Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Suzanne Collins' characters and her world. They're hers. Not mine. Any lines from the books are hers too.
AN: As always, thanks to Nursekelly for all the help.
And the stars burn out, pt 5
It takes just a month for Gale to drop the pretense that he's coming out to Madge's house with any intention of leaving during the night.
He stops pretending that he hasn't brought his mining uniform with him, hidden in his game bag, and begins changing in the tiny powder room on the first floor.
Madge knows she shouldn't let him keep running himself into the ground for her, but all her protests die on her tongue each time he turns up on her back porch.
There are things in her head that claw to get out, blood and screams and death, eyes on her all the time, and he's the only person that has any effect on them. He's the only person that can keep them away.
Much as she wants to be strong and let him go, save him from the decay of her rotting life, the sliver of her self-preservation refuses to let her push him away. She's become dependent on him, and she can't untangle herself from him, no matter how much she knows she needs to.
He isn't like Mr. Abernathy with his strange promises that he's protecting her that sound empty to her ears, and he isn't like her father, who is trying so hard to make her feel at ease but constantly seems to be drifting further from her. He certainly isn't like her mother, who may not even realize what's become of her daughter.
Gale sees her. He sees the monster, the mess, the mutt she's become, and he still wants to be around.
The strength that had carried him through his father dying still permeates him, and Madge's mind has convinced itself that his steel and fire can keep the Capitol away. Gale's will, the burning core of his soul that's protected his family, is enough to blind the Capitol to her. She's safe when he's near.
When he begins noticing her couch getting dingy, a Gale shaped shadow forming on the cushions and pillows, something she's stalwartly been ignoring, he finally dissolves the last of the illusion, that waking up on the couch together is accidental and isn't going to continue on into the gaping future.
"Guess I'm going to have to start taking showers here, huh?"
It was either that or she'd have to explain why she needed a new couch to not only her parents and the Capitol, but also to Mr. Abernathy, and she isn't sure which admittance would be be more disastrous.
Madge had simply nodded.
Homes in the Seam have awful plumbing, Madge isn't sure she ever heard of anyone with an actual working shower, let alone one with hot and cold running water. Gale's family probably had to pump water and boil it for everything, including bathing, and the ineffectiveness of it was never more clear than when they'd started seeing coal dust slowly discoloring her furniture.
Madge had felt her face burn and chewed her lip so hard she'd been certain she was going to gnaw a hole right through it before she'd sighed, covering her face.
"Just...promise to keep your towel on, okay?"
Gale had chuckled, deep and warm. "Fair enough."
Her color had deepened and she'd given him a half-hearted shove and glare before a little grin had twitched up on her lips.
They settle into a routine after that.
Gale comes after dark, eats an evening meal with her, leftovers from what she hadn't eaten at dinner, then showers before she plays the piano for him, and they curl up on the couch and sleep until he leaves for work or the woods in the morning.
They don't discuss what's transpiring between them, and Madge supposes that's for the best. She isn't sure what's going on between them. All she knows is she needs him, and that terrifies her.
He's one more thing she can lose, one more person the Capitol can use against her, and she knows it's entirely her fault because she's weak and pathetic and she can't do what she knows she should. Kick him out and tell him to stop coming.
For his part, Gale doesn't press her to answer the questions hovering between them.
He simply blows in with the increasingly cold fall wind, bringing dead grass and damp leaves with him, devastating the pristine tile floor of her kitchen each night and pulls his muddy boots off, tossing them onto the little welcome mat, and tells her about his day.
Mostly it's dull things. Gossip from both the mines and around town, things he's seen in the woods, and stories about his siblings.
Madge has always envied people with brothers and sisters. It would've been nice to have someone to play with during the endless stretches of lonely time that had filled her childhood.
When she'd been younger, she'd nursed the suspicion that she'd been such an awful baby that it had turned her mother off the idea of more children, something Mr. Abernathy had scoffed at, more than once.
"You were perfect," he'd told her. "Everyone should be lucky enough to have had a baby like you."
His drinking, though, made him somewhat unreliable as to what made an ideal baby.
Hearing about Gale's little brothers and sister, to Madge, is like hearing tales of magical beings. Past the walls of her house, people still exist, still live lives that aren't filled with fear and paranoia, and having Gale tell her about them makes them more than some fantasy her mind had constructed to shelter it from the cold reality of her life.
"Did Rory ask that girl out?" She asks him as they roast marshmallows in the fireplace.
Gale shrugs then grimaces as he tries to pull the marshmallow from the rod.
Madge watches, mesmerized by how the light from the fire dances across his face, casting him in strange shadows, heightening his features. His eyes burn, bright and sharp, and his cheekbones seem to be cut from stone. He's impossibly handsome, and she wonders if he knows it.
She almost laughs at herself. Of course he does. The girls at school had kept him acutely aware of just how handsome he was, and still is.
She must snort, because Gale looks at her, grinning.
"I know, he's pathetic, isn't he?"
Rolling her eyes, Madge is too focused on his dimples and the glow of the fire on his skin, and she starts to pluck her marshmallow from the spear, belatedly realizing it hasn't cooled.
"Oh, damn," she hisses, quickly pulling her fingers back and inspecting the reddened skin before pushing herself up and rushing to the powder room.
Cold water pours from the faucet and quickly soothes her skin, though she's certain she'll have a blister come morning.
She almost laughs again as she inspects her finger.
She'd been distracted by a cute boy and burnt her fingers. It's something so mundane that it doesn't feel like it should fit in the tragedy of her life. Staring at Gale Hawthorne should be something another girl is doing, not her. Madge's life has no place for such a pleasant distraction.
Something warm presses to her back, and Madge feels Gale's stomach move against her as he cranes over her shoulder to get a better look at her hand and sighs.
"Not too bad," he says as he takes her hand in his, running his thumb over the hateful burned patch.
"I've had worse," Madge quips, remembering her leg and the tracker jacker stinger that had throbbed in her thigh.
Despite there being no scar, she sometimes still feels it lodged there. The Capitol might be able to erase the physical evidence, but they can't erase her memories.
Her head begins to throb at the thought and she feels a wave of nausea hit her. She shouldn't have thought about it. She should never think about it.
Suddenly the room seems to shrink, shift and swirl around her and the air gets too thin. Gale is too close. She can't breath.
She doesn't want to talk about her leg. Why had she mentioned it? Such a stupid thing. How could she be so stupid...
Her hand burns hotter than it should, and suddenly it isn't because of a marshmallow.
Screams fill her ears and her stomach turns.
Her legs buckle under her as her vision narrows, and in one painful moment, the room spins and she goes down.
#######
She wakes settled in her bed, quilts piled up around her and a cool rag on her forehead.
Sitting up, the room begins to circle again before a pair of calloused hands take her by the shoulders and settle her back on a pile of pillows.
"Careful."
Squinting, Madge's vision swims for a moment before things come into focus again.
She's in her room. The little lamps on her bedside table bathe the room in yellow light and sitting beside her, looking anxious and grim, is Gale.
He gives her a tense smile as he reaches out, smoothing damp hair from her face.
"How you feeling?"
Mouth too dry, Madge only manages a cough in response.
A cup of water is forced into her hand and she quickly gulps it down, almost choking on the last swallow.
"Slow down," Gale warns her, taking the cup from her and setting it on the bedside table before turning back to her, his expression still worried.
Smoothing out her blankets, Madge keeps her eyes down. She can't look him in the eye.
"Sorry," she mutters.
She'd hoped she was done with having fits, breaking down over ridiculous things like strawberries and cookies and increasingly distant memories. Apparently not though.
Everytime she thinks the cracks have healed, something happens and all the fear comes pouring out, re-breaking her, making her a mess all over again.
Taking her hand, now with a lopsided bandage on it, Gale makes a disgruntled noise.
"You didn't do anything."
"I did," she protests softly. "I'm-I should be past this by now-"
"Past it?" Gale's expression hardens. "Past what? Being thrown in an arena and forced to fight for your life? Having people treat your life like it doesn't mean anything? Past being tortured on live television?"
He's too loud, too angry, and Madge feels her chest begin to ache and her eyes burn. There isn't enough air. She can't get enough air.
"I'm s-s-sorry," she stammers, pleads, anything to make him calm.
Mockingjays echo in her head, her own screams filling every empty space, rocks fall, heat and explosions engulf her.
For a few burning seconds she's back in the arena, watching the Careers' pyramid erupt in flames and heat, her skin boiling and her ears bleeding from the noise. There's no Gale. There's no Victory. There's only the sickening knowledge that she's killed and the pain.
"Madge!"
Just as quickly as she'd left it, she's back in her room.
She's soaked in sweat and she can't seem to catch her breath, but she's wrapped in strong arms and can feel Gale's voice vibrating through her body, shushing her, comforting her.
"You're safe. You're safe. You're safe," he repeats again and again.
She isn't though. She never will be.
#######
She isn't sure how long he holds her, rocking her, smoothing her hair, before she calms.
"I'm sorry," she mutters again.
This time he doesn't argue.
Rubbing a hand over his face, he gives her a weary smile. He hesitates for a second before sighing.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Truly and honestly, she doesn't. Just like the nonexistent scar on her leg, she wishes all her memories of the Games would vanish. All she wants is for all the ghosts and pain to evaporate, be nothing more than a recap, something that happened to some other girl in some other life. Not her.
"What's to talk about?" She says tonelessly. "You saw it all didn't you?"
It's less of a question and more of an accusation. They'd all watched her, seen her become just what the Capitol wanted her to be, a killer and a monster.
"I saw what they showed," he almost whispers. His eyes, wide and tired, settle on her. "That's not what you went through though."
Madge almost laughs.
Gale was right, what they showed during the Games was only a flashbulb picture of what happened, a visual fraction of the experience. There's no way to transpose the pain, the hunger, the thirst, the absolute terror of being trapped in the Arena, your last moments to be nothing more than a highlight to the viewing audience.
Her face is wet, though she doesn't remember crying, and Gale cups it between his hands, gently wiping the tears from her cheeks.
He wants to help her so badly, she knows that.
Some things, some people, can't be helped though.
She's broken, beyond repair, and she hates that he's wasting his time trying to piece back together what can't be mended.
"Please," she finally manages to sputter out messily, "please just hold me."
Because that's all she wants right now, to be held and to feel safe, even if it's an illusion that'll dissolve in the first light of day.
He stares at her, studying her tear soaked face, probably snot and spit speckled, for a few seconds, considering something before he stands.
At first she thinks he's leaving. He's finally had enough of her and her madness.
Then the bed dips beside her and when she looks over, he's settling beside her, shifting pillows and blankets around before gesturing for her to come to him.
Madge feels the tightness in her chest loosen.
He isn't leaving her.
Before he can change his mind, Madge scoots closer, wrapping her arms around his middle and pressing her ear to his chest.
His heartbeat thrums through her body, steady and strong. He's here and he isn't leaving.
Closing her eyes, Madge steadies her breathing, synchronizing it with Gale's, focusing on the rhythm of his heart until she falls asleep.
#######
Gale doesn't sleep, just sits on Madge's bed, combing his fingers through her hair, gently reminding her he's there, she's not alone.
Watching her collapse had doubled his hatred of the Capitol.
They'd taken her and pulled her to pieces, forced her back together in strange, jagged angles, then expected her to play the part of a perfect Victor for them.
She's been holding herself together surprisingly well, he thinks. The places that they'd broken almost seem mended, but they're fragile sutures that burst when the pressure, her fear and anxiety, build up too much in her. It's inevitable. No one can keep all that in forever.
He wants her to talk about it, and he thinks she needs to talk about it. What had happened to her has created a festering wound and it needs cleaned out.
Madge is a stubborn patient though, and he'd bet she'd rather let it eat her up from the inside out than purge it from her system.
Her expression and her body are relaxed now, arms wrapped around his middle and her cheek rested against his chest, and he can't help but feel that familiar swell of pride that he's the person that put her at ease.
That feeling dies in his stomach when he realizes he's also the reason she'd had a breakdown.
He shouldn't have yelled, not that he'd been yelling at her, but seeing her beginning to fall apart had brought every simmering emotion he had right to the top.
The Games are over and the Capitol is still dictating her life, still infecting her, and he hates them that much more for it.
Madge makes a small noise and Gale tightens his arms around her, smoothes her hair again, murmuring comforting nonsense to her until she calms again.
Soft blonde hair settles around her shoulder, and Gale's is instantly reminded of a picture in one of Posy's books.
She's been obsessed with fairy tales lately.
Handsome princes and brave knights, beautiful princesses in strange and, at least in Gale's mind, ridiculous situations. Posy loves each and every word though.
If Posy were there, she'd say Madge looks like a princess, delicate and perfect, trapped in a castle by a wicked king.
Gale almost snorts.
While Madge is definitely perfect, she's not delicate. He'd seen her in her own impossible situation just months before, watched her fight for her life. Madge wouldn't need rescuing, she hadn't.
He doesn't even think she needs it now. All she needs is someone to be by her side, let her know she isn't in this battle on her own, not in this arena. Gale will help her, in whatever way she needs him to, even if it's just to be her pillow.
Which, if he's being entirely honest, isn't such a bad position.
Sighing, he silently wishes Madge's problems were fixed as easily as the one's in Posy's tales.
If all he had to do was kiss Madge, pick her up and carry her away, things would be so simple. Even if he had to kiss her every day for the rest of his life, that wouldn't be such a hardship. He'd happily endure that curse for her.
Shifting himself a little, he eases down in the bed, being careful not to jostle her as he gets his back in a more comfortable position.
There are still a few hours before work, maybe he can get some sleep.
#######
Gloomy fall gives way to a frigid winter.
Gale feels his joints stiffen each day in the mines, only to have them relax again each night in the warmth of Madge's shower.
He's loath to admit it, but he actually enjoys having warm and cold running water. It's a luxury he'd never expected to experience, and one he's all too happy to indulge in.
"You smell like a bouquet," Thom has pointed out, more than once. "How are you getting shampoo from Town?"
Gale only gives him noncommittal grunts, answers he'll never be able to prove or disprove, before throwing himself into backbreaking work.
His time with Madge exists in some kind of dream that he can't make himself talk about.
Thom is a gossip. He'd single handedly given Gale a reputation as some kind of ladies man, despite the fact that even during school Gale had barely had time for the few 'dates' he'd actually been able to go on.
Even if the tall tales had given Gale an ego boost, he doesn't want Thom's fat mouth and creative streak anywhere near Madge.
Besides that, he isn't even sure he'd be able to explain what's going on between himself and Madge to Thom. He isn't sure he understands it himself.
He wants to tell Katniss, she'd show some discretion, but he can't make himself.
After what had happened on Madge's porch, he isn't sure Katniss will understand why he went back, why he keeps going back.
Katniss hasn't talked about Madge, not about what had happened or the possibility that she'd like to go back and try again. It might as well have not even happened.
Just like the rest of the District, to Katniss, Madge doesn't exist.
While he's sure it's simple self-preservation keeping Katniss away, it still annoys him. Madge is sick. She hadn't meant to threaten them. She's the victim of Capitol manipulations, and she shouldn't be punished for that.
His mom would be angry at him for sneaking out, and Rory and Vick are...Rory and Vick.
So his life has to stay split.
Days and evenings with his crew and family. Nights and mornings with Madge.
If it weren't for his skin smelling like strawberries and his hair being silky soft, his back feeling better than it has since he outgrew his bed, he'd almost think his nights were nothing more than a beautiful dream.
Even if his sleep is shortened and his walk to the mines is lengthened, his time with her is worth it.
She's become part of his life, so tightly wound into his soul that he isn't sure how he ever existed without her. She's a piece of him, and he's sure he's a piece of her now.
Even if they can only exist in the bubble of her house, never extending past the railing on her back porch or the rise of the sun, that's enough. It's their world, all they need.
Almost.
His mom would say he's misplacing emotions or some bullshit. She'd say he loves being needed, feeling like a protector, and maybe she's a little right.
That's not all of it though.
This isn't a weird infatuation. He knows infatuation, he's had that plenty. This thing with Madge isn't even like the heartbeat past that strange desire he'd harbored for Katniss up until only months before.
Despite the cracks in her mind and the moments when she's lost, back in the Arena, Madge is strong, stronger than he'd ever imagined her to be. Not even watching her survive the elements, plot and plan, destroy the Careers, and then smile through the pain in the aftermath while being forced to watch every sickening detail replay for the Capitol's entertainment had prepared him for just how strong she really is.
He isn't sure he'd be able to keep himself together half as well as she has. The isolation she's forced upon herself to protect people who aren't sparing her so much as a second thought is maddening to him.
She deserves so much better, even if she'd say she doesn't.
Everytime she gives him one of her sad little smiles or drops her eyes to her frozen feet, he wants to dip down and kiss her, force away every dark thought and painful memory. As stupid as it sounds, he wants to be the white knight in the twisted fairy tale that's become her life.
That would make the dream complete, turn the nights from simple, sweet dreams to a fantasy.
Taking that step, changing whatever strange thing that exists between them into something more, is Madge's choice though, and he won't take that decision from her. She's had too many things taken from her, and he won't add his name to the list of those robbing her of something so fundamental.
He's letting her call the shots. Doing anything else would be too much like snaring her, having her dangle on the line of a forced subject and look at him like an animal about to be dealt a death blow.
"Are you feeling sick?" She asks him suddenly one snowy night, her lip puckered, distractingly, in concern as she stares at him from her seat across the table from him.
Frowning, he starts to ask her what makes her ask, but then remembers he'd walked up in a blizzard and that he's not touched so much as a bite of the apple fritter Mellark had brought up for her and that she'd saved and split with him.
"No," he answers simply, picking up the half of fritter and taking a large bit, occupying himself with trying to chew it.
Madge fidgets, bites her lip as she seems to consider what she's going to say next.
"You're just being awful quiet."
He knows he is, but only because the only topic on his mind isn't one she's likely to want to discuss.
The days are dragging closer to her Victory Tour, and with each passing night she seems to retreat further into herself. The Capitol is already stealing her mind and her security from her, nullifying all Gale's efforts. She's turning back into that strange shell he'd watched on the television all those months ago.
She tries to hide the fear creeping back in, forces her little smiles and keeps up the appearance that she's moving forward, but Gale can see the light he'd watched rekindle in her eyes dim.
The act she puts on for her parents and Abernathy, the one she's spent the past months weaving in preparation for her return to the Capitol and the cameras, begins infecting her time with him. It turns his stomach.
It's how she's protecting herself, he knows that, but that doesn't make him feel any less useless.
Madge will be put back on display for the Capitol's entertainment, and there's not a damn thing he can do about it.
She doesn't question him, just nods and pokes her fritter. She hasn't eaten a bite either.
They sit there, silent and pretending to eat Mellark's hard work, while the storm swirls outside.
When he'd shown up, almost an hour later than normal, the relief on her face had been worth the stinging in his eyes and what he'd been certain was frostbite at the tip of his nose.
He'd let her fuss over him, helping him peel off the dozen or so thin layers he'd wrapped himself in before sneaking out, right up until she realized just how far she'd gotten with his clothing. Her face had turned a beautiful scarlet right before she'd told him he should probably go take a warm shower.
He almost told her he needed a cold shower after she'd half stripped him in the middle of her kitchen.
After it becomes clear that neither one of them is going to eat, Gale pushes his plate away and looks outside.
He's going to have to leave early in the morning if he has any hope of making it to work on time.
A particularly strong gust rattles the glass in the windows, sending a shiver up his spine.
His family is back home, huddled under threadbare blankets, wearing long underwear, still freezing, and he's sitting in a well insulated house, toasty and warm, not even in socks.
The comfort Madge's house provides makes him feel more guilty than sneaking out ever will. Safe, secure, plenty of food, water at the flick of a wrist, it's the epitome of everything he resents the Capitol for, but he keeps using their resources up. It was built off his back, so he supposes he's earned it.
"I can get you warmer clothes," Madge says softly, her eyes fixed on the ice forming on the window. "Mr. Abernathy won't notice."
"My stuff'll be fine once it dries out."
"But his would b-" She stumbles over the sentence, biting back whatever she planned to say before shrugging, shaking her head. "Never mind."
Gale already knows what she'd wanted to say, that whatever she could sneak from Abernathy would be a hundred times warmer than his ratty things, but he's grateful she keeps the thought to herself. He feels shitty enough being comfortable at night, he isn't sure his conscience could handle it during the day too.
"I wonder if it'll be cold in the Capitol."
She says it so softly Gale almost thinks he imagines it, but when he opens his mouth to ask if she'd actually said something, she sighs.
"I guess I should ask Mr. Abernathy, huh?" She sighs. "He's still my mentor."
He nods, too stunned to speak.
It's not only the first time she's acknowledged she's going to be leaving for the Capitol, it's the first time she's made any reference to her Games since the marshmallow incident. Even after her nightmares, when she wakes screaming and crying, battling ghosts her mind won't let rest, she doesn't talk about it. Not past saying she doesn't want to talk about it anyways.
Gale almost thinks she's hoping that if she ignores the memories enough the whole experience will go away.
The Capitol won't let her bury those memories though, not before her Victory Tour and not after.
Forcing his mouth to move, Gale grunts, "Probably."
Nodding, Madge begins picking apart the fritter with her fingers, her mouth a thin line and her eyes weary.
"Are you gonna be okay?"
He asks the question before he can stop himself. It's been sitting on his tongue for weeks, and the narrow opening she'd provided was enough to make it slip off.
Not even looking up, she snorts, her cheek twitching. "Does it matter?"
To the Capitol, no, probably not. She's their newest toy and their desire to play with her, take her out of the box and toss her around, is too great. Whether her mind will survive the flashing lights, the replays, the need, need, need of them doesn't matter to them. She's an object, not a person.
It probably doesn't even matter to the rest of the District. Madge Undersee may as well have a stone in the cemetery next to her granddad as far as most of them act. She's a ghost, nothing more.
The only person it may matter to is Gale. She matters to him. Her mind and her sense of peace mean more to him than she knows.
Reaching across the table, he stills her hand, still pulling the fritter into minuscule little pieces.
"You're gonna be okay."
He isn't sure his saying it will make a difference to her, because how the hell would he know if she's going to be okay? He's a miner. A nobody. He can't make promises that she's going to come through without new nightmares, he can't even promise her that now.
It's an empty declaration, but one he believes.
She'd survived her Games when no one had expected her to, and she's going to survive this too.
For half a breath she stares at him, her expression unreadable, before her eyes begin to shine.
"I'm not even okay now, though."
Before she can break again, Gale stands and pulls her up, crushing her to his chest and running his fingers through her hair.
"I know."
#######
Madge isn't sure how long she cries before she can talk again.
It isn't like all the other cries she's had since she was Reaped or even since she came home.
This time, it's tears of relief.
Gale knows she's not okay, but he thinks she will be someday.
It's different than her parents or Mr. Abernathy believing in her. They love her, and that blinds them to situation. There's a certain level of obligation that comes with loving someone, and part of that is believing they'll be okay despite all the evidence to the contrary, or at least pretending to believe it.
Gale doesn't have an obligation to her though. He's seen all the ugliness, watched her shatter and crack more times than she wants to think about, and he still has hope for her.
She isn't sure if that makes him very optimistic or a little delusional.
"I'm scared," she finally whispers, wiping her nose against the back of her hand so she doesn't smear snot on his shirt. "What if I mess up? What if I say the wrong thing?"
It had been hard during the Games, always being on her toes, thinking, planning. In this new Arena there are so many more variables, and they're much more deadly than anything she'd faced in those woods.
There's going to be people, so many people. They're going to ask her questions. They're going to want to talk about the Games, about killing, about strategy, and she isn't sure she's going to make it through any of it without dissolving into tears.
"You aren't going to mess up," Gale assures her.
She starts to protest, but he isn't finished.
"I-During the Games I watched you, Madge. You're so damn smart. I don't-I'd never have thought to do the things you did. The way you handled them during your interview and in the post-Game...you aren't going to mess up. You're smarter than them. You're going to have them eating out of the palm of your hand before your Tour is over."
As badly as she wants to believe him, she can't.
The girl that had done those things seems like another person. The Madge that's emerged in the months since that final interview isn't smart, isn't sharp, isn't going to be able to play the game.
How she'd held it together in those days just after being plucked from the Arena, she isn't sure, and she isn't sure how she's going to put up that facade again. Just imagining it drains her, both emotionally and physically.
"I'd rather just stay here," she mutters.
A hot flare of indignation, that she'd played their sick game and won but still isn't getting peace, burns to life in her chest again.
Victory should be just that, victory, not some extended party for the Capitol.
Gale sighs, his cheek resting against the top of her head. "Me too."