Rock-A-Bye Baby
There could have been a chance for us, I think. Prim is screaming and Gale is carrying her – she might as well be a baby. Before this, there could have been a chance for us.
I dream it in a dream that can only last a few seconds, no more: Gale with a real baby over his shoulder, our baby. A child who wouldn't have to fear Reapings, Hunger Games, President Snow, hunger or heat or cold. I've learned to wash clothes, his shirt smells of lavender. Mine smells of blood, and I have a brace of birds in my arms. We live somewhere far away from District Twelve, we sleep soundly in soft beds that are just hard enough to wake us in time to hunt. We kill to eat, and no matter what we kill, there is always new life springing out of the ground, darting between the trees. The sun shines brightly, and when it rains the smell is sweet. Our house stands on sturdy foundations and never floods. We have a goat in the garden, and Gale buys fresh bread, real bread on his way home.
I don't know what job he does.
Some job where he never has to fear a stray spark, his body exploding in every direction.
He lasts as long as fathers should last.
But it's Prim that Gale is holding, and he's not her father. He carries her away, still screaming, and I mount the platform and stand where Effie Trinket puts me.
His grey eyes find me, I cling to the sight. There never was a chance for us.
Not even before this.
That fills me with a different kind of hunger, but I'm too sick to stomach it.
His grey eyes hold me, just like they held her.
Fin.
Two requests: no pairing hate, please, and no Mockingjay spoilers.