we dream so long
prompt seventy-four: scars
"Surface"
(or when Gale finds a chink in Johanna Mason's self-imposed armor)
"Hawthorne!" The voice cuts clear across the square, to where the man in questions sits on the steps of the old Justice Building, mopping his face with his shirt under the mid-day sun. The ball of fury stalks her way across the stone, her hair finally reaching her chin and her brown eyes narrowed; for a small woman she has quite the commanding presence-
Johanna Mason is livid.
Gale casts his eyes downward, to the letter recently received from Plutarch Heavensbee, all but begging him to come to the Capitol and be on camera. He declines (again) trying to convince Heavensbee that he's happy with his current position and President Paylor is happy and really, the former Gamemaker should just quit while he's ahead. He makes weapons and deals with weapons- always has, probably always will (because it's what haunts his conscience, whether he welcomes it or not)
The thought brings him to bombs, to sweet little Prim, to Katniss-
"Hawthorne! Did you hear a damned word I just said?" Johanna is peering over him, blocking the sun and the sensation is so unusual that he stands and feels far less intimidated when she just reaches past his shoulder.
"No," he says, grabbing his shirt and turning away. He doesn't want to deal with her right now- cynical, abrasive Johanna Mason is most definitely not who he wants to deal with at the moment.
(But to be honest, he's not in the mood to talk to anyone. It's just unfortunate for her that she was the final straw.)
She has a knack for exploiting the weaknesses of others, seeing where their flaws lie and ripping that gap wide open. It's practically a thing of pride now, nearly nine years after her first Games and she tells herself it's the only reason she's in this forsaken District right now- everyone said she'd be great at fixing (pointing out) military flaws, Capitol flaws, District flaws (they must think she's like her fucking head-doctor; who also agrees, by the way).
Peeta, Volts, Haymitch-
Of them all, she goes because of the old drunkard.
Which brings her to the next few sentences and the realization that her hindsight in far clearer than foresight: if she had any foresight she would have died in one of those Games. "What-" she starts but doesn't finish, spotting the strips of pale white flesh that pattern Gale's back, many as wide as her thumb if not wider. She gives a snort of disbelief; "Our dear Mockingjay likes it rough, does she?"
The jibe garners a initial glance over his shoulder, "Excuse me?"
"Because, you know she seemed so innocent-"
"Fuck off, Mason."
"Well, except when she was cuddling with Lover Boy," she baits, leaning against the granite columns, making an inappropriate gesture with her hands.
She expected anger, sadness and everything else except one thing: for Gale Hawthorne to bite back.
He pins her wrists to the wall by her hips with his big, calloused hands and looks down at the young woman who smirks back. "Sorry, not all of us have been able to live it up as a Victor- money, fame and perfect skin for the Capitol to fuck," he growls. It's incorrect, rude and insensitive for the most part-
but so is Johanna Mason.
She flinches as if burned (or doused in water, as it were) and kicks off the column to stand on her two feet and push him away. For a moment he thinks she'll follow with a punch; instead she brushes by him, stalking up the steps of the Justice Building and disappearing inside.
...
She disappears for two months and two weeks in, he realizes it's probably his fault.
...
A consistent chill sweeps over the District as the year moves forward, time forever unyielding. He ponders occasionally that this was the time of year he learned to be quiet, treading over fallen leaves in their spectrum of colors. People would occasionally venture to pick the fallen apples by the fence but never further, though that's where the best ones lay. Mayor Undersee paid nearly as much for those as the strawberries.
But this isn't District Twelve and there are no fond memories here, only cold stones in a cold places leading to-
an unclothed Johanna Mason standing on his doorstep.
Although, it doesn't look like the woman he remembers last seeing and well, she's not completely undressed- but close enough.
Her skin paler than he remembers and her body is laced in white strings. Or so it seems, until he realizes it's part of her skin, these lines.
A vicious mark is displayed across her right jaw and along her temple. A patch the size of a fist glares from the inside of her knee and the tell-tale sign of a stab wound along her left bicep. A slice cuts across her chest at an angle, then tilts the other way from ribs to hip.
Black words are inked down her spine, raised where they covers scars.
We all fall down.
Then she cocks her hips, resting one hand on one and idly twisting her shirt through the fingers of the other.
"Do these scars meet your standards, Hawthorne?" she asks. Her voice lacks it's normal venom- no malice, no sarcasm. It's the voice of someone who's ancient in so few years.
He recognizes it as his own.
a/n: "We all fall down" of "Ring around the Rosie" fame. Why? I'm sure it'll be explained in the near future :)