Changes

A companion piece to my other story, "Choices," this story recounts the same moment, only from Gale's point of view.

I'm trying really hard to stay true to character and canon here, and make sense of the way Mockingjay ended, so I'd love to know what you all think about this. I'm not sure I've got everything quite right, so I might try and go back and edit it.

I smash the alarm on my bedside table and curse the screaming numbers that flash 4:00 AM. I'll never get used to waking up with a machine. It's not the time that bothers me, I've gotten up before this hour for most my life, but the day.

Today's Monday—the day I have to return to Twelve.

My feet hit the cold floor. This new apartment has a feature to warm it, but I never turn it on. Such things are no comfort to me, and anyway, the cold reminds me of home. I keep the lights off and shuffle my way to the shower. Sometimes, when its dark enough and I'm still half asleep, I almost think I'm back there—walking down the hall of my old home. As I turn the corner, I expect to see my mother working and hear my siblings playing; smell the herb-soup she's making and all the pine…But the harsh lights kill the ghosts from my old life and reveal the only one that still haunts me:

The man in my mirror is frightening; sometimes, I don't even recognize him.

I turn on the shower and hop in. It took me a long time to see the point in showering daily, especially when work here is so clean—besides the occasional ink stain, I've got no coal dust in my hair, no dirt under my nails, no blood on my hands. At first, it just seemed so pointless. But I slowly realized there's something nice about it, something I can't quite name. I stand on the bright, white tiles and let the hot water jolt me into the present. It's not the comfort of the heat or the soothing steam I like, but perhaps the mere act of cleaning. I take a bar of soap and scrub my body like I'm performing a ritual, washing my face, my chest, my arms…perhaps hoping one day, I'll be able to scrub away these scars.

They look bright and red in the mirror as I dry off and dress. The thick knot of lash marks on my back, the scorching burns on my arm and the deep gashes on my legs have drawn so many gasps from those who have seen—does it hurt?—they always ask, delicate fingers afraid to touch. Of course not, I say with the easy smile I wear too well to hide pain.

I know the only scars that hurt are the ones you can't see.

I lace up my boots, button on my jacket, grab my travel bag and papers and head out the door.

"Good morning, Commander Hawthorne," the driver tells me as I climb in his backseat, "You excited to head back to Twelve? It's your home, right?"

"Not anymore." I respond, trying to sound convincing, "things've changed."

"So you're liking District Two then? I'm glad to hear it…" I let him make this assumption. "I'm from Eleven myself, glad to not have to work on a farm anymore. Boy, I tell you, I could go my whole life without seeing another farm or field...As soon as the rebellion ended, I packed my bag and headed for a city…I wanted to work with machines." The young man either doesn't notice or doesn't care that I don't respond. "So that's what I'm working on. Going to night school, working on my degree, and doing this in the mean time, to pay. Boy, I tell you, I never thought I'd see the day, I guess I've got you to thank for that, huh?" He looks back at me and smiles.

I mumble a vague response and wish I cared.

"Commander Hawthorne." My superior is waiting for me at the station.

"Major Farris." We shake hands and head towards the train. She's from Five and is one of the youngest majors in the army, and one of the few people who's risen higher and faster than me. I know it's an honor for me to work with her.

"I want to thank you personally for agreeing to do this. I know it...it can't be easy for you." There's a softness in her I didn't expect.

"It's not a problem, ma'am. I'm happy to help." My voice is too flat when I say this. She notices.

"You've done good work here. Impressed a lot of people with the changes you've made, especially with the Nut."

"Thank you, ma'am. But it's like I said, I'm just happy to help." I put on my easy smile, but I get the impression I'm not fooling her.

We take our seats in the front cabin and she outlines our work in Twelve.

"Things are kind of a mess in Twelve right now."

Oh, I think. I know.

"We're going to have to make a lot of changes."

That's why I'm here.

As the train speeds across the country, passing through forests and tunnels and over rivers, I imagine whole days and nights passing as the world goes from dark to light to dark again, perhaps even entire lifetimes.

"Commander Hawthorne? Major Farris?" I look towards the source of the voice. It's a young man with a face I don't recognize. I don't know why I thought I would. "We're honored to have you." We both shake hands. "The Mayor's hoping to talk to you first, Major."

"Of course."

"He's coming over right now. Can I take your bag for you?"

"No, soldier, thank you. I can do it myself." She picks up her bag, which is nice to see. Most of my superiors from Two don't do this. "See you at headquarters, Hawthorne."

I nod in response and watch her walk off.

"It's an honor sir, a real honor…I've heard so much about you." I nod, hoping it will make him stop. "You're a real inspiration, you know, we're all so excited you're here..." I nod again, but this time with a look that tells him to stop. The young man gets it. I'm appreciative. Most don't. "If you just want to follow me, sir, I'll show you to your office." He picks up my bags.

"Do they need me to report in immediately?"

"Sorry, sir?"

"Immediately…Do they need me to report in?" The young man shakes his head, looking a bit confused. "My mother still lives here, I wanted to check in."

Clarity dawns on his face and he nods quickly. "Oh, of course, sir, of course. I should have remembered that…I believe she's over at the Victor's Village, taking care of Mr. Abernathy, I think. If you follow me, sir, I can show you the way."

"No. I know how to get there."

As I walk down the main road, I'm surprised at how much has changed. Everything's been rebuilt. I have to remind myself that the gravel crunching beneath my boots isn't bone. The last time I walked here, it was. And the last time I saw all these buildings, they burned. As did the people in side of them. Some nights, I can still hear them screaming. As I look at the fresh-painted houses and people buzzing about, I think I should feel something.

I don't.

I wander to the rim of Victor's Village and wonder what it says that people still live here in our changing world. Shouldn't this have been destroyed? Shouldn't everything connected to...have been destroyed? Isn't there something about this that's…wrong? But I guess some people need certain things to remain the same. I'll never understand why this gets to be one of them.

I'm wondering if I should knock on the door when she sees me.

"Gale? Oh my god, Gale! It's so good to see you!" She throws her arms around me, it takes me a moment to remember to return her hug, but I do. It's gentle, but firm. "Oh honey, why didn't you tell you were coming today?"

"Hey mom," I tighten my hug, "I'm sorry…I've been busy."

"Too busy to talk to your mother?" She says this a bit playfully, tossing down her cleaning rag, and grasping my hand. I can't look her in the eye. She notices and her voice changes. She's the only one my easy smile doesn't fool. "Oh, honey, I understand."

"How are things here for you?" I finally ask. My voice sounds stunted, breaking. I try to make a cough to clear it.

"Good, pretty good. I've been busy with this—"

"Do you have to work? Do you need more money?"

"Oh, no dear, you give us plenty. More than plenty. But I like to keep busy, and besides, I think Haymitch needs me."

"No I don't!" I hear his voice cry from another room. He belches and a bottle clanks.

She shakes her head and smiles. She looks younger than I remember.

"How are the kids?"

"Hardly kids anymore…Vick and Rory are so big now. Vick might even end up taller than you," she beams as she says this, "oh, and little Posy, she'll be so happy to see you. Will you have time for dinner tonight?"

I hadn't thought about this, but nod, and stare out the window absentmindedly as she talks.

"She's there, you know." I don't realize till she says it that I'm staring at her house.

"Yeah," I say, scratching my chin. I suppose I could only avoid the topic for so long, "I know."

"He's with her," my mom adds, almost cautiously, a bit protectively.

"Yeah," I say again. "I know."

"She thinks you've found someone else," Haymitch says as he enters the room, scratching himself and looking as scraggly as ever.

"She's wrong," I say, still starting out the window.

"Yeah…she usually is," he adds. We're all silent for a moment. "Are you going to go talk to her?" I shake my head, not exactly as a 'no', but more in a state of confusion. "You should."

All I needed was that one spark of hope. I'm out the door and across the lawn before I even think about it.

She's not home, and thank god, neither is he, probably down at his bakery frosting cookies or doing something equally useless, I imagine. I try to imagine what she's doing too, but I slowly realize I have no idea. I used to know Katniss better than she knew herself. I knew where she'd go, what she'd do, what she'd say, what she'd need...now, I have to admit I haven't the slightest idea. I try to make myself realize what this means.

I sit on their porch, waiting, wondering if I should just leave when I see her. She's staring at her feet, plodding up the path. She looks like she's being taken care of, she looks better than I imagined she would, and too much like I remember. When our eyes meet it feels like an arrow hits my chest. Maybe worse. She freezes. I rise cautiously, equally uncertain about how she'll react. She bursts into tears.

"And here I thought you'd be happy to see me." Old habits die hard, I guess, I can't help but try to comfort her. I put my familiar smile back on and out stretch my arms to tell her it's okay. She runs into them. I hate that I realize I never want to let go. You're here to put an end to his, Hawthorne, I tell myself. But nothing in my actions says I'm listening.

"I should have brought some fruit," she finally says, finished crying. I feel a small chuckle rattle in my chest. I haven't chuckled in a long time. "Would you like to come in?" She gets up, and wipes her wet face, "I can make...tea?"

"Tea sounds wonderful."

I follow her inside and we sit in silence. I search for something to say, but I don't know what topics are safe. I always used to know the right thing to say. I try to make myself realize what this means.

She breaks the silence. "How's life in District 2? I hear you've got a pretty nice job."

"Yeah. It's not bad. I'm working to build a new police force. It's difficult…" I go on to explain what I've been doing. I want her to know I've been productive, constructive even, trying to create order, make things better.

I can't help but notice she seems distant. Maybe she doesn't care. Maybe I'll never be able to do enough good in the world to undo all the bad I did, or that she thinks I did, if the distinction even matters. I try to make myself realize what this means.

She finally says, "that sounds really good. I hope you're happy." I'm not sure if she's sincere.

"I have a good life," is the best I can manage to say.

As we sit across from each other at the table, neither of us touching our tea. I look at her and think of all the times we sat in her kitchen…when we were younger and she first showed me her mother's plant books and instructed me on what to get, she spoke with such an authority back then, trying hard to prove her worth to me, not knowing she didn't have to...or when I came over and taught her how to make snares because it was too cold for us to work outside, I didn't try to keep our hands from touching...when I laid on this table, back bleeding and burning from the whip, her face by mine, her lips by mine...Sometimes, I think, I'd prefer that pain over what I feel now. I remind myself that's why things need to change.

"I'm sorry I didn't shoot you."

I laugh as she pulls me from my thoughts, as always, hers are in a far different place than mine. Oh, Catnip, I think fondly, too fondly. I know she's trying to apologize for not keeping her word, and she's going about it all wrong. How can she think she let me down? I try to find a way to explain this to her. "I didn't have my weapon on me," I start to explain, but she looks confused, "the day of the assassination-" She interrupts me before I can add that even if I'd had my weapon, I wouldn't have shot her either.

She laughs. Her smiles rarely surprise me, but this one does. "Well," she scoffs, "at least one of us had their priorities right." And I realize that even though she might look the same, she's changed. And I have to let her go.

"Katniss, the war's over." You have to move on, I think. I have. Or at least, I'm trying to...

She looks shocked that I said it. She thinks, and takes a deep breath. "I'm glad you didn't shoot me."

"Do you really believe that?" I'm not sure I do.

"I'm trying to." I wonder if that's the best she can give and realize it probably is.

"Do you still hunt? You were always so alive in the woods." I can tell she's trying to change the topic to something nice.

"No," something catches in my throat as I try to avoid the thoughts. Thinking of our time in the woods is too hard. "Too many painful memories…" I try not to think of the day I first met her. The day I first kissed her. But I can practically feel her soft skin in my hands and taste the orange on her lips. "And there's no need."

"But, you always did love being out in the woods." I don't know why I'm surprised that she's genuinely confused by this.

"I wasn't the woods I loved," I tell her. I try to avoid her eyes but can't. I think she gets it. It was you...But not anymore.

"I thought about visiting you." She says this like it's a compromise, like the thought means something. Maybe it does. But not enough.

"But you didn't," I try not to sound angry.

"By the time I was able…" she seems to struggle to say this, perhaps I should be nicer. I can already feel her pulling at my heart again. "...I thought it was too late."

"Katniss, for you, it'd never be too late." I didn't mean to say that. I didn't want to say that. I don't want to feel that. But, I realize, I do.

I unconsciously move towards her. She looks down at my hand on the table and I know we're thinking about the last time we were here. "Don't worry, I promise this time I won't cry." I put some much needed distance between us and try to regroup my thoughts. You're here to put an end to this, Hawthorne, I remind myself.

"Why didn't you come back? Till now?" I'm not sure if I'm imagining it, but it almost sounds like she wanted me to. God, if I'd known she wanted me to...

I have to force myself to take a deep breath, swallowing my anger, my pain, my confusion.

"There was a lot of work that needed to be done. That's what I tell myself…but you and I both know that someone had to make a choice...And we both know Peeta is always coming after you."

She shifts uncomfortably as I say this, eyes cast downwards, and realization slowly seeping in. I have to stop myself from laughing when I see that she never thought of it this way before. When she looks up at me, I can see she still doesn't know what she would have done and I tell myself that's the only answer I need.

But I have to know before I go. I have to know that this thing between us is over. I take her face gently in my hands and kiss her. Our lips barely move, but are pressed tightly.

And in that moment, I know it. She might not be the Katniss I know anymore, but she's still the Katniss I love. Nothing's changed. Not the way I feel about her, but also not the fact that she still doesn't feel the same way about me.