A/N: Hello, Hunger Games fandom! I have finally wound up the courage to write a fanfic for you. I wish there was more post-Mockinjay, pre-epilogue stuff, but the ones that I have read so far are amazing! This is just going to be my take on it.

Enjoy!

Chapter One: Instinct

Between the nightmares and the memories and the realization that I have been thrown out of the Capitol because I am useless, I know that things will get worse. I don't want to go through with my therapy, I don't want to take my pills like a good patient.

I don't want to do anything anymore.

Hunting only brings back memories of Gale and I, so I've stopped. Greasy Sae hasn't had any fresh game for weeks, but she seems content to feed me the fresh bread Peeta is always baking.

I almost rip the phone out of the wall like Haymitch has because it seems to infinitely ring. Something that makes that much noise can only be ignored for so long. Sae gently prods me to answer it, and I never reply. Just sit on the couch and wait for whoever is on the other line to take the hint.

There are some nights that I wish I had Peeta, the old Peeta, to turn to when I have my dreams. He always managed to help turn even the darkest things to light. But now that he's been tortured to the point of what I am pretty sure is no return, all I have to do is somehow make it through the night. It's possible, only just, and I'm relieved to see the sun when I open my eyes.

Only one night, I've only been asleep for three hours according to the digital clock on the table, and I know that's all the rest I will get for the night. So I climb out of bed, put on a light jacket and my boots over the pants that I had been attempting to sleep in, and head outside.

The moon lights the way down the otherwise dark sidewalk, in between the rows of houses that make up the Victor's Village. Every house I pass by is quiet, the curtains and shutters drawn in for the night. The only home that still has it's golden light gently shining against the windows is Peeta's. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why.

He's been through so much, just like me. Forever scarred, forever different. We've both lost the ones we love. I could compare the qualities that would seemingly tie us together for life, but every time I try to convince myself that my situation is so much worse than his, it's impossible. He's been tortured. And it's my fault. They abandoned him in the arena so they could save me.

What isn't my fault these days?

I stare at his window from the sidelines, trying to ignore the strange feeling that Peeta is watching me. My hand protectively reaches up to rub at my throat. The bruises have faded, but the phantom grip that still threatens to choke me causes my breath to hitch for a moment. I swallow multiple times just to assure myself that, yes, I can still breathe, and chew the inside of my cheek as I weigh my options.

Option A is to flee from the scene before Peeta catches me red-handed and spend another night laying awake in bed and wishing the dreams would go away.

Option B is to hold a polite visit with a hijacked and not-so-safe-to-be-around Peeta in the middle of the night.

I don't know why, but Option B sounds tremendously better than the latter. I have always had a knack for doing stupid things, and that will be my excuse if something bad happens tonight.

I sigh and attempt to confidently stride towards his front door, but it mostly looks like I'm creeping up on my prey like I do in the woods. Hesitantly. Silently. The tensest second passes after I rasp on his door three times, and it gets even worse when he doesn't open up. A pang of worry pierces me and I knock another three times. Harsher. Louder.

Still no answer. I know something's wrong because when I twist the doorknob I find it unlocked. It must have been a bad day for Peeta. One riddled with flashbacks.

After checking the living room and the kitchen, which are both devoid of Peeta, I stare in disdain at the stairs. He must be up there. But is he in full-out-mutt mode right now? Is he asleep? With each step I take my mind conjures up other excuses to what he could be doing up there.

Once I'm in the hallway of the second floor, I call out as softly as I can. "Peeta?" It's like we're in the Hunger Games again, me looking for the boy who was in the mud, except now he's the boy with the venom inside of him.

When there isn't an answer I make my way through the hallway to the only room that's lit. It must be his room. "Peeta," I say again, raising my voice so he can at least acknowledged my presence. This time, I hear the faintest reply.

"Katniss?"

My suspicions were confirmed. As soon as I stepped foot into his room, heard how weak his voice sounded, that today was what he called "a bad day." He's as pale as a sheet, and his blue eyes stand out under the rows of circles under them. It's been a horrible day.

I kneel down beside him and relax a bit because he doesn't have that look like he's in pain at the moment, and press a hand to his forehead. He flinches, and I almost jerk back because that's such a stupid thing to do to a boy that could accidentally snap any minute. It could also trigger an episode, which looks like that's the last thing he needs.

"Katniss..." he repeats, blinking tiredly. My guess is that he's taken his nightly dose of pills and is supposed to be asleep right now. "You're in my house. In the middle of the night. Real or not real?" He struggles to sit up and I let him, not wanting to set him off if I try to ease him down.

"Real." I say, standing up and shifting on my feet. Why can't Haymitch at least try to watch over him? He'd probably be too drunk to care, but it's better than the danger I'm putting myself in right now. "How are you feeling?" I ask.

Peeta falls back onto his pillows and heaves a sigh. "My head aches."

It's obvious there's more than just a small headache happening. I don't pry, though. I'm being extremely cautious of him. And he knows it.

"It's okay," Peeta says, eying me closely. "This medicine is supposed to help the flashbacks."

"I haven't been taking any of my pills," I admit, promptly trying to change the subject. "Do you need anything?"

"You asked me that in the arena. Real or not real?" he asks.

"Real," I answer.

"You threatened to kill me if the blood poisoning didn't first. Real or not real?" I can tell by the way his pupils twitch slightly that he's fighting a bubbly memory.

"Not real," I say firmly, tucking the blankets in around him. He wouldn't have the strength to hurt me if he tried. The thought calms me down, even more so when he blinks and his eyes lose that hazy look. "Have you drank? Or eaten?" He shakes his head at the first question and nods at the second. "I'm going to go get you some water. Or do you have any other requests?"

"There's some hot chocolate in the cabinets." he says.

"Alright. I'll be right back," I assure Peeta, turning on my heel and walking down into the kitchen. I find that Peeta's cabinets are mostly stocked with flour and other baking supplies, since he is definitely capable of making his own meals, but there is a hefty supply of packages that give directions on how to make the hot chocolate he loves so much. It's simple; just boil some water, wait until it's warm, pour the packet's contents into a mug, and stir until it's all mixed up.

Now that I have made it back in Peeta's room only to discover that he's asleep, I debate on whether or not I should just leave the cup by his bed. The old Katniss would have roused him, made sure he was okay before leaving. My instinct now is to flee, so I follow it.

Afterwords, when I'm waking up screaming for Prim to run, I open my window for a breath of fresh air and see that Peeta's light is now off. Just as the sun begins to rise, there's a ring at my doorbell.

Three hours later when I finally decide to answer, there's a small note on the concrete porch that reads "Thanks for the chocolate."