It's afternoon when I finally wake again, and the rain is still gusting against the windows outside, accompanied by the low rumble of thunder in the distance. My fingers instinctively extend across the bed for Katniss, but the space beside me is empty. I forget I'm the one that keeps unusual hours, and that she must have risen well before me. My spirits are at least marginally lifted when my eyes fall on the Toscanelli laying on the bedside table. A small smile tugs at my lips as I envision Katniss taking extra care to salvage it from my bloodied clothes while I was in recovery, and it makes my heart swell for her even more. She must have gone out of her way to retrieve it for me and bring it back here before going off about her day, and it's hard to believe I'd ever regarded her as selfish. As if the girl who sentenced herself to death just to save her sister could have ever been anything but selfless.

I hastily go to get dressed, noting that I'll have to send out for a replenishment of my wardrobe - it would seem that the majority of my waistcoats and dress shirts have ended up bloody or with bullet holes in them. Perhaps it wasn't wise to fight a rebellion in designer clothes. Skimming through what belongings I've had shipped here from my apartment, I settle on a crimson waistcoat and black shirtsleeves, tucking the cigar into my pocket. Red isn't particularly my color, but upon inspection in a mirror, it's elegant enough even if it is a little flashy.

Then a memory hits me out of nowhere, and I see a glimpse of Crispin looking back at me, looking refined and poised in the same clothes, wearing a matching blazer. He had this same waistcoat once, and wore it to one of Snow's parties. The memory is so vivid that I have to brace myself against the dresser to keep from collapsing to the floor, and I'm assaulted with the cold sweat of panic and the erratic beat of my heart. Crispin's gone. They killed him because of you.

I clamp a hand over my mouth, panting heavily through my nose as I threaten to fall apart all over again. My day technically hasn't even started and I'm already fighting off tears. I was doing so well. Now all I can think about is how I'll never see him again, never kiss those quaint lips again. I feel like I squandered away my time with him. I recall my first few appointments with him and how I'd been convinced that nothing would ever make me feel attraction for another man. That he deserved someone who could love him the way he wanted to be loved.

And then I went and fell for him anyway. Our relationship grew to something I'd never intended or expected, but turned out to be a delightful surprise in the long run. He taught me how to be human again. All the nights I fell asleep wedged between him and Sterling after a late night out at the theater, overcome with how warm and content and safe they made me feel. How I'd kiss the scars on the insides of his arms and tell him everything would be all right when he was having a particularly bad day. How I'd gently tend to his fresh cuts whenever he had a relapse, muttering soothing reassurances to him as he cringed from the sting of antiseptic. How I'd hold him and stroke his hair and cover his face and throat with soft kisses until he trembled and sighed my name. Did he know how much I loved him? Did I ever tell him? I feel like I must have, but I think it was obvious even if I hadn't. I'd come to love them both in a way I didn't think I could anymore.

I don't know if I'm going to make it through the day. The reminder of how they were both violently taken away from me forever just makes me want to dive back into bed and never come out. I feel like I might shatter into a million pieces. And I need desperately to speak with my father. There's a lot of catching up to do. A lot of explaining. A lot of confessing and apologizing. I feel like I've been hit by a train. I thought I'd lost everything, and my father turns up alive. It's as encouraging as it is daunting. I think my mind has become so accustomed to trauma and devastation that I've forgotten how to process happier news. Or perhaps I'm just perpetually edgy and apprehensive because I know how easily it can all be taken away.

I need a fucking drink.

I'm met with the chaos of frantic soldiers the moment I step out of my room, and I'm nearly knocked back into the wall as a rebel swishes past me. From the various chatter I hear, they're on high alert, and as I make my way down the corridors, listening for the specifics, I immediately learn it's because Coin's body has gone missing.

Fuck. I probably should have told somebody about that. Or at least had the foresight to realize my cleanup mission might have been met with some level of disapproval.

I rush down a flight of stairs and into the east wing where Snow's study is located, wagering that whomever I need to tell about the fate of Coin's body is in there, along with that much needed beverage. The commanders from the districts are all tensely poised about the room, and all heads snap up as I burst inside.

"I put her in the incinerator," I say abruptly, and my tone has the blunt edge of no remorse.

"You...what?"

My eyes flit over to the familiar voice, and it's Dalton, standing awkwardly by Snow's desk as he stares at me in disbelief. I don't know him all that well, but I respect him well enough. He was close friends with Sterling once. For that fact alone, I have trouble meeting his eyes. I can't go having an emotional breakdown while unapologetically justifying my disposal of a despotic leader.

"I should have told someone. I apologize for sending you all into a panic."

"Why...why would you do that?" I don't recognize the speaker, but she has the bronzed skin of District 4.

I set my jaw, prepared for opposition, and boldly meet her eyes. "Because I needed the finality of it. I just...needed to make sure."

I don't think anyone misses the implication that it means I'd be totally comfortable with having burned her alive.

There's a confused tension lingering about the room, but to my surprise, a wave of collective relief seems to pass over some of the commanders, and while some are looking at me with impatience or mild disapproval, I see mostly empathy and concern. They think I'm crazy. They won't retaliate because they think I'm unbalanced. Which I am.

District Four sighs, her eyes lingering on me for a moment before tearing her gaze away to issue orders into a radio. "Call off all search parties. All units stand down. False alarm."

The district commanders close in around the discussion table and begin conversing in rushed tones so that I don't entirely catch everything they're saying, but it's clear that they're deliberating on what to do with me. I wonder if they think I'm still a mutt. I wonder if I should just play it up anyway so I can spare them the concern, but immediately disregard the idea. I'm a little too proud at this point to let the other guy take any credit for my actions.

I abruptly step forward. "If I may," I begin diplomatically, and all heads snap in my direction again. "If you all don't mind my asking, what exactly were your plans with the body? Did you intend to hold a funeral service for her? A memorial? An unmarked grave? ...Wastes of space and resources, not to mention an insult to the people she exploited. Her husband and children have been long gone. I think you'd be hard pressed to find anyone who actually misses her. I understand you're all alarmed and questioning my motives, but rest assured, this was the best option. Ripping off the bandage quickly, as it were. Admittedly I was in a really emotionally vulnerable place when I disposed of the body, and I'm pretty sure I have internal bleeding from aggravating my gunshot wound in the process, but I doubt anyone really had any better ideas. I'm sorry for alarming everyone. I'm not sorry for getting rid of her."

No one argues. No one even really responds. I'm just met with blank stares and stunned expressions, some of which are shadowed by furtive glances of concession. I smile inwardly at the realization that I've still got it. I can still capture an audience with words. I think my blunt honesty helps me a lot.

The commanders adjourn their meeting, and begin to filter out, giving me a wide berth. District 4 stops in front of me as she passes, and her gaze is demure, passive. As though she's afraid she'll provoke me. I sedately stare down at her, grimly musing at how everything I do now is done with the increased effort of trying to be nonthreatening. I'd avert my eyes out of politeness to make her feel comfortable, but I don't want to seem guilty or remorseful. I like to own my actions.

"Dr. Aurelius will be here to speak with you this evening," she says in a hushed tone, then leaves me alone in the room.

Well that's convenient, at least. It will spare me the headache of playing phone tag during the limited energy window tonight.

I cross the room to the beverage table and pour myself a drink. I hear the door open and close behind me, but I don't turn to see who it is. I can tell by the clumsy, uneven footstep that it's Haymitch, and I still don't trust myself to be able to look at him without feeling homicidal. He sidles his way over to the table and comes to stand next to me, awkwardly rummaging through the decanters and glassware and nearly upsetting a bottle of fine single malt. I'm at least grateful for having developed an assassin's reflexes during my employment under Snow, and I reach out and deftly catch the bottle as it teeters on its rim, just before it can crash into the surrounding bottles. I upright it with a frown, setting it a little too firmly back in its place.

"Where is the ice?" Haymitch asks in annoyance.

I roll my eyes. "The fuck do I know? Drink your liquor neat like a real man," I say, raising my own ice-less glass in a mock toast.

I think he's felt continuously provoked by me ever since I was brought back to Thirteen, because something in him seems to snap at my comment. He huffs out an impatient sigh and rears a fist back to hit me, but he's sloppy and I'm faster than him. I smoothly deflect and barricade my forearm across his throat, forcing him backward so that he roughly slams into the wall. I pin him there and glare at him in hostile warning, and I know we're both remembering the time he nearly dislocated my jaw merely because I tried to get him to do his job, and had spilled his drink in the process. I've been silently wanting to get him back for that this whole time.

"You done?" I say, my voice a low, threatening growl. I don't want to injure him. I just want him to know that I could.

He scowls at me, but only when I hear a reproachful "Son!" from the doorway do I release Haymitch, wincing as I slowly turn to face my father.

His expression is hard to read, but thankfully I don't see disapproval in it. Some form of anguish, yes, a little sympathy. But no disapproval. I'm still mortified that of all the moments my father had to walk in the room, it had to be during this one. I don't want him to know how merciless I've become. I don't want to risk the chance of him seeing a trace of my mother in me. I have a lot of things I need to say to Haymitch. We need to clear the air. I'm finally coherent and have some things he needs to hear that for once aren't just inflammatory diatribes and insults, but catching up with my father is a more urgent matter.

"You've got some serious temper issues to work out, boy," Haymitch says, and the condescending emphasis on the last word is laid on rather thick.

I feel my nostrils flare as I draw a deep breath, then turn back to face him, leaning in close enough that he seems to shrink into the wall behind him. "I am not your boy," I seethe. "You'd do well to stop underestimating me and show at least a marginal amount of respect. You have no idea how many people I've killed while I've been here. You don't want to provoke me."

I step aside, opening the opportunity for him to escape. He glares at me, but wisely keeps his mouth shut as he heads for the door.

"We'll continue this conversation later," I say just as he reaches the door, and he visibly stiffens at my frosty tone before slipping out.

My eyes finally rest on my father, and I let out a sigh of resignation. "It wasn't my intention for you to see that." I turn back to the refreshments and pluck another glass down. "Would you like a beverage?" I say over my shoulder, and don't wait for an answer before I'm pouring it. To my surprise, he accepts the glass when I hand it out to him, and we wordlessly settle into chairs opposite one another near the window.

He inspects me in silence for a long moment, serenely sipping his drink as his eyes fall to the sleeve of tattoos on my right arm, and he smiles a little. "You designed every one of those, didn't you?" he says finally.

I can't hide the shock from my face, and I nod. "How could you tell?"

"The hard edges and bold colors," he says with a shrug. "It's a style you've been using out of habit ever since you started frosting the pastries."

A hollow forms in my chest, and I slowly bring a shaking hand over my mouth as I feel the tears well up in my eyes. Of course he'd seen my cakes, but to be able to recognize my style with such detail, between two completely different mediums, is such a profound observation that I think I might lose it. "I hadn't known you noticed," I choke out, and my voice is barely above a whisper. I think I'm suffocating.

He seems to become withdrawn then, and his smile slowly fades as his eyes drop to his lap. "All things considered, I should have noticed a lot more," he says vaguely.

I shake my head and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "What do you mean?" I ask.

"I should have known she was abusing you," he says, and his voice is saturated with guilt. "It should have been so obvious to me. I should've - "

"We all should have done things differently," I interrupt softly. The last thing I want him to do is blame himself. Too many people seem to be taking credit for someone else's sins lately, and I certainly won't be having it from my father. "It's understandable that you couldn't tell. That was my intention. I hid it from everyone, because I was ashamed of my weakness and the shame it would bring upon the family. You had enough to worry about. You had a business to run and an insolent wife to placate. Don't blame yourself for something that was outside of your control."

A bitter smile crosses his lips, and he takes another drink. "Well, it was mostly my fault that she was that way. She knew she wasn't my first choice. I wasn't hers, either. It was a marriage of convenience, and I treated it like one. It was an unhealthy relationship by all means, and my children suffered for it. I have a lot of regrets, Peeta. I want you to know that I completely understand if you wish to hold me accountable for them."

"Dad," I say, and I set my glass down on the table between us and rub my face in my hands. "She might have used that as a convenient excuse to justify her behavior, but there really is never any reason to treat your own children that way. She was a selfish, childish, vindictive woman, and I have absolutely no intention of wasting any ounce of contempt or blame on you when she deserves all of it. Don't excuse her behavior. Nothing was your fault. You gave her a steady income and a home and food on the table. She should have been grateful for that. It's far more than she ever deserved. It's my understanding that you only married her out of pity because none of the other merchants would have her. It's a far greater charity than I ever would have extended to the likes of her."

I suddenly regret my words, hearing them objectively in my head and realizing how spiteful and unforgiving they sound. Two years ago I never would have dared to even think such vitriol, much less voice it to my father. When I tentatively raise my eyes to look at him though, he doesn't show a shred of disgust or concern. He merely nods in understanding.

It's a painful reunion. He describes the destruction of Twelve, and how he escaped. He tells me what happened to my brothers, and his subsequent mental breakdown, and I find myself swelling with acidic rage and hatred for my mother all over again. Wishing she hadn't died in the bombing, so that I might have the honor of taking care of her myself. I don't tell him. I keep those thoughts to myself. He commends me on my resilience and pragmatism. Not once does he voice any concern or disapproval of my cynicism or vengeful nature. He tells me how happy he is with Mrs. Everdeen, and that it never really is too late for anything. He asks me if I feel awkward about it, which I don't. He promises that they'll at least not get married so that Katniss and I don't have to be step-siblings, which elicits the first genuine laugh from me in a while. He says they don't need a contract to define the bond they share.

Merely being around my father, his charitable nature and subdued voice, makes the coldness within me dissipate. He's the man I wanted to be when I was younger. Everything he's ever done has been out of sympathy and compassion for someone else. He's always been so attuned to other people's needs, respectful of boundaries and accepting of differences. I don't know how he does it. Especially after having been married to my mother, I can't understand how he never turned cynical or cold, like I did. I wouldn't even be able to fake it. And still, he doesn't judge me. He is clearly a better man than I. I can't ignore how lucky I am to have such a positive male influence in my life when so many men my age never did. Words can't even begin to encompass how much I appreciate having him back. A mentor and advisor I can trust, who won't belittle or underestimate me.

...An advisor.

I hesitate for a moment, draining my glass and setting it back on the table between us, deliberating on the propriety of what I'm about to ask. His expression is open and welcoming as always, so I draw a deep breath and force myself to continue. "Dad, have you ever...did you ever experience difficulty...like, in the bedroom?" I ask after a long silence. It's an awkward thing to ask, but only because I can't know how uncomfortable he'd be with answering a question of such a personal nature. Being a hired sexual companion in the Capitol has stripped me of any notion of modesty I might have ever had, so I find little shame in asking embarrassing questions involving myself.

"Ah," he says, closing his eyes momentarily, as if he completely understands why I'm asking. He then looks back to me and frowns slightly, that same expression of sympathy still etched on his face. "You're having problems?" he asks.

I sigh and look down at my glass, giving a small nod.

"Taking everything into consideration, it's to be expected," he answers after a momentary silence. "I can't imagine that excessive drinking is helping your situation, though," he says grimly, nodding toward my empty glass. "For what it's worth, Dr. Aurelius is already here. I believe he's seeing Katniss right now." He gives a slight shrug as he fixes me with an apologetic expression, as though he truly wishes he could offer better advice.

That's a relief, at least. Not only that Aurelius is here, but that he's helping Katniss cope with her demons, too. All I have to offer is my warm embrace at the end of the day, and somehow I don't think that's quite enough to piece together the war-torn commander she is now.

My father and I finally share a rough embrace, and we make plans to visit a Capitol bakery soon. Haymitch stumbles back into the room not long after my father leaves, too drawn to the temptation of an opulent liquor supply, and I exhale sharply through my nose and roll my eyes as I begin heading for the door myself.

"You know she originally wanted to save you," he says, just as my hand reaches the door handle.

"What?" I say hotly, my tone seething with impatience.

"When Coin had the hovercraft sent into the arena. She originally wanted to extract you. We never meant to abandon you, Peeta."

I whip around to face him, and I think my expression is one of such unadulterated hostility that it actually startles him, because he takes an abrupt step back, nearly losing his balance.

"You think that's why I'm pissed off at you?" I say incredulously, and I'm so fucking offended by the assumption, the implication that I would be angry about something so selfish, that I think I might actually stride up to him and hit him. "For fuck's sake, Haymitch. Do you think for one second I wished our roles were reversed? That I'd wish upon Katniss what happened to me? Because that would have been the only alternative. Do you really think I'd rather it had been her who was tortured and sold to the depraved lunatics in this city? Wow, go fuck yourself."

"So what, then?" he asks, and his usual drunken incoherence is temporarily eclipsed by the determination in his tone. "If you're going to hold me in contempt forever, you might as well tell me what I'm fucking up," he says angrily.

"Let's start with the blatant disrespect and condescension since day one," I say, slowly advancing on him. "You fucking hit me the very first day you met me. Or how patronizing you've always been, with both of us. You lied to us. You underestimated us. You treated us like fucking children. And most of all," I say, slowly coming to a stop just in front of him, "how you broke every single promise you made to both of us before the Quarter Quell. I told you to protect her. I told you to fucking keep her safe. You were the closest thing to a father figure she's had in a while, and you blew it. She was far from safe in Thirteen. You just let her be exploited. I'm not mad because you abandoned me. I'm mad because you abandoned her. Fuck you, Haymitch."

"What could I have realistically done?" he counters, raising his voice slightly. "You think Coin would have ever let me stand in the way of her plans to exploit the Mockingjay?"

I shake my head, rolling my eyes in frustration at how much he's missing the point. "She needed someone to protect her emotionally when I couldn't. Something tells me Hawthorne ended up doing a better job of it than you ever could have. ...Did you really tell her she could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve me before the Quarter Quell? Did you really fucking say that to her?"

I can tell by his defensive expression that it's true. It occurs to me that Haymitch might see this as a betrayal on Katniss' part, that he'd assume she's been lamenting his cruel behavior when he's not around, when really she just has a tendency to talk in her sleep sometimes. She's confessed a lot of things without knowing it, and out of respect for her privacy and her pride, I never bring it up.

"You're such a prick, Haymitch," I say with a chastising shake of my head and a dismissive wave of my hand. "You really would have made an abysmal father."

I think this strikes a chord in him, because he reels back and seems as though he's going to say something, and I can only imagine that the girlfriend he once had that the Capitol killed might have had plans on bearing his child. But I'm entirely unsympathetic to him right now, and he quickly shuts his mouth at the fiery glare I shoot in his direction. A challenge, of sorts, to say one more thing that might piss me off. I can be an insufferable prick, too. I learned from the best.

And I'm not going to hit him. I'm not going to hit him. ...I really want to fucking hit him.

My hand twitches into a fist at my side, but I want to convince myself that I'm better than that, especially considering I have the advantage here. I'm young and strong, and he's feeble and drunk. He's not worth it. Instead I wheel around with every intention of leaving, but I'm startled by Katniss, who has come up just behind me. Her eyes are rimmed in red and there's a vacant look in her eyes as she stares at some point in the distance, and I remember having been just as wrecked after my very first session with Dr. Aurelius as well. My anger suddenly dissipates, and I forget all about Haymitch and instinctively reach out to Katniss so that I can pull her into my arms, where she buries her face in my chest and mechanically wraps her arms around me.

"I know, the first time really blows," I say sympathetically, and I idly knead her spine to work out the tension in her back. "But the hardest part's over now. It only gets better from here."

She doesn't say anything, and the only sound coming from her are the sporadic hiccups of empty sobs. I know too well that dried out feeling of having wept too much, as though there's no more grief left to give, and I wordlessly embrace her, resting my chin on the top of her head. Holding her like this causes the ache of grief in my chest to subside a little, and I find immense comfort in the fact that she wasn't taken away from me as well. It makes the loss of Crispin and Sterling bearable. It reminds me that I didn't quite lose everything. I can guarantee that if I'd lost all three of them, I would have ended my life without a second thought. And right now, the moment is too divine for me to want to share it with anyone else, so I shoot a warning glare over my shoulder at Haymitch, and he grabs a random bottle from the liquor table and hastily leaves.

"Do you need me to do anything?" I ask softly, stroking her hair and rubbing her back in slow circles.

"You can make me a drink," she deadpans.

I give a slight chuckle as she sags against me, and I have to hold her up to keep her from hitting the floor. I ease her into one of the oversized chairs by the window, practically having to carry her across the room, then procure a beverage for her, which she accepts with a shaking hand. I forgo a drink for myself.

"You wanna talk about it?" I say, settling myself next to her, where she instantly nestles up against me so that she's halfway on my lap.

She shakes her head, then knocks back the drink in one swallow. I take the glass from her trembling hand and set it on the table before she can drop it.

"Katniss..." I ease two fingers under her chin and tilt her face up toward me. "How much of that conversation did you overhear?"

She sheepishly looks away. "All of it, actually."

I close my eyes in regret, wishing I could have practiced more restraint. I really never, ever wanted her to see that side of me again. "I'm - "

"Don't," she says firmly. "If you're going to apologize, don't. You told Haymitch exactly what he needed to hear. The only reason I never did is because it would make me something of a hypocrite, considering he and I are too much of the same person, and I deserved everything he said to me, anyway."

"No you're not, and no you didn't," I say, and there's such deadly conviction in my tone that it sounds almost aggressive. "You need to stop feeling guilty for doing what you had to do," I say, softening my voice so that it doesn't sound so combative. I hate when she does this. I hate when she plays herself down like she's worthless. "Remember the conversation we had about deserving people? People aren't fucking trophies, Katniss. Don't you dare let him even imply that. He's a grown man, he should fucking know better."

She frowns as though she's unconvinced, but nods curtly. "Do you really hate Haymitch, then?" she asks.

I actually have to think about that one for a minute. "No," I say after a short moment. "I cherish my hate too much to waste it on the likes of him. There are so many other people who are so much more deserving of it. I just feel a certain degree of contempt toward him because he engenders so many of the same negative traits that my mother did. I think he needs to be more responsible and make better choices. We've all lost someone. We've all experienced tragedy and the crippling unfairness of life. That gives no excuse to constantly alienate and belittle what few people you have left on your side. He could have played his cards a lot better when it came to this whole thing."

"We all certainly underestimated you," she says, looking up at me with an expression I don't immediately recognize. ...Admiration, maybe? "I like you this way," she says quickly, seeing the disdainful expression on my face at the implication that no one ever expected such vindictiveness from me. "You're still that nurturing, charming boy who threw me the bread, just all grown up now. ...And I really, really do like the tattoos," she says with a smile.

I'm about to respond when Dr. Aurelius pokes his head into the room. "Ah, I thought I'd find you in here. I'm ready whenever you are, Peeta," he says. It occurs to me that I'm just that predictable - everyone comes looking for me in the room with all the booze. I give a quick nod and signal I'll be there shortly.

Though if I'm entirely honest with myself, I don't want to leave Katniss alone right now. I'm generally uncomfortable letting her out of my sight at all, considering how that ended last time, but the last thing I want to do is treat her like she's helpless, or turn into some invasive, overprotective asshole. I know she can handle herself. But when she's emotionally vulnerable like this, I know she can get reckless, which makes me considerably nervous.

I tighten my arms around her and press my lips to the top of her head. "Are you gonna be alright on your own for a little while?" I mumble against her hair.

Her fingers tighten around my shoulders as though rooting me to the spot, but she nods. She clings to me as I begin to maneuver her from my lap, so I relent and sit back, allowing her time to relax a little. Her ear is pressed to the center of my chest, and it seems as though she's trying to bury herself there, as though she can't get close enough to my heartbeat. It's an endearing reaction, and I absently stroke the back of her head. This feels good. Oh, this feels good. Every time she's fallen into my arms since we were reunited, I'm reminded of how much I've been subconsciously craving this over the past months. How it felt as though something was missing, but I couldn't quite figure out what.

I briefly pinch the bridge of my nose to quell the blooming ache in my sinuses, closing my eyes to force back the sting of tears. They come so easily now, with no warning or preamble. It's too easy to realize how close I was to losing her. I almost lost her. The guilt and shame are always there, waiting for me to invoke the memories of the things I said to her. Even though I wasn't myself in the moment, I still remember too vividly how fragile and delicate her throat was in my hands, her pulse beating frantically against my palms, the look of shock and fear registering on her face, and ultimately, betrayal. I remember the whispers in the halls of the medical ward, that she was a suicide risk and to keep eyes on her at all times, that she might have been more of a threat to herself than I was. It sends me into a panic just thinking about it, invoking gruesome images of her slumped in a bathtub of bloody water, lifeless and grey on her bed next to an empty bottle of pills, hanging from a rope wrapped round her neck. If she'd actually done it, I would have felt responsible.

"I'm sorry I left you," I whisper, burying my face in her hair so that she won't hear the way my voice breaks.

She immediately looks up, having heard it anyway. I meet her eyes for just a moment, then quickly look away as one tear stubbornly escapes and trails from the corner of my eye. Her brows pucker and she reaches up to brush it away with her thumb.

"You didn't have a choice. You're punishing yourself for things that were out of your control," she whispers, and I think she's moved by the emotion in my eyes because her face wavers a bit and tears spring into her eyes as well.

I think I have a rebuttal for that, but my voice has failed me. Instead I just lock my arms tighter around her so that I'm almost crushing her, and I don't care about the pain in my ribs or that the tears I've worked so hard to force down are flowing freely now. She buries her face in my shoulder, but I feel the dampness of her tears seeping through the fabric of my shirt, and we just cling to each other and weep.

"Does it really get better?" she mumbles after a while, and her voice is so thick with grief that I almost don't understand her at first.

"For the most part. I won't lie to you, Katniss...the wounds never really heal. It's always going to hurt. We just find better ways of coping with it. The waves of grief come farther apart and you learn how to survive them a little better each time. There are going to be bad days. Anything, anywhere can trigger a memory that causes the whole world to cave in on you. But you'll fight through it. And there will be good days, too. And I'll be there to help you. I - " My voice catches, the grief of shame and guilt wrapping an unforgiving hand around my throat and causing me to choke on my words. "...I intend to make up for all the times you needed me when I wasn't there."

She responds with a sniffle, then eventually disentangles herself from my arms. "You shouldn't keep Dr. Aurelius waiting," she says, and I can tell she's avoiding my gaze.

I frown and whip a fresh handkerchief from my pocket, then catch her chin beneath two fingers so I can lift her face toward me and begin gently dabbing at her tears. "You're angry with me," I say quietly.

"No, not with you," she says, and her eyes shift to meet mine. "Just...shocked by your honesty."

I continue to gently wipe her tears from her face, my movements slow and deliberate so she won't instinctively cringe against me. "I won't patronize you, Katniss. I respect you too much to console you with meaningless platitudes. This is our life now. But you're a survivor. We both are. It won't be all bad. I promise."

She draws a deep breath and nods, then glances back toward the assortment of liquor. "Can I sleep with you again tonight?" she asks, and her voice is small, as though she's mortified for asking.

"Of course you can, you don't even have to ask," I say, stroking her hair away from her face. "Listen, just...try not to overmedicate in the meantime, okay?" I say, glancing toward the liquor. "Take it easy on the booze until I can be nearby to make sure you don't have any unfortunate accidents."

Katniss doesn't quite know this house as well as I do, and it terrifies me to think she might take a wrong turn somewhere and end up broken at the bottom of a staircase. She's become as dependent on drink as I have, and by the looks of the shape she's in already, I don't want to take any chances.

She nods and flashes me another sad smile.

I'm paralyzed with grief, my trembling hands clamped tightly over my nose and mouth as I lean forward with my elbows on my knees. This feeble gesture alone might be the only thing holding me together right now. I was in mid-sentence when the wave hit me, and when I suddenly stopped talking, blinded by the blur of tears in my eyes, Dr. Aurelius politely looked down at his clipboard and scribbled some notes, patiently allowing me to get a grip on my sanity. We're not even fifteen minutes into our session and I'm practically catatonic. I can't find my voice. I don't think I'd be coherent if I even attempted to speak.

I don't think Dr. Aurelius is having the easiest time of holding himself together, either. The very first subject he questioned me about was my stunt with Coin's body, and I didn't hesitate to explain exactly why I did it. Inevitably, Sterling and Crispin came up. And Crispin was one of Dr. Aurelius' patients. They'd known each other a lot longer, and now, seeing his jaw twitch, the flicker of the vein in his neck as he swallows with significant difficulty, the reddened eyes, the hoarseness to his voice as though it's been whittled away with grief, I safely come to the conclusion that - impartial psychological professional or no - Aurelius will hardly censure me for my actions. I'm surprised he didn't end up recusing himself from my case due to conflict of interest. But then I can't imagine there are many others in his field. He might be the only one left.

What's clear is that I'm not ready to talk about Sterling or Crispin. Allowing myself to grieve over them and talking about them are two very distinct things, and I can't even say their names without my voice disappearing into the wisp of an oncoming sob. I have half a mind to excuse myself early, and I have no doubt that Aurelius would allow it, but I came here with a purpose. There are too many things I need to sort out, and delaying it won't help. I'm grateful when he leads the conversation in a different direction, offering a marginal distraction from what may inevitably be a complete emotional breakdown.

We discuss my mother at length. My paralyzing fear of becoming like her. Being in the arena. My night terrors. Losing my leg. Being tortured. Addiction. All things we've discussed before. Laying it all out chronologically in a controlled setting makes it easier to put everything into perspective, and it gives me the chance to appreciate the profound amount of trauma I've survived. It's notable that I'm not more of a wreck than I already am. Having my father back seems to have helped considerably, and Dr. Aurelius offers suggestions on ways to reconnect with him, to rebuild the relationship I never quite got the chance to have with him while my mother was still alive. It's a surreal experience, discussing the potential for me to have something approaching a normal life. A part of me still isn't entirely convinced it's possible.

"Tell me about your reunion with Katniss," he says finally.

I immediately look up, drawing a deep, shaky breath as I ease myself back against the cushions of the chair. "Frustrating," I say after a moment's deliberation, and my voice is barely above a whisper.

"You're still struggling between reality and hijacked memories?"

I shake my head. "No, I think I've got most of that sorted out. I just...I'm still having problems...achieving an erection. And I refuse to deal with any drugs anymore, even performance enhancers. I'm eighteen fucking years old, I should be able to get it up on my own," I say bitterly.

Dr. Aurelius looks up from his notes, regarding me over the rims of his glasses. "In what setting did this present itself as an issue?"

I hesitate, unsure of how much I want to divulge of last night's events. I can't imagine he'll consider it a good idea to be getting intimate with Katniss so soon, and I'm already plagued with countless irrational fears of things that might keep us apart. "We, uh, ended up in bed together last night. There was foreplay and...it didn't work. I couldn't get aroused."

He pauses for a second, then nods and scribbles something on his clipboard. "And the last time you achieved an erection without assistance is still the same as the last time we talked?" He rifles through his notes, skimming the pages for a moment. "...During your captivity after the Quarter Quell?"

I press my lips together and nod. I'm surprised he hasn't questioned me on our readiness for intimacy so soon. There's no way he considers it a healthy idea. "Even then, it was a real chore, with our lives and our dignity on the line if we didn't perform," I mutter.

"Are you still experiencing flashbacks involving your hijacked memories of Katniss?"

I shake my head. "Not quite. I've developed the ability to recognize when they're coming on, and I can sufficiently distract myself to control it...avoid triggers. But the anxiety of being susceptible to one is still there. There's no predicting if or when I'll lose control."

"Have you given yourself time to reevaluate your feelings for her?" he says, a tentative edge to his voice.

I shoot him a sincere glare. "It's not that," I assure him. "I'm still attracted to her. The emotions are all still there. I still experience excitement, emotional arousal...the only thing that's different is the way my body responds. That's why it's got me so concerned. I'm afraid there might be permanent damage. I can't even tell if the problem's purely physical or all in my head."

He continues to scribble notes for a moment, then slides his pen into the top of his clipboard before leaning back and fixing me with a solemn expression. "You've experienced a considerable amount of trauma. It's not unlikely that regardless of your conscious desires, your brain has come to associate intimacy with force and violence. You've been hardwired to find an underlying revulsion to sexual contact. There's also the simple fear of being unable to perform that can cause anxiety and lead to problems achieving arousal. The excessive use of narcotics probably played a part in it as well, though it will help that you've discontinued using them. It's not uncommon at all, for people in your situation."

People in my situation. How many of those are left, I wonder? I'd give anything to have Finnick back. Surely he'd be able to offer the wisdom of experience. Judging by Annie's swollen belly, I'd wager he confronted his sexual demons some time ago. But then I feel the lump of regret rising in the back of my throat at the mere thought of him, the horrible things I said to him without ever getting the chance to atone for them, and I have to shove his memory back down into the recesses of my mind so that I don't have to fight off the threat of a breakdown all over again.

I sigh impatiently. "Well, that's to be expected," I say, my tone a little sharper than I intended. I shoot Aurelius an apologetic glance, then close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. "How do I fix it?" I ask, my voice more subdued.

"Barring a dependency on pills? Give it time. Ideally, you'll begin making new, positive memories associated with sex and intimacy that will reprogram your body to respond properly."

I open my eyes and drop my hand to the armrest, nervously tracing the embroidered pattern in the upholstery as I stare across the room at him. "'Ideally?'" I repeat.

He sighs, and there's a flash of sympathy in his eyes. "There's never any guarantee of recovery. But considering your progress concerning your hijacking, from a purely clinical standpoint, I'd say your case is rather promising. Be patient. You can continue your sessions with me. And I know you don't like the idea, but as a last resort, you can always continue taking medication to help you."

I cup a hand over my mouth, wearily rubbing the lower half of my face as I stare distantly at the floor. Promising. It's such a neutral word, and doesn't bear the reassurance I'd wanted. "And your thoughts on us being intimate so soon?" I ask. "I imagine you think it's a horrible idea."

"Are you asking my professional opinion, or is that what you think?"

This slightly catches me by surprise. What do I think?

I think back to those first few nights in captivity, before the torture and the venom had started, before they corrupted my memories of her, and how the thought of her was the only thing that kept me going. The only beacon of hope in my isolation where I had nothing but the screams of my fellow inmates to accompany me. Even after they'd conditioned me to hate and fear her, some small vestige of my subconscious clung to her out of habit, like a phantom pain my brain stubbornly refused to erase. After all this time apart, after all the blood and pain and death and fighting, it would be absurd not to want to spend every waking moment tearing each other's clothes off.

"I think I really want to be with her," I say with a shrug.

"Then regardless of any professional advice I give you, you're going to do what you want anyway."

I snort softly, one corner of my mouth going up in a sheepish half-smile. He's not wrong. "Really, though. Is it a healthy idea?" I press. "If it's going to be...counterproductive to my situation, I'd rather heed your professional input, regardless of how much my hedonistic tendencies compel me to do otherwise."

He seems to think for a moment, idly flipping from one page of his notes to the other, his eyes shifting as he skims the pages. "Do you know what self-actualization is, Peeta?" he says finally.

I give an ironic huff of a laugh. "I think I've got a long way before achieving that."

"On the contrary. I think you're already there. That you're even acquainted with the concept speaks volumes."

I shrug. "Sterl-" I stop short, suddenly out of breath from nearly mentioning her name. "...She had a lot of books," I gasp. I'm about to say more, but my voice has decided to check out again.

Dr. Aurelius gives me a moment to recover, then continues, "The point being, you show a remarkable pragmatism and perception of reality, you recognize and accept your flaws and capabilities equally, and you've had the ability to cultivate profound personal relationships even when you were still convinced you were, as you said, a 'mutt.' Taking everything into consideration, I think it's safe to say you've made a fair amount of progress, and can enjoy the freedoms that come with self-determination. Not many people have the ability of speaking as openly about their problems as you have. You've never exhibited denial or hostility in our sessions, only a notable self-awareness and strong desire to fix yourself. ...Meaning, if you think you're ready to be intimate with Katniss, then you're ready."

I give another half-smile. That might actually be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. "It's easy to appreciate a professional who seems to know what they're doing. It's more than I can say for the charlatans in Thirteen," I say bitterly.

It's a bit of an understatement. I showed all kinds of hostility to the people who treated me in Thirteen. Where Aurelius attempts to analyze the root of a problem and mitigate it with logic and positive reinforcement, the "doctors" in Thirteen were content with sedating a problem away and forcing a hijacked mind to comply via forceful methods. I can't hold back my scowl as I recall hazy days strapped to a bed with a lithium IV and no recollection of where all the time went, perpetually nauseous and delirious from the drugs and wondering if my memories were dreams or reality.

"So what do I tell Katniss in the meantime?" I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. My near-mention of Sterling still has me feeling as though the wind's been knocked out of me.

Dr. Aurelius regards me over the rims of his glasses again, and his expression suggests the answer is obvious. "The truth. Be honest with her. Be as open with her as you have been with me."

My brows come together in apprehensive worry, and I shake my head. "I'm not sure she'll take it well. It's unfortunate...I feel like so much of our relationship was dependent on sex. We were forced together in such an awkward, highly-publicized manner with no real chance to get to know each other or develop an organic sense of chemistry, so we turned to physical intimacy to fill that void. I feel like...I don't know, like we were using sex to solve all our problems. And now, that's what we're naturally tempted to do again. It was the only thing that seemingly helped her with her confusion about her feelings for me, and now I can't even give her that. She's going to take it personally. I don't think she'd understand."

"She may understand more than you think. Open communication in this relationship is tantamount to its prosperity. If you're both completely honest with each other, that organic sense of chemistry you mentioned will come naturally soon enough. Without sex as a distraction, you can use this as an opportunity to finally get to know each other in the way you wanted to in the midst of all the publicity. Talk to her, Peeta. You may be pleasantly surprised."

It's reasonable enough, but that doesn't make it any less daunting. I've been comfortable talking about my impotence problems with Dr. Aurelius because he's a professional. He hears this stuff everyday. It's his job. Somehow I don't think confessing the problem to Katniss will be quite as easy. The idea of it alone is humiliating, and I take to wandering the corridors of the mansion after my session in an attempt to build up the courage to even initiate the conversation. No matter how I rehearse it in my head, it's painfully awkward. I can't realistically conceive her reaction. I desperately want a drink, but I avoid stopping by Snow's study. I don't see myself ever completely kicking that habit, but I certainly don't want to hinder my progress - or worse - end up like Haymitch. I can go one evening without a drink in my hand.

I climb flight upon flight of stairs until I can't go up anymore. I emerge on the rooftop, and it's flush with a garden I never knew about. This isn't like Snow's greenhouse, stifling with a heat saturated by the stench of some perverted version of roses. This is just a regular garden like the one on the rooftop of the Training Center, in which Katniss and I shared some of our happier moments. The power has temporarily come back on for the evening, and the dimly lit skyline casts an eerie reddish glow against the darkened nighttime clouds. While most might find it ominous, I see something strangely peaceful about it. There's a crisp moisture to the air, though the rain has momentarily subsided as the echoes of thunder continue in the distance. There's a tall, lean figure slumped at the railing overlooking the City Circle, and I forget how silent my footstep has become until he senses my presence and jumps when I come close, whirling around to face me with a hand going back over his shoulder, reaching for a weapon that isn't there.

Gale has become as conditioned for battle as I have.

"Fuck," he breathes, wearily regarding me through narrowed eyes before slowly turning back to the skyline. "It's a good thing I wasn't armed. I might have shot you."

I casually come up beside him, leaning my elbows on the railing. "You would have done well in the arena," I say, meaning it as a compliment but not realizing how morbid it sounds until hearing it spoken aloud. I briefly close my eyes. "I mean, you have excellent reflexes, is all."

He's silent for a long moment, staring listlessly out at the cityscape, and when I chance a brief glance at him, I see that his eyes are bloodshot and there are the dark bruises of exhaustion beneath them. He looks as emotionally broken as I feel. "Well. You make one hell of a soldier, yourself," he says finally.

"Assassin," I correct him darkly.

He nods. "It's hard to envision what a world without war will do with the likes of us," he says, and his face is momentarily illuminated by the silent flash of distant lightning, enabling me to see every bit of pain and weariness etched into his expression. "What are you going to do now?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I don't know. I hadn't really thought about it. I wouldn't be opposed to staying in the Capitol. It's become more of a home to me now than Twelve ever was."

He casts me a sideways glance. "Katniss will never go for that."

I huff out a small laugh and nod. "No, I guess she wouldn't."

"You know they sent cleanup crews to Twelve to clear out all the wreckage," he muses. Some morbid place in my mind parses wreckage as bodies. "Special firefighters to put out the pits that are still burning in the mines. They even found some way to cleanse the toxins from the air. Twelve should be habitable again pretty soon."

"Imagine that," I say neutrally. I don't want to voice out loud that I have no intention of returning to Twelve if I can help it. None of my friends from school made it out alive. The memory of my mother would make me too angry. The memory of my brothers would make me too sad. There's nothing for me there but shadows and skeletons.

"Listen, Gale," I say after an extended silence, turning slightly toward him. "I never got to thank you for pulling me out of the Capitol that first time. ...You risked a whole lot to rescue me and the other hostages that night. I'll be forever indebted to you for that."

He flashes a wry smile. "No kidding. Even starved and broken, you're not exactly the lightest person in the world. Damn near broke my back carrying you out of there."

This elicits a genuine laugh from me, and Gale gives a slight chuckle and shakes his head.

"Seriously, though," he says, his voice low and sincere. "You know, you never had to defend me the way you did with Commander Thread that day, either. Nor did you have to look after me when I was recovering. It was incredibly noble of you...all things considered." He shrugs awkwardly. "I'd say we're about even."

And he'll never have to know of what ultimately happened to the intrepid commander in the end, either. There's a momentary, awkward pause, and I deflect the only way I know how - with self-effacing humor. "So which one of us leans in for the kiss now?" I say.

Gale responds with a hearty, booming laugh, and for just a moment, he doesn't look quite so broken. I think it's the first time I've seen him look anything other than solemnly sincere since we left Twelve. "You know what Mellark, you're alright." He suddenly casts his eyes downward, as though embarrassed about something. "...I should never have treated you with such hostility for as long as I did. It was petty and shallow of me," he says, his voice subdued and humble.

I dismiss it with a wave of my hand. "Things were complicated back then. We were practically still kids. At any rate, she needed you. You looked after her in Thirteen when I couldn't be there. Thank you for that."

He inhales sharply, and I see his jaw clench as his eyes glisten with the threat of tears. "Take care of her for me, will you?" he says.

I take an abrupt step back, regarding Gale with suspicion. "Where are you going?" I feel a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach as I surmise that this will preface a departure in which Katniss will not be involved, which has the potential to break her even more.

He shakes his head and takes an uneven breath. "Got offered a job in District Two. I leave tomorrow morning."

My brows come together in concern, and I press my lips together as I study Gale's wounded expression. "And Katniss?" I say softly.

"I don't think that's gonna work out." His voice is shaky, and I can tell by the way he seems to be taking every effort not to fall apart that there's more to this story he's not telling me, and probably wouldn't be able to get it out without completely breaking down anyway.

I don't question him further. I merely nod and fix him with my sincerest expression of sympathy, recognizing the finality of concession in his words. I can't help but feel my heart break for him, and I impulsively pull the cigar from my pocket and hand it out to him. "Congratulations on the job," I say, a small reflection of sadness in my voice. I can understand too well how much he must be hurting right now, and regardless of childish past rivalries, I never would have wished that kind of hurt upon him. I've been there too many times myself, and it's unbearable.

He gingerly takes the cigar, turning it over in his fingers and looking at it in mild fascination. "My dad used to come home with one of these from the Hob every year, even though we could barely afford it." He pauses to lift it to his nose. "I never thought I'd see one again. ...Thank you."

I flash a sad smile and nod. "Good luck, brother," I say, and he firmly shakes the hand I extend out to him, then pulls me into a quick embrace that causes me to instinctively cringe from the wound in my side, but I return the gesture with a couple of reassuring back slaps. "You'll be alright," I say. "Don't be a stranger. I'm serious."

He steps back and nods, then leaves just as the rain begins to fall again.

I find Katniss still in Snow's study, and she's slumped over on the couch by the window. I slowly cross the room so as not to startle her out of sleep, then kneel down beside her and delicately take her face in my hands. "Katniss," I whisper, turning her face up toward me as my thumbs caress her cheeks.

She doesn't respond.

"Katniss," I say, more firmly this time.

I immediately notice her shallow breathing, and when I take her hand in mine, gently massaging her wrist between my palms, the pulse is thready and sluggish, and her skin is cool to the touch. Alcohol poisoning. I knew I shouldn't have left her.

"Katniss, wake up. Katniss, I need you to open your eyes for me," I say urgently. I delicately steady her jaw with one hand as I lift one eyelid with my thumb to inspect her pupil. She stirs slightly, giving a fretful moan, and I curse under my breath. "All right, come on," I say, sliding my arms underneath her and hoisting her off the couch. She's incredibly light. Uncomfortably, disconcertingly light. She hasn't been eating.

I carry her back to my room, where a steward must have lit the candlelight sconces on the wall, which cast the room in a flickering orange glow. A fresh fire burns in the fireplace, and I'm grateful for the warmth as I delicately lay her on the bed, maneuvering her so that she's laying on her stomach with her head turned to the side. Waking up is going to be considerably unpleasant for her, and with the foresight of a substance abuser, I gently pull her hair back into her usual braid and secure it with an elastic that I find in the bathroom. It's still relatively early for me, so I can at least keep an eye on her with no risk of falling asleep. I pull a chair up to the bed and settle into it, closely watching the lethargic rise and fall of her back to ensure she's still breathing. Every time she stops for more than a few seconds, I lean forward and rub rhythmic circles into her back to get her lungs responsive again, then press my fingers to the pulse points in her wrist.

After a couple of hours, she stirs and her body convulses in a dramatic shiver, her hand feebly reaching out to me. Her fingers are ice as she touches the back of my hand, and I recognize the subtle invitation to join her. I hesitate for a moment, then kick off my shoes and slide in next to her, still in my clothes. I know too well from personal experience that hypothermia is a risk in these situations, and judging by the constant tremble claiming her body and the unhealthy hue of her lips, I don't want to take any chances. She curls up at my side, clutching a fistful of my shirt, then smoothing her hand up to my neck so she can warm her fingers there.

I warm her slightly parted lips beneath my fingertips, wincing as another vivid memory of Crispin rips through my head, unforgiving and vivid and sharp. I used to hold him just like this. I'd pull him tight against me and press the pad of my thumb to his bottom lip in a little teasing gesture just before leaning in to devour that rose petal of a mouth in a soft kiss. It always invoked a shy smile and the most delicious tremble from him, even in his weakest moments. He'd be sick and hopeless from withdrawal, but one touch of my thumb to that divine, pouting bottom lip and he was mine forever, given new strength by my affection. And now, my fingertips ghosting across Katniss' paling lips, I see a hint of a weak smile there. An echo of someone I lost. I close my eyes and take several slow, measured breaths to calm my racing heart. It still hurts.

"It's just like old times," she mutters as a clap of thunder vibrates the walls of the house and heavy gusts of rain batter the windows.

One ghost to replace another, only this time the phantom is of a place rather than a person. The memories of those moments in the cave seem so innocent and warmly pleasant now, even though we were both fighting for our survival. In hindsight, it really does seem like they were just games. There was no war back then. No torture. No district bombings. No threats from President Snow. Our families and friends were still alive. We were just two kids finding comfort in one another in what might have been our last moments. It's disgustingly obscene how naive we were in that moment, to think that it couldn't get any worse for us. That two years later, we'd be reminiscing about how pleasant it was.

But it is just like old times, and my arms tighten around her as I realize how alarmingly comforted I feel by the notion. Perhaps because that moment signified the beginning of our relationship. And then my heart breaks for Gale all over again as I remember the pain in his face under the glow of lightning on the roof, and I can't help but imagine how he must have watched those scenes of the Games with that very same expression.

Katniss suddenly shifts in my arms, and gives a low groan as she lifts a hand to her head. She abruptly bolts upright, wrenching herself from my embrace as she leaps from the bed and dashes to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her just as I hear the unmistakable sound of her violently regurgitating her inebriation. I rise from the bed and cross to a table that's consistently set with a crystal pitcher of fresh water, and I pour her a glass before coming to stand just outside the door, leaning against the door frame as I wait. I push the glass into her hands when she emerges several minutes later, and she sinks onto the foot of the bed and takes an apprehensive sip.

"All of it, Katniss," I instruct firmly, lightly touching her chin as I lift the glass up to her mouth.

She makes a disapproving face, but follows my advice and hands the glass back to me before flopping onto her side on the bed. She closes her eyes and winces, and her brows knit together as she brings the heel of her hand up to her forehead. I come to sit next to her, gently smoothing my palm over her back in an attempt to comfort her. Not a half hour passes before the vertigo and the pain get to her and she's bolting right back into the bathroom to regurgitate the water she just ingested. I close my eyes and sigh, coming to stand against the door frame again so that I can help her back into bed when she returns. After ten minutes of silence on the other side of the door, I tentatively call her name to no response.

I enter the bathroom to find her collapsed on the cold tiles, curled in upon herself and breathing shallowly, tremors claiming her body. I press my fingers to her throat and her skin is on fire, her pulse beating erratically against me. I wonder how many times she vomited before I found her in Snow's study, because she's severely dehydrated. I'm at least thankful for the early hour, as I'm less likely to be seen by anyone while carrying an unconscious girl through the halls, and I lift her up in my arms and carry her down to the wing where I recovered from my gunshot wound.

The lights are dimmer than I remember and flicker sporadically, and it's clear that the generators are low on power. Thankfully a nurse greets me when I enter, hastily sweeping a curtain aside so I can lay Katniss down on the bed. Her eyes open and she urgently reaches out for me as I lay her down, and I smooth the loose hair back from her forehead and mumble reassurances to her before stepping back to allow the nurse to take a quick assessment of her symptoms.

"She can't even keep water down?" the nurse asks me, noticing her level of inebriation.

I shake my head. It's determined that Katniss will need to be given fluids intravenously, which poses a bit of a problem as this nurse appears to be something of a novice and can't seem to find a vein and start the line. Katniss is marginally lucid now, and after the sixth unsuccessful stick, she cringes and recoils away from the needle, causing me to sigh in exasperation as I grab a pair of latex gloves from a nearby dispenser and pull them over my hands.

"Do you mind?" I ask, already liberating the nurse of the needle before she can answer.

I gently wrap my hand around Katniss' elbow, assessing how delicate her veins are. They're hardly a challenge for a junkie, and my thumb makes soothing caresses over her elbow as I puncture the tender flesh in the crook of her arm, gently sliding the needle into the vein on the first try. She hisses with a sharp intake of breath, but when I lift my eyes to meet hers, it's not pain registering on her face, but that same lethargic admiration I'd seen on her earlier, a trace of a shy smile lingering on her lips.

"You're pretty good at that," she whispers.

"Well, I've had some practice." Was it in poor taste to joke about it? I don't care.

The nurse gives me a curt nod of gratitude and comes over to adjust the line, then leaves, pulling the curtain closed behind her to give us some privacy. I peel the gloves off and settle myself into a chair by the bed as Katniss drifts back into unconsciousness. I eventually find myself lightly tracing the fine bones of her hand, occasionally stopping to warm it between my palms, then I rotate her wrist upward so I can trace the faint blue veins there and savor the throb of her pulse against my fingertips. When she shivers in her sleep, I pull a blanket over her to keep her warm, then go back to warming her hands in mine. I think I actually fall asleep in my chair for a while, but then I'm right back to memorizing that pulse with my fingertips upon waking. Some hours later, as I'm entertaining myself by idly dragging my lips back and forth across the soft skin at the inside of her wrist, she stirs and her eyes flutter open, giving me a contented smile when they fall on me.

"Hey," I say. "It's good to see your eyes again."

A flicker of some indescribable emotion shadows her face, and she seems to think for a moment, as if trying to remember something. "You said that to me in the arena," she says. "Real or not real?"

I nod. "Real." I inspect her in silence for a moment, my lips still brushing against the delicate skin of her wrist and registering the strong, steady increase of her pulse as I meet her eyes, trying to analyze the emotion I see in them now. "You love me," I counter. "Real or not real?"

And she whispers, "Real."