A/N: Hey for the second time today! I also had these two chapters written up so I thought I'd double post just to keep momentum going and give you guys an extra taste of the story. I only have about nine chapters fully written out, so the updates will unfortunately be slower after that, but I will do my best to get the fic updated as efficiently and quickly as possible if you guys want that. Thanks again for all of the favs and follows and the review, I'm pleasantly surprised by the support this has gotten already and so grateful for it! Feel free to keep doing what you do best and review, review, review! I'd really appreciate feedback and would love to hear what you guys are thinking! Thanks!

-ILoVeWicked

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 4

Gale

"What's the matter? What's going on?" Primrose Everdeen asks frantically as Haymitch corrals Prim, her mother, Madge Undersee, and my family into one of the cramped Everdeen residence of Compartment E. "Is something wrong with Katniss?"

"She's going to pull through. The explosion and the blood loss from Johanna removing her tracker did a number on her, but the doctors expect her to recover," Haymitch says reassuringly, keeping his eyes on Prim but addressing the entire room. I release a sigh of relief. From the moment Catnip shot her arrow into the force field of the arena and all of the screens of Panem went gray with static, my heart had been racing. All of Thirteen was in shambles, desperately awaiting the return of the hovercraft with the rescued rebel victors.

The morning's events were almost too surreal to be true, like they happened to some other being in my body and not to me. Slowly, the pieces begin to fit themselves together as my mind wills them to do so.

My comunicuff was nearly self-destructing from all of the signals it was receiving this morning. I raced to the landing dock to be among the rebels who would assist the victors off of the hovercraft. Half of my drive came from my constant desire to be a part of the excitement that the rebelling District always seemed to have to offer. Since my arrival, post-escape from the blazing District Twelve, the leaders of Thirteen have treated me as an equal, perhaps even above the norm, for my military involvement. I appreciated the feeling of being wanted, of being depended on, so much so that I jumped at any opportunity to be at the front lines when action took place in District Thirteen. They had given me a communicuff for a reason, and I was not about to have the one physical evidence of my importance be taken away. There were no chances for stupid mistakes now.

The other part of me rushed to the landing dock because I needed to know she was here as soon as I could.

When the hovercraft landed, it was madness. Soldiers screamed orders left and right at us volunteers as stretchers swarmed with medics began to roll down a steep ramp that led to the dock. I was about to move when I caught a glimpse of a familiar braid whirring past me. Bruised, bloodied, and burnt, Katniss Everdeen never looked more vulnerable than she did in that moment. Her eyes were shut, her body stiff.

In the next moment, she was gone, her survival a mystery to me. One soldier called my name and slapped me hard on the back, where one of the raw, pink scars from my whipping lay, and I winced with pain as I snapped back into action and continued to help unload the other victors to safety, thoughts of Katniss momentarily put aside.

Mellark wasn't among the rescued. I felt the slightest twinge of guilt for being happy about it.

Once my duties were through, I was left to the torture of my mind. Where was Katniss? Was she alive? When I hurried to the hospital, I was turned away, left to pace in a small waiting room until my thoughts—conjuring up the worst scenarios—consumed me to the point of frustration and I stormed out of the hospital to attempt to breathe normally.

But I couldn't feel any sense of normalcy until I knew she was alive.

When Haymitch delivers the good news in a frenzied huff to her younger sister, I am overjoyed. It has been hours since any of us have received word on Katniss' status, and being shoved into a room with all of her loved ones wasn't exactly a positive sign in my book.

"So what's going on then?" my brother Rory pipes up. My mother's hand lands on his shoulder to remind him to be tactful around adults and Rory lets out a strangled yelp. The gesture seems painless, but I can tell by the five slight indents in my brother's shirt that Hazelle Hawthorne's grip is a deceivingly excruciating one.

Haymitch pauses for a moment, rubbing the stubble on his chin apprehensively. His eyes dash over each of us before he rolls them with agony. "This is ridiculous. I shouldn't have been given this job."

My eyes quickly scan the room and I suppress a chuckle as I watch all pairs of eyes—the withered gray of Katniss' mother, Prim's newly hardened charcoal, Madge's discontented sky-blue, and even Posy's bright green—suddenly glare at him. I can even feel my own eyes narrow. Haymitch runs his hand down his face and sucks in a deep breath. He swiftly pulls a flask from his pocket and just as quickly stuffs it back into his hiding place when he catches the disapproving glances of the adult women.

"Like I said, Katniss is fine. Injured, as to be expected, but she will be fine. The goal is to get her back on her feet within the next month."

"So, if she's fine then why are we here, like we're about to have another bomb dropped on us?" Rory whines. Another hand on his shoulder. Another yelp. Haymitch's fingers twitch toward his pocket, aching to be numb enough to deliver whatever formidable news is coming our way.

"That's just the thing…I bet you're wondering why I was instructed to gather you all in here, especially if she is supposedly fine—," he begins. The word 'fine' has been tossed around so many times that it suddenly no longer seems to have a positive connotation. My mother crosses her arms over her chest.

"The answer would be helpful, Haymitch," she chides, and Katniss' mother sends her an appreciative look. My mother has always had it out for Haymitch. They were almost the same age, and as rumor had it, he picked on her in school. To this day, she continues to hold a grudge against him for it, never failing to bring up how he is quite possibly the poorest representation of District Twelve.

Judging him purely based on this interaction, and his memorable somersaulting act at the reaping a few years ago, she may be right about the drunken Victor.

Haymitch lets out a frustrated huff and circles around himself, trying to find the right words. Finally, hands tugging uncomfortably at the hem of his shirt, Haymitch barely whispers three words under his breath:

"Katniss is pregnant."

I do not bother doing a scan of the room this time, because I can practically feel the heat of eight sets of eyes now on me, expectantly awaiting my reaction. I begin to feel my face reddening, my fists curling, and my jaw clenching in rage as I feel my world crash around me.

Now, I almost wish Mellark was here. I want to have the honor of personally killing him.

There aren't many thoughts running through my head, other than the thought of that doe-eyed baker with Katniss, my Katniss. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to erase the image of a child with their genetics running around these halls.

It can't be true, I think to myself. She chose me.

When it becomes clear that they are not getting anything more than a stony-faced glare from me, Katniss' mother awkwardly clears her throat. The woman is too young to be a grandmother. I gaze at Prim and frown. There is the slightest trace of a smile playing on her lips. Prim has only been in the reaping once. She can't possibly be becoming an aunt already.

"How—how did this happen?" Mrs. Everdeen asks timidly.

Haymitch scoffs curtly. "Well, Mrs. Everdeen, when two teenagers decide to be idiots and explore without thinking to protect themselves…"

"You know that's not what she meant, Haymitch," my mother practically snaps.

Haymitch goes on to describe Katniss' condition as he was instructed to. She is almost through her first trimester, the proper pre-natal treatment has just been administered to her and an ultrasound indicated that the baby had not sustained any injuries in the arena or during the explosion and would most likely grow normally, which is 'remarkable'. I listen to all of these words, but I do not hear them. I can no longer bear to sit here and take this continual slap in the face.

Wordlessly, I pick myself up and storm out of the room, shoving past Haymitch and receiving a backhanded remark from him as I go. I sulk down the halls, my breath picking up the same jagged, uneven pace it had when I first tried to visit Katniss in the hospital earlier.

Her mother's words replay in my head, over and over, like the twisted shrieks of a jabberjay:

How did this happen?

Last time I checked, Katniss had chosen me over Goldilocks. Her kiss and her adamant promises after my whipping told me so. I'll admit, the faux wedding often had me worried that she would suddenly decide to jump ship and cling to her "fiance", but I held onto the confidence in her voice on that fateful day that she chose to love me. The wedding bells could ring all they wanted, but at the end of the day, Katniss' faith and heart lay with the right man, the man she never had to pretend around.

But now, everything is different. What is so appealing about Peeta Mellark, I cannot figure out. The boy has never known struggle, not like Katniss and I have, at least. He has always grown up with food on his plate. Never did he have to experience loss the way Katniss and I had to endure when we both lost our fathers. Peeta would not have survived the Games without Katniss.

I grimace as I remind myself that there is not a single mean bone in his body. I recall his empathy for others, his ability to use the power of his words, and above all, the way his eyes light up, as if they are on fire, whenever she walks into a room. I stop dead in my tracks and grunt in displeasure. Maybe I do not think he could hold a candle to his opponents in the arena, but when it comes to the game of love, the guy is a contender.

I'll give him that much.

The thought of Katniss choosing him over me, and going behind my back to do so, is agonizing. I do the math and discover that the time of the baby's conception happened before the two of them even made it to the Capitol for the Quell. I suck in a pained breath through my bared teeth, nearly blacking out from how hard this information strikes me.

I feel betrayed. I feel angry. But more than anything, I feel heartbroken.

At this point, I discover that I have wandered into the busy plaza of Thirteen, the hub of all activity in the center of the underground confines. My breathing is noticeably heavy as my lungs cry out and gasp for air. My muscles convulse while I battle to keep my anguish at bay. My cognizance fades in and out. I pause and come to for a brief moment, long enough to discover that I have attracted an audience. I blink into the imaginary spotlight. Puzzled looks, concerned glances, and tense whispers from within the crowd dart across the hall to each other, bounce off the walls, and hit me like gunfire. Between all of the unwanted attention and the downward spiral of my thoughts, I am bordering emotional breakdown. I physically am no longer able to bottle up these feelings any longer.

I reach out, narrowly dodging the heads of several onlookers, and cry out as my fist makes contact with one of the earthen walls, smashing a hunk of it into smithereens. Mothers gasp and cover their children's eyes, scurrying away. Guards cautiously gaze over their shoulders at the commotion. I sink to the ground, quivering in my emotional concoction of embarrassment and hurt, and stare down at my bloodied hand.

How did this happen?

The crowd eventually dissipates. There are places to be, meals to eat, other crazed men to watch punch walls.

I do not remember exactly when she comes, takes my battered hand, and wordlessly sits down beside me, but we stay there until the next morning.

"Hey, Stranger," she greets me playfully. I look up momentarily from my work and do a double take. Quickly, I turn back to the gun I have been toying with. It is unloaded, but at this point it may as well be filled with bullets for me to fire into my skull.

Katniss looks worlds better than when I last saw her a month ago, when she was lying limp and lifeless on a gurney. She now wears a communicuff, similar to my own. Her eyes are cautious, yet glistening in anticipation. I recognize the look from our hunting days in Twelve, the intoxicating mixture of tamed excitement as she anxiously awaited her prey. Her wounds have been washed away, tended to by salves and the careful doctors whose jobs are on the line if she should look anything less than one hundred percent unmarred. Her face is full of color once again, almost as if she is glowing.

And then, I remember.

Her bump is slight, but unmistakable. It is the reason why I could not bring myself to visit her unconscious form in the hospital. Seeing her in that state—not under sedation, but with child—was something I would not be able to bear. It is the same reason why I cannot look her in the eye now.

She catches where my gaze has fallen and frowns. "They told you."

"They told me because they thought I was the father, which is clearly not the case." The words are biting and sound foreign on my tongue. I don't like speaking to her with such hostility, and I hate that these are the first words I have said to her in almost four months. I make a conscious effort to ease up on my resentment.

I can feel the tension in my face dissipate as I attempt to form a feeble smile. "I didn't mean—It's good to see you, Catnip." Her shoulders visibly ease up and her smile turns genuine.

"They told me you'd want privacy in here…," she begins. She's correct. I have been appointed to work with Beetee on weaponry. This room, designed as an arsenal for weapons in the making, is technically off limits.

"I do, normally. But it's alright. Besides, I'm sure they were able to bend the rules for their sacred vessel," I cut her off, unintentionally tacking the biting jab at her pregnancy to the end of the sentence. Hurt flashes across her face for a split second before she plops down in the seat beside me. Beetee left for his lunch break over an hour ago. Despite his accuracy in the clock-shaped arena, the man cannot guesstimate a proper break window and it is baffling. Katniss rubs her palms against her pant legs and stares down into her lap.

"I missed you," she breathes out into the abyss between us. It's all I need, the simplicity and honesty of that one confession, to finally muster up the courage to look up into those familiar Seam eyes.

"I missed you, too, Catnip, but…" My voice trails off, and I am suddenly tentative about my word choice. I sigh as I realize there is no easy way to ask the question.

"How did this—I thought you chose me?" My chest suddenly feels ten pounds lighter. Bottling up my thoughts and feelings, in addition to living in a state of denial in which I devoted myself to my work to avoid thinking of it, of her, has done a greater number on me than I could have let myself imagine. I inhale, and I exhale. I can breathe again.

Katniss looks taken aback by the forthright inquiry. Even though it is the nature of our relationship to be as straightforward to each other as possible—in a world made up of liars, we liked to think of ourselves as a two-man club of nonconformists—it has been months since we have last seen each other. This conversation is clearly one both of us neither anticipated nor wanted happening any time soon. I'm sure these aren't the questions she thought she would have to answer first, but in all honesty, what does she think I will ask instead? How the morning sickness is going?

"I—I—," she stammers. Finally, she gives in to submission and guilt spreads like wildfire across her crimson-colored cheeks. "Gale, I'm sorry. I truly am. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I thought I made a choice, I honestly did. I know how this must look to you, but the last thing I meant to do was hurt you. I'm not asking you to forgive me right away, but I'm asking for the chance for you to hear me out and maybe understand."

Understand? I suppose the look I give her next is nothing short of unconvinced, so she rambles on, "Gale, please. Say something. Say anything. I'll answer whatever questions you have to the best of my ability, just…just please, talk to me. I need my best friend."

The authentic desperation in her voice is heartbreaking. The only thing harder than not being able to love her the way I want to is not being able to love her at all.

Her eyes glimmer with a batch of tears and I fight to resist tears of my own. I glare at the stony wall in front of me, dimly lit by a flickering desk lamp. I have to look away. I remind myself that I am not dealing with a school crush whose feelings for me are not mutual, I am dealing with Katniss Everdeen. Once all of the romantic implications of my life with Katniss have been stripped away, she is my best friend. Yes, she is the girl I always thought I was going to marry and start a family with, but she is also the little girl I watched stand stoically beside her mother and sister as they honored her dead father. She is the young woman who I taught how to make a snare. She is the hero who won the Hunger Games. She is the brave woman who stood and took a lashing for me.

I do not owe Katniss, my fantasized lover, a damned thing. But I owe the world to my best friend.

So, I choose to speak. "Weirdest craving you've had so far?"

Her smile is faint, pitiful, but it's there, and it's all I need to know I've done my part on this two-way street called friendship, for the moment. "Squirrel meat pies. The nasty kind I used to try and pass off as dessert when desperate times called for desperate measures back at home."

I laugh slightly, remembering all too well the pungent smell of the pie nearly singing my nose hair as Katniss insisted I eat it and encourage Prim to eat her slice. Once I decide that the ice has been sufficiently cracked—it cannot be truly broken in a situation like this—I turn to more serious questions. Who knows how many I have left to ask before I run out, before things get too personal and she performs one of her infamous escapes.

"Ok, so when did it happen?"

She recalls the actual task that is at hand and her smile disappears just as quickly as it came.

"The night they announced the Quarter Quell."

"Where?"

"That's perverted."

"It's even more perverted if you put Prim at risk of seeing that."

"An empty house in Victor's Village. I hid out in the basement to cry and scream and get my five minutes of being able to throw a temper tantrum, but, of course, he found me. He comforted me. One thing lead to another, and—"

I cut her off with a snort. "Classic line there, Catnip. You sound like me recounting a bad evening behind the slag heap."

She glares at me. "I don't have to give you this information, you know."

"Well, I don't have to sit here and listen to it," I fire back. She lets out a frustrated huff and crosses her arms over her chest.

"You're so stubborn."

I've never seen her act girlier than she is choosing to act in this moment, with all of her huffing and puffing and accusatory remarks. I remember her high estrogen levels and frown. There's something morally incorrect about toying with a pregnant woman. I was the oldest of four, and I learned that lesson from countless trimesters' worth of mood swings. Even if it is Mellark's kid in there and I am mad as hell, Katniss' state is still fragile.

I clasp my fists together and force myself to put my selfish thoughts aside and to continue to struggle talking to her like she is nothing but a good friend. I don't want to hurt her. More importantly, I don't want to leave her. And in order to do that, I have to separate the personal from the professional with her, just as I was able to do with my work in weaponry. In a way, Katniss was a weapon, ready to fire and kill me at any moment. That girl could screw me over a million times and my feelings wouldn't change. Her feelings for me are different story. A story, I am afraid, that will not end in 'happily ever after'.

"Just one more question," I whisper, my eyes now squeezed shut. Maybe, if I can't see her face when she answers, it will not hurt as much. But I want to know. I need to know. "In that moment, did you love him?"

She is silent. My eyes have been shut for what seems like ages. I start to count pinholes and nearly nod off before she answers.

"I did."

I open my eyes, my technique having failed. My heart is being strangled by the invisible hands of her betrayal and her honesty. The hands reach out, grabbing the vital organ and wringing it through delicate fingers until there is no blood left to course through my veins. Tears are silently rolling down her cheeks, and I can tell that her answer took careful deliberation, so careful that it hurt her just as much to admit as it did for me to hear it.

"Do you still love him?"

"That's two questions."

"Katniss," I urge through clenched teeth. "If you still love him, that's something I deserve to know."

She wipes the back of her hand across her blotchy cheek and sniffles.

"I don't know."

The answer seems to shock herself more than anything. "I truly don't know. I love you both in ways that are too different to even begin comprehending. I know that I need both of you in my life more than ever right now. I need my best friend to help me through all of this because I also need the father of my baby to be here, but I couldn't save him. I couldn't save my kid's father, Gale, and it breaks my heart that I've already failed as a mother. So Peeta can't be here, and I can't spend any more time crying over the fact that I can't change that. I am having a baby, and in a few short months I'm going to have to share my heart with an entirely new third party. So I can't choose right now, simply because I'm being selfish and it hurts to damn much to think about life without either of you. I'm seventeen and pregnant and I don't know who I want. But I do know I care about my best friend, and I want to be able to share my life with him again…that is, if he's willing to let me back in."

Her explanation is a ratty old blanket, so full of holes that it would not be able to keep Greasy Sae warm in the wintertime, but it packs enough hope and hurt to keep me afloat. I am wading in the unpredictable ocean of her heart, caught in the swirling chasm of the riptide of heartbreak and the whirlpool of her love.

Slowly, the ends of my mouth twitch upward into the first genuine smile I have contributed to the conversation. I've always known the answer to her plea, but like she said, I'm too stubborn to admit it.

"I can't forgive you just yet. I will, but not right away. But I will always be your friend, no matter what, Catnip."

Suddenly, those familiar arms are wrapped around my neck and she has molded herself perfectly to fit the shape of my body as we sway together. The embrace seems all too familiar. Last time I remember clutching her like this was in the woods. After that, I inhaled the scent of her windblown hair and kissed her.

This time, her hair smells sterile, like a hospital. This time, there is no kiss. This time, there is a child, her child, resting between us.

When we separate the conversation suddenly comes easier to us. We discuss Katniss' agreement to be the Mockingjay, how she scored us valuable hunting time above grounds, and her acquisition of Buttercup the Titanium Feline. We even manage to briefly discuss her pregnancy. She hates her morning sickness because it makes her feel like she is wasting valuable food that could have fed an entire Seam family. She hates her swollen ankles because she can barely tie her hunting boots around them.

She hates that Peeta isn't here to help her through any of it.

She mentions this briefly and backtracks as soon as the thought leaves her mouth, but I disregard it and pay as much attention to her as I possibly can. I soak in her every detail: the tresses of her dark locks, the flecks of silver in her eyes, the slight curve in her posture. I want to remember it all, in case it is someday not mine.

Our communicuffs go off and we are summoned to the assembly room for a District-wide meeting, most likely to announce Katniss' agreement to be the Mockingjay.

As we go, the door swings open to reveal Madge Undersee, my unwavering company from the night I thought I lost Katniss forever. Madge's blue eyes meet mine for a brief moment. When we have passed her completely, I cannot shake her expression from my mind.

She looked like she was about to punch a wall.