Summary: Peeta's subconscious is trying to tell him something, twenty years after the Games ended.
A/N: Everlark. In Panem continuation to Mockingjay. Rated E for explicit language and sex. Contains direct and altered quotations from The Hunger Games novels, which I do not claim as my own. #everlark #marriage #toastbabies #injury #surgery #nightmares #original characters #rehabilitation
Many thanks to papofglencoe and notanislander, who got in on the ground floor when this an elaborate idea and only 500 words. Since then, an entire squadron of cheerleaders, including my fellow CampNanoWriMo cabinmates, have offered support and input, both of which are greatly appreciated.
l stumble into the woods, searching for relief from my injuries. I tear through the brush, leaving a haphazard trail in my wake. I collapse at the bed of a stream, thirsty and drained, with water only a few feet away.
The forest growls around me, the trees and sky emanating an unnatural shine. The horizon shifts when I roll over and reach down, expecting to find my thigh slickened. The wound was gushing blood the last time I was here.
My head snaps up at the sound of someone approaching. My back and forehead dampen with sweat, fear coursing down my body in erratic waves. My arms extend out, grappling for my spear, a rock, or anything to use for defense and only find dirt.
Dust swirls as a cloaked figure approaches me until I lie completely in my reaper's shadow. Death must be near, even without an open leg wound. Dread fills me to the brim, I can't even hope for my odds to change or to know she's safe.
Her face comes into view, stoic and polished. Her cape and hood fall from her body, though her colors are all wrong. Her face is twisted into a mask of indifference and her original midnight Mockingjay uniform is coated in red.
I am paralyzed and growing roots with every moment that passes. I focus on the three middle fingers on her left hand, dipped in blood and aiming an arrow at me. I scan her face for any sign of awareness, but the mutt is in charge now and ready to bare her fangs.
"For Prim," she whispers and releases the arrow that immediately lodges deep in my left hip. Fire ignites from the point of entry and burns through my joints. Flames lick at my pants, up my torso until I am consumed by a searing pain.
Am I trapped in an another episode or nightmare? Am I back in an arena somehow? Am I under the cruel watch of Peacekeepers and malicious doctors?
My eyes fly open, and, while a part of me fears that I'll see my Capitol cell or the sterile compartment in District Thirteen, I am greeted by Katniss's soft snores on my shoulder. My nightmare may have been not real, but the throbbing pain in my hip is definitely real. My desire to hold her close and erase the visions flitting through my mind is overruled by the need to shift her weight off me and get some air.
And the little things start to add up. All the times I couldn't bend over to double knot my shoelaces or sit crossed-legged on the floor to draw with the kids. Also the way it hurt to fuck her last night–hard, like we crave sometimes.
I'll have to see a doctor to investigate the source of this pain, though I doubt the District Twelve hospital will have the means for a full diagnosis. I'll have to swallow twenty years of white coat fear and syringes pointed at me. I'll have to survive for her, for them.