Lovers in a Dangerous Time
by FanficAllergy & RoseFyre

oOo

Chapter Seven: Closer to Fine

oOo

Last Time in Lovers in a Dangerous Time:

From the bed, Peeta's sleep-filled voice filters over. "Are you coming to bed?" He turns and stretches, revealing his naked chest. "Or are we sleeping on the couch tonight?"

It's not teasing. It's a legitimate question. And I know if Katniss and me don't move to the bed soon, he'll get up and join us, dragging the blanket behind him like a toddler.

I can't help it; I laugh with the joy of being home. Even though this day has gone on forever, at least I know it's going to end right.

oOo

Over the next few weeks, the war drags on.

The rescue team returns from Four five days after the bombing with fewer than a thousand survivors. It's lucky there were even that many. Much of the district has been destroyed. Incinerated. Pulverized. What little is left isn't worth holding, not to Thirteen. Not now. Even the survivors recognize that rebuilding isn't an option at this time. So the district is abandoned.

Finnick disappears for a week.

Almost immediately, the rescue team is redeployed to Six. Coin wants to fully secure that district before liberating the next. Something about rooting out insurgents and booby traps. It seems like I'll never be able to have that Talk with Rory. He's never home.

Part of me is relieved, but a bigger part is concerned. He's only fourteen and has been on the front lines of the war for months. He's been lucky so far, but someday his luck is going to run out. Everyone's does. I worry about how these experiences are going to affect him after the war. I worry about what it's going to do to his relationship with Prim. The war has changed all of us. Including me. I worry about who we're going to be when we finally make it to the end.

In preparation for the next phase of the rebellion, everyone left in Thirteen is in 'planning mode.' Peet's been pumping out propo after propo to disseminate to the resistance ahead of our next attack. At least one for each district remaining. No one knows where we're going next. Not even Coin. I get the hunch she's waiting for something first. Something big. But I have no idea what.

The delay suits Katniss just fine. She's in the final weeks of her pregnancy and she'd rather have her husbands with her for the birth. I'd rather be with her too. We both would. But Thirteen seems to be doing its level best to keep us apart, short of deploying us to another district. While Peeta is hip-deep in propos, Katniss is up to her eyebrows in computer code and microchips. She still struggles to keep up with the transplants from Three, but she's holding her own. Carving her own path. Finding her own victories.

Then there's me. They've thrown me into a 'think tank' - their words - consisting of Beetee and a few of the head honchos from Three. We're supposed to come up with 'new and improved' weapons and defenses. Things that aren't Capitol-derived and will give the Capitol a taste of its own medicine. In another life, I'd be honored to be a part of this group. But having spent my time on the front lines, I know the biggest casualties of so called 'better weapons' are those who are the most innocent. I'd rather be working on ways to shut down the Capitol's automated defenses like Katniss is than thinking up new and unique ways to kill people.

I glance up from the drafting table to see my wife hunched over a monitor, her eyebrows drawn into a thoughtful frown while Wiress motions vaguely at something I can't see. I want to go over there and see what's causing her so much consternation. Maybe do a little something to ease it.

"Thirteen to Gale Hawthorne," an amused voice intrudes into my thoughts.

Dragging my eyes from my gorgeous wife back to the plans set out in front of me, I catch Beetee smiling at me and say, "What'd I miss?"

"I asked you a question," Hal Poindexter, one of the brains from Three says, his tone flat and impatient.

"I didn't hear it."

"Obviously."

If I didn't know better, I'd ask what tracker jacker flew up his ass. But I do know. Poindexter hates the Capitol so much it puts me to shame. And he's got full right to. He lost his wife to the flu, two kids to the Games, and just this week, his daughter Glados to the consolidation of Six.

The last breaks my heart. I liked Glados. She was a sweet kid. Only a year younger than me, but a kid nonetheless.

They haven't even found a body to bury, so Poindexter can't even get that closure. The only thing keeping this guy from going off the deep end is his last remaining kid and his obsessive need for revenge.

Revenge, as evidenced in the trap plans he's got spread out between us.

I point to a figure on one of the plans. "This won't work."

"And why not?"

"Too much collateral damage. You see this?" I outline the shape of a mine. "Sure, you'll kill the person who walks on top of it, but you have absolutely no control over who that's going to be. For all you know, it could be a kid." This seems to be a common theme in Poindexter's designs: Indiscriminate damage. It's like he doesn't care who dies, just so long as someone does.

My thought is confirmed a moment later when he says, "A Capitol kid." He emphasizes the word 'Capitol.'

I shake my head. "But still a kid. We need to be better than the Capitol. Show Panem that the Rebellion is better than the Capitol. And that means no killing of innocents."

The man's face hardens. "There are no innocents in the Capitol."

My hands clench. I want to put my fist through the asshole's face. But a little voice in my head that sounds remarkably like Peeta stays my hand.

Instead, I try something else. "There's also the shrapnel. It goes too high and too far. There's no telling who it could hit."

"There are always going to be casualties in war."

Fuck. That statement more than any other tells me Poindexter values vengeance more than the lives of the soldiers fighting in the rebellion. The urge to pop him one returns with a vengeance, but I tamp it down. This isn't a battle I'm going to win with violence. I've got other weapons in my arsenal.

And I deploy one now. "What are your thoughts?" I turn to the third person in our group.

Beetee frowns, studying the plans. "I agree with Mr. Hawthorne. Maybe if we could make the mines intelligent. Make sure that they only go off when we want them to, say when the Capitol's troops come down a specific avenue, I could be persuaded this is a viable idea. But as it stands now, it'd hurt our troops as much as help."

"I disagree." He's digging his heels in.

Carefully unclenching my hands, I lean forward and grab a blank sheet of paper and a pen. "Begging your pardon, Poindexter, but have you ever been in combat?"

The man's eyes narrow. "No."

"Beetee and I have." I sketch out a crude drawing of some city streets. "Say we plant these mines here." I point to an intersection. "Sure, it means that no one can sneak up on our troops from that direction."

"Precisely." He nods, his tone sharp.

"But that's also an escape route that we've now cut off." I take a deep breath, thinking back to the house to house fighting in Six. "It's easy to get turned around in a battle, lose track of which direction's what." I don't say more, though part of me wants to. Hammering the point in will only help so much. Time to change tacks. "And what happens after the battle's over, when we win? Our troops are going to have to avoid that area, or risk death or dismemberment."

"We could dig them up." Poindexter says it like it should it be obvious.

"How, without setting them off?" I point to the diagram. "The way they're designed right now, there is no failsafe, no remote control."

"So I'll design one."

Beetee taps his lips. "What about making them self-excavating? No need to worry about having someone dig them out or even bury them. A hovercraft drops them; they dig themselves in, they dig themselves out."

Poindexter frowns. "I suppose that's possible. It'd take some time to create a prototype."

"You do that," I say, pointing at him with my pen. "And then we can discuss this further. Right now, no."

"So what do you have in mind?" he grits out.

I pull over a few pieces of paper with some sketches on them. "You ever watch Swiss Family Robinson?"

oOo

Mealtime in Thirteen is a challenge. The cafeteria hums with hundreds of voices, machinery, and the low drone of the air recycling units. It's filled with the scent of mass-produced consumables and the press of human bodies. The floor trembles slightly, whether from the nearby factories or thousands of feet moving over a small space I'm not really sure. The whole place reminds me of the mines back in Twelve, only slightly better lit. The three hours we have to spend there each day is an exercise in endurance.

Our assigned cafeteria mostly services the refugees and transplants. There's a few Thirteen Natives who eat there - Neil Hayes, Bart Ashley, Michelle Harrison, that annoying nurse - but they're outnumbered by over ten to one. Especially now.

We get our food and scan the crowded room for a place to sit. Behind me, I hear Madge and Rye chatting with Peeta about something. A birthday maybe, I'm not really paying attention. As the tallest, it's my responsibility to find an unoccupied table, but so far I'm not having much luck.

Katniss shifts next to me and I redouble my efforts. There's one long table near the back where only two people are seated: a brunette girl and a blonde woman. Everyone seems to be giving the table a wide berth. I wonder why.

I nudge Peeta. "How about there?" I point with my chin.

My husband stiffens beside me. "Rye…"

My brother-in-law comes over, limping on his new prosthetic. "Shit."

"What?" I ask.

They ignore me.

"Well, you did say we should probably see her today."

"I wasn't thinking now," Peeta protests. "Maybe… later. In passing. When there are fewer people around."

"Do you really think that the longer we delay the better it's going to be? What if she sees us?" Rye points out.

Peeta sighs. "Yeah, it'd be worse."

"What'd be worse?" Katniss says, her irritation growing. She shifts again, stretching her back as much as she can while balancing a tray full of food.

"Today is Mom's birthday."

Rye jerks a thumb at Peeta. "Yeah, and the good son here thinks we should do something for it."

"Like what? Throw her a party?" I roll my eyes. "Not like Thirteen is big into celebrations."

"I know. It's just…" Peeta trails off. "She's my mom, okay?"

"She's a harridan," Madge pipes up.

"That doesn't mean she's not my mother."

"Fine. We can go over and have lunch with her, but if she ruins my food, I'm stealing yours," Katniss says, swiping a bowl of soup from my tray and replacing it with a grayish mush.

Peeta swaps it back. "The soup has garlic in it."

Katniss makes a face. Garlic, peanuts, and bean sprouts, along with a whole list of other foods, including most fish, are no-nos. Apparently they're bad for the baby or breastfeeding… I'm not sure which. I slip her a roll instead. "You steal our food anyway."

"Yes," she grabs a prune from Peeta's tray and pops it in her mouth, "but this time I'm giving you warning."

"Fair enough."

We weave through the benches and tables to where Peeta's mother sits. The girl across from her looks up, and I feel a niggling sense of familiarity, like I should know who this woman is, but I don't.

"Mind if we sit here?" Peeta asks.

From the look on his mother's face, I half-expect the answer to be no. But instead she says, "I can't stop you. You'll just do whatever you want anyway."

Peeta sets his tray down next to her with a sigh. "Happy birthday, Mom."

She sniffs, but I catch a glimmer of something, almost like happiness, in her eye. "I wasn't sure you'd remember." Implied is 'I wasn't sure you'd care.' "I haven't seen you in over a month."

"We've been busy." Rye plops his tray down and takes a seat, climbing awkwardly over the bench. I notice he sits on Peeta's other side, instead of next to his mother. Hayes takes that unwanted seat instead. The rest of us follow suit.

"Too busy to see your mother?" The question is pointed, like she's looking for a fight.

"Too busy to see anyone," Peeta counters. "Why I've barely seen Katniss and Gale, and I live with them." He turns to the woman across from. "I don't think we've met." He holds out his hand. "I'm Peeta Mellark."

"Taylor Paylor," she says in a quiet voice.

His eyes widen. "The Victor?"

The woman nods.

A thread of shock filters through our group.

"I'm surprised we haven't seen you before," Peeta notes in his 'I'm going to pump you for information and you're not going to know I'm doing it' voice. "I'm part of the propo group. They tend to tell us when high-profile refugees arrive."

"We just got here this week," she answers with a shrug, turning her face away and shrinking back into herself like she's trying to become invisible. "We had to wait until after the Victory Tour to run."

Peeta nods. It makes sense; her absence would've been noticed before then. "I'll probably see you soon."

If anything she retreats further. "I hope not."

"You won't get a choice," Katniss says, picking at the gray mush. "They made Madge and me the 'Voice of the Rebellion.' They'll use you too."

"I don't want to be used." Taylor peeks up through her thick corkscrew curls. "I don't want to be famous."

"None of us do," our wife tells her, her tone gentle. "But it's better than the alternative."

"Which is what?" Mellark's mother snaps.

The muscle in our wife's jaw flutters, but she keeps her temper in check and answers the question. "Letting the Capitol win." Katniss's eyes grow distant. "It doesn't matter who the official Victor of the Hunger Games is. The Capitol is the only winner. We need to change the rules and that's what all of this is about. Thirteen's way isn't perfect, but it's better than living under the Capitol's thumb for the rest of your life."

Mrs. Mellark sniffs but thankfully stays silent while Paylor looks thoughtful.

"What will they have me do?"

"What do you want to do?" I ask, joining the conversation.

The girl shrugs. "I don't know. I'm not good at anything, unless you count being forgettable."

That answers a few questions about her Games and about her strategy. It also won't work in Thirteen. "Find something," I tell her. "If you don't, Thirteen will consider you expendable."

She nods, hazarding a glance at Hayes. "Is that true?" she asks the Thirteen native, and I'm left wondering how she knew.

A low flush spills up our bodyguard's neck. "I wouldn't have phrased it that way."

"But it's the truth," she finishes.

He nods. "It's nothing personal," Hayes adds quickly. "It's how we're raised. Trained. Those whose use to the district is lower are expected to sacrifice themselves for those whose worth is higher. But I'm sure they won't ask that of you. You're here."

The way he says it gives me pause. My eyes meet Peeta's; he's caught it too.

But before either of us can say anything, Hayes reaches out to grab Paylor's hand. "You're special. Don't let anyone tell you different. You survived the Games. You made it here. You're amazing."

Paylor stares at the man. "Th-thank you."

"Neil's right," Peeta steps back in, taking control of the conversation once more. "You are special. And I'd love to hear your story when you're willing to tell it." He pauses as if in thought. "But maybe I'm not the right person." He looks at Katniss and Madge. "When's your next show?"

Madge consults a small device on her wrist. "Thursday."

Peeta nods and regards Paylor. "If you're up for it, I think you should go on their show. Tell Panem. Give people another reason to run."

"I'll think about it," the Victor murmurs.

Accepting the answer for the dodge we both know it is, Peeta turns back to his mother. "So, how are you settling in?"

"They have me baking bread." Her voice is hard, flinty.

Both Peeta and Rye wince. There's a story there, I can tell.

"And where are you living?" Peeta asks, continuing the conversation. He really is the good son; I wouldn't be nearly so nice if she were my mother.

"In the barracks. I have to share a room with seven other people, including her." That explains why Taylor is eating with her. "Not all of us get cushy quarters like you."

Ashley steps in. "Only married couples or families with children under the age of fourteen get housing outside of the barracks."

"How barbaric."

He shrugs. "It has to do with space. As you may have noticed, Thirteen doesn't have a lot of it."

Mrs. Mellark turns away with a sniff. "I'll be glad when this war is over and I can go home."

I think of our cave and the life we created there. "You and me both, ma'am. You and me both."

oOo

Cinna's workroom in Thirteen smells of camphor and freshly pressed fabric. An odor which reminds me of my mother's living room. The scent of laundry is universal and I have to keep myself from searching for my mother's thin figure among the dress forms. It's one of the reasons I avoid our scheduled fittings.

But not the only reason. I hate feeling like a doll, dressed to match the expectations of the Capitol or Thirteen or worse, both.

But Peeta gave me that sad put-upon look, so here I am. He is so going to owe me later. And I've got a fresh bottle of lube with his name on it, courtesy of one Finnick Odair. The man's taken on a bit of a mentor role for us. At least when it comes to sex. There's some things that Finnick has described that I find disturbing, like an odd tentacle machine one of the Gamemakers designed, but when it comes to having sex with my husband and wife, the man's advice has been invaluable.

Effie Trinket twitters to Cinna as she drapes fabric across my chest. I ignore her, instead focusing on the cloth in her hands. It's black, almost net-like, and I have no idea what good it will do. Apparently it's not the right thing either, because Trinket tosses it away as if it's trash and pulls out a large bucket.

"Strip," she orders.

I blink. "No."

She sighs, her mouth hardening into a thin line. "Mr. Hawthorne, if you think I have any interest in you, you are sadly mistaken."

"What, too sober?"

"Too annoying."

I blink again. If I'm annoying, I have to wonder what her basis for comparison is.

"And far too young," she continues, unaware of my internal dialogue. "We need to get exact measurements without barriers. In the Capitol it would be easy. There are machines to do this. Here we have to-" she motions to the bucket "-use other means."

Her explanation makes sense, so I unzip my coverall, letting it fall to my hips.

"I said strip."

I groan but obey, regretting more and more as time goes on my decision to become the Mockingjay.

She tosses a small sock-like thing at me. "You can cover yourself with this."

I look at the sock; it wouldn't fit over my foot. What is it supposed to go over? "Cover myself where?"

She motions to my junk. "Do you need assistance?"

"Yeah, do you?" Peeta says, giving me a wink.

"No," I say, my voice flat. And to demonstrate, I cram myself into the flesh-colored fabric. It feels odd and uncomfortable, but I manage.

"Wonderful." She opens the container to reveal a goopy white substance. "Now lie down on the table and try not to move."

I do as she asks, wincing at the cold metal underneath my back. She pours the gunk onto my chest and I suck in my breath at the temperature.

With an expression of extreme concentration, she uses what looks like a spatula to spread the shit over my chest, from the base of my neck to just above my pubic region. As she works, she keeps repeating the same thing over and over. "Shallow breaths, shallow breaths. We don't want any cracks, now do we?"

"Considering I have no idea what you're doing, I have no idea what we want."

Cinna speaks up. "We're taking a mold of your chest to create customized body armor for you and your spouses."

"So that means I get to do that too?" Peeta asks from where Cinna's pinning an outfit on him.

"Eventually. Once you've regained your full muscle mass."

"And Katniss?"

"Once she's no longer pregnant and breastfeeding, we'll do the same for her. The polymer we're using is lighter than any of the other bullet-resistant materials. But unfortunately, it's also more rigid. Hence the mold."

I nod my head as if I know what he's talking about. I don't. The words mean nothing to me.

Eventually, Trinket finishes what she's doing and says, "Now just lay there and try not to breathe for the next thirty minutes while this hardens."

"Pretty sure I can't hold my breath that long," I manage to say with a straight face.

"Well, try."

Peeta laughs.

A few minutes later, the door to the workroom opens and Bart Ashley skids in.

Peeta straightens, suddenly on edge. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Your wife's in labor," the man pants.

I start to sit up.

"Don't you even think about moving!" Trinket snaps. She turns to Ashley. "Tell Katniss that her husbands will be with her in an hour."

"Like hell we will!" I sit up, the goop cracking and flaking from my chest.

Trinket moans. "Babies have the worst timing!"

oOo

AN:
Written: 2/17/18
Revised: 2/27/18

The title of this chapter comes from the Indigo Girls. Who frankly are incredibly underrated and this song fits so thematically and literally... Because they are are closer to fine. LOL

So this was the obligatory "and time passes" chapter. The last five chapters have taken place over the period of one day; this one covers about two months. Welcome to writing.

Yes, they still don't know if Annie is okay. There is a reason for that. We have not forgotten her.

Special thanks to WebMD for telling us what foods you shouldn't eat during pregnancy/nursing. We knew of some, but not others. There's also several old wives tales of not eating tofu or soy while pregnant, but considering Asia we're pretty sure that's not really all that valid.

Nothing was randomized in this chapter.

You can get more information about our original writing here:

Website: RoseLarkPublishing

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Until next time! Thanks for reading!