I am so thrilled with the response to this story! I can't thank you all enough for the kind reviews, follows and favorites! We're in the home stretch now, only three chapters left after today. :)

This story wouldn't be the same without the help of my sweet beta DandelionSunset, and my sweet friend stjohn27. Thank you both for all of your help!

This chapter contains some brief mentions of torture and a PTSD-related panic attack. Peeta puts on a brave face most of the time, but I feel it would do his character a disservice to not some of how he was affected by his imprisonment and torture.

THESE ENDLESS BACK AND FORTH DISCUSSIONS ARE POINTLESS. PRECIOUS TIME IS BEING WASTED. I WISH TO ANNOUNCE THE SURRENDER ASAP.

Carter leans back in his chair, tapping a finger to his chin as he grins. He's got Thirteen right where he wants him now.

FEEL FREE TO ANNOUNCE THE SURRENDER. AS LONG AS ALL OF MY REMAINING TERMS ARE CAPITULATED.

STAND BY.

Chuckling, Carter slides his chair back from his home workstation and makes his way into the kitchen to prepare something to eat. Through his window he can hear loud voices coming from the street below. People arguing over something, likely a pair of boots or a can of lamb stew. The voices continue for several minutes before another voice joins in, that of one of the rebel soldiers Carter determines, judging from the lack of an accent. The third voice orders the other two back to their homes, threatening to restore to arrest if they do not comply.

Damn district scum. Who do they think they are to speak to Capitol citizens in such a manner?

He's just finishing his angel hair pasta with white wine sauce and mushrooms when his computer beeps.

THIRTEEN WILL CAPITULATE TO ALL REMAINING TERMS.

A sadistic grin stretches over Carter's face. Excellent.

Being the type of person he is, Carter has already written up the entire terms of surrender, as well as a charter for the new Panem government. All that's required now are a few simple changes to wording and dates, and the documents will be ready to be transmitted.

OFFICIAL DOCUMENTS WILL BE SENT TOMORROW ON THIS CHANNEL. NO ANNOUNCEMENTS ARE TO BE MADE PRIOR TO THE RETURN OF SIGNED DOCUMENTS.

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Carter swirls his piece of French bread through the remaining sauce on his plate, popping it into his mouth as he glances around his apartment. He'll need a new place to live, of course. One more suitable for his new position. And he'll require servants as well, and someone to warm his bed on a regular basis. He supposes he should have to marry at some point; most high government officials have spouses, for appearances more than anything else. But still, he'll want an heir, and that will require a wife. Perhaps two heirs would be better, actually. Just in case the first one doesn't turn out correctly.

Bringing his plate back to the kitchen, Carter cleans up the mess from his dinner, mentally counting down the days to when he will no longer have to be concerned with such menial tasks. There is no way the Deputy Prime Minister of Panem will ever be washing his own dishes.

Carter sits back down at his workstation, pulling up the documents to peruse through them one final time. He knows they are perfect already, but there currently are no other tasks that require his attention, so he may as well check them again. Carter has always had an exceptionally fine grasp of grammar and proper sentencing. In fact, one of his teachers during his school years even made the mistake once of telling him that he'd do well to become a writer. The thought of it causes his upper lip to curl. As if Carter would ever stoop to such a degree, that of telling other people's stories for the entertainment of others. Writers are people whose own lives are so uninteresting that they are required to invent people and situations in order to make themselves look better.

No. Devin Carter, the soon-to-be Deputy Prime Minister of Panem, needs no such aid. He is perfectly capable of presenting himself just fine, thank you very much.

Perhaps he should look up that teacher, once everything is put into place. It would be unacceptable for her to be going around telling other people like Carter the same such nonsense. What if someone actually listened to her? The possible wasted potential sends a shiver down Carter's spine.

Finished with his read-through of the documents, Carter copies them three times onto various internal and external hard drives, then powers down his workstation before walking back into the kitchen to fetch some of the Scotch he pilfered from Antonius's office. Unlike most of his peers at the Training Center, Carter wasn't one for drinking very much alcohol, and never any of the hard liquors, preferring to stick mainly with various wines and ports. But, he figures, it's never too early to start acting his new part.

Pouring a shot of the Scotch, Carter swallows it down in one gulp, grimacing at the burning sensation in his throat from the harsh liquid and fighting the urge to cough. He swipes at his watering eyes and pours another, swallowing it down just as quickly. It goes down a bit easier, but only barely. Disgusted, Carter slams the glass down on the countertop, glaring at it as his eyes continue to water. No wonder Antonius had health problems. The man used to drink this stuff like water.

Recapping the decanter, Carter places it under the sink, where the cleaning supplies are stored. Maybe it can be used for cleaning the toilets once he begins his new position. He pulls a bottle of his favorite red from the refrigerator, pouring a generous glass before heading into the living room and flipping on the television to watch Caesar Flickerman. Because there have to be some things that remain constant, even during these uncertain times.

And what better than a blue-haired television host?

I'm standing in the anteroom with my sister and father, who, along with Gale, Thom, and Boggs, was finally released to return from his mission to District 2. I press my sweaty palms to the glass, watching intently as Dr. Mullins wheels the disconnected ventilator over to the other side of Peeta's room. Peeta was able to breathe on his own for the entire night, without the help of the ventilator, and now that the last of his sedative drugs has worn off, Dr. Mullins is prepping him to remove the breathing tube. Once that's out, and his cast is taken off in a few more days, he'll be able to resume his physical therapy and hopefully regain some of his mobility and strength. Even if he won't be allowed to leave his room until it's time to head to the Capitol.

"Okay, I'm going in, Katniss," Prim says, tucking her long, blonde braid up into the sterile cap on her head and adjusting the surgical mask covering her nose and mouth.

I nod, not taking my eyes off of Peeta's restrained left hand, which keeps clenching into a fist so tight his knuckles turn white, then unclenching slowly only to repeat the process. His jaw is rigid, his head moving slightly side to side as his blue eyes flit nervously around the room. He's no doubt wondering where I am, and who all those masked people are, and why in the world there's a tube shoved down his throat. A sense of dread starts to creep over me as I fold my hands under my rounded belly. Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all.

There's a loud hissing noise followed by a rush of air as Prim enters the pressurized room, stepping over to join Dr. Mullins and the two nurses crowded around Peeta's bed. My father's hands cup both of my shoulders, rubbing my upper arms in a silent show of support.

"All right, Peeta, we're going to pull this out of your throat now," says Dr. Mullins, removing the last of the tape holding the breathing tube in place. "Are you ready?" At Peeta's shaky nod he glances at Prim, who wraps her gloved hand around the tube. "On the count of three, two, one…"

With a single strong yank, Prim pulls out the tube. Peeta immediately starts to choke, turning his head and gasping for breath. "It's okay, Peeta," Prim says soothingly, patting his cheek as he coughs. "It's okay, you're okay. Just take deep breaths. You're okay."

"Where—," Peeta rasps, cut off by another round of choking. One of the nurses turns him onto his side as Dr. Mullins places his stethoscope on Peeta's back, listening to his lungs.

"You're okay, Peeta," Prim repeats, still stroking his cheek. She unbuckles the restraints over his wrists, freeing his hands. "Just try and relax and take deep breaths. That's it."

"His lungs are clear," announces Dr. Mullins. "It's just some gunk in his throat. Let's get him sitting up some."

I let out a stuttered breath as the head of Peeta's bed is elevated into a semi-reclined position, unaware of my father's hands still resting on my shoulders until they squeeze slightly, making me jump. Peeta continues to look around the room, his eyes flitting rapidly from person to person, barely recognizable in their masks.

"Where's Katniss?" he says, his voice a raspy whisper. My heart lurches at how frightened he sounds. "Where is she? Why isn't she here?"

"Peeta," Prim says, cupping his cheek. "Look at me. You are going to be okay. Katniss is here, she's just outside the room. She's all right, Peeta. There's no need to be scared."

But Peeta only shakes his head, his blue eyes wide and anxious. "Who're you? Why won't you tell me where Katniss is?"

"I'm Primrose," says Prim. "You know me, Peeta. I'm Katniss's sister. I wouldn't lie to you. Katniss is here, she's watching through that window over there." Prim taps one of the nurses on the shoulder, indicating for her to move so Peeta can better see the window. "See? She's right there, with our dad."

"Talk to him, Katniss," Dad whispers in my ear. "Remember, he can hear you."

My lower lip starts to shake as I clear my throat. "I'm here, Peeta. I can see you. You're going to be okay now. Just try and stay calm."

"Katniss can't come in here right now, Peeta," Prim says. "But she can see you through the window, and talk to you."

"No, no, no," he mumbles, shaking his head. "That's not her. That's not my Katniss." The heart monitor attached to his chest begins to beep as he gulps for air, his face flushing red as his disbelieving eyes bore into me through the window. "That one's not real! What have you done to my Katniss?"

"Peeta!" I choke out. "It's me! I'm real, and I love you. Please, listen to Prim! Try and calm down!"

"YOU'RE NOT REAL!" he screams at the window, the force of his voice apparent even through the thick glass. "MY KATNISS WOULD BE HERE!" He swings his casted right arm, hitting one of the nurses square in the chest and nearly knocking her to the floor. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH KATNISS?"

"His blood pressure is spiking!" the other nurse calls. "Dr. Mullins!"

"No!" I cry. "Peeta, please, it's okay! I'm real!"

"Knock him out!" the doctor commands, barely catching Peeta's flailing arm in his hand. "Now!"

Prim pulls a syringe from her pocket, jamming the needle into the IV port running into Peeta's neck. He falls still a few seconds later, the sounds of his panicked cries still echoing around his room and reverberating in my ears. My mind flashes back to District 12, when he was found in the woods by Gale and Rory. He couldn't remember who I was when he woke up from his high fever. Now, it almost seemed like he thought I'd been replaced by an evil, mutt version of myself.

"Daddy," I sob. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know, songbird," Dad says. "It was almost as if he was scared of you."

"Blood pressure is stabilizing, Doctor," the nurse says, breathing out a sigh of relief. Dr. Mullins nods, scratching the top of his head through his cap.

"He was scared," Prim says to the doctor. "I don't think this is a lingering effect of the virus. He couldn't understand why Katniss wasn't in the room, that's all. He expected Katniss to be here, and when she wasn't he got worried for her."

Dr. Mullins furrows his brow, his eyes narrowing behind his half-moon glasses. "Hmm. Well, we'll have to make sure we wake him up more gradually next time. And, make sure he has a clear line of sight to the window." He nods at one of the nurses. "We'll keep him sedated for now, while we reevaluate what to do."

"Please!" I say. "Isn't there a way I could be in there next time? If he can see me better, then maybe—"

"No chance, Katniss," Prim says firmly, her strong glare apparent even through her mask as she heads for the door. I cringe at the horrible hissing noise as she steps back into the anteroom, pulling the mask from her face. "You know the risks, and what's at stake here. There's no way. We'll figure something else out for next time."

"I can volunteer, if it will help," my father says. "I'm not sure how much Peeta would recognize me, but if it'll help… "

Prim cocks her head, thinking. "That's actually a good idea. If we can have people sitting in his room with him, people he knows, it might help keep him calmer." She huffs out a sharp breath as she removes her cap. "It's just not good for him to be sedated all the time. He needs to be continuing on with his therapies, and his cast is scheduled to come off in a few days."

"Just let me know when, Primrose," Dad says. "I'll be there to help him."

"As long as Coin doesn't try sending you away again," I say bitterly, swiping at my nose. "She seems to think that you're needed anywhere except here lately."

"Then I'll inform President Coin that I need to stay here," he says, turning me around to face him. "Being here to help and support you and Peeta is more important than any mission."

I don't reply, looking through the window instead. I hate the way Peeta looks when he's sedated, how still he lies, and the artificial quality to his sleep. Shuddering, I turn to my sister. "Why do you think he got so scared?"

"I don't know, Katniss," Prim replies. "It might have something to do with his torture in the Capitol; it's possible they could've used some of the propo footage of you in a negative way somehow. But there's no way to be sure without asking him, and I won't do that until he's calm enough to handle those kinds of questions."

I feel that fluttering again in my belly, the slight tickling sensation that's as light as a butterflies wings. I press my palm over the spot, wishing Peeta could feel it too. "The baby's moving again."

A big smile breaks out over Prim's flushed face. "That's good, Katniss. We need to make sure and tell Peeta when he wakes up. I think that will help him too."

"The sedative will wear off in about six hours," Dr. Mullins says as he enters the anteroom, removing his mask. "The nurse is going to keep a close eye on him, and when he starts to wake up, we'll make sure to have only familiar people in his line of sight. They'll still be masked and gowned, but maybe he'll be able to recognize their eyes."

"I'll do it," says Dad. "My eye color is very similar to Katniss's. He might stay calm enough to listen to me."

"Good," says Dr. Mullins, nodding. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go and check on the other Mellark brother." He pauses at the door, his hand on the doorknob. "Primrose, would you like to accompany me?"

"Yes, Doctor!" Prim says excitedly her blue eyes sparkling. "I'll be right there!"

"You're sure soaking all this training up, aren't you?" Dad says, winking at his younger daughter. "You're a natural, Prim."

Grinning, Prim nods. "There's just so much to learn! And Dr. Mullins is a good teacher, so patient and willing to listen and explain everything. He's having to learn almost as much as me with these two complicated cases. No one here has ever dealt with anything like this before… " Her voice trails off as she glances at me. "No, Katniss, I didn't mean it like that."

I shake my head, pressing my palms against the window and trying to force the scowl from my face. It's not Prim's fault that she's enjoying the challenges of becoming a doctor. I just wish she wasn't learning most of her newfound skills from having to treat my husband. "I know, Prim. I'm glad you're able to care for Peeta. He's very lucky to have you to help him. I just wish—"

"He's gonna be okay, Katniss," she says, pulling me into a hug. "This is just a temporary setback."

"I know," I say, trying to sound like I mean it. "Go. Go and help Rye now."

"I'll come back and check on you later," she says as she heads for the door. "Try and get some rest!"

"Hmm… " Dad says, staring at the door and tapping his chin. He gives a slight shake of his head, as if to clear it. "Now, Katniss. You heard what your sister said. Try and get some rest. Peeta won't be waking up for a few hours."

Knowing it's useless to try and argue, I climb onto my cot, pulling the covers up to my neck. "You'll come back when it's time?"

"Yes, I will, songbird," Dad replies, brushing my hair out of my eyes. He leans down to kiss my forehead. "Rest now. You're growing a very important baby, and you need your rest." His large hand cups my cheek. "And she's not important because of what she's going to do. She's important because she's yours. Yours and Peeta's."

I cup my abdomen under the blankets as more tears sting my eyes. Just the other day I overheard Plutarch speaking with the camera crew, planning another set of propos, this time to feature our baby once she's born. He was going on and on about how he couldn't wait to tell all of Panem about our miracle baby, how all the people were going to eat up the story. It was all I could do to walk away, knowing I'd only get in trouble with Coin if I dared to say anything. Dad just about blew a vessel when I told him about it, promising to put a stop to it immediately.

"Yeah. I know."

"All right." He kisses my forehead again, tucking the blankets over my shoulder. "I'll see you later."

Things do go better the second time around. Peeta opens his eyes this time to find not only my father in his room, speaking to him in soothing tones, but also my mother, holding his good hand and smoothing back his hair. His look of disbelief followed by wide-eyed acceptance as recognition washes over him hits me right in the gut. I highly doubt his own mother ever touched him as tenderly.

"And see, Peeta," my father says softly, pointing to me with his gloved hand. "Katniss is right over there, through that window. She's been there the whole time."

Peeta looks at me quizzically, his brow furrowing as his eyes flit between my father and me. "Why can't she come in here? Why can't she stay with me?"

"Peeta, I'm here," I say in a quavering voice. "I wish I could be there with you. I wish so badly that I could. But I need to protect our baby. I can't come in there with you without hurting our baby."

"No, no," he says. He squeezes his eyes closed, shaking his head. I watch as a curl flops down over his forehead, and Mom smooths it back. "That doesn't make any sense. She was able to stay with me before."

"You're sick, son," says Dad. He points to the mask and cap that he's wearing. "It's why we have to wear all of this when we come in and see you. But even that isn't enough, and so we have to scrub ourselves down with chemicals as well. It's so we don't pass on any germs to you that your body can't fight back against. But the chemicals that protect you from the germs aren't good for the baby, so Katniss can't use them. She needs to protect your baby."

"Our baby," Peeta says, looking at me through the window. A hint of a smile crosses his chapped lips. "How's she doing?"

"She's doing great," I answer, trying to sound cheerful. "She was moving around earlier today. I could feel it."

"Oh," he says, smiling a bit wider. "That's good. That's real good. I wish I could feel it."

"I wish you could too, Peeta," I say, my throat tightening. "I wish I could be in there with you. I wish it so badly."

"She's more important," Peeta says, stifling a yawn. "I'm tired. I think I'll sleep now."

"You've been through a lot," says Mom. "You need to rest."

Peeta settles back against his pillows as Mom tucks his blankets up around his chest. "Thank you." His sad blue eyes flit back to me. "Katniss? Will you stay with me?"

I choke back a sob as I nod, pressing my palm to the glass. "I've always been here. And I'll always be here. I love you."

"Love you, too," Peeta mumbles, his eyes already closed. "My Katniss is real, and she loves me."

Mom and Dad sit with him until he's fully asleep, then slip out, rejoining me in the anteroom. "That seemed to go a lot better," says Mom as she peels off her disposable clothing. "I'll set up a rotation so he's not alone too much during the day. Hazelle and the younger children should be able to take turns, and I'm sure some of his friends will help too."

"Thank you," I whisper. "He'll like that."

Peeta does appreciate having people to talk to, especially after he gains enough strength to restart his physical therapy. Rory, Vick, Hazelle, Delly, Finnick, Madge, and even Gale and Thom start taking rotations in Peeta's room during the daytime hours, with Prim and Mom helping him each day with this physical therapy. They play cards and chess, watch old movies from the archives in the district, and talk about home. Finnick tells Peeta all about District 4, and how he can't wait to get back there and start rebuilding so Peeta and I can visit someday.

Things improve even more when a group of special visitors shows up one day, out of the blue. Jedrek and Johanna were apparently dispatched by President Coin a couple weeks ago to locate the refugee camp where Peeta and I stayed with Jedrek's family, and bring back any people willing to fight for the rebel cause. I'll never forget the tiny cries of "Katniss!" from little Juniper and Aster as they tackled my legs, with Poppy, Calla, and Cypress hanging back to give me a hug once their little sisters decided to release me. Peeta's face lights up so much at the sight of Fern and the children that he almost looks like his old self. Fern and Poppy even join the rotation to keep him company, telling him how they taught themselves how to bake bread like he did, using the outdoor oven he built.

Thresh and a few other men arrive as well, and are quickly absorbed into the military training programs under Boggs and Gale's tutelage. I'm not exactly sure why Coin insists on training more troops, when the war is all but won. Gale assures me that there will always be the need for a peacekeeping corps, especially one that is trustworthy, but it still seems odd to me. Like Coin is trying to raise her own private army.

Dr. Mullins is finally able to remove the cast on Peeta's right arm and hand a week later. On my eighteenth birthday, no less, which I only realize when my father wishes me a happy birthday. Being stuck inside here most of the time I've lost track of what day it is.

I have to stifle a gasp when I first see Peeta's repaired limb. There are scars running the length of four of the stick-thin fingers, and a large, dimpled scar covering most of the back of his hand. I can tell Peeta is upset when he first sees it too, with the way his eyes cloud over and his jaw clenches as he slowly curls his fingers into a shaky fist. Prim starts him on physical therapy right away, giving him a therapeutic ball to squeeze for several hours a day to try to regain some strength. She assures me that she's not going to have him attempt to write or draw anything until a few weeks down the road, when he's stronger. No sense in giving him more to be anxious about.

The days aren't too horribly bad, with the rotating door of visitors to keep Peeta company, and the physical therapy to keep him busy. There are times when he gets upset, knocking the chess boards to the floor or ripping up the playing cards. It's especially bad if I've had to leave the room for some reason, for yet another meeting in Command or one of my prenatal visits with Prim. Haymitch insists on scheduling the Command meetings during Peeta's daily afternoon naps after he tried to hobble out of his room one morning to go looking for me. Vick, who was in with him at the time, had to sit on him to keep him still until his nurse returned from her ill-timed break.

And then other times, instead of lashing out at people, Peeta withdraws into himself, curling up on his bed and refusing to talk to anyone for several hours. So far I've been able to cajole him back to me, but he scares me when he's like that, even more than when he's loud and yelling. It reminds me too much of when my mother was lost in her depression.

But we manage to get by. As hard as it is, he's alive, and that's what's most important.

Unfortunately, the nights soon become an entirely different story.

The nightmares don't start right away. They wait until all the drugs have worked themselves out of Peeta's system, and his body has recovered just enough for him to realize how much more he has to accomplish to get himself back to normal. They start only once or twice per night, where I wake up to the sound of Peeta whimpering and thrashing in his bed, begging people not to hurt him anymore. At first I'm able to wake him up and calm him down with my voice, talking or singing to him until he falls back asleep. But as the long days and nights continue to pass, it gets harder and harder to reassure him that he's going to be okay, that I'm here, even though he can't be near me or touch me.

That I'm real.

We try all sorts of things, short of giving him more drugs, which Peeta adamantly refuses. We move both his bed and my cot right up against the window so he can see me better. Prim massages his shoulders and back before he goes to sleep, saying that she does it for Rye every evening and it's been working for him. Dad even tries sleeping in his room with him a couple of times. Everything we try works once or twice, or sometimes even three times, but the nightmares always come roaring back.

I hear him before I'm even awake. The violent jerk of his body, his hands fisting in the sheets, the small noise he makes in the back of his throat right before he starts to whimper.

"No, please, stop," he mumbles. I open my eyes to see him shaking his head, his face contorted with fear, his eyes tightly closed.

Pushing myself up on the cot, I shove my hair out of my eyes, pressing my forehead to the cold glass of the window as I gesture to his nurse to stay away from him. He's already gained enough of his strength back to hurt someone if he wanted to, and there's nothing she can do for him right now anyway. "Peeta," I say, my voice thick with fatigue. "It's okay, Peeta. I'm here. You're safe. No one's gonna hurt you anymore."

He doesn't hear me, though. He can't hear me. The voices tormenting him in his head are too loud. "No!" he begs, twisting and writhing on his bed. "Please, stop!"

"Peeta!" I say, louder and more clearly this time. "Peeta, wake up! You're safe, it's only a nightmare!"

"Stop!" he cries, sitting bolt upright, his eyes wide as pie tins but not really seeing, his hands raking through his messy curls. "Please, stop!"

Hot tears sting my eyes as I slap my palms against the glass, trying to get his attention. "Peeta! Wake up and look at me! I love you, and I'm here with you! You're safe!"

"I'm calling Dr. Mullins," I hear the nurse mutter under her breath. She presses the call button on the wall and backs herself into the far corner, as far away from Peeta as possible while his raving becomes more and more frantic.

"No! What did you do to her? What did you do to my Katniss?" He's screaming now, tearing at his hair, staring at me through the window but not really seeing me. It's as if he thinks he's looking at a false projection of me, instead of his real wife.

A sob lodges in my throat, making me choke as my heart thumps in my chest. "Peeta, I'm here! It's okay! Whatever you're seeing, it's not real! I'm real! Look at me!"

His palm slams against the glass directly across from my own, his blue eyes blackened with fear. "What did you do to her? Where is she? Where is my Katniss? Why can't she stay with me?"

Hatred rises up in my body, nearly engulfing me with its intensity. This is all the Capitol's doing, all Antonius's doing. He took my sweet, kind, boy with the bread and tortured and warped him into this frightened, paranoid shell of himself. Gale told me just the other day that Antonius's body had been found by rebel troops who'd entered the Capitol. Apparently he suffered a fatal stroke, right there in his luxurious office in the Training Center. Gale told me this thinking it would cheer me up, but the news only managed to make me angrier. A cerebral hemorrhage was far too easy a death for someone like Antonius.

Peeta's hand slams into the glass again, with such force that my forehead bumps against it. "Please, just let me see her! Let me touch her! Please, I just need to touch her!"

"Peeta!" I sob as tears stream down my face. "Peeta, please!" But it's no use. To him I'm nothing more than an apparition on the other side of the glass, only an echo of his wife, someone he can't touch to ensure that she's real. I finally cover my ears with my hands, trying to block out the strangling sounds of him screaming my name over and over. "Don't… please… stop… I can't take it anymore!"

A large hand on my shoulder startles me, and I look up to see the worried eyes of my father, with Prim directly behind him, already suiting up to enter Peeta's room.

"Katniss, why don't you come with me for awhile—"

"No!" I say, shaking my head. "I can't leave him alone, Daddy. I think that would make it worse."

"Let her stay," Prim says as she ties on her mask. "I'm going in to talk to him."

Peeta's so entrenched in his nightmarish vision that the loud hissing noise accompanying Prim as she enters his room goes unnoticed. He slams his right fist against the glass, and I watch in horror as his wrist buckles and he cries out in pain, cradling his arm against his chest. The same arm that just came out of its cast.

"Peeta!" Prim commands, reaching for his shoulders. "Peeta, stop hurting yourself!"

Her firm voice is enough to snap Peeta out of his rampage, and he sits back onto his bed, curling his shoulders around his injured arm as he looks up with wide eyes at my sister. "Prim? Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me," she says, in a slightly gentler voice. Her gloved fingers wrap around his arm, pulling it away from his body and extending his fingers so she can examine them. "What's going on here, Peeta? Why were you punching the glass?"

He shakes his head, and my throat tightens at the look on his face. "I don't—,"

"You had a nightmare?" Prim asks.

"Yeah, I guess." My heart breaks at the tone of his voice. He sounds so ashamed.

"Was it about Katniss?" asks Prim, gingerly rotating his wrist back and forth. He winces but doesn't cry out, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. Things would only get worse if his hand had to go back in a cast again.

"Peeta?" Prim says when he doesn't answer. "It might help if you talked about it."

He turns his shoulders in, shaking his head in the exact same way he used to do when I'd inquire about a new set of bruises. My lower lip starts to shake, and I hear my father let out a sigh behind me.

"No," Peeta says. "I don't think so."

Prim curls Peeta's fingers into his palm, then extends them back, examining each one. "Katniss is here, Peeta. She's right there, if you want to talk to her. She wants to help you. She loves you."

His tired blue eyes lock onto my face through the glass, shimmery with tears. "Is she real?" he asks.

"Yes, she is," Prim answers. "She's as real as I am."

He shakes his head again, his long blond curls flopping over his forehead and into his eyes. "Then why can't she stay with me? Why can't I touch her? The whole time I was in the Capitol, I couldn't touch her. I could see her, but she wasn't real. She was only real when I could touch her."

Prim's eyes flit to mine, and I shake my head. Peeta and I haven't discussed much of his imprisonment and torture. We haven't really had the chance to start working through any of it. And, to be honest, I've been afraid to ask too many questions, for fear of upsetting him.

"When could you touch her?" asks Prim.

"When she came to take me away," he replies in a small voice. "When it was dark."

My eyes squeeze closed as all the air in my lungs rushes out in one fell swoop. I remember the night when we rescued him from the Training Center, the way his hand shook as it reached to touch my face, his voice laced with pain when he asked me if I was real.

And then, during his convalescence in the ICU, how his muscles would contract and his eyes would fill with fear if I wasn't within reach of him, especially at night. How his tense body would relax almost as soon as I touched him. The afternoon when he sent me out hunting with Finnick must have been so difficult for him, since I was away from him for several hours, but you wouldn't have known it. Peeta has always been an expert at hiding his pain.

"Peeta," says Prim. "Did they tell you that Katniss wasn't real? When you were in the Capitol?"

He draws in a shaky breath. "Not really… not like that. Sometimes I'd see her, she'd be watching while they hurt me. Or afterwards, when I was back in my cell." A tear rolls down his pale, clammy cheek. "But she was always behind glass. I could never touch her. Because she wasn't real."

"They must've showed him some of the propo footage," Dad whispers angrily, patting my shoulder. "The tracker jacker venom makes you see all sorts of strange things, so the television screen could've made it seem to Peeta that you were behind glass."

"Peeta," says Prim as she releases his arm, apparently satisfied that he hadn't re-broken anything. She fetches an elastic bandage from a drawer by the bathroom and starts wrapping his wrist. "We're not in the Capitol anymore. Right?"

"No," Peeta replies. "We're in District Thirteen."

Finished with the bandage, Prim sits down on the edge of Peeta's bed, resting her hand on his shoulder. "Do you trust me, Peeta?"

His blue eyes meet Prim's over her mask. "Yeah."

"Then listen to me very carefully," Prim says. "Katniss is real. She's here with you, Peeta. She's as close to you as she can be without putting your baby at risk. But she has to stay on the other side of the window because if she came in here, she could hurt the baby. She needs to keep your baby safe. Can you understand that?"

Another tear escapes down his cheek as his hands clench into fists. "Then I can't touch her. How can she prove that she's real if I can't touch her?"

Prim looks at me, shrugging her shoulders in a silent plea for help. "Maybe if she could talk to you? About things that only she would know about? Would that help you believe that she's real?"

Peeta's eyes flit to me as he brushes the tear from his cheek. "I don't—, maybe… "

"That's a good idea, Katniss," my father says, softly so only I can hear him.

I clear my throat, trying to ignore the blush creeping up my neck. "Yeah, okay."

"Good," says Prim.

"Peeta," I start, my voice quavering. "Do you remember that cold, rainy afternoon in April, when I was eleven and you were twelve? When your mom caught me looking through the rubbish bins behind the bakery?"

Peeta's eyes narrow and his jaw twitches as he studies my face. "I remember Katniss in the rain. She was soaked to the skin, and so thin, her jacket was hanging off of her. She was sitting under the apple tree."

Tears flood my eyes as my father's fingers tighten on my shoulders. Some of this won't be easy for him to hear. "That was me, Peeta. Prim and Mom and I, we were starving, and you saw me through the window of the bakery. You heard your mom yelling at me to go away, but I was so weak I couldn't make myself move."

"Katniss was dying," Peeta says, looking away. "It broke my heart to see her like that."

"You pushed the bread loaves into the oven fire, Peeta," I say. "You burned them on purpose, and your mom hit you for it. She told you to give them to the pig, but you threw them to me instead. You saved us."

Peeta swallows hard, scrubbing at the stubble on his chin, his eyes trained on the foot of his bed. "I saw Katniss pick a dandelion in the schoolyard the next day. And then a few days later, she brought me some ointment for my eye, that she made."

"I would notice your eyes on me in school every day," I say. "You'd look at me, but when I'd catch your eye you'd look away."

"She didn't talk to me for a couple years after that. But then one day in school, after my mom hit me again, she offered to bring me some more ointment."

"I brought it to you on a Saturday, after Gale and I had already been by to trade at the bakery. You were surprised to see me again."

"She pushed the little pot into my hand, and her fingers brushed against mine for a few seconds. I was smiling for the rest of the day afterwards."

She. I dig my fingernails into my palms as I breathe in deeply, trying to keep my face neutral. It's not his fault. This is not his fault.

"We became friends after that," I continue. "I remember when you painted your arm with leftover frosting to look like the bark on the apple tree. When you pressed your arm against the tree, it completely disappeared."

"I caught her watching my wrestling practices a few times," he says, scratching at his cheek. I hear a soft chuckle from my dad behind me. "But I never said anything. I didn't want to embarrass her."

"We used to spend time in the Meadow on the weekends. You tried to teach me how to draw."

Peeta's lower lip twitches. "I gave her my sketchbook on her sixteenth birthday. She was always looking over my shoulder when I was drawing."

That's because I loved watching your hands move over the paper; they were so graceful. And how the sunbeams filtered through your eyelashes. "I tried to make you a cake for your seventeenth birthday," I say. "You ate the entire thing, and didn't even tell me how awful it tasted until three weeks later."

Peeta turns his head, his blue eyes boring into mine. "That night was our first kiss."

My heart flips in my chest. "Yes, that's right. You were such a gentleman, Peeta. You asked me first, before you kissed me. Then, you walked me back to the Seam and asked Gale's permission to court me." Dad lets out an audible breath, his fingers tightening briefly on my shoulders before he releases them and steps back.

The slightest of smiles lights on Peeta's lips. "Gale didn't like me very much," he says. "I think he tried to scare me away with his scowl. But then he said yes because he knew that's what you wanted."

"Gale was suspicious of all the Merchant boys," I say, trying to keep my voice even. "Not just you." I leave out the part about how Gale and Rye used to get into fights all the time. "I wasn't cold for that whole night after you kissed me."

"We used to spend Saturday afternoons in the Meadow," he says.

"And sometimes in the woods," I say. "I taught you how to shoot with my bow and arrows."

"I shot a squirrel," he says, his lips stretching into a true smile. "You were proud of me."

"Yes, I was!" I say, my smile mirroring his as I remember what happened next. "And then, about a month before you were taken, you asked me to toast with you. You were so nervous, and you kept stumbling over your words. And when I said yes, you were speechless. It was the first time I'd ever seen you at a loss for what to say."

Peeta's head bobs up and down. "We had to finish school first," he says. "We didn't know where I'd be working after we graduated, but you said it didn't matter. We'd be happy as long as we had each other."

I gulp back the retort on the tip of my tongue, shaking my head slightly. Bannock, Peeta's oldest brother, had already become apprenticed to the grocer, and married his younger daughter. That meant Rye would inherit the bakery, since he was the next oldest. Rye didn't want the bakery, and tried to ask their father to pass it on to Peeta instead, but Mrs. Mellark was petty. She told Peeta that if he insisted on marrying me, he would never have a chance to inherit the bakery.

The smile fades from Peeta's face as his teeth catch on his bottom lip. "And then, soon after, he came in the night. The man dressed in black. Rye and I, we shared a bedroom. He tried to stop him…" He draws in a shaky breath. "And the bakery caught fire, and burned to the ground."

A lone tear rolls down my cheek, and I press my palm to the glass. "And I thought you were dead, and my heart was broken. I remember… I found a dandelion near the wreckage. And I picked it and brought it home, and I pressed it into the sketchbook. So I could remember you."

His large hand reaches for the glass, covering my own. "The sketchbook that I gave you," he says.

"Yes, Peeta," I say. I reach behind me, patting the cot until my fingers land on the worn, brown book. I quickly flip it open, pulling out the bright yellow flower and holding it up to the glass. "This is the dandelion that I picked, that day when I thought I'd lost you forever."

He traces a fingertip over the flower before covering it with his palm. "You used to call me your dandelion."

"You are my dandelion, Peeta," I murmur, choking back a sob. You gave me the bread that saved my life, and you gave me the love that saved my heart. I love you. I always will."

His blue eyes are shiny with tears as he rests his forehead against the glass. "You're my Katniss. Real or not real?"

"Real," I say. "I am Katniss, and I'm your wife."

"You're carrying my baby. Real or not real?"

I run my hand over my belly. "Real."

He squeezes his eyes closed, inhaling deeply. "You love me. Real or not real?"

"Real," I whisper. "I love you. So very much."

"Real," he says, right before his face crumples and he starts to cry, his body shaking with the intensity of his sobs. "Oh God, I wish I could hold you. I wish it so much! I don't—, I don't know how much longer I can go without touching you!"

"I wish it too!" I cry. "I wish it so badly. No one else's arms have ever made me feel as safe. But we can't. We need to keep our baby healthy. She's gonna save you, Peeta. She's gonna make it so you're well again. We just need to make sure she's kept safe until she can do that."

Tears stream down his face in rivulets, dripping off the end of his chin. "I know. But after, I'm never letting go of you again. I'm not letting go of either of you. And we're gonna leave this place and go home. Real or not real?"

"Real," I say. "We'll take our daughter and go home, back to Twelve. Where you can paint and I can hunt and we can sleep with the windows open."

"Because no matter how cold it gets, I can keep you warm," he murmurs. "Real or not real?"

I said that to him while we were in the cave, during the worst of the blizzard.

"Real."

"Real," he echoes. "You're real."

"Yes, I'm real."

Prim pushes a tissue into his hand, and he blots his eyes, palming the window with his other hand. "Will you stay with me?"

I press my lips to the glass, imagining that I'm kissing his forehead instead. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Do you want to try and sleep some more, Peeta?" asks Prim.

A flash of fear lights his eyes before he nods, stretching out on his bed with his hand still touching the window. "Yeah, okay."

"I'll be here," I whisper. I bring my hand to cover his, shivering slightly from the frigid glass. "Right here next to you."

"Thank you, love," he says. "I'm—, I'm sorry I woke you."

Of course he would worry about waking me. "Oh, don't be sorry, Peeta," I say, a fresh set of tears falling from my eyes as I lie down on the cot. "Please don't be sorry. And don't be afraid. There's the two of us. We can handle anything as long as we're together."

"Together." He sniffs, nodding his head against his pillow. "I love you, Katniss. Goodnight."

I watch as Prim covers him with his blanket and pats him on the shoulder before exiting his room. "Well done, Primrose," Dad whispers as she pulls off her mask. "I wasn't sure how we'd get through that for awhile."

Prim lets out a sigh, her shoulders sagging. "I didn't really do all that much. And really, I should've seen this coming. Both Peeta and Rye have suffered such terrible traumas, they should be talking to someone about them. Someone a lot better than I am at handling this sort of thing." She scowls, crossing her arms over her chest. "But Dr. Mullins told me that District Thirteen hasn't had to deal with anything like this since the Dark Days, so there's no one here who's qualified."

"Maybe when we get them to the Capitol we can look into some resources for them," Dad says. "I doubt they're the only ones who could use that kind of help. Hell, even your mom could use some help. Not to mention all the people from Twelve who experienced the bombing."

"That's a good idea," Prim agrees. "Beetee's already started to vet the medical personnel at the largest hospital in the Capitol, so I'll have him start looking for a mental health expert as well."

"Is Peeta's hand okay?" I ask. "He hit the window pretty hard."

"It should be fine in a couple of days," Prim says as she covers a yawn. "There might be a slight sprain to his wrist, but his hand and fingers are okay. They're still just weak from being in the cast."

I breathe out a sigh of relief. Re-breaking his hand would not aid Peeta's mental health at all. "Thank you, Prim."

"You're welcome," she says through another yawn. "I'll come back and check on you in the morning, Katniss."

"I will as well, songbird," says Dad. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," I whisper as they leave, my hands cupping my belly under the blankets as our daughter starts to wiggle. I look over at Peeta. He's sleeping, but it's not a peaceful sleep. There's a furrow to his brow, and a tiny frown between his eyebrows that lately doesn't even go away while he's awake.

Neither one of us will be at peace until we can be together again.

Our daughter gives another kick, stronger this time. It's as if she's trying to comfort me, telling me that she's preparing for what we're asking of her. That she knows what's at stake.

We shouldn't be having to ask such a thing from such a tiny, otherwise helpless person. But she's letting me know, in her own way, that she's ready.

"I feel you, little one," I murmur. "I feel you in there, wiggling and kicking and getting strong. Your daddy and I are getting excited to meet you."

She replies with yet another kick, and I rub my palm in circles over the spot, imagining I'm rubbing her back instead. I let out a long breath, biting my bottom lip as I picture the three of us cuddling in our bed back in District 12, with the smells of fresh bread permeating throughout our home. Away from this cold, grey place with its ugly clothes and ugly food. Away from all the sickness and pain. Away from the war.

Someday, I think. Someday we'll get there.

But, not today.

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