Summary: This is how I want this scene to play out in the movie. I know Mockingjay is like eight billion years away right now but I just had to free this little bird. I felt that it would be something of a resolution for this to take place, as it would strengthen the relationship between Katniss and Peeta as well as give Katniss a final breakdown moment that ultimately leads to her healing. Because as strong and powerful and beautiful as she is, she needs to grieve Prim and allow herself to be weak. And I feel that she can really only allow herself weakness in Peeta's arms. So this is what has come of that idea. I'm going to use some lines from Mockingjay as the exposition. I hope you enjoy. Suzanne Collins owns all.

I wake with a start. Pale morning light comes around the edges of the shutters. The scraping of the shovel continues. Still half in the nightmare, I run down the hall, out the front door, and around the side of the house. Because now I'm pretty sure I can scream at the dead.

When I see him, I pull up short. His face is flushed from digging up the ground under the windows. In a wheelbarrow are five scraggly bushes.

"You're back," I say.

"Dr. Aurelius wouldn't let me leave the Capitol until yesterday," Peeta says. "By the way, he said to tell you he can't keep pretending he's treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone."

I ignore this. What I want to know is why he's digging up the front of my house. Why he would have the utter audacity to plant roses.

"What are you doing?"

He doesn't answer immediately since he's trying to dig past a particularly difficult root, but I don't give him a choice. I grab him and pull him up, forcing him to face me.

"What are you doing?"

"I went to the woods this morning and dug these up - " He begins, but I shake him.

"They're roses, Peeta," I roar. "Roses."

"No, Katniss - "

"How dare you!"

"Katniss!" Peeta raises his voice above mine. "Look at the flowers. Really look at them. Please."

I push away from him and move up close to the roses. Then I realize they are not plain roses but evening primrose. The flower my sister was named for.

I blink as emotions wash over me in an unencumbered, burning rush. I stand and face Peeta, who is looking at me with sorrow and something like apprehension.

"Primroses," I say, my voice hitching on the first part of the word.

He nods but says nothing, his eyes still gazing into mine.

In that moment the miasma of emotion comes back and I can only distinguish a burning up in my chest. I push Peeta. Not hard, but enough to make him start. I push him again, to punish him for scaring me with roses. To punish him for his relentless love and forgiveness of someone who does not deserve him. To plead him to ease some of my pain.

Soon I am punching him, beating on his chest with my fists. He does not move away from me, he simply watches, his sad, sad eyes drowning me.

My blows get weaker as grief rises out of the mass of emotion inside me and pours from my heart all over my body, lapping coldly on the surface of my skin. After one last feeble hit on Peeta's chest, I slump a little against him. Sobs grip my body so powerfully that I start to shake, and I grab the front of Peeta's shirt. He stays, as I now need him to.

I sink to the ground, pulling Peeta with me as I start to wail. I feel Peeta's arms around me and he starts to stroke my hair.

I am breaking. My whole body is seized in spasms and I begin to make those terrible choking noises that I make when I cry. Because I am crying so hard I can't see. I can't think. All I can do is cling to Peeta and pray that soon it'll stop.

But it doesn't. Following every sob that is for Prim, another name or face surfaces that I have to mourn. A dam has broken open, welcoming torrents of sorrow and leaving an jagged painful hole in its place.

Too many names flood me all at once. Boggs. Finnick. Cinna. Madge.

Rue.

Even my father appears there, and at him it gets worse. My throat starts to close painfully. My chest has a vice wrapped around it so tightly that I'm heaving with the force of my sorrow.

I push away from Peeta and vomit on the grass. Peeta doesn't even flinch. He just holds my hair back from my face until I am finished. I realize that my nose has begun a tiny trickle of warm blood that threatens to enter my mouth. The smell of the blood rakes its claws through my senses, making me recoil and nearly gag again. Peeta wipes my mouth and nose with his own sleeve. Then he comes close so my head rests on his shoulder. I turn my face into the crook of his neck, trying to rid the smell of blood from my nostrils.

My cries become mixed with screams and angrier sobs as I am reminded of who took all of this from me.

Peeta knows that placation or sentiment won't soothe me right now. Nor should they.

All he says is "I know. I know."

He does know. I cling to Peeta, because they took him from me too.

After an hour and a half my sobs have ceased only to whimpering. Evening has fallen. The sun is disappearing, dying slowly behind the rolling, endless hills.

I feel Peeta's arms surround me as he gently lifts me up from the ground. I bury my face in his shoulder as he walks me into my house. I don't even mind that he is inside my house without invitation. He doesn't really need one.

Peeta carries me up the stairs and to my room. He leans down to lay me gently on the bed but I cling to him like a small child does to their mother's hand.

"Don't go," I weep. "Don't go, don't go..."

"I won't," he whispers.

He gets into bed with me and continues to hold me. I acknowledge the warm familiarity of Peeta and I feel a part of me relax despite my tears; it actually almost doubles them. I am now safe. Nothing can hurt me when I am in Peeta's arms. That turns some of the tears into ones of relief rather than sorrow.

He just rubs my back and keeps running his hand through my hair. Occasionally he reaches up and places his warm, gentle hand on my face, wiping away my tears. I sniffle and whimper a little, reaching my shaking hand up to his and wanting to grasp it but am unable to due to the trembling.

He understands, as he always seems to.

"Go to sleep," he whispers, tucking the blanket around me more securely and planting a soft kiss on my forehead. I slowly calm my breathing down. The terrible gripping in my chest has lessened some and I feel exhaustion from such purging of my emotions begin to overcome me now.

Peeta doesn't try to kiss my lips, because he knows we aren't ready for it yet.

But he stays, which is what matters most.

My dreams are blessedly quiet tonight.