#gressida

They’d run into each other in a cozy bar in the city of Cuertos, Panem. In the years following the Rebellion, the building of a New Panem had begun. Cities appeared in the remnants of the former Districts, populations slowly reclaiming parts of land that had been forbidden for too long. The new government started to organize the regions, eliminating the old divisions between districts in an attempt to create a new map.  The country was divided into four regions, each of them further subdivided into Counties.

A national movement was initiated to christen everything with brand new names, as a way to start over with something new, maybe even better. Cuertos was the most important town of the Southwest Region (yes, the names were that original), which was itself divided into twelve counties, going from the blue of the Western Ocean to the burnt orange of the Rocky Desert. The tall man in a pristine suit climbed down off his stool, a small smile on his lips before turning to hug the woman in front of her. “Nobody in that fancy office of yours told you I was coming?” Cressida asked, leaving a kiss on Gale’s cheek. “They might have tried. I’m still going through last month’s memos, so there’s a chance I’ll get the reminder in two weeks.” He winked at his long time friend. “Always busy, Hawthorne.” “Yeah, what can I say? I love my job.” "Do you?“ she added, conversationally, as if asking about his mother and siblings. The question was direct, as Cressida’s words usually were. They were never mean, or malicious. She always aimed straight to the heart of things.  Maybe that’s why she was such a good journalist. "Why wouldn’t I?” Gale waved to flag down the bartender. “What are you having?” Cressida took the stool next to his, the blonde hair on her shaven head so different from the military styles of the patrons around them.  Her green eyes were luminous in the darkened bar decorated for Christmas, a holiday from before the Dark Days revived after the fall of Snow’s Regime. “Whatever you’re having is good.” The bartender brought them two glasses half-filled with an amber liquid whose reflections danced on the wooden bar. Cressida swirled her drink, eyes focused on the ice cubes dangling in it. “You haven’t answered me, you know,” she asked, her voice softer. “About?” “Do you love your job?” She almost didn’t hear the sigh that escaped the mouth of the man sitting next to her. Almost. “Of course I do. It’s such an opportunity to be part of rebuilding a country. I couldn’t say no.” Gale’s tone was flat, his words obviously rehearsed for the upteenth time. “Couldn’t you?” “Why do you keep asking this, Cressida?” She kept her eyes on the dancing liquid. “Because you keep bullshitting me.” Cressida heard the ruffle of clothes but still didn’t move. She took her time, taking a slow sip of her drink, before setting her glass back on the bar. Then, she turned, crossing her legs. Gale faced her, wearing an angered expression, a dangerous sparkle in his eyes. Cressida only smiled more, pushing a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear. “Well, it didn’t take much to get you back, Hawthorne. So. Do you like your job? And you don’t expect me to be afraid of you, do you?” There was a hint of provocation in her words now. Her left hand fell down to her thigh, drawing gentle pattern on the soft material of her pants.

“Who do you think you are, Cressida? Coming here and lecturing me like I’m some fucking 12-year old?” “That’s because you behave like a 12 year-old boy, Gale.” There was fire in his eyes now, the flash of something Cressida remembered last seeing some ten years before. “You keep playing the smart guy in a suit, when in fact you’re still a teenage boy wandering the woods, pining after the girl who will never be his.” Anger turned into shock on Gale’s face at hearing Cressida’s words. “How can you…. This is not about Katniss!” She could hear that underneath the shock, there was sadness in his words. “Of course it’s about Katniss, Gale.” Her left hand left her thigh, gently landing on his chest, where his heart was beating fast. “It’s always been about her. But she was never yours. And she never will be.” He sighed heavily, all the fire fleeing him. “I know.” “She chose Peeta years ago, years before you ever had feelings for her.” “No!” he said savagely. There was no way Katniss had fallen for the baker’s son without him noticing. “He won her over the day he gave her the bread, when she almost died.” “It’s just a story he made up for the Games. Katniss would have told me.” “Would she? Did she always tell you everything?” There was a challenge in Cressida’s voice, as if she was daring him to contradict her. Gale opened her mouth, obviously ready to say something, but no sound came out. Nothing. He kept replaying scenes in his head. How Katniss had always fondled whatever piece of bread she traded from the bakery back in their hunting days. How sometimes he could see her gaze lingering over the worn building. How she had turned down an afternoon of hunting to go see a stupid wrestling tournament. How over the years, she had never made a move towards him, her best friend, Gale Hawthorne, finally giving her attention to another boy. Her man. “There you are. You were never her choice. Peeta was.” She had taken her hand from his chest, turning back in her seat to finish her drink. “There are other fish in the sea, Gale. Some even willing to get caught,” she tossed the words casually over her shoulder. Cressida climbed down off the bar stool, leaving a note on the counter before leaning in to kiss Gale’s cheek.  It was decidedly different from the kiss she’d given him in greeting. Without another word, she left the bar. He stared at his glass, her words echoing in his mind. Maybe it was time to really let her go. To move on. Start his own life. Stop pretending that he might still have a chance. His eyes fell on the bank note on the counter. Something was hidden underneath it. He pushed the paper away to discover an electronic keycard to the Hills Hotel of Cuertos. He knew what it meant.  What she meant.

Bewildered, Gale stood back as the rest of the crew packed up their cameras and lights.  Cressida stood three feet away from him, reminding the lighting crew that it would be sunnier tomorrow and thanking the camera crew for being patient.  The crew disappeared down the hill, leaving them alone.  She glanced over her shoulder.  “This way,” she ordered and set off toward the newly rebuilt town in the shadow of The Nut.

  The Nut’s looming presence was part of what had him so on edge.  He lived in Two officially, but he mostly traveled around to different districts, helping to rebuild.  He’d been back before, but to see his family who lived up in the mountains, or to work, not to sit around and talk about the war and the shit he’d done.  That wasn’t something he ever wanted to revisit, but with Katniss locked away in Twelve under self-imposed isolation, the new government needed someone familiar in front of the cameras to tout their improvements.  And since pretty much every other familiar face from before the war was dead or incapacitated, that left Gale.

  So he did it, but not because he liked being in front of the cameras.  In fact, he hated it, no matter how often Cressida assured him he was a natural.  No, he did this as penance.  Penance for Prim, for Katniss, for everyone and everything he’d ruined.  Spending time in Two wasn’t as bad as being in the Capitol, but seeing The Nut while talking about how things were better now just made him feel like a goddamn liar, because things might get better for some people but not for him, not after everything he’d done.

  Cressida led him into a bar and ordered two whiskeys.  They threw the drinks back but still she was silent, apparently waiting on him.  He contemplated staying quiet just to spite her, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t really bother her much.  Other denizens of the bar were looking furtively at them, her half-shaved head and vine tattoos a dead giveaway that a Capitol citizen was in their midst.  “Why do you keep your hair like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like that.”  He motioned towards the tattoos.  “If you grew your hair out you’d blend in better; people wouldn’t automatically see you as Capitol.”

  “Why do you think I want to blend in?”  Her words were sharp but her tone was neutral; bored, even.

  “People don’t like the Capitol.”

  “It’s still where I’m from.”  She shrugged and signaled for another round of whiskey.  “I’m not going to hide that so other people feel better.  If this new government is serious about changing things, then that means Capitol people are included too.  Just because we were on the wrong side doesn’t mean we have to disappear entirely.”

  “You weren’t on the wrong side,” Gale pointed out, fiddling with the heavy shot glass on the bar.

  “No, but my family was.” 

  Gale looked up sharply.  Cressida had a family?  Somehow, the thought had never occurred to him; he had put her in the category of almost-alien due to her Capitol heritage.  He felt slightly ashamed of himself.

  Cressida smirked.  “Didn’t think I had a family, huh?  Well, I do.  Or did.  Mom, Dad, and an older sister.”

  Gale was flabbergasted at the way she could off handedly mention that her entire family died in the war.  “I’m—I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.”

  Cressida furrowed her brow.  “Sorry?  It’s fine.  It’s--oh, they aren’t dead.  Just not speaking to me.  They had it pretty good before the war, and since I sided with the rebels, they blame me.”  She waited for the bartender to finish pouring her a drink and took a sip. 

  “Even your sister?”  Gale couldn’t imagine a world where he never again spoke to Rory or Vick or Posy.

  “Her husband died in the attack on the Capitol, so yeah, especially her.” 

  “That’s…terrible.”

  “It is what it is,” she said dismissively.  “Anyway, onto you.  When is this little self-imposed sentence of yours going to end?”

  “Sentence?”

  “Don’t play dumb.  You’ve been acting like you’re the only person who went through shit in the war.  You aren’t.  And you aren’t the only person who lost someone.  So I’m asking how long you plan on punishing yourself for things that aren’t your fault.”

  Gale tossed back the remaining whiskey in his glass.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he warned.

  “Don’t I?  Look, I don’t care how fucking guilty you feel.  You didn’t drop those bombs on City Center.  That was Coin, and she’s dead.”

  “But—“

  “But nothing.  Who is this helping?  How is beating yourself up for the rest of your life for a call that wasn’t even yours to make going to make things better?”  Gale shrugged, too pissed at her to talk, so she kept going.  “Look, I’m sorry your little mockingjay didn’t pick you, but she was never going to pick you anyway.”

  Gale stood, furious.  “Don’t fucking call her that,” he gritted out through his teeth.

  “What, mockingjay, or yours?” she sneered.

  “Both.”

  To his surprise, Cressida grinned.  “See, this is you. Moping doesn’t suit you, Hawthorne.  You do things.  You’re fire and rage and action, and not this sullen brooding.”

  “So what’s your point?” he sat back down begrudgingly.

  She sighed.  “My point is that eventually, you’re going to have to move on with your life.  And if we’re going to film this, it should probably be sooner rather than later.”

  “Fine.”  He didn’t really mean it, though.  He just wanted her to stop talking.   “You were a lot nicer to Katniss,” he mumbled, hating how petulant it sounded.  She was only five years older than him, but Cressida had a way of making him feel immature.

  “Katniss needed nice.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “No,” she snorted, seeming amused by his insinuation.  Cressida smirked again and ordered yet another round, somehow more sober than Gale.  When it was time to leave the floor swayed dangerously under his feet, so Cressida pulled his arm over her shoulder.  “Let’s get you home, soldier.”

  “Don’t fucking call me that,” he snarled, annoyed that the ground wouldn’t stay put.

  “Whatever.”  Cressida dug her shoulder in and helped him down the street to the apartment that was officially designated as his, despite the fact that he only spent a few weeks a year there.  She dropped him unceremoniously on the couch.  “9am tomorrow.  Don’t be late and don’t be hungover,” she ordered.

  “Mmmmhmm.” The couch sank under his weight and his eyes felt heavy.  She rolled her eyes and turned to go as Gale grabbed her wrist.  She looked back at him and raised an eyebrow.  “Cressida,” he said in a tone that sounded suspiciously like begging.  He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but suddenly he didn’t want to be alone.

  She twisted her wrist from his fingers.  “Yeah, no.  I’m not going to be that for you.  Tomorrow, 9am.  Don’t fuck it up this time.”

  The next day went smoothly, despite the pounding in Gale’s temples.  He made it through her questions quickly enough, without getting distracted or sullen.  Gale tried to talk to her afterwards—maybe apologize for being a jackass, but she was too busy packing up.  So he left and headed up to see his mom and siblings for a few days until the government called him back with another project.

  Gale didn’t see Cressida for another three months, when he was sent out to Seven for the opening of a new school.  Traveling around to these stupid events was almost like being back on the Star Squad and he hated it, but every time he made noises about stopping Heavensbee would start talking about roping Katniss back in.  Gale couldn’t do that to Katniss—not after everything he’d done to her already.  She deserved peace and quiet back in Twelve, so he caught the train up to Seven instead.

  This time wasn’t so bad.  He hadn’t seen any fighting in Seven, so there weren’t any ghosts to haunt him there.  Just lots of trees, really.  They were staying in the Victor’s Village, which had remained government property after the Revolution.  Victors who wanted to were allowed stay, and the rest of the houses were left for the districts to parcel out.  Seven had chosen to leave them open for traveling government employees, officially because it was fairest to the district that no one received the houses and in actuality because they were in the middle of fucking nowhere.  Most of the crew elected to stay in a brand new hotel back in town, but Gale opted for the Village.  The woods felt like home but without the painful memories—it was nice.

  He sat out on the back porch, looking over a stack of horrifically boring reports Paylor had sent for him to review, enjoying the autumn breeze.  Footsteps alerted him to Cressida’s presence as she came into view holding a dusty brown bottle and still in the ludicrously tight black dress she’d worn for the shoot, so short that in Twelve it would have caused a scandal.  “Hey there,” she called with what looked like a smirk but he’d learned over time was actually a smile, “look what I found—I’m pretty sure this legally called hooch.”  Cressida rested her hip against the railing, took a pull from the bottle and grimaced.  She held the bottle out to him expectantly.

  It tasted like fire and felt about the same going down.  He coughed and spluttered, which made Cressida let out a bark of laughter.  She looked out into the woods that were turning gold in the setting sun.  “Must remind you of home, huh?” she ventured.

  Sometimes Gale forgot that thanks to shooting all those propos for Thirteen—and all the ones since—Cressida knew him better than almost anyone.  Well, anyone still speaking to him.  “Yeah, sort of,” he admitted.  “Different though.”

  “Different how?”  She looked genuinely interested.

  “Different trees, for one.  Smells different too.”

  She gave him that little half smile again.  “See, and here I thought trees were just trees.”  Cressida snatched the bottle out of his hands and took another swig, making a face as she swallowed.  She passed it back to Gale and wandered over where he was sitting, peering over his shoulder.  “Looks boring,” she observed.

  “It is,” he confirmed, forcing down another mouthful of the booze.  “Why are we drinking this, by the way?”

  “What else is there to do?”  She arched a brow at him and something shifted.  It was almost a dare, but not quite.

  Gale wrapped his fingers around her wrist and flashed her a smile he hadn’t used in a long time—not since the slag heap.  It seemed like it belonged in another life, to another person.  Cressida’s eyes bored into him and he tugged her arm gently, pulling her down towards him.

  Gale kissed her first, but within seconds she had taken control.  Her kiss was cool—cool, calm and collected, just like her, and she slid her tongue in his mouth to brush against his.  She tasted like the booze, powerful and heady.  A rush of need flowed through him; a need for connection, for release, for her.  Cressida pulled back slightly.  “You sure?” He nodded.  “I’m not your girlfriend,” she clarified, and Gale nodded again.   Cressida straightened and walked into the house, her heels clacking loudly against the wood.  “Well?” she asked over her shoulder, “what are you waiting for?”

  He hurried after her up the stairs, his heart in his throat.  He wasn’t exactly sure why they were doing this, but he didn’t stop to question it.  He entered the bedroom and Cressida spun around, kissing him hard.  In her heels she was almost as tall as he was, her lips moving easily from his mouth to his jaw.  She tugged at his shirt and stepped back.  “Off,” she ordered.  He pulled it over his head and she nodded to his jeans next.  “Those too.”  He toed off his shoes and shoved his jeans down his hips, stepping out and kicking them behind him.

  Cressida crooked a finger at him and he followed, rock hard and thrumming with anticipation.

  “Will you do whatever I say?” she asked breathily.  Gale nodded eagerly, but she shook her head.  “No—will you do whatever I say?”  Her eyes darkened and he saw a flicker of another question there.  He caught her meaning and nodded again, this time more slowly, and swallowed thickly.  Cressida nodded back and raised her arms.  Gale’s hands dropped to her sides and curled under the hem of her dress, slowly working it up the smooth curves of her hips and waist and over her head.

  She tossed her head as he threw the dress to the ground, the unshaved half of her hair swishing back over her shoulder.  Cressida wasn’t wearing a bra, only a tiny scrap of lace pretending to be panties.  She kissed him again—finally—and scraped her nails down his bare back.  Gale kissed down her throat, smiling to himself when she moaned as he gently nipped the spot between her shoulder and neck.  His hands cupped her breasts, kneading them and teasing her nipples with his thumbs.  Gale dropped a hand down, feeling the lithe length of her body, and plucked at the thin strand of lace over her hip.

  Cressida stepped back once more, the backs of her knees meeting the mattress.  Without breaking eye contact she shimmied her panties down and sat back on the bed, still wearing her sharp black heels.  Gale’s breath caught in his throat as she once again motioned for him to come closer.  “Kneel,” she said with a hint of steel in her voice.

  Gale knelt between her thighs, understanding what she wanted.  He realized abruptly that he hadn’t been with anyone since before the war and a wave of self-doubt crashed through him.  Cressida leaned forward, that commanding smirk still on her face but her eyes were soft.  She put a finger under his chin and tipped it up.  “You okay?”  In response Gale captured her lips in a kiss, unwilling to let her think he was scared or nervous, unwilling to let her down.  He cuffed a hand behind her neck and drew her forward slightly before releasing her and kissing his way down her throat and between her breasts.  He took one dark pink nipple in his mouth, sucking hard.  Cressida’s fingers curled into his hair as he moved down, trailing his lips over her stomach, nibbling at the soft skin just below her hipbone and smiling at the mewling noise she made in response.

  Cressida moved her legs apart more, opening herself before him in an unmistakable hint.  Gale used one hand to spread her folds apart and dipped his head, tonguing her clit teasingly.  “More,” she demanded, and a small part of him wanted to rebel, to keep teasing her, but a far larger part of him liked being ordered around like this, liked having someone else in control.  So he pressed the flat of his tongue up the length of her folds and was rewarded by a series of breathy moans falling from her lips.  Her fingers redoubled their grip in his hair when he thrust his tongue into her entrance.   “More,” she said again, although this time it sounded more like a plea than a command.  Gale moved his attention back to her clit and slid a finger inside of her, her walls warm and welcoming.  She moved her knee over his shoulder, the point of her heel digging into his spine as her breathing became ragged and she arched her back, clenching down on his finger and letting out a sharp moan as she came.

  Cressida leaned back on her hands and gave him a crooked half-smile.  “Not bad,” she teased, and kicked her shoes off.  “Come here,” she ordered again as he shed his boxers and together they stretched out on the bed.  Cressida rustled through the nightstand behind him and came up with a condom.  “On,” she said and handed it to him.  Gale rolled the condom on and she pushed him onto his back, straddling him.  “Ready?”  He was achingly hard and could only manage a jerk of his head before she sank down on him.  She set a leisurely, torturous pace, arching her back and rolling her hips sinuously, practically daring him to come before she did.  Gale gritted his teeth and held on, even after she lifted one of his hands from her hip and encouraged him to knead her breast, even after she took his other hand and guided it to her clit.  He held off until he felt her start to lose control and only then let himself follow her over the edge, groaning loudly.

  Cressida stopped moving and hung her head, panting for breath, and then swung her leg over him as she climbed off the bed.  She started hunting for her panties, which she stepped back into as soon as she found them.  Gale watched her, puzzled.  “Where are you going?” he asked quietly, the condom still on his now-softening cock.

  She pulled her dress back on, shimmying slightly to get it down over her hips.  “I said I’m not your girlfriend, Gale.  I’m going back to my place.”

  “Yeah, but—“

  “No.  But nothing.  You’ve got some shit to figure out, and I’m not going to help you hide from that.”  Her face softened a little.  “They’re going to want us out in Four some time next month.  I’ll see you then, okay?”  She leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, scooped up her heels, and padded out the door.

  Gale lay on his back as her footsteps receded and the door closed, wondering what, exactly, had just happened.

  Cressida left before him the next day and he didn’t see her at all until—as she had predicted—they were called to Four for yet another goddamn propo.  Cressida was all business through the shoot, greeting him like a casual acquaintance and nothing more.  He had almost decided he’d imagined their time in Seven when she knocked on his hotel room door, long after everyone else had gone to bed.  She pushed him against the wall before he’d even finished saying hello, and from that night on, they fell into a routine: travel alone to the district and film the propo as if they were little more than friends, and then Cressida would appear at his room, ready, willing, and completely in control.

  The longer it went on, the more he came to enjoy her demanding presence.  There was something oddly freeing about letting her order him around, letting someone else be in charge.  Gale had spent every moment since he was fourteen with the weight of expectations on his shoulders, and for the brief moments he was with Cressida, that weight lifted.

  Cressida never wavered, however.  She always left immediately afterwards, the sweat still cooling on both their skins.  There was no cruelty to it, but no kindness either—something he appreciated more than he could say.  Kindness and compassion only compounded his guilt, but with her he never had to worry about pity or soft, sad looks.

  They saw each other infrequently for nearly a year, but every time it was the same routine--until they were sent back to the Capitol to film a memorial for the Star Squad.  Gale’s stomach churned when he got the message, but at least they wouldn’t be required to go to the city center.  Plutarch wanted footage of them in the Capitol’s streets and at the memorial for fallen rebels, but that was it.  The victims from the square had a different memorial and the new government wasn’t keen on reminding people of the lingering doubts over who had dropped the bombs that ended the war.

  Gale was surprised to see Cressida checking into the same hotel at the outskirts of the Capitol.  “Don’t you live here?” he asked as they walked to the elevators.

  Cressida shrugged slightly.  “Nope.  I’ve got a place in One.”  She didn’t elaborate and Gale didn’t press the issue.  She left the elevator without another word.

  Gale waited for her that night, but as the hours dragged on he realized she wasn’t coming.  It might have been a breach of protocol, but something told him Cressida shouldn’t be alone.  He knocked on her door and heard the lock click open remotely.

  Inside, he found Cressida sitting at the tiny table near the window, an open bottle of whiskey in front of her.  Her hands shook as she poured herself another shot.  “I’m not having sex with you tonight, Hawthorne,” she said without looking up.

  Gale ignored her jibe.  “You all right?”

  “Of course I’m not fucking all right,” she threw back with a bitter laugh.  “I told Plutarch I didn’t want to do this, but he just said he’d send someone else instead, and I can’t—it’s my fault anyway, so I should film this.  It’s only fair.”

  Gale sat down across from her and pulled the whiskey bottle out of her hands.  “What do you mean, it’s your fault?  Didn’t you give me a whole speech about not holding yourself responsible for shit you didn’t do?”

  “This is different.  This—the Star Squad was my fault.  I sat in on the meetings; I fucking handpicked the people who would be most impressive on film.  Every single person who died was there because I chose them.  So yeah, I bear a lot of fucking responsibility for their deaths, and if I want to get drunk I damn well will.”  She snatched the bottle back and took a long pull, having apparently given up on pouring herself shots.

  “Have you seen it yet?”

  “Seen what?” she snarled.

  “The memorial.”

  “God no.  I—I couldn’t.  And I’ll have to see it all damn day tomorrow anyway.  An entire fucking monument to my guilt.”

  “Put your shoes on,” he ordered, taking the bottle back and screwing the cap on tightly.  “We’re going to get the worst over with tonight.”

  Finding their way to the memorial wasn’t too difficult.  After all, the path they’d taken through the city was practically burned into both their brains.  The memorial itself was just a simple stone wall with names etched into it, on a street corner in a quiet neighborhood.  It was illuminated by spotlights on the ground and Cressida froze as they drew near it.  Gale took her hand in his and knitted their fingers together.  Slowly, hesitantly, they walked hand in hand to the memorial.

  It was deserted at this time of night, although flowers lay in front of it; tokens from people who hadn’t forgotten their sacrifice.  Cressida sank to her knees in front of it, softly murmuring her apologies to the dead.  Gale stood back and let her work through her grief—he never wanted anyone’s pity, so he didn’t give her his. 

  The memorial wasn’t as hard for him.  His real crimes lay in the City Center, in the dozens of people torn apart by something he designed.  The Star Squad, for the most part, had been strangers to him.  He put them on the list of people he had failed to save—a much longer list than those he had killed himself, but a slightly easier burden to bear.  But Cressida knew them all and he let her mourn in peace.

  She turned to him almost an hour later, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.  He held his hand out and helped her to her feet and kept her hand clasped tightly in his for the long walk back to the hotel.  She didn’t let go at the hotel, and when the doors opened on her floor she pulled him along behind her, but the energy was different than their usual encounters.

  Gale walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower, the instant heat courtesy of Capitol technology sending steam billowing through the tiny space.  Even after several  years Gale was still amazed at how quickly they could have hot water.  It never failed to remind him of the cold baths in Twelve that never really got rid of the coal dust.  He helped Cressida peel off her clothes and she did the same for him.  In the shower they clung to each other, her face buried in his shoulder as the hot water pounded down on them.  She lifted her head and he watched as her makeup melted and ran—makeup had been something of a rarity in Twelve.  Seam women could never afford it, and merchant women rarely had more than cheap lipstick.  He mostly associated makeup with the outrageous fashions of the Capitol and he had never realized that Cressida wore it.  Gale was surprised to find that her eyes were a little smaller and her skin a little more wan without it.  He used his thumbs to wipe away a bit that lingered under her eyes and Cressida smiled at him, pinning her forehead against his and sighing heavily.

  Gale stepped out of the shower first and grabbed a towel for her, tenderly wrapping her in it and letting her lean on him just slightly.  They still hadn’t spoken since the memorial but it didn’t seem to matter.  They slid between the cool, smooth sheets of the bed together and he gathered her into his arms, her back curved against his chest. 

  All of this was new—more intimate, more open, just more.  “I wrote to her,” Gale whispered, breaking the silence for the first time in hours.

  “Did she write back?” she whispered back. 

  “Yeah.  She’s hunting again.  Living with him.  It was a pretty awkward letter, actually.”

  “She never was great with words,” Cressida responded and he could hear the smile in her voice.  “But she wrote back.”

  “Yeah.  She wrote back,” he agreed.  They stayed quiet until they fell asleep.

  The next morning, Cressida was still in the bed but no longer wrapped in his arms.  She watched him across the pillows, an arm’s length away.  “Thanks,” she whispered and reached her hand out to brush his hair back.  He caught it and kissed her fingertips gently.

  “Thank you too,” he whispered.  “Ready for today?”

  “I think so.  You?”

  “I think so,” he echoed, and this time, her smile was genuine.