This is inspired by the song "Be Still" by The Fray, so if you want, listen to it while you're reading. I think it's a beautiful song and I like to think it's something Peeta might say to Katniss when she's haunted by her demons.

Also, thank you so much for the wonderful responses I've been receiving! I'll keep updating as much as I can :)

It happens one night.

I wake with Peeta's arms already encircling me,

screaming and shrieking and wreaking all kinds of havoc on my sheets,

which,

until I smell his scent,

until I feel his arms on mine,

I believe to be the ghosts of my dreams.

It doesn't happen often anymore,

but it does still happen,

even after all these years.

My breathing is heavy,

chest heaving with strain,

sobs threatening to overcome my lungs.

It takes me minutes which seem like hours to hear him.

"Shhh, Katniss,

be still now, love,

I'm with you.

I'm here.

Shhh," he whispers,

over and over,

so close to my ear his breath is like a butterfly's wings.

With each breath that comes easier I sink into his words,

into his arms.

But my screams are not just my own anymore,

and they are not just his to carry.

I cannot help that they echo all throughout the house,

all throughout the neighborhood, probably,

with our window open the way Peeta needs it.

Our neighbors are kind enough to ignore it,

or they are Haymitch,

who has heard so much worse I think it hardly affects him anymore.

Or he's really good at hiding it,

anyway.

But the neighbors are not who I'm worried about.

Rather I am concerned with the owners of two little feet that come trudging ever-so-hesitantly into my bedroom.

She is in her nightgown,

clutching at a rather worn blanket,

and sucking her thumb,

even though she gave up that habit a few years ago.

She is seven now,

and all too aware that her mommy is not like the other mommies in our town.

She's heard the rumors,

even if she is as young as she is.

Through the now open bedroom door,

I can hear our three year old wailing from his room,

undoubtedly also awakened by my screams and unable as of yet to understand that it's just Mommy having a nightmare again.

Peeta glances down at me,

reluctantly releasing me from his tight embrace,

gently settling me down on our pillows again.

I am a rag doll,

and do not move unless he moves me.

He pushes a stray hair away from my face,

then gets up and leaves at a pretty brisk pace,

obviously keen on tending to our son and getting back to me as soon as possible.

He sweeps his hand over our daughter's curls on his way out, though.

I see it from my paralyzed stance on our bed.

She finishes the long trudge over to my side.

My arms are curled out in front of me,

my hands clenched in fists in front of my face,

my legs curled up in the fetal position,

protective still from dangers that no longer exist but seemed so very real only moments before.

She removes her little thumb from her little mouth,

angles her face so she is looking at me as a caretaker would,

and reaches out her hand to brush it through my dark hair.

She cradles my face in her hand as best she can and continues to soothe me the only way she knows how;

it is, of course, the way I soothe her when she is in need of comfort.

I look up at her,

feeling tears fall from the corner of my eyes,

and I see my sister.

Her healing ways are so evident in this little wonder I get to call mine.

The tears are for Prim.

And they are also of embarrassment.

I will never stop wishing I was less broken so my daughter didn't have to be the strong one.

It is not fair of me to ask this of her,

not fair of me to expose any of this to her.

But it was not fair to me what they exposed me to, either, I suppose.

I cannot help the way I am,

and so I sit and cry tears she mistakes for pain,

listening to the rustle of my hair against my ear as she strokes it back,

listening to her gentle hushes of,

"Mommy, it's okay.

You were only dreaming, Mommy.

Not real,

not real,

they're not real monsters, Mommy."

Again, she speaks the only way she knows how.

How perceptive my little one must be to pick up on these words so often spoken by me to her father when his knuckles grasp at a chair before dinner.

I wallow in self-pity and soar with pride for her healing touch and subtle intelligence,

all at the same time,

wondering how in the world those two feelings can combine in one person's heart.

But they do.

By this time,

Peeta is rushing back through our open door,

arms full of baby boy

whose face is so red and cheeks so tearstained it breaks me from my paralysis.

I am still trembling as I haul myself up into a sitting position,

taking him from Peeta and setting him in my lap.

Our daughter,

job done now,

wanders to his side of the bed and is lifted into the mess of sheets.

I wrap my arms around my little boy,

fill my nose with his shampoo-scented blonde curls,

and kiss his soft head,

reaching up with a hand to wipe away the tears that have subsided gradually.

Eventually we slide back down into the covers,

a collective unit,

none of us prepared to leave the pile of (finally) gently beating hearts.

So we fall asleep,

ready to start new and pretend the night is young,

pretend that we will wake up in the morning feeling well rested.

I curl around the baby boy who still is cradled in my arms,

resting his face near our daughter's,

who is cradled similarly against her father.

I know I will not be the last one to fall asleep,

for surely Peeta will stay awake until he can be sure I will doze off again,

but it doesn't take long this time.

I doze off with baby shampoo in my nose,

three sets of lungs filling all the spaces of silence in my ears,

the spaces that demons like to hide in but can't when they're filled with the human sound of persisting.

Peeta's words from earlier echo in my ears,

a soft-spoken lullaby that only he could give me.

"Be still,

I am with you.

I am here."

And he is.

They all are.