you do."

"Correction," Dad holds up a finger. "One girl. I was only ever good with your Mom."

"Yeah, how did you win her over?" I ask. "Besides the whole cat saving thing, 'cause I know that wasn't it."

Dad laughs, nodding. "You're right, Katniss hated that stupid cat. No, I got your mom because of my baking."

"For real?" That sounds lame.

"Honest, she can't resist my chocolate cake."

"Then I guess I'm screwed," I mutter. I can't bake worth a damn. "I'd probably poison her."

"That wouldn't be good."

"No."

"Then I guess it's time to teach my son the family trade." Dad gets to his feet, not missing the disgusted look on my face. "Do you want that girl to like you or not?"

"She already likes me," I point out, standing to follow him out of the room anyway.

"Bring her chocolate and she'll love you forever, trust me."

I am willing to go with it, because I do trust him. I trust him with my life. Mom may be the expert with the bow, she may be the fearless Mockingjay of Panem, but I'm starting to see the value in having an overprotective worrier for a father. He's not so bad, I guess. There's more to survival in this world than a sharp arrow and perfect aim. There's something to be said for a quick intellect, undying loyalty, and conditioned self-control. Dad may be the hopeless romantic to Mom's toughened exterior, but it can't hurt to take a little guidance from his book of survival every now and again. It's gotten him this far, and I have to admit, after all I've learned, I wouldn't mind being a bit more like him.

"Are you ready for this?" Dad tosses me a fresh bag of flour out of the pantry. I nearly drop it in surprise, getting doused in a fine white powder which makes me cough.

"No," I mutter, setting the sack down on the table. "Can't I just take her your cake and claim it as mine?"

"If you want to be a liar, sure," he pulls out a mixing bowl and puts me to work cracking eggs. We both look up when Mom walks in the kitchen door, bringing a fresh gust of cold air with her. Dad crosses the room, helping her out of her jacket and taking the bag of fresh kill she has brought in for dinner.

"What are you two doing?" Mom glances about the kitchen curiously, raising an eyebrow at the egg white dripping all over my hand.

Dad catches my eye a second before turning to her with a sideways grin. "Bonding."

"Really?" Mom seems incredulous. "Well, don't forget to wash your hands when you're done."

I just shake my head in amused annoyance, handing off the bowl of eggs and waiting for my next instructions. Trying to ignore the discomfort of watching my parents kiss, I pretend to read the back of a package of baking chocolate. Some people might feel intimidated, being the kid of the famous star-crossed Tributes of the Hunger Games. Most would be daunted by the expectations, the spotlight, and the criticism that comes with living beneath their shadow. Not me. Truthfully, it just feels like home.

Disclaimer: Nearly all characters and settings were borrowed from author Suzanne Collins who was in no way involved nor did she endorse any of what is written in these chapters.

Thank you for reading! I enjoyed writing this fanfiction very much, even it wasn't centered entirely around Peeta and Katniss, which is what I enjoy writing about most. I hope you still had fun reading it though! Please leave comments and feedback, love to hear what you thought of this piece!