A/N: Two things. First, I made a timeline! Some dates have been altered—it's 1876 not 1878 for instance. You can find it on my ao3 dashboard(FFN won't let me link it here). Second, I changed the rating of the story to M. If I write a super explicit scene it will probably go to ao3 though, but there will be a note about it in the story.
I'm so sorry about how late this chapter is. Due to real life shenanigans, it had to be pushed back. That, and if it feels like filler...well, I'm stuck in the big bad middle. I am also writing without a buffer now, and I don't have a beta, so if you see a glaring typo, shoot me a PM and I'll fix it.
Thanks for your patience, and don't forget to leave a review... Seriously, they each give me happiness (even the critical ones...at least I know you cared enough to review). ~ lots of love, me.
XxX
Chapter Twelve ~ Darkest Before the Dawn
And every demon wants his pound of flesh
But I like to keep some things to myself
I like to keep my issues strong
It's always darkest before the dawn (Florence + the Machine)
The way out of sleep was not restful at all. There was pain, and a lot of it. His back ached with a ferocity he had not known since the first time he was whipped, back in Twelvetrees, under the shadow of the willow tree where the grass grew deep and green and the shadow of the noose creaked under the awning of the branches.
Far, far off in the distance, Gale could hear a deep, low baying, like the sound his father's blue tick, Minna, had made when she cornered a big black bear that had been stealing their honey. He stirred, disturbed.
"You're finally awake," a voice said. "How do you feel?" Gale opened his eyes. Nurse Seeder, former army nightingale in the War Between the States, sat next to him. She held up a bottle of red-brown liquid with a thinning of her lips. "Miss Cresta donated this laudanum, so don't you dare go dyin' on me and wasting it."
"Thanks, but no thanks. That's what liquor is for." Gale took a swig of alcohol that Haymitch passed him. He'd seen what opium addiction could do to a person, and it wasn't pretty. "Missus," he added belatedly.
She ripped the bottle out of his hands and dumped it out the window with a bark of disgust. "That pig swill isn't fit for human consumption. I will have Mr Odair send up something less vile."
"Godammit, you meddlin' bitch!" Abernathy squawked, reaching for the bottle too late. "That was m' best 'shine!"
Seeder glared at them both, crossing her arms. She was a thin whippet of a woman, sixty if she was a day, with iron-streaked dark hair, olive skin, and golden brown eyes. She was stronger than she looked. A woman had to be, in a hellhole like Panem. She wore men's trousers and a high-collared shirtwaist under her coat, a sash across her chest from her time with Grant's army, and a medal that nestled proudly in her collar like a cameo. "There's no need to take the Lord's name in vain, Mr Abernathy. You were the one who donated this 'shine', as I recall?"
"Not for nothin'," Haymitch made a face, but wisely said no more about it.
Seeder let out a long-suffering sigh, opened up her bag and took out a small earthenware jar. "This is yarrow salve. It must be rubbed on his back every hour, until the swelling goes down."
Haymitch put up his hands in protest. "Oh no, I've done my duty, darlin'. I ain't no one's nursemaid."
She pressed her lips together. "Nevertheless, it must be tended to. I do not want to be called to return because he has been stupid, and bad humours have set in." She turned to Gale. "That means rest, and plenty of it."
Gale groaned, throwing the pillow at Haymitch, who was openly laughing. "I have a saloon to run, in case you hadn't noticed."
"If Mr Hawthorne chooses to get himself into these situations, then Mr Hawthorne can certainly suffer the consequences," she said crisply. "Where's Miss Cartwright? She should be taking charge of this fiasco."
"Run off with a Mellark!" Haymitch guffawed like it was the funniest thing in the world. Gale wanted to pummel some sense into the drunken man, but experience had taught him that would be a very bad idea. Haymitch Abernathy had been at Gettysburg, the Battle of the Crater, Bull Run, and in the Indian Wars besides. He'd claimed on more than one occasion that he only put up with Gale for Katniss' sake...that and the fact that the Hob had the best whiskey in town. Now that Katniss was gone, Gale wondered how long the grace period would last, or if it ever had to begin with.
It wasn't like him to be so maudlin. Maybe he should rethink the laudanum after all.
Seeder covered her smile with her hand. "That is unfortunate." Then she was all business. "Well, you will have to brew up a yarrow decoction instead. Soak some bandages in it and wrap them around your back. Drink this as well, it is comfrey, and will heal you from the inside. And another thing — I'm not your mother, son, but it has to be said — it's not healthy to string women along like you do. It wasn't my place to say anything about Delly, or that calico queen you've taken up with from the brothel, but whoever this Madge is, I hope you intend to make a honest woman of her." She pinned him with a dark look, collected her things, and swanned out the door. As soon as she was gone, Haymitch straddled his chair in relief, leaning on it with his arms. He lit a cigar, passing another to Gale. The two men puffed in companionable silence until Thresh stuck his head through the door.
"Give the man a cigar, Haymitch," Gale waved feebly from the bed for Thresh to come in.
Thresh accepted a light and leaned against the desk, puffing deeply. "Just wanted to tell ya that the boys and I have everything under control downstairs, Captain—I mean, Boss."
"Aw, none of that Captain shit tonight, Thresh. Give Hawthorne here a chance to recuperate." Haymitch took a slug from his flask, holding it up. "You was a real hero."
"It wasn't anything anyone else wouldn't have done," Thresh waved a hand dismissively, ashing his cigar. "And don't treat me any different, Hawthorne — I know how you get. After all the times during the wars... Yeah."
"Nothing owed between friends, Thresh." Gale cleared his throat. "You don't owe me anything, brother."
Thresh shook his head. "That's not the point." Before Gale could argue, Thresh gave a quick salute, then turned on his heel and ducked out the door.
XxX
"Compliments of Miz Seeder," Thom handed a bottle of bourbon to Haymitch. "For all your trouble, she said. What's she do, throw that piss you call champagne away?" Without waiting for an answer, he put the new bottles next to the laudanum on the mantle piece, cleaning out two jars with the tail of his shirt. "Some of us drink like civilized men." He turned his back to Gale and poured the drinks.
The drink had a strangely bitter bite, but after the first gulp it went down smooth. Gale felt a slow numbing begin to settle over his back, and he sat up.
"All this for some stargazer, huh?" Thom's gaze was reproachful, but Gale couldn't blame him. "When I said Coin had a new girl, I didn't mean you should try to rescue her single-handedly, boss. And just where is this Jezebel? Shouldn't she be tending to her wounded hero?" Somehow, Thom managed to put a lifetime of sarcasm into those last two words.
"She isn't a sporting gal." Gale couldn't keep the frustration from his tone. "She's an honest woman who was being held against her will."
Thom and Haymitch shared an unreadable look.
"That's what I'm sayin'," Haymitch thumped his fist on Gale's desk. "I ain't no mother hen. Where's Comstock Hanna?"
A smirk of amusement brought the edges of Thom's lips up under his handlebar mustache. "I don't know, Abernathy, where the hell d'you think a prime article like Comstock Hanna is at this hour? Thread and his men are getting a night for free over at Coin's place, and my guess is that she's flat on her back, servicing men like a camp whore after a battle." Thom raised his glass to Haymitch. "If you want to get your rocks off, you'll have to go down to the Stockade to get sucked off by some cathouse trick. No other woman will put up with your stench, old man, and that's the honest truth."
"Lay off him, Thom." Gale met Thom's baleful eye. "What's going on downstairs?"
"Finnick's moping at the bar, drowning his heartbreak with scotch and a dancing girl or two in his lap, as every night. Thresh is being cooed over by the dollar girls. Everyone's pulling for ya, Boss." He cleared his throat, and Gale was astounded to see a wetness at the corner of Thom's eye. "The girls been fightin' over who was to look after ya, but Miz Seeder put a stop to that. She says ya ain't too bad, so long as ya don't move too quick and pull her 'broidery out." He grinned. "Still, I wouldn't say no to some 'ministrations' from the gals if I was you. Pity ya can't lay on your back and enjoy it, but —"
"He don't want one of them poxy tarts near his prick, Thom," Haymitch said. "If he didn't never tup Delly, and I don't know how he resisted those enormous tits, between you an' me — well, he certainly ain't gonna recuperate any better when he's balls deep in cunny if he can't even enjoy it." He leered. "Maybe he's got himself struck on some stargazer, but that don't mean the rest of us can't reap the rewards."
"This ain't a cathouse, and those girls ain't for sale, not unless you're willing to pony up a couple of gold bands and a preacher. Me, I'm not the marrying type. And Madge — Miss Undersee — isn't a stargazer." He stared into the depths of his drink. "She's had a damned unfortunate time of it ever since she came to Panem, though. I mean to help her get back on her feet — even if I have to crawl on my knees to do it."
"You paint quite the picture, boy," Haymitch snorted. "Like I said —"
"Madge? Madge from Twelvetrees?" Thom sat down heavily on the edge of Gale's bed. "Not the one you told me about, the one who — "
Haymitch cleared his throat. "Shee-it. Not the blonde Comstock Hanna told to git?"
"She's not at your place?" His chest constricted in fear. "Where the hell is she?!" He whipped out his Colt from where his holster hung on the bedpost, pointing it at Haymitch, lips tighening at the pain from the sudden movement.
Haymitch held up his hands. "I left the...lady...at my place. For all I know she's still there. Never figured you'd get stuck on some uppity flash-piece like that, but you always did have a taste for high-class tail." He took a pull from his flask, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Remember that teacher back in St Cloud?"
"That was your woman, Haymitch. And if Miss Trinket was an 'honest woman', then I'm the king of France!"
Thom was saved from Haymitch's fist in his face by an out of breath Chaff, wheezing stridently as he burst through the door. "Fight!"
"What?!" Gale was on his feet. The laudanum was remarkably effective, all told.
"Downstairs... Mellark showed up while you was out and started winning every hand at five card draw, and you know how them boys git when they're riled up. Sober as a preacher on a month of Sundays it was, 'til ol' Marvel pulls his gun out and accuses Mellark of cheating." He paused for breath. "You know Marvel. Man's got a hair-trigger temper."
"Fuck!" Not for the last time, the word was ineffective at describing the situation. Thom passed Gale his boots. Haymitch was useless, sprawled out on his chair, his eyes glassy with drink. He kicked the older man's boot. "Get up!"
Gale could hear the girls screaming from backstage, and glass breaking. He opened the door, and a bottle sailed past the balcony railing, smashing on the door frame. The bottom level was a mass of heaving violence. Gale looked for Finnick first, out of habit — of course, there he was in the thick of things, brawling like the best of them.
And where was Mellark? Standing there and taking it like a man? No, he was near the back door, and when he saw Gale looking at him, he gave a short, mocking salute with that infuriatingly pleasant smile of his. He mouthed something, but it was too far away to make out.
