#adessa

A bear and his honey🐻💖🍯

Actual fic! I stir from the depths of writer's block.

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Author Notes:

I'm back for sort of some writing! I found @lorata's world and character building for District Two so comprehensive that sometimes when I get attached to a messed up character, I start applying them to their District Two world. I've written posts about who House MD characters' mentor would be, and I was inspired to actually write some scenes.

This one isn't dialogue heavy (shocking for me) but I did think it was necessary to set up the fusion of the House characters and Hunger Games world. It's primarily hurt/comfort.

The timeline of the character victories is very unrealistic (the gamemakers would never let District Two win this much) but oh well, this is a weird AU/crossover fic. The Hunger Games divergence here is what if Cashmere couldn't face what her life would be after her victory? So the 62nd and 63rd Games would go to Two. Also Enobaria's victory in the 62nd with Nero as a mentor is replaced by Lisa (Cuddy) with Nero as a mentor. Later, a "what if one of the District Two tributes listened to their mentors and killed Finnick in the bloodbath of the 65th" for Wilson's victory. Sorry to Finnick and Enobaria, but this is still technically a House AU.

Also Hunger Games tech is weird. The kind of prosthetic I describe I think fits with Capitol technology.

Lorata's District Two holds that volunteers ditch their last names so as unnatural as it is, House is Gregory, Cuddy will be Lisa, and Wilson will be James. I know, I know.

Many thanks to Lorata for their permission to use their characters. And for their work in general. It's absolutely stellar.

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Trigger warnings: references to child abuse, depictions of violence, ableism, dystopian government horribleness

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The story:

The first connection he makes when arriving at the Victor’s Village is with his mentor, Adessa. Good, obedient Victors bond with their mentors in the Capitol, seeing as the mentor is always there. And saved their life, or something. But Gregory is and has always been dedicated to ignoring tradition and making his own rules. Which is why it is super fucking annoying that he found someone whose rules he listens to. At least he was able to maintain his rage for a couple weeks. That’s almost something.

If he were the type of person to say sappy shit like she’s the parent he never had, or that he would be way more tolerant of authority if they were all like her, well, he would say it. But he’s not, so he doesn’t, end of story. Well, not out loud at least.

But he did hate her at first. On account of waking up in the Capitol hospital missing his leg. 

He remembers the final fight, Cashmere sticking her poisoned knife into his thigh as he barely managed to dodge, knowing it should have struck something vital. He also remembers when he ran her through with one of his short swords, and she leaned in close with blood staining her teeth, looked at his leg, and whispered that at least he’d have something to remember her by. 

He couldn’t shake the feeling that she had planned for him to win, even though he knows she hated him. That maybe the thought of him being the one to kill her was outweighed by the fear of what victory would mean for a girl from District One. Hurting him was the only way she could make it clear that he hadn’t beaten her. They had fought in training after it became clear she didn’t find him funny. During the almost mandatory pack banter, they played up the kind of sexual tension that only works when built on actual loathing tension. They tried to kill each other in the career pack split. She had been fighting for keeps then, he is certain. But he doesn’t know about the finale. One of the first things he let Adessa help him with was the feeling that she, his enemy, had gifted him his life and victory, only hurting his leg as a token of her (lack of) esteem. 

Hell of a token, though. After the adrenaline of the fight he felt the pain, the agonizing pain, worse than anything he had felt in his eighteen years of enduring torture. But he made it to the hovercraft walking on both his legs. 

He had his leg. He woke up without it.

He hated his mentor for the entire week it took to get back to the district. He endured the doctors talking about the newest prosthetics. He only barely listened to Adessa’s instructions on the proper humility to show to President Snow in order to avoid being summarily executed. He hated it. He hated looking the President in the eye and talking about how happy he was that he would be an ambulatory cripple, and how thankful he was for the Capitol’s mercy. He hated Adessa viciously, blamed her for taking away his choice even now that he had won and should have some fucking control over his life, but he listened because what she said made sense and he wasn’t suicidal.

After they finally got to the Village, it was another week until she was sure he was physically healthy enough for a hike. She took him deep into the forest under the guise of helping the prosthetic map his old neural pathways. When they were far enough she was certain no one or nothing would overhear, she gifted him with the truth.

No coddling, no hiding, no softening the words for the fragile, crippled baby Victor.

She told him what she overheard the doctors talking about. How the muscle in his thigh had died. They could save his leg, but they would have to remove the muscle almost entirely. He wouldn’t be able to walk without a cane, and he would almost certainly be in excruciating pain for the rest of his life. And then one of them had commented on how living with this “challenge” would be such a show of District Two bravery at its finest. The other had waved the comment off, but did say that it would show District Two that it wasn’t invulnerable. It wasn’t immune from the pain of the Games. Wouldn’t want them to get cocky, now that they’ve won twice in a row.

They didn’t know Adessa had overheard. Five minutes later they “briefed her” on the options. She asked them whether removing the leg entirely would lessen the risk of chronic pain. They admitted that it would, almost entirely, but insisted they could save it. She ordered them, as Gregory’s medical proxy, to remove his leg. They talked up their surgery, she insisted on amputation. They invoked the President’s support of the brilliance of the surgical technique, Adessa had held firm, affecting District Two's distrust of new technology.

She then looked Gregory in the eye and explained to him that yes, he would have to do insufferable press about living as an amputee. But it was nothing compared to the nightmares they’d force him through with a visible limp or mobility aid. The realistic-looking prosthetic, and its robotic technology helping him walk, would lessen the image image the Capitol press wanted. If Adessa had chosen the surgery, they would want to see Gregory's scar in every interview. They would only ever describe him in terms of his cane and gait. They would expect him to be soft and welcoming and unobtrusive— because surely an obviously disabled Victory couldn’t be frightening.

And even that was nothing compared to the inescapable pain they would make him endure with a smile and a humble word. 

Nothing compared to how much danger he would be in if the President decided District Two was getting uppity, and forced Gregory onto morphling to cope with his pain, with the purpose of getting him addicted— thus showing the district one of their symbols was “weak.” How even then he would still be expected to praise his torturers.

She held eye contact and told him that he had been unconscious, and she had used her decades of experience navigating the Capitol to make a judgment call. 

She hadn’t been able to stop her first Victor from falling into the claws of the Capitol, and she wouldn’t let it happen again. 

She wanted him to recover and finally live without the constant threat of physical pain. He had to stop himself from widening his eyes when she told him that he deserved a life with as little pain as possible.

So, she made them cut off his leg, she concluded. It seemed to her the only rational thing to do.

And then she did something the Centre had told him no mentor would do. Because mentors made choices for their Victors and took it as their due. She told him if he still thought she had made the wrong decision, she would apologize. She would make it up to him. He should have had control over his body, she had said with a viciousness he knew couldn’t be just about him.

He had stared back at her, shocked, feeling as though the world had been shaken from its axis. 

It somehow hadn’t occurred to him that she genuinely cared if he suffered. That she wasn’t just blindly exercising her power, as every authority in his life had done before her. She didn’t want him to hurt. She respected him. She talked to him as someone worthy of the facts. He was a person to her, not just a symbol of her prestige or the district’s strength. He was a person, and she wanted to help him.

He scanned her face, looking for the slightest hint of falsehood, he didn’t find it. Her stare was firm and unwavering. It wasn’t warm, but it was honest. 

He wanted to believe her, he wanted to trust her so badly it shocked him. Something in his chest hurt, because he couldn’t shut out the hope that this time it would be different. He should know better, but that knowledge was drowned by the desperate chorus in his mind that maybe, maybe, someone cared.

It allowed him, for one moment, to force himself to take her at her word. To consider the merits of the argument she presented.

In a moment that will definitely have sweeping strings behind in the soapy biopic he’ll make about himself, he realized she had made the right call. 

She made the right call. For him. Even though the Capitol didn’t want her to. She put his needs ahead of the Capitol— he’ll maybe leave that part out of the script.

When he makes the movie, he’ll definitely also leave out how his next thought, that repeated in his mind over and over, was that maybe he’d be safe now. 

Safe. 

He had never, ever, in his life, been safe.

And for some stupid fucking reason this robbed him of his ability to communicate beyond a nod, and produced a shit-ton of tears. He blamed the psych meds then and he blames them now, but still, a shit-ton of tears. So. Many. Fucking. Tears.

But before he could start properly hating himself for showing he wasn’t worthy of her respect with such a weak display, she moved into his line of sight. She carefully placed her hand on his shoulder, giving him time to register it as no threat. 

She didn’t crowd him into a suffocating hug. She didn’t force him to speak. She didn’t patronize him with stupid “comforting” nonsense. 

She let him cry —loudly and messily, like a small child that had never been forced into an ice-bath and thus didn’t know to shut the fuck up before someone heard— and she let him feel her steady, calm presence behind him. If he moved one of his hands to grasp her hand, just for a second, neither of them needed to talk about it. 

When he calmed down, he let his eyes reach hers again, blue meeting brown. And they stayed like that, not speaking but understanding each other, for a long moment. Finally she nodded, and he nodded back, and they exchanged small, barely-there smiles.

“We should continue our walk,” she told him. “The prosthetic does work better the more impulses it receives from the brain. Additionally, it is unseasonably cool today, and therefore we will be less likely to dehydrate on a longer journey, compared to tomorrow’s forecast.”

That made sense. Something making sense grounded him. It let him start thinking clearly. Maybe he’d feel better if his new leg worked more like his old. 

He still didn’t want to look at it, but the prosthetic no longer made him want to rip it off his body and beat everyone in the vicinity, especially Adessa, to death. 

“That’s a good idea.”

They returned to the village’s main hiking path and continued towards the lake. Gregory hated the walk prior to their conversation. The not-quite-connected prosthetic made him slightly unsteady, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that if/when a tribute burst out of the bushes, he wouldn’t be able to fight. He had felt helpless, like his mere presence would bring someone violent and angry to hurt him in his weakened state. When he had looked at Adessa, he wondered if she was judging him, or if she was enjoying having her power over him cemented in such a physical way. She could do whatever she wanted to him and he couldn’t even run. 

After The Talk (as he would forever call it, earning an amused smirk from Adessa) it was different.

He still felt helpless, for fleeting moments. But less so. When he felt the tell-tale squeezing in his chest, he subtly looked over at his mentor, walking a comfortable distance away, but still next to him. This time looking at her was strangely comforting.

It took him a while to place the not-unpleasant feeling that had settled across his mind: he felt less alone. 

He felt like maybe he really did have someone that would protect him.

He’s the messed up kind of person that needed to win the damn Hunger Games to get anything good in his life. But at least it worked. 

Adessa: You said 'bye Nero' twice.

Hopped on this bandwagon... actually I started drawing this the moment I saw them on Sunday

I have been working on this for almost a week. It’s finally finished!!

The flat one is how I started out The second one is the finalization with all the minute details.

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Beetee Latier Summary: