Scorpio: Their distrust often stems from the fact that they are extremely sensitive souls. They feel more intensely than most other signs and an act of betrayal wounds them deeply–it injures their hearts and scars their souls.

A/N I wanted to explore what it would have been like if Katniss had really stayed and tried to help Peeta get better instead of running away to 2 and avoiding him. I also wanted to explore more of Katniss and Johanna's relationship because they are both so interesting and complex. Inspired by the quote above when I was researching zodiac signs for another story. I believe Katniss fits Scorpio perfectly; misunderstood, passionate, stubborn, and powerfully emotional. Also, sorry for the format issues when I first uploaded the story!

I wake with a start and immediately feel unsafe. There is a steady beep of a monitor that I remember well. It offers no form of comfort, even as I associate the sound with Prim and her work in the hospital wing. I open my mouth to call for her and find that I can't. I panic and try to lift my head but it's heavy and my neck is burning. And then I remember, shutting my eyes and trying to make sense of it all. No, it couldn't be real. I scratch at my arm, determined to wake myself from some horrible nightmare just to wake up to his voice, soothing me back to reality. I only succeed in making my arm red sore. He's not here to wake me this time.

I fumble around trying to find some stability, something to help ground me, and think of my pearl, tucked away in the pocket of my jumpsuit. I gently lift my torso, careful to keep my neck straight, though a stiff plastic collar seems to be doing that for me for the most part. I look around the room and see nothing but equipment and chairs. The beeping gets louder and more frantic as I attempt to stand, alerting an attendant who runs in to urge me to stay in bed. I try to push her aside but I'm weak and she easily pushes me back into bed. I strain to make a cry for my sister and some pathetic squeak comes out painfully. My eyes grow cloudy with tears and I try to fight them as long as I can but soon Prim's sweet face is staring down at me with concern and the moment she grabs my hand, I lose every last bit of strength I had left.

"Oh, Katniss," she coos, petting my head with her delicate little fingers. It hurts when any sound escapes my lips but I can't help the little sobs that come out. I cry until my eyes are dry and achy, face puffy and swollen. Prim turns and nods to someone I can't see in the hallway.

Haymitch appears at my other side and smiles weakly. "How are you doing, sweetheart?" I manage a hiss at him, to which he responds with a smirk. I want to strangle him myself. It's his fault that this happened. If Haymitch had just saved him instead of me, Peeta wouldn't be whatever monster he is right now. I clench my fists and squeeze my eyes shut. No, he's not a monster. He's just in shock. He was tortured and is traumatized. He'll be okay.

I don't notice Plutarch enter until he's already debriefing us about Peeta's condition. It wasn't shock. We all listen to him describe some form of torture that involves tracker jacker venom and fear conditioning. He tries to avoid my gaze when he says the Capitol changed his memories of me and sees me as a threat. He doesn't know if it is fixable but makes an attempt at optimism that I find shallow. I want him to leave but he continues to ramble on until Haymitch catches my scowl and ushers him out.

Prim squeezes my hand and goes to leave but I pull her back and plead with my eyes. She seems to understand what I'm saying because she goes to a cabinet opposite me to pulls out the jumpsuit I was wearing. She digs into the pocket and hands me the little pearl. I hold it tightly in my hand, determined to never let it go. I roll the little pearl across my lips, longing for a reunion I didn't get to have.

When Prim's shift ends and she finally leaves to go home, I manage to get to my feet and wander through the hospital wing, against orders. But I've spent so much time here that they shouldn't expect me to stay put. Most of the beds are empty and I only spy one face that I recognize. I think she might be sleeping but she lifts her head and scowls at me. The look is as sharp as her axe. Johanna Mason's body is a frail, thinner version of herself but she appears to be very much herself. I find myself drawn to her. We left her to be tortured by the Capitol too, after all.

As soon as I get near, she scoffs and says, "Oh god, what do you want?" She sits up and I can see how much her collar bones are pronounced against the hospital gown. "Here to complain about that nasty scar I gave you from digging your tracker out? To, you know, save your life?" I honestly don't know what I'd say to her even if I could speak. She did save me; she got me out. And then she was taken captive and looks like this. I just sit in the chair next to her bed. I don't know what to do with myself now. They're back. It's all I wanted since I got here to 13. But Peeta isn't really. And he may never come back.

"Oh come on, I was just saying that to get a rise out of you. No need to cry about it." I just look at her, feeling defeated. Her features soften and she offers genuine apology. "I wish I could've done something to help him. You should know he fought really hard for you. That" she points to the neck brace, "is nothing compared to what they did to him. He could only hold on for so long." Her tone shifts back, no longer tender. "I wish you'd gotten us out sooner. Maybe I wouldn't look like a pansy." She smirks at me so I know not to take that personally either. But I do wish we had got them out immediately, as soon as they were caught. Or not even— straight from the arena like me and Finnick.

As I get up to leave, Johanna says, "I like you better when you can't talk. Less annoying." I can't help but smirk a little myself. At least Johanna is the same, even if my world with Peeta has been turned upside down. I think about walking by his room, probably locked somewhere in intensive care, but change my mind and head back to my room.

Back in the room, I stare up at the ceiling, trying hard to think of what this all means for me. The pearl is curled about my fingers, smooth and perfect. I can't let the boy who gave this to me disappear. He's not here yet but I have to bring him home. I have to bring him home to me.

For the first day in the hospital wing, attendants frequently come in to poke at my throat and check the stability of my cervical spinal cord before they finally deem the injury to have caused only mild damage to the spine and only moderate bruising on my vocal cords. Still, I have trouble breathing and no sound comes from my lips without my throat being stabbed by some invisible knife. The stiff collar stays on but they stick an IV in my arm to feed morphling through my veins to keep me subdued and numb; I'm grateful as it usually provides a dreamless sleep, a precious gift. Prim visits any spare moment she has to read me stories from some old children's book she's found. But most of the time, I stare awake at the ceiling, thinking about the techniques they are attempting on Peeta. By the third day here, I'm itching to move and take advantage of the lunch hour to jump from my bed and scamper down the hall, unnoticed despite the loud clanking of the IV pole beside me.

When I reach the intensive care unit, the only sound present is the hum of an air vent. I look for some indication of where he might be and find his name outside the door furthest down the unit. I make my way down, aware of each step and the squeak of the wheels on the IV pole. I purse my lips, trying to prepare myself for the sight ahead. But when I finally reach the window, he isn't there. The room is empty. My heart drops a little, not sure what seeing him would have done for me anyways since he wants nothing to do with me.

I'm startled when I hear a door open down the hall and turn to see two men with their hands clamped around Peeta's arms, essentially dragging him back to the room as he fights the restraint. I can barely move at the sight of him, body thin and covered in purple welts and bruises. His eyes are dark and clouded when they make contact with mine. He pauses before throwing his head back and trying again to escape the grasp of his attendants. But he's not trying to get to me, he's just trying to break free of the hold on his arms. He looks terrified, even in this fit.

"Stop!" I manage when they are a few feet away from me and his room. My throat is on fire and I think I might pass out. They wait, surprised.

I brace myself against the pole and motion with my hand for them to loosen their grip on him, tightening a fist and releasing it in example. They just stare at me, Peeta still thrashing in their hands. They just walk past me and I only catch the unfamiliar black stare for a second before they turn and force him onto a bed, restraining his limbs. I watch, horrified, as he fights them and cries out desperately. A needle is pressed into his arm and he goes limp. The attendants don't even look at me when their shut his door and leave. I stare at his still body for a moment, alarmed he has left one prison just to return to another.

I walk back to my room, feeling as through I might just fall over any second from shock and from pain. I pull the door open and someone is sitting in my room waiting for me. I just climb back onto the bed and try to ignore Haymitch's stare while he seems to be eating what looks like part of my lunch.

"Aw, c'mon, we can't play this game forever." He doesn't know me if he really believes that. I send a dagger through his face with my glare and he just stares back, waiting. For what, I don't know. It's not like I could yell at him anyways right now. Maybe that's why he's here, hoping he can take advance of the Mockingjay's lost voice to regain my trust. But I've lost faith in him again altogether after what I just witnessed. He's still not helping Peeta and I continue to feel used; a stupid figurehead that they think they can manipulate to do whatever they please. He finally breaks the silence. "The way I see it, you have two options, sweetheart. You can continue to feel butthurt about this and push us all way until you're miserable and alone, or you can get over yourself and your feelings and help these people bring your boy back." Are those really the only options? How about I don't forgive you and help Peeta my own way. I raise three fingers. "No, you can't have a third option. If you keep blaming me, you won't be able to make the boy better. We have to do with together and you have to move on."

Part of me wants to shove him in the gut and tell him I don't need his help. But I also know that we are the ones that know Peeta best and I can't do this alone. I resign, nodding my head but that's all I give him, not wanting to provide any satisfaction. He just nods back and leaves, taking my cheese sandwich with him.