Author's Note:
(Drumroll)….I'm back again! As always, thank you to all of you who read my story, and extra special thanks to those of you who recommend me! And extra extra special thanks to those who review every single chapter. I know I'm not very good at replying very often (it's hard to keep up and and update regularly) but I read every single review, and take them all very seriously.
Also, at the recommendation of Ooyeteri, I looked at the Gadge tag on Tumblr. It took me a while to figure out, (anything I had ever looked at on there had been sent to me in a link), but - WOW! All of the love my story is getting there makes me think I ought to start an account. That may take a while, too, though, as I don't really understand how all of it works – but stranger things have happened, I guess : ) So, special thanks to all my newly-discovered, very awesome Tumblr people as well!
Katniss is home again, but she may as well be a thousand miles away as far as I'm concerned. I hardly get the chance to see her, and when I do it is only for a moment at a time and under the close scrutiny of visiting Capitol officials. One evening, during the public celebration held in the town square - in the very place where she was Reaped - I get a few seconds to say Hello before she is swept away with Peeta Mellark for photos, and once there is no longer any attention directed toward me I go home, because there really wasn't much to celebrate. On the first Parcel Day after her Victory someone decides that it would make a great television propo for her to personally deliver a box to her famously devoted cousins, so I let the kids take center stage for the event while I stand in the back to make it less obvious that I'm still not willing to try very hard for the camera. Other than that, Katniss' time is monopolized by appointments and banquets and ceremonies to which I am never invited. In truth, I don't mind. It's hard enough seeing her leashed like an expensive pet from afar; I don't really want to see what they have done to her up close.
So I go about my business because it gives me something constructive to do with the anger and the sadness. I still go to the woods on Sundays because my family still has to eat, and I keep practicing with Rory and his steadily-improving wire snares. I get up each morning and go to work, and after a while it doesn't exactly get better but it stops getting worse. I go home each evening and give my mother a break from my brothers and sister. And Saturday nights, well, those are mine – and I give them to Madge.
After the first evening I had spent with her, I had been sure that there would be no question that she was not a distraction, not someone conveniently present to fill some empty time. Until the second Saturday - when at the last moment I had convinced myself to steel my nerves, tell her that thinking of seeing her again was the only thing that got me through the week, snatch her up in my arms and show her - she had dashed my plans to pieces with a single, brutally simple phrase: I wasn't sure you'd come back.
It was startling how much it hurt to hear that she was still skeptical. Especially since she clearly didn't mean for it to cut the way that it did. It hurt enough that I knew with unfaltering certainty that I didn't want to ever feel what it was like to lose her. Suddenly, in the space of one awkwardly fractured moment, I had to start from the beginning with her again. And the most shocking thing of all was that I was willing to do it without a second thought. For anyone else, I wouldn't have considered it worth the trouble. Somewhere along the way, as she went from being more than just a pretty girl I couldn't have to a girl that maybe I could, it started to actually matter and whether she was pretty didn't have a damn thing to do with it. It was that spark of fire in her that I didn't want to miss and had me so tangled up.
Starting over, I have to admit, required more restraint than I expected. That Madge is beautiful might not be the thing about her that has me so ensnared, but that doesn't mean I don't notice. We could have had a lot of fun with that peach.
As the weeks pass, some of the shyness in her fades and each time she sees me she is less pleasantly surprised and more simply pleased. Still I take my time with her, the knowledge that her trust in me is yet a fragile, fledgling thing fresh in my mind each time a certain way that she smiles at me or cocks her head or bites her lip dares me to move too quickly and ruin everything. When she plays the piano for me, I find that I have to look away and just listen because watching her fingers dance over the keys makes me wonder what they would feel like against my skin; when she finishes and I think that I might have the control to turn back to her she fixes me with those dazzling azure eyes and I can't fathom how I ever managed to look away in the first place. Once, when I get her so riled with an especially enjoyable round of teasing, she smiles around gritted teeth (because she is a remarkably good sport, I'll give her that) and lets out a frustrated growl as her head falls back and her fingers tangle in her hair to keep from strangling me – and all I can think about is how I want to make her do it again under very different and even more enjoyable circumstances. And oddly enough, the most enticing, alluring, intoxicating thing about everything that Madge does is that none of it is done with any coquettish intent, there are no games being played; everything is genuine, honest, real.
Finally, after I pull her to me before I leave one night, I decide that I'm finished with patience and restraint, and when she is reluctant to let go I sense that she is, too. "Better," I say as I give her newly-mussed shirt an appraising once-over, while I promise myself that the next time I see her I'll do this right.
For the first time in weeks I go home after work on Saturday instead of to town. I expect my mother to finally ask what I've been up to (so far, she had only given me knowing glances when I'd been late, like she had an inkling but was choosing to bide her time) but she doesn't. I think she figures that if I'm not coming in drunk or bleeding or both, then she ought to be glad that I'm not sulking around the house anymore. She does look surprised to see me, and when I tell her I'm here to retrieve Rory she raises an eyebrow as if to say That's a Sunday thing.
"I have a lot to do tomorrow," I explain, "and I don't want him to be disappointed." She just gives me that little smile that makes me want to say Oh just ask already! But I let it go, and whisper that she doesn't have to worry much about Rory because there is absolutely no chance that he's going to catch anything yet.
I had promised my brother that I'd help him set a few real snares in the meadow this week and he had been so thrilled at the prospect that I can't go back on it and risk destroying the delicate truce we've established. I would usually save it for Sunday after I finish hunting, but it occurred to me that that should be the time I ought to give to Madge, at least this once, when I would be less exhausted and even get the chance to clean up a little better than just washing my face and hands in a very dusty, very old latrine. I want to bring her back to the meadow because she had loved it so much, but it wouldn't do much good if I fell asleep the second it got dark. Rory listens carefully as I try to articulate how to choose the best places to set a trap, while I struggle to keep ahead of the persistent unease that comes with teaching him something dangerous. It's hard to explain something that you just know, and even harder when you have good reasons not to want to do it. For his part, he is positive that he'll find a slew of rabbits in the morning.
Sunday I get up early, allow Rory to accompany me far enough to check his snares, try not to appear overtly elated that he is discouraged when he finds them all empty, and then as usual to head to the forest alone. My time spent here will be easier today, I know, because the solitude that used to gnaw away at me has lost its teeth. I'm not really alone, after all. I wonder if Madge would dare follow me here sometime. I could never do it (I can barely stand to think of bringing Rory under the fence). But it makes me smile all same – she would.
The welcome smile fades when I reach the end of the familiar path to my snare lines. Katniss sits quietly, on the smooth, flat rock where we used to meet. She is in her old shirt and hiking boots, her hair has returned to its usual long, simple braid. But something is missing from her yet, and the sadness comes back in a rush because I know I am only seeing a ghost; if whatever they had taken from her is still gone even when she is here in the woods, then it is gone for good. I wait for a few minutes, wonder if I should go back and pick another path through the trees. The angry, bitter part of me says to leave her here, but the part of me that loves her won't let me do it. Katniss is still my friend, or perhaps more accurately I am still her friend, and I don't break promises. Then her eyes come up and she makes the decision for me when she jumps from her seat and throws herself into my chest, and all I can do is hold onto her while she cries because she needs someone to do it.
Eventually the sobbing eases and she is overtaken by a fit of hiccups, and I let go of her so she can retrieve a water bottle from her bag. I watch her carefully until I am sure that she's got the pieces together, and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary has happened at all. She offers to share the food she packed and we eat breakfast, we trade stories about goings-on in town and in the Seam, we check the lines and wait for game, just as we had done for so long before. Before. But this is now, and the woods have become my place - I've worked hard for that - and even as we go through all the familiar motions I have to try hard to make room for her again. Here and there, I get a glimpse of what she used to be, a flicker to make the ghost almost seem a living thing, and it makes the trying a little easier. She needs something to be like the way it was, even if it's only almost, so I stay with her until the late afternoon because it's the right thing to do.
By the time we head back to the fence it almost seems possible that we could close this distance between us, and it's a comfort because I miss the Katniss that I used to know so well. But when she makes a point to tell me to take our entire haul for myself – something that I expected her to let me do, though tacitly – there is the implication that some part of her feels sorry for me, and I know that there is a space separating us that will never be bridged. I look at her for half a second, what I left of this girl I used to think I would end up with, and it is heartbreaking to be so angry and resentful because if nothing had changed I wouldn't have been unhappy. Even if I wasn't in love with her, I loved her. And now I just love her because of what she used to be. Because it's the right thing to do.
I have to let go of this, of the memories, of the grief, of my Katniss, and in a sudden flood of emotion I take her face in my hands and press my lips against hers. It startles her, and she stands there wooden and unyielding, still so far away. "I had to do that, at least once," I say before I turn away from her, relieved to finally find this closure. A kiss goodbye. And I slip under the fence and away from her, because I have someplace that I need to be.
….
I spend all of Sunday trying to keep myself busy so that I don't spend it wondering if Gale will still decide to show up. Wishful thinking, of course. He's hard to forget. I feel stupid for being so heartbroken over his absence, and even more stupid for knowing this would happen and letting myself get caught up in it anyway. After a while, I can't decide which feels worse – the heartbreak or the stupidity. After I make a few rather pathetic attempts at playing the piano and find that it has become difficult because it only reminds me more of him, I try to at least talk myself into being angry. The one thing that I could always fall back on to soothe my troubled mind doesn't work anymore, and probably won't for a while at this point. I get close, but I don't quite make it. Because, in the end, I just miss him.
If nothing else he had become my friend, and let's face it – I don't have many of those. It felt good not to be so lonesome for once, even if I was more his than he ever was mine.
Once my music proves stubbornly elusive, I try to read a little, sifting through yet another stack of newspapers and magazines for any hint of progress on our plans for Seneca Crane. It's hard to concentrate, especially because there is virtually no mention of the Head Gamemaker – a good sign still, considering the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games were the biggest sensation in all of Panem since the Dark Days, but it doesn't do much for my wandering mind. I go outside for a while, hoping the fresh air will clear my head a little, but that doesn't work either. Too many memories and false hopes bubble to the surface. Back inside, I resign myself to housework; Rose will appreciate the head start when she comes in tomorrow and I still owe her anyway. Doing laundry nearly brings me to tears, but I remind myself that I still haven't really earned the right. Slamming the door to the mudroom helps a little, but then I feel a bit guilty because my mother isn't feeling well again and is trying to sleep, and then a bit embarrassed when my father pokes his head out of his office to ask if I'm alright. I decide that washing the windows will be quieter and less emotionally taxing (there I go feeling stupid again – how pathetic is that?). I work my way upstairs, and am relieved to see that my mother is still sleeping soundly so I don't have to worry about having to answer more questions.
Eventually I know that I shouldn't put off cleaning the kitchen floor any longer; it's my absolute least favorite thing to do, and though I'd promised Rose that I would do it for her I had made excuses for weeks that it was pointless while there were still so many people staying here and coming and going all the time. I'm halfway through sweeping the dust and dirt into a pile when my father reappears and announces that he has been called into work at the Justice Building.
I perk up at this, hoping that he has some kind of good news to share.
"They didn't say on the phone," he says, as if that is a fair indication that it may be the case, "but you'll be the first to know."
My mood improves some once he leaves because I expect him to return later with a good story to tell. Maybe Seneca Crane is set to be tried for treason. Portia had said that there were rumors that it may happen soon… and in cases involving treason, trials are just for show. I fill a bucket with soapy water and start a quick mop over what I've just swept while I go back and forth between trying to decide if official charges against the Head Gamemaker would be something for which Mayors might be called to work on a Sunday, and if I can get away with cleaning the floor without actually having to move the table out of the way. I suppose the one is possible, but after seeing that the mop really hasn't done much good, it is clear that the other is not. I chastise myself for waiting so long to take care of the floor, because if I'd have just done it sooner it would likely have required half the effort; even after sweeping and mopping there's still going to be a lot of scrubbing to do. As I scoot the table to one side and scrounge up a brush, I wonder if perhaps something has happened with District Thirteen. That would definitely be grounds for an emergency meeting. But Thirteen was supposed to be coordinating with our plans, waiting with us for the right moment – not acting on their own. The old apprehension tightens its grip on me again like an invisible noose: Do they know? Had the Capitol learned that the events of the past few weeks were no accident and decided to go on the offensive, to try to eliminate the only factor that levels the field between us and them?
I'm getting carried away quickly, I know, but for once I'm glad for my overactive imagination. It's keeping me from thinking about Gale. And the fact that scrubbing a floor on my hands and knees is rather uncomfortable. No wonder she tells me to do this when I offer to help, I think, this is miserable even with knees younger than hers. For the first time, I wonder not just about the health of our fragile rebellion but also my own safety while I grind the brush into a particularly nasty spot in front of the sink. If the Capitol knows, could any of it be traced back to me? How plausible is my deniability at this point? I mentally tick off a list of people who know about my involvement as I work my way toward the ugly space in front of the stove – my parents and Portia, but that likely means Cinna as well, and Haymitch Abernathy, too. Does that mean that there could be others? By the time I scrub my way around to the floor by the pantry, I sincerely wish I wasn't quite so good at worrying.
I'm just getting back to my feet when a sharp knock at the back door startles me so badly that I nearly fall over. I can hear my own heart pound as I stare at the door, debating whether I ought to answer it. Now I'm just paranoid. This is ridiculous. I gather my nerves and grab the knob, open it a crack, peer tentatively outside.
Gale! I throw the door open and smile at him as all the doubt and sadness that had been hanging over me shatter and come crashing down. "Hey," I say softly, because real words won't come. I realize self-consciously that my clothes are a mess and I am up to my elbows in soap suds, but I hope that how happy I am will make up for it.
His gray eyes watch me closely, just like they always do, and a little smile pulls at his lips. Then his forehead creases slightly as if he is surprised or thinking hard about something. "You scrub your own floors?" he asks with mild shock.
Maybe it is just because the last couple of days have especially trying and I'm not in a particularly patient mood, but his question has me seeing red so fast that all I can do is stand and watch as my temper takes off without me. "Yes, Gale," I say rather snottily. "I scrub my own floors, I weed my own flower garden, I do my own laundry, and believe it or not, I actually wipe my own ass!" And with a firm flick of my wrist I slam the door in his face.
Once the door is back between us, I am instantaneously horrified to have all but screamed something so crude at the man of my dreams. Then again, I had thought that we were beyond his assumption that I am some kind of helpless, spoiled little brat. Except I just behaved like one – maybe not helpless or spoiled, but definitely a brat. It's his fault, though, for asking that at all; I might never have been quite so rude about answering his stupid questions before, but I never exactly concealed the fact that I was annoyed by them either. He ought to have figured it out by now. I never make any remarks about his life in the Seam, and none of the normal, everyday things I've seen him do have surprised me. I imagine what his reaction would be if I asked something so asinine. You use a fork and knife when you eat? You take a bath every day? Not that I've seen him take a bath, of course. Although it wouldn't be a bad thing, except it would be, but in a good way, which is a very distracting track to follow, enough that it gets me thinking that I ought to go back out and apologize, and that is supremely irritating because I was busy being angry, dammit, and he should be the one to apologize for being an idiot, a tall, handsome, well-built idiot….
In a fit of pique, I spike the scrub brush into the bucket on the floor and create a geyser of dirty, soapy water that splatters the cabinets, countertop, and me. I loose an exasperated sigh because now I've made a mess – literally and figuratively – of everything.
This is when I hear another knock. I'm not sure if I am relieved or infuriated by it, but I whip the door open, mentally girded for battle.
"That wasn't fair," he says flatly before I get a chance to attack first.
I cock my head and narrow my eyes, because he cannot possibly have just said what I think he did. "What?"
"Yelling at me and slamming the door in my face. That wasn't fair." Now he has the gall to add a note of annoyance to his tone.
"Oh, okay," I concede sarcastically, "but acting so shocked that I do chores just like everybody else in the world – that's fair. As long as we're on the same page."
"How does being surprised to see you scrubbing your kitchen floor offend you?" he asks, still annoyed but also genuinely befuddled.
"Because!" I say as I turn and trudge back inside, because it's hard to look at him while I'm saying it. "Because I thought we were past this. You thinking I'm some kind of snob."
"I didn't say that –"
"But you acted like it!" I snap, whirling on him again. He has stepped quietly across the threshold, as if understanding that the open door means today there is no one here to catch him, but he keeps his distance from me. Then I just shake my head. "I thought maybe, after all this time, you…." I can't finish the sentence because it's too embarrassing to say in front of him.
Something in him changes, though, his eyes narrow and he takes a half step forward like he has just stumbled on a very obscure but tempting trail. He pauses there, perfectly frozen, beautiful and calculating, and suddenly I cannot tell whether I am looking at the predator or the snare. "I what?" Gale asks softly as mischievous grin starts to do wonderful things to his mouth. I never thought that playing the role of prey could be such a heady thrill. He closes the space between us with slow, steady steps and backs me against the counter, hovering over me by mere inches, almost close enough to touch, but not quite.
My entire vocabulary evaporates.
He leans down by the tiniest degree. "I what, Madge?" he prompts again, voice barely above a whisper.
"I thought…." I take a shakey breath because a sudden pain in my chest reminds me that I have lungs. "You'd see me differently," I hedge, still too terrified to admit anything deeper than that.
Gale slips one arm gently around my waist, rests the other hand against the side of my face, lets his fingertips slide into my hair; unconsciously I lean into it while my pulse roars loud and fast in my ears, certain that this time he'll do it, this time he'll-
"Differently how?" he breathes, drawing me in closer still.
He's going to make me say it, I realize, he isn't going to let me off so easily. But I want this so badly that need drowns out the fear. "Maybe enough that you could want me."
The most deliciously wicked little laugh escapes him as he says, "Wanting you has never been the problem." I soak up all the little details of him while he draws the moment into a thin, taut wire; he smells of woodfire and autumn, he feels like sun-baked stone. Then, as his lips catch mine, I can't notice anything else about him except the way he kisses me.
He tastes like New Year's Day.
….
I break away from her for a moment just enough to see her reaction; Madge opens her eyes slowly, sways just a little on her feet, lets out a tiny, trembling breath. Bullseye. Her hands slide up from where they rest light and flat against my chest to fist in my collar, and it is clear to see that the fire in her hasn't waned a bit as she pulls me close again.
"Gale," she says, "I was beginning to think you weren't ever going to do that."
For a fraction of a second I consider teasing her a bit – is that what had you in such a bad mood? – but her lips are too perfect, her skin too soft, her body too inviting to let my attention wander.
I lean down to kiss her again, and the world falls away. There is only Madge, this impossibly tangible, silky knot of fire and sunlight and warmth. She shifts her weight slightly and fits herself to me; I marvel at how well her figure aligns to mine, as if it were made for just this purpose. I tighten my hold on her, let the kiss become a little more daring, skim my tongue along the soft curve of her lower lip. She slips her arms all the way around my neck and arches into me; a soft, needful sound issues from her throat, and it is the most bewitching thing I have ever heard. I withdraw from her again, eager to stretch this out as long as I can, to enjoy how acutely responsive she is to every move I make.
This is even better than I imagined. And I've been doing a lot of imagining lately.
"No, don't stop," she gasps, nearly dismantling all of my already battered self-control.
"Oh no," I say as I lean my forehead against hers. "You already ruined my plans for today. I'm taking my time."
Curiosity gets the better of her. "Plans?" she asks.
"I wanted to take you back to the meadow, sit under the stars for a while since you liked it so well, do this without picking a fight." I touch a light, teasing kiss to her lips. "But no, you had to slam the door in my face."
She chuckles quietly. "We can still go," she offers. Then her eyes flicker downward as if suddenly self-conscious. "But I should probably clean up first."
I lean back from her a little, and that fast I miss the pressure of her against me. Some of the water from her clothes has seeped into my shirt. "Probably. I like it better when I get to make a mess of you." She blushes prettily at this, and I wonder how I'm going to let go of her. "But I have to ask, though - what happened after you shut the door? You're soaked."
Her answer is unvarnished and matter-of-fact. "I threw my brush at the bucket while I was pretending it was your face."
I start laughing, glad to know that though things are different between us now, she is still the same. Just like she has been from the beginning. Somehow, knowing that she won't even change for me is the greatest kind of comfort. And, after all is said and done, she still takes me as I am. She wasn't wrong, I suppose, that first night I walked her home. We aren't exactly night and day. More like two sides of the same coin.
….
Gale takes me to the meadow and we sit under the stars just like he planned. I worry at first that it will be awkward between us for a while, but the words and smiles and laughter come easily like liquid from a tipped jar. I confess that I missed him last night, and he tells me that he thought he owed me an evening where he wasn't dusty and worn out. I ask him to point out the stars that he knows again, and this time he hooks his arm around me and leans me back into his shoulder as he does it. As a result, I retain nothing about what he tells me except the way his voice hums in my ear and the warmth of his breath on my skin.
After a while his fingers knot carefully in my hair and he tips my head back with a gentle tug as he twists himself around me and kisses me again. I feel as if my bones, still charred from the first time, have been set on fire anew by the joy of it, and I am amazed that he can elicit this reaction from me with such apparent ease. His patience soothes my rattled nerves; he is in no hurry, and it is a relief because no one has ever kissed me like this before. He is content to savor each moment, as if tasting something rare and precious for the first and last time, and it gives me the chance to learn with him. The learning comes easily, though, because I am surprised at how my body already seems to know how to move with him, my lips how to respond to the cues they get from his.
He breaks the kiss a century too soon, and gives me a second to regain myself before speaking. "That's how it was supposed to happen."
"It was perfect," I say, "but I think the way it really happened fits us even better."
Gale smiles so brilliantly that I can hardly believe it's real. He pulls me against him tightly, bows his head into my shoulder, and whispers "That's how I know."
Additional Author's Note (to avoid spoilers at the beginning again)
Over 30 chapters and a hundred thousand words – yes, it took this long. Thank you to everyone who has stuck around this far! I myself am not a very romantic person, so this was tough to write. (Tension? That I can do. Romance? Ummm….) So I hope it's not terribly underwhelming after all the build-up. But I think it works for the characters.