A/N: Thanks to 123faroutglee for the request! Sick!fic is a HUGE guilty pleasure of mine. I'm glad that someone wants to read it (may not be exactly what you wanted, but I'm having a blast writing). It gives me a good excuse to do my favorite thing and torture my characters by making them sick and thinking about sex.

Takes place during the Victory Tour in Catching Fire.

Don't own The Hunger Games. Do own pen and paper.

**Don't let me fall**

Haymitch bangs on the door again. "You gotta come out, sweetheart. It's okay if you're hung over," he chuckles, "No judgment here."

I lift my chin from the toilet seat and rest my forehead on it instead. I comb one hand through my tangled hair and sigh, not wanting to see anyone right now.

"Come on, Katniss." This time it's Peeta. I should get up. Wash my face. Drink some more water. Crawl back into bed. I'm done vomiting. Have been for the last 20 minutes or so. I just can't seem to scrape myself up off the bathroom floor.

"At least open the door," Peeta insists, "I need to see that you're okay."

"Go away," I moan into the crook of my elbow.

The first torrent of sickness had come at about three in the morning. We hadn't been back on the train for two hours. Peeta and I were laying in bed listening to each other breathe. I was feeling my headache get worse by degrees, and I wondered if I should get out from under Peeta's arm. I didn't move until I had to rush to the toilet, though, and I managed to accidentally wallop him in the stomach with my knee before I took off and locked him out of the bathroom.

I tossed up my dinner while Peeta hammered on the door. Then I slept for an hour or so curled on the floor in front of the toilet. I woke up trembling and feverish. I slowly drank a glass of water, but it didn't stay down. I guess when Peeta heard me gagging again he went to get Haymitch.

Judging by the early dawn light coming through the window, it's a little after five in the morning. They've been trying to coax me out of the bathroom for a good half hour now. Each time one of their fists hits the door, a stabbing throb passes through my head. I should just let them in. But instead, I groan, "Stop it. You're making my head hurt."

I can hear Haymitch laughing. "Sweetheart. We get it. You're cranky. Just don't take it out on those of us who want to help you."

"Fuck you," I say. But I stand up. Dizzily stumble to the sink and rinse out my mouth. I suck the water straight from the tap, not bothering with the glass. I'm sure I'd have dropped it. I fumble with the lock and open the door. Haymitch almost falls on top of me, but he manages to catch himself on the doorframe.

"Katniss, are you okay?" Peeta says. We both know it's a stupid question.

"Fine," I answer. I rub my fingers over the goose bumps on my arms. I'm freezing. I look down at myself and see that I'm wearing only my underwear and a soft shirt that falls to my hips. I remember kicking my pants off earlier when I felt like I was boiling. The shirt is sweaty and sticking to me, and there's a dribble of puke down the front. I should have put on the robe that is hanging on a hook in the bathroom.

"Excuse me," I say. I push past Haymitch and Peeta and re-enter the bedroom. I don't know why I'm here. I want to strip and take a hot shower, then lay down somewhere where no one will bother me. None of this will be achieved in the bedroom with Peeta and Haymitch.

I start rifling through a dresser drawer for something clean to put on. Peeta's suddenly right behind me. "Hey," he whispers. His hand is on my shoulder, and it feels unbearably cold. A gasp of discomfort passes through my lips before I can stop it. "Katniss," he says, bringing the other hand to my cheek, "Your fever's really high."

I know he means well. I do. And part of me wants it, to curl up in his lap and sleep for the next twenty years or so. But the rest of me feels so shitty that I can barely stand his presence. "I'm gonna take a shower," I sigh. I grab a thin cotton nightgown and fresh underwear and head back to the bathroom. I slam the door behind me and lock it again for good measure.

I'm infinitesimally glad that I've learned how to use the shower controls. I make a soft rain of minty smelling water pour over my sore body. I don't try to wash; I just stand under it and sigh. We still have eight districts and the Capital to tour before we go home to District 12. That's at least ten days of traveling. I wish the whole tour could be called off, but that's probably out of the question since there have been so many elaborate preparations for our visits. It's still so early, maybe I can get a few hours of sleep before arrive in District 8 this afternoon.

When I emerge from the steamy bathroom, Effie is sitting on my freshly made bed. She's rattling three pill bottles in each hand. Haymitch is leaning against the wall.

"What's wrong? What are the symptoms?" Effie says urgently. It sounds so funny in her trilling voice.

"I told you already," Haymitch says in a bored voice. "She's hung over. Probably knocked up, too." He grins at me. I scowl.

"Enough, Haymitch!" Effie snaps. "Katniss?" She asks softly.

"I'm just…" I start. What am I? Not drunk or pregnant for sure. Stressed? Food poisoned? Motion sick? Riddled with viruses? "Sick," I finish, rubbing my forehead with the heel of my hand.

"Ahhh," Effie sighs with a sympathetic pout. "Erm. Symptoms?"

"Uhhh," I say. For whatever reason, I feel intensely embarrassed. "Uh, headache. Fever," I swallow hard. "Throwing up. And my throat's a little rough."

Effie rattles through her pill bottles, reading the labels and muttering to herself. She shakes tablets out of four of them and holds the handful of medication out to me along with a glass of water from the bedside table. I down the pills and hand the glass back before she can see me shaking.

"They should kick in by lunchtime, which is about when we'll be pulling into District 8. Effie stands up and totters toward the door. "Alright, well." She smoothes her skirt and leaves the bedroom.

Haymitch goes to follow her. On his way out, he claps me on the shoulder, hard. I wince. "Get some sleep," he says. "Some greasy breakfast, a little coffee, maybe a shot of liquor…" He smiles.

"Fuck. You."

As soon as the door shuts behind Haymitch, I collapse onto the bed without pulling down the covers. I let my eyes gently drift shut. My heart is beating in sync with the throbbing of my head.

The door opens once more. It's Peeta. I hear the uneven gait of his prosthetic leg. He comes to the edge of the bed and palms my forehead again. "Effie gave me pills. Haymitch thinks I'm hung over. And that you knocked me up," I whisper.

Peeta laughs softly. "How are you?" He asks.

"I'll be okay," I say.

"You need anything?" I see the worried creases on his forehead.

"No. We're just going back to bed until we get to 8."

I said "we." We're going back to bed. I'm shaky and nauseous and tender, but I do want him with me.

"Okay," Peeta kisses my forehead, then crawls onto the bed beside me. He pulls a thin blanket from the foot of the bed up to my waist. He strokes my arm, and I let my aching body relax into his solid chest.

"It'll be okay," Peeta murmurs. "Just relax for a while." I close my eyes and sleep.

A/N: More chapters to come. Please R&R!