*Just reposting with some minor formatting/grammatical adjustments!
A/N: A quick thanks to scoobygal, StillOnCloud9, hollah, and IsForWinners for your reviews of the last chapter. Also to my anonymous reviewers: Eliza, so glad you like the story, and TEAM MELLARK, I'm so happy you think the characters are true to their nature; I agonize over that constantly. And thanks for the shout-out to Gale's Games…it made my day. Upwards and onwards, all…Enjoy!
Part I. 6 pm.
They're all smiling: Rory laughing and shaking his tousled black curls, Posy giggling and standing on tip toe to see better, and even Madge stopped by, her face glowing and her hair tumbling down her shoulders in a soft waterfall as she cheers for Vick. Vick is smiling too. A hint of an embarrassed grin playing across his reddened features as he ducks his head bashfully at the cheers of happy birthday.
In the back of my head I think that I should be smiling too, but all I can manage is lips set in a grimly satisfied line. I can't afford to show any more emotion than this. I can't afford to feel any more emotion than this. If I acknowledge how much I love my family, so much that I ache with it, if I acknowledge how much this simple little birthday party pulls at my heart and calls me to come home, I would never be able to go back to war.
And I'm going back to war. The meetings started a few days ago. Briefings, strategies, equipment fittings. And with all the maps and plans and talk of acceptable risk have come my anger and my memories of the war. And I silently curse the Capitol for intruding even on my few weeks with my family, my one small reprieve from fighting.
I signed up for my third tour of duty weeks ago, before I had come home. And as much as I want to stay with my family and help my mom, teach Rory about the woods, listen to Vick's stories, and watch Posy grow up, I'm honor bound to go back.
I'm not leaving the job unfinished.
Because I hate the Capitol. I hate them with a toxic hatred burning in my gut. Hatred so violent that it scares me. It's the Capitol's fault that we live in this underground labyrinth with no light and sunshine, the Capitol's fault that such a small celebration can mean the world to my family, the Capitol's fault that I can't even begin to count on both hands the number of friends I have lost in the war. The Capitol's fault that I have seen…but it's better not to think about the things I've seen.
I think about the Capitol, and I can't smile. But my family is smiling, and they aren't wearing that pinched look of worry and hunger that I'm so used to seeing. And for that, I'm grimly satisfied.
My mom emerges from the kitchen with a small cake adorned with a solitary red candle, and Vick actually squeaks in excitement. Even I'm surprised. We never had birthday cakes growing up, and even in District 13 on her salary as a housekeeper and my meager war pay, I know my mother must have spent several weeks saving up on butter and sugar to make this extra dessert.
"Wow," Vick whispers in awe as my mom sets the cake in front of him, his eyes glowing in the reflected light of the candle. The cake isn't very large, just enough for each of us to have a small piece, but the way Vick is staring at the cake, you would think it was fit for President Snow himself.
My throat constricts as I see my shy baby brother smiling at this humble cake as though it's the most beautiful thing in the world. All my life I strove to bring moments like this to my family, and watching Vick's sincere and disbelieving face causes my chest to tighten with a painful ache. After seeing the excess of the Capitol, it breaks my heart that something so small could make my family so happy.
I want to break down, grab Vick, hold him in my arms, and say sorry that his life has been so hard and so unfair. "Make a wish, baby brother," I say gruffly instead, reaching out to ruffle his hair.
Vick screws his eyes closed and says, "I wish every one in my family can have one birthday as perfect as this." I swallow painfully. Remembering my last birthday, I can't help but agree with him. Vick, not knowing the effect his words have on me, opens his eyes with a huge smile and blows out his one candle gustily.
The flame flickers out and I close my eyes, trying to forget. But I haven't had a drink all day and the memories come unbidden, no matter how hard I clench my jaw and tighten my fists.
Katniss was away that day, rallying the people in District 4 with Peeta. No one else even knew it was my birthday. I was bitter and upset and stupid after all the day's fighting so I snuck into the mess tent in the middle of the night and filched a bottle of the officer's white liquor. I didn't even bother hiding, but sat on one of the deserted mess hall tables in the dark and slowly drank the whole bottle, grimacing at the drink's burning, noxious taste.
There were only a few sips left in the bottle when one of the cooking girls walked in. Her eyes widened in her pale face when she saw me, and I remember thinking that I must look terrifying: drunk, my face still covered in dirt and stubble and maybe a little blood, and my fatigues only half buttoned. I didn't realize it then, but looking back, she was just a kid; she couldn't have been more than eighteen.
"It's my birthday," I said, giving her a small smile before swigging from the bottle. I'll never know why, but after that she slowly approached me. She refused a drink with a slight shake of her head, but she sat down next to me, our shoulders brushing against each other.
"Happy birthday," she whispered. I turned to look at her, so thin and pale with eyes like dark, liquid pools, and all of a sudden, I dropped the bottle of liquor and was kissing her. She tensed in surprise, her arms poised at my chest to push me away. But I was insistent, holding her cheek in one hand and splaying the other in her hair so she couldn't pull away.
And her skin was soft, so soft, and eventually she relaxed into me and curled her fingers hesitantly into the hair along the nape of my neck, timid but willing. I don't remember much about the girl, just her thin, pale face and wide, dark eyes, the way she trembled as I laid her on the table and pressed my body on top of hers, and, when we were done, the fleeting taste of a salty tear on her cheek when I gave her a final, thankful kiss.
And then all hell broke loose. Several massive explosions shuddering the tent, bursts of lights, men shouting, and the staccato sound of machine gun fire. Later I would learn that it was a single enemy hovercraft on a routine patrol that managed to stumble onto our camp. But in the moment, overwhelmed by the thundering noise and pounding guns, I assumed this would be a fight to the death.
At the sound of the first explosion, the girl had gasped and clung to my arms in fear.
"Stay here," I mumbled harshly, and then I left her, still lying on the table with her wide eyes and her dress pushed up around her stomach.
I still had all my equipment from the day's fighting, and I joined the assault on the Capitol hovercraft without a second thought for the girl trembling in the mess tent. Within a few minutes, the lone hovercraft, outgunned and surprised, succumbed to our attack in a huge fiery ball of burning metal.
The remains of the craft burned hot and crackling for several minutes, the Capitol crew inside still screaming. Many of the men danced and cheered around the flames, or sent potshots into the ship in hopes of hitting one of the enemy, but I just watched the flames, not really thinking, the fuzziness from the alcohol returning as my adrenaline leaked away.
Thom, an old friend from the mines in District 12 and a member of my platoon, came up to me and clapped me on the back.
"Where were you, Hawthorne? I'd thought you'd miss the party when I saw your empty bed," he said, his teeth white and gleaming against the black gunpowder and sweat smearing his face.
"I was drinking the officers' liquor in the mess," I said dully. And when he looked at me in surprise, I replied, with a flicker of a grin, "It's my birthday."
"Well I'll be damned, Hawthorne," he said with a whistle. He grinned and indicated the burning hovercraft, "Make a wish and blow out your candle!" I heard a long, anguished, dying cry from inside and couldn't quite smile in return. It was the worst birthday of my life.
I don't really remember any of the girls I was with during the war, but somehow the girl from the mess tent always stuck with me. Maybe because it was such a horrible birthday, maybe because she clung to me so desperately when the bombs came, or maybe because I knew I was her first, but even though we packed up all our gear and moved camp that night, every time I went to the mess, I looked for her. I never saw her again.
And Thom…I squeeze my eyes closed even harder, willing myself to forget. Not Thom, please don't let me think about Thom, I beg, my nails digging painfully into my palms as I try to drive the memories away.
"Gale, are you alright?" A soft hand on my shoulder accompanies the words and pulls me out of my thoughts. I open my eyes and see Madge looking up at me with concern. "Do you want your piece of cake?" she says hesitantly.
"What?" I say, my mind still seeing a smiling Thom, his face covered in soot and flickering orange from the flames.
"Cake. Do you want your piece of cake?" Madge says carefully.
But all I can see are her blue, blue eyes, so wide with worry and concern. And though the girl from the mess tent had dark eyes and hair, somehow I see her in Madge, in her concern and hesitancy and, somehow after all she's been through, her innocence. And I think of abandoning that girl, her face pale with fear and the soft sparkle of a tear on her cheek, and looking at Madge, all of a sudden I can't breath. And then I think of Thom with blood all over his face, so much blood, and I feel dizzy. And then all I can think is that I need a drink. Damn it, I need a drink.
"I have to go," I say abruptly.
"What?" Madge says softly, looking confused.
I tear myself away from her gaze. "I have to go. Right now, I have to go," I say quickly. I can feel small beads of sweat prickling along my brow. God, I need a drink.
"But Gale," I hear. I look up and see Vick looking absolutely crestfallen, sadness mixed with confusion. "You just got here. You can't have another meeting," he pleads.
It breaks my heart to see Vick so upset on his birthday. I see a small dot of chocolate frosting at the corner of his mouth, and he looks so small and endearing that as much as I want to leave, I know I can't abandon my brother, my family, like this.
I close my eyes and take a deep, shuddering breath. I'm Gale Hawthorne. I've been swallowing my emotions for years. I can do this.
My eyes fly open. "To get your present!" I say quickly, suddenly inspired. "I have to go get your present! I left it in the kitchen."
"Oh!" Vick breathes, his face melting back into a smile. Then he pauses. "Wait, I get two presents?"
"Yep!" I say with fake cheerfulness before dashing into the kitchen and shutting the door. I drink down two quick glasses of water, breathing hard. I'm tempted to ransack the kitchen, rummage through every cabinet and drawer and crevice until I can find something alcoholic to take the edge off. But instead, I carefully set the glass in the sink and, with shaking hands, collect Vick's present from where I had hidden it on top of the fridge when I first arrived.
"All yours," I say, coming out of the kitchen and handing him the small white bundle. I watch as Vick carefully folds back the edges of the towel and try to steady my breathing. I spent days searching for his present, trawling the dark recesses of the seedy Underground black market as a way to distract myself from my painful army duties.
I'm rewarded for my effort when my entire family gasps as the present is revealed.
Nestled deep in the snow-white fabric of the towel is a small pile of perfectly plump ruby-red strawberries.
I feel the prickles of sweat on my brow cool and my hands stop shaking as I take in everyone's expressions. I can breath again.
"Where in the world did you get fresh fruit?" Madge asks breathily, breaking the silence. Of course she is referring to the high cost of fresh food in the underground D13. The district grows semi-tasteless produce in hydroponic greenhouses, but the goods are only available for a high price after the politicians and elite get first pick. Real strawberries, grown in rich soil and sunlight are practically unheard of, and certainly not affordable for the likes of us. Unless you know how to work the black market.
Madge's wide eyes come up to meet mine. In that moment, I remember how much Madge used to love strawberries back home, and I feel strangely glad that I found strawberries for Vick and not some other fruit.
With a shrug and, because Madge looks so serious, the ghost of a wink I answer, "I have my ways."
"Wow, Gale," Vick says. He looks up. "Here, everyone can have one!" he adds hastily, as though afraid that strawberries are a mirage that will disappear if he looks at them for too long.
The white towel is passed around almost reverently, and everyone carefully selects one of the crimson berries. The kids eat their berries quickly, dripping red juice along their fingers and smacking their lips in enjoyment. I can't help but feel pleased by their antics.
But then I catch sight of Madge. She lifts her strawberry decadently, smelling it slightly in anticipation. I pause, my strawberry already finished in one gulp, to watch her. She closes her eyes, and her small white teeth break through the fleshy exterior of the berry. I swallow, imagining the sweet juice bursting from the berry and spreading along her tongue.
"Mmm," she murmurs, almost to herself. She looks like she's…in ecstasy. Madge licks a small drop of juice off the side of her mouth, her small, pink tongue darting out quickly and capturing the bright red drop. My throat goes suddenly dry.
She opens her mouth to eat the rest of the strawberry, but she must sense me looking at her because her eyes dart towards me. I raise my eyebrows and smirk, letting her know that I had just witnessed her sensual enjoyment of the strawberry. Madge has the good grace to blush and look down, causing me to grin. She smiles and looks up at me, sucking lightly on her thumb to catch any wayward juice.
Just then, I feel timid arms circle my waist and little fists curling at my sides. I look down to see Vick's dark curls as he presses his face into my side. "Thank you for the best birthday present ever, Gale," he whispers.
"What? The strawberries," I answer in surprise. I run a hand through Vick's hair, feeling inexplicably tender towards my little brother. "You know it's no big deal. I would do anything for you."
Vick looks up and grins. "No, not the strawberries." He rolls his eyes like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I meant that you're here!" My mouth falls open in surprise, and he gives me a quick squeeze and lets me go before I can even formulate a reply.
"It's not over yet," Madge says, surprising us all. "I still haven't given you my gift, Vick."
"What?" Vick cries, looking up, startled. "Another gift?"
"Yep," Madge says, walking over to her bag and lifting out a small plastic contraption. "My father gave it to me when we left District 12."
Vick whips his head back to me in a panic. "I can't take something from your dad, Madge!" he says desperately, looking at me for confirmation.
Madge smiles. "It's not for you to take. Just for you to listen."
She clicks in a plastic cartridge and turns with a few knobs. All of a sudden, the sound of folk music fills the room, getting louder as she turns one of the dials on the machine. The jaunty notes sound distantly familiar, but I can't quite place them. There is a long pause while we all listen.
"It's the Harvest Festival music!" my mom says in sudden realization. And then it hits me like the long-forgotten memory it is. The lively fiddles, bright flutes, and merry clapping are all part of traditional District 12 celebrations. "I haven't heard this music in years," my mother sighs.
I close my eyes and listen to the music. The energetic notes send me years back to memories of the Harvest Festival. It was the only day of the year when we truly had something to celebrate, and the whole district would come out to enjoy the fun. As though from far away I see the ghosts of long-dead friends dancing in the town square, laughing by the fires, sharing a drink, and generally enjoying the short twilight reprieve from the harshness of our day-to-day reality. The Capitol always provided everyone with a little extra food during the Harvest Festival, and it was the only day when no one went hungry in Distrcit 12.
"Come on," Madge says, breaking me out of my reverie. "You have to dance with me!" She grabs a stunned Vick's hand and pulls him to the middle of the room. Madge's face is alight with joy and her eyes glint with mischievousness as she curtsies before Vick in the traditional D12 way. I'm surprised when Vick's face cracks into a huge grin and he bows before Madge. They join hands and start dancing in a lively circle. Their dancing reminds me so much of the joy and lightness of the Harvest Festival, and it's as though they're dredging up the ashes of a departed time, of a culture that died long ago, and celebrating that way of life as though it were never destroyed.
"Me too!" Posy cries, grabbing Rory's hand. She is too young to know any of the steps to the dance, but the music and Madge's bright laugh are infectious, and I can't blame her for joining in the fun.
Suddenly I feel a tug on my own hand and look up in surprise to see my mother pulling me towards the center of the room. Her eyes are glowing with laughter that I haven't seen since my father was alive. She looks years younger.
I can't help but grin back at her, more from surprise than anything else, but suddenly I feel a little younger myself, and a little reckless. I relish the feeling, which I haven't experienced since my days in the woods with Katniss.
I spin my mother around quickly, causing her to laugh and clutch my arms for support. We join the dance, not as enthusiastically as the other kids, but with a shadow of those carefree times before the war started. In this moment there is no war, no blood, no death, no fear, no hunger, no anger, only the memory of a long-ago, happier time. Between claps and kicks and careful spins with my mother, I look around at my siblings. Vick is smiling widely as Madge expertly leads him through the dance. Rory and Posy aren't even bothering to get the moves right, laughing and twirling and clapping, just enjoying the moment. Madge looks radiant, her shiny blond hair flying out behind her as she spins around with Vick.
"Let me dance with the birthday boy!" my mom calls as she drops my hands and pulls Vick into a hug.
"Mom," he mutters, with a red face and embarrassed grin. He looks away from Madge as though he can never live it down.
I surprise myself when I laugh out loud at Vick's adorably bashful expression. Rory dances by and tugs at Vick's hair, Posy traipsing after him, her face pink from all her twirling. Mom ignores Vick's protests and insistently tugs on his arms. There is no sign of fear or hunger or unhappiness in their faces.
And suddenly, unexpectedly, a bubbling, beautiful, impossible joy wells up within me, and without thinking, I grab a smiling Madge by the waist and lift her in the air. She gasps in surprise and clutches my arms when I lift her, but she starts laughing as I spin around. For the first time I notice Madge's eyes; they're a clear, joyful blue, wide and light with laughter.
The song comes to an end, and I set Madge down. We both stumble slightly with dizziness, and I keep a hold on her hips to steady us both. We're both breathless, and her cheeks are tinged with pink. I raise a hand to lightly push a few strands of hair away from her face. Her fingers curl on my arms, and I run my fingers along the strands of hair with a feather touch, wondering how I never noticed blond hair could be so pretty.
I don't know how to express how grateful I am for this wonderful moment of happiness and togetherness she has given my family. This moment of blissful forgetfulness she has given me. "Thank you," I say simply. I look into Madge's eyes and hope she understands.
"You're welcome," she says solemnly, and I know she does.
But then a rough pounding at the door startles us both, and Madge looks up at me curiously, biting her lip.
And then my mom says the fateful words: "Oh, that must be the Everdeens."
My blood runs cold and my heart starts pounding. I abruptly look away from Madge and drop my arms. I clench my jaw as hard as I can and harden my eyes. I don't want to see the Everdeens. I don't want to see Katniss. I barely notice when Madge worriedly withdraws her hands and shoots me a nervous look. I'm too busy shutting down my emotions, putting up my defenses, fighting, wrestling, battling my anger. No. No. Not Katniss. Not now when I had finally been happy. Finally free. My hands start shaking again.
As if in slow motion my mother walks towards the door. It opens. A hug, laughter, kisses. Mrs. E and Prim walk in, smiling, talking, and for a moment I allow myself to hope.
But then I see them. Holding hands, grinning, Katniss leaning into Peeta. And Peeta, that ass Peeta Mellark, holding out a massive white box to Vick. He opens it, and it's a cake. A huge, beautiful cake that puts my mother's to shame. There's even a hand-painted forest scene on top. Tigers and lynxes and trees and flowers, and it's perfect. And I hate Peeta Mellark for always being so damn perfect and nice and unspoiled through two Hunger Games and through the war and somehow always able to get the right gift and somehow able to get the girl too.
And I'm shaking so hard now, and I think I might crack a tooth I'm clenching so hard. I can't be here, I don't want to be here, and my hands are tightened into two hard fists, and I want to wring his neck for being so damn perfect.
And then Katniss is turning to look at me, and I know in a second we'll lock eyes and she'll be able to read me like a book. And for some reason I can't turn away even though I know what will happen. But then there's a soft hand slipped into mine, tugging me into the kitchen. And as the kitchen door slams shut I feel as though I've been pulled up, soaking and panting, from drowning and, after what was only a moment but what seemed like years, I can finally breath again.
Part II
I don't think Gale has even noticed that I pulled him into the kitchen. I can't really say why I did it. He just looked so angry. And horrified. Like he wanted to turn and run but also like he wanted to kill someone.
I don't really know what to say so I just watch him, staring at the counter and breathing hard, his hands balled into fists. I feel angry. Because even though Katniss is my best friend, I am mad at her. Because Gale loves her and she captivates him, and he can't look at any other girl because, to him, she is the only girl in the world.
And then I feel sad because I know that's not true. Gale has been with plenty of girls, and even though I know he doesn't care for them, I know he wants them. He looks at Katniss with undying love, and he looks at other girls, even trashy barroom floozies, for a lay, but why, why doesn't he ever look at me?
And then I feel pathetic. Because I want him to look at me. To love me. Because I am sad and alone and I've been in love with stupid Gale Hawthorne for half my life.
The silence stretches out, and I just want Gale to notice me, to see that it was me that saved him from having to face Katniss. But I don't really know what to say because I don't want to say her name and remind him that she's in the next room. So I say the first thing that comes into my head.
"Vick really loved your gift," I say hesitantly.
"What?" He mutters, his eyes clearing for a second. "Your gift was much better," he adds, waving his hand dismissively, his eyes still averted.
"Thanks," I say, feeling oddly touched like the sucker I am. A pause. "Are you ok?"
Gale finally looks at me. "Yeah, I'm fine," he says. He looks back down, studying his hands. "She just makes me so mad, you know." He runs a frustrated hand through his hair.
"Then why do you love her?" I say, not trying to mask the anger bubbling behind my words. Gale looks at me again, surprised at my audacity, but I don't back down. "Why do you love someone who makes you so angry all the time?"
Gale's mouth falls open in shock and his jaw is working like he can't quite formulate a response. "Because, because she gets me," he splutters inadequately. "Because she knows me better than anyone, and we're the same…"
"That's absurd," I cut him off coldly. I'm so mad I could spit. "Does she know about your drinking?"
"Madge!" Gale whispers, looking towards the door to see if anyone overheard what I said. "Of course not," he says in a low voice, stepping closer to me and gripping my arm angrily. "It's nothing, just something I do to help…deal with things. No one needs to know."
"Well I know!" I answer, wishing desperately that he would just see that Katniss isn't some kind of goddess. "And I get it. Katniss hasn't fought in the war; she's just a figurehead and a strategist. No one would put her in any real danger! But I get it; I've seen things too, just like you. I was there when District 12 was destroyed. I know how it feels to lose people in the war. I know what it's like to be alone, to suffer alone. And Katniss will never understand because she hasn't lost anyone: not Peeta, not her family, not anyone!"
I whisper my entire speech, but even I can hear the anger and bitterness crackling in my words, scratching my throat. I stop myself, breathing hard.
Gale is looking at me with surprise and confusion. As though he's realized something for the first time—probably like how I don't worship Katniss like he does. I push him away angrily and turn towards the sink.
"Madge-" he starts. But then he pauses. I guess he doesn't know what to say.
"The two of us, it's just the way it's meant to be," he says finally, desperately, like he's trying to convince me. "In the woods, you know, we were such good partners…"
"The woods?" I say wearily, bitterly, so tired of loving Gale, tired of not being loved in return. "The woods were burnt to the ground three years ago, Gale. Ever since Katniss entered the Games, things changed. That world is long gone."
Gale is silent, and I wish that it were because he's thinking about what I've said, but I know he's only trying to articulate his love for Katniss.
He surprises me when he says, "Why do you care so much?"
I meet his eyes, and he genuinely looks like he wants to know.
I want to shake him. Because I love you, you idiot! I scream in my head. But instead I say, "Because it's killing you. She's killing you." And what I really mean is that it's killing me.
Gale's eyes widen at my answer, but I never get to hear his response because just then the door swings open, and in walks Katniss.
"Katniss!" I say, turning from Gale and pulling her into a hug. And I surprise myself because there is no anger in my voice. Because, in the end, she is my friend and I am genuinely glad to see her and because she never let Gale think she loved him in return. Over her shoulder I can see Gale, and he's tensed up again, his jaw clamped shut and his hands shaking, and he's looking away from the two of us, his face a hard mass of confusion.
And I can't bear to look at the conflict in his eyes so I turn to Katniss, clutching her hands and say with real feeling, "I wish I could stay and catch up, but I actually have to go."
Katniss frowns, her forehead wrinkling in dismay and disbelief.
I direct my words to her, but I look at Gale: "I have a date. With Mazer Preston."
Gale's eyes fly to mine. And though I know he did it out of surprise and not out of jealousy, I still feel a savage triumph. Because though he kills me with his longing for Katniss, I will never let him know it. And because for once, even though it is with the wrong man, I won't be alone.
"Oh! Right," Katniss says, still uncomfortable with the idea of romance even after all of these years. "Right," she says again, her face mildly apprehensive. "We'll talk later. Have fun."
"I will," I say firmly, turning from Gale and marching from the room.
I pause at the kitchen door when I hear Gale murmur "Hey, Catnip," in a sheepish, hoarse whisper.
I don't want to hear any more. I wrench open the door, ignoring the calls of surprise and offers of cake from the kids and Peeta, and leave the house. I don't look back.
I couldn't even if I wanted to because my vision is blurred by tears.
Part III. 4 am.
"Girl, girl, I need a girl," I sing in a low voice as I trip along the deep underground bar scene. I'm pleasantly inebriated, my mind buzzing and free, alcohol sloshing occasionally out of the bottle I'm holding as I make my way down the dimly lit corridor.
I had spent the last several hours getting completely drunk in a bar just up the hallway. I had run into a few retired rebel soldiers, and they bought me drinks and made fun of the Capitol and studiously avoided mentioning anything unsavory about the war. We even sang a few bawdy songs that are popular on the front lines together.
And when I finally felt that familiar buzzing sensation, that lightness and freedom from anger and pain, I got up and left, telling them that I still needed the one thing that would make the night, and my forgetfulness, complete. A girl. Someone soft and supple, in whom I could lose myself completely.
And as I stumble along, taking intermittent sips from my bottle of whiskey, I suddenly stop in front of the sign for The Black Heart.
I know Madge works here, and I don't want to see Madge. But I also know that there are girls here. I can't remember her name or what she looked like, but I know I picked up a girl here not long ago. Maybe I could find her again.
But then there's Madge…and then I remember with a shake of my head that Madge cannot possibly be working tonight because she is on a date with Mazer bloody Preston. I don't know why, but the thought of Madge dating that Preston jerk makes me angry again, and I quickly push the thought away because I've been working all night to repress my anger, and I will not ruin it now.
I force myself to stop thinking and shoulder my way into the bar. Right into-
"Madge?"
"Gale?"
Shit.
Two voices at once: "What are you doing here?"
I recover first: "I thought you had a date."
Her voice is acid: "I thought you were talking with Catnip."
I scrunch my eyes closed and take a long pull from the bottle of whiskey. I open my eyes, and she's still there. Double shit.
Finally: "My date finished hours ago. Then I had to come here and work a shift."
Suddenly I feel weightless again, safe in the knowledge that she didn't sleep with that air force tool. I throw her a big grin.
"So," foot tapping. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh," I say. I had forgotten she had asked me that question. I scan the room surreptitiously for girls. There are a few not far away, twittering and giggling around a table of off-duty rebel soldiers. I look uneasily at Madge. "Um-"
I'm saved the trouble of answering when one of the soldiers lurches over to Madge. His green military jacket is unbuttoned and his hat is askew. "I thought you were getting us drinks, baby," he slurs, touching her bare arm familiarly.
"Hey!" I say, an inexplicable spurt of hot, bitter anger burning in my stomach. "We're talking here."
The soldier turns to me as though seeing me for the first time. "Easy, man," he laughs sloppily. "There's enough of Margie for everyone. Right, Margie?" he says languidly, reaching down and squeezing Madge's thigh. Madge winces.
"Hey!" I say again, pushing the guy off Madge so hard that he stumbles back a few steps.
"Gale!" she says in surprise, reaching back to help the man up. "He's one of our best customers."
"Watch it, buddy," the man growls, shoving Madge aside and advancing towards me.
"Or what?" I say, my voice silky and my eyes glittering. I throw my bottle of whiskey to the side and slowly roll up my sleeves. I open and close my fists lightly, my eyes never leaving his, almost licking my lips with anticipation. A fistfight is even better than a girl to work out disappointment, and this snot-nosed bastard has it coming.
The soldier lunges at me, but I dodge him easily. I may be drunk, but he's way drunker. He falls to the ground as soon as I pound the back of his neck with my fist. But he's a big guy, and he knocks my legs out from under me.
And then it's war. Punching, shoving, kicking, the satisfying crunch as my fist connects with his face, the salty, metallic taste of blood when he punches me right back. My jaw aches and my head is pounding, but I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my body and I can hear my heart thundering in my ears. And it's glorious. I haven't felt this kind of release in weeks, and I work out all of my anger and frustration and bitterness in the pounding, grunting, sweaty struggle. It's almost as good as strafing machine gun fire ruthlessly through the enemy lines or watching a building burn that just moments before was swarming with hostile forces.
And then I have the upper hand, and I straddle the bastard and punch him in the jaw again and again and again and again, and I can see spurts of blood flying with each hit and I can feel his teeth splintering under my fists and I can hear him groaning and begging.
And suddenly I feel a small hand gripping my shoulder, and I turn to look into her eyes, and then it's Madge begging. Begging me to stop and let the poor guy go. There are tears pooling in her eyes, and she's tugging at my arm. Please, please, just get up, just let him go. Damn it, Gale, just let it go.
I turn to take one last look at the soldier. But lying limp on the ground, his face bloodied and broken, he suddenly doesn't look like the enemy. In his rebel uniform and his dark hair and his face covered in blood he looks…like Thom.
Shit! I back up in surprise, struggling, scrabbling away. All I can see is Thom. Disfigured, mutilated, bloody Thom. Shit, shit, shit, not Thom. Please, not Thom.
But Madge's hands are insistent, pulling me away. Her voice soothing and panicked at the same time. And she's hauling, dragging, pleading with me to leave.
And as the door of the bar slams shut behind us, I can't help thinking that this is the second time tonight that Madge Undersee has saved me from drowning.
Part IV
I don't know what to do. So I just drag him along behind me as he shakes his head and whispers, his eyes wide and unseeing, "Thom, Thom, damn it, not Thom."
And I murmur as calmly as I can, trying to hide the panic in my voice, not knowing what I'm saying, "It wasn't Thom. He'll be fine. Don't worry. He's fine. It wasn't Thom."
I don't know where to go. I don't know where he lives, and I can't take him to his mother's house.
So I bring him home with me.
I force him to sit on the bed, and I kneel on the floor at his feet like I have no dignity at all, and I help him unlace his boots and pull off his socks. And when I stand up, he's already taking off his shirt, just pulling it over his head to reveal his beautiful, mutilated back and his torso taut with muscle and peppered with scars and burns. And for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
But when he looks down at the shirt he's holding, he sees the blood smeared across his knuckles and flecked along his fingers, and he starts to tremble all over again.
I don't know what to do, so I sit on the bed and hold him. And he clings to me, his arms wrapping around me, his face buried in my neck. I'm overwhelmed by his presence, his maleness. The way his skin burns with heat, the way his body curves over mine, the way his hands curl at my back, desperately fisting the fabric of my dress, the damp curls of hair at the base of his neck where I run my fingers lightly, caressing, murmuring, soothing, hoping that I can somehow absorb all of the pain, the anguish that radiates off of his body in waves.
I run my hands along his face, his neck, his back, desperate to calm him. And when he starts speaking, I want to close my eyes in horror; I want to run away and be sick, but I keep rocking back and forth, stroking his hair as he clutches me and babbles: "Shit, they didn't even kill him. They wouldn't let him die. They peeled information off his bones, plied it from him with his toenails. We came for him, and I could hear him screaming. God, those screams. And then they killed him, right when we got there. Just for spite. Just broke him and…killed him…and the blood, the blood…"
And as his words become incoherent, I realize with a sudden, terrible awareness that I can feel a new wetness where his face meets my neck. And all I can do is clutch him close, close, closer, heat and muscle and sweat, and I feel his body shake, not with the trembling of his anger, but with the desperation of his sobs.
A/N: Well, the people have spoken, and I went for the longer chapter…though I will say, I found it kind of hard to write. I know it's a bit dark, but I feel as though the books are full of dark themes…I mean, kids slaughtering each other for public entertainment, Haymitch's drunkenness, morphling addiction, Snow smelling like blood…I dunno, this seemed to fit in with all of that. Thoughts?