GALE AND KATNISS

PART 12 (WOW, ALREADY!)

A/N: another one down… And it's almost over… I must admit, I will regret the moment when this story draws to a close. I also regret the moments when I check my inbox and there are no reviews…hint, hint. But anyways, enjoy this one, because I'll be going on vacation soon, and probably won't be terribly motivated (or within range of wireless internet) to write. So, my advice to my lovely readers is this: pace yourselves. AND I do have one more thing to request of y'all. I need ideas and/or inspiration for a Catching Fire book, or I won't write one. Hehe.

Disclaimer: Honestly, after all of our time together? You're seriously going to tell me you want a disclaimer? Fine then. With all due respect to the lovely (but controversially deluded) Suzanne Collins, who is a most venerable character, I hereby claim that I am not her. Except when I'm dreaming.

So, enjoy.

I awaken to a hospital scene, with frantic doctors and surgeons flurrying about in clouds of white and blue scrubs, surgical masks covering their faces. On a white tray to my right is a thin, elegant scalpel. I shudder, trying not to imagine what that's going to be used for later.

It's disconcerting, how everything here is either white or blue. I'm starved for some kind of variation in color, or a flaw of any kind. The sanitary walls and flawless skin of the doctors surrounding us are too…perfect.

I look down, and see that I'm lying on a hospital bed, covered in paper sheets. There's an IV taped into my arm, and several tubes of multicolored fluid are hanging from a rack above my head. I've never been fond of needles, I never allowed even my mother to administer antibiotics through a syringe.

I open my mouth to protest, but I must've been given a second dose of morphine, because for a moment my senses are dulled, and then I'm unconscious again.

After the second time I'm anesthetized, I don't awaken again.

For what seems like an eternity, I see nothing, hear nothing, and feel nothing. I float in and out of reality in my medically induced coma, my mind reliving the games in perturbingly vivid memories that I'd much rather forget. And I can hear in the memories. Rue's scream, it reverberates throughout my skull, echoing over and over and over again. Thresh's last breath is an enormous gust of wind that rages around me. The melodic hum of Gale's voice buzzes in my ears. I see the glint of a knife in the sunlight, and I'm blinded, my head pounding.

But then, slowly, I begin to remember where I am. The first thing I notice is the smell. It reminds me of Haymitch…and lemons. When I inhale, the scent burns my nostrils. Disinfectant, I remember. After that first revelation, I notice other things as well. Temperature. Texture. I must be on a hospital cot, the kind covered in thin paper sheets.

Yes, that's right. The games are over. Gale and I, we're both alive. I can go home to my family. It's blissful, knowing that these thoughts, once dreams, are now a reality.

At least, I hope so.

After days in oblivion, it's hard to open my eyes and take in my new surroundings. I feel warmth on the back of my eyelids, and remember something. Sunshine. I crack my eyes open a tiny bit, wanting to recall more than just the sensation. I want to see the warm yellow light, flooding through an open window.

I crave it.

Once I open my eyes, however, I am distracted by the sights and smells around me, and quickly forget about the sunshine.

My mind is starved for new information, and I take in as much as I can of my surroundings. However, there isn't much to look at in the room.

An overwhelming sense of boredom overcomes me. It irritates me that after such dramatized, chaotic events, my life has become an endless world of dullness. I struggle to entertain myself, tapping my fingers against the sheets and admiring a lone crack in the plaster ceiling.

After I've been counting my finger taps for a while, a nurse wearing nondescript white scrubs enters my room. She's holding a tray of food, none of it looks particularly appetizing. Wielding a silver spoon laden with runny eggs, she begins to feed me.

The eggs are repulsive. I can taste the artificiality in them, and I never really was a fan of runny eggs. I try not to gag, wishing I could go back to being fed through the IV that's still inserted deep in my arm.

But while the food is disgusting, it's a welcome change from the abrupt nothingness that I've been suffering for days. I truly wish I could see Gale…

I know that his presence would settle me, make me content once again. His absence makes me anxious. It's an abysmal combination, anxiety and boredom. My nerves are taught, I'm sure that my tense behavior and precarious mental state aren't assisting my recovery.

The nurse leaves, and I fall asleep. When she returns again, I awaken. We follow this pattern for several days, me eventually coming to hate her presence. How I long for someone else's…

Although I complain, I get nothing but the disgusting eggs. The nurse's grip is unsteady, sometimes she spills the eggs and they run down my neck. Revolting.

However, after what seems like an eternity, someone else comes to me.

I wake up to the gentle touch of his hands, I'm surprised by how shockingly soft they are. I've never felt those hands so smooth and callous free, it's as though the doctors have scrubbed off an entire layer of his olive skin.

I open my eyes slowly, wondering if it's a dream. The first thing I notice is the darkness. It's inky black in here, nothing like the usual brightness that I've become accustomed to.

When my eyes adjust to the darkness, I finally get to see his face. Finally. A rush of warmth floods through me as I take in his bold expression, his beautiful grey eyes, his long, glossy black hair that curls in the tiniest bit at the ends. I extricate a hand from the pile of tubes attached to me, and reach it upward to touch his amazing face.

I lean forward, trying to take all of him in. He's wearing only his paper hospital gown, it hardly falls to his knees. There're several hastily applied bandages covering his arms, as if someone – someone who isn't a doctor – ripped out the various IV's he'd been connected to. I'm beginning to get the idea that he's not supposed to be here.

"Hey, Catnip," he whispers, stroking my hair and sitting down beside me. Even if his presence is illegal, that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it.

"Hey, Gale," I answer. My voice is raspy from a lack of use, I'm surprised at the weak sound of it.

We sit in silence for a long time, just remembering. It's easier to remember with Gale at my side. It means that I have someone share the burden with.

At long last, Gale breaks the silence. "You said something in the arena," he says. I'm not sure what he's talking about. "I wanted to find out if it was still true, outside. When there weren't thousands of people watching."

At my confused expression he sighs, exasperated. "I love you, Katniss."

I remember. How could he think that what I had said wasn't true? Could he have believed it was an act, just to draw sponsorships? I wonder whether it's possible that he would really expect that from me.

Then again, I have no way of knowing what I would've been capable of if he hadn't come with me. After all, I am a murderer.

After a long pause, I decide to answer him. Truthfully. "I love you, Gale."

Finally, I get what I wanted and he leans in ever so slowly to kiss me. His lips are soft now, not chapped like they were in the arena. He's gentle, though, like he's afraid to hurt me.

Maybe that's good. I'm not sure exactly what physical state I'm in.

The sensations are a thousand times magnified, and the kiss is surreal. My heart beats rapidly, and I begin to pant.

Somewhere behind me, I hear a quick beeping. It's irritating, and I wish it would go away until I realize that it's my cardiac monitor, and that it's constant beeping mirrors the beating of my own heart.

We break away, knowing that the monitor's going to reveal us. I remember how before, whenever I'd become excited or overly nervous, I'd been given another dose of morphine through one of the clear tubes hooked to my arm.

Sure enough, it's not long before I lose my motor control.

Of course, the capitol had to steal even that moment from me. Why can't they leave me alone? The games are over, aren't they?

When I awake again, I feel cool steel bands chaffing against my wrist and pressing into my stomach. I suffer a moment of panic at the restriction of movement, until I remember that any sudden movements are only going to bring another dose of anesthetic to knock me out.

Turning my head carefully so as not to upset the cool steal bounds that hold me tight, I survey the room around me. I've been moved to another room, this one is bigger and there's a large window to my right. At last, I can see the sky, even if it is only the smog of the capitol. To my right is another hospital bed, with a dark haired, sleeping figure lying on it.

I smile, unreasonably happy as I remember the last time I saw him. It's amazingly relieving to have Gale at my side, where I can keep track of him, and where he can look after me. Feeling extraordinarily secure, I lean back onto the thin pillow, allowing myself to drift off naturally this time.

I certainly need the rest.

The rest of my recovery happens quickly, probably due to Gale's company, and I'm soon being briefed for the after games interview.

Eventually, I'm even removed from the IV and sent to see Cinna.

I'm warmly greeted by my prep team, they cluster around me, combing through my destroyed hair and picking at every imperfection that's left on my skin. The colors of their hair and skin are dizzying after months of muted beiges and greens. Nature colors.

They chatter constantly, desperate for gossip about parties and appearances. For the most part, I do my best to tune them out. While I've become rather fond of my clueless little pets, I'm not sure that Gale's feelings mirror mine. He's less sympathetic to naivety.

And at last, I'm relinquished to see my stylist, and I have to admit that I'm looking forward to it. While he still hasn't proved his complete sanity, I'm now convinced that he's not a madman, either. More of…an artistic genius.

He looks the same as he did before the games, his hazel eyes lined in gold. I smile at him, waiting patiently while he adjusts the prep team's work. It occurs to me that I ought to get used to this, I'll be encountering it every year from now on.

Before I can truly consider the horrors of mentoring children who'll enter the games, I force myself to instead focus on my makeover, as it's slightly less painful.

Looking in the mirror, I don't see a girl, but a corpse, albeit a well made-up corpse. My eyes are sunken and my shoulders and hips are far to defined. I can easily count each of my ribs, and my hair falls in lanky tangles around my thin face. I'm reminded of those photos we were shown in school. I'd been terrified by those war veterans…especially the way their dead, zombie-like bodies were perfect matches for the burnt out looks in their eyes. Like they were dead inside.

It's a good thing I still have Gale and my family, I think. They give me something to live for.

I sigh, seeing Cinna approach me in the mirror. "I'm sorry," I say. "I really haven't left you anything to work with."

He grimaces, but doesn't seem shocked at all by my appearance. "Tributes have come out of the games looking worse than this."

I'm given a light blue dress that falls loosely around my knees. I can see where Cinna's made up for a lot of my weight loss, through strategic draping of the silky fabric and careful pleating. My hair is washed with pungent products and curled into loose ringlets, and the pain on my face is erased by yet another layer of shimmering makeup. When I step into the short, whitish heels, I can't help but feel how fake it all is.

The citizenry of the capitol saw me nearly die in the arena – are they so naïve that they won't detect the difference in my appearance, or the way I've changed since they last saw me in the arena to now? I exhale loudly again, knowing that the capitol's afraid to admit that their favorite television program is truly just a brutal, controlling weapon of war.

I see Haymitch underneath the stage, he's dressed in a midnight blue suit and he's clean shaven. To be honest, I'm taken aback by how…clean he looks. My mentor half smiles, half grimaces at me as he takes in my dress, in an almost apologetic way. "Hey, Sweetheart," he says. I smile appreciatively, he's truly made an effort to stay sober for Gale and I. And frankly, he's done more than any other mentor's ever done before.

We're both going home.

And to my surprise, he draws me into a hug. The smell of wine and spirits that usually lingers around him is masked by the smell of soap and fresh sawdust. When I tentatively wrap my arms around his neck, he puts his mouth close to my ear and begins to speak in an urgent tone, and I immediately see through the smug, carefully orchestrated façade he's been upholding.

"That stunt you pulled in the arena, when you burned the weapons. The Capitol's not happy about it," he says hurriedly. "They're going to make your life a living hell."

So it's out of the frying pan, and into the fire. Figures.

"What can I do?" I ask, desperate for any chance to reconcile with the capitol, desperate for peace.

"You broke the rules," Haymitch says. "There's only supposed to be one victor. And your actions were either downright treason, or just the mad, last ditch efforts of a little girl in love."