Author's Note:

I'm back! If this is not my best work, alow me a moment to make a few lame excuses: Holidays were a mess, computer was hosed (as in had to reinstall windows from SCRATCH), literally DAYS were spent updating Vista before I could use it properly (because it was so poorly designed upon it's release that there are now 2,347,984 patches for it), and I got the flu. THE FLU. I need a Gale moment - Happy &*#ing New Year. There. Better now. This probably needs some more editing, but at this point I just need to move on. Feedback is, as always, greatly appreciated.

Also, a thank-you: Somebody posted a link to my story on Tumblr, which is way cool! I stumbled across it by accident. I don't know who you are, and I have a very limited understanding of what Tumblr actually is, but I still want to say thanks!

The evening of the tracker-jacker incident, I get to see a clip of Katniss' cousin politely giving the capitol reporters hell. Apparently, they'd been keeping that particular bit of interview footage in their back pocket, waiting for the perfect dramatic moment.

"You'll get your show," he says with unwavering confidence after quashing Tangerine's suggestions of cowardice. "But it'll be on her time." The camera lingers on him for a moment, beautiful and defiant, gray eyes like thunder and lightning before he turns and marches away. The effect his ferocious loyalty has on his chiseled, smoldering features doesn't do him any favors. They're going to love him. They'll chase him to the ends of the earth to talk to him again when they come back for more interviews. He'll probably start getting fan mail.

It'll be another day or two before my interview airs. I'd hoped to give them what they needed and sent them right back to the Capitol, but they had been unfortunately successful in delaying their return trip until the afternoon, so they still got to pick at the bones of the Mellarks and Everdeens alike. I can't believe that there was anything left for them at this point, after all both families have been through and witnessed these past few weeks. I should have put ipecaq in their breakfast coffee while I had the chance.

I worry about Katniss because she has been unconscious since she fell into the shallow pit in the woods, but more about Peeta with his nasty leg wound from the leader of the Career Pack. The day after, Claudius Templesmith even invites a Capitol physician as a guest commentator for the evening highlights to speculate on the fates of the injured tributes and to analyze in detail the unpleasant demise of the deceased ones. I suspect that this is done for the sake of the gamblers who bet on the Games. According to the doctor on television, Katniss ought to recuperate in a few days as long as no one finds her, but Peeta's fate is more uncertain. Without treatment, the deep gash in his leg could become septic and result in a slow, painful, lingering death. Templesmith has the gall to announce that Peeta's best hope might actually be for another tribute to find him and dispatch him quickly. When they comment on the tragedy of it all, I can only hope it inspires some wealthy, sentimental sponsor to send medicine. Peeta and Katniss won't get any sympathy as two dying innocents, but a pair of devoted-but-unlucky lovers? Now that's the stuff. I suddenly wish my interview could go on the program tonight. It made me sick to do it, put I played that hand heavily; it was and is the best chance to get the Capitol on their side.

When we are alone for once, my father reassures me that there has been no indication that the Capitol is aware of our manipulations. It would seem, as far as our sources could tell, that there was only some displeasure at the fact that the Tributes from Twelve had eclipsed the other more favored districts. This soothes my concerns a little, but the fear that our contacts could be wrong still gnaws at the back of my mind.

I confess that I offered myself for an interview with the media team because he'll find out eventually, and I expect to be reamed for being so forward. From the beginning, Dad had been adamant that I remain behind-the-scenes with my involvement in the rebellious anti-Capitol plot; plausible deniability was my priority number one, and while I found the restrictions it set down irksome I had to appreciate his concern for my safety. He surprises me with praise for my effort, because of the aid it might bring our Tributes and the picture it paints of the Capitol-loyal Mayor's daughter. Great, I think, everyone here will love that, though, won't they?

I can only hope that Prim and her mother will understand my motivation when they see how shallow I was about the whole thing. I don't even want to think about what Gale's reaction might be. Selfishly, I almost regret my actions for that singular reason. That probably makes me a Horrible Person again, but let's be honest, I'm starting to get used to being one. It was just a little easier when I wasn't on the edge of having something to lose.

….

I spend a few extra hours in the woods on Saturday morning to tweak my lines of snares. The last few days have seen a lighter haul, which means it's time to shake things up a bit. Move some of the traps, block a few game runs to steer prey in the right direction. I enjoy the work. It keeps my mind off of everything else I can't do anything about. Because I can do this, and do it well. I think briefly of the times I had done this with Katniss, tried to get her to see the lines way I see them, and though she grasped some of it she never quite understood it all. In truth, it isn't something that I can easily articulate, more just something that I know.

Rory's latest catch gets me a few more raccoons and a slew of catfish, even a few trout. I balance a heavy log on a stick above the remaining carcass, and hope to find bigger game caught there in the morning; it's been a while since Greasy Sae has had wild dog stew for sale at the Hob. With any luck, fishing will keep my brother satisfied for a while so I make a mental note to tell him how much of a help it has been for me.

I am pleased to find that today's kills more than make up for yesterday, when I came home nearly empty-handed. If it weren't for Madge's leftovers, we might have had to skip dinner last night. And she was a big part of the reason I was utterly incompetent. I catch myself as I begin to resent owing her all over again, try to force my head back around the conversation we'd shared the night I walked her back to town, see how it feels to accept that she expects nothing in return. It's a weird place to be in. But the longer I stay there, the less uncomfortable it becomes.

On my way back to the fence I find myself detouring to the place where I know I will find wild strawberries. When I get there, I crouch down to inspect the plants and stare at them for a long time when I see that the little fruits have turned bright red. I stay there until my knees ache and my feet feel numb, the colors shimmer and swirl from not blinking, something inside me slowly twists itself up again. Because when I discovered them ripe for the picking, the thrill it brought had nothing to do with the coin they are worth.

….

My mother is starting to rebound again, and since she's up and awake a little more I have a chance to get back to my music. Playing the nocturne the other night did little to scratch the itch to play again. It only made me appreciate all the more how much it does to soothe my mind. When I very young and just starting to learn, before I really started to understand the world, I had hoped that with practice and determination I could perform well enough to go to the glamorous, exotic, colorful Capitol someday, study in a conservatory, play with a symphony. As the years went by, I realized that the Capitol was a place that I wished never existed and I couldn't believe that I'd ever wanted to see it, be part of it. And in a way, it made me love my music even more. No longer was this instrument my ticket to a grand adventure; it was my closest confidante. I don't have anyone with whom to share my cares and worries. But with my piano – I can put all of it into the keys, and everything fades into the ether as each note strikes and fades. While I am playing, the sounds lift the weight from my shoulders and all is right with the world.

I've lost track of how many consecutive times I have replayed my latest etude, because it is a difficult one. I had tried playing something lighter and easier, but anything in a major key just didn't feel right, and the simpler compositions allowed my mind to wander too much. The focus required to execute this piece keeps me distracted, even if I haven't quite mastered the technical skill. But I'm getting close. One more time and I'll have it perfect….

I'm so engrossed in my efforts that I nearly miss the knocking at the back door. And even when I hear it, I forget that it is Saturday morning until I'm halfway through the kitchen, and not until I twist the doorknob do I remember that this is the part where my heart is supposed to leap into my throat.

I feel a little dizzy when I open the door and find him there. I'm accustomed to the butterflies that flit around my stomach when I know I'll see Gale standing at my back porch with a pail of fresh strawberries; it's just that they feel more like birds today, since I hadn't been paying attention and they caught me a bit my surprise. If he notices that I'm flustered, and I'm certain that he does because he always seems to watch everything so carefully, he is kind enough to pretend that he doesn't. He just looks at me, his face unreadable like it usually is when he is not scowling at me. I guess that's a step in the right direction, I think, I've moved up from contempt to… nothing. I knew I'd hoped for too much the other night….

"Hi," I manage with a small smile.

Gale hesitates just long enough for me to wonder what is wrong, then blinks suddenly as if just now remembering why he is here. His bag yields a small paper-wrapped package. "There aren't as many as last time," he says, "but they look better."

The weight and feel of the package indicates that it is indeed filled with strawberries. I nod. "I'll be right back," I say, "and I think I still owe you your bucket from last time."

I leave the door open as I walk away into the kitchen so I can watch him from the corner of my eye while I get money from the jar above the stove. How did this become so awkward? I hope for some clue from him, but he only leans lazily against the door frame, patient and still.

"How much?" I ask.

"Ten," comes the even reply.

That's less than usual. "Are you sure?" I say.

"Twenty, then," he says. I can't tell if his tone is snide or mischievous.

"Five it is," I answer cheerfully as I count out the coins. I let my eyes drift up to see his reaction, hoping I have chosen the correct response. He isn't looking at me now, but a stubborn smile pulls at his mouth. I bring the money and the empty bucket back to the door. "But I guess that interview of yours earns you a little bit if a tip."

The smile wins out as he laughs. "You like that?" he says.

I smile but I find I can't look him in the eye any longer. Oh, these loaded questions. "Loved it," I respond softly.

….

I pocket the money without bothering to see how much she decided to actually give me. For once it doesn't matter. That shy smile and the knowledge that she approves of my attitude problem is payment enough. Maybe she's right. Maybe we're not so far apart….

And seeing her stretch to reach the cupboard over her head, how it separated the bottom of her blouse from the top of her skirt to reveal an inch of smooth, soft skin just at the inward curve of her waistline – well, that helped, too.

Her pretty smile fades a little as she sighs and says, "I wish I could have said something like that."

I look at her curiously. "What do you mean?"

Madge shakes her head with a faint, wry chuckle. "Heh," she says as she turns to retrieve the package of berries from the table where she left them, "I gave an interview yesterday, before they left." She comes back and steps outside with me, drops onto the step and starts to open the paper.

I waver for a moment, and take it as an invitation to join her. I'm still not entirely sure that I ought to stay, but at the same time it seems like it would be rude to leave at this point. Funny how only a few weeks ago I wouldn't have much cared.

"I take it didn't go well?" I say. Technically speaking, mine didn't either, but that's not a bad thing.

"Oh, it went great," she says as she chooses a berry and picks the leaves from the top. "That's the thing about it. It was awful." She shakes her head as she inspects the fruit critically, and I realize that I'm really looking forward to watching her eat it. Madge says something while I imagine her slowly biting into it, the red staining her lips… and my reverie is interrupted when she pops the whole thing in her mouth and chomps on it angrily. There is nothing alluring about the way she does this. I prop my head up on one hand and watch her finish. So much for that. The strange thing is I'm not exactly disappointed; somehow it just makes her seem more real.

"I hate that, you know?" she says with quiet fury.

I flounder for a moment, because I like what the emotion does to her voice, and I hadn't been paying close enough attention to what she was saying to know what that was. I make a neutral-sounding noise, and she doesn't appear to notice that I missed something along the way. Instead, she picks up another strawberry and holds the package in front of me.

"Want one?" she asks.

I feel a little awkward taking something I just sold her. "You bought them. They're yours."

"Yes, Gale, they're mine and I'm sharing them," she says with exasperation.

I don't know why, but I take two just to be obnoxious. Madge gives me a look that calls me a smartass without actually saying the word, and goes back to removing the leaves from her next berry. "I just hope I got Katniss and Peeta a few sponsors."

That's when it hits me, like a swift kick to the gut, and I feel like I can't quite swallow the strawberry I'm eating. The guilt that never completely leaves me, that comes back worse every time. I make a concerted effort not to look at the girl sitting next to me, not to notice how her golden hair frames her face, how her long eyelashes splay across her cheeks when she looks down at her hands.

She doesn't let me ignore her though; she drops her head to look at me again, and her startling blue eyes pull me back in. "I'm sorry for complaining at you," she says, "but thank you for listening to me."

I shrug, and decide not to tell her I was doing more looking than listening. "That was nothing," I say. "You complained for, what, thirty whole seconds?"

Madge gets to her feet as the shy smile returns. "Maybe a little longer than that. But either way, I'm sure there's a million other ways you'd rather spend your time, so I still appreciate it."

I stand with her. "Don't mention it. I'm pretty good at it - I do a lot of listening… just not to people." This gets her to laugh, and I like it. It's almost as much fun as making her mad.

She is almost through the door and back into the kitchen when I stop her. I'm not sure what makes me do it. I'm not sure why I can't keep myself from doing it. "Was that you, before?" I ask, gesturing behind her into the house. She looks confused, so I explain, "The music. Was that you playing?"

She blinks at me once, twice, nods. "You heard it?"

"I listened a minute when you didn't hear me knock the first time. It sounded like it would be hard to play."

She looks vaguely embarrassed. "It is. I messed up a few places."

I wouldn't know. "It sounded like…." I search for the right words, to paint the picture that was in my head. "Like autumn. Falling leaves in the breeze."

Madge lights up at this, her smile no longer shy but vibrant and contagious. It's hard to look at her again, it hurts, like walking east at sunrise.

So I turn to leave. "Carry on," I say over my shoulder. "Don't mess up this time."

"I'll try."

What just happened? I struggle not to answer my own question as the guilt creeps back in, along with that confusing ache, when I walk away. Because I know what the answer is. It was so much easier when she was just a pretty girl I couldn't have. I'd tried to go back to what it had been before, what was normal, selling a pint of strawberries, a simple transaction, no more. It was hopeless from the start, though, from the second I saw the berries in the woods, even went looking for them in the first place. I can't deny it. I was so much easier before. Fuck. Now we're friends.

Footnote: My story has a soundtrack! For those inquiring minds out there, Madge is playing Debussy's Etude No. 1. Look it up and take a listen. I'm holding my Madge to some pretty high standards – this is a very difficult piece, so I'm writing her as quite the talent. But in my mind, she has lots of time to practice.