He has a routine. Every day, before noon, he checks the snares. One of the things that he always knew is that it would be terrible to let an animal suffer longer than it had to in fear. It was one of the things that the Capitol either never understood or never cared about. Gale knew better than that. It's something that he keeps up with on the ( Read more... )

It's late. It's very late but he can't stay out all night, not even if Helena's bed was wide and warm and her arms were welcoming. He can't stay because of Katniss, because of knowing how rarely she sleeps through the night. He has to be there, in case she wakes. He kicks his boots off next to the door and pads through the bedroom, stripping ( Read more... )

It's sort of a peace-offering. They haven't really talked since the last time, since they argued, but now Gale's walking towards Hiccups' hut with a boar skin over his shoulder. His shirt's pretty much ruined at this rate, anyway. He's pretty much used to Katniss being furious with him, but he can only take that from one friend at once ( Read more... )

With nearly a week since the last time he saw her, he knows better than to go calling for her in the middle of the night, much as he might want to, because he could do with arms wrapped around him. Still, he waits until he runs into her, by chance, in the shade of one of the big trees outside the compound. He's fresh out of the shower, his hair ( Read more... )

It took a while to understand the machines but he's got it now. He was more used to his Mom doing laundry in a big wooden tub, up to her elbows in suds, her hands cracked and red. After his Dad had died, his Mom had started taking in laundry and Gale had helped out; they'd all learned how to. He'd grown up with the smell of laundry soap and ( Read more... )

He doesn't sleep well. He dreams about Posey and his Mom's hands and his brothers. He dreams about them thin and hungry. He dreams about Katniss and wakes up flushed and sad with no real memory of what he was actually dreaming. His new bed is wide and empty and not his. He dresses in the dark and shoulders his bow ( Read more... )

While he's still more aware of his back than any human being ever needs to be, he's honestly starting to feel better. Paul has stopped making disapproving noises every time he cuts the bandages away. It's going to scar, but it's going to heal too. And nobody died. Gale has no word for what he's lost here, compounded every time he runs into ( Read more... )

It's taken a while, but he knows the island like the back of his hand. He has snares set among trees were people rarely go, set back from the path and he does well off them. He's hunting with his shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbow, his bow slung on his shoulder. There's a handful of good hand-made arrows in his quiver; they fly true. Checking ( Read more... )

It's always been true: he feels better in the woods. It's hot here, but not the aggressive humidity of Kentucky in the summertime. It's a cooler, moving heat. He's always been good at moving silently through the trees, and the clothes that has from the box are worn and comfortable. The boots are his own. He's got a bow slung over his shoulder ( Read more... )

All the way back to the fence, he's thinking about it: there's an uprising in District 8. On the surface, he's still furious with Katniss, but it's more than that. Underneath, his heart is racing a mile a minute because, if they can rise up in Eight then they could do the same in Twelve and then anything is possible. All of his life, Gale's been ( Read more... )