Disclaimer: The Hunger Games storylines, characters and settings are not mine.

Note: There will be lemons. Please read at your discretion.

Broken and Mended

It was a bad night. After only a couple hours of sleep, I woke up screaming. This, as always, woke Peeta and he did his best to comfort me but the nightmare just wouldn't go away. It would not get out of my head. I kept seeing things…those horrible things…every time I shut my eyes, so I went downstairs. Peeta offered to come with me, but I told him he didn't need to; just stay in bed.

I looked at the memory book for a while, did some cleaning in the kitchen, then paced around until my eyes were burning so much I couldn't keep them open any longer. That's when I returned to the bedroom and laid down. Peeta was still awake, or woke up again when I got in our bed. He pulled me in close, wrapping his arms around me. I nestled my head against his chest and squeezed my eyes shut until they started to ache, at which point I relaxed them. Sleep came eventually, but it was interrupted again before dawn. This nightmare was of a different variety: the kind that makes me wake up crying instead of screaming.

Again, Peeta tried to comfort me and did succeed in making me feel a little better. But only a few minutes after waking this time, I pulled away from him.

"I'm going out," I said.

Peeta looked at me incredulously, then glanced over at the bedroom window. "It's pitch dark out."

"I'll walk slow. It'll be light enough to hunt by the time I get to the woods."

He frowned. "You look really tired -"

"Thanks."

With a soft sigh, Peeta said, "I mean, are you sure you're up for this?"

"I have to do something," I snapped. Dejectedly, he looked away from me, down at the bed in front of him. I shook off the guilt and forced myself to sound kinder as I added, "I need to clear my head. It'll make me feel better. I'll be home before you leave, okay?" I took some clothes out of my dresser and hugged them to my chest, then turned toward Peeta again.

He gave a small nod. "Okay. See you in a while."

I made my way into the bathroom and got ready, then went downstairs, collecting my hunting supplies. Peeta, I guess, was still upstairs in the bedroom when I left.

I'm in the woods now, having a hard time concentrating. When I hear rustling, I can't seem to turn my head fast enough to spot the animal that caused it. When I do get one in my sights, I'm unable to get the arrow notched in time. Peeta was right. I'm really not up for this. Why does he have to be right all the time?

I decide to give up on hunting and just take a walk. I sling my weapon and game bag over my shoulder and make my way to the stream. I consider trying to get some fish but don't even have the energy for that. I take deep, calming breaths as I walk along the stream, and try not to think of the stream in the Games. The blood smears on the rocks, finding Peeta half-dead.

I feel a sharp pain in my chest and rub a hand over it until it fades. I look around at the colorful autumn leaves and try to enjoy how lovely the woods are this time of year. Without giving it much thought, I head toward a tall tree I know of. It has tons of branches and is perfect for climbing. I realize I haven't foraged in the trees much since my return to Twelve. Peeta and I have plenty of food these days and I guess I just haven't felt like it.

But now, I think it might be fun to do some climbing. If I get high enough, I can clear the tops of the other trees in the area and will probably be able to see quite a distance. I hang the strap of my game bag, along with my bow and arrows, off the end of a low branch, then begin to climb.

There are a couple times when I hear a branch creak unsettlingly and rush to move off it. None of them break, but I can tell my reflexes aren't as good as they used to be when I did this all the time. Still, I manage to get about forty feet up without incident, and I decide this is high enough.

I was right to do this; the view is beautiful. Shades of red, orange and yellow are everywhere. It's a cloudy, breezy day but also peaceful. The wind sounds nice as it whistles around leaves and branches. I breathe in cool air, letting it out slowly, and am smiling a little as I look around, listen to the birds, and allow myself to feel calm and safe. The monsters in my nightmares cannot reach me up here.

I don't know how long I spend in the tree, but it's not until my legs are starting to cramp, from being bent in a way they're not used to, that I decide to start climbing down. I sit on a big branch, stretching my legs and flexing my ankles, then begin my descent.

I don't exactly know how it happens; probably just me being foolish and sluggish, but when I'm about fifteen feet off the ground I slip or lean in the wrong way or something. As I fall, I'm seized with terror. I grab frantically at the branches around me and manage to slow my fall, but can't get a good enough grip to stay in the tree. I crash to the ground, landing painfully on my right ankle, and fall forward, onto a big rock that digs into my shin and will probably cause an ugly bruise.

I cry out in pain, then clap a hand over my mouth and look around, just to make sure I haven't attracted any unwanted attention from predators. After a few moments of silence, I lower my head to my hands.

I feel like crying. I feel like an idiot. I grit my teeth together and turn myself so I can take a look at my ankle. Just shifting it hurts, but fortunately it looks normal. No bones poking out.

Leaning against the tree, I manage to force myself to my feet, but it kills to put pressure on my right leg. Fleetingly, I wish I had some way to contact Peeta. If only there were a phone in this tree. If only we could communicate telepathically. If only I'd asked him to come with me this morning for a walk, instead of stubbornly planning to hunt alone. If he was here he'd carry me home. Or he would have caught me when I fell out of the tree. Or talked me out of climbing it when I'm so worn out.

I get my things off the low branch and then yank it down and break it apart so it's the right height to be a walking stick. I lean on it, digging up my palm, and limp all the way home, wincing and whispering profanities every time I accidentally put too much weight on the bad leg.

Finally, I reach my house and push open the back door, tossing my walking stick to the ground before I go inside. Peeta's there in the kitchen, standing at the stove. At first, he greets me with a smile, but he quickly realizes something's wrong.

"What happened?" he says. He turns off the stove and rushes toward me, gently taking me in his arms to help me balance.

"I fell," I say, looking up at him.

I told you so is written all over his face, but at least he doesn't say it out loud, doesn't remind me that he knew going out would be a bad idea when I was so weary and upset. "How'd you fall?"

"I'm clumsy."

He smirks. "You are not. But anyone could be if they'd barely slept."

I lean a little weight on the hurt ankle, experimenting again, and whimper with pain.

"It's that bad?" Peeta asks, his eyes widening.

He lets go of me and bends down, then pulls up my pant leg. "There's nothing to see," I tell him. "I just twisted it a little. It'll be fine in a few days." I hope.

Peeta sighs and shakes his head. "Katniss." His voice is unabashedly chastising. In spite of what I said about there being nothing to see, he lifts the fabric higher, all the way up to my knee, and gasps.

I look down and see that a big part of my shin is turning yellowish-green from hitting that rock, and there's a bloody scrape that looks worse than it feels. "How'd this happen?"

"Same fall," I say casually. "It looks worse than it feels."

"What, you just tripped and fell?" Peeta is incredulous.

"I should clean the cut," I say, annoyed with his tone of voice.

I take a step away from him and groan with pain. Before I know what's happening, Peeta's scooped me up in his arms and is carrying me to the downstairs bathroom. He sets me down on the closed toilet seat, then begins rummaging through the medicine cabinet.

"The antiseptic isn't in there -" I start to tell him.

He turns toward me, looking worried mostly, but angry, too. "There's something you're not telling me."

He knows me too well. At the moment, it makes me uncomfortable. I stare down at my bruise and cut.

"Katniss." He doesn't yell, but somehow his voice grates as if he had.

"I fell out of a tree," I say slowly.

Peeta bends down and I can feel his stare boring in to me, so I shift my gaze to meet it. "How far did you fall?"

"Can you please just get me the medicine from the closet? I put it on the second shelf."

Peeta hurries away and is back in seconds, bottle and gauze in his hands. He pours some of the antiseptic on the cloth and says, "Were you trying to hurt yourself?"

When he reaches out to treat my wound, I flinch back. In a tone of voice that comes out far icier that I'd intended, I say, "I can do it myself."

Peeta cringes, almost imperceptibly, and sets the bottle down. He gives me the gauze, careful to avoid touching his hand to mine, and says, "Fine."

Then he stands up, turns and leaves the bathroom. I hear him walk away, through the hall, and then I think he goes upstairs.

My bottom lip quivers and I blink back tears. Why did I do that? He loves me and he was trying to help me. So what if he was mad at me for getting hurt? I deserved it. I was foolish and careless. He was only upset because he knows that falling out of a tree can cause far worse wounds than the ones I've got. After everything we've been through, I can understand why he would be afraid for my safety. Sometimes it's hard for me to remember we're safe now, too. Sometimes I worry about him when there's no reason. It must have been awful for him, seeing me limp in and act like what happened is no big deal. Maybe he thinks I don't even care whether I live or die.

But I do care. There was a time when things were bad…very bad…right after I came back to Twelve. But I'm getting better. I've improved a lot since then. This life we have - without Prim, without my mother and Gale - isn't what I would have chosen. I wish Prim were here; I miss and mourn her every day. And if she were here, I think my mother would be too. I wish Gale had never kissed me, never told me he loved me. Then maybe we could have stayed friends.

Things are so far from ideal, it's almost laughable. But this is the life I have and I want it. I would rather be here, with Peeta, than dead. Sometimes he makes me feel happy. Makes me smile, makes me laugh. I don't know what I would do without him. It's been over a year since he came back here, to Twelve. Eight months since he moved in with me, two months since we first had sex. Two months since he asked me if I loved him and I agreed that I did. Neither of us have used the word love since that night, but we've been having sex a couple nights a week ever since that first time.

It's always pretty much the same. The room is dark, we kiss, I decide I want more, so I initiate it. I put his hand on my breast or wrap my legs around him and press my hips into his. Sometimes I'll pull at his clothes. But then, once we're naked, he does all the work. He's always on top, kissing me and touching me. I kiss him back and wrap my arms around him, and sometimes my legs, but I mostly just lay there, only moving enough to match the rhythm he sets. Twice, he's put his mouth on me, between my legs, and kissed until I screamed his name. He always touches me before he enters me, to make sure I'm ready, and he often touches me during, as well…which is the most amazing thing I've ever felt in my life. When I feel Peeta, both inside and outside of me, pushing and rubbing just so, I feel like I'm going to go crazy - in the best way imaginable.

I've never reached down to touch him, not once, and never even considered putting my mouth on him. I'm still getting used to this. It's too soon for me to change anything…even though I feel selfish. I feel like I should try harder to make it nice for him. To be a more enthusiastic participant.

I hear the front door slam shut and my tears spill over. Great. Now he's gone away mad and I won't see him until this evening and even then I don't know what I'm supposed to do or say to make things right. After a period of silent crying, I clean and bandage my wound, then limp into the kitchen, using the walls for support. The breakfast Peeta was making still sits on the stove, untouched. I guess he was too angry to stay, or I made him too upset to eat.

I force down as much of it as I can and store the rest in the fridge. I make my way into the living room and lay down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. I remember when I used to get mad at Peeta or snap at him and he wouldn't get mad back. Before the Games, when I pushed him and his hands got cut, he didn't seem as angry as he did today. When I was snappy toward him before the Quell, for laughing about my stupid purity, he showed no anger at all, never told me I was being unreasonable. I guess back then, he thought I was so wonderful that he was willing to put up with more from me. Now, even though he's mostly recovered from the hijacking (as recovered as he'll ever be, I assume), he seems to know better. Seems fully aware that I don't deserve to be treated like a queen or goddess or whatever.

I spend the day doing several meaningless little tasks. Cleaning, reading, laundry. I am determined not to be confined to sitting down all day, in spite of my injury, so I have to do a lot of hopping around and move very slowly. I sit outside, on my back porch, for a while in the late afternoon. It's boring, but I don't have the stamina to do anything else by this point. Around the time Peeta's supposed to get home, I lay down on the couch. After half an hour I start to worry that he isn't coming, that he'll go back to his house tonight. I tell myself he'd never do that; he needs me to sleep as much as I need him. I close my eyes and manage to doze until I hear the front door creak open, then close gently. Peeta comes into the living room and I look up at him through bleary eyes, smiling tiredly.

"You're here," I say, reaching both arms up.

Peeta's face softens and he smiles back at me, then sits on the edge of the couch and leans forward to hug me.

Without really thinking, I say, "You're late."

He pulls back, sitting up, and stares down at me. He tucks a few stray hairs behind my ear and says, "I was at the bakery. Just cleaning and getting everything organized."

"Oh." I know he spent today at the bakery so his answer doesn't really tell me anything. But I can barely keep my eyes open so I don't question him further. I can feel myself drifting off and am only vaguely aware as Peeta slides his arms under me, lifts and carries me up to bed. He tucks me in and then I feel the bed shift as he stands up. "Wait," I say, reaching out for him, suddenly feeling more awake. "Stay with me, please." It's only evening, way too early for bed. I bet Peeta isn't tired enough to sleep, but still he climbs in and holds me. I press my forehead against his neck and slide my leg over his torso so it's resting on his stomach. It's easy to drift off again, now that we're wrapped together and he's making me feel safe.

#

When I wake up, Peeta's gone. I look at the bedside clock and see that it's only ten at night. I sigh, annoyed that I haven't slept longer. I close my eyes and decide that if I'm still awake in five minutes, I'll go looking for him. He's probably just downstairs painting. But, surprisingly, I am able to fall asleep again. This time I don't wake up until morning, and Peeta is back. He's laying on his side and has an arm draped over my stomach.

I turn my head so our faces are only inches apart. My eyes travel over him and I feel lucky - so lucky that he's here. I nearly lost him so many times, but didn't. And yesterday…he didn't really even stay mad at me after he got home. I guess because he loves me too much.

Without thinking, I lift my head and lean in, placing a kiss on his cheek. Peeta stirs a little, but doesn't wake up. I can't resist kissing him again, this time lower on his face. He inhales a little sharply and I think now I've woken him. My third kiss lands on his jaw, and then I place a couple on his neck as his arms encircle me. One hand slides up to twine in my hair as he whispers, "Good morning." I can hear a smile in his voice.

I'm smiling, too. I return his embrace and nuzzle against his neck, then place a kiss on his earlobe. I slide my hand under his shirt and run it up and down his back. We stay like this for a while - just hugging and caressing one another. I'm starting to get that feeling I normally only get at night while we're kissing. I'm just about to move to pull his shirt off when Peeta's hand finds mine.

He laces our fingers together and leans away from me so we can look into each other's eyes. With a small smile he says, "I'll go downstairs, okay?"

Whenever we wake up at the same time, he offers to have his shower in the downstairs bathroom. This is what's happening now. He'll shower down there, I'll shower up here and then we'll meet in the kitchen for breakfast. It's Saturday, I realize, so he won't be going to the bakery today. I probably should have let him sleep in.

Instead of telling him what I really want, I simply nod. He places a quick, closed-mouth kiss on my lips, then pulls away from me, gets some clothes, and leaves the room.

I sit up in bed and hug my knees to my chest. Did he not know what I wanted? Maybe not. We've never done that - never even come close - in the light of day. Or maybe he is still a little upset with me and wasn't interested. I realize I'm shaking my head slightly at this thought, even though it could very well be true.