You guys make my world better. I'm so sorry for the delay with this fic, but the recent events on this site have hit me hard. I'm not a big fan of censorship, as I'm sure neither are any of you.

Anyways, here's the deal: I'm going to be writing this mainly in flashbacks, with Johanna thinking about how she and Gale got to the point of the last two chapters. Hope it's not confusing. It's a tie-in with my other fic, Surviving, but you don't need to read that to understand this.

The Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins, not to me, though I do enjoy playing with her characters.

She sees the girl coming from a distance, and sighs as she realizes she's going to have to share the pastries the lady's granddaughter gave her as a thank you for working. She remembers a child like that in 7: they'd given him a stick so he wouldn't hurt anyone and let him come play in the woods while they chopped down trees. He had an uncle who kept an eye on him, but they'd all kept an eye on him, really. It was soothing, listening to him garble to himself and hit trees with his stick: like having a pet. He was reaped when he was 13. There's a part of her that still wishes one of her brothers had volunteered.

Katniss is already scowling at her as she walks up. Johanna has no idea what she's supposed to say. Gale told her the first night they were here that he told Katniss things had started when they shot a propos on the beach. This is true, she supposes. That was when they became friends, when she'd realized maybe she felt something for him that she didn't (doesn't) even want to feel. But that sure as hell wasn't when they met. They'd had their first real interaction during Katniss' trial, and she isn't sure if Gale didn't mention it because reliving anything that happened during her trial would upset Katniss or because reliving that first little chitchat would upset both of them...


She wandered up to the roof of the training center when she saw that Haymitch was otherwise…occupied…with Effie. Well, heard, not saw, if accuracy is important. How the hell that woman can do anything that would cause her to make those noises after what Johanna's sure happened to her is beyond comprehension, but good on her. Haymitch is something of a catch, she supposes, in a weird, old, drunk way.

When she gets to the roof, she sees someone standing there; someone tall and strong, and she has this inexplicable feeling that she's safe. There's a moment where she's sure it's Finnick, because no one else has made her feel safe like that in a long time. And then he turns, and she sees his brooding expression where Finnick's smile would be, and she realizes that she needs to get a grip. Real or not real, just like the boy. And Finnick is dead. That was real.

Gale Hawthorne doesn't look surprised to see her, just like, if she really thinks about it, she's not too surprised to see him. He would be staring down at the gaping hole in front of the president's mansion…or what was the president's mansion. Haymitch had filled her in on the hovercraft, about the bombs, the fire…Prim. The dark abyss draws her eyes no matter how much she doesn't want to look at it. The bodies of children are down there. Prim's body is down there.

They stand wordlessly in front of the forcefield, looking down at the Capitol. To Johanna, the protests for or against their Mockingjay seem almost calm, but then, she's only been up here before when they were screaming for the death of children. She supposes almost anything must seem calm compared to that.

More because she needs a distraction than because she actually wants to know, she asks, "So, d'you testify today, Pretty Boy?" He doesn't smile at her nickname or anything; his head jerks up and down. She smirks. Strong and silent type—too bad he's taken by Katniss, even if she's not interested. That girl marks territory like…well, sort of like Johanna herself.

"They won't execute her. You know that right?" He glares at her, saying nothing. "She was the symbol for our revolution, our rallying point. You don't make martyrs when the country's in this kind of fragile state."

Gale is shaking his head. "She assassinated the president. That makes her a criminal, not a martyr."

"You know why she did it," says Johanna, trying to sound airy, but it comes out heavy instead. They both know why she did it, but she knows Gale feels it more than she does.

He doesn't say anything for a long time, but when he speaks, he sounds like a child. A lost little boy. "What if it was my bomb?"

Well, that kills the mood. Not that it was very bright to begin with. She has no idea what to say, so she says the first thing that comes to her mind.

"Well, then you killed a whole whack of kids. Join the damn club."

He sighs, and it's a sound that's wistful, regretful…painful. It's a sound she certainly recognizes.

"It helps if you don't picture their faces," she tells him. It's the only survival strategy she's learned, and it's been 6 years. When he turns to face her, his glare is murderous.

"I grew up with Prim," he snarls. "She was like my damn sister. I'm pretty sure she was in love with my brother. Some days, she would only smile for me. She used to bring me flowers when she brought salve for my mom's hands. How the fuck do you expect me to stop picturing her face?"

She recoils, but not from what he's just said. She's been there. It's from the curse: it conjures terrible images of her shrieking that word into the darkness, water dripping from every part of her, sobs choking her as the electrocutions make her weak and sick…

She's slipped onto the ground, curled into a ball, before she really knows what's happening.

"Shit, Johanna, I'm sorry," he mutters, kneeling beside her. He doesn't touch her, thank God.

"You didn't need to know all that, I'm just angry and—" She holds out a hand, indicating that he should shut up, and he complies.

"It wasn't your over-sharing," she whispers, taking deep, calming breaths like Aurelius told her to. "But could you watch your language?" She manages to look at him, and see the look of confusion that settles on his handsome features.

"Sorry. I usually do in front of ladies," he mutters carefully, which causes her to throw back her head and laugh.

"No one's called me a lady in a long time, Hawthorne," she teases. "I said that word a lot the last time I was here."

The look of confusion returns for a moment, until comprehension dawns.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and she shakes her head.

"How would you know?" she mutters. She's embarrassed, but she's sure Aurelius would tell her that's silly. And after all, it was Gale who rescued her, who scooped her unconscious, bloody, bald form from the floor of her jail cell. He's pretty much seen it all, so why be embarrassed?

He shrugs. "I need to be careful about what I say."

"Not anymore," she points out. "Wasn't that the point of this whole revolution thing?" She sits back against the wall, makes herself comfortable. She's a little surprised when he joins her. They're quiet for a long time.

"D'you think it was worth it?" he finally asks. "I mean, Plutarch would tell you we've succeeded, or something. Have we?"

"Plutarch's a moron," is all she says. Because, though they have, she knows exactly what he's feeling. Somehow, he's become a Victor. He's feeling what it's like to have achieved a victory that feels so far beyond bittersweet there are no words for it. He knows what it's like now, to have the blood of innocents on your hands. But he also knows what it's like to have killed those who were asking for it: careers, really, though they weren't called that in this arena.

He doesn't seem satisfied with her answer. He's staring at her, eyebrows still raised.

"I don't think you should worry about what Plutarch says," she finally gets out. "You should worry about what the boy would say. That's where the real answer is."

Hurt flashes across his face. Just for a moment; he's clearly a master at hiding his emotions. The fact that she's mastered it better than he has is probably why she sees his momentary lapse.

"I haven't exactly filled out my membership card for his fan club," mutters Gale. She hides a smile.

"Yeah, well, trust me, if you'd listened to the kid scream for months on end, you would've. I'm not asking you to like him, I'm asking you to respect that he's got a better sense of justice than anyone either of us have ever met. He told us that the point of the war was to live in a world without Games. And now, thanks to your girlfriend, we are."

"She's not my girlfriend," he spits out, sounding for all the world like a mortified 12-year-old. She chuckles.

"Well, that was undoubtedly my point." He cracks a smile. Barely. "We're living in a world without Games. Does that mean we've succeeded?"

When he looks at her, there is pain in his eyes that she knows all too well.

"Are we living without Games?" he asks, his strong voice quiet but deadly. "Really? Because I'm not sure we'll ever be truly free of them."

"Success and freedom are two completely different concepts," she tells him, cutting him off. "For what it's worth, I do think we succeeded. I also think that everyone who went through the war, whatever their role, is far too broken to be free."

He takes a moment to consider this, and in that moment, she studies him. His strength, the raw power coiled just below the surface, reminds her so strongly of herself that she wants to ask him a million questions he could never answer.

When he finally speaks, he says one of the last things she was expecting.

"I heard you voted for the Games," he whispers, and she can tell he's not proud of himself for bringing it up. "You voted for the death of more children."

She shrugs, because really, what else can she do? He's right, she did, and she's stopped lying to herself enough that she knows she would again in a heartbeat.

"I want justice," she tells him, "and I don't feel justified. I sure as hell don't feel free."

"And you think another set of Hunger Games would change that?" he asks. "You think that's what would set you free?"

She wants to cry, just for a heartbeat, a breath, before she's filled with a seething anger.

"Nothing is ever going to set me free," she hisses at him. "The Capitol, Snow, took my family, my best friend, everyone I cared about, and I want to take something back from them."

"I did that," he snarls at her. "I killed their children too, or didn't you get that part of the story?"

But she's shaking her head.

"It isn't about death," she tells him. "Being reaped, being a tribute: death is a miniscule part of the equation. It is about feeling alone, and desperate, and haunted. It's about shame and hopelessness. That's what the Games are about, and I wanted Snow's granddaughter, some of those moronic infants who never worried being reaped a day in their lives to have some idea of how we felt every goddamn year. I just wanted them to know."

There's a pause as he takes this all in, and she should give him space, but she's not very good at that.

"You'd do the same thing, handsome," she tells him scathingly. He doesn't pause.

"Of course I would." She's surprised by his candor. "But I'm a soldier, a military man. I don't think the way you do, about the hurt and the nightmares and what comes after. I think about how to do what needs to be done: like when we took down the Nut. That's how I think."

"Like a Gamemaker," she muses aloud before she can stop herself. He looks at her like she slapped him. "That's how they think. They don't care about what comes after."

He puts his heads on his knees, grasping his hair like he wants to pull it out. She wants to touch him, somewhere: his shoulder, his hand, his cheek? But she can't.

"I'm a monster," he whispers into his knees, horrified. "After I hated those sadistic bastards my entire life, it took no time at all for me to be just like them." The haunted look in his eyes is so familiar it makes her cringe. "Who the hell did I think I was, choosing who lived and who died? Who the hell do you think you are, deciding Snow's granddaughter should die but my sister should live? Why does war, the threat of death, turn us into the worst versions of ourselves?"

His voice is so quiet that it breaks her. She doesn't know, doesn't want to think about it, doesn't owe him a damn thing, doesn't even know what the hell she's doing here.

"Well, if you wanna know what I think," she tells him sarcastically, grabbing his shoulder and using it to leverage herself to her feet, "I'd be ruminating on how to win the girl back, not philosophical questions on human nature that no one can answer."

His pain somehow magnifies as she speaks: she brought up Katniss, on top of everything else.

"How the hell can I win her back when I killed her sister?" he asks Johanna bitterly. "I'm a monster. I'm a Gamemaker."

"And I'm a Victor!" she snaps, her temper flaring. "You don't hear me whining! We move on, Gale, because there's nothing else we can do. Trust me, I know from very personal experience that you can't throw yourself off this roof."

She's furious, feels herself getting pulled into memories she never goes near.

"If you think you're special because you killed a few more kids than the rest of us, you can go to hell. And frankly," she's on a roll, very aware that Finnick would've stopped her by now, but the fact that he isn't here to do so just fuels her more, "you're better off without that girl, because she's needed our little baker far longer than she'd ever admit to you or anyone!"

She wants to stomp away after that, but the fury on his face keeps her firmly rooted in place. What if he wants to fight back? God, she needs someone to fight with her. She's sick of being babied. He's looking at her with something that borders on hatred.

"You know you're a bitch, right?" he asks scathingly. She shrugs, secretly disappointed. Is that the best he's got?

"Yeah, I've been told once or twice."

"And that everyone hates you?" Ah, that's a bit better. She doesn't know why she's craving this so much. Probably because she always argued with Finnick, who calmed her like no one else. This isn't calming her, but to be honest, she doesn't really want to be calm right now anyways.

"I don't think everyone hates me," she tells him scathingly, her gaze steady on his. His mouth gapes open.

"You think I wanted to talk to you tonight?" he demands, reading her perfectly. "You're deluded."

"Uh-huh," she teases. She loves that he's being so cruel. She knows deep down that he probably didn't want to talk but he needed to, whether he's willing to admit it or not.

"And pathetic," he continues. He's starting on a roll, and she's proud of herself, for dragging him down with her, for giving in to this anger.

"I was just listening to your stupid rambling because you're a pathetic little girl who couldn't even hack the war."

"Is that supposed to hurt?" she demands, glad it's dark so he can't see her blush. She's still so ashamed of herself, but she knows how to hide it. "That the girl who took the worst of the Capitol's torture couldn't run straight back into Snow's mansion? Really? I thought you were supposed to be smart."

He's glaring at her, but underneath the glare, she sees sympathy. He was there, she remembers, he scraped her cold, failing body off the floor of her cell. She doesn't remember much, but she could never forget his determined grey eyes, somehow promising hope and revenge without a single word.

"And I know, by the way," she snaps, scathingly, because she doesn't think about that, "that you only rescued me because you wanted to get Peeta, because you wanted a chance with the girl." He gazes at her, unyielding. He doesn't deny it. He's far too smart.

"Too bad that didn't work out for you," she snarls. He merely shrugs. She's hurting him, but Soldier Hawthorne is back in control. His momentary slip into his anger and hurt is finished, and he's back behind the mask.

Well, he's not the only one who can put on a mask.

"I'm going to bed," she tells him, her voice soft. Inside, she's furious that the rise she got out of him flamed out so quickly. She's angry that she couldn't drag him down with her. More than anything, she's furious that they somehow got on the topic of him rescuing her. He rescued her, saved her life, and she's never even thanked him for it. And though what she said was true, though he did do it for Katniss and Peeta, he's still the only reason she's here. And there was a tenderness in his grasp that she's sure she didn't hallucinate, a promise in the harsh set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes. She may be pissed that his control far outstrips hers, but she needs to thank him. She wouldn't be here if not for his discipline. She spins around to see that he's on his feet and only a few paces behind her.

"What the hell?" she demands, after jumping a foot in the air. He smirks. Katniss had told her how quiet she and her "cousin" could walk, but that was impressive.

"You're not the only one who's ready to pretend to sleep. But you looked like you had some parting words?"

He's smirking, but she sees underneath it that he's still hurting, that she's not the only one thinking of dungeons and dead children. There's a silence that hangs in the air momentarily, a breath where they both realize that this isn't about the hurt or the anger. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them, his gaze is softer than she's ever seen it.

"Thank you," she whispers, and her voice is rid of the sarcasm and anger. She's sincere, genuine.

"For what?" he asks, genuinely confused.

"Rescuing me," she tells him. "You gave me back my life."

He moves a step closer. There's something gentle about this moment that is the opposite of both of their natures, and it's soothing her. If she's completely honest with herself, it's soothing her in a way Finnick never could.

"What else could I do?" he whispers. "You needed to be rescued."

His hand comes to rest on her cheek, and she likes it, likes the warmth suddenly spreading through her. She closes her eyes, breathes in the night air and his scent. She has no idea what's going on. She feels like she's about to be reaped again or rescued again, and she won't know which it is until much later. He moves a stray hair from her face. She takes another breath. His nose touches hers…

A loud clunk from the door right behind her gives them both a shock.

"Gotta get while the girl's asleep," Haymitch leers at Johanna, wandering over to the wind chimes and pulling a bottle from in between them. He's industrious, she'll give him that. Gale has jumped away from her as if she's on fire (ah, the irony- she mentally catalogues that simile to torture him with later). Haymitch turns to them after he's taken a generous pull at the bottle.

"What the hell are you two doing, anyways?"

They stare at each other. What are they doing?

When Gale answers, it's as if all the anger she wanted from him, the reaction, the pain, is channeled into one simple, quiet word.

"Nothing."

Story of her life, she thinks as she lies alone in bed. She feels so much like nothing most of the time that she's shocked she doesn't float away.

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