A/N: This is a companion piece to what was previously a one-shot, Scars. This is an "unofficial" second chapter to that story because while I think it stands on its own, I wrote this, so I might as well share it. So, if you were satisfied with how the Scars ended, don't continue. If you just want to read more about Katniss and Peeta, continue on.

Fever

I hear fabric shuffle. My eyes don't open and my mind struggles through a haze of sleep to comprehend what I'm hearing. Some kind of hollow metal is creaking and straining. Something rattles. What item in this room rattles? If I ignore it for just another second it will probably stop. This drafty building is always making unidentifiable noises. Another hollow metal creaking sound assaults my ears. It feels too good to hold my eyes closed.

The subtle creak escalates into a crash – metal clangs loudly against the concrete floor. Something soft slaps against it as well.

"God damn it!" someone curses.

My eyes shoot open, but they are straining against the light coming from the hallway. Who is shouting? I push myself up onto my elbows and peek through my drowsy eyes.

"Peeta?" I call groggily. My cot is a foot below the height of his bed, but I can tell no one is lying in it. Suddenly, my slow, sleepy body pushes against my cot and I'm standing, a little wobbly at first, but standing. I see nothing but rumpled sheets in his bed. "Peeta?!" I call again, my voice cracks.

"Ugh…," he groans from the other side. I peer over. He's on the floor. Quickly, I run around the bed to get to him. He's on his side, as is his wheelchair.

"Peeta, what are you doing? Are you alright?" I ask harshly as I wrench my arm around his so I can pull him into a sitting position. I immediately look over his fingers and his wrists, worried that he might have sprained them or even broken them.

"I was just trying to get out of bed to go take a piss and lost my balance getting into this god damned chair." He curses in the direction of the wheelchair. He's lucky to have it, but too upset and exhausted to appreciate at the moment. I am too exhausted to deal with his temper. Honestly, Peeta is one of the most even-tempered people I know, but lately, his aches, pains, and frustrations have been getting the better of him.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" I bark at him. Peeta and I rarely fight, but it's four in the morning and neither of us have any patience.

"Because I don't want to be a helpless invalid," he barks back.

"You'd rather fall out of bed and hurt yourself?"

"I'd rather be able to walk to the bathroom by myself."

"Yes, well, I would, too," I say coolly. I straighten his wheelchair and assist him into it. He grumbles under his breath the entire time. I begin to push behind him, but he's impatient, and he grabs the wheels and pushes himself toward the bathroom, his own bathroom. Another luxury he's lucky to have. Very few people have their own bathroom. Peeta is well enough that he no longer needs to be hooked up to machines, but not well enough to move into the barracks where everyone else sleeps. There are four private rooms reserved for recovering patients who do not need constant attention. The room next door is being used by a woman who just delivered a baby. My mother said she was an enjoyable patient, strong and healthy and so excited to have a new baby. Peeta is just about the worst patient in the entire medical ward. He is still dealing with some of the after-effects of the poisons that once ran through his system; fevers, fatigue, chills, nausea, and a significant impact on his immune system. However, the worst part of his recovery is rebuilding his strength. He needs to slowly learn to walk again as several months of being completely non-mobile greatly reduced his muscle strength. He is being taught how to walk, for the third time in his life, and without the amenities of a Capitol hospital it's much harder. Peeta absolutely hates it, and despite his generally optimistic persona, he becomes extremely unpleasant to work with. No one wants to help him. I fall into that category from time to time.

I lean against the wall right next to the bathroom door, just in case he needs help. If I climb back into bed, I won't want to get up again. I hear some muffled cursing coming from behind the door. I do my best not to listen too carefully. The door swings open and Peeta wheels himself out. He stops when he sees me standing next to the door.

"Damn it, Katniss! Do you have to stand outside the door? It's embarrassing. I'm not two years old," he groans.

I choose not to respond.

He wheels by me and rolls up to his bed. He locks the brakes and then tries to pull himself back up into his bed. Usually, I help him with this, but he's way too irritated and proud to ask for help now.

"You know, you weren't like this last time," I say from across the room.

"'Last time?'" he grunts.

"The last time I had to nurse you back to health you were happy to have my help." Back in the Games. Back in the caves. Back when he was receiving the worst possible care and still he was the bravest and nearly the most agreeable patient ever.

"Well, I was pretty sure I was going to die then so I didn't care," he snaps at me. He has one leg up on the bed, but he's having trouble lifting his prosthetic leg up. I'd feel sorry for him if he wasn't so completely obstinate about asking for help.

"So, now that you're probably not going to die, you're going to be stubborn and impossible?"

"Maybe." With one final grunt he manages to roll his body over and get all his limbs onto the mattress once again. Unfortunately, his last effort also pushed his wheelchair a foot further away from his bed. He won't be able to reach it the next time wants to get out of bed. Peeta glances at it and then at me; perhaps he's waiting for me to point out his mistake. I'm gracious enough not to mention it.

I walk up to the foot of his bed and lean over the footboard. Peeta is straightening out his blankets.

"The whole reason I sleep in here is so I can help you," I say softly.

"Is that the only reason?"

A laugh escapes from my throat. If he thinks he's going to get soft declarations of affection right now, he is sorely mistaken. "Yes, of course, who wouldn't want to sleep right next to your cranky face?" I walk away in a huff and collapse into my own cot. I pull the covers over my torso and close my heavy eyes.

The room isn't exactly quiet. I can here machines beeping down the hall, the buzzing of fluorescent lighting, and the clangs and whirls of the struggling heating system. I can also hear Peeta's shallow breathing. He gets winded so easily now. Even that small exertion took it out of him. He's going to be so tired in the morning, which means he'll be especially irritable. I sigh. His bad attitude has really been getting to me, just as much as it has the rest of the staff. We're all struggling, some are far worse off than Peeta. Hopefully, he's asleep now.

"Katniss?" Peeta suddenly asks, breaking the non-silence.

"What?" I reply, making sure to let him know how annoyed I am in that single syllable.

"I'm sorry. Would you come here please?" he nearly pleads.

I sigh a second time and remind myself of what I just said to Peeta. I stay in here to take care of him, whether he likes it or not. I throw the covers back and stand up again. "What do you need?"

His eyes are soft and apologetic; all traces of his temper are gone. He reaches out for my hand and I let him thread his fingers with mine. "The last person I want to be mean to is you," he whispers.

I lean forward and rest my elbows on his mattress. I give his hand a gentle squeeze. "You're lucky to have me," I remind him. "You've scared all the volunteers away, and the nurse. My mother won't even help you." I'm grinning at him, but all he gives me is a half-hearted smirk in response.

"I hate this," he whispers through his teeth. "I know after the Games I was ten minutes from dying, but I was patched up within a matter of days. I didn't have all this therapy. It didn't take so much time."

"We don't have the same facilities or medicines. And it's only been four weeks. You're getting stronger every day. To ask any more of yourself would be too much." He looks so disappointed, like he's failed. His recovery would be going much faster if he didn't also have to deal with the repercussions of being injected with dozens of toxins. Some days he's not even able to do his therapy, which significantly slows down his progress. Even now, as I hold his hand I notice his temperature has spiked again.

"You're warm again," I say, pulling his hand to my face so the backs of his fingers touch my cheek.

"Ignore it."

"I can't ignore it."

"We both know the medicine supplies are dwindling. No need to waste them on me."

"Don't be a martyr, Peeta," I say with a forced smile. I partially meant it as a joke. How many times have we claimed the pursuit of martyrdom between us? Too many to count.

"I'm serious. I get fevers all the time. There's not much I can do about them other than to wait them out. Don't get the nurse or your mother involved again, please?" he begs.

I don't want to agree, but he presents a fair argument. I also know he's exhausted and just weary of being sick. It's why he's prone to bad moods. I would feel the same way if I were in his place. No one from District Twelve is all that comfortable with being taken care of.

"Fine," I concede, choosing not to argue with him anymore. Not during the reappearance of kind, sweet, and vulnerable Peeta. The man thousands of people watching on screen couldn't help but fall in love with. He pulls my hand into his lap and I'm forced to lift my elbows from the mattress. He tugs on my arm and flashes me a crooked smile that I begrudgingly smirk at. He always sneaks those in when I'm least expecting them. With a teasing roll of my eyes I lift myself onto his mattress. He pulls me against his chest and I comply; my heads rests on his shoulder and his arm wraps around my torso while his hand continues to play with my fingers. Wrapped up with him like this, I become even more aware of how warm his body is and I wish I hadn't let him persuade me not to find medicine for him. I'm too distracted to even relax into him, like I normally would during these small moments of privacy. My head is replaying what happened the last time he had a bad fever. It was awful. He tossed and turned in his bed all night, sweating through his sheets and moaning incessantly. Often, he was moaning my name. The fever was giving him nightmares and what I wouldn't give to be able to reach in and pull out every bad thought, every bad dream. This time isn't remotely like that bad fever; now it is only slight and is probably making me more uncomfortable than it is him. Still, wrapped in his arms, all I feel is anxious.

Peeta keeps his fingers loosely intertwined with mine and runs his thumb over my palm, over the many faded calluses on my fingers. It's been so long since I hunted last. There aren't many places to hunt in District 13. Everything above ground is mostly rubble.

"I don't like this," he says against my ear. I look up at him, confused. He's the one who pulled me up here in the first place. Catching my confusion, he looks down at me meaningfully, and continues, "I mean, I don't like being so unhealthy. I can't protect you."

"Protect me from what?" I inquire.

"From anything. From everything," he says vaguely.

"I have some news for you; you couldn't protect me from everything even if you were the strongest person in all of Panem."

"At least I'd have a fighting chance," he mumbles. Things start to piece together for me then. I want to smack myself for not realizing it earlier. Yes, Peeta's frustration and irritability is a result of a slow recovery, but his impatience comes from a different place. He's not the least bit worried about how vulnerable he is. He's worried about how vulnerable I am, even as a fully able-bodied and healthy person with the same level of vulnerability as anyone else. That is, if you don't include the fact that I am the face of the current rebellion, which substantially increases the amount of people ready and willing to take my life. Throughout these past months I do my best not to think about it, because it's really too overwhelming to comprehend. If I lied in bed at night counting the number of people who want to kill me, I'd never sleep again. I have no idea what would be best for my mental health, but I have been able to push those thoughts out of my head; partly because I focus so much on Peeta's recovery. However, throughout his recovery, Peeta hasn't been focusing on his needs at all, he's been thinking about me.

I twist my body around so I'm on my side and can see his face. He's so exhausted. I can see it in all his features. I can also see his fear – fear that his nightmares will come true. I want to reassure him that I'll be safe, that I'll always be with him. I can't make that promise. I can't even make that promise to myself. The future is too unclear and the idea of my living another day is too indefinite, perhaps even unlikely.

I touch his cheek and his eyes close. He does this whenever he's trying to sear a particular moment in his mind. Since he recalls nearly nothing from his experience in the Capitol, memories have become quite precious to him.

"Peeta, I'm here," I promise. Before his eyes open I push myself up onto my elbow and brush my lips softly against his. He clenches his eyes shut even tighter. Another memory, another feeling he can't bear to forget. My lips fall to his again and my body rests against him. His arms come around me, enveloping my in his uncomfortable warmth. A sweat breaks out easily on his forehead and neck and I think about how winded he'll be when we come up for air. As if he knows what I'm contemplating, he holds me even tighter and a shaky moan vibrates in his chest. His kisses are soft, but desperate, even more so than our kisses during the Games. I would do anything to be able to be with him without this fear hanging over us, without this need to make every connection between us so decidedly frantic. I would give anything for some certainty, for some time.

One of his hands pushes against the small of my back; the other gently pushes against the spot below the back of my neck. I press my mouth harder against him as I try to make him forget the awfulness of our circumstances. His tongue is quick and eager and my entire body collapses into him. Seconds pass, maybe minutes. I lose track. All I can concentrate on is the electric current running through my body and how it intensifies with each small progression of our movements. His hand moves from my lower back and dances down my side, pausing at my thigh. His feather-light touches tickle, while his unhealthy heat practically burns my flesh. He hooks his hand under my leg and pulls it to his hip. An embarrassing sound escapes from my throat. I can't even identify what it was. All I know is the adjustment allows us to fit together even closer. That's when I notice how hard his chest is working to keep up with our efforts. I'm snapped back into reality and abruptly pull away. Peeta doesn't release his hold on me, but I know he's grateful for the break. I lean away from him as much as he'll allow giving him more room to breathe. He closes his eyes again as his breathing slowly returns to normal.

"Will you stay here?" he asks between pants. When Peeta says "here," he doesn't mean the room, because I stay with him every night. He means "here," as in, his own bed. We've shared a bed numerous times; however, we always had a bit more privacy in the past. Even though Peeta isn't a primary concern of the medical volunteers, people still come and go on a regular basis. That's why I sleep in a cot next to him. I don't want anyone to walk in on anything; that includes my mother, and god-forbid, Prim.

"That depends, will you sleep?" I wipe the sweat off his forehead with my sleeve. I would have gotten him a cold compress, but I doubt his willingness to let me go just now.

"Sleeping has become my least favorite thing lately," he mutters. I still appreciate sleep, as fleeting as it may have been. Those hours of unconsciousness are such an underrated blessing. Then again, when your hours of unconsciousness overshadow your hours of consciousness, as was Peeta's case, you rapidly learn to appreciate the blessing of being awake.

"I'm going to be here when you wake up," I promise again.

"I don't know if I can ever be sure of that again." His voice cracks and I nuzzle my face into his neck, allowing him to hold me however he wants to. I want him to feel my breath, to feel my heart beating, to feel how real and alive I am when I'm with him.

"They're not going to send me out to fight in the streets. I'm the mockingjay, remember?" In the strangest way, that identity both saves me and damns me at the same time. One population of people fights to protect me, the other fights to destroy me.

"There are no guarantees."

Again, he's right. I begin to realize that this is not going to be the end of this argument. There probably will never be an end. We will continue to have this discussion until either I am dead or until Snow is dead.

His breathing is slow and shallow again but his body temperature has moved up a degree or two – most likely because of our recent actions. How the nurse would scold me if she knew what we were doing. She doesn't like it much that I am staying in here in general, but she doesn't have much of a say on the matter. Peeta would probably go on a hunger strike if she made me leave. He really needs to sleep now, but I'm afraid he's too wired to fall asleep again. This is what usually happens when I sleep in his bed. He gets too anxious and worried and can't relax enough to let himself sleep. If I can distract him from our conversation, hopefully, he can rest.

"I have an idea. You go to sleep now and tomorrow morning you do your therapy without complaint and be nice to whoever got stuck working with you." He snickers through his nose and I can't help but smile. Whenever we can make each other laugh, despite the war going on around us, those are moments that need to be cherished the most. I place a kiss on his neck and another along his jaw. He sighs and his vice-like grip lessens slightly. It's a good sign. It means he's relaxing. "And in return we will spend the rest of the day together. Just us. No one else."

"Really?" he asks with more hope in his voice than I've heard in a week.

"Yes. I will bring food and we will sit in bed and—"

"No one else?" he interrupts.

I smile against his skin again. "Yes."

He leans back so he can see my face and I can see his. He's smiling too. "Okay." He kisses me once on my nose, lingers for a few seconds on my lips, then he obediently lays back and scoots around a bit until he's comfortable. I am right about him being exhausted, because even amongst the nearby beeping machinery, the noise of the building, and my presence in his bed, he's asleep within minutes.

Unfortunately, it all has the opposite effect on me. It's nearly dawn now, and while I was able to distract Peeta, my mind is still buzzing over our discussion. At this point, by the time I fall asleep someone will be knocking on the door to wake Peeta up and take him to therapy.

I let a few more moments pass, completely assuring myself that Peeta is entirely asleep before I disentangle myself from him arms. It's not something I usually do and I'm well aware I'm breaking my promise to stay with him. Normally, I'm as desperate as Peeta for these small moments of togetherness, but I figure a few moments to get my head together may be in our best interest.

I begin a walk out of the medical ward and toward the dining hall in hopes of finding some leftover coffee from the previous evening. It will be cold and taste like it's been on the burner too long, but it's something. Everyone is still sleeping. All I hear is the obnoxious whirring of the ventilation system. I pass the shower room, the barracks, and a few miscellaneous rooms Haymitch and the others use for training or discussing strategies. They're all empty as well, except for one. One room still has its light on. The door in slightly ajar, flooding a bright yellow strip of light into the dimly lit hallway. I figure it must be Haymitch, maybe Finnick. I walk up to the door, expecting to see either Haymitch discussing plans frantically or finding him passed out on the table. I'm wrong on both counts.

I see Gale.