Disclaimer: I sadly do not own The Hunger Games. Fuck my life.

Hospital For Souls

The Doctor

The pounding of my fist against the glass door as I shout for Haymitch is so hurried I'm shocked the material doesn't crack. I can't even see if anyone is even present inside through the opaque surface. I'm just going on pure intuition. I have to wait several seconds, all of which feel like hours, before I hear the words; "Dammit, Mellark, will you quit your damn shouting!" fire back. The door flies open so quickly I have to take a step out of range so I'm not hit with it.

I'm met with the sight of a distraught, and thoroughly annoyed, Haymitch staring daggers at the level of my head. His chin is pointed low and makes his glare more intimidating.

His menacing gray eyes are a little glazed over, and I notice he's leaning heavily against the now open door frame. His white coat is only hooked through one of his arms while the rest hangs loosely off his shoulder. A foul smell is also radiating off of him. It doesn't take me too long to come to the fact he's been drinking again. I'm more irritated than shocked by this.

"Well," he scoffs, surprisingly without slurring the word. "What's so damn important that you had to interrupt my break, Mellark?"

I open my mouth to respond. Except nothing comes out. Not a sound. I cannot think of a single way to phrase all the jumbled thoughts running through my head into words. I'm still being fought over internally by my emotions, clouding my ability to keep calm and deliver a rational answer. Hell, even if I could, none of it would get passed the constricting lump in my throat. I'd probably end up choking if I tried.

Haymitch, although still retaining that glassy look and unbalanced stance, is more composed, now frowning at my behavior and furrowing my brows. "Are you feeling alright, kid?" he asks cautiously, as if a part of him doesn't want to know.

Because I can't think of anything else to say or do, I push past him and enter his office wordlessly. It gives me time to collect myself in private.

I'm pacing and running my hands through my hair when he closes the door and saunters back to me.

"Look, kid. Whatever it is you're here for just spit it out. I can't have you breaking down on me. You're the only sane one out of the two of us," he says rather brusquely. It's no wonder he and Johanna can't stand each other. They're both too similar and rough around the edges to get along civilly.

I swallow the saliva forming to push the lump in my throat down and gather a few deep breaths. I eventually drop my hands from my hair, but they end up twitching at my side.

This is ridiculous. Katniss Everdeen should not be having this much of an effect on me, I remind myself. She's a weakness of mine. Even after 10 years of estrangement behind us, that woman has no idea exactly how much of an effect she can have. I take Haymitch up on his advice and just spit out the first thing that comes to mind.

"I can't do it," I say, a humorless laugh escaping at the realization of how true those words sound aloud. "I can't treat her."

"Treat who? The girl in ICU?"

I nod tersely. At least I can function normally again.

"You shouldn't sell yourself so short, kid. I've seen you work—"

"It's not…that," I cut him off. "It's just…we have a history together."

He arches his brows in surprise, so much so they almost disappear into his hairline. Obviously that was not the answer he was expecting. "You have a history together?" he emphasizes, slowly on the word.

I suddenly feel embarrassed to be in the room. Of course we didn't have an actual history together. A girl like Katniss Everdeen and a guy like me. Only in my prepubescent dreams, and those days are long gone. "No, not that. We went to school together is all."

His expression deflates rather quickly and he starts shaking his head, reaching for a flask in his coat pocket and downs a generous sip. He strolls around me till he's behind his desk and sitting down with his feet plopped up on the glossy desk. His coat is still hanging off only one of his arms. I'd laugh if my nerves weren't so frayed.

"So she's an acquaintance from school. Were you two ever close?"

I sigh, "Not really. We talked maybe a handful of times. We were in very different social circles."

"Peeta, you know the rules better than anyone, it's a weak link. That's not cause enough to refuse her treatment. There has to be a significant association between you two." He takes another drink, "If I were you and I ever met one of my schoolmates here, I'm pretty sure my first reaction wouldn't be to go knocking on somebody else's door. Unless, of course, it's to put as much distance between us as possible," he concedes, but stares deeply into my eyes, looking for something I don't wish to bring up. "I'm not buying it, kid. Now why don't you really wanna treat our newest inductee?"

It's not that I don't want to. It's that I don't know if I can.

"I told you; we know each other, that'll make things awkward. I'd be the last person she'd come to for help. She won't feel comfortable around me and I just…" I run a hand through my hair and turn away from him in frustration. I can feel his gaze boring into the back of my head.

A sad sigh escapes him, and his eyes are most likely soft as he says, "She's the significant one to you, not the other way around then."

His words are true, not that I didn't know that already. There was just too much that went on back then for me to ignore. I was in love with her, and I can't put those past feelings aside, no matter how distant those days are. I'm just glad Haymitch has toned down the attitude enough to show a little understanding for once. I half expected to tease me about it all. I'm glad he hasn't so far.

"How long has it been since you two have spoken?"

I let out another long breath and turn to face him. "Not since we were both in senior year. It was a long time ago, but I'm pretty sure not long enough for her to forget about me." I imagine it'd be a bit more than difficult to considering our shared past. "So what do you think I should do?"

He rolls his eyes, like the answer is obvious. "Treat her, of course."

"What? Why?" I ask. The second I hear the word, I realize just how stupid the question is. There is no 'why' when it comes to helping patients. It's a duty, not a choice. But I don't expect the next words that come out of Haymitch's mouth.

"Because you're probably all she has left." Hearing them makes me flinch, and feel infinitely guiltier.

"The way I see it," he continues, actually putting down his flask to stand up authoritatively. "This is the best thing that's happened all day. I know a tough nut to crack when I see one, and from what I hear, she fits the bill perfectly. You have a connection, it's weak, which is good because I don't want the damn Ethics Committee breathing down my neck over this. But it might be a blessing in disguise. I just need to know if you can handle yourself, Mellark. Can you do that?"

No. Maybe. I have no idea. This is a recipe for disaster, I think but don't air my opinion. The guilt continues to eat away at me. Whatever discomfort I feel around her doesn't change the fact that she needs help. I just have to put hose feeling aside and get to work.

The smirk that lights his face tells me he knows my resolve is crumbling and I'm coming around to his idea of treatment. He's probably basking in the idea that he's right and I'm being the irrational one. Or he's even drunker than I first thought.

I nod curtly. "Alright, I can do that." My mind is set, and I know there's no going back on it now. This is the right thing to do.

"Wonderful," he says smirking behind his flask and drinking it dry. "And if she ever becomes too much for you, I do know a few Districts with available space for imports." His comment is so casual it might be considered comforting.

But I actually grimace at the thought. Although I certainly have some reservations on this, I don't trust anyone else to solve the complex patchwork of a woman that is Katniss Everdeen. He's right, I'm the best—and maybe only—chance she's got.

"Now, get going, kid," he orders, leading me to the door with his hand on my back. "You've been killing my buzz all day and I can't stand to hear any more about all this messed-up, daytime drama."

With one strong shove, I'm outside again, the door closing behind me with a resounding slam. And I'm starting to ponder for the tenth time today why I respect the man so much.

The Patient

When I awake from the drugs, I feel as if I'm not alone—it's an instinctual thing, developed over many years of hunting. My eyelids are as heavy as lead, rendering me blind once again, but I'm not nearly as frightened by it as before. I know where I am, my surroundings haven't changed. The only differences are the straps tying down my arms and my new guest likely sitting at the foot of my bed.

I don't want to deal with whoever the hell it is. I want them to release me, take me back home, and leave me there to die. It'd be less trouble for them anyway.

I wish they could give me that, but I know better. I won't have a choice in staying alive, that choice has already been made up for me. I haven't resigned myself to that fate just yet, but I don't have the same fight in me after all the struggling I've been through. I might as well try to get this over with and be done with it already. I'm clearly not going anywhere any time soon.

Ignoring the pounding headache and the strain put on my muscles, my lids comply into semi-openness and light floods my vision.

With newly adjusted sight, I look to my guest, Peeta Mellark.

I still all movements, suddenly frozen in place, eyes wide in disbelief, heart beating erratically in shock. Peeta Mellark! I must be seeing things, a mirage. There he is, relaxed and laid back in a visitor's chair cushion, his focus directed on me. A thousand questions overwhelm my thoughts.

What is he doing here?

What is he doing here?

What is he doing here?

What is he doing here?

All excellent questions all trapped in the region between my mouth and lungs, threatening to choke me of air then and there. Maybe I still have a chance of dying after all.

Only now it's death by pure, unadulterated mortification.

He cannot seriously be here at one of the worst moments of my life. I say 'one of' because there's stiff competition for the honor of number one. Regardless, this situation has now gone from bad to unbearable. I can't think of any other person I'd rather not want to see me like this than that man sitting on the chair next to my bed. On the day I try to kill myself—the day he was the last living thought on my mind—he shows up miraculously. The sayings are true. Fate is beyond cruel.

"Hi," he greets, pulling me out of my inner monologue. A reserved smile graces his face. He's aged nicely over the years, losing some of his boyish features, but his eyes are still the same deep blue and his ashy blonde hairs are as disheveled as ever. He's wearing a sparkling white coat and neatly trimmed black pants, one leg resting over the other. I probably look like a mess in a thin burlap sack in comparison, but I can't manage to avoid his intense gaze.

"Hello," I croak, swallowing down the lump in my throat. I finally look away when I see his smile grow another half an inch. He looks glad to see me, and I shouldn't want him to under the circumstances. But I do. He's familiar, and I'll take whatever comfort I find in that.

"It's good you're finally awake, I was starting to doze off myself."

I try for a smile, but it comes out a grimace. I'm still a little numb in some weird places from the morphling they injected, and I wouldn't be surprised if my face was one of them.

When I look back, I notice his eyes have shifted to the straps around my arms. There's an extreme, held back emotion in his gaze I can't yet name. I move them experimentally. They barely wade through an inch of space against the restraints.

"I'm sorry about those," he says, genuine regret seeping into his tone. "They're standard procedure when things tend to turn violent around here. We'll remove them after we take some tests and transfer you."

That catches my attention. "Transfer me where?" my voice cracks, but it's becoming easier to use, so I don't complain.

"My ward, Psychiatrics. But even through you're stable, we can't move you out without that wrist healed up and you feeling well rested. Until then, you'll have to spend the night here. I'm sorry."

It's the second time he's apologized, and he has no reason to. That is the definition of the Peeta Mellark I remember. I still have to ask him something, though. So I swallow thickly again, my eyes pleading because, without him knowing it, his apologies are throwing me off and threatening to spill forth the floodgates of my unstable emotions. If that happens, I know for a fact I'll break down in tears. I can't let that happen. The last thing I want is for Peeta Mellark to see how weak I am. But he's just far too kind and nothing about this situation is his fault, he might just get a weak moment out of me.

"What are you doing here?" I whisper weakly, with too much emotion. It's a loaded question, surely he knows that.

"I should be asking you the same thing," he sighs, sliding his leg down and leaning further back into the plush seat. "But we'll get to that later. I work here, believe it or not. Clinical Psychology." He confirms the idea already forming in my mind; the white coat was an obvious giveaway. Though, I still haven't given up on the idea he's a mirage in my wild hazy imagination.

"I've been here for almost a year working towards my Residency," he continues. "It's been tough, but the rewards are worth it and I enjoy the work."

"It suites you," I reply curtly. "You've…always been good at helping people." Another loaded statement. The flinch of remembrance that crosses his expression tells me he's picked up on it this time.

"Well…I do what needs to be done." His eyes have darkened, and his gaze is so intense it's as if he's seeing right through me. He pauses for a long moment as we both stare at each other wordlessly, blue meeting gray for the first time in a decade. "Do you know why you're here?" he asks.

I nod, but say nothing else. He waits for a few seconds.

"Are you going to say it, or should I?" he asks coldly. I don't want to say it, I don't want to think about it, because then the shame will consume me. I'm scowling at him, and the tension is visible across his strong jaw. "Katniss…you need help." It's the first time he's said my name, and it still carries that sad wistful undertone to it.

I close my eyes, shaking my head at him with a grimace. "I'm fine. I'll always be fine."

"Katniss," he softly whispers. Warm hands envelop my uninjured one, spreading a heat through my body that makes me shiver. I'd like to think if I wasn't strapped down so tightly, I'd pull away from him, but I'm not so sure. "Is it okay if I ask you some questions?"

I open my eyes at a glacial pace, nodding ever so slightly it's almost imperceptible. He breathes a sigh of relief, stroking the back of my hand with his thumb. I hold onto him firmly.

"State your full name please."

"Katniss Everdeen."

"Do you know what today is?" he begins.

"May something." I answer. He tells me the exact date.

"Where are you right now?"

"A hospital in District 12." That gets a smile out of him.

"Have you been on any sort of medication? Anti-depressants?"

"No, I've never taken meds."

"Have you taken any illegal substances in the past month?"

"No." I answer clearly.

It's his turn to nod. "Do you…do you remember what happened today? Before you woke up in this place."

He's trying to make me say it, but I have no chance of avoiding it now. I take in a shaky breath and say, "I tried to kill myself." Somehow saying it aloud makes it sound infinitely worse than it really was, but I force myself to continue. "I was in my bathroom…with a razor. I was…crying my eyes out on the floor…" The restraints prevent me from wiping away a rebellious tear that escapes down my cheek, but Peeta swipes it for me with his hand. I don't think on the intimacy of the gesture, I only focus on the fact that it makes feel better, not being alone anymore.

"And I just…did it," I deadpan, my body is still shaky but I haven't broken down and that's considered an accomplished feat in my mind.

He gives me a reassuring squeeze of the hand and wipes away the remaining wetness on my face. I suddenly realize our faces are uncharacteristically close, only separated by a foot of empty space. His eyes are still boring into mine, and I'm able to see flecks of color in his irises. We both recoil back quickly, but the tension is still thick in the air and he hasn't removed the grip on me yet.

He audibly gulps, avoiding a glance in my direction. "I think that's enough for today," he stands, finally extracting himself from the chair and my hand. I'm left feeling a little cold because of it. "You should really be getting some rest," he states neutrally. His jaw is tight and I can feel the tension radiating off of him, as if he's trying to hold back whatever emotion he's feeling. "Your wrist still needs more time, but I'll be here when they come to transfer you."

I nod vigorously. "Okay."

When he looks back toward me, running a hand through his shaggy hair, his face has softened and that reserved smile makes its return. "It was great seeing you again, Katniss. I just…wish it wasn't under these circumstances."

I attempt a smile back, but it produces little success. My nerves are still too stressed to attempt anything like smiling. He backs up slowly toward the exit, giving me one last look. Just as he's about to close the door shut, I finally whisper a response.

"Me too, Peeta. Me too." But I'm not even sure if he heard me.

Don't forget to review, alert, or favorite and all that jazz. I'll probably upload a new story before the next chap is out, so look out for that.