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kricketstitle; rating: the places we hide; pg13
fandom; count: the hunger games; gale hawthorne (gale/katniss); 590
notes: for this ficathon written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stainofmylove (also, holy crap i actually wrote fic, you guys!)
Gale only walks city streets these days.
Concrete, street vendors selling flowers and trinkets, quaint cafes with outdoor seating, car horns honking, the smell of gasoline and hot dogs on the air.
He makes his trek daily, when he can, when work doesn't keep him well past dark, and sometimes even when it does. Anyway, it's never really dark in the city. (Not like in the woods, where on cloudy nights, you can barely see your own skin.)
Gale never buys a car. (He doesn't see the point. He can get anywhere he needs to go on foot.) But sometimes he thinks about taking the bus out of town, out past the quarries where there's good fishing and hunting, out where he can see the stars in the night sky. A couple times, he stops at the ticket booth, watching the travelers with their bags tucked under their arms, reaching out to pull their little ones close when they stray too far. Gale buys a coffee, watching from his bench, but he never gets in line.
It isn't that he doesn't remember the feel of soft ground under the soles of his boots. It isn't that he doesn't miss it. The smell of campfire burning, the sound of an arrow whizzing past, dangerously close, the sound of Katniss' laughter, teasing.
Truth is?
He just doesn't like to think about it.
-
But the past is a funny thing. Just when you think you've escaped...
"Katnip?" he says into his phone. It's three in the morning and the voice at the other end goes quiet, choking back a sob. "Katniss?" he says her name this time, lower, more assuredly. He can recognize her by her breathing.
"Gale?" she says, her voice nothing but a husk.
"Yeah," he says. "I'm here."
"I just..." she stops, and he hears the sound of movement through the phone, the sound of a door closing behind her. "I just needed to hear your voice, you know?"
Gale closes his eyes, runs a hand over his face, steeling himself. "I know."
-
There's a girl who works at this diner where he often stops for breakfast. She's about his age, maybe a year or two older, and she always gives him an extra slice of pie, in case he should ever order any.
"You remind me of Sunday mornings," she tells him. And she says it in a way that sounds like it means something.
Gale imagines her dark curls in a braid, and admires her quick reflexes when he accidentally knocks his fork off the table. That night he takes her back to his place, peels off her uniform, and gives her something besides Sunday morning to think about when she pours his coffee at the diner. She kisses the corner of his eyes, whispers into his ear, "you got something dark in you, don't you?"
He asks her where she's from, and she sits up, twists her hair into a pile on top of her head. "Twelve," she says. "But you're not from here either, are you?"
"No," he says, the sound of an approaching siren outside his open window, red and blue illuminating her skin. "I'm not."
He grabs her by the elbow and pulls her back to him, the sirens deafening now.
He'll have to find someplace new for breakfast, a new route, a new walk, a new way to disappear. And it makes him sad, to think about her, waiting there for him. But he knows he won't go back anyway.
-
The next time he stops at the ticket booth, he doesn't get in line for coffee.
-fin
fandom; count: the hunger games; gale hawthorne (gale/katniss); 590
notes: for this ficathon written for
stainofmylove (also, holy crap i actually wrote fic, you guys!) Gale only walks city streets these days.
Concrete, street vendors selling flowers and trinkets, quaint cafes with outdoor seating, car horns honking, the smell of gasoline and hot dogs on the air.
He makes his trek daily, when he can, when work doesn't keep him well past dark, and sometimes even when it does. Anyway, it's never really dark in the city. (Not like in the woods, where on cloudy nights, you can barely see your own skin.)
Gale never buys a car. (He doesn't see the point. He can get anywhere he needs to go on foot.) But sometimes he thinks about taking the bus out of town, out past the quarries where there's good fishing and hunting, out where he can see the stars in the night sky. A couple times, he stops at the ticket booth, watching the travelers with their bags tucked under their arms, reaching out to pull their little ones close when they stray too far. Gale buys a coffee, watching from his bench, but he never gets in line.
It isn't that he doesn't remember the feel of soft ground under the soles of his boots. It isn't that he doesn't miss it. The smell of campfire burning, the sound of an arrow whizzing past, dangerously close, the sound of Katniss' laughter, teasing.
Truth is?
He just doesn't like to think about it.
-
But the past is a funny thing. Just when you think you've escaped...
"Katnip?" he says into his phone. It's three in the morning and the voice at the other end goes quiet, choking back a sob. "Katniss?" he says her name this time, lower, more assuredly. He can recognize her by her breathing.
"Gale?" she says, her voice nothing but a husk.
"Yeah," he says. "I'm here."
"I just..." she stops, and he hears the sound of movement through the phone, the sound of a door closing behind her. "I just needed to hear your voice, you know?"
Gale closes his eyes, runs a hand over his face, steeling himself. "I know."
-
There's a girl who works at this diner where he often stops for breakfast. She's about his age, maybe a year or two older, and she always gives him an extra slice of pie, in case he should ever order any.
"You remind me of Sunday mornings," she tells him. And she says it in a way that sounds like it means something.
Gale imagines her dark curls in a braid, and admires her quick reflexes when he accidentally knocks his fork off the table. That night he takes her back to his place, peels off her uniform, and gives her something besides Sunday morning to think about when she pours his coffee at the diner. She kisses the corner of his eyes, whispers into his ear, "you got something dark in you, don't you?"
He asks her where she's from, and she sits up, twists her hair into a pile on top of her head. "Twelve," she says. "But you're not from here either, are you?"
"No," he says, the sound of an approaching siren outside his open window, red and blue illuminating her skin. "I'm not."
He grabs her by the elbow and pulls her back to him, the sirens deafening now.
He'll have to find someplace new for breakfast, a new route, a new walk, a new way to disappear. And it makes him sad, to think about her, waiting there for him. But he knows he won't go back anyway.
-
The next time he stops at the ticket booth, he doesn't get in line for coffee.
-fin
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no subject
Date: 2013-04-21 01:06 am (UTC)This was my favorite line:
"Gale?" she says, her voice nothing but a husk.
I almost bought corn on the cob to day and I could just hear the rustle of dry corn husks in this line. I missed your writing, girl!
no subject
Date: 2013-04-23 12:49 pm (UTC)Hee! Wow, what a compliment. I kinda missed it too.