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theartofdreaming1 · 3 years ago

Photo

As usual, my thoughts regarding this week’s prompts and random thoughts on chapters 25-27 are below the cut.

heart

The imagery that really caught my attention this time was Peeta pointing out the changes in the moon to Katniss: The only indication of the passage of time lies in the heavens, the subtle shift of the moon. So Peeta begins pointing it out to me, insisting I acknowledge its progress and sometimes, for just a moment I feel a flicker of hope before the agony of the night engulfs me again. - So for one, we see another example of Peeta focusing on the small details in life (which I’ve previously hypothesized to being an important element in his recovery from his hijacking) as well as Peeta being the one to give Katniss hope, even if it’s just for a brief moment. Also, it’s a nice parallel to Katniss looking at the moon and desperately wishing for it to be “her moon” back in chapter 23. As a nocturnal person, I also love watching the moon from my living room window🌙

mind

Hmmh, I don’t think that Katniss and Peeta’s win was predetermined - although I do believe that by introducing the romantic angle, they significantly improved their odds. A Career winning the Games is not really that special and exciting, since it happens so often (although Careers generally satisfy that excitement for violence/blood/gore, that plenty of Capitol people seem to share). As a volunteer from District 12, who achieved an extremely good training score and proved herself to be very capable in the arena already, Katniss definitely had an edge by playing into the classic underdog story, which offered another exciting “narrative” for the Capitolites to follow - that, coupled (heh) with the romance angle Peeta introduced? Katniss (and Peeta) definitely had the entertainment (and excitement through novelty) factor on their side. Ironically, Cato’s chances of winning were not as good as he expected, precisely because he was playing it by the book.

soul

Poor Peeta (and Katniss), it hurts that their relationship was in such a rocky place by the end of the book. Especially those weeks right after the end of Book 1, when there were still cameras around District 12 and they had to pretend while hurting must have sucked big time🥺

Chapter 25

Ugh, the muttations are just so unsettling... *shudder*

Honestly, I’m just so impressed by Peeta’s presence of mind to draw that X on Cato’s hand, after he had just most of his calf ripped off, only to be grabbed and put in a headlock by Cato! He and Katniss work insanely well under pressure

God, Cato’s death is just so gruesome and awful... In the end, his “gift” from the Feast doesn’t help him win at all, but instead ends up prolonging his suffering a cruel amount... I wonder if in general these “gifts” come with a string attached (aside from the expected danger of trying to get them, I mean) - because the Gamemakers also intend for Katniss’s “gift” (medicine for Peeta) to force an even more cruel outcome on her - saving him from blood poisoning only to be forced into killing him herself... 🤔

I’m not sure if this is exactly medical protocol, but I’m terrified that if he drifts off he’ll never wake again. “Are you cold?” he asks. He unzips his jacket and I press against him as he fastens it around me. - Katniss is terrified of the idea of Peeta dying; at the same time, Peeta worries about her freezing - I can’t with these two 😩

Peeta begins to doze off now, and each time he does, I find myself yelling his name louder and louder because if he goes and dies on me now, I know I’ll go completely insane. He’s fighting it, probably more for me than for him - Katniss can’t lose any more people she cares about 😢; on a different note, Peeta fighting his unconsciousness “probably more for [Katniss] than for him” points out one of the crucial elements Katniss brings into Peeta’s life - she is that someone for whom he will fight - including for his own life and well-being - even when it feels easier to give up... Having that person in your life that keeps you going can make all the difference - if Katniss hadn’t had Prim and promised her “to really, really try” to win (and later also made Rue the same promise), I’m not sure she would have made it this far; it’s the thought of Prim anxiously watching her after Rue’s death, that forces Katniss to keep going, to not give in to despair after that particular traumatic event - Peeta, on the other hand, didn’t really have that kind of person in his life, as he will point out on the beach in CF (and Katniss acknowledges herself that the only person who will be devasted if Peeta dies is her)... that is not to say that neither Katniss nor Peeta aren’t fighters on their own - but it helps to have someone that inspires you to not give up

the adrenaline pumping through my body would never allow me to follow him, so I can’t let him go. I just can’t. - We’ll see the mirrored version of this by the end of Mockinjay

Pity, not vengeance, sends my arrow flying into [Cato’s] skull. - Another act of rebellion, technically (sure, this can be spun as Katniss killing Cato so she and Peeta may win - before Peeta dies from blood loss - but we know better - Katniss’s motivation was compassion for her supposed enemy)

We inch down to the tail of the horn and fall to the ground. If the stiffness in my limbs is this bad, how can Peeta even move? - Peeta is tough as nails, yo!

Before I am even aware of my actions, my bow is loaded with the arrow pointed straight at his heart [...] I drop my weapons and take a step back, my face burning in what can only be shame. “No,” he says. “Do it.” [...] “I can’t,” I say, “I won’t.” - In spite of her initial reflex, Katniss chooses Peeta/ chooses not to kill him; it’s a recurring theme in their relationship (despite her wariness of others, she chooses to open up to Peeta eventually; although she vowed to never marry and have children, she’ll choose to have a family with Peeta); also, my psychology-brain just noticed how this moment illustrates how harmful thoughts/impulses don’t have to determine your actions and are not an indicator of who you are - it’s about what you choose to do

“You’re not leaving me here alone,” I say. Because if he dies, I’ll never go home, not really. I’ll spend the rest of my life in this areny trying to think my way out. - Again, makes me think of MJ; also, I think that from this point onwards, Katniss and Peeta are officially linked together forever; the bond they forged during this traumatic experience will connect them to each other until the day they die

“On the count of three?” Peeta leans down and kisses me once, very gently. “The count of three,” he says. - My heart😭

Chapter 26

... while our muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing the blood from draining out of Peeta’s leg. Sure enough, the minute the door closes behind us and the current stops, he slumps to the floor unconscious [...] Through the glass, I see the doctors working feverishly on Peeta, their brows creased in concentration [...] I’m not sure, but I think his heart stops twice. - Peeta was in such a bad shape by the end of the Games; I’m still kinda salty that the movie really glossed over this fact :/

... they’re taking Peeta but leaving me behind the door. I start hurling myself against the glass, shrieking and I think I just catch a glimpse of pink hair - it must be Effie, it has to be Effie coming to my rescue - when the needle jabs me from behind. - Oh geez, in Catching Fire Katniss will also get sedated in a hovercraft because she’s upset about being separated from Peeta 😢 (also, Katniss thinking that Effie is coming to her rescue 😭)

While she [Lavinia, the avox] adjusts my pillows, I risk one question. I say it out loud, as clearly as my rusty voice will allow, so nothing will seem secretive. “Did Peeta make it?” She gives me a nod, and as she slips a spoon into my hand, I feel the pressure of friendship. - Katniss is so considerate of Lavinia’s situation, and Lavinia’s giving her a gesture of comfort and support; they’ve never been able to have a proper conversation (Katniss doesn’t even know Lavinia’s name), but still they managed to build up such a bond - compassion certainly is a strong thing to behold 😭 (and this whole scene is just through and through about compassion, with Katniss asking how Peeta is doing!)

Home! Prim and my mother! Gale! Even the thought of Prim’s scruffy old cat makes me smile. Soon I will be home! - Katniss is so excited to see her home and her loved ones again

I want to get out of this bed. To see Peeta and Cinna - Aww, the two people she grew closest to over the course of the past weeks (Haymitch will be added to that list in just a smidge)

Or do I hear a man’s voice yelling? Not in the Capitol accent, but in the rougher cadences of home. And I can’t help having a vague, comforting feeling that someone is looking out for me. - Thank God for Haymitch!

And behind one of them [doors] must be Peeta. Now that I’m conscious and moving, I’m growing more and more anxious about him [...] “Peeta!” I call out, since there’s no one to ask - Katniss is sick with worry over Peeta; romantic feelings or not, she cares so fricking much for him by now!

I run for them [Effie, Haymitch, and Cinna] and surprise even myself when I launch into Haymitch’s arms first. When he whispers in my ear, “Nice job, sweetheart,” it doesn’t sound sarcastic. - These reunion scenes are so intense and heartwarming! And then Katniss asks about Portia and Peeta because their presence would make this scene complete

when I asks for seconds, I’m refused. “No, no, no. They don’t want it all coming back up on the stage,” says Octavia, but she secretly slips me an extra roll under the table to let me know she’s on my side - It’s moments like these that help humanize Katniss’s prep team - they might be shallow, they might be completely oblivious and ignorant, but they aren’t that bad [of course, the prep team chattering about their mundane lives while talking about the event that ended with the deaths of 22 children shortly after, leaves a bad taste in our mouths]

I immediately notice the padding over my breasts, adding curves that hunger has stolen from my body. My hands go to my chest and I frown. “I know,” says Cinna before I can object. “But the Gamemakers wanted to alter you surgically. Haymitch had a huge fight with them over it. This was the compromise.” - God, the idea that the Gamemakers wanted to give a boob job to an unconscious, malnourished 16-year-old girl makes me sick 🤢 (Also, what’s the flipping deal about boobs?! As a pretty flat-chested gal, I’ve always been annoyed that there are barely any bras my cup size that are not push-up ones; I’m not self-conscious about it, so stop making me pretend that I’m bustier than I actually am!)

“I thought it’d be something more... sophisticated-looking,” I say. “I thought Peeta would like this better,” he [Cinna] answers carefully. Peeta? No, it’s not about Peeta. It’s about the Capitol and the Gamemakers and the audience. Although I do not yet understand Cinna’s design, it’s a reminder the Games are not quite finished. - Ugh, that sinking feeling when Katniss and the reader realize that the Games are still not over... Sidenote: Peeta flirted up a storm with grimy, bloodied Katniss and complimented her when she wore Cinna’s first, absolutely badass costume (”You should wear flames more often”)... Katniss’s girlish outfit has nothing to do with Peeta and she knows it... Cinna could have dressed Katniss up in a trash bag and Peeta would have been smitten - although a trash bag by Cinna would probably still look pretty good ;)

“How about a hug for luck?” Okay, that’s an odd request from Haymitch but, after all we are victors. Maybe a hug for luck is in order. - Aww, Katniss actually wouldn’t have minded giving Haymitch a hug just because - sadly, this is about survival tips instead :/

But what was it Haymitch said when I asked it he had told Peeta the situation? That he had to pretend to be desperately in love? “Don’t have to. He’s already there.” Already thinking ahead of me in the Games again and well aware of the danger we’re in? Or... already desperately in love? I don’t know. I haven’t even begun to separate out my feelings about Peeta. It’s too complicated. - Poor Katniss... she didn’t have the time and peace of mind to sort out her feelings regarding Peeta before they all got tied up and muddled with her need for survival. Now she’ll be having an even harder time trying to untangle that mess :(

Chapter 27

Then there’s Peeta just a few yards away. He looks so clean and healthy and beautiful, I can hardly recognize him. But his smile is the same whether in mud or in the Capitol and when I see it, I take about three steps and fling myself into his arms [...] He rights himself and we just cling to each other while the audience goes insane. He’s kissing me and all the time I’m thinking, Do you know? Do you know how much danger we’re in? After about ten minutes of this, Caesar Flickerman taps on his choulder to continue the show, and Peeta just pushes him aside without even glancing at him. - Man, their reunion here always gets me - it would be so fricking good if Katniss didn’t have to worry about their potential doom 😒😔 - she barely has time to just be happy to see Peeta alive and well before slipping back into survival mode while Peeta is just genuinely thrilled to have her in his arms, completely unaware of the pressure and immediate danger Katniss experiences in this moment... It hurts so bad

I’m with Katniss - How did the previous victors endure rewatching those horrible moments from the Games?! I guess because they had to, but oof... I think I’d just completely shut down, blocking out the footage shown, ugh

But I do notice they omit the part where I covered her [Rue] in flowers. Right. Because even that smacks of rebellion. - In such a callous and cruel place as Panem, any act of compassion can be regarded as rebellion, it’s crazy. In a place filled with apathy, hedonism, greed, and cruelty, the most radical things you can exhibit are love, kindness, and respect!

A wave of gratitude to the filmmakers sweeps over me when they end not with the announcement of our victory, but with me pounding on the glass door of the hovercraft, screaming Peeta’s name as they try to revive him. In terms of survival, it’s my best moment all night. - Again, another instance where Katniss’s genuine feelings/reactions to Peeta are get muddled with her need for survival

The one thing I never do is let go of Peeta’s hand. - irrevocably linked with each other

Despite Haymitch’s running interference, I’m determined to see Peeta privately. - Katniss just wants to have an honest and open talk with Peeta 😢 (I get where Haymitch is coming from, and maybe in this instance it’s the right call, but we’ll see a similar situation in the beginning of CF when Haymitch advises Katniss not to tell Peeta about President Snow’s visit and that time, it doesn’t go so well...)

Then Peeta’s there looking handsome in red and white - for someone who isn’t sure whether she’s into him or not, Katniss sure mentions how good Peeta’s looking a lot 😏

“Well, there’s just this and we go home. Then he can’t watch us all the time,” says Peeta. - 👀👀 Peeta is so thirsty here; reminds me of when he pulled Katniss close to him in the cave before they set out to hunt... He clearly believes she’s also “already there” regarding their relationship; he’s never this “suggestive” (can’t think of a better word right now) with her once she lets him know that she doesn’t really know how she feels about him - I feel a sort of shiver run through me and there’s no time to analyze why - Katniss totally isn’t averse to what Peeta’s suggesting here, either (though there’s probably also a healthy amount of fear mixed in with the thrill of being wanted - letting people in can be terrifying)

I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he asks, “So now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?” I turn in to him. “Put you somewhere you can’t get hurt.” And when he kisses me, people in the room actually sigh. - It’s me; I’m people 🙋🏼‍♀️ (also, the “turn in to him”?!?!! it just suggests such a closeness, I can’t-)

Katniss burying her face in Peeta’s shirt when she’s afraid she might cry learning that he lost his leg 🥺 (how awful it must be to be constantly on display while you’re dealing with your private feelings, ugh)

“... The moment when you pulled out those berries. What was going on in your mind... hm?” [...] It seems to call for a big, dramatic speech, but all I get out is one almost inaudible sentences. “I don’t know, I just... couldn’t bear the thought of... being without him.” - It might not be a super eloquent way to put what she was supposed to say, but this way, Katniss is being perfectly honest (and frankly, if she’d had the chance to properly process her feelings, she would have been able to voice this sentiment with less hesitation)

I go back to my room to collect a few things and find there’s nothing to take but the mockingjay pin Madge gave me. Someone returned it to my room after the Games. - For one, Katniss didn’t think of that pin (again), but also - was the pin returned to her simply because it’s standard procedure or did someone (like Plutarch, for example) arrange for Katniss to get the pin back, to keep her connection to this symbol going?

I stare in the mirror as I try to remember who I am and who I am not. - Poor Katniss! She’s been through so much, experienced so many traumatic events in short succession recently (aside from the trauma she already had), already had problems defining her identity beyond sheer survival, and now the Capitol also keeps pushing an identity onto her and a romantic relationship, when she hadn’t even had the chance to figure out how she felt about that yet

“... Haymitch has been coaching me through the last few days. So I didn’t make it worse,” I say. “Coaching you? But not me,” says Peeta. “He knew you were smart enough to get it right,” I say. “I didn’t know there was anything to get right,” says Peeta. - Oh boy. It’s always so painful to see Peeta realize that he’s been completely out of the loop; again, we’ll see how Katniss and Haymitch adopt a similar strategy in the beginning of CF: banking on Peeta’s good social skills and eloquence and keeping him in the dark. In a way, it’s a sort of compliment they pay to Peeta for being good with people, but, by not telling him, they are also using him for their purpose (which is motivated by caring for and wanting to protect Peeta, but still). Peeta is right to be upset about it - he has always been very clear about not wanting to be used as a piece in anyone’s games, really. And, as we will see later in CF, they are way more effective as a team when they are open and honest with each other.

“It was all for the Games,” Peeta says. “How you acted.” “Not all of it,” I say, tightly holding on to my flowers. “Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what’s going to be left when we get home?” he says. “I don’t know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get,” I say. He waits, for further explanation, but none’s forthcoming. “Well, let me know when you work it out,” he says, and the pain in his voice is palpable. - It’s just so goddamn painful😢 They’ve both been done so dirty by that forced star-crossed lovers of Distrct 12 routine. (Sidenote: I appreciate that Peeta actually gives Katniss the chance to explain herself here - still, it’s too much to deal with on the spot so I can understand why Katniss ended up dropping the ball, even though it’s frustrating to read.)

That it’s not good loving me because I’m never going to get married anyway and he’d just end up hating me later instead of sooner. That if I do have feelings for him, it doesn’t matter because I’ll never be able to afford the kind of love that leads to a family, to children. And how can he? How can he after what we’ve just been through? - Oh Katniss, you certainly are skipping a couple of steps here; I’m pretty sure there are some options in between dating and being married with kids you could look into. Also, she’s just assuming that this is what Peeta wants, but she doesn’t know that at all - As someone who also has this stupid habit of imagining how whole conversations could possibly transpire and then resigning myself to the hypothetical outcome of said imagined conversation instead of actually having them: Don’t do that. ‘Never assume - it makes an ASS out of U and ME.’

I see Peeta extend his hand. I look at him, unsure. “One more time? For the audience?” he says. His voice isn’ t angry. It’s hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me. I take his hand, holding it tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go. - Ma babies! They are both so hurt and both just want to be with each other 😭 But they’ll need some time apart, to figure things out before they can do that.

#thgagain #thg #hunger games #everlark #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #my sketches and drawings #thg meta

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bethpeaches123 · 3 years ago

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So I loved the Oh it’s You update! I was dying when they were talking at the end of the chapter and Peeta is clearly entranced with Katniss...would you pretty please write an outtake of that scene in his POV- I would love to know what was going through his mind when she was talking to him about his marriage....about what he really wants lol

Okay my friend, here you go! It got a little long...hope you enjoy!

I'll be posting this to AO3 soon too, I just don't know if it'll be separate from the rest of Oh, it's you or if it'll be a separate thing.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Peeta sat at a table in front of the window of Brewed Awakening, his hands wrapped around the steaming mug of tea that Sara, the cashier had just placed in front of him. He smiled his thanks as she turned and walked back to the counter, him turning back to stare at the tea bag floating at the top of the mug.

It had been a rough few weeks since he and Delly had broken the news to Connor. Every time he thought about his son’s sweet little face peering up at him as he told him he’d be moving out of their house, and Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t be together any more, his heart physically ached in his chest. He hated that he was causing his favourite person in the world any sort of upset, especially his precious boy.

Peeta felt guilty. He’d tried for so long with Delly. They’d been together since high school, when they were just kids.

Back then, he’d been so fixated on Katniss Everdeen, ever since the day he’d met her, but could never work up the nerve to talk to her, let alone ask her out. He’d been so frustrated and disappointed with himself over it. Peeta had himself so worked up over it, he pushed her away as much as he could and vowed to move on.

The day Delly asked him to go to the Halloween dance in junior year, he accepted. She was a pretty girl who was sweet and bubbly, and he liked that. Liked how she made him feel. There was no real stress with Delly. No real excitement, but it was comfortable. Safe.

He didn’t really think much of the state of his relationship - he just thought it was normal to not be madly, hopelessly in love. He loved Delly, yes, but it was never passionate or all-consuming like the great romances in movies made love out to be. He went through the stages of a relationship with her, did all the things he thought he was supposed to. Delly seemed happy and so did both their families, so when they’d been together for a few years and she started leaving links to engagement rings open on her laptop, he took the hint and proposed. All the while thinking maybe things would become more passionate or...loving, once they got married.

But it didn’t happen. In fact, six months in, he realized things weren’t going to get better and was prepared to ask for a divorce, but then Delly announced she was pregnant. And he knew he couldn’t leave then. Becoming a father was terrifying but it was something he’d always wanted, more than anything else in life. So he decided to once again dedicate himself to his marriage and the mother of his child. And it worked for a little while. But forcing a marriage never works in the end, no matter how much you may want it to, no matter how much you want to put up a united front for your child.

The bell on the coffee shop door chimed as someone opened it and out of the corner of his eye he saw Katniss step inside. His body immediately started to tingle like it always did whenever she appeared. It was like his senses became heightened and hyper aware of her when she was around. He could feel almost like an electric current running through his veins.

She approached the table a few minutes later with her own mug and said softly, “Hey Peeta. How are you doing?”

He was about to reply with a smile and his prepared front, ready to fake it, when he looked at her and read it all over her face: she knew about the split.

He sighed. He should’ve known Madge would open her mouth about it. It wasn’t exactly a state secret, but he would’ve liked a heads up that people knew. That Katniss knew.

“You know,” he said blankly. She hesitated and then replied, “Yeah. Madge and Gale told me. I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah...not exactly great news.”

He pondered it for a minute and then just decided to be honest. “Is it weird that I’m...almost relieved?” he said softly. “Kind of like a weight’s off my shoulders?”

He thought about the way Delly had looked at him that last day. How resentful she looked. He never wanted a woman to look at him that way again. Suddenly, he realized who he was saying this to, and jerked back. He shouldn’t be discussing such personal things with Katniss. “I mean - I don’t mean that, I-I just...just feel...fuck. I don’t fucking know.” he stuttered. “I don’t mean it like that. No one wants their marriage to fail. I just tried for so long to make her happy but nothing seemed to make her happy. Or I never seemed to get it right. Could never get it right for years.”

He felt so defeated. But he didn’t want to talk about this with Katniss. Didn’t want her to think he was pathetic or a failure. Even though he felt like he was both. He was about to change the subject when she spoke up.

“Peeta...it could have been four years or forty years, it doesn’t matter. If it’s not right, it’s never going to be right. It doesn’t matter how much time you dedicate. Some things just aren’t meant to be. You shouldn’t have to try so hard in a relationship. Yeah, they take work, but not that much work. Not that much grief.” He watched her as she continued, entranced by her words.

“It should be...effortless, in some ways. Like when you meet someone, and you click, and it’s like… ‘oh. It’s you. There you are.’ Like you’ve been waiting for them this whole time and didn’t even realize it.”

Peeta stared at her, frozen at the words that seemed to tumble from her mouth. The click she spoke about. Oh, it’s you. It’s...you.

Like you’ve been waiting for them this whole time and didn’t even realize it.

Well, he realized it now. He still liked her. The pull he’d felt all those years ago to Katniss Everdeen was back. As much as he forced himself to try and forget about her, being around her the past few months had dragged those feelings right back up. Oh.

“Oh.” He hadn’t realized he’d said the word out loud. And that he’d been staring at her this whole time. He briefly watched as her eyes left his and flickered down to his mouth. Woah. What was that? Was she…?

Katniss coughed lightly and said quickly, “well, like I said: some things aren’t meant to be, no matter how hard you try. As shitty as this is, and as much as I’m sure it’s going to be difficult to work through, maybe this is the start of a new chapter for you. Where you can figure out...what makes you happy, without having to focus so much on making someone else happy. Besides Connor. Take some time to figure out what you really want.”

What he really wanted. What did he want? Right now...he could finally admit to himself that he wanted what was right in front of him. He wanted...her. He realized that the split from Delly meant that he was...free. He wasn’t elated by that, but it did make him realize that he was essentially on his own, once the paperwork went through.

What did he want?

“Yeah...what I really want.” Possibilities and future scenarios began to run through his mind. He didn’t realize he’d been staring at her, lost in thought, until she spoke again.

“Um, maybe we should take a look at this menu, hey? See what you’re thinking for it?”

Peeta was jerked from his reverie. Woah. Slow down. Collect yourself. Get it together. You literally just separated from your wife like three weeks ago. Calm down.

“Yes, of course. Um, there’s a few different options we could go with, like having a savoury package and a sweet package. I was thinking of a herbed goat cheese biscuit for one, but also…”

He pressed on, determined to push his earlier daydreams aside and focus on the task at hand. She seemed to space out for a minute and then made some comment about being concerned about keeping the hot items warm because it was cold in the winter, which made him laugh harder than he had in months.

When they had finalized everything, Katniss made to leave, saying something about another meeting. Peeta was reluctant, but he knew he had to get back to the bakery anyway. He stood up to pull his coat on as she thanked him again, when suddenly, she reached up and wrapped her arms around him in a hug.

He froze.

It was the first time they’d ever hugged. Katniss Everdeen had her arms around him. Katniss was touching him. He couldn’t let this moment pass him by.

He stiffly moved his arms around her and felt her warmth underneath his hands. He took a deep breath and inhaled. Fresh linen. Sandalwood. Vanilla. She smelled heavenly. He exhaled slowly and tightened his grip on her waist. He could feel her slight curves as he breathed in again and felt the electricity buzz through him even stronger. He could also feel the stress he’d been holding onto for so many months start to slowly pour out of him. It was incredible what a simple hug could do. But this wasn’t a simple hug. Maybe it had to do with whom he was hugging.

This was a turning point and he knew it. He was a goner.

~*~*~*~*~*~

#oh it's you #bethpeaches123 writes #oh it's you outtake #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #the hunger games #everlark #everlark fanfiction #everlark fanfic #mrspeetamellark

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diifacto · 4 years ago

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Saw your post about the hunger games and i completly agree. Anyway you said there wasn't really a love triangle and now I'm curious what you mean with that? I mean like imma start following you anyway now so i won't miss it when you talk about this, but...

I’ve gotten a lot of questions/comments like this one on the statement I made in my last Hunger Games post about the series having no real love triangle, so here’s me (finally) explaining my reasoning.

It was really hard to organize my thoughts in a cohesive, complete way, as I’ve never actually organized my arguement on paper—just verbally, usually yelling (passionately) at my sister—so I’ve split them up into categories based on which aspects of the novels I’m discussing.

First Impressions

Beginning, as all things do, with first impressions. The Hunger Games is, first and foremost, categorized as a YA novel. Now, I love YA. I’ve been reading YA all my life and will probably continue doing so for the rest of it. But there are a ton of tropes/patterns found consistently through just about every YA novel out there, just as in any other genre—sci-fi has spaceships, blasters, and aliens; fantasy has monarchies, dragons, and curses; and YA has love triangles, rebellions, “bad boy” boyfriends, etc. Obviously, this is a gross generalization, but you know what I mean—when Katniss introduces Gale as “the only person with whom I can be myself,” and he checks off the attractive and male boxes on top of it, anyone who’s ever read YA has alarm bells going off in their head: Love Interest Detected.

But, before anything can happen with Gale, we’re heading straight into the Games, where we are confronted with yet another possible love interest. Peeta, Katniss’s competitor—but fake, star-crossed lover? And they have history from back in District 12? We have ourselves a second Love Interest, and therefore we’ve got ourselves a Love Triangle!

(Ignore the Games, of course. The oppressed, impoverished, desperate state of the districts under the Capitol’s control. The children being sent to die for their amusement. The two sixteen-year-olds doing anything they can to stay alive one more day. No, we’ve got some romance on our hands!)

And isn’t that it? Readers go into The Hunger Games, are introduced to these two young, attractive men, who obviously have feelings for Katniss, and whom Katniss depends on (we’ll dig into the significance of that later) in return—and understandably assume this’ll blossom into a plot point. And it does, but not in the way readers are expecting. Suzanne Collins herself never portrays Gale and Peeta as opposing love interests; rather, she uses them to represent opposing worldviews, a huge choice Katniss has to make in Catching Fire. What readers are expecting to happen, though—Love Triangle, Katniss choosing one of the boys, Team Peeta or Team Gale, etc.—can get in the way of how they perceive what Suzanne Collins is really trying to say.

Katniss’s “Choice”

I’d like to present a word to you: juxtaposition. I learned it in English class, it’s fun to say, and it means, according to Google, “The fact of two things being seen or placed close together with contrasting effect.” I think it describes love triangles pretty well; after all, isn’t a love triangle just two, different people placed in the same situation, each with their respective pros and cons? I also think it describes Gale and Peeta’s characters pretty well; except instead of Suzanne Collins juxtaposing them based on their looks, general atheleticism, and by who remembers Katniss’s birthday, she aligns them with two possible futures for Katniss, and two different beliefs.

A life with Peeta means a lifetime of keeping her head down, following the path the Capitol has set for her, living in fear and suffocating oppression, hoping the spark will die out. A life with Gale means the opposite: taking it to the Capitol, rebelling against the Games, turning the spark into a flame and hoping everyone she loves survives the fire.

This is the choice Katniss makes in Catching Fire. When she kisses Gale after he’s been whipped, it’s not because she’s coming into any newfound feelings, it’s because she’s made her decision—to stay and rebel against the Capitol. And in this choice, a life with Peeta is of the Capitol’s invention, and a life with Gale is only another way to rebel.

That’s all there really is to Katniss’s “choice.”

Dependence

“But Margaret,” you say, “Katniss does have feelings for Gale and Peeta in return.” Oh, sure. I won’t argue there—there’s a reason, aside from them being superficially perfect Love Interest archetypes, that both these boys themselves do appeal to Katniss. But these “feelings,” this reason, aren’t/isn’t inherently romantic.

After Katniss’s father died, Collins depicts how Katniss’s mother fell into an incredibly lethargic state, sick with sadness, and effectively abandoned eleven-year-old Katniss to deal with her own grief and keep the family alive, all alone. Understandably, this experience has kept Katniss from trusting easily or becoming too dependent on people, lest they do the same and leave when she needs them. For the most part, Katniss lives independently, relying on no one for support, not accepting help. But why, when people argue that Katniss does have feelings for both Gale and Peeta, do I have to admit that while I disagree overall, there is something there Katniss doesn’t let herself feel for anyone else? What makes these two boys different from everyone else in The Hunger Games?

Simple: they’re the only two people Katniss (reluctantly) lets herself depend on.

When discussing Gale’s popularity among the girls at school, Katniss mentions that it makes her jealous, but not for the reason people think. “Good hunting partners are hard to find,” she says, 1. acknowledging Gale’s desirability, 2. making her lack of romantic interest clear, and 3. admitting she relies on him as a hunting partner, and feels threatened by the idea of losing him. And of course she does—especially since Collins shows us that it isn’t just Katniss herself depending on Gale; after the reaping it will be Prim, who Katniss describes as the only person in the world she’s certain she loves, and her mother. Without Gale, and with Katniss heading off to the Games, she has no way to ensure Prim’s safety. Thus, Katniss is incredibly dependent on Gale.

Peeta comes later, but equally as necessary; offering Katniss safety through their star-crossed lovers strategy, and, later, an understanding of the Games she can’t get from anyone else. Katniss, someone so scared of depending on people, has ended up depending on these two boys for different things. Gale, to protect her family, her home, to offer her freedom from the stifling nature of the Capitol and the Victor’s Village; and Peeta, to offer her understanding and freedom in a different way, from the dreams, from the arena, from the pressure of keeping everyone alive.

So when people counter my opinion that Katniss never had any romantic feelings for either Gale nor, initially, Peeta (we’ll break that “initially” down, don’t worry), I’ll give them that, yes, Gale and Peeta got something from Katniss no one else did: trust. And trust is, of course, a fantastic base for a healthy, romantic relationship. But it doesn’t become one in Hunger Games. Katniss loves Gale, and she loves Peeta, I can’t argue that. But that love isn’t romantic.

Debts Owed

This will be very brief—just something to think about, to go along with my analysis of Katniss’s dependence.

I need to acknowledge that, while my arguement is that Katniss never had any definitively romantic feelings for either Gale or Peeta, they definitely did for her. And she knew. So, just for a moment, I’d like us to consider the thought process of someone who has never, ever, let herself depend on anyone else—depending on someone who obviously wants something more from her?

Do you think she may feel like she owes something to this person, as thanks? Do you think she might be afraid, if they weren’t to get what they want, that they might leave? Do you think that, even if she didn’t have any romantic feelings for either of the two, she might kiss them, just in case?

I’m not saying this is the case in Hunger Games, but as I was writing up “Dependence,” it occurred to me: what would that really do to a person? And I just wanted to bring it up for discussion. When Katniss made her choice—rebellion—did she have to seal that choice with a kiss? Or was that her way of ensuring that yes, she was picking rebellion, and Gale was the rebellious choice, and yes, this kiss, this promise, will keep him by my side.

Was Gale Ever Really A “Contender”?

Let’s tie the frayed ends of “First Impressions”/“Katniss’s ‘Choice’”/“Dependence”/“Debts Owed” together. If you’ve made it this far, you’ve an inexhaustible well of patience, and I applaud you.

Remember when I added that “initially” when discussing Katniss’s lack of romantic feelings for Peeta? While I’m still firmly on the side of Katniss ending up single—at least for a few years, while the poor girl recovers and figures all the shit you’re supposed to understand in your teens, and when you’ve been through a war, out—of both “choices,” of course she ends up with Peeta. Why? Well.

Despite the “choice,” despite dependence, despite all the evidence laid here on the contrary, despite all that, if you still think there’s a love triangle in Hunger Games, explain to me this: you need two love interests to make a love triangle—and was Gale ever really a contender?

Let’s walk through it. Right from the beginning, immediately after Suzanne Collins introduces Gale, she has Katniss go through the steps discussed in “Dependence”; acknowledge desirability and attractiveness, state her disinterest romantically, and move on. Already, sweeping any suggestion that Katniss may have some unspoken, romantic love towards Gale. Not to say it couldn’t develop—but it doesn’t.

Catching Fire is where the boys are perhaps juxtaposed the most, with Katniss’s “choice” coming into play. Remember what I said about debts owed? Gale continues to push Katniss’s boundaries, confessing his love, pressuring her, even after she’s expressed her disinterest in love right now (amid all this death and rebellion, a perfectly fucking normal sentiment) and confusion around the subject. Not only that, but he insults Peeta, Haymitch, and those involved with the Games (ex. Cinna, Effie, Katniss’s prep team) by lumping them in with the Capitol, and while the latter is a fair judgement, he doesn’t listen to Katniss when she tries to defend them and explain they’re rebelling in their own way, same as him. Gale in Catching Fire begins his “downwards spiral,” as he turns everything black and white, shunning Katniss when she doesn’t agree 100% and accepting her back with open arms after she kisses him.

Peeta, on the other hand, understands the gray area. He listens to Katniss, and although he’s getting exactly what he wants—a relationship with Katniss, a life with Katniss—he takes no joy in it because he knows it isn’t what Katniss wants. Remember after their proposal, on the Victory Tour, when Katniss asks Haymitch why Peeta’s not happy, as this was what he wanted? Haymitch tells her it’s because he wanted it to be real. And that’s true for Peeta throughout the whole trilogy; he truly cares about Katniss’s wants, tries his hardest not to pressure her, and is genuinely a continuous source of support. He rebels, the entire time, in his own quiet, calculated way; with the money in District 11, with the “baby bomb” in the interviews.

Here’s a juxtaposition for you: Peeta’s love for Katniss isn’t conditional; Gale’s is.

For proof, just look at Mockingjay. Specifically, look at—spoilers—Prim’s death.

Everyone knows that girl is the most important thing in the world to Katniss. All of District 12 knows it, President Snow knows it, President Coin knows it—hell, regular, average citizens of the Capitol know it. Everyone knows there is nothing, nothing in the world that could make Katniss put Primrose in danger, even at her own expense. Katniss would rather die than have Prim get hurt, and anyone close to her, who loves her, knows damn well that’s what she’d want.

So when Gale’s bomb goes off, delivering the final blow to the Capitol, at the expense of so many innocent lives, at the expense of Katniss’s sister—there was no love for Katniss there. There was absolutely no consideration, no respect for Katniss. There was just violence, and the hungry, desperate need to win this war, to rebel.

I could never say that Katniss and Gale weren’t a great team. I could never say they weren’t good, lifelong friends—I mean, starting out. They were fantastic hunting partners, further shown in Mockingjay, when they started hunting people instead of deer or turkey or wild dogs. But they grew apart, after Katniss changed in the Games and Gale changed in the rebellion, and there was never, really, the chance of anything romantic between them. Katniss depended on Gale to, above all other things, protect her sister, and he didn’t, so she stopped depending on him. And there wasn’t anything left.

That’s what I mean when I say, even if you think Katniss had real feelings for Peeta—and they do end up together, so even if I don’t agree with it, okay, alright, maybe it was Suzanne Collins’ intention—there’s still no love triangle, because Katniss never had feelings for Gale. And even if, maybe, maybe some would’ve developed—we’re getting into pure hypotheticals here—his character never would’ve been a real option for Katniss. They changed too much, and grew too far apart, and there would have been absolutely no chance for him after Prim.

Conclusion

In conclusion, I’m sorry. I’m more cohesive and intelligent verbally. Most of the time. Promise.

In conclusion, there is no love triangle in Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Games. Rather, there are two boys who have feelings for the same girl, and this girl, who never depends on anyone, depends on these two boys for different things, and has to make a huge, horrible, irreversible choice, and somehow it ends up attaching itself to these two boys. And that’s really all there is to it.

#booklr #book blog #opinion #the hunger games #catching fire #mockingjay #gale #peeta #love triangle #it’s not actually a love triangle and here’s why #katniss should’ve ended up alone #fiction #katniss everdeen #suzanne collins #young adult #sorry this took so long I’m an unproductive mess #I swear I’m more cohesive in person #usually whilst yelling at my sister #book review

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hockeysweetheart · 4 years ago

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So I asked this question Earlier. Do you think that Katniss was in love with Gale the romantic way.

Easy answer no. I do beileve she loved him as you love her friends. But there were just no sparks there. Okay this will be a super long thing. I’ll add all chapters and pages below

Lets dig into this.

So at the start of the book they meet up in the woods on the day of the reaping This is Katniss Discribing Gale ( This is after they talk about running away Katniss blurts out I am never having kids, Eating bakery bread Gale said he would have kids ect...

Chapter 1 Page 10 The hunger Games

This Conversation feels all wrong Leave? How could I leave Prim, Who is the only person in the world I’m certain I love? And Gale who is Devoted to his Family. We can’t Leave, so why bother talking about it? And if we did... even if we did... where did this stuff about having kids come from? There’s NEVER been anything romantic between Gale and me. When we met, I was a skinny 12 year old and although he was only two years older. He already looked like a man. It took a long time for us to even become friends, to stop haggling over every trade and begin helping each other out.

Besides if he wanted Kids, Gale won’t have any trouble finding a wife. He’s good-looking, he’s strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him. It makes me jealous but not for the reason people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.

Page 38- 40 Chapter 3 The hunger Games

( Now this is when Katniss is saying goodbyes and Gale says goodbye)

Finally Gale is here and maybe there is nothing Romantic between us, but when he opens his arms . I don’t hesitate to go into the. His body is familiar to me- the way it moves, the smell of wood and smoke, even the sound of his heart beating I know from quiet moments on a hunt- but this is the first time I really feel it, lean and hard-muscled against my own.

"Katniss, it's just hunting. You're the best hunter I know," says Gale. "It's not just hunting. They're armed. They think," I say. "So do you. And you've had more practice. Real practice," he says. "You know how to kill." "Not people," I say. "How different can it be, really?" says Gale grimly. The awful thing is that if I can forget they're people, it will be no different at all. The Peacekeepers are back too soon and Gale asks for more time, but they're taking him away and I start to panic. "Don't let them starve!" I cry out, clinging to his hand. "I won't! You know I won't! Katniss, remember I - " he says, and they yank us apart and slam the door and I'll never know what it was he wanted me to remember.

Pages 109 to 112 Chapter 8 The Hunger Games

When they first met. Please note this is Before Peeta confessed his Love for Katniss.

I had been struggling along on my own for about six months when I first ran into Gale in the woods. It was a Sun- day in October, the air cool and pungent with dying things. I’d spent the morning competing with the squirrels for nuts and the slightly warmer afternoon wading in shallow ponds har- vesting katniss. The only meat I’d shot was a squirrel that had practically run over my toes in its quest for acorns, but the an- imals would still be afoot when the snow buried my other food sources. Having strayed farther afield than usual, I was hurrying back home, lugging my burlap sacks when I came across a dead rabbit. It was hanging by its neck in a thin wire a foot above my head. About fifteen yards away was another. I recognized the twitch-up snares because my father had used them. When the prey is caught, it’s yanked into the air out of the reach of other hungry animals. I’d been trying to use snares all summer with no success, so I couldn’t help dropping my sacks to examine this one. My fingers were just on the wire above one of the rabbits when a voice rang out. “That’s dangerous.”

I jumped back several feet as Gale materialized from be- hind a tree. He must have been watching me the whole time. He was only fourteen, but he cleared six feet and was as good as an adult to me. I’d seen him around the Seam and at school. And one other time. He’d lost his father in the same blast that killed mine. In January, I’d stood by while he received his medal of valor in the Justice Building, another oldest child with no father. I remembered his two little brothers clutching his mother, a woman whose swollen belly announced she was just days away from giving birth. “What’s your name?” he said, coming over and disengaging the rabbit from the snare. He had another three hanging from his belt. “Katniss,” I said, barely audible. “Well, Catnip, stealing’s punishable by death, or hadn’t you heard?” he said. “Katniss,” I said louder. “And I wasn’t stealing it. I just wanted to look at your snare. Mine never catch anything.” He scowled at me, not convinced. “So where’d you get the squirrel?” “I shot it.” I pulled my bow off my shoulder. I was still using the small version my father had made me, but I’d been practic- ing with the full-size one when I could. I was hoping that by spring I might be able to bring down some bigger game. Gale’s eyes fastened on the bow. “Can I see that?” I handed it over. “Just remember, stealing’s punishable by death.”

That was the first time I ever saw him smile. It transformed him from someone menacing to someone you wished you knew. But it took several months before I returned that smile. We talked hunting then. I told him I might be able to get him a bow if he had something to trade. Not food. I wanted knowledge. I wanted to set my own snares that caught a belt of fat rabbits in one day. He agreed something might be worked out. As the seasons went by, we grudgingly began to share our knowledge, our weapons, our secret places that were thick with wild plums or turkeys. He taught me snares and fishing. I showed him what plants to eat and eventually gave him one of our precious bows. And then one day, without either of us saying it, we became a team. Dividing the work and the spoils. Making sure that both our families had food. Gale gave me a sense of security I’d lacked since my father’s death. His companionship replaced the long solitary hours in the woods. I became a much better hunter when I didn’t have to look over my shoulder constantly, when someone was watching my back. But he turned into so much more than a hunting partner. He became my confidante, someone with whom I could share thoughts I could never voice inside the fence. In exchange, he trusted me with his. Being out in the woods with Gale . . . sometimes I was actually happy. I call him my friend, but in the last year it’s seemed too ca- sual a word for what Gale is to me. A pang of longing shoots through my chest. If only he was with me now! But, of course, I don’t want that. I don’t want him in the arena where he’d bedead in a few days. I just . . . I just miss him. And I hate being so alone. Does he miss me? He must.

I think of the eleven flashing under my name last night. I know exactly what he’d say to me. “Well, there’s some room for improvement there.” And then he’d give me a smile and I’d return it without hesitating now. I can’t help comparing what I have with Gale to what I’m pretending to have with Peeta. How I never question Gale’s motives while I do nothing but doubt the latter’s. It’s not a fair comparison really. Gale and I were thrown together by a mu- tual need to survive. Peeta and I know the other’s survival means our own death. How do you sidestep that?

Now through out the Games Katniss does Question How Gale would feel about all this like the Kissing, The being in love with Peeta for an act. ( only everyone knows it’s aha not an act.)

Catching Fire.

Catching Fire Chaper 1 Page 9.

Basically saying how painful It was for Gale to see his best friend in love with someone else.

Hazelle nods “ That’d be good. Gale means to, but he’s only got his Sundays. and I think he likes saving those for you” I Can’t stop the redness that floods my cheeks. It’s stupid. of course. Hardly anybody knows me Better then Hazelle. Knows the bond I share with Gale. I’m sure plenty of people assumed that we’d eventually get married even if I never gave it any thought. But that was before the Games. Before my fellow tribute, Peeta Mellark , announced he was madly in love with me, Our romance became a key strategy for Peeta. I’m not sure what it was for me. But I know now it was nothing put painful for Gale. My chest tightens as I think about how. on the Victory Tour. Peeta and I will have to present ourselves as lovers again.

Catching Fire Chapter 2 Pages 23- 28.

Now this is when Snow basically tells Katniss he can kill Gale and that Katniss goes into the kiss ( the surprise one)

"Peeta. How is the love of your life?" he asks. "Good," I say.

"At what point did he realize the exact degree of your indifference?" he asks, dipping his cookie in his tea. "I'm not indifferent," I say.

"But perhaps not as taken with the young man as you would have the country believe," he says. "Who says I'm not?" I say.

"I do," says the president. "And I wouldn't be here if I were the only person who had doubts. How's the handsome cousin?"

"I don't know ... I don't ..." My revulsion at this conversation, at discussing my feelings for two of the people I care most about with President Snow, chokes me off.

"Speak, Miss Everdeen. Him I can easily kill off if we don't come to a happy resolution," he says. "You aren't doing him a favor by disappearing into the woods with him each Sunday."

If he knows this, what else does he know? And how does he know it? Many people could tell him that Gale and I spend our Sundays hunting. Don't we show up at the end of each one loaded down with game? Haven't we for years? The real question is what he thinks goes on in the woods beyond District 12. Surely they haven't been tracking us in there. Or have they? Could we have been followed? That seems impossible. At least by a person. Cameras? That never crossed my mind until this moment. The woods have always been our place of safety, our place beyond the reach of the Capitol, where we're free to say what we feel, be who we are. At least before the Games. If we've been watched since, what have they seen? Two people hunting, saying treasonous things against the Capitol, yes. But not two people in love, which seems to be President Snow's implication. We are safe on that charge. Unless ... unless ...

It only happened once. It was fast and unexpected, but it did happen.

After Peeta and I got home from the Games, it was several weeks before I saw Gale alone. First there were the obligatory celebrations. A banquet for the victors that only the most high-ranking people were invited to. A holiday for the whole district with free food and entertainers brought in from the Capitol. Parcel Day, the first of twelve, in which food packages were delivered to every person in the district. That was my favorite. To see all those hungry kids in the Seam running around, waving cans of applesauce, tins of meat, even candy. Back home, too big to carry, would be bags of grain, cans of oil. To know that once a month for a year they would all receive another parcel. That was one of the few times I actually felt good about winning the Games.

So between the ceremonies and events and the reporters documenting my every move as I presided and thanked and kissed Peeta for the audience, I had no privacy at all. After a few weeks, things finally died down. The camera crews and reporters packed up and went home. Peeta and I assumed the cool relationship we've had ever since. My family settled into our house in the Victor's Village. The everyday life of District 12 - workers to the mines, kids to school - resumed its usual pace. I waited until I thought the coast was really clear, and then one Sunday, without telling anyone, I got up hours before dawn and took off for the woods.

The weather was still warm enough that I didn't need a jacket. I packed along a bag filled with special foods, cold chicken and cheese and bakery bread and oranges. Down at my old house, I put on my hunting boots. As usual, the fence was not charged and it was simple to slip into the woods and retrieve my bow and arrows. I went to our place, Gale's and mine, where we had shared breakfast the morning of the reaping that sent me into the Games.

I waited at least two hours. I'd begun to think that he'd given up on me in the weeks that had passed. Or that he no longer cared about me. Hated me even. And the idea of losing him forever, my best friend, the only person I'd ever trusted with my secrets, was so painful I couldn't stand it. Not on top of everything else that had happened. I could feel my eyes tearing up and my throat starting to close the way it does when I get upset.

Then I looked up and there he was, ten feet away, just watching me. Without even thinking, I jumped up and threw my arms around him, making some weird sound that combined laughing, choking, and crying. He was holding me so tightly that I couldn't see his face, but it was a really long time before he let me go and then he didn't have much choice, because I'd gotten this unbelievably loud case of the hiccups and had to get a drink.

We did what we always did that day. Ate breakfast. Hunted and fished and gathered. Talked about people in town. But not about us, his new life in the mines, my time in the arena. Just about other things. By the time we were at the hole in the fence that's nearest the Hob, I think I really believed that things could be the same. That we could go on as we always had. I'd given all the game to Gale to trade since we had so much food now. I told him I'd skip the Hob, even though I was looking forward to going there, because my mother and sister didn't even know I'd gone hunting and they'd be wondering where I was.

Then suddenly, as I was suggesting I take over the daily snare run, he took my face in his hands and kissed me. I was completely unprepared. You would think that after all the hours I'd spent with Gale - watching him talk and laugh and frown - that I would know all there was to know about his lips. But I hadn't imagined how warm they would feel pressed against my own. Or how those hands, which could set the most intricate of snares, could as easily entrap me. I think I made some sort of noise in the back of my throat, and I vaguely remember my fingers, curled tightly closed, resting on his chest. Then he let go and said, "I had to do that. At least once." And he was gone.

Despite the fact that the sun was setting and my family would be worried, I sat by a tree next to the fence. I tried to decide how I felt about the kiss, if I had liked it or resented it, but all I really remembered was the pressure of Gale's lips and the scent of the oranges that still lingered on his skin. It was pointless comparing it with the many kisses I'd exchanged with Peeta. I still hadn't figured out if any of those counted. Finally I went home.

That week I managed the snares and dropped off the meat with Hazelle. But I didn't see Gale until Sunday.

I had this whole speech worked out, about how I didn't want a boyfriend and never planned on marrying, but I didn't end up using it. Gale acted as if the kiss had never happened.

Maybe he was waiting for me to say something. Or kiss him back. Instead I just pretended it had never happened, either. But it had. Gale had shattered some invisible barrier between us and, with it, any hope I had of resuming our old, uncomplicated friendship. Whatever I pretended, I could never look at his lips in quite the same way.

This all flashes through my head in an instant as President Snow's eyes bore into me on the heels of his threat to kill Gale. How stupid I've been to think the Capitol would just ignore me once I'd returned home! Maybe I didn't know about the potential uprisings. But I knew they were angry with me. Instead of acting with the extreme caution the situation called for, what have I done? From the president's point of view, I've ignored Peeta and flaunted my preference for Gale's company before the whole district. And by doing so made it clear I was, in fact, mocking the Capitol. Now I've endangered Gale and his family and my family and Peeta, too, by my carelessness. “Please don't hurt Gale," I whisper. "He's just my friend. He's been my friend for years. That's all that's between us. Besides, everyone thinks we're cousins now."

Chaper 7 Pages 93-101 Catching fire

Basically talking about running away and then Katniss can’t leave Peeta or Haymitch and Gale is angry about that But Prior Gale is happy to run away with her Says He loves her... but HA. ( we all know how that worked out)

Then I sit on the tiny concrete hearth, thawing out by the fire and waiting for Gale. It's a surprisingly short time before he appears. A bow slung over his shoulder, a dead wild turkey he must have encountered along the way hanging from his belt. He stands in the doorway as if considering whether or not to enter. He holds the unopened leather bag of food, the flask, Cinna's gloves. Gifts he will not accept because of his anger at me. I know exactly how he feels. Didn't I do the same thing to my mother? I look in his eyes. His temper can't quite mask the hurt, the sense of betrayal he feels at my engagement to Peeta. This will be my last chance, this meeting today, to not lose Gale forever. I could take hours trying to explain, and even then have him refuse me. Instead I go straight to the heart of my defense. "President Snow personally threatened to have you killed," I say. Gale raises his eyebrows slightly, but there's no real show of fear or astonishment. "Anyone else?" "Well, he didn't actually give me a copy of the list. But it's a good guess it includes both our families," I say. It's enough to bring him to the fire. He crouches before the hearth and warms himself. "Unless what?" "Unless nothing, now," I say. Obviously this requires more of an explanation, but I have no idea where to start, so I just sit there staring gloomily into the fire. After about a minute of this, Gale breaks the silence. "Well, thanks for the heads-up." I turn to him, ready to snap, but I catch the glint in his eye. I hate myself for smiling. This is not a funny moment, but I guess it's a lot to drop on someone. We're all going to be obliterated no matter what. "I do have a plan, you know." "Yeah, I bet it's a stunner," he says. He tosses the gloves on my lap. "Here. I don't want your fiance's old gloves." "He's not my fiance. That's just part of the act. And these aren't his gloves. They were Cinna's," I say. "Give them back, then," he says. He pulls on the gloves, flexes his fingers, and nods in approval. "At least I'll die in comfort." "That's optimistic. Of course, you don't know what's happened," I say. "Let's have it," he says. I decide to begin with the night Peeta and I were crowned victors of the Hunger Games, and Haymitch warned me of the Capitol's fury. I tell him about the uneasiness that dogged me even once I was back home, President Snow's visit to my house, the murders in District 11, the tension in the crowds, the last-ditch effort of the engagement, the president's indication that it hadn't been enough, my certainty that I'll have to pay. Gale never interrupts. While I talk, he tucks the gloves in his pocket and occupies himself with turning the food in the leather bag into a meal for us. Toasting bread and cheese, coring apples, placing chestnuts in the fire to roast. I watch his hands, his beautiful, capable fingers. Scarred, as mine were before the Capitol erased all marks from my skin, but strong and deft. Hands that have the power to mine coal but the precision to set a delicate snare. Hands I trust. I pause to take a drink of tea from the flask before I tell him about my homecoming. "Well, you really made a mess of things," he says. "I'm not even done," I tell him. "I've heard enough for the moment. Let's skip ahead to this plan of yours," he says. I take a deep breath. "We run away." "What?" he asks. This has actually caught him off guard. "We take to the woods and make a run for it," I say. His face is impossible to read. Will he laugh at me, dismiss this as foolishness? I rise in agitation, preparing for an argument. "You said yourself you thought that we could do it! That morning of the reaping. You said - " He steps in and I feel myself lifted off the ground. The room spins, and I have to lock my arms around Gale's neck to brace myself. He's laughing, happy. "Hey!" I protest, but I'm laughing, too. Gale sets me down but doesn't release his hold on me. "Okay, let's run away," he says. "Really? You don't think I'm mad? You'll go with me?" Some of the crushing weight begins to lift as it transfers to Gale's shoulders. "I do think you're mad and I'll still go with you," he says. He means it. Not only means it but welcomes it. "We can do it. I know we can. Let's get out of here and never come back!" "You're sure?" I say. "Because it's going to be hard, with the kids and all. I don't want to get five miles into the woods and have you - " "I'm sure. I'm completely, entirely, one hundred percent sure." He tilts his forehead down to rest against mine and pulls me closer. His skin, his whole being, radiates heat from being so near the fire, and I close my eyes, soaking in his warmth. I breathe in the smell of snow-dampened leather and smoke and apples, the smell of all those wintry days we shared before the Games. I don't try to move away. Why should I, anyway? His voice drops to a whisper. "I love you." That's why. I never see these things coming. They happen too fast. One second you're proposing an escape plan and the next... you're expected to deal with something like this. I come up with what must be the worst possible response. "I know." It sounds terrible. Like I assume he couldn't help loving me but that I don't feel anything in return. Gale starts to draw away, but I grab hold of him. "I know! And you... you know what you are to me." It's not enough. He breaks my grip. "Gale, I can't think about anyone that way now. All I can think about, every day, every waking minute since they drew Prim's name at the reaping, is how afraid I am. And there doesn't seem to be room for anything else. If we could get somewhere safe, maybe I could be different. I don't know." I can see him swallowing his disappointment. "So, we'll go. We'll find out." He turns back to the fire, where the chestnuts are beginning to burn. He flips them out onto the hearth. "My mother's going to take some convincing." I guess he's still going, anyway. But the happiness has fled, leaving an all-too-familiar strain in its place. "Mine, too. I'll just have to make her see reason. Take her for a long walk. Make sure she understands we won't survive the alternative." "She'll understand. I watched a lot of the Games with her and Prim. She won't say no to you," says Gale. "I hope not." The temperature in the house seems to have dropped twenty degrees in a matter of seconds. "Haymitch will be the real challenge." "Haymitch?" Gale abandons the chestnuts. "You're not asking him to come with us?" "I have to, Gale. I can't leave him and Peeta because they'd - " His scowl cuts me off. "What?" "I'm sorry. I didn't realize how large our party was," he snaps at me.

"They'd torture them to death, trying to find out where I was," I say.

"What about Peeta's family? They'll never come. In fact, they probably couldn't wait to inform on us. Which I'm sure he's smart enough to realize. What if he decides to stay?" he asks.

I try to sound indifferent, but my voice cracks. "Then he stays."

"You'd leave him behind?" Gale asks.

"To save Prim and my mother, yes," I answer. "I mean, no! I'll get him to come."

"And me, would you leave me?" Gale's expression is rock hard now. "Just if, for instance, I can't convince my mother to drag three young kids into the wilderness in winter."

"Hazelle won't refuse. She'll see sense," I say.

"Suppose she doesn't, Katniss. What then?" he demands.

"Then you have to force her, Gale. Do you think I'm making this stuff up?" My voice is rising in anger as well.

"No. I don't know. Maybe the president's just manipulating you. I mean, he's throwing your wedding. You saw how the Capitol crowd reacted. I don't think he can afford to kill you. Or Peeta. How's he going to get out of that one?" says Gale.

"Well, with an uprising in District Eight, I doubt he's spending much time choosing my wedding cake!" I shout.

The instant the words are out of my mouth I want to reclaim them. Their effect on Gale is immediate - the flush on his cheeks, the brightness of his gray eyes. "There's an uprising in Eight?" he says in a hushed voice.

I try to backpedal. To defuse him, as I tried to defuse the districts. "I don't know if it's really an uprising. There's unrest. People in the streets - " I say.

Gale grabs my shoulders. "What did you see?"

"Nothing! In person. I just heard something." As usual, it's too little, too late. I give up and tell him. "I saw something on the mayor's television. I wasn't supposed to. There was a crowd, and fires, and the Peacekeepers were gunning people down but they were fighting back. ..." I bite my lip and struggle to continue describing the scene. Instead I say aloud the words that have been eating me up inside. "And it's my fault, Gale. Because of what I did in the arena. If I had just killed myself with those berries, none of this would've happened. Peeta could have come home and lived, and everyone else would have been safe, too."

"Safe to do what?" he says in a gentler tone. "Starve? Work like slaves? Send their kids to the reaping? You haven't hurt people - you've given them an opportunity. They just have to be brave enough to take it. There's already been talk in the mines. People who want to fight. Don't you see? It's happening! It's finally happening! If there's an uprising in District Eight, why not here? Why not everywhere? This could be it, the thing we've been - "

"Stop it! You don't know what you're saying. The Peacekeepers outside of Twelve, they're not like Darius, or even Cray! The lives of district people - they mean less than nothing to them!" I say.

"That's why we have to join the fight!" he answers harshly.

"No! We have to leave here before they kill us and a lot of other people, too!" I'm yelling again, but I can't understand why he's doing this. Why doesn't he see what's so undeniable?

Gale pushes me roughly away from him. "You leave, then. I'd never go in a million years."

"You were happy enough to go before. I don't see how an uprising in District Eight does anything but make it more important that we leave. You're just mad about - " No, I can't throw Peeta in his face. "What about your family?" "What about the other families, Katniss? The ones who can't run away? Don't you see? It can't be about just saving us anymore. Not if the rebellion's begun!" Gale shakes his head, not hiding his disgust with me. "You could do so much." He throws Cinna's gloves at my feet. "I changed my mind. I don't want anything they made in the Capitol." And he's gone. I look down at the gloves. Anything they made in the Capitol? Was that directed at me? Does he think I am now just another product of the Capitol and therefore something untouchable? The unfairness of it all fills me with rage. But it's mixed up with fear over what kind of crazy thing he might do next. I sink down next to the fire, desperate for comfort, to work out my next move. I calm myself by thinking that rebellions don't happen in a day. Gale can't talk to the miners until tomorrow. If I can get to Hazelle before then, she might straighten him out. But I can't go now. If he's there, he'll lock me out. Maybe tonight, after everyone else is asleep ... Hazelle often works late into the night finishing up laundry. I could go then, tap at the window, tell her the situation so she'll keep Gale from doing anything foolish

Catching Fire Chapter 8. Pages 115-116

I don't know exactly what my mother means by things starting again, but I'm too angry and hurting to ask. It's registered, though, the idea of worse times returning, because when the doorbell rings, I shoot straight out of bed. Who could it be at this hour of the night? There's only one answer. Peacekeepers. "They can't have him," I say. "Might be you they're after," Haymitch reminds me. "Or you," I say. "Not my house," Haymitch points out. "But I'll get the door." "No, I'll get it," says my mother quietly. We all go, though, following her down the hallway to the insistent ring of the bell. When she opens it, there's not a squad of Peacekeepers but a single, snow-caked figure. Madge. She holds out a small, damp cardboard box to me. "Use these for your friend," she says. I take off the lid of the box, revealing half a dozen vials of clear liquid. "They're my mother's. She said I could take them. Use them, please." She runs back into the storm before we can stop her. "Crazy girl," Haymitch mutters as we follow, my mother into the kitchen. Whatever my mother had given Gale, I was right, it isn't enough. His teeth are gritted and his flesh shines with sweat. My mother fills a syringe with the clear liquid from one of the vials and shoots it into his arm. Almost immediately, his face begins to relax. "What is that stuff?" asks Peeta. "It's from the Capitol. It's called morphling," my mother answers. "I didn't even know Madge knew Gale," says Peeta. "We used to sell her strawberries," I say almost angrily. What am I angry about, though? Not that she has brought the medicine, surely. "She must have quite a taste for them," says Haymitch. That's what nettles me. It's the implication that there's something going on between Gale and Madge. And I don't like it. "She's my friend" is all I say.

Catching Fire Chaper 8 Pages 116-119

This is after Gales whipping and Did we just whitness Katniss having a mid life crisist at age 17. Because she is like “ Gale is mine I am his bull shit”

Alone in the kitchen with Gale, I sit on Hazelle's stool, holding his hand. After a while, my fingers find his face. I touch parts of him I have never had cause to touch before. His heavy, dark eyebrows, the curve of his cheek, the line of his nose, the hollow at the base of his neck. I trace the outline of stubble on his jaw and finally work my way to his lips. Soft and full, slightly chapped. His breath warms my chilled skin. Does everyone look younger asleep? Because right now he could be the boy I ran into in the woods years ago, the one who accused me of stealing from his traps. What a pair we were - fatherless, frightened, but fiercely committed, too, to keeping our families alive. Desperate, yet no longer alone after that day, because we'd found each other. I think of a hundred moments in the woods, lazy afternoons fishing, the day I taught him to swim, that time I twisted my knee and he carried me home. Mutually counting on each other, watching each other's backs, forcing each other to be brave. For the first time, I reverse our positions in my head. I imagine watching Gale volunteering to save Rory in the reaping, having him torn from my life, becoming some strange girl's lover to stay alive, and then coming home with her. Living next to her. Promising to marry her. The hatred I feel for him, for the phantom girl, for everything, is so real and immediate that it chokes me. Gale is mine. I am his. Anything else is unthinkable. Why did it take him being whipped within an inch of his life to see it? Because I'm selfish. I'm a coward. I'm the kind of girl who, when she might actually be of use, would run to stay alive and leave those who couldn't follow to suffer and die. This is the girl Gale met in the woods today. No wonder I won the Games. No decent person ever does. You saved Peeta, I think weakly. But now I question even that. I knew good and well that my life back in District 12 would be unlivable if I let that boy die. I rest my head forward on the edge of the table, overcome with loathing for myself. Wishing I had died in the arena. Wishing Seneca Crane had blown me to bits the way President Snow said he should have when I held out the berries. The berries. I realize the answer to who I am lies in that handful of poisonous fruit. If I held them out to save Peeta because I knew I would be shunned if I came back without him, then I am despicable. If I held them out because I loved him, I am still self-centered, although forgivable. But if I held them out to defy the Capitol, I am someone of worth. The trouble is, I don't know exactly what was going on inside me at that moment. Could it be the people in the districts are right? That it was an act of rebellion, even if it was an unconscious one? Because, deep down, I must know it isn't enough to keep myself, or my family, or my friends alive by running away. Even if I could. It wouldn't fix anything. It wouldn't stop people from being hurt the way Gale was today. Life in District 12 isn't really so different from life in the arena. At some point, you have to stop running and turn around and face whoever wants you dead. The hard thing is finding the courage to do it. Well, it's not hard for Gale. He was born a rebel. I'm the one making an escape plan. "I'm so sorry," I whisper. I lean forward and kiss him. His eyelashes flutter and he looks at me through a haze of opiates. "Hey, Catnip." "Hey, Gale," I say. "Thought you'd be gone by now," he says. My choices are simple. I can die like quarry in the woods or I can die here beside Gale. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to stay right here and cause all kinds of trouble." "Me, too," Gale says. He just manages a smile before the drugs pull him back under.

Catching fire Chapter 9 Page 120

Someone gives my shoulder a shake and I sit up. I've fallen asleep with my face on the table. The white cloth has left creases on my good cheek. The other, the one that took the lash from Thread, throbs painfully. Gale's dead to the world, but his fingers are locked around mine. I smell fresh bread and turn my stiff neck to find Peeta looking down at me with such a sad expression. I get the sense that he's been watching us awhile. "Go on up to bed, Katniss. I'll look after him now," he says. "Peeta. About what I said yesterday, about running - " I begin. "I know," he says. "There's nothing to explain." I see the loaves of bread on the counter in the pale, snowy morning light. The blue shadows under his eyes. I wonder if he slept at all. Couldn't have been long. I think of his agreeing to go with me yesterday, his stepping up beside me to protect Gale, his willingness to throw his lot in with mine entirely when I give him so little in return. No matter what I do, I'm hurting someone. "Peeta - " "Just go to bed, okay?" he says.

Catching fire Chapter 12 pages 169-170

I'm hoping she's wrong. I haven't had time to prepare Gale for any of this. Since the whipping, I only see him when he comes to the house for my mother to check how he's healing. He's often scheduled seven days a week in the mine. In the few minutes of privacy we've had, with me walking him back to town, I gather that the rumblings of an uprising in 12 have been subdued by Thread's crackdown. He knows I'm not going to run. But he must also know that if we don't revolt in 12, I'm destined to be Peeta's bride. Seeing me lounging around in gorgeous gowns on his television ... what can he do with that?

Catching fire Chapter 13 Pages 178-179

Thanks," I say. I should go see Peeta now, but I don't want to. My head's spinning from the drink, and I'm so wiped out, who knows what he could get me to agree to? No, now I have to go home to face my mother and Prim. As I stagger up the steps to my house, the front door opens and Gale pulls me into his arms. "I was wrong. We should have gone when you said," he whispers. "No," I say. I'm having trouble focusing, and liquor keeps sloshing out of my bottle and down the back of Gale's jacket, but he doesn't seem to care. "It's not too late," he says. Over his shoulder, I see my mother and Prim clutching each other in the doorway. We run. They die. And now I've got Peeta to protect. End of discussion. "Yeah, it is." My knees give way and he's holding me up. As the alcohol overcomes my mind, I hear the glass bottle shatter on the floor. This seems appropriate since I have obviously lost my grip on everything.

Catching Fire Chaper 13 ( Later on) Pages 185-186

Even Gale steps into the picture on Sundays, although he's got no love for Peeta or Haymitch, and teaches us all he knows about snares. It's weird for me, being in conversations with both Peeta and Gale, but they seem to have set aside whatever issues they have about me. One night, as I'm walking Gale back into town, he even admits, "It'd be better if he were easier to hate." "Tell me about it," I say. "If I could've just hated him in the arena, we all wouldn't be in this mess now. He'd be dead, and I'd be a happy little victor all by myself." "And where would we be, Katniss?" asks Gale. I pause, not knowing what to say. Where would I be with my pretend cousin who wouldn't be my cousin if it weren't for Peeta? Would he have still kissed me and would I have kissed him back had I been free to do so? Would I have let myself open up to him, lulled by the security of money and food and the illusion of safety being a victor could bring under different circumstances? But there would still always be the reaping looming over us, over our children. No matter what I wanted ... "Hunting. Like every Sunday," I say. I know he didn't mean the question literally, but this is as much as I can honestly give. Gale knows I chose him over Peeta when I didn't make a run for it. To me, there's no point in talking about things that might have been. Even if I had killed Peeta in the arena, I still wouldn't have wanted to marry anyone. I only got engaged to save people's lives, and that completely backfired. I'm afraid, anyway, that any kind of emotional scene with Gale might cause him to do something drastic. Like start that uprising in the mines. And as Haymitch says, District 12 isn't ready for that. If anything, they're less ready than before the Quarter Quell announcement, because the following morning another hundred Peacekeepers arrived on the train. Since I don't plan on making it back alive a second time, the sooner Gale lets me go, the better. I do plan on saying one or two things to him after the reaping, when we're allowed an hour for good-byes. To let Gale know how essential he's been to me all these years. How much better my life has been for knowing him. For loving him, even if it's only in the limited way that I can manage. But I never get the chance.

Now the only time she Mentions Gale in the arena is when Peeta pretty much is reminding her value alive. That her Family and Gale needs her. and Other then that She did say her personal goodbyes since she has no intent on coming back alive and the Jabber jay attack. But that’s it. She didn’t think of him when Peeta nearly died. or when Peeta said that Katniss was pregnat and Already Married. Nope her thoughts were okay well oh shit now what. Okay play it cool loll.

Mockingjay Chapter 2 Pages 27- 31

After a while, the door opens and someone slips in. Gale slides down beside me, his nose trickling blood. "What happened?" I ask. "I got in Boggs's way," he answers with a shrug. I use my sleeve to wipe his nose. "Watch it!" I try to be gentler. Patting, not wiping. "Which one is he?" "Oh, you know. Coin's right-hand lackey. The one who tried to stop you." He pushes my hand away. "Quit! You'll bleed me to death."

The trickle has turned to a steady stream. I give up on the first-aid attempts. "You fought with Boggs?" "No, just blocked the doorway when he tried to follow you. His elbow caught me in the nose," says Gale. "They'll probably punish you," I say. "Already have." He holds up his wrist. I stare at it uncomprehendingly. "Coin took back my communicuff." I bite my lip, trying to remain serious. But it seems so ridiculous. "I'm sorry, Soldier Gale Hawthorne." "Don't be, Soldier Katniss Everdeen." He grins. "I felt like a jerk walking around with it anyway." We both start laughing. "I think it was quite a demotion." This is one of the few good things about 13. Getting Gale back. With the pressure of the Capitol's arranged marriage between Peeta and me gone, we've managed to regain our friendship. He doesn't push it any further - try to kiss me or talk about love. Either I've been too sick, or he's willing to give me space, or he knows it's just too cruel with Peeta in the hands of the Capitol. Whatever the case, I've got someone to tell my secrets to again. "Who are these people?" I say. "They're us. If we'd had nukes instead of a few lumps of coal," he answers. "I like to think Twelve wouldn't have abandoned the rest of the rebels back in the Dark Days," I say. "We might have. If it was that, surrender, or start a nuclear war," says Gale. "In a way, it's remarkable they survived at all." Maybe it's because I still have the ashes of my own district on my shoes, but for the first time, I give the people of 13 something I have withheld from them: credit. For staying alive against all odds. Their early years must have been terrible, huddled in the chambers beneath the ground after their city was bombed to dust. Population decimated, no possible ally to turn to for aid. Over the past seventy-five years, they've learned to be self-sufficient, turned their citizens into an army, and built a new society with no help from anyone. They would be even more powerful if that pox epidemic hadn't flattened their birthrate and made them so desperate for a new gene pool and breeders. Maybe they are militaristic, overly programmed, and somewhat lacking in a sense of humor. They're here. And willing to take on the Capitol. "Still, it took them long enough to show up," I say. "It wasn't simple. They had to build up a rebel base in the Capitol, get some sort of underground organized in the districts," he says. "Then they needed someone to set the whole thing in motion. They needed you." "They needed Peeta, too, but they seem to have forgotten that," I say.

Gale's expression darkens. "Peeta might have done a lot of damage tonight. Most of the rebels will dismiss what he said immediately, of course. But there are districts where the resistance is shakier. The cease-fire's clearly President Snow's idea. But it seems so reasonable coming out of Peeta's mouth."

I'm afraid of Gale's answer, but I ask anyway. "Why do you think he said it?" "He might have been tortured. Or persuaded. My guess is he made some kind of deal to protect you. He'd put forth the idea of the cease-fire if Snow let him present you as a confused pregnant girl who had no idea what was going on when she was taken prisoner by the rebels. This way, if the districts lose, there's still a chance of leniency for you. If you play it right." I must still look perplexed because Gale delivers the next line very slowly. "Katniss...he's still trying to keep you alive." To keep me alive?And then I understand. The Games are still on. We have left the arena, but since Peeta and I weren't killed, his last wish to preserve my life still stands. His idea is to have me lie low, remain safe and imprisoned, while the war plays out. Then neither side will really have cause to kill me. And Peeta? If the rebels win, it will be disastrous for him. If the Capitol wins, who knows? Maybe we'll both be allowed to live - if I play it right - to watch the Games go on.... Images flash through my mind: the spear piercing Rue's body in the arena, Gale hanging senseless from the whipping post, the corpse-littered wasteland of my home. And for what? For what? As my blood turns hot, I remember other things. My first glimpse of an uprising in District 8. The victors locked hand in hand the night before the Quarter Quell. And how it was no accident, my shooting that arrow into the force field in the arena. How badly I wanted it to lodge deep in the heart of my enemy. I spring up, upsetting a box of a hundred pencils, sending them scattering around the floor. "What is it?" Gale asks. "There can't be a cease-fire." I lean down, fumbling as I shove the sticks of dark gray graphite back into the box. "We can't go back." "I know." Gale sweeps up a handful of pencils and taps them on the floor into perfect alignment. "Whatever reason Peeta had for saying those things, he's wrong." The stupid sticks won't go in the box and I snap several in my frustration. "I know. Give it here. You're breaking them to bits." He pulls the box from my hands and refills it with swift, concise motions. "He doesn't know what they did to Twelve. If he could've seen what was on the ground" - I start. "Katniss, I'm not arguing. If I could hit a button and kill every living soul working for the Capitol, I would do it. Without hesitation." He slides the last pencil into the box and flips the lid closed. "The question is, what are you going to do?" It turns out the question that's been eating away at me has only ever had one possible answer. But it took Peeta's ploy for me to recognize it. What am I going to do? I take a deep breath. My arms rise slightly - as if recalling the black-and-white wings Cinna gave me - then come to rest at my sides. "I'm going to be the Mockingjay."

Mockingjay Chapter 3 Pages 39-41

I skim my list. "Gale. I'll need him with me to do this." "With you how? Off camera? By your side at all times? Do you want him presented as your new lover?" Coin asks. She hasn't said this with any particular malice - quite the contrary, her words are very matter-of-fact. But my mouth still drops open in shock. "What?" "I think we should continue the current romance. A quick defection from Peeta could cause the audience to lose sympathy for her," says Plutarch. "Especially since they think she's pregnant with his child." "Agreed. So, on-screen, Gale can simply be portrayed as a fellow rebel. Is that all right?" says Coin. I just stare at her. She repeats herself impatiently. "For Gale. Will that be sufficient?" "We can always work him in as your cousin," says Fulvia.

"We're not cousins," Gale and I say together.

"Right, but we should probably keep that up for appearances' sake on camera," says Plutarch. "Off camera, he's all yours. Anything else?"

I'm rattled by the turn in the conversation. The implications that I could so readily dispose of Peeta, that I'm in love with Gale, that the whole thing has been an act. My cheeks begin to burn. The very notion that I'm devoting any thought to who I want presented as my lover, given our current circumstances, is demeaning. I let my anger propel me into my greatest demand. "When the war is over, if we've won, Peeta will be pardoned."

Dead silence. I feel Gale's body tense. I guess I should have told him before, but I wasn't sure how he'd respond. Not when it involved Peeta.

"No form of punishment will be inflicted," I continue. A new thought occurs to me. "The same goes for the other captured tributes, Johanna and Enobaria." Frankly, I don't care about Enobaria, the vicious District 2 tribute. In fact, I dislike her, but it seems wrong to leave her out.

"No," says Coin flatly.

"Yes," I shoot back. "It's not their fault you abandoned them in the arena. Who knows what the Capitol's doing to them?"

"They'll be tried with other war criminals and treated as the tribunal sees fit," she says.

"They'll be granted immunity!" I feel myself rising from my chair, my voice full and resonant. "You will personally pledge this in front of the entire population of District Thirteen and the remainder of Twelve. Soon. Today. It will be recorded for future generations. You will hold yourself and your government responsible for their safety, or you'll find yourself another Mockingjay!"

Mockingjay Chapter 4 Pages 53-55.

We hunt, like in the old days. Silent, needing no words to communicate, because here in the woods we move as two parts of one being. Anticipating each other's movements, watching each other's backs. How long has it been? Eight months? Nine? Since we had this freedom? It's not exactly the same, given all that's happened and the trackers on our ankles and the fact that I have to rest so often. But it's about as close to happiness as I think I can currently get. The animals here are not nearly suspicious enough. That extra moment it takes to place our unfamiliar scent means their death. In an hour and a half, we've got a mixed dozen - rabbits, squirrels, and turkeys - and decide to knock off to spend the remaining time by a pond that must be fed by an underground spring, since the water's cool and sweet. When Gale offers to clean the game, I don't object. I stick a few mint leaves on my tongue, close my eyes, and lean back against a rock, soaking in the sounds, letting the scorching afternoon sun burn my skin, almost at peace until Gale's voice interrupts me. "Katniss, why do you care so much about your prep team?" I open my eyes to see if he's joking, but he's frowning down at the rabbit he's skinning. "Why shouldn't I?" "Hm. Let's see. Because they've spent the last year prettying you up for slaughter?" he suggests. "It's more complicated than that. I know them. They're not evil or cruel. They're not even smart. Hurting them, it's like hurting children. They don't see...I mean, they don't know..." I get knotted up in my words. "They don't know what, Katniss?" he says. "That tributes - who are the actual children involved here, not your trio of freaks - are forced to fight to the death? That you were going into that arena for people's amusement? Was that a big secret in the Capitol?" "No. But they don't view it the way we do," I say. "They're raised on it and - " "Are you actually defending them?" He slips the skin from the rabbit in one quick move. That stings, because, in fact, I am, and it's ridiculous. I struggle to find a logical position. "I guess I'm defending anyone who's treated like that for taking a slice of bread. Maybe it reminds me too much of what happened to you over a turkey!" Still, he's right. It does seem strange, my level of concern over the prep team. I should hate them and want to see them strung up. But they're so clueless, and they belonged to Cinna, and he was on my side, right? "I'm not looking for a fight," Gale says. "But I don't think Coin was sending you some big message by punishing them for breaking the rules here. She probably thought you'd see it as a favor." He stuffs the rabbit in the sack and rises. "We better get going if we want to make it back on time." I ignore his offer of a hand up and get to my feet unsteadily. "Fine." Neither of us talks on the way back, but once we're inside the gate, I think of something else. "During the Quarter Quell, Octavia and Flavius had to quit because they couldn't stop crying over me going back in. And Venia could barely say good-bye." "I'll try and keep that in mind as they...remake you," says Gale. "Do," I say.

Chapter 5 Mockingjay pages 63-64

Gale, who's not usually much of a talker during meals, makes an effort to keep the conversation going, asking about the makeover. I know it's his attempt at smoothing things over. We argued last night after he suggested I'd left Coin no choice but to counter my demand for the victors' safety with one of her own. "Katniss, she's running this district. She can't do it if it seems like she's caving in to your will." "You mean she can't stand any dissent, even if it's fair," I'd countered. "I mean you put her in a bad position. Making her give Peeta and the others immunity when we don't even know what sort of damage they might cause," Gale had said. "So I should've just gone with the program and let the other tributes take their chances? Not that it matters, because that's what we're all doing anyway!" That was when I'd slammed the door in his face. I hadn't sat with him at breakfast, and when Plutarch had sent him down to training this morning, I'd let him go without a word. I know he only spoke out of concern for me, but I really need him to be on my side, not Coin's. How can he not know that? After lunch, Gale and I are scheduled to go down to Special Defense to meet Beetee. As we ride the elevator, Gale finally says, "You're still angry." "And you're still not sorry," I reply. "I still stand by what I said. Do you want me to lie about it?" he asks. "No, I want you to rethink it and come up with the right opinion," I tell him. But this just makes him laugh. I have to let it go. There's no point in trying to dictate what Gale thinks. Which, if I'm honest, is one reason I trust him.

Mockingjay Chapter 6 Pages 81-82

Fulvia Cardew hustles over and makes a sound of frustration when she sees my clean face. "All that work, down the drain. I'm not blaming you, Katniss. It's just that very few people are born with camera-ready faces. Like him." She snags Gale, who's in a conversation with Plutarch, and spins him toward us. "Isn't he handsome?" Gale does look striking in the uniform, I guess. But the question just embarrasses us both, given our history. I'm trying to think of a witty comeback, when Boggs says brusquely, "Well, don't expect us to be too impressed. We just saw Finnick Odair in his underwear." I decide to go ahead and like Boggs.

Chapter 9 Mockingjay Pages 116 -118

Come morning, I stick my forearm in the wall and stare groggily at the day's schedule. Immediately after breakfast, I am slated for Production. In the dining hall, as I down my hot grain and milk and mushy beets, I spot a communicuff on Gale's wrist. "When did you get that back, Soldier Hawthorne?" I ask. "Yesterday. They thought if I'm going to be in the field with you, it could be a backup system of communication," says Gale. No one has ever offered me a communicuff. I wonder, if I asked for one, would I get it? "Well, I guess one of us has to be accessible," I say with an edge to my voice. "What's that mean?" he says. "Nothing. Just repeating what you said," I tell him. "And I totally agree that the accessible one should be you. I just hope I still have access to you as well." Our eyes lock, and I realize how furious I am with Gale. That I don't believe for a second that he didn't see Peeta's propo. That I feel completely betrayed that he didn't tell me about it. We know each other too well for him not to read my mood and guess what has caused it. "Katniss - " he begins. Already the admission of guilt is in his tone. I grab my tray, cross to the deposit area, and slam the dishes onto the rack. By the time I'm in the hallway, he's caught up with me. "Why didn't you say something?" he asks, taking my arm. "Why didn'tI ?" I jerk my arm free. "Why didn'tyou , Gale? And I did, by the way, when I asked you last night about what had been going on!" "I'm sorry. All right? I didn't know what to do. I wanted to tell you, but everyone was afraid that seeing Peeta's propo would make you sick," he says. "They were right. It did. But not quite as sick as you lying to me for Coin." At that moment, his communicuff starts beeping. "There she is. Better run. You have things to tell her." For a moment, real hurt registers on his face. Then cold anger replaces it. He turns on his heel and goes. Maybe I have been too spiteful, not given him enough time to explain. Maybe everyone is just trying to protect me by lying to me. I don't care. I'm sick of people lying to me for my own good. Because really it's mostly for their own good. Lie to Katniss about the rebellion so she doesn't do anything crazy. Send her into the arena without a clue so we can fish her out. Don't tell her about Peeta's propo because it might make her sick, and it's hard enough to get a decent performance out of her as it is. I do feel sick. Heartsick. And too tired for a day of production. But I'm already at Remake, so I go in.

Mockingjay Chapter 9 Pages 127-130

As we trudge back through the woods, we reach a boulder, and both Gale and I turn our heads in the same direction, like a pair of dogs catching a scent on the wind. Cressida notices and asks what lies that way. We admit, without acknowledging each other, it's our old hunting rendezvous place. She wants to see it, even after we tell her it's nothing really. Nothing but a place where I was happy, I think. Our rock ledge overlooking the valley. Perhaps a little less green than usual, but the blackberry bushes hang heavy with fruit. Here began countless days of hunting and snaring, fishing and gathering, roaming together through the woods, unloading our thoughts while we filled our game bags. This was the doorway to both sustenance and sanity. And we were each other's key. There's no District 12 to escape from now, no Peacekeepers to trick, no hungry mouths to feed. The Capitol took away all of that, and I'm on the verge of losing Gale as well. The glue of mutual need that bonded us so tightly together for all those years is melting away. Dark patches, not light, show in the spaces between us. How can it be that today, in the face of 12's horrible demise, we are too angry to even speak to each other? Gale as good as lied to me. That was unacceptable, even if he was concerned about my well-being. His apology seemed genuine, though. And I threw it back in his face with an insult to make sure it stung. What is happening to us? Why are we always at odds now? It's all a muddle, but I somehow feel that if I went back to the root of our troubles, my actions would be at the heart of it. Do I really want to drive him away? My fingers encircle a blackberry and pluck it from its stem. I roll it gently between my thumb and forefinger. Suddenly, I turn to him and toss it in his direction. "And may the odds - " I say. I throw it high so he has plenty of time to decide whether to knock it aside or accept it. Gale's eyes train on me, not the berry, but at the last moment, he opens his mouth and catches it. He chews, swallows, and there's a long pause before he says " - beever in your favor." But he does say it. Cressida has us sit in the nook in the rocks, where it's impossible not to be touching, and coaxes us into talking about hunting. What drove us out into the woods, how we met, favorite moments. We thaw, begin to laugh a little, as we relate mishaps with bees and wild dogs and skunks. When the conversation turns to how it felt to translate our skill with weapons to the bombing in 8, I stop talking. Gale just says, "Long overdue." By the time we reach the town square, afternoon's sinking into evening. I take Cressida to the rubble of the bakery and ask her to film something. The only emotion I can muster is exhaustion. "Peeta, this is your home. None of your family has been heard of since the bombing. Twelve is gone. And you're calling for a cease-fire?" I look across the emptiness. "There's no one left to hear you." As we stand before the lump of metal that was the gallows, Cressida asks if either of us has ever been tortured. In answer, Gale pulls off his shirt and turns his back to the camera. I stare at the lash marks, and again hear the whistling of the whip, see his bloody figure hanging unconscious by his wrists. "I'm done," I announce. "I'll meet you at the Victor's Village. Something for...my mother." I guess I walked here, but the next thing I'm conscious of is sitting on the floor in front of the kitchen cabinets of our house in the Victor's Village. Meticulously lining ceramic jars and glass bottles into a box. Placing clean cotton bandages between them to prevent breaking. Wrapping bunches of dried flowers. Suddenly, I remember the rose on my dresser. Was it real? If so, is it still up there? I have to resist the temptation to check. If it's there, it will only frighten me all over again. I hurry with my packing. When the cabinets are empty, I rise to find that Gale has materialized in my kitchen. It's disturbing how soundlessly he can appear. He's leaning on the table, his fingers spread wide against the wood grain. I set the box between us. "Remember?" he asks. "This is where you kissed me." So the heavy dose of morphling administered after the whipping wasn't enough to erase that from his consciousness. "I didn't think you'd remember that," I say. "Have to be dead to forget. Maybe even not then," he tells me. "Maybe I'll be like that man in 'The Hanging Tree.' Still waiting for an answer." Gale, who I have never seen cry, has tears in his eyes. To keep them from spilling over, I reach forward and press my lips against his. We taste of heat, ashes, and misery. It's a surprising flavor for such a gentle kiss. He pulls away first and gives me a wry smile. "I knew you'd kiss me." "How?" I say. Because I didn't know myself. "Because I'm in pain," he says. "That's the only way I get your attention." He picks up the box. "Don't worry, Katniss. It'll pass." He leaves before I can answer.

Mockingjay Chapter 11 Page 158

"Can we have a coffee?" asks Finnick. Steaming cups are handed out. I stare distastefully at the shiny black liquid, never having been much of a fan of the stuff, but thinking it might help me stay on my feet. Finnick sloshes some cream in my cup and reaches into the sugar bowl. "Want a sugar cube?" he asks in his old seductive voice. That's how we met, with Finnick offering me sugar. Surrounded by horses and chariots, costumed and painted for the crowds, before we were allies. Before I had any idea what made him tick. The memory actually coaxes a smile out of me. "Here, it improves the taste," he says in his real voice, plunking three cubes in my cup. As I turn to go suit up as the Mockingjay, I catch Gale watching me and Finnick unhappily. What now? Does he actually think something's going on between us? Maybe he saw me go to Finnick's last night. I would've passed the Hawthornes' space to get there. I guess that probably rubbed him the wrong way. Me seeking out Finnick's company instead of his. Well, fine. I've got rope burn on my fingers, I can barely hold my eyes open, and a camera crew's waiting for me to do something brilliant. And Snow's got Peeta. Gale can think whatever he wants.

Mockingjay Chapter 13 Page 185-186

Gale must have been released from the hospital this morning as well, because I find him in one of the research rooms with Beetee. They're immersed, heads bent over a drawing, taking a measurement. Versions of the picture litter the table and floor. Tacked on the corkboard walls and occupying several computer screens are other designs of some sort. In the rough lines of one, I recognize Gale's twitch-up snare. "What are these?" I ask hoarsely, pulling their attention from the sheet. "Ah, Katniss, you've found us out," says Beetee cheerfully. "What? Is this a secret?" I know Gale's been down here working with Beetee a lot, but I assumed they were messing around with bows and guns. "Not really. But I've felt a little guilty about it. Stealing Gale away from you so much," Beetee admits. Since I've spent most of my time in 13 disoriented, worried, angry, being remade, or hospitalized, I can't say Gale's absences have inconvenienced me. Things haven't been exactly harmonious between us, either. But I let Beetee think he owes me. "I hope you've been putting his time to good use." "Come and see," he says, waving me over to a computer screen. This is what they've been doing. Taking the fundamental ideas behind Gale's traps and adapting them into weapons against humans. Bombs mostly. It's less about the mechanics of the traps than the psychology behind them. Booby-trapping an area that provides something essential to survival. A water or food supply. Frightening prey so that a large number flee into a greater destruction. Endangering off-spring in order to draw in the actual desired target, the parent. Luring the victim into what appears to be a safe haven - where death awaits it. At some point, Gale and Beetee left the wilderness behind and focused on more human impulses. Like compassion. A bomb explodes. Time is allowed for people to rush to the aid of the wounded. Then a second, more powerful bomb kills them as well. "That seems to be crossing some kind of line," I say. "So anything goes?" They both stare at me - Beetee with doubt, Gale with hostility. "I guess there isn't a rule book for what might be unacceptable to do to another human being." "Sure there is. Beetee and I have been following the same rule book President Snow used when he hijacked Peeta," says Gale. Cruel, but to the point. I leave without further comment. I feel if I don't get outside immediately, I'll just go ballistic,

Mockingjay Chapter 14 Pages 196-200

Gale finds me when they arrive late one afternoon. I'm sitting on a log at the edge of my current village, plucking a goose. A dozen or so of the birds are piled at my feet. Great flocks of them have been migrating through here since I've arrived, and the pickings are easy. Without a word, Gale settles beside me and begins to relieve a bird of its feathers. We're through about half when he says, "Any chance we'll get to eat these?" "Yeah. Most go to the camp kitchen, but they expect me to give a couple to whoever I'm staying with tonight," I say. "For keeping me." "Isn't the honor of the thing enough?" he says. "You'd think," I reply. "But word's gotten out that mockingjays are hazardous to your health." We pluck in silence for a while longer. Then he says, "I saw Peeta yesterday. Through the glass." "What'd you think?" I ask. "Something selfish," says Gale. "That you don't have to be jealous of him anymore?" My fingers give a yank, and a cloud of feathers floats down around us. "No. Just the opposite." Gale pulls a feather out of my hair. "I thought...I'll never compete with that. No matter how much pain I'm in." He spins the feather between his thumb and forefinger. "I don't stand a chance if he doesn't get better. You'll never be able to let him go. You'll always feel wrong about being with me." "The way I always felt wrong kissing him because of you," I say. Gale holds my gaze. "If I thought that was true, I could almost live with the rest of it." "It is true," I admit. "But so is what you said about Peeta."

Gale makes a sound of exasperation. Nonetheless, after we've dropped off the birds and volunteered to go back to the woods to gather kindling for the evening fire, I find myself wrapped in his arms. His lips brushing the faded bruises on my neck, working their way to my mouth. Despite what I feel for Peeta, this is when I accept deep down that he'll never come back to me. Or I'll never go back to him. I'll stay in 2 until it falls, go to the Capitol and kill Snow, and then die for my trouble. And he'll die insane and hating me. So in the fading light I shut my eyes and kiss Gale to make up for all the kisses I've withheld, and because it doesn't matter anymore, and because I'm so desperately lonely I can't stand it. Gale's touch and taste and heat remind me that at least my body's still alive, and for the moment it's a welcome feeling. I empty my mind and let the sensations run through my flesh, happy to lose myself. When Gale pulls away slightly, I move forward to close the gap, but I feel his hand under my chin. "Katniss," he says. The instant I open my eyes, the world seems disjointed. This is not our woods or our mountains or our way. My hand automatically goes to the scar on my left temple, which I associate with confusion. "Now kiss me." Bewildered, unblinking, I stand there while he leans in and presses his lips to mine briefly. He examines my face closely. "What's going on in your head?"

"I don't know," I whisper back.

"Then it's like kissing someone who's drunk. It doesn't count," he says with a weak attempt at a laugh. He scoops up a pile of kindling and drops it in my empty arms, returning me to myself.

"How do you know?" I say, mostly to cover my embarrassment. "Have you kissed someone who's drunk?" I guess Gale could've been kissing girls right and left back in 12. He certainly had enough takers. I never thought about it much before.

He just shakes his head. "No. But it's not hard to imagine."

"So, you never kissed any other girls?" I ask.

"I didn't say that. You know, you were only twelve when we met. And a real pain besides. I did have a life outside of hunting with you," he says, loading up with firewood.

Suddenly, I'm genuinely curious. "Who did you kiss? And where?"

"Too many to remember. Behind the school, on the slag heap, you name it," he says.

I roll my eyes. "So when did I become so special? When they carted me off to the Capitol?"

"No. About six months before that. Right after New Year's. We were in the Hob, eating some slop of Greasy Sae's. And Darius was teasing you about trading a rabbit for one of his kisses. And I realized...I minded," he tells me.

I remember that day. Bitter cold and dark by four in the afternoon. We'd been hunting, but a heavy snow had driven us back into town. The Hob was crowded with people looking for refuge from the weather. Greasy Sae's soup, made with stock from the bones of a wild dog we'd shot a week earlier, was below her usual standards. Still, it was hot, and I was starving as I scooped it up, sitting cross-legged on her counter. Darius was leaning on the post of the stall, tickling my cheek with the end of my braid, while I smacked his hand away. He was explaining why one of his kisses merited a rabbit, or possibly two, since everyone knows redheaded men are the most virile. And Greasy Sae and I were laughing because he was so ridiculous and persistent and kept pointing out women around the Hob who he said had paid far more than a rabbit to enjoy his lips. "See? The one in the green muffler? Go ahead and ask her.If you need a reference."

A million miles from here, a billion days ago, this happened. "Darius was just joking around," I say.

"Probably. Although you'd be the last to figure out if he wasn't," Gale tells me. "Take Peeta. Take me. Or even Finnick. I was starting to worry he had his eye on you, but he seems back on track now."

"You don't know Finnick if you think he'd love me," I say.

Gale shrugs. "I know he was desperate. That makes people do all kinds of crazy things."

I can't help thinking that's directed at me.

Mockingjay Chapters 14 and 15 Pages 200- 206

Gale, who is too restless to sit at the table for more than a few hours, has been alternating between pacing and sharing my windowsill. Early on, he seemed to accept Lyme's assertion that the entrances couldn't be taken, and dropped out of the conversation entirely. For the last hour or so, he's sat quietly, his brow knitted in concentration, staring at the Nut through the window glass. In the silence that follows Lyme's ultimatum, he speaks up. "Is it really so necessary that we take the Nut? Or would it be enough to disable it?" "That would be a step in the right direction," says Beetee. "What do you have in mind?" "Think of it as a wild dog den," Gale continues. "You're not going to fight your way in. So you have two choices. Trap the dogs inside or flush them out." "We've tried bombing the entrances," says Lyme. "They're set too far inside the stone for any real damage to be done." "I wasn't thinking of that," says Gale. "I was thinking of using the mountain." Beetee rises and joins Gale at the window, peering through his ill-fitting glasses. "See? Running down the sides?" "Avalanche paths," says Beetee under his breath. "It'd be tricky. We'd have to design the detonation sequence with great care, and once it's in motion, we couldn't hope to control it." "We don't need to control it if we give up the idea that we have to possess the Nut," says Gale. "Only shut it down." "So you're suggesting we start avalanches and block the entrances?" asks Lyme. "That's it," says Gale. "Trap the enemy inside, cut off from supplies. Make it impossible for them to send out their hovercraft." While everyone considers the plan, Boggs flips through a stack of blueprints of the Nut and frowns. "You risk killing everyone inside. Look at the ventilation system. It's rudimentary at best. Nothing like what we have in Thirteen. It depends entirely on pumping in air from the mountainsides. Block those vents and you'll suffocate whoever is trapped." "They could still escape through the train tunnel to the square," says Beetee. "Not if we blow it up," says Gale brusquely. His intent, his full intent, becomes clear. Gale has no interest in preserving the lives of those in the Nut. No interest in caging the prey for later use. This is one of his death traps.

The implications of what Gale is suggesting settle quietly around the room. You can see the reaction playing out on people's faces. The expressions range from pleasure to distress, from sorrow to satisfaction. "The majority of the workers are citizens from Two," says Beetee neutrally. "So what?" says Gale. "We'll never be able to trust them again." "They should at least have a chance to surrender," says Lyme. "Well, that's a luxury we weren't given when they fire-bombed Twelve, but you're all so much cozier with the Capitol here," says Gale. By the look on Lyme's face, I think she might shoot him, or at least take a swing. She'd probably have the upper hand, too, with all her training. But her anger only seems to infuriate him and he yells, "We watched children burn to death and there was nothing we could do!" I have to close my eyes a minute, as the image rips through me. It has the desired effect. I want everyone in that mountain dead. Am about to say so. But then...I'm also a girl from District 12. Not President Snow. I can't help it. I can't condemn someone to the death he's suggesting. "Gale," I say, taking his arm and trying to speak in a reasonable tone. "The Nut's an old mine. It'd be like causing a massive coal mining accident." Surely the words are enough to make anyone from 12 think twice about the plan. "But not so quick as the one that killed our fathers," he retorts. "Is that everyone's problem? That our enemies might have a few hours to reflect on the fact that they're dying, instead of just being blown to bits?" Back in the old days, when we were nothing more than a couple of kids hunting outside of 12, Gale said things like this and worse. But then they were just words. Here, put into practice, they become deeds that can never be reversed. "You don't know how those District Two people ended up in the Nut," I say. "They may have been coerced. They may be held against their will. Some are our own spies. Will you kill them, too?" "I would sacrifice a few, yes, to take out the rest of them," he replies. "And if I were a spy in there, I'd say, 'Bring on the avalanches!'" I know he's telling the truth. That Gale would sacrifice his life in this way for the cause - no one doubts it. Perhaps we'd all do the same if we were the spies and given the choice. I guess I would. But it's a coldhearted decision to make for other people and those who love them. "You said we had two choices," Boggs tells him. "To trap them or to flush them out. I say we try to avalanche the mountain but leave the train tunnel alone. People can escape into the square, where we'll be waiting for them." "Heavily armed, I hope," says Gale. "You can be sure they'll be." "Heavily armed. We'll take them prisoner," agrees Boggs. "Let's bring Thirteen into the loop now," Beetee suggests. "Let President Coin weigh in." "She'll want to block the tunnel," says Gale with conviction. "Yes, most likely. But you know, Peeta did have a point in his propos. About the dangers of killing ourselves off. I've been playing with some numbers. Factoring in the casualties and the wounded and...I think it's at least worth a conversation," says Beetee.

Mockingjay Chapter 15 Page 207

Gale's plan exceeds anyone's expectations. Beetee was right about being unable to control the avalanches once they'd been set in motion. The mountainsides are naturally unstable, but weakened by the explosions, they seem almost fluid. Whole sections of the Nut collapse before our eyes, obliterating any sign that human beings have ever set foot on the place. We stand speechless, tiny and insignificant, as waves of stone thunder down the mountain. Burying the entrances under tons of rock. Raising a cloud of dirt and debris that blackens the sky. Turning the Nut into a tomb. I imagine the hell inside the mountain. Sirens wailing. Lights flickering into darkness. Stone dust choking the air. The shrieks of panicked, trapped beings stumbling madly for a way out, only to find the entrances, the launchpad, the ventilation shafts themselves clogged with earth and rock trying to force its way in. Live wires flung free, fires breaking out, rubble making a familiar path a maze. People slamming, shoving, scrambling like ants as the hill presses in, threatening to crush their fragile shells.

Mockingay Chapter 17 Page 244

"I told you he hated me," I say. "It's the way he hates you. It's so...familiar. I used to feel like that," he admits. "When I'd watch you kissing him on the screen. Only I knew I wasn't being entirely fair. He can't see that." We reach my door. "Maybe he just sees me as I really am. I have to get some sleep." Gale catches my arm before I can disappear. "So that's what you're thinking now?" I shrug. "Katniss, as your oldest friend, believe me when I say he's not seeing you as you really are." He kisses my cheek and goes.

Mockingjay Chapter 19 Pages 267-268

The dinner whistle sounds, and Gale and I line up at the canteen. "Do you want me to kill him?" he asks bluntly. "That'll get us both sent back for sure," I say. But even though I'm furious, the brutality of the offer rattles me. "I can deal with him." "You mean until you take off? You and your paper map and possibly a Holo if you can get your hands on it?" So Gale has not missed my preparations. I hope they haven't been so obvious to the others. None of them know my mind like he does, though. "You're not planning on leaving me behind, are you?" he asks. Up until this point, I was. But having my hunting partner to watch my back doesn't sound like a bad idea. "As your fellow soldier, I have to strongly recommend you stay with your squad. But I can't stop you from coming, can I?" He grins. "No. Not unless you want me to alert the rest of the army."

Mockingjay Chapter 19 Page 274

I move to Gale, press my forehead into the body armor where his chest should be, feel his arm tighten around me. We finally know the name of the girl who we watched the Capitol abduct from the woods of 12, the fate of the Peacekeeper friend who tried to keep Gale alive. This is no time to call up happy moments of remembrance. They lost their lives because of me. I add them to my personal list of kills that began in the arena and now includes thousands. When I look up, I see it has taken Gale differently. His expression says that there are not enough mountains to crush, enough cities to destroy. It promises death.

Mockingjay Chapter 23. Pages 328-329

We change bandages, handcuff Peeta back to his support, and settle down to sleep. A few hours later, I slip back into consciousness and become aware of a quiet conversation. Peeta and Gale. I can't stop myself from eavesdropping. "Thanks for the water," Peeta says. "No problem," Gale replies. "I wake up ten times a night anyway." "To make sure Katniss is still here?" asks Peeta. "Something like that," Gale admits. There's a long pause before Peeta speaks again. "That was funny, what Tigris said. About no one knowing what to do with her." "Well,we never have," Gale says. They both laugh. It's so strange to hear them talking like this. Almost like friends. Which they're not. Never have been. Although they're not exactly enemies. "She loves you, you know," says Peeta. "She as good as told me after they whipped you." "Don't believe it," Gale answers. "The way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell...well, she never kissed me like that." "It was just part of the show," Peeta tells him, although there's an edge of doubt in his voice. "No, you won her over. Gave up everything for her. Maybe that's the only way to convince her you love her." There's a long pause. "I should have volunteered to take your place in the first Games. Protected her then." "You couldn't," says Peeta. "She'd never have forgiven you. You had to take care of her family. They matter more to her than her life." "Well, it won't be an issue much longer. I think it's unlikely all three of us will be alive at the end of the war. And if we are, I guess it's Katniss's problem. Who to choose." Gale yawns. "We should get some sleep." "Yeah." I hear Peeta's handcuffs slide down the support as he settles in. "I wonder how she'll make up her mind." "Oh, that I do know." I can just catch Gale's last words through the layer of fur. "Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without."

Mockingjay Chapter 24 Page 275

A chill runs through me. Am I really that cold and calculating? Gale didn't say, "Katniss will pick whoever it will break her heart to give up," or even "whoever she can't live without." Those would have implied I was motivated by a kind of passion. But my best friend predicts I will choose the person who I think I "can't survive without." There's not the least indication that love, or desire, or even compatibility will sway me. I'll just conduct an unfeeling assessment of what my potential mates can offer me. As if in the end, it will be the question of whether a baker or a hunter will extend my longevity the most. It's a horrible thing for Gale to say, for Peeta not to refute. Especially when every emotion I have has been taken and exploited by the Capitol or the rebels. At the moment, the choice would be simple. I can survive just fine without either of them.

Mockingjay Chapter 26 Pages 366- 367

There's a tap at the door and Gale steps in. "Can I have a minute?" he asks. In the mirror, I watch my prep team. Unsure of where to go, they bump into one another a few times and then closet themselves in the bathroom. Gale comes up behind me and we examine each other's reflection. I'm searching for something to hang on to, some sign of the girl and boy who met by chance in the woods five years ago and became inseparable. I'm wondering what would have happened to them if the Hunger Games had not reaped the girl. If she would have fallen in love with the boy, married him even. And sometime in the future, when the brothers and sisters had been raised up, escaped with him into the woods and left 12 behind forever. Would they have been happy, out in the wild, or would the dark, twisted sadness between them have grown up even without the Capitol's help? "I brought you this." Gale holds up a sheath. When I take it, I notice it holds a single, ordinary arrow. "It's supposed to be symbolic. You firing the last shot of the war." "What if I miss?" I say. "Does Coin retrieve it and bring it back to me? Or just shoot Snow through the head herself?" "You won't miss." Gale adjusts the sheath on my shoulder. We stand there, face-to-face, not meeting each other's eyes. "You didn't come see me in the hospital." He doesn't answer, so finally I just say it. "Was it your bomb?" "I don't know. Neither does Beetee," he says. "Does it matter? You'll always be thinking about it." He waits for me to deny it; I want to deny it, but it's true. Even now I can see the flash that ignites her, feel the heat of the flames. And I will never be able to separate that moment from Gale. My silence is my answer.

"That was the one thing I had going for me. Taking care of your family," he says. "Shoot straight, okay?" He touches my cheek and leaves. I want to call him back and tell him that I was wrong. That I'll figure out a way to make peace with this. To remember the circumstances under which he created the bomb. Take into account my own inexcusable crimes. Dig up the truth about who dropped the parachutes. Prove it wasn't the rebels. Forgive him. But since I can't, I'll just have to deal with the pain.

Chapter 27 Pages 384 385

Over the eggs, I ask her, "Where did Gale go?" "District Two. Got some fancy job there. I see him now and again on the television," she says. I dig around inside myself, trying to register anger, hatred, longing. I find only relief. "I'm going hunting today," I say. "Well, I wouldn't mind some fresh game at that," she answers. I arm myself with a bow and arrows and head out, intending to exit 12 through the Meadow. Near the square are teams of masked and gloved people with horse-drawn carts. Sifting through what lay under the snow this winter. Gathering remains. A cart's parked in front of the mayor's house. I recognize Thom, Gale's old crewmate, pausing a moment to wipe the sweat from his face with a rag. I remember seeing him in 13, but he must have come back. His greeting gives me the courage to ask, "Did they find anyone in there?" "Whole family. And the two people who worked for them," Thom tells me. Madge. Quiet and kind and brave. The girl who gave me the pin that gave me a name. I swallow hard. Wonder if she'll be joining the cast of my nightmares tonight. Shoveling the ashes into my mouth. "I thought maybe, since he was the mayor..." "I don't think being the mayor of Twelve put the odds in his favor," says Thom. I nod and keep moving, careful not to look in the back of the cart. All through the town and the Seam, it's the same. The reaping of the dead. As I near the ruins of my old house, the road becomes thick with carts. The Meadow's gone, or at least dramatically altered. A deep pit has been dug, and they're lining it with bones, a mass grave for my people. I skirt around the hole and enter the woods at my usual place. It doesn't matter, though. The fence isn't charged anymore and has been propped up with long branches to keep out the predators. But old habits die hard. I think about going to the lake, but I'm so weak that I barely make it to my meeting place with Gale. I sit on the rock where Cressida filmed us, but it's too wide without his body beside me. Several times I close my eyes and count to ten, thinking that when I open them, he will have materialized without a sound as he so often did. I have to remind myself that Gale's in 2 with a fancy job, probably kissing another pair of lips.

#thg #hunger games #catching fire #mockingjay #mockingjay part 1 #mockingjay part 2 #The Hunger Games #TheHungerGames #CatchingFire #hunger games catching fire #cf #gale hawthorne #gale #Katniss #katniss everdeen #Peeta Mellark #Peeta

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johaerys-writes · 5 years ago

Text

Dorian Pavus/ Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 27: White-Speckled Dove

Tristan gets trapped in a nightmare. A friend comes to help.

Read here or on AO3! | Read from the beginning

(art is by @le-mooon)

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“He saw her clear face lighten on his face

Unwittingly, with unenamoured eyes

For the last time. A live man in such wise

Looks in the deadly face of his fixed hour

And laughs with lips wherein he hath no power

To keep the life yet some five minutes' space.

So Tristan looked on Ethelwyn face to face

and knew not, and she knew not. The last time —

The last that should be told in any rhyme

Heard anywhere on mouths of singing men

That ever should sing praise of them again;

The last that sorrow far from them should sit,

This last was with them, and they knew not it. ”

The soft murmur of the waves as they crashed against the shore and the distant squawks of seagulls melded with the spoken words, whirled about him before they were carried away on a sharp gale. The sand was warm where Tristan lay, warm from the sun that had been beating down on the beach all day. With his arm tucked under his head, he watched the fluffy white clouds drift along the untroubled summer sky while Tilly read from the small leather bound book in her hands.

“Isn’t it romantic?” she said, sighing longingly, closing the book and bringing it to her heart. “They were gazing at each other for the last time before Ethelwyn would be taken, yet neither of them knew it. Oh, what pain would Ethelwyn feel, if only she knew!”

Tristan wrinkled his nose, making a disgusted sound. “Forget Ethelwyn,” he replied tartly. “Think about Tristan. He is the one that will have to travel all the way to Ferelden to pry her from King Brayburn. Ethelwyn will just sit there braiding her hair, waiting to be rescued.”

“My, my, what a cynic,” Tilly rolled her eyes. “Have you no heart?”

“I do have a heart. And a brain, apparently.” He yelped when Tilly smacked him on the head with the book.

“I declare that you have neither.” She grinned at him when he shot her a disgruntled glare. “Now, which part shall I read next? I think Tristan and Ethelwyn’s reunion is in order.”

“Not a chance. Enough with the romance. Read the part where Tristan challenges King Brayburn to a duel.”

“Not that again! It’s boring,” Tilly complained.

“What do you mean ‘again’? We haven’t read that in days!” Tristan said, sitting up. “And it’s not boring. That’s the best part.”

Tilly rolled her eyes again and scoffed. “It’s very, very boring.”

“No, it’s not. I’ll prove it to you.” Tristan hopped up on his feet, picking up a piece of driftwood that had been lying beside him. “King Brayburn of Ferelden,” he declared in an exaggerated Orlesian accent, his body melting into the starting fencing position. “I am Tristan de Lydes. I have come to claim my bride. Prepare to die. En guard !” He lunged forward, slashing at the air before him. His makeshift sabre whistled as he moved through a quinte , then spun around to slash at his imagined enemy with a sixte. “Take this! And that!” he said, piercing his opponent with a septime, then attacking again with an octave . “Know the wrath of a true Chevalier, you fetid Fereldan fleabag!” Tilly giggled as she watched him move through the various fencing moves, laughing outright when he lunged forward theatrically, stabbing his opponent. “There!” he exclaimed in triumph. “Right through your stone cold heart! Tristan de Lydes is victorious once more.”

“What if King Brayburn has a dagger hidden under his cloak? That should be interesting.”

Tristan blinked at his sister, then sniffed, tossing his head back in defiance. “Brayburn doesn’t stand a chance against Tristan.”

Tilly smirked, tapping her nose. “Not if Brayburn takes him by surprise.”

Tristan paused for a moment, then returned her smile with a wink. With an exaggerated flurry, he shoved the piece of wood under his arm, as if he had been stabbed in the chest. “Oh! Whence comes this blade, the one that now my breast transfixes? Though I scarcely believe it so, ‘tis true; my heart is in mortal throes. Woe is me! Death is upon me!” Tilly’s laughter rang along the beach, empty save for them. Tristan staggered back, clutching his chest. “Ethelwyn, my love, my white-speckled dove, forgive me, for I have been defeated.”

“If Sir Tristan were such a pompous fool, I think Ethelwyn would be too busy laughing herself to death to forgive him,” Tilly said, wiping mirth from her eyes.

Tristan didn’t respond as he fell on one knee, putting on an expression of grave distress. “And wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! Speak those words again: yet if they grieve thee say not so- I would not give thy bosom pain.” He bit back a grin, watching Tilly howl with laughter, tapping her feet on the sand. He took a deep breath, raising his arm in a plea towards the heavens. “My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, my blood runs coldly through my breast; and when I perish thou alone wilt sigh above my place of rest. Oh lady! Blessd be that tear - it falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear, To those whose eyes no tear may steep.” Brushing the back of his hand dramatically over his brow, he let himself collapse on the ground while Tilly wheezed beside him.

“Oh, brother,” Tilly said, breathless amidst her sobs of laughter, “you’re a right dafty.”

Tristan smiled, keeping his eyes closed. “I’m no dafty,” he murmured. “I’m Sir Tristan the Brave.”

“He speaks!” Tilly exclaimed, clapping her hand over her mouth. “The dead man speaks!” She turned to him, deft fingers digging in his neck to tickle. “Witchcraft! I sense witchcraft!”

Tristan tried to swat the fingers on his neck away, but it was no use. “Stop it! S-s-stop! Ah! Let me go, you tyrant,” he panted, cackling with the unexpected attack. He rolled away from her, safely out of her grasp. He lay from a moment on the warm sand, catching his breath. “That was cheap,” he said, still panting. “You know how much it-”

He turned around to look at her, only to have his words die on his lips. Empty. The beach was empty, empty space where his sister used to be. Even her footprints on the sand had disappeared. As if she never were. As if the tide had rushed in and washed everything away.

“Tilly?” Tristan stood up slowly, glancing around him. A lone seagull’s cry and the waves crushing on the shore were the only replies he received. He took a few steps forward, scanning the beach around him. He thought he caught a glimpse of something, someone moving at the edges of his vision. “Till?” he called again, but there was no one there. No one save but him. He paused, rubbing his temples as a faint tightness settled about his skull. It didn’t make sense. She was there only a moment before. Maybe she’d gone back home, or…

He glanced towards the path that led back up the cliff. There was no way she could have climbed it so swiftly, but there was no other way she could have gone. There was nothing but rocks and sand everywhere around him. He shook his head, brushing away the pressure that seemed to swell behind his eyes with every second. Home. Yes. That’s where she would be. That’s where he would go. He would walk back home and find her, and if she wasn’t there, he would tell Nelly and they would find her together. Nelly would know what to do.

The old path up the crag was always a struggle to climb, but Tristan knew it like the back of his hand. He knew where to step, which rocks to avoid, where to hop and where to tread carefully. He reached the top just as a red and swollen sun was dipping slowly behind the eastern mountain range. The tall grasses on the cliff edge bent and shivered with the wind, the silver edges of their blades glinting in the waning light. Their calm movement drew him in, hypnotising him. He blinked, blinked again, trying to tear his gaze away, just as the edges of his vision blurred with sudden motion.

The cliff melted away, the beach and the endless stretch of sea beyond it disappeared. A small clearing in a meadow sprung in its place, the same golden sun casting its rays on the soft grass beneath his feet. The leaves of the apple trees above him stirred languidly in the wind, the white petals of their blossoms falling around him like snowflakes. He knew this clearing. He had sat there with Tilly countless times. He would take Sea Spray and she would take Prancer and they would ride all the way there to sit under the trees. A hiding place, of sorts.

A quick shuffling of feet, the susurrus of fabric, drowned out by the sighing of the wind. Tristan spun on his heel, following the sound. Blonde hair, so pale it looked white; a flash of yellow fabric, catching the light as it flitted behind a tree trunk. That bright yellow dress, the one that Tilly loved best, the one she always used to wear in the summer. He chased after it, that bright spark amidst the rain of whirling apple blossoms- and found himself staring into a pair of dark blue eyes, gleaming violet in the setting sun.

“Tilly,” he panted. “I’ve been looking for you.”

His sister grinned up at him, as if she had never been gone at all. “Let’s go back to town,” she said, taking his hand. The everite band on her finger felt cool against his skin. “We’ll miss the fireworks.”

“The fireworks?” he asked, and only then remembered. Yes, it was Summerday. Ostwick would be filled with people, every street packed to watch the procession of young boys and girls wearing their finest tunics and gowns. They would be making their way through the winding cobblestone lanes to the Chantry to get Andraste’s blessing before they came of age. There would be jugglers and musicians on every street corner, and merchants selling corn on the cob and Antivan spiced cakes, and after the procession was over everyone would gather in the grand square to watch the fireworks. It was Tilly’s favourite day. She loved the way the fireworks crackled and fizzled in the air, exploding in a multitude of glimmering shapes. Tristan had promised he would go with her. A promise he intended to keep.

But the clearing was quiet and peaceful. He was oddly drawn to it, and the thought of leaving it filled him with sadness, a dark wave that curled and gripped him, pulling him under like there were stones tied to his feet. He let Tilly drag him forward a few steps before he stopped. “Tilly, wait.”

“What’s wrong, Tris?”

He blinked at her for a moment, the waves within him rising, soaring until he could scarcely breathe. “Let’s stay here a little bit longer,” he whispered through the knot in his throat. “Just you and me.”

Tilly regarded him quizzically, her brows furrowed in confusion before she shook her head. Her blonde tresses rippled with the movement. “We’re late already. Come on, it’ll be fun!” She shot him a bright smile over her shoulder as she ran ahead. “I’ll race you to the horses.”

“Wait, don’t-” he started, but the words wouldn’t come out. His heart clenched as he watched her draw further away, her form disappearing through the trees. Don’t go. Stay with me. Don’t go.

The tavern was almost empty. The last patrons remaining were either mumbling to themselves or sleeping with their heads on the tables, their shiny surfaces sticky with dried ale. Tristan took a long draught from his brandy, wincing as he swallowed. It was bad, burning its way down his throat, but it was good enough. The best he could hope for in that sort of place. He idly watched the crackling of the flames in the hearth, brushing his thumb over the ring on his finger. It glided over the letters etched on its dark surface, smooth and continuous save for a band of fresh everite where he had had it taken out. It irked him to see it marred like that, the inscription interrupted, but there was no way it would fit on his finger otherwise. And on his finger it had to be; on his finger it had to stay, until the time came for him to give it back to its rightful owner.

He took a shallow breath, giving the ring a small twist. That was the only thing he could do as he waited. And waited.

The door opened slowly, screeching on its hinges. Tristan glanced at the newcomers from the corner of his eye. A short fellow, dark hair cropped short and beady eyes that seemed to examine the room, taking in every detail even as he pretended not to look in any particular direction. He and the men that came after him took a table at the far end of the tavern. The minstrel, who had been dozing off in one of the booths, sprang to his feet, scrambling to the makeshift stage close to the hearth. His lute let out a pitiful whine as he tuned it hastily, plucking the strings on by one. His voice was just a tad hoarse when he started singing an old song, a bothy ballad from Starkhaven, one that Tristan hadn’t expected to hear there.

The bartender had started preparing mugs of ale before the men had even sat down. Tristan reached for his coin purse, sliding a sovereign to the bartender. “Four glasses of your finest whiskey. For the gentlemen at the back.” The man shot him a sideways glance, his eyes sweeping over Tristan where he sat. A couple seconds passed before he nodded guardedly, picking up the sovereign from the counter. The drinks were served. Tristan waited with bated breath for the men to raise their glasses to him in acknowledgement before walking over to their table.

“Who’s our mysterious benefactor?” the man with the beady eyes said, a heavy Starkhaven lilt to his voice.

“Remy.” Tristan couldn’t risk giving his name to these people, not before he was sure of their intentions. His middle name would have to do. He never used it anyway. It was a stupid name his mother had chosen for him. He hated it. The man nodded towards the seat across from him and Tristan took it, never looking away. “Glad to make your acquaintance.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “No last name, Remy?”

“In time,” he replied. “I’m sure you understand.”

The other men exchanged a glance, but the dark haired man’s gaze remained fixed on him. “Of course. I assume you already know our names?”

Tristan nodded slowly. He knew all their names, had taken care to learn them beforehand. The man with the beady eyes was Vala Norden. The blonde to his right was Herriot, the man with the scar down his face was Hooks and the tall Antivan man at the edge of the booth was Andris. Fake names certainly, but notorious among the Ostwick underworld.

“Very well, Remy. How can we help?” Norden flashed him a smile, the edges curled in a smirk that was vaguely mocking. “I expect you need something from us.”

Tristan didn’t like that smile. It spoke volumes about what the man had already gathered about him; that he was wealthy, probably. Even though he’d taken care to wear his most inconspicuous clothes, the fabric of his doublet was far richer than anyone in that part of town would wear, his coat clean, his shirt freshly pressed. And there was not much he could do about the absence of scars on his face, or the paleness of his skin. Norden had possibly also gathered that he was a young heir, and he might have even guessed which part of Ostwick he was coming from from the way he held himself.

He resisted the urge to bite his lip. He should have given him an entirely assumed name. He cleared his throat, forcing a placid expression on his face. “I have a quest for you.”

“What quest?”

“A jailbreak. Of sorts.”

“A jailbreak?” Norden echoed. “The Ostwick prison has become notoriously tough to get out of recently. Those bastards have tripled their security over the last year. It will cost you.”

“Not the prison.” Norden’s eyebrow quirked with interest. Tristan’s heart was ready to beat out of his throat. He could leave just then, he knew. Just tell them that he had changed his mind, walk out the door and never come back. But he was determined. He had been trying to track this man down for weeks. There was no one else that could do what he wanted them to do. And they had to do it. Someone had to.

From the tales he’d heard, the situation in the Circles all around Ferelden and the Marches was getting from bad to worse. Imprisonments, torture, rapes, executions; anything could happen to a mage that simply glanced at a Templar the wrong way, or so he heard. It had already been five years since Tilly was taken, two since he had spoken to her last. The Ostwick Circle had been the last to ban visitations, but it’d been a full year since it had forbidden letters from family and friends as well. Keeping mages under lock and key, allowing them no contact with the outside world, leaving them prey to whatever madness was happening behind their closed doors. Tristan couldn’t sleep at night, couldn’t eat, could hardly breathe for his worry for her.

He clenched his fist in his lap. All or nothing, he reminded himself. All or nothing.

“The Circle of Magi.”

Norden’s beady eyes widened so much, Tristan thought they would pop out of their sockets. “The Circle of Magi?” he scoffed. “It seems to me you’ve lost your mind, Remy. Perhaps you should have another drink. To clear your head.”

Tristan curled his fingers around his mug, his lips tightening in a line. “I know how it sounds. It’s difficult, yes, but not impossible. I’ve heard of a way in.” He paused, lowering his voice to a half whisper. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Norden’s smirk belied his interest, but his gaze was still hard as stone, and as unyielding as one. “Oh, I don’t think you would have near enough gold to finance such a venture. We would need men, resources, new weapons...” He let his words trail off as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“How much?”

“... information about the Templar’s patrols, about possible ways in and out… That sort of knowledge comes at a price. Not to mention buying the guards’ silence. Just with my brief calculations you’ve gathered yourself quite a hefty sum-”

“I said; how much?” Tristan’s fist was wrapped so tightly about his mug his knuckles were white, and he forced himself to release it. He had to keep his composure. He couldn’t let these men realise he was desperate, or they would feast upon him like scavengers upon a carcass.

“One hundred thousand sovereigns.”

Tristan’s blood froze in his veins. That was… that was… he never thought he had heard of such a sum before. It was certainly much, much higher than what he’d heard Norden charging for a job. Other than his own monthly allowance, his mother gave him no access to the family fortune. If he sold every item in the Trevelyan manor that wasn’t lodged firmly in place, he might be able to gather about two thirds of that amount. If he sold a few of the horses, some of the rare ones they kept in the stables, he might be able to cover the rest. His own horse, Sea Spray, would have to go. Imperial Warmbloods sold well in the Ostwick markets. His stomach tightened at the thought of selling their horses, but he had to. They might be enough to make up the amount that Norden asked. Maybe. If he were able to get a good price for them, and Maker knew he was terrible at bartering.

Just as he was trying to wrap his mind around Norden’s demands, the man spoke again, sending Tristan’s stomach plummeting even further.

“We’re also going to be needing equipment. And horses. And food for the horses.”

Tristan clenched his jaw, returning Norden’s gaze levelly. As levelly as he could while his guts were coiling like eels under his skin. “Fifty thousand sovereigns,” he said in what he hoped was an icy tone. “And five horses.”

Norden blinked at him for a moment, then let out a quiet harrumph. “I don’t think you’re in a position to barter with me. In fact, I don’t even think you’re in a position to barter with anyone. Do you even have that amount of gold?”

“I do,” Tristan said quickly. “I will.”

“You will?” There was a mocking glint in Norden’s eyes before they narrowed, focusing on him like well sharpened blades. “Perhaps I should double it, then. Since you sound so certain. Two hundred thousand? That sounds reasonable, doesn’t it, lads?” His crawlies nodded, sneering.

“No!” Tristan said quickly, and flinched inwardly at his hastiness. He cleared his throat, suppressing the wild beating of his heart. “No. One hundred. I’ll give you one hundred. You’ll have it.”

Norden’s grin widened, revealing a row of crooked teeth. “Very well. One hundred. And twenty horses. Ten pack horses, five destriers, five coursers.”

Twenty horses. Void take him. The Trevelyan manor stables were amongst the largest in Ostwick, and they only held thirty four horses. Perhaps if he was careful, at night, perhaps… He swallowed thickly, nodding. “Alright. Twenty horses. You’ll have them.”

“Oh. And one more thing.” Tristan held his breath, preparing himself for whatever outrageous thing Norden was going to ask next. Norden leaned forward on the table. His eyes flashed oddly in the half light. “You’ll let my boy Andris here do whatever he wants to you for a night.”

Tristan gaped at him. Bile rose in his throat, choking him. He was going to be sick. Surely, he was. The men around him erupted in raucous laughter, banging their mugs on the table.

“You should make it two nights boss,” the man with the scar on his face said. “There might be some left over for us after Andris is finished with him.”

“I say we keep him for three nights.”

“How about a week? A week’s fair.”

“More than fair.”

Tristan could only stare as Norden and his crawlies laughed and jeered, discussing among themselves like he wasn’t even there. It took significant effort to work some saliva into his mouth and speak. “What is the meaning of this?” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as meek as he felt. “I’ve been told that you’re a man that one can make a reasonable deal with. Seems I was mistaken.”

The laughter died down. Norden and his men glared at him. Silence stretched long amongst them, the minstrel’s lute that had gone slightly out of tune the only sound in the room. After what felt like minutes, Norden settled back on his chair, gesturing to his men. “Toss him out.”

“What?” Tristan breathed, eyeing the men that had stood up, looming over him. He fumbled for words as he saw his only chance slipping between his fingers. “No- wait- I-I told you I’d bring the gold. And the horses. I told you-”

“Told me?” Norden laughed, the sound sending chills down Tristan’s spine. “No. You come into my bar, buying me and my men drinks and asking us to storm the Circle of Magi for you. I wouldn’t go into that shithole even if they offered me Queen Anora on a silver platter. This has been amusing, but Vala Norden doesn’t make deals with madmen. Remember that.” He nodded to his men. “Show him out, boys. Rough him up a little on the way, will you? That’ll teach him to come around here again.”

Two pairs of hands, their grip strong like iron, tightened around Tristan’s arms. The minstrel’s tune got louder as Tristan was hauled to his feet. He kicked and grunted swears while Norden’s thugs dragged him bodily across the tavern, to no avail. They were far stronger than he was. Norden raised his drink, downing it in one go just before his men pushed him out the door. “Thanks for the whiskey, by the way,” he called out to him. “A fine choice.”

A heavy autumn drizzle had started to fall, the droplets dampening the top of his head when he was shoved out into the street. Hooks’s fist landed on his cheek before he could regain his footing. His head snapped to the side, ears ringing with the force of the impact. Tristan staggered back, tasting blood in his mouth, just as another fist flew his way. This time he ducked to avoid the blow, shoving his knee into Hooks’s stomach instead. It was almost instinctual, the way his body moved before he could even think to ward off his attackers. The man groaned, doubling over. Andris took a threatening step towards him, pressing his fist to his palm.

“Wanted to make a deal with Vala, did you?” he said, baring his teeth in a snarl. “Came all the way down here from your fancy mansion to take the piss?”

Tristan’s anger flared hot and bright. He dabbed the cut on his lip with his tongue, the strong taste of copper mingling with his saliva. “Fuck you,” he spat, stepping back when Andris swung for his head. He dodged behind him, shoving the flat of his palm to the base of his thick skull, then following it with a good kick at his knee joint. The man groaned in pain, swinging around wildly in his effort to get to him. Tristan almost smiled when he saw him limping. He idly wondered what his Chevalier-trained fencing tutor would say if he saw him attacking someone from behind in a brawl. He edged back when Andris staggered his way, avoiding his fist and landing a hard punch under his chin instead, taking just a tiny bit of satisfaction when he heard the definitive sound of teeth cracking.

He was about to land a finishing strike on Andris’s face when the sound of gravel under heavy boots behind him stopped him. He spun around, ready to pounce on Hooks and release all his frustration on his ugly, disfigured face, when the flash of steel made him freeze in his tracks.

“Like playing it tough, do you, sweetheart?” the man hissed, taking a step closer. His lips widened in a grin when he noticed Tristan’s apprehension. “Will you act as tough after I cut you open and hand you your guts like a fucking Satinalia gift?”

Tristan swallowed, his gaze flicking between the well sharpened blade before him and the man’s face. He looked deranged, eyes gleaming in the dark. He stepped back carefully, his pulse buzzing in his ears like bees in a jar. A buzz that turned into a high pitched ringing when he bumped against Andris’s chest. Trapped. He was trapped. Backed in a corner, between a blade and Andris’s fists waiting to crush him.

“You noble shits walking about like you own the place,” Hooks continued, voice thick with vehemence. His grin got even wider, twisting his features. “I’ll teach you a lesson, duckling. Oh, I’ll teach you. What if I slice that pretty face of yours down the middle? That should scare the ladies away.” He took another step, when Andris’s grunt stopped him.

“No blades.”

Hooks’s eyes snapped to Andris’s, the white in them glimmering threateningly. “Are you joking?”

Andris shook his head. “Don’t want a noble bleeding to death on our fucking doorstep.” The tall man shoved Tristan back, sending him tumbling on the muddy ground. His large booted foot crashed against his stomach, knocking his breath right out of him. A guttural, pitiful groan escaped him as he tried to scramble away, when Andris’s boot dug into him again. And again. The Antivan stared down at him like he was an ant, grinning. “He can squirm on our doorstep, though.”

The pain was blinding. Tristan coughed and wheezed, trying to get some air back into his lungs. Every breath sent his ribs and stomach muscles screaming in agony. He dug his nails in the gravel, slowly clawing his way away from the sneering men. His heart was beating frantically in his chest, banging against his ribcage.

He flinched in terror when Hooks squatted down, grabbing a fistful of his hair and forcing Tristan’s gaze to his. He was an ugly bastard, his face so close to him, his breath stinking of booze and smoke. Tristan bit his bleeding lip, mustering all his courage in an effort to stifle the urge to plead for his life. To beg for mercy. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction. Not if he could help it.

As if he could read his thoughts, Hooks gave him a wide smile. “Goodnight, little dove,” he said sweetly before his fist collided with Tristan’s face, sending his head bouncing on the hard packed ground beneath him. He groaned with the pain that exploded behind his eyelids, winced as a thin stream of warm liquid trickled down his scalp. Hooks stood up, chuckling under his breath as he clapped Andris on the shoulder. The street was bathed in the soft orange light from the inside of the tavern for a moment before the door clicked shut behind them, engulfing the world in darkness once more.

Tristan lay on the ground for a long while. Minutes. Hours, for all he could tell. He lay as still as he could, gasping and sputtering blood, willing the contents of his stomach to stay where they were. It took more out of him than he would have thought to slowly, shakily press himself up into all fours. He crawled to a nearby wall, clawing at the gaps between the bricks to haul himself up. His head was swimming as he leaned heavily against it, panting. There was no other light save for the light flickering from the tavern’s closed windows, and the full moon that was staring him down from its place atop the sky’s velvet canopy. Tristan let out a tremulous breath, pressing his eyes shut in hopes of abating the burn that had built up behind them.

Gone. One more glimmer of hope of getting Tilly out gone, snuffed out like the flame of a candle, one more plan crushed like a butterfly under an anvil. It had taken him weeks to find out how to approach Norden, weeks of asking and begging and gathering information and bribing, all for nothing. All to get beaten up in a back alley. Spat upon. Humiliated. He’d been in bar fights before, but this was… this was different. These men wanted to hurt him. They’d taken pleasure from hurting him. They would have done worse, if it hadn’t been so inconvenient for them. Even if they had, he would only have himself to blame.

He blinked, angrily scrubbing hot tears mingled with dust and blood from his face. A fool, a damned fool was what he was. He had let those men sniff his desperation, and they had pounced on it like hounds on blood. Never again, he promised himself. Never again.

He peeled himself off the wall, groaning when the world spun around him. The night was still dark and thick, not a soul passing by the quiet street. He had to move. He had to leave that place. If someone saw him there, in the state he was in now, they would probably not hesitate for a breath before finishing what the others had started. No one in their right minds walked about this part of town after sundown. At least not those that didn’t belong there. It’d been a mistake to come there from the start. A mistake, or naivety, or utter madness - Tristan wasn’t sure what it was that drove him anymore. Mad. He was probably mad. Mad, for fighting to get his sister out, when there was no way of getting her out. Mad, for trying again and again, even though every time he failed worse than the last. Mad, for clinging on to hope that he could change things, fix things, make everything the way it was before. Mad. Mad. Mad.

His palm, when he dragged it over his face again, came away wet and bloody. Useless. Stupid and mad and useless. There was no changing things. No fixing things. No hope. He wasn’t a hero, or a brave Chevalier of legend, a knight in shining armour. He wasn’t Tristan de bloody Lydes. He was alone. All alone. And somewhere, in a cold cell in the Circle Tower, she was alone, too.

Despair rose in him in a wave. It was all too much, far too much. His breath came in short and shallow pants as the world closed in around him. Everything was spinning, whirling out of his control. He reached out for something, anything to stop his fall-

His fingers closed about an outstretched hand. He looked up, blinking at the young man before him. Pale blue eyes staring at him through a curtain of light blonde hair, falling messily about a pale face. His features obscured by a wide brim hat.

Those features tugged at Tristan’s memory. He squinted at the man through his haze. “What… who-”

“I’m Cole,” the man said softly. “I’m here to help.”

#dorian pavus #dorian pavus x trevelyan #dorian pavus/trevelyan #dorian pavus x inquisitor #dorian pavus/inquisitor #pavelyan #dorian pavus fic #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age inquisition #dorian x tristan trevelyan #dorian x tristan #tristan trevelyan #a world with you #johaerys writes

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thegodshavehorns · 4 years ago

Text

Come Into My Parlor (5/5)

Chapter 5: Tentacle Therapist Slumber Rumpus

The spring draws to a close, and you go home without seeing Vriska again.

Your mother is as she always has been, seesawing between near-manic workaholism and decrepit insobriety. She buys you a new, top-of-the-line laptop. You leave her bitterly to her self-destruction.

You spend most of the boreal summer reading supernatural romances, riding Maplehoof through the woods, and talking with your online friends about everything except your shared fate. You are introduced to John. You knit yourself a new set of mittens for Antarctica, as your old ones have gotten a little small.

-------

You avoid speaking Vriska's name. You know she'll come on her own if she wants to, but you're not anxious to accelerate the process. As much as you'd like to have closure on what, exactly, her intentions are, you are also a little apprehensive. You are not sure if she was being serious or not, and if she was, you are not sure if you reciprocate, or even if you can reciprocate. How can you be sure? What is 'pale' supposed to feel like to a human? Perhaps you should have asked that Archangel, while you had the chance.

It's a bit of a shock when she appears on your doorstep in the middle of a rainstorm, but you also can't say you haven't been expecting her. Thank gods (well, thank her, you suppose) that your mother is working late.

"So, gonna let me in?" She smiles at you, hair and clothing sopping wet, and it's not even a predatory grin. She's significantly shorter and slighter than usual.

You step back, and she steps in, boots squelching. Her outfit is not one of the the form-fitting black getups that you've seen her in before, but rather baggy and grayish, almost like sweatpants. No sign of her sigil. She glances around the foyer, at the chandelier and the plush carpets and the huge wizard statue. Judging solely by appearances, she doesn't look a day over fifteen. "Fancy digs. Can't say the decor is quite my taste."

"Digs?" You finally find your voice as you shut the door.

"Isn't that the thing mortals say now? 'Digs?' Like it's, I don't know, a fucking burrow?" She's dripping on the marble floors.

"Surely," you swallow. "Surely you could have carried an umbrella? Or a raincoat? Or do you enjoy getting drenched? We get thunderstorms often here, you know."

She grins and brushes a sodden lock of hair behind an ear. "Oh, silly me, I must have... forgotten to bring one."

"Forgot to bring one in the infinitely large, yet portable, pocket dimension to which you alone have access."

"Right. Oops!"

You cross your arms and let the silence drag on a moment. The goddess continues to drip.

"Why are you here?" Your voice is softer than it had been a moment ago. "This is my time off. I don't have any more information on Eridan. "

Her black lips purse. "I didn't want any."

In truth, you hadn't really thought she did. You let out a long sigh. "You should dry off before the floor becomes dangerously slippery. Come on, we have towels in the bathroom."

She grins. "Sounds... comfortable."

You're not sure what to make of the emphasis she put on 'comfortable'. You're not sure what to make of any of this. She's not here to make you spy on Eridan. She's not here to exchange questions. What does she want from you?

Once at the hall bathroom, she touches the towels, frowning. "Don't you have any more than this?"

You blink, surprised. "Ah, yes, in the closet. This isn't enough?"

"I'll need more than this." At your expression, which could be metaphorically compared to a wild game animal in headlights, she adds, "I'm soaked."

You go to the closet, leaving the goddess to her own devices, and grab as many towels as you can hold, mounding them in your arms. You don't think she'll destroy your house while you're not looking, but you're a little on edge.

"Okay," you sigh in exasperation, returning to the bathroom. "Here's all the towels we-"

"Perfect!" Vriska grabs the towels from your hands, and drops them unceremoniously on the floor on top of the first set of towels, which had been treated likewise. She flops down on the pile of towels, crossing her legs and folding her hands behind her head.

You stare. She's completely dry, dressed in what looks like a white nightgown and blue pajama bottoms with a spiderweb motif. She looks so young she could have been one of your old classmates from the Academy. It's eerie.

"I was thinking," she says cheerfully. "That we could have a slumber party."

You stare at her, a twisting, tingling sensation rising up your throat, and you don't bother holding it back.

You burst out laughing. You double over, knees weak, and grab the bathroom doorframe for support. This is ridiculous, undignified, what are you doing here? How did this become your life?

"I don't see what's so funny," Vriska mutters, sitting up and crossing her arms. "Isn't this a normal thing humans do?"

You try to compose yourself, wiping tears from your eyes. You haven't laughed like this in a long time. "It is, it's just- it's such a normal thing, but I - you're not normal. Neither am I! You're a god, and I will be, and it's not normal, and you come in here acting like we're old friends, and why are you making yourself look like a teenager?" You take a few calming breaths and straighten up, starting to get yourself back under control. "Are you trying to get me to let my guard down?"

She blinks at you, eyes wide and blue. Her mouth twists. "No, it's not that."

"Then what?"

Vriska frowns, looks away. "Maybe there's no big reason. Maybe I just want to paint my nails and shoot the breeze and relax in a non-godly way, once in a while. And maybe it's hard to find someone else to relax that way with. Maybe instead of questioning it, you should be flattered." The goddess crosses her arms.

You sit down and cross yours as well, mirroring her pose. "Relax? Lady Vriska "Irons in the Fire" Serket? You're surely joking."

"Well, I'm full of surprises!" she snaps. "Now let's do each other's hair or get makeovers or something."

You raise an eyebrow. "Apparently. Well, you should know that I've never had a traditional slumber party, per se, but I am aware of the cultural script. And makeovers are no doubt a better option than 'truth or dare.'"

Vriska snorts. "Yeah, you're not stupid."

You set up in your room, kicking your diary under the bed as you arrange cushions for you to sit on the comforter. Vriska insists on bringing the heap of towels as well, though their purpose still eludes you.

As Vriska adds her towels to your arrangement, you go into your mother's room. You haven't bothered with makeup since your preteen dabbling with black lipstick, but you have no shame in raiding your mother's vanity. Blue would look good on Vriska, you think.

Upon returning, you see that the Thief of Light has perched herself atop a considerable-sized jumble of sheets and cushions, which is in turn piled on top of your bed. Before you can remark on this arrangement, she speaks:

"Remember how we met?"

"I could not possibly forget," you reply. "Vriska, why-"

"I didn't make a great first impression, did I?" Vriska's expression seems distant. "Since I was plastered with happy honey. It was pretty pathetic of me, wasn't it?" She smiles, sadly, and gestures towards the mess on the bed. "Join me?"

With some trepidation, you climb into the pile of upholstery. She turns away from you. "Do my hair?"

Strange as it seems, this is your life now. You might as well go along with it. "...How do you want it?"

"I don't care at all."

So, with both of you sitting cross-legged on the bed, you braid the Thief of Light's hair into pigtails. Her wavy locks are thicker and stiffer than human hair, and they feel almost rough to the touch, a contrast to their silken appearance. Still, her hair is long, not like yours, and you can braid it as you've never braided your own. There's something satisfying in that.

"Yes, you were pathetic," you agree, after a taking the time to consider. "But that's okay. There... probably aren't very many other people my age who know how to deal with drunks as well as I do."

"Hm." You can't see Vriska's expression, but she doesn't sound elated to hear that. "But, I still should have tried to make a better impression. I let my grudge against Eridan get away with me, and I acted like a scrub."

You're not entirely sure what the 'look' you're going for is, with these pigtails. Canadian lumberjane? Farmhouse-chic? Wednesday Adams? Maybe you could make her up as Dorothy Gale in The Wizard of Oz. The blue eyeshadow you stole would go nicely.

"Actually," you reply, "I didn't mind that much. I have a generally low opinion of gods in general. Your intoxicated state didn't do much to affect that." You pause, your hands stopping their motion as well and dropping down. Then you continue, your tone softer. "I minded it more when Eridan shot you."

Vriska's shoulders tense. "Well," she says, after a moment. "That doesn't matter much to me. It... wasn't the first time. But I'm sorry that you had to see it. It was probably unpleasant, to see death like that."

To your infinite surprise, she sounds sincere. "Yes," you say. "Although 'unpleasant' is rather an understatement."

Her hair is so thick, your fingers vanish into it, completely obscured in the black. If you squint, it almost looks like your hands are vanishing into tendrils of eldritch darkness.

"What did Eridan do to bother you so much?" you ask.

Vriska's head tilts downward slightly. "Nothing, really. He didn't do anything, personally."

You affix a clip-on bow with a cartoon pony decal to the goddess' hair, for no reason other than because it amuses you. Then, you tap on her bony shoulder and hand her a small mirror. "Done. So, what was it, then?"

Vriska blinks at her reflection in the mirror. Then, very suddenly, her expression scrunches up. "I killed someone," she says.

A year ago, you would have deadpanned back: "Is that really newsworthy?" and it's a testament to your maturity, or your tact, or your budding friendship, or something, that you don't. Instead, you quiet, and she turns around to face you on the linen pile. You listen.

"Someone I liked. Someone who didn't deserve such a bad break." She sighs, puts down the mirror, curls up her legs, and leans her forehead against her knees. "This is stupid. Why am I telling you this?"

You have the same question, frankly, but instead you just nod. "Do you normally feel this way about killing?"

Vriska's face snaps up. "No! That's the thing! I don't! I kill idiots and stuck-up assholes all the time! And sometimes for other reasons too, but it's fine. They deserve it! But," she rests her face down again, and when she speaks again she sounds... strange. "She didn't."

"Then why did you do it?" you ask, quietly.

"I was upset. She told me something... truthful. And I didn't want to hear it anymore. So I killed her. That's all. It's... it's my prerogative as a goddess to do that, isn't it?" She still sounds strange, and you realize it's because she sounds... flat. Defeated. Lady Victory, defeated.

You pause a moment to consider your reply. "You know how I feel about that."

Vriska, goddess of Light, chuckles dryly. "Yeah, I do."

"So, I'm not going to tell you that what you did is okay. Because it wasn't." You lift one hand up, reach towards her a moment, then withdraw. "But it's progress, that you feel bad about it. I think. So that's good. You still need to learn to control your temper, and be held to consequences for your actions... but it's progress."

"I hate this," grumbles Vriska. "I didn't become a goddess so I could feel bad about it."

Your lips quirk upwards. "Well, great power comes with responsibilities, or so once said a beloved superhero movie character themed after your favorite arachnid."

She rolls her eyes and lowers her legs from their fetal position. "Responsibilities? Please, no, that's so last epoch."

You frown at her irritation. "You're a goddess, does that really not come with inbuilt responsibility?"

"The responsibilities came first, then came the godhood." She leans forward, ridiculous braids and all, and takes your hand in hers. "But I suppose you're going to learn about that eventually, too." As she continues, you stare down at her hand, holding yours. "You don't like responsibility, either. But you think some things are more important than your dislike. Right?" She smiles, closes her eyes, and brings your hand to her cheek. Her skin is cool and silk-smooth. "You'll be a better goddess than me."

You stare at your hand on her face. You feel oddly mesmerized.

"Vriska Serket," you say softly. "Is this a pale solicitation?"

The goddess laughs, a little teasingly, but without mockery or cruelty. It's an unexpectedly pleasant sound. "It took you this long to figure that out?"

-------

She's a goddess, but you're not normal, either. You still don't much like how the gods run this universe, but you're becoming self-aware enough to realize that, well, you're starting to like them more as people. They are flawed, immature, selfish, sometimes cruel. But they were mortals, once. Why do you expect them to be that much better than humans?

Still. It's... good, to have someone who confides in you. Someone who's not just there to teach you, to mold you, to be your superior. Someone to keep you company when Mother is in the lab for days on end, a warm body to lean on when she is black-out drunk.

She's not your mother, not your sister, not your friend, not your lover. She runs her fingers through your hair. She lays her forehead on your shoulder and listens to your problems. You listen to hers. There are times that summer she comes in angry, upset, wings spread and words burning blue. So, you make a soft nest for you both and clean her horns, rub her shoulders, stroke her face. She calms. Is this what is meant by moirallegiance?

Maybe it's helpful. Maybe you are making a difference this way, calming her and making her more likely to show mercy on her supplicants. But you know these are justifications. The truth is, you just like it.

Maybe, for now, that's enough.

#godstuck fic #homestuck #homestuck fanfiction #Vriska Serket #rose lalonde #moirallegiance #the gods have horns #slumber party #finished at last

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amandaoftherosemire · 6 years ago

Text

No Mistakes...

Fandom: Marvel AU

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader

Characters: Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner

Author: @amandaoftherosemire

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 6,279

Format: Two-part One-Shot

Warnings: Language, mild embarrassment, chemical intoxication

Summary: After a lab accident leaves you under the influence of a chemical cocktail, you can no longer hide your deeper feelings for your dearest friend, Steve. You’ve never told him, convinced he would be kind, but uninterested. Little do you know…

A/N: I have a deep need for all the fluff at the moment, so I thought I’d throw my sweetheart Steve some love. This is pure candy, something sweet and fluffy and attempting to be funny. I will be adding a second part, but this can be read by itself.

No Mistakes

Steve burst through the doors into the medical wing with his heart racing in terror. Not much could frighten him, but the news you’d been in some kind of lab accident had done the trick.

“Heeey, Cap!” Clint stepped in front of Steve, nearly getting bowled over in the process. Still, he dug in his heels and stopped Steve’s forward progress with an effort. Nat had given him a task, so he was gonna do it.

“Where’s y/n? Is she okay? What happened?” Clint smirked at the sound of Steve trying to sound authoritative despite the wobble in his voice. Maybe they should let the two of you hang out after all.

“There was an explosion in the lab.” Clint had his hands on Steve’s chest, holding him back from pushing through the last door to see you, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. Only Steve's natural inclination toward courtesy under almost all circumstances kept him from pushing Clint to the side to see you for himself.

Your friendship wasn't one of those things that had happened quickly, his natural shyness and your reserve keeping you from having a conversation about anything but work for weeks after you’d started to work with Bruce in the lab. Instead, it was something that grew slowly, over time, like a crystal, each atom falling perfectly into place to create a stable structure. It may not have been romantic, but Captain America had taught Steve how hollow romance could be.

Steve didn't know when he started seeking your company above all others, but by the time he noticed, you were one of his dearest and closest friends. He trusted you, knew he could count on you. Despite the fact that he’d never said it aloud, he adored you, and the thought that you might be hurt had him frantic.

"An explosion!?" He didn’t realize he was leaning against Clint’s restraining hands, trying to see around the window in the door in an attempt to get a glimpse of you.

“Steve, calm down.” Clint couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice or off his face. If he hadn’t promised Nat he’d keep Steve out, he’d let the man go. He was certain Steve in this mood interacting with you in your current predicament would be the funniest thing he’d seen all week. “She's okay; she wasn't harmed, and the effects will wear off in a few hours.”

“A few hours!? What the hell happened!?” Steve was relieved to hear that you were unharmed, but deeply perturbed by all of the information he didn’t have. He'd be more relieved by Clint's apparent lack of concern, but Clint was relentlessly casual regardless of the circumstances. Steve couldn't be sure you were okay until he saw for himself.

Is that Steve!?

Steve felt the muscles in his neck relax and he stopped pushing so hard on Clint when, thanks to his enhanced hearing, he heard your voice. On the other hand, he'd never heard you sound quite like that. You sounded happy, excitable, downright bubbly.

No. Bucky, however, sounded as he often did. Downright surly. Except he had a soft spot for you, so he generally spoke much more gently than this stern and irritated denial. Steve didn't know why Bucky would lie to you, as he could undoubtedly hear Steve with as much ease as Steve could hear him. But now that he'd heard you speak, relief let Steve ease back to gather information.

Actually looking at Clint for the first time, Steve frowned. "What effects?"

The next moment, Steve's head was snapping up at the sound of your voice, louder, closer, and much more demanding. I wanna see Steve! You sounded offended, like someone was trying to stop you.

The next words out of Bucky didn't make sense, but made your tone make more sense. Can someone muzzle her before he hears this? He's right the fuck outside. Steve didn't know why, but it appeared that your friends and teammates had decided that the two of you should be kept apart for the moment. He was fascinated.

Clint was answering Steve's question, unaware that he was also listening to the conversation going on in the other room. "She got, like, a face full of the stuff she was messing with." At this Steve became concerned once more. You worked in R & D, specializing in organic chemistry. 'Stuff' could be all sorts of things.

"Banner said it messed with her brain so some parts that should be dark are lit up and parts that should be lit up are dark. All together it means she has no fear, no inhibitions, no verbal filter, and, at least for now, the cheerful disposition of a happy drunk, unless…" The look of horror that had overtaken Steve's face at the description of the accident faded to a look of sympathetic humor. He'd seen you intoxicated. If this was anything like that, you were acting the holy terror even as they spoke.

Clint grinned and finished, "Nat decided she should be isolated as much as possible."

Stevie's so good, and pretty, and…oof! Under the singsong of your voice, Steve could hear his best friend muttering even as he sounded like he was struggling with something.

"Then why is Bucky in there?" With that Steve made to push past Clint. Now that he had the lay of the land, he was fully prepared to go help. You were infinitely precious to him; he'd hardly go back to the rest of his day when you'd had an accident and needed someone to take care of you. When Clint stopped him again, he reacted with exasperation. "What!?"

"That's probably not a good idea." Clint was having a very hard time making himself care anymore. If Nat hadn't explicitly told him to not let Steve through the doors, he'd take him back personally. He knew it'd be more fun than this.

"Okay," Steve demanded, "what's going on?"

Apparently, his voice was now loud enough to carry to you, as he heard you chirp happily through the door. Steve!?

"She'd be embarrassed if you heard some of the things she's saying." Clint was super proud of himself for telling the truth without giving too much away. Nat had also forbidden him from telling Steve what exactly you'd been saying to get him banned from you. "She's basically tanked."

Steve! Natasha is annoying me! Under the nasal, tattle-tale sound of your voice came the sound of a scuffle. Steve was pretty sure now that you weren't in any danger. He wasn't sure, however, whether he wanted to know what was going on anymore.

A laugh in his voice, he asked, "I've spent plenty of time with her when she was drunk; why is this different?"

"Steve! Now she's hitting me, too! Now she's trying to muffle my screams, STEVE!"

At the sound of your clearly audible voice being muffled by what sounded like a pillow, Clint raised his brows and looked up, chuckling. "You could hear her the whole time, couldn't you?"

Steve just nodded and pulled Clint away from the door. He had heard the unmistakable sounds of your escape and sprint down the hall. Based on the slap of running bare feet on tile, he expected you to come barreling through the door in three… two… one…

"SSSSTTTTEEEEVVVVIIIIEEEE!!!!!!" He didn't expect, however, for you to launch yourself into his arms. Because he wasn't expecting it, he caught you a lot closer than he would normally. You practically climbed him as you wrapped around him in a happy hug.

Though he knew he should, he couldn't seem to make himself extricate himself from your embrace, even as he realized you were less clothed than he'd ever seen you. It seemed to be a day for firsts.

For example, you noisily and happily kissed Steve all over his face as you babbled. "You’re so pretty! Look at how pretty you are! And you’re sweet and good and kind and I’m so glad you’re my friend." With one last smacking kiss on Steve's shocked mouth, you dropped to your feet. With barely a pause, you started out. "I’m hungry. Let’s eat."

Steve cleared his throat, not sure how to react to anything that had just happened. To his surprise, the question he heard himself ask was "Why don’t you put your pants on first, doll?"

You didn't even glance backward, let alone pause. "Why?"

With one last baffled look at the other three, Steve followed you out.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Clint burst into gales of delighted laughter. Nat had a half-smile even as she rolled her eyes at him. Bucky was scowling. If they were just going to let you go off with Steve without even an attempt to stop you, why the hell had he spent the last half hour wrestling with your squirmy ass?

"Well," Clint said, philosophically, wiping a tear of joy from his eye, "we tried."

Natasha lifted an amused brow. "We did?"

Clint laughed. "We tried just hard enough to escape any blame for the consequences."

This last sentiment had Bucky finally grinning. "Indeed, we did."

Steve managed to convince you to go to his rooms instead of the communal kitchen, and in the process discovered the difficulties that Nat, Bucky, and Clint had dealt with while Bruce had examined you. Bucky had been ready to throttle you by the time Bruce pronounced you temporarily a pain in the ass, but ultimately unharmed.

The chemicals you'd been experimenting with, and which had literally blown up in your face, had temporary effects on the brain that affected behavior, but would wear off in time. Your meticulous research notes were helpful, even if you were not, and Bruce could state with certainty that you were perfectly safe, at least physically. He made no promises as to the psychological damage embarrassment might do.

The most concerning thing, and why you needed supervision, was that your amygdala were acting bizarre, the right all but dormant while the left flipped on and off seemingly at random. This meant that your emotions were completely unpredictable, and if that wasn't enough, you literally could not feel fear until the chemical cocktail wore off.

The inability to feel fear meant you were a lot more reckless than normal, and thus a danger to yourself in the meantime. There were also oddities in your frontal lobe, possibly explaining your complete lack of impulse control. Taken together, you were still yourself, but without any filters whatsoever and with sudden bursts of positive emotion.

If you'd known what exactly that meant, you'd have been wearing a full face mask with a respirator while you worked with what you should have considered the most dangerous chemicals of your life.

You felt loose, floaty, utterly relaxed. Your mind was at rest in a way you’d never before experienced. Half the time you were interacting with the world but felt like it couldn’t touch you. It wasn’t a bad feeling, simply detached.

The other half, you were happy to the point of euphoria, like you could punch through the sky if you needed to. You were living in the moment in a way you never had before, and it was completely freeing. With no fear, you weren't thinking in terms of consequences.

When you had a thought, you said it. When you had an impulse, you acted on it.

You were probably going to want to move to another planet when the chemicals wore off.

Because, as Clint, Nat, and Bucky had discovered today and tried to help you keep secret, you had an all-consuming crush on Steve Rogers. Any number of your thoughts were sappily sweet and made Clint gag. A lot of the others were filthy to the point of pornographic and made Bucky think that he’d be happy to comfort you if Steve decided to be stupid.

Nat had already known that you were in love with Steve. Duh. She hadn’t known how creatively obscene your imagination was, but she hadn’t really wanted to, either.

You were scanning Steve’s books while he texted Bucky for help. He needed to feed you before you got it into your head to go looking for sustenance. In the short time he’d been responsible for you, he’d discovered why the others had looked so frazzled. The only way to stop you from doing anything was to physically restrain you. Steve was trying to avoid that as long as you remained clothed in only a t-shirt and underwear.

You'd gone into this strange mode when he'd asked what you wanted to eat, blank and detached. Knowing Bucky would be happy to fetch the food if he didn't have to supervise you anymore, Steve had sent him out for whatever was fastest.

You’d shrugged in response to questions as to what kind of food you wanted and wandered off to stare out the window for several minutes before you moved on to his bookshelf. Steve really wanted to get you seated. Maybe then he could get you covered before you caught him staring at your legs (not to mention your ass).

"Do you want to watch TV while we wait for food?"

You didn't look at him, in one of those phases where the world seemed far too distant to matter. Steve could be staring openly, and you probably wouldn't notice, let alone give a shit. You were intent on Steve's books, looking for something, anything, that could inspire some feeling. It was odd to not have an opinion on anything. "I don’t care."

"Is everything okay?" Steve stepped up next to you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder to draw your attention to him. To his surprise, you didn’t look at him, but your body seemed to automatically sway towards his touch.

You murmured a response but closed your eyes at the warmth of Steve's hand on your arm. "Mm-hmm." The sound of your voice was a purr on the assent. You were feeling now, and it was irresistible.

You had an impulse, so you acted on it.

With another purr, you turned into Steve, sliding your arms around his waist and burying your face in his chest. You breathed in his scent, glorying in the smell of citrus, leather, and pine. Whatever cologne or deodorant he used, you were a huge fan. You rubbed your face back and forth, reveling in the feel against your cheeks of soft cotton over firm muscle.

Steve was absolutely astonished to find you twined around him like a vine. Of all the things he expected, your body wrapping around his before he had a chance to process it was not one of them. His arms came around you automatically, without his conscious thought, but as soon as he had you wrapped close and murmuring happily he wasn't going to let go. Though you and he were close friends, you'd always maintained a careful physical distance between you. He laughed a little when he heard what you were almost cooing.

"I knew it." You hummed and snuggled closer. "I knew it'd be like heaven in a bear hug. My good, kind, pretty Steve." You sighed the last, utterly enraptured by the glory of being held by Steve for the first time. You'd dreamed more than once of what it would be like to be wrapped in his arms, bathing in the scent, the heat of his skin. You'd never thought to find out, too sure you'd only make him uncomfortable should you try to change the dynamic of your friendship.

Unwilling to risk losing the most vital relationship you had, you'd been meticulous in your efforts to make sure Steve always knew that you valued him without ever giving any indication that you were half-in-love and all-the-way-in-lust with him. Until today, you'd been mostly successful.

Steve was doing everything he could to remind himself that you were under the influence of chemicals that had changed your brain activity. Nothing you said or did could be taken at face value, no matter how he wanted to believe that you felt about him the same way he felt about you.

He felt guilty, but he couldn't stop himself from reveling in your changed demeanor. No matter how he scolded himself, he didn't try to stop you from snuggling closer. Rather, his arms tightened, and his head dipped to press his lips against your hair. "Y/N?" You didn't answer, too busy melting in the heat from Steve's body, the pure pleasure of it distracting you completely.

"Sweetheart?" he tried again, this time prompting a hum of acknowledgement even as your hands slid slowly up the muscles of his back. "Why are you being so affectionate?"

To his surprise, you answered immediately, and it sounded as though you were speaking the plain and unvarnished truth. "I always want to," you sighed, and turned your face into his neck to brush your lips across the skin of his throat. "I don't because I'm afraid, but I adore you. I want to show you all the time."

Steve was astonished. He'd had no idea. You'd never, by word or by deed, indicated that you wanted anything more than friendship from him. He was sure he would have noticed, too aware of everything about you to have missed any signal. He had to wonder if he was misinterpreting your answer. "What are you afraid of?"

"Oh, you know," you sounded vaguely amused, but largely unconcerned. "Rejection, humiliation, heartbreak, failure. The usual." You started moving gently against him, brushing your body against his, your mind almost blank but for the pleasure of Steve's scent fogging your brain, his warmth melting your bones.

Steve couldn't speak for a moment, not expecting the purely carnal rush your undulating body would inspire inside him. His fingers dug into the skin of your back reflexively in response before he made himself loosen his hold. "But you're not afraid now." It was a statement, a reminder to himself that you had taken a face full of chemicals that left you vulnerable. He was taking advantage of that by asking you these questions right now.

Your voice was a sultry whisper as you slipped your arms around Steve's neck, sliding your hands into his hair. "As a matter of fact, I'm not." The next thing he knew, you were using your leverage to pull your lips to his and he was sinking into the heaven of your kiss.

He'd dreamed, fantasized a thousand times about how your lips would feel against his, how your mouth would taste. Now that he had an answer, he realized how limited those questions had been. He could write sonnets to the softness of your lips, the spice of your mouth. But he also hadn't considered the sweetness of your sighs as he tasted your breath, or the velvet of your tongue as it pressed against his.

Steve's conscience cleared its throat. "Okay," he said, breaking the kiss and panting. "Okay, this is…" He trailed off as, denied his mouth, you opted for the salt of his skin and fastened your teeth around his throat. You weren't thinking any more, awash in sensation, giving in to the desire that coursed through you.

"Wonderful…" he whispered, stretching his neck to give you better access. It almost hurt to restrain his hands from wandering down to close around your ass. He wanted you like air. "But we have to stop…" He was groaning the words as he reached up to pull your hands from around his neck. He stepped back, the temptation of your eyes heavy-lidded with desire and lips swollen from his kiss almost too much.

"Why?" You pouted and stepped forward to bring your body against his once more. His belly tightened with lust.

The pout on your mouth, coupled with the undulation of your body against his broke his will, if only for a moment. Steve gave into temptation and leaned forward to close his teeth around your lower lip. You hummed happily and sank back into the kiss. Lost in the moment, lost in him, you gave yourself up to it, overjoyed to discover that Steve wanted you, too.

Steve's conscience was getting impatient. He lifted his hand to your cheek and drew his mouth away. Putting his forehead against yours, he gasped for breath. "Because…" He trailed off again when you slid your hand under the hem of his shirt and gently brushed your fingertips along the skin of his hip. You giggled, happy that you could so easily distract him.

Steve shuddered out a breath and resisted the urge to take your mouth again. He tried again. "Because…" He didn't get far before you were twining around him once more, running your hands over his back under his shirt.

Steve was genuinely grateful to hear the knock at the door. He was having a very hard time resisting you. You seemed perfectly lucid, making it hard for him to remember that you were not thinking clearly. Almost desperately, he tried to gently extricate himself from your silken limbs. "Because Bucky's here with food."

"I don't want food." As you spoke, Bucky walked in carrying a couple of pizza boxes. You didn't acknowledge him, too lost in Steve. You stepped forward once more, this time to snuggle against him. "I want you." Your eyes were liquid and soft as you looked at Steve. He froze, caught in the expression on your face. He ached to ask you what that expression meant, but held himself back, knowing it wasn't fair.

Bucky laughed as he dropped the pizza on the coffee table in front of the couch. His eyes crinkled in delighted humor, he chuckled immoderately and called out as he turned to leave, "Good luck with that, punk!" He couldn't wait to tell Sam about this.

Not thinking, Steve wrapped his arms back around you. He couldn't seem to stop himself. "You could help, jerk!"

Your voice was muffled, but the amusement came through loud and clear. "I didn't think threesomes would be your thing, Steve, but I'm willing to hear your thoughts on the subject."

Bucky laughed again, his enhanced hearing easily catching your words. He turned around, shrugging amiably. "If that's the kind of help you need--"

Steve simply raised a brow. "Thank you, Buck. Good-bye now."

Bucky's cheek lifted in a cocky half-smile and he shrugged again, this time philosophically and turned back to the door. "Let me know if she changes your mind," he called out as he made his exit.

Steve rubbed his big, warm palm up and down your spine, making you feel like you were melting again. "Will you come sit with me, sweetheart?"

The endearment made your heart beat fast and your throat close. In the next moment, you'd switched off. Docile and apathetic, you didn't resist or protest when Steve guided you to the couch. You ate when he handed you a slice of pizza, but you did so because you were hungry, not because you took any pleasure in the act. Steve put on the television for noise, not really paying attention to what was playing, and sat quietly next to you, eating pizza and watching you stare into space.

"You've gone away again, haven't you?" Steve found it fascinating to watch you turn on and off. When you were in this detached mode, he could see where you went when you were working. Coldly logical to the point of indifference when in the lab, he'd been astonished the first time he'd spent time with you outside of work and had found the warm woman he'd come to adore underneath.

"Mm-hmm." You murmured the assent as you had your mouth full of pizza. You were on your second piece, but you could feel yourself getting full. Since nothing but hunger kept you going, your movements automatically slowed. You were staring at the television, but you weren't really seeing it. It was a Friends rerun. Even if you hadn't seen it, which you probably had, you weren't in a headspace where you could begin to give a shit about it.

Steve frowned at the blank expression on your face, starting to get concerned by your demeanor. "Sweetheart," he said softly, and the endearment caught your attention in a way nothing else had, "do you feel okay?"

"I don't feel anything," you replied easily as you polished off your pizza.

Steve found it deeply unsettling to hear you say something so disturbing in such an offhand tone, but it was the emotionless gaze you turned on him that actually chilled him. He hadn't realized how warm your eyes normally were when they met his until they weren't anymore. Without thinking, he lifted his hand to your face, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

The heat of his hand as it pressed against your face and neck, the feel of his fingers tangling in your hair, seemed to flip that switch inside your brain. Your eyes fluttered closed in pleasure, but not before Steve saw them begin to warm and glow. In the next moment, you were climbing into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck and tucking your face into his throat.

Steve saw his chance and snagged the blanket behind him across the back of the couch. He threw it over you, then wrapped his arms tightly around you, partly to keep you close, partly to keep you covered. You sighed happily and snuggled deeper into his chest, snuffling at his neck like a puppy and making him laugh.

"I love how you smell," you whispered, the longing in your voice bringing an ache to Steve's throat.

He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the desire that coursed through him at the feel of your breath on his skin. "We're going to have some interesting conversations in the near future."

Your mouth was against his skin as you replied, and you could feel the shudder of arousal that worked through him at the sensation. "About what?"

Steve took a trembling breath, trying and failing to put the feel of your lips against his skin out of his mind. "About us," he murmured, his voice low with barely restrained need.

"I like the sound of that." Steve could hear the smile in your voice and knew that if he could see your face, you'd be wearing his favorite soft expression. His arms tightened around you in pure affection. "You know," you went on, sounding even happier, "nothing has made me feel better all day. Except you."

"I feel that way about you all the time." The words were out of Steve's mouth before he thought better of them. He held his breath, waiting for your response.

You sighed, both sweet and melancholy. "If I let myself, I could fall hard for you, Steve." You laughed a little. "Hell, I'm already crazy about you. You're the best person I've ever known." As you spoke, your voice got drowsier and more slurred, until you went completely limp against him.

"Y/N? Are you okay?" were the last words you heard before you fell asleep like a toddler, completely and seemingly instantaneously.

You woke slowly, warm and comfortable, contented in a way you couldn't remember ever experiencing before. You were cradled in arms, against a wall of a chest, that was both solid and gentle. The warmth from his body had settled into your bones, leaving you pliant and relaxed. He seemed to be sleeping, too, and for some reason that charmed you more than anything else. Steve had fallen asleep while holding you. Heart eyes, motherfucker.

That said, now that you were awake, and as far as you could tell, clear-headed, you were also completely, utterly, and catastrophically humiliated. You had broadcast your deepest darkest secret to two of the worst possible people. (Natasha didn't count; she already knew. Honestly, you'd have been surprised if she hadn't.)

You had ended up parading around half-naked and all because of some random impulse you'd had and a weirdly stubborn insistence on following through. They had had to restrain you, and to be fair, they'd been right to do so. You had not been in any condition to do anything but sit down until the drugs wore off.

To top it all off, you'd thrown yourself at Steve with no shame. You'd told him how you felt with no filters. And you'd offered yourself to him with no conditions. He had graciously declined, albeit with good reason, but part of you resented how easily, it seemed, he resisted.

You wondered if you could sneak off his lap and back to the medical wing to check your brain without waking Steve. You knew you'd have to deal with what happened earlier, but you kind of wanted a minute to yourself to take stock before you had to face him.

"Captain Ro--"

You hissed at the sound of FRIDAY's voice coming over the intercom. "FRIDAY, shut up!"

"I apologize, Ms. Y/L/N, Dr. Banner is trying to reach Captain Rogers." FRIDAY spoke more quietly, but you were watching the corners of Steve's mouth twitching and knew it was too late. You weren't getting out of here.

Steve opened his pretty blue eyes, the sear of them burning into yours. "It's okay, FRIDAY. Will you tell Dr. Banner that if he's checking on Y/N, I’d like to bring her down so he can examine her, if he wouldn't mind."

"Yes, sir."

You cleared your throat sternly, a sneer curling your lip. "Excuse you, bossy."

Steve's smile widened into a delighted grin. "There you are," he said, affectionately. "How do you feel?"

Deciding there was no reason to lie now, you went with the truth, letting it ride. "Humiliated."

"Why?" he asked, his smile, his eyes softening.

Your expression twisted into a wry half-smile. "My memory was in no way affected by the chemicals I inadvertently ingested, Steve." You lifted a brow but kept that wry smile. "I'm fully aware of and embarrassed by my behavior."

His smile turned sad. It was all you could do to not lean in and kiss the sadness away. "Does that mean you didn't mean any of it? It was just the chemicals?"

Steve was struck by that same soft and liquid look you'd given him earlier. Your voice a rasp, you answered. "No. It wasn't just the chemicals." Now he saw sadness come into your eyes and it was all he could to do to not lean in and kiss the sadness away. "Unless you need everything to go back to the way it was." You scoffed out a little laugh, then spoke as if by rote. "Then no, I didn't mean any of it. It was just the chemicals."

Steve's eyes warmed once more. He gave into temptation, leaning in to nuzzle his mouth and nose against yours. "Some chemicals," he murmured. "You told me you were crazy about me, that you adored me."

You slid your arms around Steve's neck, snuggling closer. "Did I? Huh." You nipped at his lower lip, your lips curving in a sultry half-smile this time. "And what did you say back?"

"I didn't." Steve's expression turned serious, and you could feel the tension in the shoulders beneath your hands. "Too afraid you didn't mean any of it, that it was just the chemicals."

You turned serious in return. Steve was the sort who needed to know where he stood. You could respect that. "I’m not going to lie to you unless you ask it," you warned, giving him one last out from changing things between you forever.

"I always want the truth," he replied, "no matter what."

You searched his face for a long moment, needing to be sure before you laid your heart bare. Seeing everything you wanted in front of you if you only had the courage to reach out and take it, you opened your mouth without the slightest clue what was about to come out. "The chemicals removed my ability to keep my feelings to myself. The feelings themselves were always mine."

When the smile broke over Steve's face like dawn, you were so grateful to whatever part of your brain decided to go with the truth.

"So am I." Steve leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, the kiss both firm and soft, conveying both desire and affection. "Yours, I mean," he said when you came up for air, apparently worried that he needed to clarify. You giggled, then once more used your leverage from your hands in all that thick blond hair to bring his mouth back to yours.

Running your tongue over his bottom lip, you immediately took advantage when his lips parted in response. Your tongue slipped inside his mouth to draw his out to tangle with yours. With a moan in his throat, he gave in to both the allure of the kiss and you, his hot hands coming up to cup your face, tilting your head for a better angle.

When you broke apart to breathe, you attacked his throat with lips and tongue and teeth, desperate for more of him. "Okay," he panted, his hands gripping your shoulders, but pulling you closer rather than pulling you away as he had intended. "First, you need pants." Steve stopped to groan a little in his throat, trying to make himself stop you from what you were doing, specifically, sucking on his earlobe. He didn't know why it was driving him crazy, but he was hard as a rock and trying to think straight.

"Second, brain scan." You giggled again and buried your face in his neck, thoroughly enchanted by the almost pained groan in his tone in response to the feel of your mouth on his skin. You also couldn’t help but be impressed by his ability to focus despite your determined efforts to distract him. “By the way,” he continued, “I never did find out why you took your pants off in the first place.”

You were grateful your face was hidden in his throat. You were snickering as you answered but part of that was helpless embarrassment. If only you had the fuzziness liquor can bring to memories, but no, your memory was crystal clear. “They got torn off when Bucky was trying to restrain me without hurting me.”

“Jeez,” Steve dipped his head in an attempt to see your face. He loved how you looked alight with laughter. 'How big of a pain in the ass were you?" His voice was a teasing smile and coaxed you into tilting your head back to grin at him.

"Oh," you said, considering, "a stunningly large pain in the ass." Though Steve had said he wanted to get you pants and your brain scanned, he didn't seem to be in any hurry to move. You snuggled further into his chest, content to stay there as long as he'd hold you. "I wanted Clint to teach me how to shoot his bow and I was being very insistent."

Steve burst out laughing. He could see why they'd restrained you. He wouldn't have put a weapon in your hand under those circumstances, either. However, he hadn't noticed a need to be that forceful with you. "You weren't that bad with me."

You slid your arms around Steve's neck and pulled yourself face-to-face with him once more, your expression warm and inviting. "They didn't have your secret weapon for distracting me."

"What's that?" Steve wasn't quite sure why, but something about the look on your face had his heart racing. He was starting to think that he was in over his head.

You leaned forward to brush your mouth gently against his. "They weren't Steve Rogers." You spoke against his mouth, then sank back into the joy that was Steve's kiss. He moaned a little and sank along with you. You kept your eyes open long enough to see his eyes flutter closed in pleasure and the sight had your heart stumbling over how unbelievably sweet he was.

You had kicked the blanket off and turned to straddle him before Steve remembered himself. His hands were on your hips and he was being happily eaten alive by the fire of you. He hadn't known you were capable of burning so hot, but he was nevertheless unsurprised. One of the thousand reasons he adored you was your hidden depths of passion.

Steve stood, suddenly, and for a brief, giddy moment, you thought he was going to finally take you to bed. Instead, he pulled his mouth from yours to grit out the words, "Pants. Brain scan. Then this… conversation."

Determined now, Steve took long strides toward the door, still holding you by your thighs wrapped around his waist. Wiggling a bit to indicate you'd rather walk, you lifted an amused brow. "Need to make sure I'm of sound mind?"

Steve stopped and rearranged his hold on you so that he was supporting your torso until your feet were under you. Once you were standing firm in front of him, he took your chin in his hand and leaned in for a quick, but scorching kiss. "For what I want to do to you? Yes."

You gaped at him, but the lust that shivered through you was also written all over your face. Steve's smile turned smug when you exclaimed, your excitement plain, "Captain!" You slipped your hand in his and pulled him toward the door and the lab. Your smile sultry to match his smug, you purred, "I'm intrigued."

... Only Happy Accidents here

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