Thanks @mollywog ! I actually came up with something! Slapped together quickly so forgive any errors <3.

8. A Haunting

Dr Aurelius finally gives Peeta a clean enough bill of health that he's allowed to leave the Capitol and continue his treatment by telephone wherever he decides to settle. There's no decision to be made. There's only one place for Peeta.

And while he wants to be away from the place that holds so many horrific memories, he isn't in a hurry to be back in Twelve, where uncertainty waits for him. So instead of taking a hovercraft, Peeta opts for a train, a method that will give him a few days to get used to the idea of seeing home and the rubble of the bakery and Haymitch and...and...her. Katniss.

At least Peeta thought the train was his best bet. That certainty hung on as the Capitol disappeared behind him. I'm never coming back, Peeta vowed as he settled in, turning his head to look out the window.

The thing is, the new train system doesn't run at the same high speed as the old line did, back when he and Katniss travelled across Panem in their Tribute and Victor days. There is still extensive damage to the high-speed rails, so all travel between the Districts is now relegated to the mostly untouched commerce lines. The line Peeta is traveling on used to drag heavy coal cars from Twelve to the Capitol and back again.

Based on the prompt, Evening, submitted by @mollywog

Under the weary gaze of Plutarch Heavensbee, Esq., Peeta Mellark completed his perusal of Uncle Haymitch's last will and testament and, thoroughly shocked by its contents, cast the document aside. "Can he actually do this?"

Heavensbee shrugged. "I'm sorry to tell you, my boy, he most certainly can. While you shall retain the title, either way, the money was not entailed with the estate. No matter how eccentric Haymitch may have been, he was in his right mind until the end."

Steepling his fingertips beneath his chin, Mellark frowned. "Well, this is a bit of a shit."

Heavensbee, sensing the beginning of a lengthy conversation on the tale end of a journey already fraught with disasters at every turn that resulted in him only arriving two days before the deadline set forth by the will (god rest his soul, though Heavensbee would have some choice words for the man if they were to meet in the afterlife), made himself comfortable in the ancient wingback chair next to the fire. He took a sip of the brandy Mellark's man poured out for them, forcing himself not to shudder. The drink was not of a good quality.

The situation was certainly a bit of a shit. It was apparent to anyone with eyes that Mellark was in no way prepared to take over the estate without additional funds to aid in its upkeep. If Heavensbee were to guess, the young man barely kept up the expenses of this house.

Heavensbee coughed several times, an indication that they had no time to dilly-dally. Mellark finally looked up. "Have you no lady of a particular acquaintance who is wife material?"

The younger man frowned. "One would think so. Unfortunately, one would be wrong. My whole life, I have made an effort to avoid society." He shuddered as if the idea of balls and theater gatherings and garden parties made him ill. "I assumed when the time came that I must take a wife, it would be after I had possession of Lord Abernathy's title and funds."

"How about, er, a special friend? Someone you keep company with regularly?"

"I have no mistress."

Heavensbee was beginning to sweat. This was going poorer than he'd anticipated. Mellark made it sound as though he were a hermit or a monk. "No local woman? A pretty village widow?"

Mr. Mellark stared back at him as if a woman were an alien concept.

"Anyone? Christ man, a scullery maid?"

There was a polite-sounding knock on the drawing-room door. It was Mellark's man again. The future Lord (perhaps penniless Lord?) made no effort to hide his relief at the interruption in conversation. Heavensbee sighed.

"My apologies for the interruptions, Sir, but you requested I let you know when Ms. Everdeen arrived."

Mellark's face lit up in what seemed genuine delight. "Oh, wonderful. Heavensbee, do you mind a short interruption in our conversation? It is not necessary to dismiss yourself. Simply a small matter to take care of."

No, Heavensbee certainly did not mind the appearance of an unmarried woman at the present time. "By all means," he said. Once Mellark's man was dismissed and the two were once again alone in the drawing room, he began his inquiry with delicacy. "Ms. Everdeen?"

"The local gamekeeper," Peeta explained, rising to his feet. Heavensbee followed. "It is a bit untoward having a young woman in the position, but her father before was renowned for his skill."

"Does Ms. Everdeen have a good reputation?"

"Oh, the best as far as I know. She is well-loved in the community. Highly respected. Not given to drink or men. She is quite an attractive woman," Mellark admitted, chewing the corner of his lip in contemplation.

Hope simmered in Heavensbee's belly at the younger man's admiration for any woman, romantic or not. A lot of good marriages began out of mutual admiration. Love was free to blossom in such situations.

"Tell me if you would then. This Ms. Everdeen---she is unattached?"

"I'm not subject to village gossip, Heavensbee. I do not know Ms. Everdeen well, except that she has a mother and sister in her care."

Heavensbee had to restrain himself from smacking Mellark in the back of his head. Simply in the interest of knocking some smarts into the young man. "So Ms. Everdeen is a young, attractive woman, most likely unattached, with an unmatched reputation."

"What are you getting at?" Mellark asked, setting his drink aside.

Her dad's guitar takes up a fair amount of space in Katniss's lap, boxy but lightweight, with room to hide behind when her nerves get the better of her. Slightly battered and smooth from use, the balsawood is cool to the touch when she picks its strings and makes it sing. But she's getting antsy, so she puts her guitar in its case and wanders over to the corner of the stage. She's careful to stay hidden behind the heavy velvet curtain. Ms. Trinkett will give her the devil if she catches her peeking out.

People are trickling into the high school auditorium: classmates, a few teachers, and a smattering of parents. She sees Gale and the rest of her cousins file into a row near the stage with Hazelle. Prim and her parents have been here for a while. Katniss hopes the auditorium won't be too full when Principal Flickerman starts the show. She's not a confident performer. Singing and playing are more of a compulsion for her, a hunger she has to feed rather than a bid for attention.

When the clock ticks down to zero (performance time! Ms. Trinkett brightly states), she's waiting for her turn to go on stage with the guitar strapped to her chest.

Madge starts the show with a classical piece. The school's piano is out of tune, but her best friend makes it work. Katniss can't keep the smile off her face. Madge is the shyest person she knows, and she's proud of her friend for getting over that fear to play tonight.

"Wow. Did you know she could play like that?" Peeta Mellark asks. Somehow he'd wandered away from the group he was standing with and up to her side.

Katniss gives a sharp nod, surprised he said anything at all. Not that he doesn't talk. He's popular, friendly, and always hanging out with one group or another. He just never talks to her.

"I mean, of course you do," he laughs at himself. "Is that why you're such good friends? Shared talent?"

She shrugs. "Maybe." She's never considered that before, but he might be on to something.

"Nothing like twenty questions before we go onstage. I'm just a little nervous. Talk too much when that happens."

"No, it's okay," she says. A strain of nervousness makes her insides tight, too. She decides she likes talking to Peeta. He says what he's thinking, but in a more thought-out way than she can pull off. Words stumble across her lips, leaving her embarrassed more often than not. "You can talk. It's not too much."

Peeta grins at her.

"Um, what are you doing?" she asks. "Not like, life in general. For the show."

"Comedy. Going to try getting laughs out of my dumb jokes."

"Oh. I didn't know you did that."

"Me neither, until two weeks ago when they posted the sign-up sheet. I had to find a way to get into the show."

"I was dragged here kicking and screaming. That's brave of you to try something new."

"Or stupid. We'll see." Peeta says. "I know you have a beautiful singing voice, but I didn't know you played."

"My dad taught me. This is his, actually." She pats the fretboard, keeping her eyes on the strings, feeling shy at the compliment. "I didn't know you'd heard me sing."

"I think it was your first public appearance. Kindergarten. Mrs. Paylor asked if anyone knew The Valley Song. Your hand shot up, and when you stood on your chair and sang, my fragile 5-year-old heart was lost," he says.

"That didn't happen," she says.

"Swear to god. You had on a red checkered dress, and your hair was in two long braids. I like your hair tonight, too. It's really pretty."

"Thank you," she murmurs. Katniss pats the braided, pinned updo her mother did for her. She likes the old-fashioned style because it feels in keeping with her mountain heritage.

Vague memories of that red and white dress invade her mind. She does her hair in a single braid most days because it's long and gets everywhere if she doesn't, and she did wear it in two as a child.

"You have an incredible memory."

Peeta shrugs, smiling down at the tips of his shoes.

"Peeta, you're next dear," Ms. Tinkett says, bringing Katniss back to herself. Madge's song was over three students ago in the rotation, and she hadn't even noticed.

"Wish me luck?" Peeta asks her quietly.

"Good luck," she says, kind of dumbfounded by their conversation. She'd caught Peeta looking her way when he thought she didn't notice but never considered what that meant.

This is a little drabble based on my story Loving Her Was Easier Than Anything I'll Ever Do Again. While the fic itself borders on misery porn :), this doesn't.

It was a small transgression if you considered President Snow’s crimes---the lie that District Thirteen was in ruin after the Dark Days. Wiped out, gone. Left a desolate, radioactive wasteland, incompatible with human life.

This lie wasn't on par with his other atrocities if you considered starvation, life-threatening work conditions, authoritarianism, and a complete lack of human rights. Or the Hunger Games where you could watch your child die, or requirements of the surviving victors no one talked about until you were past your ass deep in it. Sex trafficking glossed over, turning survivors into glamourous icons.

Maybe the lies and oppression went hand in hand. If they'd known about Thirteen sooner---

Stop.

Katniss put the breaks on a descent into misery. Today wasn't a day to think about that. Today she was above ground under an open sky. Peeta was with her. He gave her a small smile when she slipped her hand inside the crook of his elbow, nervous about this little rebellion from their new overlords of District Thirteen. She was kidding about the last part. Kind of.

"Are you sure this is alright?" he asked again.

"Yes. Gale and I do this all the time," she reminded him. Thirteen appreciated all the fresh game they brought back from the woods. Livestock didn't exactly thrive underground.

"But that's different. We're not on official business."

As if hunting with Gale was official business. She wanted to roll her eyes at his protests, but maybe his mind was trying to lead him down unwanted paths the way hers had been, ready to spoil their day. That wouldn't do at all. "That's where you're wrong," she told Peeta, tugging his arm to lead him farther into the woods. "A picnic with my husband is official business."

His interest peaked at the new information. "There's going to be food? You never said anything about food. What's on the menu?"

"Okay, picnic might be an exaggeration. I have a bag of dry fruit and some crackers in my pocket."

He shook his head. "I knew the promise of real food was too good. What kind of fruit do you have in there, pears?"

She dropped her hand from the crook of his arm and they curled their fingers together. His hands were nice and warm in a way hers never were. "Honestly I'm not sure what all is in there."

"fuck you!"

"when?"

She didn't know where to start. She only knew where she wanted it to end. After days and weeks and months of growing and healing and slowly coming back to life, the words to ask Peeta if he wanted it, wanted her again, always stuck in her throat. She wasn't good at asking for things. She wasn't sure if he remembered. They'd only been together once, that last evening before the Quell. The sex was bittersweet and a little uncomfortable, but she'd never felt closer to anyone. She fell asleep in his arms that night, glad they'd experienced it together.

Her certainty their first time had been lovely and memorable faded into uncertainty the longer Peeta went without mentioning it. Frustration simmered beneath the surface. Ready to boil over and burn. The summer wore on, the days long and the nights too humid to sleep more than an hour or two at a time, things came to a head.

She stood at the kitchen sink, furiously scrubbing dirty lunch plates. There wasn't even anything to be angry about. She'd asked Peeta to take care of them while she rested from her morning hunt. He nodded, and she took that as a yes. Instead, he left them to crust over on the counter while she bathed and took a nap.

She's so deep into her hissy fit that had nothing to do with dirty dishes, swearing at the forks and cups, she doesn't hear him enter the kitchen. "And one more thing," she mutters, "Fuck you, Peeta Mellark. I don't need this."

"Excuse me?"

She freezes. Glances over her shoulder. Speak of the devil himself.

Too irritated by the heat and her confusion and frustration, she shrugs. "I said fuck you, Peeta."

He stares, finally throwing his hands up. "When?"

"What?"

"You said fuck you, Katniss. And I asked you when."

Heat creeps up her neck. Her hands shake as she dries them on a dish towel. Where is he going with his? "Do you remember when we?"

He nods.

"You don't remember it happened?" she asks, frowning at him.

"How could I forget? The night before, we went back to the arena."

"So why with the whens?"

He leans against the counter. Shrugs. "I thought maybe it was an invitation. I just want to know when."

He's teasing, she knows that. He's always liked to poke at her, but she's known Peeta long enough to figure out he layers truth in with his jokes. He's waiting for her scowl. For her to stalk off in anger.

Instead, she marches over to him. She sees him tense and back into the refrigerator the closer she gets. That might be alarm in his wide eyes.

"When? That's exactly what I've been wondering," she tells him, unable to repeat the word that doesn't adequately describe what she wants to do with him. She wants him to hold her and love her. Not fuck her.

Peeta figures it out. He's a smart guy. His fair skin reddens. She watches his Adam's apple bob when he swallows, and she wants to press her lips there. Maybe suck on his skin, see if he moans. She can't remember if he did that last time.

"You mean you want---" he's still hesitant.

She doesn't want hesitation. Not when she's so close to being there again, so she nods. "I do. I want you."

*I actually received this prompt twice, lol.

While the high-speed rail used to zip fast and smooth, carrying passengers across Panem, the commercial line Peeta is taking for his inaugural, no-longer-hijacked ride home, does not. It's bumpier, sure, and over the two-and-a-half-day trip, there are half a dozen stops. Many more than in the old days because the train only pulls two passenger cars ahead of those carrying supplies to the Districts. One for daytime use with seats, benches, and fold-down tables to lay out a pre-portioned meal carried on board with his other bag, or a place to play a game of cards. The other car contains sleeping berths for the night.

The set-up doesn't provide much privacy. But he's the only passenger on this trip, so it's not a problem.

Post-war travel, only the necessities. No avoxes to wait on him hand and foot. No luxuries. Fine with him. He's tired of Capitol excess. The sooner other people stop paying attention to him, the sooner he gets to live his old life.

But right now, he could use some company. It shouldn't bother him, he knows. He's used to solitary conditions. Maybe it's the unease he feels after the first night spent looking out the window, catching glimpses of glowing eyes staring back at him from the dark. Mutts recognizing former mutts.

The following night, he mulls over taking one of the sleeping pills Dr. Aurelius gave him. It's risky, taking those pills, because sometimes he gets stuck in between the way Katniss used to say she did, but the nightmares outside the train window are as bad as the ones in his head. At least if he sleeps, there's a chance he'll miss both of them.

So he risks it and swallows the tablet dry, before falling into a deep, drug-induced sleep. His risk pays out. There aren't nightmares. He dreams, a memory---a real one, free from that telling shine around the edges that lets him know it's not real. A dream that makes him think maybe he won't be cursed forever.

Peeta was once again at the party thrown in their honor at the presidential mansion. They'd been dreading it, he remembers, but somehow Katniss becomes lighter that night, like the weight of the world lifts off her shoulders and the drawn, haunted look she'd worn the whole Victory tour gone from her features. They ate and drank champagne and danced, and that night slept clear through to dawn. No nightmares.

Thanks for the prompt, Anon! I know horror isn't the most popular genre in the Everlark fan community, lol, so I kept it pretty mild.

A-Z Horror prompts

(if you like weird stuff, send me a prompt from the list, fam. This is the only one I got so I'm open to more!)

The guy in the interview room says he's Peeta Mellark. He's not carrying identification, and his prints aren't in the state or federal system, so he could be anybody. I don't know if he has a reason to lie. He's young. Looks like shit. My first thought was junkie, but his eyes are clear.

The kid can't keep his leg still. I say leg, singular because he only has the one. I know that detail because my report states that when Peeta Mellark was brought in, the upper right-hand portion of his blood-soaked jeans was torn away, revealing a prosthetic leg attached well above his knee. Now he's in county-issued scrubs. We were out of sweats and T-shirts. He's not under arrest. He has no wounds, no scratches or caked skin under his nails, only the beginnings of a large bruise on the side of his face. And a story that can’t be true. Can it?

"Your leg a recent injury?" I ask, leaning back in my chair.

The kid shakes his head, never breaking stride with the leg. None of that blood on him was his. I know that. I'm just trying to get him talking.

"Are you trying to turn me on, or are you really that oblivious?"

From 150 Random Writing Prompts

A follow-up to this drabble, You've Never Even Touched Yourself?

I should have one more part based on another prompt in my inbox.

"Well, here I am," Katniss said, plopping on the bed next to Peeta without giving herself a heart attack. Not an easy task with the onslaught of nervous excitement. She was grateful Morning Katniss remembered to make the bed before leaving for school. Touseled sheets would have been way too suggestive for kissing him there.

At least, she thought it would be too suggestive. She had to be reading way too much into this. It was just a kiss. Not that big of a deal, right?