Thank you so much for your reviews, everyone! I was really nervous about posting chapter 37 - there was so much going on, and I had to use so many Mockingjay quotes. Thank you to the guest who pointed out that I'd forgotten to edit out a quote about Peeta's hijacking! I've corrected it now. I don't know how I managed to forget that I actually needed to quote myself, not Mockingjay. ;)

This is the second last chapter, not including the epilogue. It's hard to believe that this story is almost over, I've been working on it since last summer… But it feels good to finish it now. I'm ready for other adventures – namely exploring the Glühwein universe (over on AO3). Which is very, very different from this one. But first things first!

Chapter 38: Endgame

It takes a while for the crowd to understand what's happened. The triumphant roar celebrating Snow's death gradually dies down to a shocked silence.

I let my arms fall to my sides. "Goodnight," I whisper to the bow in my hand and feel it go still. The bow is a piece of art. It has served me well. I know I'll never see it again. I'll never feel it hum against my skin again. It's all over now.

I look down at my left arm, where the secret pocket in my Mockingjay suit is. Where there would be a nightlock capsule, if only Dr Aurelius hadn't vetoed it months ago. If only I hadn't been on suicide watch. There is no escaping what will happen next. I could of course start screaming for Gale. He would understand. A good clean shot to end it all is all I'd need.

But I can't do that. Not with the baby. I know what my brief future as the assassin of Panem's new president holds. The interrogation, probable torture, certain public execution. I'm fairly confident they'll wait until after I've given birth, though. I'll probably never get to hold her, but I suppose it's for the best. I'd make a terrible mother, anyway. I'm too damaged. She will be better off with just Peeta raising her. Perhaps, in time, he'll even find another wife. Someone who would be a better mother for her than I could ever hope to be. A woman who would be a lot less complicated to love for Peeta, who would cause him less heartache and worries. But even if he doesn't remarry, he will still be enough for our daughter. He has so much love. He will be everything she needs.

I suddenly realize that I'm smiling. I'm not smiling for the cameras, I'm smiling because the image of Peeta and our daughter is so clear in my mind, it's almost as if they are real – but the cameras still capture it. I wonder what Panem thinks of me now? The smiling Mockingjay who just killed two people. Then the thought is gone. It doesn't matter anymore.

The guards descend on me. They handcuff and blindfold me, and then they half drag, half carry me down long passages, up and down lifts, and deposit me on a carpeted floor. The cuffs are removed and a door slams closed behind me. When I push the blindfold up, I find I'm in my old room at the Training Center. The one where I lived during those last precious days before the Hunger Games. The bed's stripped to the mattress, the closet gapes open, showing the emptiness inside, but I'd know this room anywhere.

I'm not quite sure what I had expected to happen first, but I suppose I had expected something to happen, at least. Interrogations? Torture, perhaps? I'm sure there are ways they could torture me without endangering the baby. Sleep deprivation?

I didn't expect this.

Nothing.

Avoxes bring me my meals. Every day, there's a new one. I ignore them. They also bring me my meds. I consider not taking them at first. Perhaps I could save them up for a lethal dose. But I decide against it. I'm surely still on suicide watch, and the surveillance makes almost any suicide attempt impossible. Taking my life is the Capitol's privilege. Besides, I have a baby I need to give life to first. If the humiliation of a public execution is the price I have to pay, then so be it.

The days are a blur. I don't know if it's because of the drugs, because of my loneliness, or if it's simply because I'm even crazier than I was before. There are no more weekly check-ups by the OBGYN. I feel the baby kicking, though. Every day.

I start talking to her, because there is no one else to talk to. And when I run out of things to say, I sing, like I did in the closet. Only now I sing all the time. At the window, in the shower, in my sleep. Hour after hour of ballads, love songs, mountain airs. All the songs my father taught me before he died, for certainly there has been very little music in my life since then. My voice warms up into something splendid. A voice that would make the mockingjays fall silent and then tumble over themselves to join in. Days pass, weeks. And in all that time, mine is the only voice I hear.

What are they doing, anyway? What's the holdup out there? Are they simply waiting for the baby to be born, so they can execute me after? Or are they going to put me on trial first? Surely they could do that while I'm still pregnant? It would expedite things, I guess.

I'm not sure the last time reality was perfectly clear to me, but slowly I can feel the borders between real and not real merging into something I don't quite recognize. They seize to matter. I'm all alone.

So I try to play a game with myself – real or not real. I ask myself if a memory or a thing I see or hear in my solitary confinement is real or not real. But the only person who can answer my questions, is of course myself. I know the Avoxes won't answer me, not even with a simple gesture or nod. And how can I possibly trust my own words – the opinions of the crazy, lonely, pregnant girl?

I think the sunshine coming through my window is real, but I can't be sure. Who knows with Capitol technology? They could've turned on the TV screen function to mess with my head. I think the food I force myself to eat is real, but it could still be a dream.

My nightmares, are they real? They certainly seem real.

My memories. Real or not real? That's the hardest part. I can hurt myself – pinch my skin, really hard, twist my joints in unnatural angles, bite my tongue until it bleeds – to be sure that I'm awake. Such as when I eat, or when I look at the sunshine, or when an avox comes to give me food or water. But memories, they are tricky. Pain can't help me make a decision. Real or not real?

My father's voice as he sings in the woods. Me braiding Prim's Town blonde hair. My mother tending to injured miners on our kitchen table. My fingers tucking in Prim's tail before the reaping. Gale, giving me my bow.

Shaking Peeta's hand at the reaping. It was the first time we touched. Then there was more touching. Kisses in the arena. Sleeping together to fend off the nightmares on the train. Later, we did the same in our houses. Then the wedding night. The fear and the love, all mixed together in a confusing concoction of real or not real? More nights. More days of trying to hang on.

Twelve. Gone. Real? I hope it's not real. But the intensity of my memories is an indication that I think it might be. Thirteen. Kicks inside my belly. That's the one thing I'm pretty certain is real. But it's so hard to hold on to. Everything keeps slipping away.

Then, one day, something changes. I'm lying on the mattress, staring emptily into space. I've taken to do that a lot lately. Someone crosses around the bed into my field of vision. Haymitch. "Your trial is over," he says. "Come on. We're going home."

Home? What's he talking about? My home's gone.

Still, I follow them through the door. The door that has been closed for so long. I had almost stopped thinking that I would ever get out of this room. I'm ushered to a waiting hovercraft. In it are Plutarch and – to my surprise – Peeta.

He looks much better now than he did when I last saw him. When was that? How many weeks have passed? I have no idea. Before, I could barely touch him, I was so afraid of injuring his new skin grafts. Now he opens his arms for me. I step into them without hesitation. He doesn't smell like he did before, of cinnamon and vanilla. He smells of antiseptics and chemicals and an unfamiliar soap. But underneath it all, he still smells like… Peeta. He holds me so tightly, as if he never thought he'd see me again. I suppose he didn't. I'm trying to be careful, remembering the way his torso looked. The extent of his injuries.

He cries. I don't. I still can't feel anything. But at least I can smell something. I can smell Peeta. And even if my emotions are flat and almost non-existent, I can feel the heat of his skin against my chest and face, even through his clothes.

All four of us buckle up. It turns out "home" is Thirteen. I have no idea why they would want me back there. I just killed their leader. How could I ever live in Thirteen? I don't want to live in Thirteen. It seems almost as impossible as staying in the Capitol. There is no place for me there.

I've never seen Plutarch in such a good mood. He's positively glowing. "You must have a million questions!" When I don't respond, he answers them anyway.

After I shot Coin, here was pandemonium. An emergency election was thrown together and Paylor was voted in as president. Plutarch was appointed secretary of communications. The first big televised event was my trial, in which he was also a star witness. In my defense, of course. Although most of the credit for the exoneration must be given to Dr Aurelius, who did an excellent job of presenting me as a hopeless, shell-shocked lunatic. Which I guess wasn't that difficult, considering that's just what I am. One condition for my release is that I'll continue under his care, although it will have to be by phone once we move back to 12, because he'd never live in a forsaken place like 12.

"We're going to move to 12?" I say, hopeful for the first time in… I can't even remember.

"Yes," Peeta says, smiling now. "In spring. After you've had the baby. There are no medical facilities in Twelve. There is… nothing. We'll have to start from scratch. You can't give birth there. If anything happens…"

I want to tell him that I want to go to 12 immediately anyway. I don't care. But I see from the set of his jaw that it's not an option.

Plutarch tells me that I will be confined in Thirteen, and later Twelve, until further notice. The truth is, no one quite knows what to do with me now that the war's over, although if another one should spring up, Plutarch's sure they could find a role for me. Then Plutarch has a good laugh. It never seems to bother him when no one else appreciates his jokes.

"Are you preparing for another war, Plutarch?" I ask.

"Oh, not now. Now we're in that sweet period where everyone agrees that our recent horrors should never be repeated," he says. "But collective thinking is usually short-lived. We're fickle, stupid beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction. Although who knows? Maybe this will be it, Katniss?"

"What?" I ask.

"The time it sticks. Maybe we are witnessing the evolution of the human race. Think about that."

I don't answer. I don't have any belief in the human race left.

And then we are back in Thirteen. Again, I'm not sure what I had expected. For something - everything - to be different, perhaps? But it isn't. It's eerily similar to what it was like before. I'm under guard whenever we're in public areas. I still killed their president, after all. I wouldn't be surprised if they all hated me.

It doesn't seem like they do, though. I notice the stares, and the whispers, but they are nothing new. I get my own separate table, together with Peeta, Haymitch, Annie and Finnick. But no one says anything unpleasant to me. Was the trial that effective in presenting me as a hopeless mental case, someone they should pity, not hate? Or did they perhaps not like Coin as much as she would've had everyone believe?

I don't know. I don't care.

The first night, I don't dare to sleep. I just want to hold on to this moment, I'm afraid that if I fall asleep, I'll wake up alone again. To find that it wasn't real. I whisper to him: "You love me. Real or not real?"

He tells me: "Real."

Only then do I fall asleep.

I stay in our quarters as much as I can, together with Peeta. I don't go outside unless I have to – for meals, usually, or to my daily therapy sessions with Dr Aurelius. Or the OBGYN visits. Or Peeta's visits with the burn specialist they've brought in from the Capitol for his sake – well, his and the many other burn victims from Thirteen. He's not the only one by far, but I still suspect they wouldn't get the specialist here all the way from the Capitol if it hadn't been for Peeta.

My mother is here, too. She's going to help starting up a hospital in District Four, but she says she'll stay here until the baby is born. We don't talk about my return to Twelve, or why she won't come. Because I already know. There are too many ghosts. I know she keeps the urn with Prim's ashes in her quarters. I don't know how she can stand it. But if she can stand the pain, then I can't stop her from doing it. She says she will spread the ashes over the Meadow in the summer.

The days are still a blur, but not like they were before. Dr Aurelius adjusts my medication, he decreases the dosages as much as possible. He says I was "drugged out of my mind" when they confined me after I shot Snow and Coin. The dosages were too high for anyone, and in particular for a pregnant woman. When Peeta asks in a low voice if the drugs could have harmed the baby, Dr Aurelius doesn't answer immediately. He looks at Peeta, then at me, then back at Peeta. "It's certainly not ideal for a fetus to be exposed to these drugs. We always prefer a pregnant woman to avoid taking any kind of drug if at all possible. But there are no indications that your baby has been harmed. Everythings seems perfectly normal. It is also a question of weighing certain benefits against potential harm. You need to understand that Katniss has been very ill. She is still quite ill, and even though I'm hopeful for her future, it's imperative that she gets the medical treatment she needs in order to recover completely in the long run."

He thinks I'll recover completely? I can't imagine me being "normal" ever again. Not after everything I've been through. But I don't question him. I have to try to distance myself from it, it's all too much to take in.

I try to distance myself from the birth as well, but that's harder. My mother has seen through me, and won't allow me to escape anymore.

When I'm 37 weeks pregnant, she tells me the baby could come any day now. My reaction is to vomit on the floor.

She tries to tell me about normal childbirth, what to expect. She even takes me back to the birthing pools in the hospital. The last time I was there, was after Gale and I were nearly killed in the woods. Prim was there, too. It's so hard to see the room again, and I make her promise me that when the time comes, we'll make use of the other room, not the one I was in. It's infinitely easier to deal with memories of Gale and Madge fucking next door, than memories of Prim washing my hair. My mother says she'll be there with me through it all. She's delivered so many babies. There will be a doctor present as well, the OBGYN I go to every week, but I make him promise that he won't touch me or interfere in any way unless it's absolutely necessary. I want my mother to handle this if she can.

It seems like this baby is the only thing that keeps my mother going. I'm somewhat surprised that she hasn't tuned out completely, remembering how she was after my father died, and knowing how much she loved Prim. I guess I should be grateful, but at the same time, it's exhausting. It means I can never forget, never pretend this isn't real. She keeps reminding me that it is real. Telling me about the stages of childbirth. Telling me which signs to look for. Fluids and mucus plugs and blood and disgusting details I never knew existed and certainly never hoped I'd hear about.

I tell Peeta about my game. Real or not real. I tell him late at night, when he can't really see my face. It feels safer in the dark. I ask him if he wants to help me sort out the memories. What is real or not real.

"So that's why you asked me if me loving you was real or not real," he says. I think he's close to tears. I nod.

We go through every memory I have of the two of us together. From the tiniest things, such as the color of the shirt he wore in his first interview with Caesar Flickerman, down to the most important ones. Such as the cave in the Hunger Games. Our wedding night. When he was in the hospital in the Capitol. Some memories are so terrifying I wish they weren't real, even when they are. Some memories are actually good. Funny, even. When Peeta tells me something which actually isn't one of my memories, but which is related to some of them - how Effie chastised him on the victory tour for sleeping in my bed, she didn't think it was proper - I find myself laughing for the first time. The sound is so foreign it takes me a few seconds to remember what it is. Then I cry, as I remember the look in Effie's eyes the last time I saw her. I wonder what they did to her. But at the same time, I'm grateful I don't know, because I don't know if I could stand it if I did.

I have to get to know his body all over again. It has changed so much after the fire. His skin hasn't healed fully, it's still sensitive to touch. Some patches don't have any sensation at all, and his new skin needs to be handled carefully. He lost so much muscle mass while he was unconscious, and getting back into shape is long and hard work. I apply various ointments and creams to his skin, getting to know every single scar in the process. He seems embarrassed at first, but pretty soon, he relaxes. He realizes I don't care what he looks like. I show him my stretch marks, and we jokingly compare our injuries.

We don't make love. I think he wants to, but I'm afraid of hurting his new skin. Besides, there is too much going on my head. I can't clear it, can't quite make my body function. Even though the doctor says it's safe to have sex even at this late stage of pregnancy, I don't dare to. Not because of the baby, I think, but because of me. And him. And everything.

Finnick has recovered fully after his surgery, and he and Annie, like Peeta and I, are now only waiting. Waiting for their baby to be born. Unlike us, it doesn't seem like they have any conflicting feelings when it comes to having this baby at all. And of course, they both wanted it in the first place. They didn't try to get pregnant, and I know the first weeks of their pregnancy were terrifying – not knowing what Snow would do to Annie when he found out. But as soon as they came to Thirteen, they've felt safe. They allowed themselves to look forward, to hope that life could actually be good again.

I envy them that, but I tell myself that they, too, have known so much pain. I'm glad they have found happiness at last. They are going to move back to Four in spring. Four isn't completely destroyed, unlike Twelve, but it's still badly damaged from heavy fighting. Finnick wants to build a fishing boat and make a living as a fisherman. I can see the happiness in his eyes when he talks about it. Annie is due only a few weeks after me, and she tries, like my mother, to prepare me for the upcoming birth, and for having a newborn to look after. She loves the forest green wrap Prim gave me. It's one of the very few things I have left after her, and I treasure it. I sleep on it every night, and sometimes, on really bad days, I just lie in bed, smelling it. Wrapping my body in soft fabric. Trying to think of the good memories, not just the bad ones, like Dr Aurelius tells me. Annie manages to locate another wrap in one of Thirteen's many storage rooms. It's blue with hints of green, like the ocean. Perfect for a District Four baby boy.

One night, Peeta and I lie in bed as usual. We've hardly been outside our quarters in days, except to eat, and even then we are under guard. They say it's for our own safety, but I can't help but think that it might also be to show the people of Thirteen that I am some kind of prisoner after killing their president. That my crime doesn't go completely unpunished.

I'm tired. I long for the woods, but they won't let me go outside anymore. I hate being confined to this room, but at the same time, it's the only place where I can escape the stares and the guards. My ankles are swollen, my back hurts. I have heartburn. I sleep 12 hours a day, but still I'm always tired. My belly is so large now that I wonder why it hasn't exploded. How is it possible for a human belly to be this large without bursting open? I asked my mother if my skin will split along my stretch marks, and she just laughed at me. It was the first time I had heard her laugh since Prim died. Then she assured me that my belly would be just fine.

Peeta and I have touched tentatively before, but one of us always stopped. Me because I was afraid of hurting his new skin. Him perhaps because he was embarrassed about the way he looked, or because he was afraid of hurting me, even though the doctor said it was safe. And tonight, when his hands venture under my worn t-shirt, I try to stop him again. "Peeta…" I say. "I don't think we should…"

"Why not?" He asks in the darkness.

"I'm afraid of… hurting you. Your skin," I whisper.

"Then let me make you feel good?" He whispers back. "We don't have to if you don't want to. But I just… I want you to feel good. I want to watch your face as you come undone. Perhaps it would help you remember, too? What is real."

I'm getting pretty good at the real or not real game now. And this certainly feels real. His hands on my swollen and heavy breasts, which seem even more sensitive than usual. "I'll allow it," I murmur, and there's actually a smile on my lips, I realize to my surprise.

I try to touch him, too, but he gently stops my hands from roaming over his body. "I want this to be about you," he murmurs against my throat as he nibbles lightly at the skin there, and my body shudders. Even through the haze of drugs and loss and memories, my body remembers what it's like to be touched by Peeta – and it wants it. Craves it. Now, more than ever.

I give up every pretense of not wanting this, of not being sure, and just allow myself to feel. His hands touching my skin. How he removes my t-shirt.

I allow myself to hear, too. His gasp as he sees my full breasts. He certainly seems to approve of this change that the pregnancy has caused. His tongue curls around a nipple, and my belly contracts as I arch my back. I hear the words he whispers to me, about how beautiful I am, how he loves my pregnant body. How he can hardly believe that I'm having his child.

I taste him. I taste the familiar essence of Peeta on his tongue and lips. I taste the sweat on his neck as his good hand ventures further down. I don't dare to taste his new skin, so I stick to sucking on the intact skin on his neck, knowing he'll have a hickey there in the morning. For once, I'm branding him. It's usually the other way around.

I smell him. There is still an unfamiliar scent of ointments on his skin, but the antiseptic smell he had in the Capitol is gone. Day by day, he becomes more mine. More like the old Peeta. I revel in his scent, the one that is uniquely him.

I see him. I don't see every detail in the greenish night light, but well enough to see the contours of his face. His huge, black eyes. The darkness means I can't really see his scars, either. I can feel them under my fingertips, when I touch him lightly, afraid of hurting him, but I can't really see the damage the fire caused. I can, however, see his grin when I gasp in pleasure as his hand parts my thighs, finding me wet and ready for his touch. I'm ready for his cock, too, but he did say this would be for me, and it seems like he's intent on not being inside me tonight. If it's because he's trying to make this easy on me or easy on himself, I'm not sure. I lose the ability of coherent thinking completely when his index finger traces my soaking folds, then locates my swollen clit.

His other hand, the one that has been burned, touches my breast tentatively. I know his skin is still sensitive, that his dexterity isn't back to normal. But it doesn't matter whether it's Capitol-grown or not, his skin still feels amazing against my nipples. I throw my head back as he gently, almost tentatively, inserts a finger inside me.

Then he stops.

I open my eyes, which have been squeezed shut since he started stroking my clit, and find that he's looking at my breasts with an odd expression on/in his face. "What?" I ask, my voice husky. Still with his finger inside me, his left index finger touches my nipple, and I feel an unfamiliar wetness there. "Milk," he murmurs.

I stiffen, almost panicking. I want to shrink away from him, mortified, but his hand between my legs is preventing me from doing it. To my astonishment, he collects a drop of fluid from my nipple and brings his finger up to his lips, then licks it. "It tastes sweet," he says, smiling. His voice is dark. "Like the rest of you."

I'm speechless. "Did you really think I wouldn't taste it? I want to taste everything that's you," he whispers. "Everything." Then he curls the finger that's still inside of me forwards, finding that spot. The one I didn't know existed until he found it. He knows every part of my body now, he's mapped all of me. My head is thrown backwards, my back arches, and his hand finds my breasts again. "I loved them before, but I love them even more now," he says, as his tongue flicks over the other nipple, collecting whatever fluid was there, then he bites it, very gently. "I love everything about your body, Katniss. You're carrying my child. We're here, together. We're alive. Perhaps we'll actually make it?"

With every word, he moves his thumb in a tight circle around my clit. I have to focus really hard to make my tongue say something coherent. "Peeta…" I pant.

"Yeah?" He says, adding another finger inside me.

"Shut up."

He chuckles, but obeys. I had half expected him to go down on me, but he doesn't. Instead, he just… looks at me, at my face. It's as if he tries to remember everything about this moment, about me. I desperately want him inside me, but I know his skin might not be ready. His cock was thankfully spared from the flames, but his stomach and chest were not, and I don't want to hurt him. Still, I know that he's here. We're together, fending off the darkness. He's here with me.

I can feel my orgasm approaching, faster than I'd thought. It's been so long. I can feel his erection pressing into my thigh, but he doesn't take off his boxer shorts. I try to keep my eyes open, but I'm unable to. "Peeta…" I whimper, as his thumb flicks over my clit. His other hand roams over my belly lovingly, probably feeling how rock hard it is, then moves up to my swollen breasts again. He groans, it almost sounds like a word, but I can't hear what it is. And anyway, I told him to shut up.

When I come, I want to clutch him, hold him tight, press him to me. I don't dare to, for fear of hurting him. Instead, I grab the pillow, drowning my moans in it while one fist crunches it, and the other is buried in his hair. My body twists and shakes almost uncontrollably, but as I come down from the wave, he keeps going. I want to tell him to stop, I'm too sensitive, but to my astonishment, a second orgasm follows on the heels of the first one. And then a third one. He doesn't give me a second of rest, and I'm an inferno of fire. But this is a good fire, one that's not a danger. This is real. When he tries to coax a fourth orgasm from me, I finally have to stop him. I can barely breathe, and I'm exhausted. Yet I know he'd manage to make me come for a fourth time if he tried.

"Peeta, please," I say, removing his hand. It's dripping wet. "I can't… can't anymore." I try to catch my breath, as I watch him lick his fingers clean. Seeing it almost makes me regret stopping him. Then he kisses me, and I can taste myself on his lips. It's been too long since I tasted that, too.

I can't lie on his shoulder yet, but I can lie next to him. I can still feel his body heat, still smell him.

What did my mother say as we were grieving for Prim in the Capitol? I think as I'm about to drift off. "To remind myself that there is life, too."

Yes, there is life.

I had expected my sleep to be deep and dreamless. It usually is after an orgasm. But not tonight. Something is different. It's not a nightmare, exactly. It's just a feeling of being somehow uncomfortable. I don't know how much time has passed when I wake up. I need to go to the bathroom. I have a baby pressing on my bladder, I need to get up several times every night now. I slip out of the bed as carefully as I can, I don't want to wake Peeta. He needs his sleep. I feel… odd. I stumble towards the bathroom, open the door. Then I feel something peculiar.

Something is running out of me. Something warm and wet. I switch on the light in the bathroom, and find that I'm standing in a pool of clear liquid.

I did my best not to pay attention to the many lectures on giving birth my mother has given me, but I do know what this is.

I'm terrified.

"Peeta," I say, my voice nearly inaudible. "Peeta!" The second time, it becomes a scream. I hear him scrambling to get out of bed, running the few steps to the bathroom, then he throws the door open. He looks at me, shivering in panic in a pool of fluid. "Peeta," I whimper, as if I want him to save me from this. But I know that no one can. "She's coming."

I'm sorry, seems like this is yet another evil cliffhanger... ;) Please review! And I promise, the baby will (finally!) be born in the next chapter. The last two chapters are pretty much done, I'll post them as soon as I can. If you review, I might post them faster. Well, maybe. You never know.