***In celebration of TL&N winning 3rd place for best fic-in-progress and 2nd place for best multi-chapter fic in the Everlark Smut Awards, I took time out from work today. Thanks to all who voted!
All I can think is, I'm going to have to begin all over again. I think it with despair, and I feel like that despair is showing no matter how hard I'm trying to hold it in. I'm trying to hold it in so badly I find myself actually holding my breath as proxy while the meetings begin. The information we're being provided is interesting and important, but this isn't the part I'm worried about. This is just the beginning. I glanced at the schedule once over breakfast and couldn't bring myself to look at it again. Afterwards, I have no choice, since it's projected under the ostentatious glass table of the meeting room in the Capitol building. I can't block it out as it revolves slowly in front of me under the all-too-familiar fluorescent lights that hurt my eyes. There's a thick knot of resentment in my throat for all of it—having to be here again, having to be the Mockingjay again, having my beautiful night with Peeta back-burnered because I need all my concentration to get through today. I peripherally catch things that might have mattered yesterday—the incensed look in Gale's eyes when we come downstairs, the way Haymitch's eyes keep darting around the room, looking for the exits, the respect in Lyme's voice that I once strove to get—but I don't really take them in.
I've come so far and this is going to just break all that down again. Peeta's my rock. That's not going to change. We waited so long to have sex but I'm glad we did it when we did; it was steadying, even though I wish I could devote all day to thinking about it. Hell, to doing it a few more times. It still nags at the back of my head—something so powerful that we'd waited for so long can't just be erased, whatever the circumstances…but mostly I'm just trying not to disappoint anyone. Weak. I feel weak. The others are counting on me but what I really want to do is bury my face in my arm and scream and scream and scream until my voice goes, for being back in this place. When no one else is looking, on the walk over, Johanna pulls me aside and offers me a tiny blue pill. "It'll take your edge off," she says. I have long since defiantly poured my supply of these down the toilet in 12. They helped in the beginning but then they just made me foggy. My coordination was always off and it would take hours for my sluggishness to wear off in the mornings or after naps. They made it impossible to shoot game with any accuracy, and that's when I decided I was fed up. I'm sorely tempted to take her up on her offer—I know she's on these as we speak, and she seems more balanced, although sometimes it's hard to tell—but I can't bring myself to take it. Maybe it's just a pride thing but it's real enough. She seems to understand. "Let me know if you change your mind," she says. I feel that deep well of gratitude for having them rallying around me, but also a compulsion to lead them that I could do without.
It's when we dismiss from the debrief and go into break that I start to lose it. My hands are shaking just enough for me to notice. I'm chewing the inside of my mouth so hard I know I'll taste blood soon if I don't stop. Thank god you didn't have coffee at breakfast.
"I'm not sure I can do this," I tell them. I can't look at them because I don't want to see the displeasure and dismay that I'm sure I'll see. They love you, I tell myself, but it's as though I've drifted away. My mind keeps wanting to return to Finnick, to Prim, like a dog worrying a bone. I've stayed away from here as long as I possibly could. I've made excuses, I've changed the subject, I've distracted myself with Peeta. That's not fair. I've long since stopped making this my primary goal of interacting with him, but it's undeniable that we function in this way for one another. Maybe that's an oversimplification. He's still here. He's here with me, not for me. But there's a sour taste in my throat because I have to be weak and lean on him once more. He was tortured here, how could you not remember that? Why are you not being his rock right now? I don't know how he seems so calm. Sure I do. It's for me. Peeta still has the natural reaction of placing my own welfare above his own at any cost. It's been this way ever since he took those hard hits to the face for burning the bread that saved my family's life. I never stopped owing him since then. At the moment, I can't even remember if I ever said thank you. When Haymitch tells me that I'm their best shot, implies that I have to pull myself together to take one for the team, I resent it bitterly, but I know he's being as gentle as he can while still be realistic. He's not wrong, but it's a hard thought, because once again, I feel less like myself and more like a tool. I don't feel like they respect whatever I have to say; I feel like they need it in order to be accountable to a population that's come to expect me to be the star. I'm so weary of all of it.
You know, Prim died here.
I hate my traitorous brain. When Peeta pulls me outside to hold me for a few minutes, it helps. I let myself be drowned in his mouth and eyes and hands for a few minutes. I grant myself the luxury of not feeling guilty for just ten minutes. I give myself over. Until Gale, of course, interrupts. While I'm grateful that we were able to speak a few words to one another last night, now I can see him only as the enemy, the other side, the one who lives in a fancy house and does the bidding of just another government agenda. Anyone who isn't with me is against me. As often with me, there are no shades of grey. I miss my mother. I miss Prim. I miss Finnick, I miss Cinna, I miss Rue, I even miss Hazelle at the moment. I miss everyone, all at once.
You know, Prim died here!
Maybe it was too soon to come back.
All these thoughts are what flash through my head between breakfast and our final trek up the stairs to what they call the War Room. This is when the day really begins. I can't think beyond each singular thing in this schedule—I'll worry about the next part after this one, because otherwise I won't be able to cope at all.
"I've got you," Peeta whispers, and Johanna kisses my cheek. Johanna may as well be my sister by now—how far we've come. Good things did come out of all of this. Peeta is the optimist who always remembers this and often has to remind me. They snap me back into reality. I push my shoulders back and set my mouth, try to project some sense of confidence into myself. Fake it, I think desperately. Just fake it! They won't be able to tell.
Who am I kidding? Of course they'll be able to tell. The whole country can tell when I'm faking things. That's why they had to send me into actual war zones to get propo footage. Everyone here knows that I can't perform. It's either all of me or none. Johanna shares this trait with me, and maybe it's the bulk of what bonds us together, this inability to be anything but naked…ironically, for me…to the world. But what choice do I have?
The room we enter is enormous. The ceiling is impossibly high and ends in a round dome high above us. The seats are set up auditorium-style and there are hundreds of them. Clearly, this is a room made for decisions about war. Its furnishings are solemn, everything made of dark wood and dark colors except the fancy equipment.
"This was modeled after the original room used by the Senate branch of government in the Old Days!" Plutarch announces proudly. I feel contempt rise in my throat. Just what we need, to model our process after a bunch of people that burned the Earth beyond repair and warred with one another until the viable resources we depleted almost beyond the point of return and the population was similarly decimated. There is a table set up on a raised platform at the front of the room, with just enough chairs for us. Huge screens…the kind that were used to project the Hunger Games in the town centers not too long ago…are prominent behind us. They're dead right now, but the table is lighted and I can see where smaller screens slide out from each place. At its head, where Paylor sits flanked by Lyme and Plutarch, there is a complex network of controls. A podium stands to one side with a microphone attached. I have to grit my teeth when I note the familiar Capitol emblem emblazoned on the front of it. It's logical, I tell myself reasonably. The Capitol symbol is old and widely recognized. It'd modified by a rectangle of cloth suspended beneath it, one I've never seen before, not even in class. It's a symbol made up of many horizontal red and white lines, with the top left corner devoted to an emblazed bunch of white stars against blue. I do a quick count. Fifty stars. Fifty stars? We have only thirteen districts. I resolve to ask about this. No doubt it's some sort of sigul from the Old Days that Plutarch is puffed up about.
The four of us take seats in a line, as we did before, only this time, it's Gale sitting directly in front of me. I wish he'd have the decency to avert his gaze, but I feel his eyes on me. Peeta takes my hand under the table. Peeta meets his eyes squarely, but only for a minute, like a dare. I wish they'd get over this entire thing. It still makes me feel like property sometimes, as though they're two birds flashing their plumage at one another, or two bucks with their antlers locked. It should be evident by now that I've chosen. But this is neither here nor there. Gale's issues are not the problem at hand. At a touch of a button from Paylor, another document emerges under the glass tabletop. This is an agenda of topics that we'll be covering. In the seconds it takes for me to scan it, I say a silent prayer to Haymitch and Johanna, more seasoned Victors than I am, whose thoughts about what we should steel ourselves for were pretty spot-on. Primarily featured are the questions of executions, our role as ambassadors for the new government, and of course, the Hunger Games. My stomach gives a lurch at this last one. These are broken down into component parts, but very little has been unanticipated. I can muster up a sense of gratitude that we managed a caucus about these things on the train so that we don't talk over or contradict one another. There's time for questions and answers at the end, but I'll be damned if I wait until then, if I have any. The end of the agenda lists the item "Subsequent Meetings" with a question mark beside it. Another thing that I notice which was absent from our foresight is "Mental Health Check-In and Evaluation." I bristle at this immediately. Johanna's face is unreadable, while Haymitch looks unsurprised and also uncomfortable, shifting around his straight-backed chair. I know when he doesn't drink he usually feels off, anyways.
"Let's begin, shall we?" Paylor's voice rings out authoritatively in the empty space. The heavy doors have been barred behind us, but I'm paranoid of the monitoring systems that these places have had, in my experience. I developed a habit of being hyper-aware of what I'm saying when I'm in any dwelling that might possibly be bugged that's become almost second-nature. Not that it matters much, now. The President is in the room waiting to hear it. "Here is a preliminary list of topics that need to be worked out today. As we have mentioned, they are as yet incomplete and we'll likely be inviting you to the Capitol at a further date to continue in the rebuilding process. In fact, that's one of the major things we need to discuss with you today, so perhaps we should start there."
Johanna breaks in when Paylor pauses to inhale.
"What's 'Mental Health Check-In'?" she asks. I'm glad she's asking for me, since that line item confuses me and makes me feel wary and closed.
Beetee clears his throat. This is the first time I've heard him add his voice to the conversation, other than his greeting to us this morning when we came in. "Due to the circumstances under which we have all come together, we recognize that the potential for suffering traumatic mental health issues that extend beyond the initial shock of the war is overwhelming. Those of us present in the Capitol have received regular mental health check-ins and clearance, to be sure we are able to proceed in full capacity with our needed tasks. We are aware that you as well have been under medical surveillance in the past several months. However, being as how you are now in the Capitol, we agreed that it would be prudent for all of you to undergo evaluations with Capitol mental health professionals, who can establish a continuing plan for your treatment and well-being upon your return." I wonder if they made Beetee say this because they knew the words themselves would be inflammatory enough. I barely have the time to form an emotion before Johanna does it for me, again.
"We're already in contact with doctors," she snaps. She's being a little generous here. She is in regular contact with her doctor, under threat of being stripped of her ability to live alone in her district—and perhaps fueled by her own fear after what happened with the arm-cutting incident—and I know Peeta still checks in by phone with his own doctors, though as far as I know, he's abandoned all the medication that's not directly related to balancing out the brain chemicals damaged by his hijacking—no sedatives, no sleeping pills—but Haymitch is laughable and I conveniently am absent when the phone rings. Peeta, of course, has been covering for me by picking up the phone and promising the doctors that I'll call back as soon as I'm done doing whatever Healthful Activity I'm involved in at the moment. He disapproves of this to some degree, and I think he feels guilty because my medications became less of a priority to me once he and I began to iron out our difficulties, although I disliked them anyways and was only looking for an excuse to ignore them. I haven't talked to my doctors in several weeks. When I do check-in, I try to be as brief as possible and I almost never mention the worst episodes, the ones that leave me on the lawn in the cold or curled up in Gale's and my rock hollow, the dreams that make me scream.
"We're aware that some of you are more in contact with your doctors than others," Paylor says neutrally.
Fuck, I think. They're on to us.
"Regardless of this, we feel it's important that we have on file a consistent way to track your healing processes and monitor your future success."
"Why the vested interest?" Johanna asks in a tone that's very close to a sneer.
"They want to make sure they have thriving little Victors that they can show off on television," I say, before I'm aware the provocative words will emerge. Paylor actually looks a bit wounded at this, although Plutarch is wearing an expression that comes closer to being abashed and a little guilty.
"That's not entirely true," says Lyme, "Although we can't factor out that yes, we need you to be balanced enough to appeal to the citizens and stimulate their own confidence and faith in the rebuilding and the new government."
I appreciate honesty, even honesty I don't want to hear, so this soothes me even if it doesn't mollify. She continues, "We're also aware that you've suffered immensely at the hands of many who were unwilling or unable to give you the care, rest and space you have earned and need. This is why we are very appreciative that you are even able to be here with us today, make no mistake. We understand that this must be very hard for you." Because she says it, and not the others, none of whom (besides us) are Victors except Beetee (who looks serene), I believe it a little more. There is ever the dividing line between those who were in the arena and those who were not. It cannot be erased, and I feel some solidarity with her because of this.
"I don't need doctors," I say. "I'm…we're…doing fine without them."
"We are aware that you are functioning relatively well back in 12 and we are pleased to hear it," says Paylor, "However, we are further aware that there have been some…setbacks…and that a regular treatment regimen, which was explicitly prescribed to you upon your relocation back to 12, has remained elusive." She sounds impatient. "While you are here it is a prime opportunity for you to visit some therapists and counselors and for your medications to be adjusted." She has no proof that I can think of that I haven't been taking mine, although I'm resentful about the implications of monitoring that are laid bare here. Haymitch has already called this, though. I hear an echo of his voice in my brain: Do you think for one second they don't have allies in this district giving them information when they need it?
"So thoughtful of you to keep your eyes on us," I say flatly, "But I've had just about enough input on what I should and shouldn't, can and can't, do on my own, thanks. Especially from the government. I thought part of the reason we had a war was to move beyond the government's surveillance of our every move and thought."
Haymitch breaks in, "As adults, they have free will, President. They—we—are not indebted to the Capitol to the extent that our personal choices, more than any other citizen's, have a right to be infringed upon." He diplomatically tacks on, "Although we appreciate the offer." Although he doesn't. And I don't.
"You are not, unfortunately, everyday citizens, Mr. Abernathy," she responds. There is a rising note of frustration under that voice which she's carefully packing back. We're so early into this meeting, and already, the tensions are spewing forth. I feel a little out-of-control.
"Don't we all know!" Johanna spits.
There's an uncomfortable silence.
Plutarch breaks it in a soothing tone, the kind you'd use with a tired child throwing a tantrum. "We do not have the capacity to force your hands in the matter, nor the desire," he says. "However, if you are working with the government, which we are very hopeful you will, we need to ask you to undergo the same evaluations that everyone else in the higher ranks, and particularly those who were instrumental in the fighting, has done. You are not being singled out." I can't help but feel that we are.
"If it is a choice between maintaining goodwill between the four of you and the Capitol and engaging in some sort of power struggle over how many times a week you check-in with a doctor and take your pills, of course, we cannot account for the latter," says Paylor, evenly. "But we will insist that you undergo secondary evaluations while you are here—all of you."
"What if we say no?" Johanna asks. She's pissed off, which is a little ironic, since she's probably the one who is most cooperative with her medical care. But she, like Haymitch and I, hates feeling forced or cornered, and it makes her claws come out. Peeta's been silent throughout. I don't think he really cares one way or the other. Because of his experience with the torture in the Capitol, like Johanna, it's dangerous for him in particular to attempt total independence from medical assistance, at least right now. He recognizes this, and he would do anything they wanted if they assured him it would lower the chance of his outbursts and any consequential damage to me, though that's extremely rare now. I'm not sure why I feel this doesn't apply to Haymitch and I, except that we're stubborn. But Haymitch also has the wisdom to know when to pick his battles. "Fine," he cuts everyone off, "But once we're back in our own districts it's our decision as to what we will or won't do with the…advice…we're given. Are those who are required to submit to evaluation also monitored to make sure they're attending doctor's appointments and taking pills?"
"No," says the President. I know that she's keeping a note of begrudging hostility out of her voice only with the best effort.
"Alright then," says Haymitch in a tone of finality.
The President sighs. "Motion?" she asks. Haymitch nods. Then Peeta. Johanna and I hesitate, I glance at her, we assess one another, and then we nod in unison to this deal. It's the best I can hope for right now; the surveillance is inescapable but they have no real control over my actions once I leave this environment again, which is satisfactory enough. I'm more concerned with the meddling in my life at home, although I feel like attending some therapy session about as much as I feel like drilling a hole in my own head. Beetee nods in assent, Lyme, Plutarch, Fulvia, the two new Ministers. Gale is last.
"Tomorrow, then," says the President. "We'll arrange the details and transportation. "Now," she says impatiently, "On to the question. We obviously asked you here to serve the new government in some capacity. During the war, of course, all of you were prey to a high degree of visibility, particularly you, Katniss. Because of this, the citizenry has been confused about your recent absence from the public eye and unsure about your role in the current proceedings, which has also produced rumbles of dissent, which we would prefer to still."
"They're wondering where their Mockingjay went," I say.
"In sum, yes. Because of that we feel it's important that we reassure them that all of you are indeed still present and accounted for, and surviving…if not always thriving...now that the ceasefire has been in place. Additionally, they will expect your presence, sooner rather than later, at certain State events, such as the swearing-in of the eventual government and the war trials." I put this in the back of my mind. I can't deal with it right now, since it isn't happening this instant, and I can barely keep a hold on this instant.
"They're also…" Paylor is trying to speak delicately, a trait which differentiates her from Coin's handling of this situation, although it's ultimately futile, "…ah, wondering how your…backstory…is playing out."
"They want to know all about the lovebirds," Gale cuts in. Because I know him, I can hear the edge in his voice, being the one to bite out these words, though his voice would sound neutral to those that don't know him as well as I do.
This is, though, one of the things that troubles me least, because I'm in a much different position than I was the last time the spotlight was trained on me. Not only do I not have to fake being in love with Peeta, I also don't have to worry about either of our immediate safety, and since the miscarriage story was spread, I don't have to lie about that either. I'd rather not share the more personal details of our story, but even my hard heart can't help but be a little touched by the fact that so many are still invested in our relationship and its success. In the moment I'm a little glad that we have those tidings to report back.
"Do we have to do another interview with Caesar Flickerman?" Peeta asks, a note of irony emerging in his voice that almost makes me smile.
"Caesar Flickerman is currently being detained," says Lyme. "We were thinking more along the lines of a propo, to be aired across Panem, featuring the two of you talking about your new life together. And of course, we would like Peeta to be present with Katniss at her speech this evening." Speech. Thanks for reminding me. The way she says it so casually, so taken-for-granted that I'll agree, infuriates me.
"What makes you think I'm willing to shoot propos and do speeches?" I ask.
"You have a responsibility to your country," says Paylor.
"She has a responsibility to herself," Johanna grits again. She's doing a poor job of toning down her feelings thus far, and I wonder if this is her own struggle coming out—whereas I feel shaky and unstable and Peeta focuses only on helping me get through it, Johanna is drawing from her anger, the deepest and most secure technique she has assembled to get her through it all. But she, too, is trying to come to my aid, and I wonder what it is I did to deserve her doing so.
Haymitch, again, tries to insert himself between Johanna and Paylor. "With all due respect, President, Katniss Everdeen is not a paid government employee, nor is she an official representative of the government of Panem in any sort of legal context. This means she is under no technical obligation, as far as I understand it, to resume her previous position of darling media star." Even he is losing his patience already.
"However, Katniss is a titular head of this new government, which has unfortunately been the culmination of a series of events that were not all directly within her control. At the point in time when she agreed to be the Mockingjay…"
"That was under Coin, not you, and it was for the purpose of uniting the districts during the war," I cut her off.
"Do they not still need to be united?" asks Randolph. I turn my frosty gaze to him.
"Isn't that what you're supposed to be doing now that you're in charge? You can't manage it without me?"
"I would think you might be flattered to be asked," he says in a low, deep voice. I wish Boggs were here, inexplicably. I remember the protective way he layered blankets around me when I was cold, how like a father he seemed sometimes. I could use one of those. I add my father and Boggs to the mental list of people I miss right now.
"I would just as soon live my life in peace outside of the limelight," I tell him. "Not that I seem to have been given much of an option."
"You didn't have to be here," Paylor points out.
I laugh humorlessly. "Oh, yes. I could have ignored your letters for awhile. Your phone calls. Until you sent some ambassador. And then when I ignored that, until one of you dropped by on your own: 'The districts still need you, Katniss. They want to know all about your suffering and your heroism and your personal relationships. They deserve it.'" Johanna's sneer is creeping into my voice.
"Don't they need you?" asks Lyme quietly. I deflate. I don't know. Do they? I think of Rue's family, without meaning to. Are they still alive? Do they wonder where I am, what I'm doing? Have they healed from what was done to their daughter?
"Is Rue's family alive?" I ask abruptly. Maybe this is my way in to this. I have to try to find a way in to this that doesn't feel like I'm being coerced, if I'm going to do it.
"The little girl from 11?" Fulvia asks. I nod. How easily they forget in the scheme of things. We're all just little people. Well, no. Not me. Too bad. Fulvia looks at the President and then Plutarch, for some kind of confirmation. But Paylor gestures to Lyme, and it's Lyme who answers. One of her main tasks as Vice President has been to supervise the up-to-date tallies on the district populations and go through lists of the living and dead, with, I assume, an army of assistants and technology to help her organize everything, integrating the data brought back by Flora and passed along by citizens and ambassadors. I don't actually expect anyone to know the answer to my question, but I've underestimated.
"The Avis family is still alive, yes. They were transported out of their district to a safe house at personal request shortly after their district began to be bombed. We made an effort to get as many Victor's families out of the lines of fire as we could," says Lyme. She noticeably does not specify whose special request this was, but I know it was for me. My heart leaps inside my chest for the first time all day. Alive. They're alive. I'm almost afraid to ask my next question.
"All of them?" There were five kids besides Rue, plus her parents. The odds were not in their favor. I remember their sorrowful faces in 11 when Peeta and I spoke, the light that dawned on them when he made his bold and dangerous gesture of promising them our food.
"All of them," Lyme says, and the wonder in my voice, or something on my face, makes her smile. I feel my eyes well up with tears that I frantically try to blink back. "Thank you," I whisper.
I look down, and everyone is silent. I need a minute to clear my head, and they give it to me. I hear footsteps padding but I don't look up as I breathe in and out, counting one in, one out, two in, two out the way one of my doctors in 13 taught me. I'm trying to still my racing heart, return my mind to the question at hand—whether or not I can do this, give these speeches, be the Mockingjay again in some capacity. So I'm surprised when Gale crouches beside me. At some point Peeta's hand has moved and it's stroking the end of my braid gently, and I see Gale's eyes flick to it momentarily. They look sad, but then they refocus on my face. If I was surprised by his presence, I'm thunderstruck by his next gesture.
"We'll get them here for your speech if that will make it easier," he says. He has not consulted anyone about this. He hasn't had time to ask. I don't know if he has the clout to make claims like this. I hear a murmur of dissent swirl around the President and her crew—travel is unstable, especially from the districts hit the hardest, where limited rail lines are constantly needed for food, building materials, and transport crews, and any passenger trains are rare and scheduled months in advance. Our country's air force is still decimated, and the hovercrafts from 13 comprise most of what is left. Road travel is all but impossible. And Rue's family is almost as far out as we are.
But I look only at Gale. His eyes are dark, intense, and focused. He's lost weight, I notice. His jawline is even more prominent. Shadows lounge under his eyes—not yet circles, but circles-in-training mayhap. I gauge his sincerity, inspect his motives. I come up with nothing.
"Yeah?" I ask. When he nods, the tears spill over and I put my face in my hands.
"That's going to be impossible for tonight's speech, Gale," Beetee notes, kindly.
He touches my cheek gently and then rises, using his full height and voice, and that military posture. "Then she'll speak tomorrow," says Gale. "You got her here in that much time. You can get Rue's family out with the same haste. Notify them by phone. Pay their expenses. They won't say no. You owe them and Katniss at least that much, don't you think?" His voice is reproachful.
The room holds its breath and I can't look up. I'm thinking only about Rue and those dark-eyed siblings that I never had the chance to greet. I don't even know their names. I didn't even know Rue's full name until now. I will almost certainly cry, trying to give a speech with them present. But I don't care, and I'm not going to point this out, lest it play a part in the deciding. I want to see them, touch them, hug them, tell them I'm sorry, tell them I miss her, share in their pain my pain over Prim. I may never have the chance again. I can feel the eyes on me. One, two, three, four…
Paylor turns to Lyme. "Make the call," she says, and inexplicably, Johanna claps.
Lyme leaves the room to make the call to Rue's family and while she's gone, Paylor gives us a chance to cool down. Gale has resumed his seat, but I rise and let go of Peeta's hand for a few minutes to walk over to him. I have eyes for only him for the first time in a long time—not the kind of eyes that I might have had, but the kind of eyes I once had. I remember the morning with the hot roll, in the rocks, sharing blackberries and Gale's treasonous talk of running away, so very, very long ago. Kids. Just kids. "Stand up," I tell him.
"Still bossy," he says, and a trace of a smile flickers. He stands up obediently, and I fling my arms around him. His come up around me, his big hand cups my head, and I lie my cheek against his chest, that body that's still so eerily familiar; the way it looks, how it smells, how it feels, the cadence of his breathing. "Thank you," I whisper.
"No problem, Catnip," he answers into my hair. I can sense him inhaling me, and his arms are like iron around me. This is his peace offering, maybe. Or maybe he just still really does love me and knows what this means to me. Maybe both. I sense someone behind me, hanging back. Gale and I break apart and his hand cups my cheek, just for a moment. My eyes must still be red. When I step back, Peeta steps forward from behind me and I feel a moment of doubt. But then Peeta extends one hand, and Gale hesitates, and then reaches out his own. They lock in the middle firmly and Peeta shakes it.
"That was really wonderful of you," Peeta says in a low voice. I know he's uncomfortable with the crowd of unfamiliar people who must be watching, although the sound of chatter doesn't dim.
"Not a problem," repeats Gale. He doesn't say anything about Peeta and I together, no word of congratulations or brotherly admonition to take care of me, but he meets Peeta's eyes. And this is something…quite a lot, really. My eyes soften looking at the two of them. I want so much…I really do…to forgive. But I remember how many years it took for me to even begin to forgive my mother. She and I were never the same, the way Gale and I will never be the same. But a little of that weight and shadow of Prim…just a tiny piece…leaves my heart.
Lyme returns and we reconvene, but the attitude in the room has lightened. Peeta smiles at me when we sit back down, leans over and kisses my cheek.
"That's settled, then," says Paylor in her no-nonsense voice. "We will reschedule Katniss' speech until tomorrow night, at which time we will have present the family of your…friend," she says to me. "Is that acceptable?" I nod. "I would still, however, like to tape the propos tonight, if that's okay with you." She looks up and her eyes flit to the other's faces. "I would also like the rest of you to be a part of that process, if you'd be willing."
But they're deferring to me in the careful silence. I'm trying to weigh whether I'll have the strength. We still have a lot more war talk to go through, the draining discussion about executions, about the Hunger Games. I glance at the clock embedded in the table: 12:30. Two and a half more hours, minus our time for lunch.
"Oh, and if it matters, Annie Cresta has volunteered to shoot her own propo alongside yours, tonight, if you agree to do the shoot," says Paylor, almost as an afterthought. I'm sure this is a calculated move, but I shoot right past my wary analysis because for a moment a tidal wave of intermingled joy and sorrow hits me, before I've even had the chance to process the news about Rue. Annie sent us a photo of her son to add to our book with a brief, sweet letter, but we haven't seen her since she returned home and we did, too. The Capitol had held a public ceremony for prominent soldiers and officials killed in combat, and she was there of course to honor Finnick—Peeta attended, too—but I spent the better part of that day barricading myself in a closet, the way I spent much of my time in 13. I wasn't ready to face any of it yet. I'm still not, really. Avoidance is a strategy that's discouraged by everyone around me, except maybe Haymitch, who has made it his sustenance too, but it's one I've been hard-pressed to surrender.
I'd assumed Annie was in 4, but Paylor continues, "She's been visiting the Capitol as part of her check-in with her doctors and in tandem with the visit from the four of you." Now I'm sure this is a card she has withheld deliberately. Annie was a part of the last vote on the Hunger Games, so I wonder why she isn't present now.
"Is her son here?" I ask breathlessly.
Paylor shakes her head, deflating my joy a little. "Nerites is yet a baby, and as such, I believe she has left him in the care of family in district 4 for the brief time that she is here. She isn't staying very long. She reacted very…strongly to being asked to sit in on these meetings, thus we're speaking with her on a private basis about these matters. She retains regular contact with the Capitol." The implication being, of course, that we do not, and have to be dragged out of our home in the woods in order for communication to occur. My idea of a good time isn't regular conference calls with Paylor 'n' crew.
Nerites. What a lovely name. Another name I didn't know until now. I wonder if he has Finnick's eyes. I wish I could meet him. A wave of aching loneliness washes over me for Finnick. I miss Finnick as much as Prim, some days, although I feel guilty about that. But the words about Annie and the propos still resonate inside my head like a gong. If Annie can do it, if Peeta and Johanna can...
"Yes," I say, and I feel the strength flow into me again, such a welcome feeling. "Yes, I'll do it." Paylor looks pleased. Finally, some cooperation from her Mockingjay. But this is how it works—the give-and-take is what coaxes me out, the idea that I'm working in tandem with the others I care about, with the freedom to say yes or no. I think maybe she's finally getting wise to the way I work. It's not so dissimilar to the negotiation I made with Coin before agreeing to be her Mockingjay. I'm not sure if this is good or bad. But at least it allows us to move forward. Forward is preferable to staying stuck in this room, arguing. Paylor, after noting my assent, looks to my team.
Peeta, of course, is the first one to nod, followed by Haymitch and Johanna, who looks unreadable again. An expression of trust or comfort never passes her face, but she's not mutinous. I have a feeling shooting propos is neither here nor there for her…she had a lot of time to practice being in the spotlight after being a Victor for several years beforehand. For all I know, she might even want to, since Johanna was denied the screen time after she failed her training exam back in 13, when they flooded the Block. As much as me, it might benefit the audience to see her whole again. The news about the torture had long since gotten out to the citizenry and she's mostly maintained a low profile. Until now.
"Progress!" Plutarch trills, and I think how much he still aggravates me.
"Now that that's settled, unfortunately, we should move on to a discussion about what to do with the war criminals we are holding in custody," Paylor says, mercilessly pressing forward. Surprisingly, it's Beetee who pauses her. "President, it's now close to the designated time for lunch," he notes in his analytical way, "Therefore, wouldn't it make more sense to introduce this discussion when we are able to proceed full-steam ahead with it, rather than only introducing it at this point?" Paylor sighs. Clearly, she would have us push on right through lunch if we would. But she looks to Lyme, as her second-in-command, and Lyme nods. "I think he has a point," she says. I say a silent thank-you inside my head that she is the one that Paylor chose to work alongside. She is clearly an ally to us. I wonder if she, too, feels that bond amongst Victors that I feel.
I let out a long breath and my shoulders drop as Paylor makes the announcement, "All right, everyone, let's take a break. Food is available in the commissary down the stairs and to the left. I expect everyone back by 13:45 on the nose!" This gives us an hour, which seems even lavish under her strict rules of order. As soon as her voice quiets, Peeta reaches out to me and pulls me gently onto his lap. I wrap my arms around him and lean in close. We don't say anything, though there is much to say. I listen to his heartbeat for a moment, close my eyes, block out everything in the world but him. My emotions are roiling, and he must know it. He smoothes back the strands of hair at my temples. "Okay?" he asks softly.
"Okay," I answer. And I am. And he is. And we're here, and that's something.