Author's Note: I know this idea has been done about a million times (even I've toyed with this Post-Mockingjay/Pre-epilogue timeline more than once), but I couldn't get over a particular scene I saw in the trailer for Part 1. And I still don't think I should post it since it is basically two ideas smushed together, but I'm hoping it will motivate me to work on my other writings. Even still, I hope you'll let me know what you think (good or bad).

Disclaimer: Just the words are mine. No harm, no foul.

Katniss strolled casually into the large two-story house, her game bag swinging in her hand as she rocked on her heels to toe off her boots and discard them somewhere in the vicinity of the front door. It was a beautiful day out, so they were at least free of the mud and grime that was usually caked onto the worn leather soles, but she still knew she wouldn't hear the end of it if she'd been as careless with their placement as she had with her coat - tossed haphazardly with the empty bag over the railing of the stairwell. Then again, the house was eerily quiet for the early afternoon; despite the dwindled population in District 12 and general abandonment in their so-called neighborhood, things always managed to seem almost chaotic during the day. Sometimes it was just her own thoughts rattling around in her head, echoing in the tight space so loudly that she swore they were amplified for all to hear, but other times it was actual noise, too. She'd hear Haymitch cursing at his geese, slurring over his words and stumbling across the yard. She'd hear the young children leaving or returning from school, usually taking a shortcut through the village to get to the town square. And, of course, as more and more time passed since the bombings, the more wildlife and nature she could hear through the thin (or open) windows.

Just then, though, she heard nothing. And knowing better than to assume it could be a good thing, her eyes scanned as much of the downstairs as she could see before she slowly - almost like she were still in the woods, a predator searching for prey - crept across the hardwood floor toward areas she couldn't see. The hallway, the powder room, the upstairs. Each vacant space had felt quieter than usual, still, like the calm before a storm. And the second her foot crossed the threshold between the dining room and kitchen, she knew why. The hairs on the back of her neck and on her arms stood up, her posture straightened and eyes widened at the sight before her.

Peeta hadn't suffered an episode in months; they'd talked about it just the other day, when she'd commented on the first dandelion sighting and he'd waxed poetically about it possibly being the sign of better days ahead. It had seemed like such a profound moment, one that she'd thought they'd remember fondly years from now. It had been nearly two years since the end of the war, and it had taken that long for her and Peeta to grow back together - separately, and then together. Their bad days were fewer and farther apart, and she'd really believed him that maybe things could be good for them again. She knew one flashback wasn't a reason to give up hope completely, but she hated seeing him like this. She was helpless in this situation, only able to sit and wait for whatever pseudo-memory was flooding through his brain to fade back into the darkness. Only then could she approach him, try to soothe away his always-worrying mind, his guilt-ridden soul.

She'd tried other tactics before, obviously; she wasn't the type of person to sit on the sidelines and wait for things to work themselves out. But nothing else worked. Everything else only seemed to make things worse, so she resolved to letting Peeta handle the episodes on his own. It was easier said than done, but if she'd learned anything from what had happened to them, it was that he would come back to her. Always. He was strong, stronger than he gave himself credit for (mostly because he was too busy giving her all the credit). The Capitol had used a torture method so new and innovative that it should have killed him. It should have killed them all, but instead all it did was fuel a rebellion. It made her fight harder, for him and for the war, because she wouldn't let them turn Peeta into a piece in their games; they'd tried to break him, to change him, but it couldn't work because Peeta would always be Peeta.

Although, truthfully, he'd changed the second his name had been called at the Reaping (both times, but specifically the first). He'd gone from the youngest Mellark boy who was too nice to stand up for himself to the silver-tongued Victor from District 12, someone who could have had anything he wanted in the world, but simply wished to be happy - with a girl who'd never deserve it but selfishly couldn't deny him, either. Honestly, if the Capitol had wanted to destroy Peeta - destroy her - then they should have injected the tracker-jack venom into his heart; everyone (including Katniss) knew it didn't make any sense that he loved her. Even before the Games she was surly and oppressive and damaged and … nothing anyone should ever be able to even like, let alone love. But, it wasn't his brain that had made that decision, and his heart clearly wasn't giving up on a dream it had been carrying the full burden of since he was five years old.

"Peeta," she finally whispered once she saw the whites of his knuckles start to take on some color, his shoulders slumping slightly from their once rigid position.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, practically collapsing into the wooden chair he'd been gripping onto for dear life. He hung his head in his hands, clearly frustrated with himself. "I wish you didn't have to deal with this." He chuckled humorlessly, speaking through the cracks of his fingers as he wiped his hands over his face. "You shouldn't. You don't have to. You don't."

"Peeta," she repeated, this time the pain in her voice more evident even though she kept her distance. She had to, for him, no matter how much she wanted to ease his hands out of the golden hair he was currently pulling on. "Don't think like that. I don't, so you shouldn't."

"You have no idea how many times I've begged for death when …"

"No," she interrupted, her voice strong but so weak at the same time. She didn't even want to think about it, unable to do so without knowing her mind would end up in one of the dark, bottomless pits that only he'd ever managed to pull her from. They couldn't both spiral out of control; he needed her.

"It would have been better," he continued, undeterred from her reflexive response. "Better than this." His eyes finally landed on hers, and she nearly gasped at the clearness of his gaze; normally when he spoke like this, he didn't look so much like himself. "You should have just killed me in the first Games … or I should have eaten the berries myself, that way none of this …"

"No," she repeated, nearly barking it out, feeling her own need to claw at her scalp.

"Yes," he snarled in return, and she knew better than to keep arguing - now was not the time to test his emotions, not so soon after an episode. "If I had just died, things could have gone back to normal, for everyone."

She had to physically bite her tongue to keep from picking at his reasoning, pointing out that normal in 12 was never good. Normal was mandatory television viewings and government-funded death arenas. It was starvation for most and death for the others. It was sleepless nights and freezing days. She'd lost a lot in the war - of herself and of the people she loved - but it hadn't been for nothing. Life in 12 was different now, better than she would have ever thought possible. It was the kind of life that had been worth fighting for, but none of it would matter if they weren't living in it together.

"My family would still be alive … Finnick … Prim."

Her gasp pierced through the room like one of her arrows. "See?" He stood finally, his face like stone even though his eyes shone with a regret she hadn't seen in more than a year. "You'd be so much better off …"

"Don't say that," she replied breathlessly, though even she could see that it fell on deaf ears. It wasn't enough of a denial to stop him when he was in this kind of mood, but it was all she could manage; she was nearly catatonic with missing her sister, using every bit of her resolve to keep herself from drowning into the sorrow with him.

"It's true. You'd be so much happier if Prim were alive now instead of me."

She shook her head to deny him, her mind reeling with flashes of memories of 13 she'd tucked away. She could remember lying next to Prim, happy she was safe and alive, but feeling so lost that it physically hurt. She remembered how her mother had called her a survivor, like her (and how it had broke her even more than if she hadn't said anything at all). But, most of all, she remembered how she'd been sitting in that cafeteria next to Gale, just trying to make it from one day to the next. She'd been running on autopilot ever since she'd arrived to 13, and she'd never forget the surge of emotion that coursed through her the second she'd seen Peeta's face on that Capitol transmission. Fear, disbelief, anger, sadness … they were all instant and strong, but none more than the one that trumped them all: life.

Even though the Games were the closest to death she'd ever been, she'd never felt more alive than when she was with Peeta. And when she'd realized that he wasn't dead, suddenly she'd had something to live for.

"Peeta," she strangled, shaking her head when no more would come out. Where would she even begin? Despite the months upon months of healing, of them learning and re-learning one another, there were still things they never spoke of. It was their way of protecting one another, whether it was healthy or not - Dr. Aurelius said not; he said that he wanted her to think about the decisions she made and why she made them. He said that she'd learn that not everything had a clear answer, but it would always have meaning.

He said that she loved Peeta.

"I loved Prim," she struggled, forcing out, "I always will."

Her eyes closed for a moment, picturing her perfect baby sister. She could see her soft blonde hair and bright white smile. She could hear her melodic giggle and the kindness in her voice. Katniss would have done anything for Prim, and she'd never questioned doing the same for Peeta. And it wasn't about her character, about her being used to taking care of others or being the strong one; there was something about Peeta that made her want to save him, something bigger than the debt of a loaf of bread. Something made her go against her promise to Prim, just like something made her yearn for Peeta when he was gone (whether it be in a different train compartment or nearly lost forever).

"But I love you, too" she choked out, shaking from the weight of the words, from the importance of the realization and from the dumbfoundedness of how long it had taken her to pinpoint the seemingly obvious emotion.

His head jerked up and his eyes twitched frantically. She could see him start to shutter, saw his fists clench at his sides and start to turn white before she stepped forward to avoid losing him all over again. "Real, Peeta." She cradled his face between her hands, forcing his eyes on her and hoping for the first time ever that the love she'd always seen shining in his blue orbs was reflecting back at him from her own silver eyes. "Always."

The strength he used to pull her close stole her breath, but she wasn't afraid; she was never safer than when in his arms, and she couldn't help but melt a little at the desperate sigh of relief that wisped across her neck. She bunched the fabric of his shirt in her hands, knowing they couldn't possibly be any closer but needing to try anyway, needing to feel like they'd never be apart again. That desperation fueled their next movements, their lips colliding in a fiery embrace and her pushing and him pulling until he was seated in the chair that had been the victim of his episode just moments before and she was seated in his lap. Their breathing was ragged and came out in pants from the exertion of yanking off and moving clothing all while still trying to keep their lips fused. She was sure it never would have happened with anyone else, that she'd so easily grow accustomed to not just the mechanics of sex, but to the complete lack of control that came along with the act. The way her body responded to him, and how she reacted to his own natural responses, was utterly involuntary, but she also knew it had everything to do with Peeta.

She trusted him. She always had, and it was different than how she'd trusted Gale. History told Katniss that Gale was smart, to trust him because they made decisions based on similar instincts. But Peeta wasn't like them. He wasn't just smart, but thoughtful. He could be tactical, but never at the expense of missing any particular consequence. He considered everything, and everyone - except usually himself. And she'd literally trusted him with her life, because she knew he'd never hurt her. Not in the arena, not on a bad day, and not during a snowy night months ago when they came together for the first time. He'd always been someone she could depend on, and that kind of reliance had been freeing; while she'd allowed him to open up and show his strength, he'd allowed her to open up and show her vulnerability - which, in turn, made her feel stronger as opposed to weak, like she'd assumed when she was younger.

So after, when their breathing had evened out and words outside of panted pleas were possible, Peeta asked, "You love me. Real or not real?"

And she couldn't help but chuckle lightly at the wonder in his voice - nor could she deny him the truth that she'd been hiding from for far too long. "Real."