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.

...

We travel to the Capitol on the first day of March. The first obvious difference is the trains. Gone are the opulent interiors, furniture, and food service. No mahogany tables for Katniss to stab with her steak knife. Haymitch doesn't even bother looking around for liquor bottles stashed away in cabinets as we speed towards the Capitol. Instead, they have been designed for mass transit and travel between districts. Well, for everyone but Katniss, I think bitterly. Her face nearly broke me as I boarded the train. I watched her grow smaller in the distance as the train sped away.

I check in with Katniss and the family upon arrival and getting settled in my old room at the Training Center for a few nights before I move to the hospital. The kids are intrigued at seeing my room on the video transmission, so I show them around the best I can. Katniss asks offhand if I saw her green blanket before I left, and I begrudgingly pull it out of my bag to show her that I'd taken it. It was the only way I could think to bring her with me, even in the smallest way possible. She shrugs and shakes her head, offering me a hint of a smile that lets me know she approves.

I tell her about the train and the people too—no tattoos or brightly colored hair. No garish makeup, at least not that Haymitch or I have seen while traveling or on the streets. After our transmission ends, I pull out my sketch book to relax.

On the first night, my nightmares intensify from the ones I was having back home. Fears unearthed about meeting doctors, medicinal smells, bright white rooms with shiny metals bars. Syringes.

After very little sleep, my appointments start first thing in the morning. They do more x-rays, standing this time, which is more comfortable. They send me through an MRI tube, which I vaguely recollect from District Thirteen. The machine clicks and whirs all around me. Haymitch tells me I've done it before, but I don't like it. It will check for the viability of the bones at the joint, to see how much prosthesis they may have have to add to the damaged bones.

Haymitch and I meet with nurse administrator, nurse practitioner, and the hospitalist, Dr. Niels. They request a blood transfusion approval, which will require a blood draw, as well as check my vitals, current pain level, etc. They advise me to take meds at at level five.

The snap of plastic gloves brings me back to the reality of a syringe aimed at me for a blood draw. My heart rate increases and blood pressure spikes on the monitor. Even after all these years, I still don't like needles. After the blood draw is complete and my arm has been cleaned and bandaged, they run through the final precautions.

"You should not drink alcohol tonight or the night before your surgery," Dr. Niels warns.

"Not a problem...for me," I say. "Him," motioning to my caretaker, "on the other hand…" I finish.

Laughs all around the room don't put my mind at ease. Dr. Niels instructs me to arrive in loose clothes, without jewelry, and to take a shower tonight and in the morning with a chlorhexidine wash. They give me a set of brown towels, because the strong cleanser will stain white towels.

"You'll also be given a local shot that will numb your hip, for the most part. Expect that to wear off after three to four days. You'll also be prescribed Morphling for the pain."

We review my records, at least the ones I'm cleared to see. I'm asked several more questions about nausea, changes to vision, recent surgery, any open wounds, and dizziness.

The second to last appointment is with a physical therapist named Serode. She gives us an idea of what to expect following the surgery. She warns me about deep bending and bringing my chest to my knees. I'm also not supposed to extend my legs too far behind me to reduce the risk of dislocation. The last precaution is to avoid tendonitis, so I'm to not do any repetitive hind-bending or flexing activities like leg lifts or marching. No worries there. She also advises me how to walk, postoperatively. They will give me a walker to support these steps and eventually a cane.

"Heel toe," she says. "Surgical leg first, then good leg."

I repeat the steps over in my head, hoping to set it in my memory for after surgery tomorrow—if I'm up and walking already, like they say I will be.

Our last appointment is to finally meet the man that will be cutting me open, Dr. Wurtz.

We wait in a smaller room, similar to the one where Dr. Mills and Dr. Shaw first told Katniss and me the bad news. Intricate anatomy graphics of hip, knee, shoulder, and elbow injuries adorn the walls of the room. Muscles and bones are named with leader lines. And there it is, Coxa, written in neat script out of the side of a bracket around the acetabulum, ilium, ischium, and pubis. The bones of the hip joint.

"Mr. Mellark, you have severe arthritis of the hip joint, and I'm recommending a full replacement of your left hip joint," he says.

I've mentally prepared myself for this so my expression remains neutral.

"We will start the replacement with an anterior incision, pulling the muscles apart, replacing the acetabulum and femoral head and femoral stem with ceramic and titanium prosthetics. The MRI indicated that the rest of your femur is in good shape, so we won't have to go too far down the stem. We'll use a glue internally and steri-strips externally to put it back together. The last step will be two layers of surgical tape over the incision," he finishes.

"I'm used to prosthesis, Dr. Wurtz," I remind him when given the opportunity speak.

"I know, Mr. Mellark. That's what makes your case so interesting. Look at your x-rays, " he motions to the screen where they are displayed. "Your left hip is deformed and flattened, and there are bone spurs where the two have rubbed together incorrectly for the last twenty years. Your right hip joint is perfect, so after the prosthesis, you'll be able to do whatever you want. Your lower leg prosthesis does pose several issues, though."

"Such as?"

"Well, your rehabilitation for one. Most hip replacement recipients have two sound legs, so the challenge will be getting you walking as soon as possible on your artificial leg with your new hip," he replies. "It will definitely take longer than the average patient without a prosthesis."

"Okay, I assume I'll talk more with the physical therapists about that," I say.

"Right. The other challenge is that our normal joint replacement patients get a CECT unit to prevent blood clots in their lower extremities after surgery. That's continuous enhanced circulation therapy. It's basically compression sleeves fitted onto your lower legs to maintain circulation. Without your lower left leg, we had to design an abbreviated unit to fit around your kneecap. It's the first of its kind," he finishes.

"I'm not comfortable being another test subject, Doctor."

"Would you be more comfortable with blood clots?" he returns.

He's met with my silent stare.

"No, I didn't think so," he quips. "Let me tell you about the table too..."

The surgeon continues, obviously proud of his accomplishments, techniques, and innovations for hip replacement. I try to pay attention, but I hadn't considered how my prosthesis would impact the recovery.

"My surgical process will eliminate the need to cut through any muscles, since this anterior approach goes through a natural space between the front of hip joint. My special table will also allow for instant x-rays to precisely place the new hip components and, therefore, more consistent restoration of your hip anatomy.

I nod along to his spiel, staying engaged with eye contact at least, since he's more impressed with his table than I'll ever be. To me, it's just a means to an end.

"It's just one of the tools in my arsenal, and it'll get you walking without assistive devices sooner. Your physical therapists will encourage you to place your full weight on your operative hip as soon as you're able," he finishes.

Haymitch and I spend the following day around the Capitol. I haven't been back to the Avenue of Tributes since the fateful day Katniss shot President Coin. As soon I was done in the recovery center with Dr. Aurelius and cleared for travel, I had no interest in sticking around. I didn't know what I'd be coming back to, but I was worried about Katniss. She looked so haunted, so broken that day, I just wanted to help her when I was healed myself. The avenue has been preserved, with markers that describe different Games, their Tributes, and notes on the Victors. I've read that battlefields from previous wars were memorialized in this way in ancient times, so this must be the modern version of that.

That evening, I access the rooftop where Katniss and I rested and watched the sunset twenty years ago. The irony isn't lost on me that it was the day before we entered the 75th Games. Instead of the jungle, I'll be wheeled into yet another surgery at the Capitol's mercy. I sketch the view as the sun dips below the horizon and wish that she was here with me. She would find a way to comfort me with a simple touch. I'm always better when I realize she's right there next to me.

I go through the recommended pre-op process that night. I wash with the provided antibacterial soap. I have a ton of pre-surgery nerves and am headed for another night of poor sleep. I consider a sedative they suggested, hell I consider having a stiff drink with Haymitch even though they said not to. I know my nightmares will keep me awake most of the night, and I'm already missing Katniss more than I can bear. The only thing that will calm me at this point is her voice, so I take a risk that she isn't already asleep to call to her. After a few rings, I know I will have woken her up; it is later in District Twelve after all, and she would have had to come downstairs. I don't know why I didn't think to have a phone installed upstairs before I left.

"Peeta?" she croaks when she picks up the line, her voice breaking at the end.

"I'm sorry, I know it's late—" I start.

"I couldn't sleep either," she says on the line, and I can hear her struggle to maintain her composure.

"I'm so scared, Katniss," I whisper into the phone.

She take a deep breath and sighs with me, "I know. I am too," she says.

"Will you just talk to me? Tell me about your day? Your voice is so calming," I ask her.

As she recites her daily activities, I listen and let the sound of her voice wash over me. It isn't long before I feel my eyelids drooping and hear her speech falter too.

"Goodnight, Katniss," I mutter.

"Good morning, Peeta. I love you," she mumbles before ending our call.

...

After my midnight call to Katniss, I sleep fairly well. As well as possible anyway. I dress myself and head to the surgical entrance of Paragons of Panem, Haymitch following behind in my shadow. I exchange my clothes for a gown and shoes for a pair of brightly colored non-slip socks. I detach my prosthesis and keep it with my belongings. I chuckle to myself at how much Patrick would like this sock, if he were here. The smile I'm imaging on his little face calms me and goes a long way to ease the anxieties I felt throughout the night without Katniss physically there to comfort me.

They check my vitals, ensure that I haven't had anything to eat or drink after midnight, and administer the anesthesia. It's stronger than sleep syrup, and the tendrils of sleep drag me down into a dark abyss.

...

I wake with a start, acutely unaware of my surroundings. Have I been in this room before? It doesn't seem familiar. My ears are ringing and finally pop. I can hear Haymitch snoring in the corner of this room.

"Hey," I croak, my hands flying to my throat to check for tenderness. I notice a breathing tube, feeding oxygen through my nostrils in my inspection.

"Erm… They said your throat would be sore, from the intubation," he says, motioning to my voice.

"Was I?" I sputter and clear my throat, "Was I awake when they brought me in from Recovery?" I manage.

"Yeah, kind of. You were trying to tell a joke, but your speech was all slurred, so it was most amusing to me," Haymitch replied. "We've been in here a few hours. I took a nap."

"Well, I'm glad I'm here to entertain you, even if I don't remember that," I say, my voice slowly returning. "This whole day after surgery has been mostly a blur."

They have moved me to my official hospital room, where I'll stay for a few days. Haymitch was encouraged to stay overnight as my caretaker, but he took one look at the fold out couch and declined the offer. I know he'll be close enough anyway, and he promises to stick around for meals.

My vitals are checked regularly and medications delivered promptly once I'm settled. They have prescribed three different pain pills, including Morphling, and three different medications to counteract the other side effects of pain management. They also have me on two different blood thinners. They threw in a muscle relaxer, too, that I make the mental note to hide from Haymitch once I've been discharged from the hospital. All of these meds can cause dizziness, so it's a good thing I also have a rolling walker in the corner of the room.

I lift my gown to examine the surgical site. I can't see much from this angle, other than the tape extending down my left thigh and the bright purple sock on my right foot. Everything feels fine, but I know I'm still under the effects of Morphling and other narcotics they gave me.

"Can I call Katniss?" I ask, turning to Haymitch.

"I already did, boy, twice. She sounded like she had her hands full," he says.

"Okay, maybe later," I mumble and close my eyes again.

My first, of what I assume many, physical therapists arrive later in the afternoon.

"Mr. Mellark, I'm Davil—and we're going to get you up for a walk!" He's older than I thought a physical therapist would be, with a crown of white hair and glasses.

He moves the bedside table, sheets, and blanket away to reveal my right leg with the compression sleeve cuffing my leg between my knee and ankle. My left thigh is mostly exposed, with a cup-shaped compression cuff around my stub. He clears a path between me and the walker. My thighs look scrawny and pale against the white sheets as I nudge myself closer to the edge of the bed.

"Nice and easy, Mr. Mellark. Just reach for the walker and pull yourself up slowly," he instructs as Haymitch looks on, mild curiosity painted on his face.

I grasp the handle bar of the walker, sliding it closer to edge of the bed. I extend my left leg until my socked right foot touches the floor. I pull up to stand erect on my right leg while the air tubes hang tethered to the unit. I push the walker forward, hold my breath, expecting excruciating pain when I slide my right foot forward to step.

Exhaling, I'm amazed at how simple that first step is. I lean a little on the left side, just to correct my balance. My eyes shoot up at Davil, and then to Haymitch. I refocus on my steps and take a few more to demonstrate my new mobility. Davil declares me 'ad libitum' so that I can maneuver around my room with the walker, with Haymitch's supervision. It's good because that means I won't have to call an aide every time I want to walk about the room or take a piss.

A few hours after surgery, the first drug wears off, and I miss it immediately. My incision burns and itches, worse than what I recall of the scabs left by the poison fog in the Quarter Quell. After that, they give me two Morphling pills every four hours. I can still maneuver around room with walker, but it doesn't feel nearly as easy anymore.

After Haymitch leaves for the night, I pick up the room phone to dial home. I don't think I can handle a video transmission in this pain, so a call will have to suffice.

"Hey, I made it through the worst part," I tell her since it's past the kids' bedtime.

"We heard. Haymitch called us a few times throughout the day. I'm so glad to hear your voice though."

"I really miss you. I really wish you were here." I'm choking back tears, and I'm sure she is too. "Tell me about your day, tell me something good," I implore. "The distraction will be good for me."

"Funny you should say that. As we were biding our time between calls from Haymitch, Cara picked a fight that evolved into another temper tantrum with her grandmother, and it escalated," she describes. I can hear her tight smile over the line.

"What was it about?"

"Homework, of all things. Apparently Cara didn't want to start anything until we'd heard from you, and my mother thought it would be better for her to concentrate on something else," she says.

I can feel the tension brewing between Katniss and her mom. "Did she break anything this time?"

"Thankfully, no. But my mom is testing my patience. I was outside with Patrick, visiting the geese, while this was happening," she says.

"Well at least they're talking now?" I say, trying to make her laugh. It's probably a longshot though.

"Yeah, they made up, but it seems like it's just a matter of time before something sets either one of them off. Mom is good at finding buttons to push," Katniss gripes.

"Well I'm sorry I didn't call earlier, maybe to alleviate some of that," I say ruefully.

"No, it's fine—it won't be too much longer, right?" she asks.

"Two and half more weeks, Katniss," I estimate. "Hopefully it'll pass quickly?"

She sighs. "I doubt it."

"Hey, I'll be home before you know it," I say to bring her back on the line. I can picture her, head in her hands.

"I know, it's just...she's hurting more than she's helping when it causes discord in the house," she whispers, likely afraid that her mom will overhear her. The guest room is on the first floor, down the hall from the phone.

"I really miss you and either wish I was there or that you could be here, we would do well with some quality time together," I offer.

"Me too, wish I was with you."

"I'm so tired, Katniss," he says.

"Go to sleep," she tells me, and the moment feels familiar, but all of my energy has been sapped from my body.

I murmur in agreement and tell her good-bye.

...

My sleep is rough, punctuated by pods being triggered around me and the staff checking my vitals. I am visited by all of the same faces over the next few days, as well as meeting a few more within the PT staff. In addition to Davil, other members of my team lead the PT sessions in the hospital.

I have PT in the hospital to practice stepping up and down a short stack of risers and getting into a tub. They teach me a series of stretches that can be done in a chair or bed. I learn a few standing exercises on the second day that focus on re-engaging the manipulated muscles and regaining my balance. I'm supposed to perform these activities each hour while resting, ten repetitions of each. They urge me verbally to repeat the steps to soft tissue management so that it will stick in my memory better, which includes rest, ice, compression, and elevation. The acronym cements the process in my mind.

I take my first shower after two days of sweat and anxiety in the hospital room. They place a shower chair in the stall for my safety and comfort so that I can keep the prosthesis off while

I heal. I wash up everywhere and note in a moment of lucidity that I must be on a shit ton of painkillers because nothing happens when I pass over my dick with the washcloth. Whatever they have me on has completely tanked any sensation or enjoyment out of that. I could have been washing my elbow, and I wouldn't have known the difference. I note the iodine on my skin for future washes. I'm still too tired for now.