A/N: Okay! Everyone, take a moment to see the Song Title for this chapter. Yep. You got it. REUNITED.

But don't get too excited. Because we all know that I'm a very cruel person.

*cue evil laughter*

So, Peeta is physically present in this chapter. Excitement! That being said, I won't keep babbling!

Random Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games Series. As the past two stories show, my version of events would have been quite different.

Me: PEETA IS BACK!

Katniss: Yes!

Rye: (fist pumps) Yeah, baby!

Haymitch: It's pretty awesome.

Maya: (barks)

Peeta: PARTY!


Chapter 11: Reunited

Reunited and it feels so good.


I hate hospitals.

In my eyes, they are places full of pain and grief, rolling with despair. They smell horridly of antiseptic and reek with uniformity that causes me to crinkle my nose. And to top it all off, hospitals are filled with egregiously uncomfortable chairs.

I shift once more in my seat, causing Maya to look at me curiously. My fingers idly thread through her fur, comforting us both at the same time. Her head rests on top of my thigh, and she exhales loudly, sounding just as impatient as I am.

We've been waiting in the aptly named waiting room for hours. The moment Boggs uttered those wonderful words, We got him, Haymitch and I with Maya in tow had practically bolted out the door. Well, bolted isn't really the best term. If I were still capable of bolting, I would have done so . . . but being five months along inhibits my speed sometimes. Instead, I merely got to my feet as quickly as I could with a helping hand from Haymitch. Maya hopped out of the bed eagerly, like she knew exactly what was happening, and began to prance around looking practically giddy. Together, all three of us followed Boggs to the hospital room.

Rye and Gale were already there. I could just see the white bandages peeking out of the neck of Gale's uniform. He assured me that he was fine, just some minor shrapnel. Rye was relatively unscathed, but the happiness in his eyes was somewhat shadowed by a haunted look that made my stomach tangle into knots.

I try to force my mind somewhere else, but my morbid curiosity forbids it. How bad is Peeta? How injured? How long will it take for him to recover? A week or more? A month or more? Years?

What will he be like? How does being tortured for more than a month change a person? All I can see in my mind's eye is the happy, strong Peeta that I've known for so long: a smart, analytical mind, able to see through others schemes, able to read people's motivations and ferret out ulterior motives—in essence, the epitome of a chess player. And yet within that brilliant mind is a heart of gold, so full of compassion and love. Gentle, caring hands capable of bringing to life the most beautiful picture. Passion that burns like fire. Fiercely protective of those that he loves.

That's what got him here in the first place, that damn protective streak. He led away the Capitol hovercraft to protect me and the baby. Brave. Protective and brave, that's who Peeta was at the simplest core of his being. It's what he's always done. Protect others in any way he could, whether it be dropping a little white lie to get a friend out of trouble, or taking a beating to save a dying girl in the rain.

I know that Peeta will not be the same person. What he's gone through . . . I shudder . . . yes, he will be a different person. Will I be able to handle this? It sounds selfish, but I'm wondering how much this will change my own life. For so long, Peeta was the one who was in control. He kept a level head when things got rough. He was my rock.

It looks like it's my time to return the favor.

But how will this affect my life? What will his recovery involve? Physical therapy? How many different medicines will they be pumping through his system? How many hours will I spend in the hospital at his bedside? And what about the baby? I can't push myself as hard as I once did. Dr. Riley would hunt me down and tie me to the bed, declaring that I be on bedrest the rest of my pregnancy to avoid stress. Stress. It's my arch nemesis. How am I supposed to avoid stress when the man that I love just returned to me, and yet I haven't seen him, haven't touched him? I haven't seen the state he's in, and have no clue how much of a turn my life is about to take.

Avoid stress. Ha.

I glance over to my right. Rye hasn't moved from my side since I arrived. He holds my free hand tightly in his. He keeps his blue eyes trained on the floor at his feet, staring with such intensity that I'm waiting for it to give way under the weight of his gaze. He hasn't said a word to me, and I haven't initiated any form of conversation. My throat feels far too thick.

Haymitch is to my left, and I believe that right now, my mentor has never wanted a drink more. Peeta is the son that he never had, just as I am the daughter, but there's something about Peeta that makes Haymitch even more protective of him than he is of me. I think it's simply because Peeta is so good. Inside and out, he is good. He's a light amidst the darkness that surrounds us all, and like moths to a flame, we gravitate toward him. It's part of the reason why Peeta is able to sway a crowd the way he does.

Finally, a doctor appears, looking completely worn out and in desperate need of sleep. A clipboard is grasped in his hand as he approaches us, and I can't help but notice the many sheets of paper secured to the square of cardboard. "Mellark family?"

"That's us," I say as I get to my feet. Maybe I should stay seated for the words that I know are about to come—the description of Peeta's physical state—but I don't want to appear any weaker and vulnerable than I already do. I can imagine what the doctor in front of me is seeing. A young, pregnant girl whose arms are wrapped around her distended stomach. Heavy, dark shadows under her red, puffy eyes, indicting many nights spend crying instead of sleeping. I know I don't look like I'm on top of things, but in this moment I've never felt more determined.

After so many nights of wondering how Peeta is, I'm finally going to know. As much as the notion terrifies me, it brings me more relief than anything. And so I stare at the doctor as calmly and as authoritatively as I can, waiting for him to begin speaking.

The doctor scans the chart in his hands. "Katniss Everdeen?"

"Mellark," I correct irritated. Seriously, everyone in District 13 should know this by now.

"Sorry," he apologizes, and he actually sounds sheepish, and so I forgive him. "Are you the only family?"

"No," Rye says as he stands. "I'm his brother."

"Everyone here is family," I say firmly when the doctor glances at Haymitch and Gale. "Everyone can hear what you have to say."

The doctor nods and takes a deep breath. "I'm Dr. Hodgins," he begins. "I will be in charge of Mr. Mellark's case."

I want to tell him to cut to the chase, but my mouth remains shut. I suspect it's because subconsciously, no matter how badly I want to know how Peeta is, at the same time I would like to remain blissfully ignorant of the exact injuries.

"Well, I'll start with the extremities and work my way in," he says and I gulp. Start with, indicating that there is much more to follow. "During his . . . captivity in the Capitol, Mr. Mellark sustained a variety of fractures, none of which have healed completely. His left arm is broken, and we've put it in a cast that he'll wear for about eight weeks. But frankly, it's his shoulders that I'm worried about." I swallow. "Both shoulders show multiple and frequent dislocations, most likely from—" The doctor pauses, uncertain whether he should divulge facts of Peeta's torture.

"Tell me." The words that escape my mouth belong to a voice that I don't recognize, but I know that it must be my own.

"Most likely from being suspended in the air with his hands tied behind his back," Dr. Hodgins explains, his eyes studying my reaction. I force myself to remain as blank as possible, but I don't think the effort is helped much by the green tint of my skin due to my nausea at the image in my mind.

But Dr. Hodgins continues, "As I said, I'm worried about his shoulders. The tendons and ligaments are not as tight as they used to be, and they will never get back to the way that they were. But, hopefully, with good physical therapy, the joints will heal and Mr. Mellark will have most if not all range of motion without pain."

"His ribs took the most damage," he begins, changing track. "Five are broken, one of which appears to have punctured a lung, but they fixed that neatly in the Capitol. Two of the five show bone remodeling, indicating a previous fracture . . . I'm assuming that they are from the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games?" he asks, looking at me, and I nod, remembering his twenty foot fall off the Cornucopia. "Two ribs are also cracked, but we've wrapped his torso good and tight, so as long as he doesn't try anything, they should heal nicely."

Dr. Hodgins takes a moment to glance over the chart once more. I hate that there are so many injures he can't remember them all off the top of his head. "Both wrists are fractured, most likely from shackles, if the bruising is anything to go by." My eyes are beginning to burn, but I force myself not to cry. "That's it for the bones," he says, as if this is a good thing, but then he continues on.

"Now, internally, Mr. Mellark's lungs are what we're watching out for," he explains. "His lungs show some damage, most likely from pneumonia, which indicates that he was kept in a rather cold and damp environment. There's some fluid in there that we're watching for, but that should clear within the next couple of days now that we're taking care of him. Also, his liver and spleen show some bruising, but that will heal without any need for surgery."

"Considering everything, Mr. Mellark should make a full recovery," Dr. Hodgins says, offering a bit of good news. "Superficially, I must add that Mr. Mellark has his fair share of lacerations, some of which have already scarred. But he's alive, Mrs. Mellark, and he's going to stay that way if I have anything to say about it."

I nod. "Good," I say. "Now . . . can I . . ." I swallow back more tears. "Can I see him?"

Dr. Hodgins hesitates, and I get the feeling that I'm not going to like what he's about to say. He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by none other than Dr. Riley. "I'll take it from here, Jack," she says with an air of authority that is not to be challenged. "I think we can both agree that I am more qualified." She turns to us and says, "It gets a little boring around here as an OB/GYN. I took up psychiatry to pass the time."

Dr. Hodgins nods his head respectfully, not even bothering to argue. "Of course, Maggie. I'll return to my patient." He turns to face us. "If you'll excuse me."

We're all silent for a moment before Dr. Riley turns to me, her long grey hair pulled up into her usual bun, and her silver-rimmed glasses threatening to slide off her nose. The laugh lines in her face are drawn in sadness as she looks at me sympathetically. She's pulled out her grandmother side for the situation.

"Why did he hesitate?" I ask sharply. "Why can't I see Peeta?"

"Katniss, sweetie," Dr. Riley sighs. "I know you want to see him, but we . . . we don't know what state he will be in when he wakes and sees you."

"What do you mean?" My voice has lost its bite. Does she mean that Peeta won't want to see me?

"I've been overseeing the case," she explains. "What Dr. Hodgins was about to explain to you was that aside from Peeta's various injuries, when we did some blood work, the results showed traces of tracker jacker venom."

"What?" Rye gasps. "They let those things loose on him?"

"No, I don't believe so," Dr. Riley patiently explains. "It appears that the venom was injected, like a shot."

Haymitch tenses and I frown. "What is it? What do you know?" I ask, beginning to grow hysterical. "What's happening?" I whisper tremulously as my eyes fill with tears.

"Hijacking?" Haymitch asks Dr. Riley, his voice devoid of all emotion.

"A failed attempt," she nods before looking at me. "Obviously, like I told you, he had something to fight for."

I almost manage a smile, but I have a more pressing question. "What does hijacking mean?"

"It's an experimental form of torture," Dr. Riley explains. "It was used some during the Dark Days, but the victims never survived, so we know very little about it. It's a type of fear conditioning. When you were stung in the arena, after you woke up did you feel unsure of what was real and what wasn't? Because of the hallucinations?" I nod. "Well, recall is made more difficult because memories can be changed. They can be brought to the forefront of your mind, altered, and saved again in the revised form. Now imagine that I ask you to remember something—either with a verbal suggestion or by making you watch a tape of the event—and while that experience is refreshed, I give you a dose of tracker jacker venom. Not enough to induce a three-day blackout. Just enough to infuse the memory with fear and doubt. And then that is what your brain puts in long-term storage."

Rye gaps in horror. "So you're saying that they tried to make my little brother afraid of Katniss?"

"So afraid that he would see her as life-threatening, maybe even try to kill her," Dr. Riley confirms.

"But you said that it was a failed attempt," I repeat, grasping onto the knowledge with all the strength I possess. "Peeta would never hurt me."

My mind instantly flashes back to a morning on the train on the Victory Tour. After my terrible nightmare of President Snow killing Peeta, I had run into Peeta's room and foolishly startled him from a nightmare in my haste to make sure that he was alive. Within a second, Peeta's hand had been around my throat, his body pinning me to the bed. Of course, it only took another second for him to snap out of it, but that didn't mollify Peeta in the slightest. The next morning I tried to convince him that no matter what, he would always snap out of it. He would never hurt me.

"What if I don't snap out of it next time?" Peeta questions and I sigh.

"You will always snap out of it."

"How do you know?"

"Because you love me."

Peeta's lips quirk up into a faint smile. "I do."

"Yes," Dr. Riley agrees with a small smile. "He fought the venom. I believe that most likely, after each injection of tracker jacker venom had passed through his system, he was able to realize that the memories in his head were fake and he threw them away. I'm certain that since he had so many memories of you that the Capitol couldn't touch, memories that no one else but you two shared, he was able to keep a clear mind."

"So his mind is okay?" Rye asks hopefully, but Dr. Riley sighs and I feel the stirrings of hope in my chest vanish.

"He was tortured for more than month," Dr. Riley says bluntly. "His mind is far from okay." She returns her gaze to me. "That's not to say that he's a completely different person. The man you love is still there, but right now he's too hurt to be all that he once was. Katniss, there are repercussions to the kind of trauma Peeta received. Have you ever heard of PTSD? Post-traumatic stress disorder?"

I shake my head, and Dr. Riley sighs. "It's a type of anxiety disorder that typically follows someone who has experienced a traumatic event," she explains. "This isn't going to be easy for him Katniss. His wounds will heal, but I'm afraid his mind will take much longer."

"What's wrong?" I ask, but Dr. Riley shakes her head.

"There's not necessarily anything wrong," she says. "There's nothing that I can physically go in and fix. It's a psychological disorder . . . and I have a hunch that his case will be very bad."

"Because of the tracker jacker venom," Haymitch states more than asks, and Dr. Riley nods.

"Yes, I believe so," she says. "While the venom will leave his system in a few days, the effects, combined with what he has endured, I believe will be very detrimental to his symptoms, most specifically the flashbacks."

"Flashbacks?" Rye repeats worriedly.

"Yes, flashbacks." Dr. Riley purses her lips, as if deciding how best to explain all that she needs to. "Flashbacks are when the victim relives the event over and over. They can last seconds and then again they can last minutes. The flashbacks themselves can be triggered by anything. Anything that could remind him of something involving his torture. Running water, for example, may cause a flash back, since his lungs show evidence of water torture. Sudden noises, especially metallic. Any number of things could trigger a flashback, and sadly we'll just have to wait and see what his triggers are, bit by bit."

"What are the other symptoms?" I ask tremulously.

"Nightmares, of course," Dr. Riley answers. "Emotionally, Peeta may be extremely distant or be so consumed with emotion that he lashes out, whether in anger or tears. He may avoid people, show less of his moods. He may be very detached from it all and show no interest in normal activity. He may also be hyper vigilant and startle easily. Insomnia is also a possible symptom."

"But, from what I know about Peeta, I'm anticipating more emotion, since it's such an inherent part of who he is," Dr. Riley continues. "That being said, that's also why I'm more worried. Flashbacks are riveting. They'll hold him in their grasp until he snaps out of it. He may believe that it's real and try to protect himself from whoever is in the room. While it may be a friend, all he will see is someone who will try to hurt him."

"And so he'll hurt them first," Haymitch says, and Dr. Riley nods.

"Also, random outbursts of irritation and anger are common. Say something simple, like tying a knot, causes him to become frustrated. Instead of taking a deep breath and trying again, like he normally would, instead he'll—"

"Turn into a giant rage monster?" Rye finishes and Dr. Riley purses her lips.

"Yes," she replies crisply before turning to me. "Now, with that being said, I don't think that it's safe—"

"Don't tell me that I can't see him," I cut her off sharply, my battle with my tears ceasing as I focus all my energy on a new battle. "I will see him. I will be there for him every step of the way. He wouldn't let any of this scare him off it were me."

"But it's not you," Dr. Riley replies gently. "You've got someone else to think about. What if Peeta gets caught up in a flashback while you are in the room? What if he attacks you? What if he hurts you and the baby?"

"Peeta would never hurt me," I growl. "I don't care if he's not in his right mind. He would never hurt me."

"Are you willing to take the risk?" Dr. Riley retorts. "Katniss, be reasonable. I'm not saying that you can't see him. I'm just saying that you should be careful. Try not to be alone with him, and if you are, and he begins to have a flashback, you bolt for that door and lock it behind you. You call in a medical team, and they will take care of him, okay? Not you."

I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to curse. I hate her logic. Even more so, I hate that her logic is right. The baby. Always about the baby. I have to protect the baby, even from its own father. "Fine."

"Is he awake?" Rye asks tentatively.

"Last I checked, no," Dr. Riley says. "But you're welcome to sit with him."

I'm about to protest, but Dr. Riley backs up her words. "Let's see how he deals with Rye first," she says. "He is his brother, and the Capitol didn't try to make him so scared of Rye that he would want to kill him."

I hated to admit that she had a point.

"But there is an observation window available," Dr. Riley adds, which causes my heart to stumble for a few beats before picking up speed at a rapid rate. "You can see him with your own eyes."

"Lead the way, Doc," Haymitch says, seeming to realize that I'm incapable of speech.

Dr. Riley leads us through the winding halls of the hospital until she stops in the middle of one of the many identical, bland grey hallways. Two doors face me on the right, and I wonder if I would be able to dart forward, somehow manage to win the 50/50 chance at picking the right door, and see Peeta before anyone would be able to stop me. But by the way Gale and Haymitch are on either side of me, tense and ready, almost as if they're just waiting for me to try, I know that my little coup is pointless.

"This way, Rye," Dr. Riley says quietly, leading him slightly ahead of us and opening the door. The door opens outward, and so I'm unable to see anything inside Peeta's room. Rye pauses for a moment before stepping over the threshold, closing the door behind him.

Dr. Riley turns to us. "You can see him from in there," she says. "It's one-way glass, so you can see him but he can't see you." She pauses to look at me. "I know that you know of all his injuries, but let me tell you this. Almost half of his injuries are defensive wounds, Katniss. He fought back when he could, and judging by the slight fracturing in his knuckles, he has a pretty wicked right cross."

Unbelievably, my lips twitch upward in a ghost of a smile.

And then Dr. Riley turns on her heel and leaves, the soft click, click of her shoes echoing down the hallway. With a trembling hand, I reach out and twist the door knob, opening the door. Maya immediately trots into the new space, sniffing the surroundings before turning to me, waiting for me to join her.

I take a step into the room, keeping my eyes trained on Maya. Oddly, I'm terrified of actually seeing Peeta. Only moments ago, I was filled with a desperate need to see him, but now that I have the chance, I'm petrified of what I will see. All I can hear is Dr. Hodgins' recount of Peeta's injuries. Shoulders in need of physical therapy. A broken arm. Both wrists broken as well. Five busted ribs, two more cracked. Damaged lungs. Bruised spleen and liver. Multiple lacerations.

Will he even look like the man I remember?

I can sense Haymitch and Gale behind me, and I know that they're looking through the glass, looking at Peeta. Jealously flares within me, that they have seen him before I have, but at the same time I'm frustrated with myself because it's my own damn fault anyway. Suddenly, my gaze is broken when Maya huffs at me, and I swear she's looking at me in a, "Well what are you waiting for?" kind of way.

Gathering my courage, I turn toward the glass as my arms wrap around my stomach. I find a spot on the wall in Peeta's room and stare at it as I take three steps toward the glass until I'm inches away from the clear barrier. I feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears as I slowly follow the wires from the IV to the floor and then back up toward the bed.

And then I see his hand. My breathing quickens as I allow my eyes to follow his hand up his arm, which is wrapped in a plain white cast. I ignore the pang in my heart and allow my eyes to continue their travels. I see his black and blue shoulders, visible due to his shirtless state. I avoid continuing up and seeing his neck and then his face. I'm not ready for that just yet. Instead, my eyes travel downward to his chest. It is not the broad, strong chest that I remember. Since his ribs are wrapped up tightly in stark white tape, I can only see a few fresh bruises and still-red lacerations. An ugly pink scar about six inches in length is visible on his collarbone, stretching downward at a slight diagonal to his left pectoral.

I can't see any of his lower half, since it is covered by the hospital blankets.

With nothing left to divert my gaze, I force my eyes upward until I finally see him. The face of my dreams and yet not. I know his blonde curls are freshly washed, but they still appear dirty to me. Maybe it's because their golden color doesn't seem to shine like I remember it. His complexion is pale, lacking the sun-kissed glow he always seems to radiate no matter what season. His cheeks are sunken. His lips are cracked. A yellowing bruise colors his right temple, curving along his cheekbone.

He looks terrible.

But tears of joy are still sliding down my cheeks. Unthinkingly, my hand finds the glass in front of me. I want to touch him. I want to hear his voice. I want to feel his arms around me. I want to feel his lips on mine.

I've barely given a thought to Rye, who has taken a seat in the chair at Peeta's bedside. I glare jealously at my brother in-law when he takes Peeta's hand that's free of IVs. Rye's mouth begins to move, talking to Peeta, but his voice is so low that I can't hear him. Or maybe the glass is soundproof?

Suddenly, Peeta twitches on the bed, causing everyone to stiffen. My eyes find his heart monitor, which has sped up. He's waking up. I know he is. He's waking up, and I'm not there.

I don't think about my actions. I hardly realize that I'm already out the door of the observation lounge and yanking open the door to Peeta's room. I don't see Rye staring at me in surprise and shock. I don't see anything other than my favorite pair of blue eyes staring right back at me.

For a second, time freezes. In this one second, Peeta and I communicate every single thought and emotion we've been saving for this very moment. I see his relief, his joy, his surprise, his shock. His eyes shine with tears as he sees my stomach, and it hits me that the last time he saw me, I wasn't showing at all. I try to send him all the love I can, all the blinding joy that I currently feel.

And then time resumes and I suddenly find myself right beside him. Peeta has sat up in the bed, and though I know that he really shouldn't be moving at all, I can't help but feel reassured at the sight. Deep down, he's still as strong as ever.

I want to tell him so much. I want to tell him that I love him. I want to tell him that I never gave up on him. I want to beg him to forgive me for putting him through this. I want to tell him how much I missed him. I want to tell him how my entire body has ached for him every day. I want to tell him everything about the baby. I want to tell him how far along I am. I want to tell him that I've heard our baby's heartbeat. I want to tell him that I've seen our baby's image.

I want to say all of that, and yet all I can manage is, "Hi."

Peeta's hand reaches up to cradle my face, and it's only then that I realize that I'm crying and so is he. "Hi."

And then my lips meet his.


AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHH!

PEETA IS BACK! YES, HE'S BACK! YEAH, HE'S BACK.

Everyone, let us take this grand moment to celebrate this awesomeness.

Okay! So, like it? Peeta isn't hijacked! However, do not let that fact lull you into a false sense of security. This is me, we're talking about. Since when have I ever made anything easy on these two? We're about to enter a whole new world of drama and darkness. PTSD to the max, guys. The following chapters, at least until chapter 20, will definitely earn this T rating. Definitely, definitely.

So, buckle up! It's gonna be a bumpy ride as I've said before. So, enjoy the sweet moment at the end of this chapter. It's going to be the last one you'll get for a while.

I know, I know . . . I'm cruel.

And now that I've run out of things to say, it's summary time: Katniss and the gang have been drafted into a Grey's Anatomy/Bones crossover (Go Hodgins!); Rye is sad; Katniss is happy; Haymitch wants a drink; Gale secretly wishes that elves are real; Coin is nowhere to be found; and PEETA IS BACK! But not in black . . .

Not that it really matters, because AC/DC is still awesome.

Quote from the next chapter comes from . . . Katniss!

"He's not crazy!"

Lots of love,

AC