A/N: A big thanks to my amazing reviewers KenoshaChick, IsForWinners, hollah, scoobygal, and DemigodWiththeBread. I love you all! And of course to the lovely but anonymous Eliza: I think you might like Gale in this chapter, and I did a happy dance when I read your review!

Anyways, here it is…Chapter 5.

Part I

I wake up in the morning sore and uncomfortable and anxious. I twist out of the thin, sweaty sheet and turn quickly to the bed. I hear the shower running and see the mussed pillows and turned down linen, and I realize with a sudden wonderful and nerve-wracking clarity that Gale Hawthorne slept the night in my bed. Capable, beautiful, broken Gale Hawthorne could have been with any woman in the world last night, but somehow, miraculously, factors combined and stars aligned and he ended up with me.

And even though I slept on the floor and he slept in the bed, I feel warm and nervous and tingly at the thought. Because I know things can never be the same between us. Not after he clung to me last night. Not after he told me about Thom.

Not after he pressed his body to mine and whispered his fears and his secrets in my ear, as intimate as a lover.

With shaking hands and flushed cheeks I make the bed, taking a shameful second to bury my face in his pillow. It's still slightly damp with sweat, and it smells like a man. And I feel a pleasant shiver quiver through me when I realize that it is my pillow that smells like a man. Me. Madge Undersee, whom men love to touch in a bar but not take out to dinner or back to their place. Madge Undersee, who always is alone.

I change hurriedly, wanting to be ready before Gale emerges from the shower. I brush my hair carefully and put on a light dress, alternating between wishing that I had the money to fix my ventilation system so that it wouldn't be so hot and being grateful for the heat so I have an excuse for my cheeks to be so flushed.

The shower turns off as I finish changing, and I slip out of the room before Gale appears. Feeling nervous and shy and a thrill of anticipation I turn on the stove and pull out a small bag of porridge so I can start making breakfast.

I've just opened the bag when I hear the bedroom door open and soft footfalls in the hallway. They pause abruptly at the entrance to the kitchen, as though Gale is surprised to see me here. I'm too giddy to turn around.

"Hey," he says, his voice mild surprise and a question.

"Hey," I turn around and can't help but smile. His shirt is clean and fitted and darkened in a few places by drips from his still-wet hair. His hand runs along his jaw, lightly dusted with a shadow of stubble, the beginnings of a bruise blossoming along his cheekbone. With his muscles and too-long hair falling in his eyes and his hawkish features, he looks like perfection.

"So…what happened last night?"

My stomach clenches, and I realize that while I had been looking at Gale to admire him, he had been looking at me for answers. And now I really look at him and see only his expression, a mixture of nervousness and confusion. Like he's afraid of what I might say.

And I feel my heart crack just a little because he doesn't remember.

Not the way I held him, his body wracked with tortuous sobs, his lean torso and back radiating fire and curled in anguish. Not the way I rocked him back and forth and rubbed my hand along the curve of his spine while he held me, so tightly, until his cries dwindled to dry sobs to soft gasps to the gentle breaths of sleep. Not the way I tenderly cradled his head as I lowered it to the pillow or the way I watched him relaxed in sleep, sweeping a few strands of sweaty black hair from his forehead, his fingers clutching the sheets lightly, his face smoothed into boyish peacefulness and his bare chest rising and falling quietly.

Not the way I finally tore myself away from staring at his tortured beauty and scarred chest and went to the bathroom for a wet rag. Not the way I sat down on the bed again and slowly wiped the sweat and traces of tears from his face. The way I painstakingly scrubbed the blood from his knuckles and between his fingers and in the crevasses of his nails until his hands were long and lean and clean and capable, just like they used to be when he would hand me a bag of strawberries years ago. Not the way I stooped down to pick up his dirty socks and shirt off the floor and the way I washed them in the sink, rubbing my hands red and raw until all the blood had swirled down the drain in pinkish curls. Not the way I carefully hung his clothes to dry before finally allowing myself to take a shower and fall asleep, curled up on the floor with nothing but a sheet and my arm for a pillow because I wanted him in my bed.

And as I look at Gale and feel my heart crack, I want to be angry with him. To scream at him for not remembering, for not realizing that I love him so much I ache with it. But I can't be angry. I can't yell at him because how can I be angry with him for not knowing I love him when I try so hard to hide it from him, when I'm so ashamed and afraid that I can barely admit it to myself.

And the whole time I will him, beg him in my mind, to remember. Damn it, just remember. But he just looks at me nervously, and I wish that he didn't look so afraid that I might say we slept together.

"You got into a fight," I say finally.

He exhales loudly in relief, and I can see his shoulders noticeably relax. "A fight-?" he says with half a grin, a question lingering in his voice.

"Yeah, a fight," I say, remembering with a shudder the Gale of last night, whose eyes were the grey of gun metal and glittering in the dim light of the bar. Whose voice went hard and silky and dangerous all at the same time as he rolled up his sleeves and prepared to destroy. "At the Black Heart," I add, turning back to the stove because I can't look at him anymore. I carefully measure out a single portion of porridge because I can only afford to make one bowl a day. And because even though my stomach twists with hunger, and even though he doesn't remember, I'm still going to make breakfast and give Gale my share.

"Oh," Gale says at my words, and I can hear the confusion turn to understanding in his voice. "And you brought me here after," he says, and it's not a question. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," I say. If only you knew, I think.

A pause. "Did I win?"

I can't help the small, wry smile that twists my lips painfully, bitterly. "Yeah, you won," I say, stirring the porridge. And I feel the same way I did all those years ago when I realized that no one told him that I brought him morphling when he was dying in the middle of the night. Like I had declared my love for him, but he just didn't hear the words.

We stand in silence while I turn off the stove and scrape the porridge into a bowl. I offer him the bowl, thinking that I'll be going hungry today, but surprisingly he refuses. Maybe he doesn't think I can cook. I'm so glad for the meal that I don't mind.

I sit down at the table to eat. He hesitates for a brief second before pulling out a chair and sitting across from me. I take several steady, silent bites.

"Madge," he says finally. And his next words are probably the last I ever imagined him saying. "Why are you so poor?"

I look at him in surprise, my mouth open and a spoonful of porridge stopped halfway to my mouth. He backpedals quickly. "I mean, you obviously make good money at the ba-, at your job. Where does it all go?"

And for the first time in a long time I look at my surroundings, the tiny kitchen, the cracked countertops, the broken fan, and I feel ashamed. He must remember me from District 12, all new dresses and fresh strawberries and disposable income.

And then I tell him my secret. The one that I haven't even told his mother because I'm afraid that if the words pass my lips, it will disappear like the dream it is.

"School," I say. "I use all the money to pay for school." And I don't know why, but I look up at him for approval. When he doesn't answer, I look down at my porridge and babble, tripping over myself to explain. "It's training for radiation clean up. So when the war's over we can clear the city above ground. Dispose everything. Make the outside habitable again. It'll take years and planning and manpower, but we can rebuild up there. We can-"

"Madge," he says. And I look up at him fearfully. Scared that he'll think I'm foolish or delusional or overreaching my place. "That's amazing," he breathes out, and his eyes are bright as stars.

"What?" I say, and I can't help the hope that hitches with the breath in my throat.

"That's amazing," he repeats, a little louder this time. And then his voice hardens: "I'm glad you're not going to be in that bar forever."

I look down, blushing. "Yeah well, I wanted to study architecture because there'll be so much rebuilding after the war. But I couldn't afford it."

"Either way, it shows a lot of foresight," he says, and I glow with his praise.

"It's not that clever," I say, self-conscious under his gaze. "I guess I learned a little about foresight once the war started. When we fled District 12, my dad and I tried to help the rebellion. Obviously I couldn't fight so I helped organize the makeshift hospitals in District 11. Allocating bandages and bedding and painkillers." I shrug. "I don't know. I guess it taught me about prioritizing and planning ahead. Preparing for the worst."

Gale nods thoughtfully, but doesn't answer. I can feel his eyes on me though, studying me. I take a few more silent bites of porridge, a little embarrassed that I had said so much. I hadn't meant to sound boastful or anything; I just wanted to explain how I'm willing to live like this so I can live better in the future. To explain why the way I live isn't shameful.

"You're not what I expected," he says at last. "Back in District 12, I mean. I never imagined you'd be this way."

"Well, I wasn't this way in District 12," I answer, with a wry grin. Not that life had been easy back then. I had to take care of my ill mother, and I didn't have many friends. But I had security. And a family. I feel an unexpected longing for those days, when my greatest worry was getting home on time to give mom her morphling and my greatest joy was seeing Gale at my backdoor. "God, I was so different back then," I say with feeling. I shrug, not wanting to sound dramatic. "I guess the war and losing my parents, it changed me," and as I say the words I look up into Gale's fathomless grey eyes.

Something in his eyes dilates, and darkens. "It changed me too," he says. I always think of Gale as a survivor and a fighter, but at his words I realize with a start that he wasn't always this way. He lost his father years ago, and the war has certainly changed him in ways I can barely understand.

And I don't trust my voice, so I just nod.

And maybe he thinks he said too much, because he doesn't say anything either. And we both sit, lost in our memories, the silence spreading out like gentle wisps of smoke, sinuous and ethereal and sad.

But maybe I was the only one lost in memories, because then Gale asks me a question. One that in a million years I never would have even dreamed he would ask:

"Will you go to the Mockingjay Ball with me?"

"What?" I say, confused at the words, so out of context, and I shake my head trying to blink away my memories and focus on Gale.

"The Mockingjay Ball," he repeats, and I immediately think of the annual fundraiser for the troops. All the District's heavy hitters come out to fete the rebels and play politics with each other. It's all dazzling gowns and crisp uniforms, status and money glittering in the women's jewels and flashing in the men's smiles. All whispered favors over drinks and smiles like oil slicks and the brush of a hand on a bare back during the dance. But of course all of the officers have to go, considering the fundraiser is for them. And I look up at Gale feeling cold and hot and surreal all at the same time, and I can hear the blood rushing through my ears as I listen to his voice, which sounds as though it's coming from far away. "Madge, will you go with me?"

Part II

When my eyes crack open in the morning, the first thing I can think is that it's hot. The kind of heat that is suffocating and dry and relentless, that prickles the skin and slows movements and makes it hard to breathe.

I feel the telltale pounding of a hangover, but somehow my head feels clear. Light. And though my muscles ache with soreness, my body feels more relaxed than it has in a long time.

The next thing I notice is that I'm not in my bed. The sheets are far too white; they're crisp and clean and smell good. Like a girl.

I run a hand through my hair in confusion. I don't remember any girl from last night, and I certainly can't think of a single reason why I would spend the whole night at any girl's place. I turn my head, looking for said girl. But all I see is the expanse of white sheet and the two modest pillows. I rub a hand over my aching jaw and sit up, feeling confused and disoriented. I scrunch my eyes, but all I can remember from last night is drinking with some ex-soldiers. There weren't even any girls there.

I take stock of my surroundings. The room is small with only a tiny vanity table and mirror in the corner. There are two doors, one I assume leading to the bathroom and the other to the rest of the house. An air purifier wheezes brokenly in the corner, and I realize why the room is so hot. The floor is well swept and there is no clutter. There's even a makeshift clothesline between two hooks. I raise my eyebrows when I see my shirt and socks from last night hanging clean and dry on the line. Whoever owns this place is definitely poor, but very clean. Must take pride in her things.

Speaking of which, where is she?

My stomach rumbles with hunger, and I take that as my cue to ignore my mysterious surroundings for the moment in favor of swinging my legs over the side of the bed and making my way to the bathroom. It's not like it's the first time I've gotten blackout drunk.

I grab my shirt off the clothesline before opening the first door. It leads down a short, carpeted hallway, and I can see a small kitchen a few feet away. I close the door and step towards the other one, which I assume leads to the bathroom, nearly tripping to avoid a mound on the floor at the foot of the bed.

I grind out a swear word, reaching to grab my stubbed toe. I look down at the offending object that I so narrowly missed. Long legs twisted in a white sheet, a nearly non-existent pair of shell pink shorts, a few inches of flat, pale stomach, a matching pink camisole, and long, blond curls covering a familiar face.

"Shit," I breathe out. Madge Undersee is sleeping on the floor.

Literally, on the floor. Nothing but a threadbare rug between her and the hard concrete. And because it's so hot in here, she's practically naked. Her skin is slightly flushed, and a very fine sheen of sweat has gathered on her hairline and along her chest.

She looks delicious.

"Shit, shit, shit!" I groan, grabbing my hair. What have I done? I growl in frustration, wishing desperately that I could remember something useful from last night. What am I doing waking up in the morning in the same room with a flushed, sleeping, half-naked Madge Undersee?

And then I pause. Half-naked Madge Undersee. That means…I look down. My pants are still on. We weren't even sleeping in the bed together. I frown, trying to think around my pounding head. Maybe there is a perfectly logical explanation.

An explanation that involves me spending the night in Madge's bed. With no shirt. With her washing my shirt.

The explanation may end up being logical, but it sure as hell can't be good.

"Shit," I say again, taking one last look at Madge before stalking into the bathroom.

I emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later, even more confused. I had come out from the steaming shower and looked in the mirror the first time this morning, not even noticing the water dripping from my hair onto my chest because I was so horrified by the angry cut along my cheekbone and the purplish bruise mottling my jaw. And when I lifted my hand to touch the bruise, I saw that my knuckles were chafed raw. Did Madge hit me last night? Did I punch…a wall?

And why wasn't I wearing a shirt? I can't explain it, but I feel a sudden wave of self-consciousness at the thought that Madge saw all the scars marring my back and chest, ugly reminders of whippings, shrapnel, and even a knife fight.

I pull my shirt back on to find that it smells like Madge's soap. Clean and soft and lightly flowery. And if I'm being honest, it's altogether maddening because it smells so good.

And when I walk out of the bathroom, I see that Madge is no longer on the floor. Her sheet has disappeared, and the bed is made, the wrinkles smoothed out so it looks like I'd never even been there.

I walk out of the bedroom and down the hall, dread coiling in my stomach like a snake. I stop at the entrance of the kitchen in surprise. Madge is standing at the stove looking like nothing out of the ordinary has happened, wearing a thin blue dress with her hair pulled back and opening a small bag…of porridge?

"Hey," I say, and I cringe at how my voice hesitates.

"Hey," she says, turning around. And then she smiles at me. A wide, glowing, happy smile. And I feel my stomach plummet because girls only smile at me like that after I've-, after we've-. Well, after.

"So…what happened last night?" I say, my voice cracking a little.

Madge's face freezes and her eyes kind of narrow at me and I think maybe she's upset that I can't remember. And she just stands there for a few seconds without moving, kind of studying me, and I feel more and more uncomfortable because I don't know what she's thinking or what she might say.

"You got in a fight," she says finally, and I can't help but relax. A fight. That explains the bruises and the aching jaw, and when she tells me that it happened at the Black Heart I realize how I ended up at her house.

But then she looks away from me and her shoulders are kind of hunched up, like she's angry or maybe hiding something. I study her for a second and notice that she's measuring the porridge really carefully. And when I take in her tiny kitchen and meticulously organized shelf, I think that maybe she's just hunched up because she doesn't want me to know that she can only afford to make one bowl of porridge in the morning.

I don't know why she'd feel that way considering I come from the Seam and understand the concept of rationing. Maybe it's because even though she's poor now, she still thinks like the mayor's daughter. So I don't say anything about it, but I let her eat the bowl of porridge even though my stomach knots with hunger at the smell.

And we're pretty much silent as she eats, which is kind of the way I like it. I'm not really into talking much, more into observing. And from what I can tell, Madge seems kind of withdrawn as she eats, and I can feel that she's sad.

Maybe it's because I want to know why she's sad, or maybe just because I'm curious, but I ask her why she's so poor. And I don't know how it happened, but all of a sudden she's telling me about how she's going to school, and I can tell it's really important to her because her cheeks flush and her hands twist in her lap and her eyes light up when I tell her that what she's doing is amazing.

And it is amazing. I've spent the last three years of my life thinking only of vengeance and destruction and anger while Madge has been distributing hospital beds and planning for the future and thinking of the rebuilding that will come after this war is over.

And when she tells me that the war has changed her and losing her parents has changed her, I don't know, I feel something kind of stir inside me. It feels kind of strange and sad, but then…kind of not sad. Like I've finally found someone who understands what I've been through.

Then I just look at Madge. Her eyes are distant and kind of misty, and I can tell she's thinking about the past. And even though I know she's hurting, I can't help but notice that her eyes are really blue and her hands are really delicate, and that strange feeling kind of builds in my chest.

And suddenly I realize that I had just talked about the war and the past for the first time without the horrible memories, without feeling angry. In fact, it felt kind of cathartic. And that strange feeling expands and bubbles and grows inside me, and then I suddenly understand that the feeling is happy and excited and maybe it's because I like Madge.

I like Madge. I roll the thought around in my head, and I can barely grasp it because I haven't felt this way in so long. Almost like I'm hopeful. And I want to cling to this feeling, hold on to it with every fiber of my being because my chest doesn't ache and heart doesn't hurt and my head feels clear.

And because I'm so desperate to hold onto this feeling I don't really think, and I say the first thing that comes into my head:

"Will you go to the Mockingjay Ball with me?"

Part III

My eyes widen in surprise. "The Mockingjay Ball?" I say, and my voice sounds strangled in my ears. Yes! Yes, a thousand, million, billion times yes! But my throat has gone dry and my face drains of blood and I feel cold regret grip my heart because-

"I can't," I say.

"I know you'll have to take off work. They might let you off if you just ask…" Gale says, and he doesn't understand.

"No. I really can't," I say with a sigh, and every word is torture. "I already agreed to go with Mazer Preston."

…

A/N: I know, I know, another conversation! But I felt Gale had to come to some sort of realization. I'm not really a fan of writing conversations; so let me know what you think of it! Anyways, for all of you that have been patient and stuck with the story, I can promise you that the next chapter will include some more Katniss and Peeta, and perhaps, possibly, maybe, might include the long-awaited kiss. So there!