A/N: Wow, it's been waaaay too long. Between moving and beginning a new job and finally getting a weekend to myself… This finally had to come out. I'm hoping repeat viewings of Mockingjay Part 2 will encourage the rest of this story to be written at much more than a snail's pace. All my great readers deserve that and so much more. Here's hoping you guys are still so patient with me and kind with your reviews.
i thought if I could touch this place or feel it,
this brokenness inside might start healing
out here it's like I'm someone else
i thought that maybe I could find myself
if I could just come in, I swear I'll leave,
won't take nothing but a memory
from the house that built me." ~miranda lambert "house that built me"
Gale lets the anger drive his pace and his direction. Hard furious strides that angle him sharply away from the Hob. He doesn't see the worried faces of the volunteers and the employees that watch their new leader rage through the few piles left of the old black market's remains. His footsteps stir the dust and ash into the air until they swirl behind his back, mocking his escape and re-settling with finite permanence. His clipboard falls heavily from his hand, its papers bent and half-buried.
"Mr. Hawthorne!"
He walks on.
"Mr. Hawthorne!"
Something catches Gale's arm on its backswing. At first, he shrugs aggressively against the fingers that wrap around his wrist. His hand flies back with the ferocity of his movement, the backs of his knuckles wrapping against warm stone. Gale turns, his own expression just as shocked as the boy who clutches the blossoming red mark on his cheek.
"Your clipboard, sir…"
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"
Both choke on words spoken too little, too late. Gale curses inwardly, as he takes the proffered clipboard. The boy's arm falls awkwardly, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, his blue eyes wide with shock and awe. He can't be any older than Vick, though even at full height, he stands much shorter.
Come on, Gale. Keep your shit together.
Gale kneels to the boy's eye level. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it," Gale repeats, gently pulling the boy's hand away from his injured cheek. The redness is already fading, and Gale blows out a long breath. With any luck, his strike wouldn't leave a mark. "Do you have any ice at home…?" He fumbles, trying to remember but failing to recall a name.
"Tomas," the boy supplies. "Tomas Watson."
Gale nods.
"You get yourself home and get some ice on that," Gale instructs. He tries to smile. It feels more like a grimace. "I'll make sure you get paid for the full day."
"Yes, sir," the boy says, nodding smartly. He turns, gathers his too-large helmet lying in the rubble a few yards back, and only then risks a glance back.
As their eyes meet, Gale finds himself hoping Tomas doesn't think to spread the encounter among his friends. The last thing Gale needs is the people rebuilding 12 wondering about his own stability. But Tomas smiles, a twisted little smirk that eases Gale's fear. The memory of their meeting will be just that – a memory.
As the boy scampers off, Gale straightens out the crumpled pages on his clipboard. His eye is drawn immediately to her name. The letters chafe against his corneas and Gale growls in frustration, stalking forward once again, albeit at a less disastrous pace.
It's been less than 24 hours since he walked through the rebuilt streets of the square, but for the first time, Gale truly sees a resurrection of life. The remaining citizens of 12 mill about the cobblestones, their faces still stern, and yet somehow softer. Lighter. Happier, Gale thinks.
He watches a mother gently admonish her two young children as they chase each other about her skirts. Chocolate ice cream streaks across the young girl's cheeks, her sweet treat bobbing precariously with her short choppy strides. A melodious chime signals the arrival of more happy customers from the refurbished candy store onto the cobblestone streets.
Gale squints at the brightness of it all. As he walks past Peeta's bakery, and Bell's bookstore, and the newly constructed bus stop, he doesn't know what to make of all the freshly painted colors, the shining new windows, the carefully stenciled fonts. He tries to see this place in his memories, but all the images come up in black and white and dust.
A familiar scent catches Gale's attention and he almost double-takes at the sign hanging on the wrought iron post out front of the establishment when he reads the name written in a dull sort of gold.
Greasy Sae's Tavern
Peering through the windows, he can see the rustic charm that reflects so well the memory of one of his best customers. The interior is dark, but soothing from all the cheer and glitz of the square. There's the ancient large cauldron she brewed tirelessly at, sitting over a stone hearth fireplace surrounded by a worn wooden horseshoe bar, and Sae herself doling at bowls as she always does in his memories. When his stomach rumbles, Gale wonders if he's still smelling wild dog stew and decides he better find out. The slow creak of the heavy wooden door is fittingly haunting for his entrance.
Sae looks up to welcome her new patron with a toothy grin. A grin that fades, falling with sudden surprise when her gray eyes recognize Gale.
"They were saying the prodigal son had returned," Sae says, the smile returning and shrinking her eyes to narrow lines of joy. "But I still don't believe my eyes."
"You quoting scripture at me now, Sae?" Gale asks, sliding into a seat at the bar. He nods slightly at two men he thinks he should remember but doesn't.
"Ahh, now you would know that's not scripture if you had ever opened the book," Sae says, waving her spoon chastisingly.
"Couldn't afford one."
Sae's rheumy eyes tighten again with mirth.
"That never stopped you."
Gale huffs at this and raises his hands in a gesture of defeat.
"No come back?" Sae asks mockingly. She turns back to mind the stew once more, shaking her head bemused. "Gone all soft on me Hawthorne, what's District 2 doing to ya?"
It's not District Two… Gale thinks. Ever since he landed in Twelve, he feels like he's been sliding around on thin ice, struggling to stand against the emotional winds buffeting him about. His stomach roils with nerves, but Gale pretends like it's just hunger that is making him so queasy, and not the fact that this conversation is starting to feel like he's walking into one of his own snares. "So what's a fellow gotta do to get a drink around these parts nowadays?" he asks.
"Ask," Sae quips, though she's already moving to pour him a thick frothy beer.
When she slides the drink and a bowl of stew in front of him, Gale raises his eyebrows at her, all skeptical and assuming, earning him another wave of her spoon.
"Looks like you've gone a little soft yourself, Sae," he says. The stew is warm and gamey and nothing at all like beef. It makes Gale more at ease to know some things have indeed stayed the same.
"Now don't go spreading rumors…" she warns him.
"The same way you didn't spread any about me." The words are out of his mouth before he filter them, and immediately images of jealous eyes watching Katniss and him walking through the Seam come to mind. From the same wistful look in Sae's eyes, he knows she's thinking the same thought.
"Those weren't rumors," Sae says, a little gruffly.
The emotion in her voice surprises Gale somewhat. Granted he had always suspected Sae got off a little fantasizing that his friendship with Katniss would inevitably develop into something more. Hell, when his own feelings started bubbling a little too close to boiling, Gale stopped eating Sae's stews, convinced she was a witch serving him love potions. Of course, Katniss was oblivious to the whole change, a fact that only delighted Sae to no end.
"Have you seen her?"
Gale frowns into the last spoonful of stew he's about to swallow. Suddenly, his throat feels thick, his tongue sticky, and he doesn't trust his voice to respond. Instead, he pulls at the collar of his shirt revealing Katniss' arrow's kiss.
Sae's eyes widen briefly before she cackles in glee. Her amusement annoys Gale. He feels the blood rush to his face, his jaw clenched against the painful memory. Whatever grimace contorts his face makes Sae immediately stop laughing. She comes to stand before him, one gnarled arthritic hand settling on his shoulder. Gale knows she means it to be a comfort, but Sae's open pity has the exact opposite effect. He shrugs it off brusquely, and thinks he should apologize, but the heat pulsing in her wound sears the words into nothing.
Fortunately, Sae doesn't take his anger personally.
"She'll come around, Gale," she says.
"Willing to bet a bowl of stew on that?" Gale grumbles.
Sae's lower lip pushes up into her upper in a flat half-smile.
"She will. Katniss misses you. She just doesn't know it yet. Now finish that beer, or I'll have to serve it to someone else."
Reaching for his plate, she shifts from caring old companion back to cantankerous cauldron cook in a snap, leaving Gale to contemplate her words over the almost warm dregs of his drink.
On his way back home, Gale's phone rings.
"Hawthorne."
"At ease, soldier," Paylor says. "You Twelve-types are always so serious."
Gale genuinely smiles at this. It wasn't often that Paylor was in a joking mood, and he hoped she had news that paralleled her joyous emotions.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, Madam President?" he replies.
"Unfortunately, this call is to report our latest intelligence on Loyalist rumblings," Paylor says, her voice dropping into the solemn tone Gale knew all too well.
"Rumblings?"
"Intelligence intercepted Loyalist chatter detailing a gathering of some well-known sect leaders. It seems the meeting is to plan a series of coordinate attacks to halt the Rebuild. Due to its high level of publicity, we fear that District Twelve is most likely an intended target."
Gale stops walking, glancing around him, and eyeing the few people around him with suspicion. Satisfied that no one seems to notice him at all, he drops his voice and continues walking.
"How sure is Intelligence about Twelve?" Gale asks.
"About 90%."
Gale's left hand clenches with a bolt of frustration. The last thing he needed was to draw unwanted attention and violence to a community that was just getting back to its feet. But the infrastructure and population of 12 was still by far the greatest victim of the war, and unfortunately all of Panem – especially Loyalist forces – knew it.
"Gale?" Paylor asks, when the moment of silence carries on a little too long.
"Yeah, I heard," Gale says. He stows his emotions with some effort. "Any specific rumblings? Locations? Dates?" He swallows. "People?"
The pause before Paylor answers is almost as stinging as Sae's pity squeeze on his shoulder.
"No, which is why I am warning you to be vigilant. We cannot afford to halt our progress because a few individuals can't seem to move on from the grudges of the past."
Gale scoffs and wonders if Paylor realizes how her words sound in his ears.
"I'm sorry Gale. I know this assignment must be difficult." Paylor pauses, almost as if she can see the sudden unchecked emotion that strains Gale's face. "I know you have a lot on your plate and I am sending a squad to Twelve for extra security. We can't afford to have your attention split and weakened."
Gale flinches a little, but the soldier in him cannot argue with Paylor's logic. Extra security always drew unwanted attention and the last thing he needed was for District 12 to find itself once again the focus of a nation. But if he refused the help – which Paylor would shoot down his refusal anyway – and something happened to the people here… to his family…
"Understood. I'm assuming it's Mason's team you're sending."
"Hawthorne, you never cease to amaze me at how you can read my moves before I make them," Paylor says, a smile returning to her voice. "Thank god you are on our side."
"I appreciate it, some people don't see it that way," Gale says, his tone bitter.
He can hear the dead air on the line and knows she's pondering whether to ask. He already knows that she eventually will.
"How's Katniss? Have you spoken with her yet?"
Gale sighs heavily. The wound on his neck throbs as if recognizing its significance. When he rubs a hand over it, the nascent skin stings at his coarseness.
"She's Katniss."
"I see," Paylor says quietly. Gale is thankful that she doesn't press the issue. "Johanna's team will arrive in two days. I'll be in touch if anything more develops."
"Thank you," Gale says. "I will too."
"Be safe, Hawthorne."
The line goes dead.
When she walks through the door to their Victor House, the first thing Katniss notices is the broken glass scattered all over the floor. The second thing she notices is the air her hand grabs when she reflexively reaches for an arrow. Crouching to the ground, she glances to the windows. Both are intact and standing like sentries at their posts.
Then she sees the flowers, the golden primroses blown apart and bleeding water, mixed among the shards of glass.
She can't tear her eyes away from the petals of yellow that become strands and the glass opacifies to bone. Her ears feel like they're still ringing from the blasts and her limbs feel dead with leaden weight. She waits patiently for the darkness of unconsciousness to claim her.
It never comes.
Katniss takes a slow step forward. She hears her booted foot grinds the broken vase into the hardwood floors. The rushing in her ears fades and she hears movement coming from the kitchen.
"Peeta?" she calls.
The movement stops momentarily and resumes a second later with the same intense rhythm.
Katniss rounds the corner to see the remains of Peeta's dinner smeared across the counter and cabinets. He scrubs furiously at the dark red sauce and mutters to himself, although she can't make out the words until she kneels close.
"…from District 12. I survived the Hunger Games. Snow is dead…"
"Peeta," she says gently, trying to break through his diatribe. "Peeta, what happened?"
He looks up, blue eyes hazy and unfocused. Katniss feels her muscles tense, preparing for a relapse and hating that she's trained for such a response.
Peeta blinks and the haze disappears completely. She suppresses a sigh of relief and the tension in her thighs and calves uncoils.
"I'm sorry, I was trying to clean this before you got back…" Peeta starts to explain. His hands tremble when he reaches for the discarded dustpan.
"No, Peeta," she says. Her hands still his attempts to clean and squeezes his fingers in hers. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault."
He nods robotically at first, and then with more conviction as the remnants of his attack fully dissipate.
"What happened?"
"A bird… I was cooking dinner," Peeta starts and turns looking towards the kitchen windows. The curtains sway gently in the breeze. "And I opened the window to let the evening air in. And this bird just flew in and started flapping its wings in my face. Then I woke up to this."
"I saw the entrance," she prompts.
Peeta shrugs in response. "I'm not sure how long it lasted." He buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shivering in exhaustion.
Katniss folds him into her arms, whispering comfort to his blond hair until the kitchen darkens around them.
~Fin