#{ lcvesdeath ; gale }

[nlghtlocked]

starter call  |  @lcvesdeath for gale

The ward in Thirteen was sterile, cold, white-walled: from the small time Annie had spent outside of the hospital, the rest of the bunker was the same way. The air tasted of nothing at all, the numbness of snow and cold, filtered twelve times through the air vents to rid it of anything that could possibly make it interesting, and the absence of scent made her feel encased in cotton wool. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. The constant humming of technology around her helped her sleep, like the rushing of waves outside the hull of her boat at home, and there was something about the control of the environment, the precision and predictability of the temperature, the crisp sheets and gentle pulse of the heart moniter, that was soothing. None of this, of course, made up for the absence of the sea.

She doubted she would ever see Four again. She had had to come to terms with that once before, when she had volunteered: then it had seemed like an easy sacrifice, missing the sea in return for victory or glory. Now she knew better. There was little that was more important to her, except...and that thought pattern was dangerous, that was when her calm would leave her, and the screaming would begin, and the neatly dressed nurses would come running with their needles and fluttering hands and soothing words and quick, savage movements, pinning her down. Annie preferred to allow her thoughts to gently gloss over any difficulties like where is he and what is happening to him, and remain in the here and now. It was safer not to remember.

Out of her hospital bed, Annie sat curled up on one of the uncomfortable chairs, her feet drawn up underneath her, encased in a large jumper and comfortable trousers. They dressed in a lot of grey in Thirteen, but at least her clothes were comfortable. She was humming as she stitched; people had begun to bring her small pieces of mending, and she enjoyed the rhythmic swoop and pierce of the needle. Hearing a quiet sound by the door, she glanced up and smiled. "Oh - I have your shirt all done for you."

[nlghtlocked]

Gale's step was cautious as he entered the room - Annie appreciated that, appreciated the careful way he placed his feet, as though he was making a constant assessment of the ground, whether it would give way beneath him. Finnick was like that. Gale reminded her of Finnick in a lot of ways; not so much in looks (no one was like Finnick in looks: it was his great blessing, his greater curse) but in the way he carried himself, barely concealed menace in the strength of his shoulders, the steadiness of his hands. People dismissed Finnick, forgot so quickly what he was capable, caught up in those curls, those cheekbones, but Annie never forgot - never forgot the way he looked with blood on his hands, the way he moved -

She blinked and returned her attention to her needle. It was easier to focus on the smooth swish, flick, point, easier than looking at Gale's soldier posture and trident-strength. Looking at her mending, she could almost imagine things were safe and fine and normal - if they had ever been normal. She heard the soft noise of the mattress giving way under his solid weight, twitched at the sensation of someone near her, just out of her line of sight, until she looked up again. She gently pierced the needle into the cloth, holding it in place, and bent to pull out his shirt, neatly stitched and mended, from the basket at her feet. "It's okay," she said, handing it over, pleased to find that her voice was steady and calm, muffled in the cotton-wool atmosphere of the hospital ward. "I like to do it. It keeps me occupied. I need something to do with my hands. Besides, it's not so different from nets." She extended her hand, palm up, to show him the callouses and faint scars there, relics of years of boat work, rope burn, deck splinters. Good scars; rare, in the Capitol. They had erased her childhood experiences when she went into the Games, but she had built up plenty since. Her fingers trembled, but only a little.

At his second question her expression flickered, but only slightly. She nodded to the basket of mending, and the small dress stretched over her lap, needle still impaled in the Thirteen-grey material like a javelin, like a spear. She touched the point contemplatively. "This is for Rose - Farma's little girl, who works in the canteen? She's always tearing her things, running around." She chewed her lip. "I wish we had other colours, but..." She shrugged and gestured around them with a small smile. "We do what we're told, right? Dress how we're told?" Again, her expression flickered, a memory floating just out of reach - they had not been dressed in grey, when they had come to get her, to get her and Johanna and Peeta, Gale had been all in black, and Finnick too, face mostly hidden, though she had known it was him when he spoke to her, before they had left him there - she pulled the needle from the dress and resumed her careful stitching, hiding her expression behind her hair.

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐀 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑 𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊. it could have something to do with those scars that he’s grown utterly ashamed of ( but that stew his fire, his rage, ) or the tension stored within his shoulders. he has always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. for his family, and now for the rebellion. it’s more than gale replacing the father figure that he once lost, this was the most natural role for him to play. now that he could physically act against the capitol, what sort of human being would he be to outright reject something like that? furthermore, his time to run away has been long GONE. that was never his destiny.

shoulders roll as feet pad into the weapons’ storage room, gale’s physique and overall posture more rigid and soldier-like since his escape from the bombing of TWELVE. he did what he could to get as many people as possible out, and hasn’t stopped to think about all the lives that he couldn’t reach, the ones he had failed. ( there’s no time for guilt or devastation; he can’t stomach the agony right now. ) roughened fingertips graze the grip of one of the military bows. gale praises beetee’s latest design for him before beetee mentions paying annie a visit, suggesting that the district four victor might be able to recall information now about her time in captivity. gale heaves a giant breath; he’s been avoiding this mostly because someone would have to explain finnick, how he’d sacrificed himself and traded his freedom for the safe return of the love of his life. it hits a little too close to home, and gale’s TERRIBLE with the subject of love. thoughts of fighting back in a seemingly hopeless war consume him day in and day out, but he finally resigns himself to meet with annie.

when he finds her room at the infirmary, she’s knitting him together a shirt. the gesture was similar to how things used to operate in twelve, exchanging acts of service and scraps of food or medicine just to survive. did she remember him and the rest of the small infiltration squad breaking her out of the capitol? "you didn’t have to do that for me, annie," his smile is gentle and tired as he steps slowly into the room, wary of what might UPSET her. nonetheless, he’s speaking with a fellow victor; gale’s pretty certain that he’s lost half his mind, as well. he drops himself onto the foot of the unoccupied hospital bed, elbows resting against his knees. 

"what else have you stitched up?"