A/N: The following section in italics is lifted directly from 'Mockingjay.'

It must be midnight, it must be tomorrow when Haymitch pushes open the door. "They're back. We're wanted in the hospital." My mouth opens with a flood of questions that he cuts off with, "That's all I know."

I want to run, but Finnick's acting so strange, as if he's lost the ability to move, so I take his hand and lead him like a child. Through Special Defense, into the elevator that goes this way and that, and on to the hospital wing. The place is in an uproar, with doctors shouting orders and the wounded being wheeled through the halls in their beds.

We're sideswiped by a gurney bearing an unconscious, emaciated woman with a shaved head. Her flesh shows bruises and oozing scabs. Johanna Mason. Who actually knew rebel secrets. At least the one about me. And this is how she has paid for it.

Through a doorway, I catch a glimpse of Gale, stripped to the waist, perspiration streaming down his face as a doctor removes something from under his shoulder blade with a long pair of tweezers. Wounded, but alive. I call his name, start toward him until a nurse pushes me back and shuts me out.

"Finnick!" Something between a shriek and a cry of joy. A lovely if somewhat bedraggled woman—dark tangled hair, sea green eyes—runs toward us in nothing but a sheet. "Finnick!" And suddenly, it's as if there's no one in the world but these two, crashing through space to reach each other. They collide, enfold, lose their balance, and slam against a wall, where they stay. Clinging into one being. Indivisible.

A pang of jealousy hits me. Not for either Finnick or Annie but for their certainty. No one seeing them could doubt their love.

Boggs, looking a little worse for the wear but uninjured, finds Haymitch and me. "We got them all out. Except Enobaria. But since she's from Two, we doubt she's being held anyway. Peeta's at the end of the hall. The effects of the gas are just wearing off. You should be there when he wakes."

Peeta.

Alive and well—maybe not well, but alive and here. Away from Snow. Safe. Here. With me. In a minute I can touch him. See his smile. Hear his laugh.

Haymitch's grinning at me. "Come on, then," he says.

I'm lightheaded with giddiness. What will I say? Oh, who cares what I say? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He'll probably be kissing me anyway. I wonder if it will feel like those last kisses on the beach in the arena, the ones I haven't dared let myself consider until this moment.

Peeta's awake already, sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered as a trio of doctors reassure him, flash lights in his eyes, check his pulse. I'm disappointed that mine was not the first he saw when he woke, but he sees it now. His features register disbelief and something more intense that I can't quite place. Desire? Desperation? Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his feet, and rushes towards me.

"Katniss?" He whispers my name, as if saying it any louder will shatter this fragile moment. As if he can't believe that I'm standing here, eyes shining and arms open, waiting for him to come home.

It's not home—just an underground bunker with gray walls and gray tiled floors and metallic-scented air—but when he surges forward and wraps his arms around me, it feels like home.

His lips are moving in my hair, his hands splayed across my back, but I'm crying so hard that I barely feel it. "You're—safe," I sob, reaching up to touch his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his shoulders. "You're here."

He's shaking, but I don't realize it until two pairs of gloved hands are prying him away from me. Peeta has turned so pale, so completely alabaster that he looks like he's been bled dry. His eyes are wide, unseeing, black with fear. I let out a primal cry of protest, lunge for him but narrowly miss him as the doctors drag him back to the gurney. Haymitch's hands clench around my wrists, forming effective handcuffs, and he jerks me back.

"He's in shock, Ms. Everdeen," one of the doctors, a man with close-cropped auburn hair and a pair of wiry spectacles informs me, before forcing Peeta into a supine position. He resists, his muscles jerking and straining against the doctors' vice-like grips on his arms and legs, and then goes limp. "It's too much sensory stimulation, you see. I'm afraid we'll need to keep him in isolation for a few more hours, if not for a few days, until he's acclimated to it."

But I won't hear it. "Let me see him," I cry, trying desperately to slip out of Haymitch's impossibly tight grasp. "I need to see him. Please." A sob works its way out of my chest. "Please."

"Ms. Everdeen, you're going to have to wait until tomorrow morning. An orderly will meet you at the hospital entrance to update you on his condition." The doctor turns his attention to Haymitch. "Would you…?"

"I've got her," Haymitch says through gritted teeth, and drags me down the hall, away from Peeta, past Finnick and Annie's huddled reunion, past the cacophony of machines beeping and doctors checking vitals.

I'm still a wreck, still straining against his grip, senseless to everything but Peeta's pain, Peeta's suffering. He needs me and I've already failed him so many times, so how can I let them do this? "Let go of me!" I shriek, but Haymitch ignores me, just keeps dragging me until we've reached my quarters.

Before he deposits me, a spluttering, trembling mess at my door, he sighs and runs a hand through his waxy hair. "A damn shame they didn't get that on camera," he grumbles. "If only they could see you now."

…

The news spreads like wildfire: the Capitol's prisoners are safe; Peeta's in isolation; and Katniss is inconsolable.

At first, the people of Thirteen wonder if I'm still playacting at love. If I'm so well-rehearsed that I can no longer draw the line between reality and pretend. I hear them murmuring when I'm in the dining hall, trying to catch sidelong glances as I walk by, head bowed and tray rattling in my hands. "Oh, she's just confused," they whisper to each other. "The boy's a traitor. Once she figures that out, she'll forget all about him."

But it's far from an act. Whatever I feel is none of their concern. I ignore their whispers and the admonitions from the hospital to keep my distance for 'just a little longer' and sit with my back against Peeta's sealed door, muttering his name in my sleep. Just like he did when he slept against the base of my tree in the first arena, guarding me from untold dangers.

And then one day, the door slides open.

I scramble to my feet, breathless and eager as he steps outside, free of restraints. Face gaunt but eyes clear. Hands tremulous but spine straight.

It's tense for a moment—Can he touch me? Will I let him?—until one of his doctors, the same stern-faced redhead from several days ago, nods and lets a faint smile show on his lips. Go ahead.

That's all the permission I need. Without hesitation, I fly into Peeta's arms, pull his face down towards mine, kiss him to make up for all the times I didn't. His mouth slides against mine and finally, in this cold underground prison, I feel warm.

We're not aware of the small crowd that has assembled in the cramped hallway until I draw back, struggling for breath, and hear people clapping. Mostly nurses and doctors, wearing real smiles instead of their usual clinical, detached frowns, but Prim and my mother are there, too, clutching each other and wearing mixed expressions of relief and joy. Haymitch stands behind them, flashes us a thumbs-up and a mirthful grin.

I glance back up at Peeta, my hands still resting on his chest, and see that he's more than a little stunned by all this attention. "You're here," I repeat, still not quite believing it. He tears his eyes away from the sea of shining faces, focuses on me. At last, his lips part in a shaky smile.

"I'm here," he echoes. "With you."