January 30th, 2012
A/N: I'm sorry for the long wait. I started this chapter three different times before deciding that it wasn't getting any better with each subsequent revision. Not sure I am totally satisfied with it, but hopefully, it doesn't disappoint.
My prayer is answered in the form of Hazelle. As she ushers us inside, her relief floods through me and I let myself share the lightness of the moment with her. For the first time since the sirens called out, I acknowledge the crushing weight I'd been carrying all day, the growing despair pooling at the doorstep and melting away with the promising warmth of home with Gale in its safe comforting walls. Ironically, without the burden, I feel even less sure of the present, as if I'm dreaming this happy ending into existence.
In her motherly worry, Hazelle manages to replace me so that I can only follow them into the family room. The sudden flare of irritation catches me off guard and I work quickly to dispel the irrational possessiveness I feel worming its sickening way through my heart. Hazelle is his mother; it's only right for her to take over. Rory bounces from his perch by the hearth and joins in the reunion, his exuberance jostling his older brother when he eases himself to the couch. Gale's noticeable wince makes me want to snap at Rory's ignorance. Instead, I bite my tongue. Hard.
"I'll be right back," Hazelle says, her hand finding Gale's cheek.
Only when she goes to retrieve my mother do I resume my place next to Gale. Despite the fact he's shut his eyes against the pain, his hand searches for mine. I lock my fingers tightly with his and give them a reassuring squeeze. The moment of respite is brief. Our mothers descend like two brooding hens in the middle of a fox raid in the chicken coop.
As my mother barks orders to Prim, who disappears back into the kitchen, she gently extracts the filthy cloth from Gale's head, evaluating his wound, asking what happened. I can see it pulls from being pressed to the cut for so long, the cords of Gale's neck tenses when he bites back a yelp. My first instinct is to soothe and comfort him, but Hazelle beats me to it, her arm slipping supportively around his shoulders.
"I just remember the canary stopped singing, and there was a loud blast," Gale explains, his teeth gritted as my mother prods the ravaged skin on his head. Prim returns with a bucket of water and a bowl of some mint green paste. "And then I was being pulled up to my feet."
My mother nods, working a wet cloth to clean the cut. I swallow hard when she removes it and bright red blood smudged with coal dust is evident on the snowy fabric.
"The wound's deep, but it'll heal," she says. A few more swipes reveals the extent of the gash on Gale's forehead, an angry line from his forehead to the corner of his right eye gaping across his beautiful skin. Then she's packing paste into the cut. Judging by the prickling in the tips of my fingers, Gale would like to strongly object to the treatment. I don't let go of his hand.
"It'll sting at first," my mother continues sympathetically. She applies a layer of gauze, keeping it in place with a cross weave of tape. I've seen the bandage once before. It's as close to stitches as we come in District 12. "The snow coat will numb it though. Any pain? Dizziness? Nausea?"
Gale attempts to shake his head, but quickly forgoes the emphasis and replies, "Just a massive headache."
"I imagine you've got quite the concussion, Gale," she says. Her smile is radiant and encouraging. "Rest will fix that. Quiet activity for a while, and I'll have to wake you every few hours tonight…"
"I'll do it!"
I've been so desperate to say anything in the last hour that the words just come bursting out of me. Five pairs of eyes turn to me at once and I'm reminded of the millions of eyes from Capitol citizens that watched me twirl for them. The flush returns to my cheeks now, whether from the memory or my current predicament I don't know.
My mother scowls at me, the healer annoyed at my intrusion into her special zone. Her gaze softens though after a moment, and I wonder what she saw in my eyes that made her sacrifice the chance to remind me of my manners. Her mouth sets in a firm line.
"Katniss, make sure to wake him every few hours and ask him a few simple questions," she instructs. "If he slurs his speech or acts confused, get me immediately."
I nod, still a little chagrined from her icy stare.
"Gale, it's probably best if you tried to stay propped up as much as possible. But don't make yourself uncomfortable, I'd rather you got the rest."
"So no mines tomorrow?" he asks.
"Gale!"
"No!"
"Absolutely not!"
My mother, Hazelle and I launch a full assault of incredulity that elicits another wince.
"Ha. Ha. I was joking," Gale says, though I detect the relieved – or was it worried?—undertone in his voice.
"Not funny," I say. My mother's and Hazelle's disapproving expressions seem to second my statement.
"Well, then. Let's get you upstairs," Hazelle says. She moves to grip Gale's other arm, but he tenses.
"I'd rather just stay here," he says. "Really, I'll be fine right here."
Hazelle's raised eyebrows don't seem to agree, but she doesn't argue. She's a smart woman and knows when to pick her battles with Gale's stubbornness. I would take her side if it didn't mean the chance to spend some time with Gale away from watchful eyes. Biting my lip, I look down as if I had voiced that thought aloud.
There's a lot of fuss as pillows and blankets are scrounged up and carefully arranged into a makeshift bed for Gale. He refuses to lay lengthwise, so his feet remain unceremoniously dumped on the floor. I resolve his comfort by pushing two ottomans together in a sort of extension of the couch and he offers me a small smile for my effort.
My mother has since excused herself to clean and reorganize her kitchen now that the last of the injured have returned home. After Gale is changed – I dutifully left the room – and the worst of the coal dust has been rinsed away, Hazelle hovers for a moment longer than I'd like, but after wringing her hands a few times, seems to trust her son to my care and kisses Gale's forehead.
"I'm so happy you're okay," I hear her whisper, before she says her good night, ushering Rory ahead of her. We can hear her grumbling about a bedtime and it being way past and then the voices are gone and it's just me, Gale, and quiet.
I'm still standing awkwardly in the place I took up after fixing Gale's footrest. Moving back to the couch seemed a little forward, despite the fact I get the feeling Hazelle has her suspicions about her son and me. Not bad suspicions, but there's no point in adding any stock to her observations.
Without lifting his head, Gale cracks one eye, the corner of his mouth turning up into a little smirk.
"It's just a concussion, Catnip. I'm not gonna break," he says, his arm extending out, inviting me closer.
I don't need any more encouragement than that. Carefully, I fold myself against him, my knees curled across his lap, my face pressed into the side of his neck. I breathe deep, inhaling pine and smoke and something else that I can't name. Something completely just Gale. Even the undertone of coal doesn't stop me from breathing it in over and over again.
We sit in silence for a moment, moving only to adjust, our hands roaming, offering comforting touches. Gale presses his lips to my hair and I look up to his serious stare. I want to ask him what's wrong. Instead, I lean forward and kiss him. I move my mouth gently at first, barely dragging my lips over his, trying to coax out the worry that was so evident in his eyes so that I can shoulder it, dispel it, save Gale from it. When he tries to deepen our kiss, I am forced to shift to a more accommodating angle, though I try to keep the contact light, comforting. One of Gale's hands finds the small of my back, the other the side of my neck, and suddenly, I have my knees on either side of his hips, our chests are flush, and when he releases me, we are breathing hard. How silly of me to believe that I could prevent a slight flicker from burning into a full blaze.
Gale wants to kiss me again, but I stiffen against him. He pulls back, his forehead creased with concern, and I can't help the smile that breaks across my face.
"Quiet activity, Hawthorne," I whisper against his lips.
His half smile returns along with a devilish glint in his gray eyes.
"I can be quiet, Everdeen," he says. "You, on the other hand…"
I try desperately to resist the magical patterns his fingers are tracing over my skin just beneath my shirt. He keeps his touches frustratingly light, making goosebumps erupt all along my flesh. When his thumbs rub enticingly up and down the slight dent of my hips, the moan escapes me without my permission. The only way I can think to wipe the arrogant smirk off his face is to kiss it away.
Gale grunts a little at the force of my mouth against his, and while I'm not proud of causing him some pain, I'm slightly satisfied to have made my point. I walk us right up to the point of no return and somehow find it in me to step away from the slippery slope of all-consuming desire. Ignoring Gale's frown of disapproval, I stretch out alongside him and wait for the heady cloud to dissipate.
The tick-tock, tick-tock of the clock on the mantle is our metronome and Gale's heart slows beneath my hand as the tranquility of the late hour seeps into the room. It occurs to me to ask him if he wants to discuss what he went through, but his breathing evens out and the weight of his arm across my middle grows heavier. I only look up when I feel him completely relax beside me; then I too surrender to sleep.
My pillow is quivering. In my groggy state, I vaguely am aware of the strangeness of that observation, but convince myself, I'm still dreaming and try to snuggle down into it. Except, my pillow jolts violently, and suddenly I'm wide awake. It takes only a minute to for me to reboot and remember why I'm asleep on the couch in my living room.
Gale trembles again, and I glance nervously at the clock wondering just how long I've been asleep. It says it's a little past two and I breathe a sigh of relief that it's only been three hours. Gently, I shake Gale's shoulder, trying to ease him out of his dream. He shudders again, and I feel panic starting to rise when I begin thinking that maybe something's wrong.
"Gale," I say, the urgency slipping into my voice. "Gale, wake up."
He comes to with a start, his eyes darting around, his breathing like ragged gasps. I brush the light sheen of sweat from his forehead, waiting patiently as the remnants of his nightmare fade. I begin worrying again when Gale's hands touch my face as if trying to convince himself that I am real.
"Gale, it's okay," I say, brushing my fingers against his cheek. "I'm right here."
"Catnip," he says, the wildness in his eyes subsiding rapidly. His voice sounds rough, scratchy. I give him a minute to relax.
"Do you want some water?" I realize that my question is not the most natural to ask after you wake someone from a bad dream, but something concrete and simple like a drink of water always made me feel a little more stable, a little more in control.
Gale nods, and I disentangle myself from where the blankets have twisted amongst our legs to retrieve a glass from the kitchen. When I return, Gale has a hand pressed over his eyes and seems to be focusing on breathing slowly.
"Are you all right?" I ask.
"Yeah, just… a bad dream," he says. He takes the water from me and downs the entire glass in big gulps.
"More?"
He shakes his head. "No, thanks."
Holding out a spoon of sleep syrup, I win the battle of wills with him, and he grudgingly takes it, making sure to scowl so that I know how foul the syrup is and how proud I should be of him for taking it without complaining out loud.
"Thank you," I say, and I kiss him full on the mouth, sharing the bitter taste and my pride. I curl up next to him, gently pushing his sweaty hair from his forehead. "Want to talk about it?"
"I think I was just reliving that explosion," he says after a minute. "Except I knew it was coming and couldn't do anything about it.
I cock my head, a silent gesture asking him to continue.
"Sean, Aaron, and I were talking about the rumors of the shortage of seafood in the Capitol when that canary went silent," Gale explains.
My stomach twists heavily, and I don't have to ask him to know that he's not only recalling his nightmare, he's telling me the events just before the explosion.
"Sean thinks it's because something's going on in District 2," Gale continues. "But who knows really…"
The way he drifts off makes me think that while he doesn't want to believe in a rebellion, the hope that some other district is finally taking a stand intrigues him at least a little. That thought alone terrifies me. If Gale and I are going to run from the Capitol, the last thing I need is for some uprisings in the other districts to make him think twice about escape. The mayor's television alert flashes through my mind, but I force the memory back, burying it deep because that is not an event I think I should share.
I'm pulled out of my impending panic when Gale takes my hand from where it's settled over my stomach and twists our fingers, watching me, waiting for a comment.
"How does your head feel?" I ask.
"Sore," he says, with a half smile. "But I guess that's to be expected."
I frown, knowing there is really nothing I can offer to dull his pain, before I lean forward and kiss him. One slow, tantalizing kiss. Drawing him with me, I lie back, my lips drifting from his mouth to his nose to the bandage just over his eye. Our movement leaves me propped up against the arm of couch, half beneath Gale, his head resting against my shoulder and chest. I let my fingers wander through his thick hair, my lips occasionally pressing a kiss here and there. Gale sighs, his arm wrapping around my middle and sliding my body somehow impossibly closer to his.
"Better?" I whisper.
"Much."
Minutes pass. How many I'm not sure. My own eyes start to droop from exhaustion, the heat from Gale's body against mine luring me towards sleep. I'm losing the battle when Gale's voice cuts through the stillness.
"I don't want to go back down there."
His voice is so low I think I imagined it. That maybe I was dreaming and am now confusing my reality and my subconscious state. It's Gale's voice, but different somehow. Younger? Must have been drifting off into a strange…
"Catnip?"
No, I definitely heard that. And the difference I first didn't recognize is evident in the softness of my name. It's terror.
"To the mines?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says, the word drawn out, not slurred, but not crisp either. I can tell the syrup is taking effect and know that Gale might not be entirely aware of what he's saying. The thought doesn't stop me from proceeding to ask anyway.
"Gale?"
Again the barely audible reply.
"You know you don't have to work down there…"
The only response I get is the heavy rise and fall of his chest.
"I have enough for you not to work in the mines again."
No response.
"Gale?"
"Uh huh…"
"Did you hear me?"
"Uh huh…"
"You don't have to work there. Okay?"
"Uh huh…"
"Gale?"
"Yeah."
"I love you."
"Love you, too."
I can barely make out his response, because sleep finally pulls him under and away from me. I'm content to just hold him in my arms, and let myself enjoy the feeling of his arms wrapped securely around me. My eyes flutter with the heaviness of impending sleep, and somewhere in my fight to stay awake, it crosses my mind that I should feel guilty for taking advantage of Gale's drug-induced state and complete exhaustion. But my absolute last thought before I succumb is that I don't feel guilty enough that I won't back down if he remembers this conversation tomorrow.
~Fin