Chapter Text
Riptide kept his head down as he made the trek home that night. Holding up the collar of his jacket to try and keep the driving rain from soaking down his neck, it wasn’t much help though. Really, he should’ve just slept on the sitting room couch, like he’d done countless times before in the past several months after having been too exhausted after meetings or battles to go back home. Either there or in the room beside Stell.
But tonight, he wanted to see his family. Hold his wife, kiss his niece and nephew. Desperately so.
They moved into a bigger house a month ago, after their old one near the docks had been burned down by peacekeepers during the outbreak of the revolution. He still felt odd wandering into this part of the District, the wealthy portion. But he was glad for it, knew it was the start of good change around here. He’d worked hard, fought harder. His family deserved the home the mayor had gifted him after learning its previous residents had been killed.
Riptide hoped they wouldn’t be offended that his family moved in.
Thunder rumbles around him, urging him faster, his boots holding a steady rhythm across the cobblestone streets. Within minutes the home is in view, the lights shining through the windows bring a smile to Rip’s face. He can see Ophelia’s silhouette on the couch, she’s holding a mug between her hands, eyes turned away from the window. Another light shines through one of the second-floor windows: Sideon’s room.
His house, where the children each had their own room. He couldn’t quite believe that either.
The front door is locked when he reaches it, and Riptide raps his knuckles against the weathered wood three times before shoving both hands deep into his jacket pockets. The sound of the lock turning is drowned out by another roll of thunder, “Rip!” Ophelia exclaims when she sees him there, “Gosh, come on, get inside!” She ushers him in quickly, closing the door behind him.
Riptide chuckles, turning and kissing her softly, “Sorry I’m back late.”
“You’re always back late these days,” She quips, then kisses him sweetly again, simply happy that he is home. She pulls away slowly, the two taking a moment to simply take the other in. Riptide will never tire of her soft features and chocolate colored hair. And certainly never tire of seeing the love that shines in her eyes when she looks at him.
Riptide takes off his coat, hanging it on one of the hooks mounted into the wall by their front door, and slips off his soaked boots, “It’s raining pretty hard out there.”
“Yes, I think the whole District’s noticed. Come on, are you hungry?”
He glances around the ground floor of their home, taking in the two couches in their sitting room. The pillows on them are askew, not unordinary in a place with young children, “No, no, I ate at the mayor’s.” He tells her, “Where’re the kids?”
As if on cue, a set of footsteps begin barreling down the stairs, “Uncle Rip!” A brunette haired boy launches himself at Riptide, the latter catching him easily.
“Hey, Sid.” He ruffles the boy’s hair, “How was your day?”
“Good! Naomi said that they may be starting school again soon!”
Ophelia lets out a breathy laugh, “Gods, I never thought I’d see a day where he’d be excited to go to school.”
“I miss my friends!” Sideon argues, “Some live on the other side of the District!” And Riptide hadn’t approved of open travel throughout yet. The guilt tugs at him a little bit. Soon, he reminds himself, he’d lift it soon.
“Speaking of that, I think it’d be a good time for a family meeting.” Riptide smiles slightly as Ophelia raises her eyebrows and Sideon goes still, “Go get your sister.” He tells the eleven-year-old.
Sideon nods, oddly quiet now. Riptide knows why though: their last meeting he’d told them of the war that was about to start. The war that he started here. After he’s gone back upstairs, Ophelia leans in and whispers, “Good or bad?”
“Good.” Rip smiles at her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders before moving into the sitting room. They’ve just taken a seat on the couch when Sideon appears again, his eight-year-old sister, Brianna, right behind him.
She smiles wide at her uncle, choosing to climb into his lap rather than sit on the couch opposite him beside her brother. “Some people came back to the District today.” Riptide tells them all, balancing the little girl on his knee. “And we had a big meeting at work with them all.”
“Finnick?” Ophelia says softly, something akin to wonder in her eyes. She’d been friends with him when she was a girl, before he’d gotten reaped into the Games. Riptide nods, and his wife smiles, “And Mags and Annie and Amos.”
“The scary old man?” Sideon asks quietly, his lips pursing together after.
Ophelia huffs, “Now, Sideon he’s not scary, he’s just…” She trails off.
“He’s a little scary.” Rip mock whispers, “Just don’t tell him that, okay?” Sideon nods. “But yes. All of our District’s Victors are back. And they told us that in this very moment,” He points down to floor to emphasize, “right now, there’re soldiers preparing to invade the Capital.”
“Really?!” Sideon beams, bouncing in place, “And you think we’ll win?”
Riptide looks to his wife, then back at each child before saying, hope in his voice, “I think we already have.”
Ophelia lets out a cry that’s part laugh and part sob, throwing her arms around Rip’s neck, “Oh, this is wonderful!”
Tears are welling in Riptide’s eyes as well, and they fall as Sideon asks gently, “So I won’t be in the Reaping next year?”
“No,” Riptide tells him, his smile widening so much his face hurts, “No more Reapings. No more Hunger Games.”
“Never again?” Brianna’s voice is small as well. The Quarter Quell will probably be the only Games she ever remembers as she grows up, and even then, she only saw bits and pieces of them.
Rip kisses the top of her head, “Never again.” He promises her. And as Sideon bounds over to embrace them all, he lets himself think about the future. One where he doesn’t have to wonder if one of the children will get reaped, where they won’t have to buy candles to light their small shack, where there won’t be whipping posts in the Square.
And every fight he’s gotten in, every hurtful word thrown at him, every innocent death…they all mean something now. They all made a difference, just like he always dreamed about.
His little family disengages from their embrace, and Riptide fills them in on other plans they discussed today. Finding teachers, checking the school’s condition, starting the year soon. He tells them about opening more shops, reopening the market once more, rebuilding, cleaning up.
He tells them about a better place, a better home.
The storm’s passed by the next morning and Stell, with a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, walks slowly next to Mags as they make their way towards Victor’s Village. Mags leans heavily on her cane but has a small smile on her face as she looks around at the District.
People are coming out in full force to help clean up the streets. Riptide had returned early this morning, with what looked like a renewed sense of purpose, sending out word for those who’ve survived to come check in at the Justice Building. He’d explained to her as she’d packed her meager belongings that he wanted to see what occupations would still be filled.
“We’ll need more teachers,” He told her, light dancing in his eyes, “And shopkeepers and farmers.” Stell had simply clapped him on the shoulder and promised to come help with cleanup in the next few days.
An older man straightens up from where he’s bent over, moving rubble to the side, as Mags and Stell pass by. He grins through the sweat beading on his face and offers them a friendly wave, “Welcome back!” He calls over.
Mags waves with her free hand, giving her own toothy smile, as Stell inclines her head, still not used to being greeted so warmly. Such a stark contrast from two years ago, when all she’d gotten were hateful whispers and cold glares.
Amos and Finnick had gone back to Victor’s Village earlier that morning, Amos had left word with Rowan, who had passed it on to Stell in the hallway as she made her way to breakfast. The man from District Seven would be by the Village later that day, he’d told her, to scout out the vacant homes.
It seemed he was fully intending to stay in District Four following the war.
For now, Stell simply enjoyed Mags’s presence, the steady thud, thud of her cane against the stone. “Are you sure you’ll be okay living by yourself?” Stell asks her now, glancing down at the older woman. She lets out a sharp yelp as Mags knocks the end of her cane into Stell’s shin, “Hey!”
Mags puts a hand on her own chest, “I’ll be just fine.” She insists, accent heavy as always. “You and Finn…” She shakes her head, “Worry too much.”
Stell huffs, “I’m not going to apologize for caring.” They walk a few steps in silence, “It’s a very rare thing for me to do,” she adds on, “You should feel honored.” Mags’s is laughing as she hits Stell in the shin again with her cane.
A weight settles onto her chest as she thinks of moving back home. On one hand, she was excited, it would be a relief. On the other hand, Finnick would be close by. He’d seek her out again, sooner rather than later, she wasn’t naïve about that. She could feel the anger in her heart simmering at just the thought of seeing him.
But Stell shoves it down as the archway comes into view, the massive fountain behind it peeking over the hill. Their homes had remained unscathed in the revolution, not one bullet even graced the exterior of any of the large homes. Stell glances down at Mags as they approach, “Welcome home, Mags.”
It’s a surreal moment, walking under the archway with Mags once more. Reading “Victor’s Village” and knowing that there will never be another one of them. Looking to Klause’s and Favian’s homes and knowing they’ll never shove open their windows again to shout at her as she walks by. Klause will never be hanging out at the bottom of her steps, a bottle hanging between two fingers. Favian’s singing would never echo off these walls again. She doesn’t realize she’s stopped walking till Mags is looking back at her.
The weeds are overgrown, most having shriveled and turned brown due to the sporadic cold nights, and the leaves that feel from the trees have all gone brown. Soon, very soon, the days would grow colder, and the nights would turn frigid. Fleetingly, Stell wonders if the people who used to come to clean their homes and keep the common areas of the Village weeded and raked of fallen leaves will resume their duties someday. Perhaps they perished as well.
And for a heartbeat, she regrets never learning any of their names.
“Stellar.”
Stell shakes her head, as though she can clear away the ghosts, “Coming.” She jogs the several feet that now separate her and Mags. “Sorry.” She apologizes, but Mags just takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. The old woman doesn’t let go, in fact, she near drags Stell to her house. Stell apologizes for not weeding her garden before her arrival, and the old woman just smiles.
Her silent cleaning question is half answered when Mags shoves a cloth into Stell’s hands only minutes after they cross the threshold, “Dust.” Mags tells her.
“What?” Mags makes a wiping motion with her hand, “I know what dusting is.” Stell retorts sharply, “Why do I have to do it?” She motions to the general house, “It’s your house.”
“Because,” Mags informs her as she hobbles over to her kitchen, “you care.” Stell snorts, muttering under her breath about old women taking advantage of her words, but she begins wiping down the surfaces of Mags’s living room.
It’s satisfying work, if only because there’s months’ worth of dust accumulated on every surface. And Stell tells herself she’s doing it because of Mags’s health and there’s no way breathing in this much dust would be good for her. She studies each photo that she wipes over or must lift up to dust beneath.
Photos of friends who’re now gone, who gave everything they could. Of ones who’ve worked so hard to see their world changed for the better. And thinking of it that way, Stell’s lips quirk upwards just a little bit as she looks at a much younger Klause. She runs the dust rag gently over the glass pane, then places the picture back down on the side table it occupied previously.
As is her nature, Stell doesn’t half-ass the job. She’s on her hands and knees, leaning forwards to reach the back of the lowest shelf of Mags’s bookshelf, when the front door opens. She goes to look up too quickly, the back of her head smashing into the shelf above her, “Fuck.” She seethes, carefully drawing back and placing a hand on the back of her head, where it now throbs even more, only adding to the near constant headache she’s had since arriving.
“Are you dusting?” Amos is standing in the living room doorway, amusement on his face as he takes in the rag in Stell’s hand the pile of books she’s stacked on the floor. Before she can reply he keeps going, “I’m glad she’s turned keeping you occupied into something of convenience for herself as well.”
It takes a few seconds for his words to sink in. She hadn’t even thought about it, what this really was. But Stell knew the trick well, they all did. Try to keep the new Victor busy once they return home, keep their thoughts away from what had happened to them. She’d done it with Annie, watched others do it to new Victors when they were mentoring for the first time. Mags had tried to do it for Stell after her first Games, but Finnick had shut her out, the District had shunned her, so she’d spiraled.
Tendrils of her hair fall into her face as she shakes her head incredulously, “That’s what this is?”
Amos smirks at her, then points to the shelf above the one she’s been working on, “You missed a spot.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“If it makes you feel better, I have Finnick raking the leaves from my yard.”
The grin that had been playing on her lips falls away at the mention of him, Amos studies her carefully, gauging her reaction. Stell wonders how long she’d be able to rake in her current condition before she’d get too tired and have to take a break. Looking down at her hands, thinking of the still-boney elbows she knows lie beneath her blouse, she knows the answer is a short amount of time. “Lucky him.” She quips, reaching for the first book of her stack and moving to put it back.
“What happened with you two?” Amos asks, his eyes narrowed. Stell can hear Mags cease moving in the kitchen, no doubt wanting to hear Stell’s answer.
Stell’s lips draw back slightly from her teeth, “That’s none of your business.” Her words are harsh.
Amos crosses his arms over his broad chest, “Look, we know losing the baby-“
Stell slams down the next book, rocking back so her knees are now off the floor, “Don’t bring up my baby.”
“You can’t just ignore it.”
“I never said I was.” Silence stretches between them, Amos looking down at Stell's hands that now rest on her flat belly.
“Is that why you’re so mad at Finnick though?”
“If I give you an answer, will you drop it?” He makes a face that she takes as ‘maybe’, and growls, “It’s not, now will you get out?”
Thankfully, the man knows when to stop pushing, “Fine,” She hears Mags go back to moving around her kitchen, “you’ll have to talk to him eventually though.”
Stell just lets out a huff and goes back to her dusting, wishing she’d thrown the book at Amos’s head instead of placing it back on the shelf.
It’s getting dark when Stell returns to her own house. Mags had found a box of pasta that hadn’t expired and a jar of sauce, so she’d taken to cooking for herself and Stell. When Stell had reached for the bottle of wine that she spotted on the top shelf, Mags had batted her hand away and insisted Stell didn’t need any of that. Not even one glass.
Other than that, the dinner had been nice. Stell and Mags had chatted the best they could about idle things. Stores that would hopefully reopen soon and new businesses they hoped to see migrate here.
Luckily, the old woman couldn’t control what Stell drank in her own home. The front door opens easily, once again left unlocked. After spending all day dusting Mags’s home, it’s an overwhelming feeling seeing her own home covered in it. She shivers slightly as she sheds her coat by the front door, hanging it up on the front hook and making a beeline from her stairs.
Her bedroom is as she left it, and it’s easy to locate a pair of warm loose pants and an oversized long-sleeved shirt. Sapphire eyes glance towards the shower for only a moment, then Stell turns on her sink, letting the water run as she makes do washing her hair in that instead. She gets water all over her tile floor when she has to walk from the sink to the shower to get shampoo and conditioner, but it’s better than having to endure the shower herself, especially when it looks so much like the one in the Capital.
Hair cleaned and dawning her comfy pajamas, she makes her way back downstairs to the kitchen, where she finds her alcohol supply…gone. “Are you kidding me?” Stell mutters, rummaging through her entire pantry. She even drags a chair over to stand on, looking in the back corner where she always has something.
Nothing.
Stell hops down from the chair, her metal foot making a distinct clank against the tiles, and strides for her front door. Sure enough, Rowan is right where she last saw him fifteen minutes earlier, in the house right across from hers. He still hasn’t closed the front door, and she shivers slightly as she pads across the stones and up his steps.
The walls are bare and immaculately clean given that no one’s ever occupied the residence before. And given the lack of furniture, Rowan’s footsteps echo down to her all the way from upstairs. Stell turns towards his kitchen, “Stell?” His voice calls down after she’s taken a few steps, but she continues on to her destination.
“Yes?” She calls back, opening the first of two large burlap bags that sit on his kitchen counter. As far as she’s heard, there was only one small grocer open at the moment and based on the bag’s contents, he had a pretty good variety.
Rowan’s footsteps pass over her head as he makes his way down the hall, calling down to her, “What are you doing here?”
She digs down into the bag further as she calls back, “Nothing!” That’s not a good thing to say, she mentally slaps herself as she pauses, “I mean, I wanted to say hi!” She lets out a huff when no bottles are at the bottom of that bag.
Rowan’s footsteps begin to descend the stairs, “You wanted to say hi?!” Disbelief coats every word, “I’m not even sure if you like me.”
Stell’s already onto the next bag, grinning when she spies the neck of a wine bottle, “No, no, as my new neighbor, I thought-“
“Are you stealing my groceries?” Stell whips around, bottle in hand, to see Rowan leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, an amused smirk on his lips, and no shirt covering his chest.
Stell opens her mouth to respond, then closes it, Rowan raises his eyebrows and she finds her voice, “No, I’m not, I’m just….borrowing…would you like a glass?” She looks down at the label as she feels her cheeks redden, “This isn’t a very good one, by the way.”
Rowan hums, pushing off the wall and walking towards her, “Are those your pajamas?”
“Your front door was wide open. Hey!” She scowls as Rowan takes the bottle from her, turning to place it in a higher spot that she can’t reach.
“So,” He chuckles, “I’m guessing you noticed your own alcohol was gone.” She continues scowling at him, “You and Finnick are cut off. Amos rule not mine, and I’m not about to argue with the guy who got voted into a Quarter Quell and won.”
“Amos doesn’t get to decide that.”
Rowan turns to face her, leaning back and placing both heels of his palms on the counter, “Again, you can talk to him about that. I’m just following orders, as for the door, I burned my dinner earlier, so I was airing it out.” Stell’s eyes linger downwards, taking in the muscles of Rowan’s arms and chest. Once again, she realizes how attractive he is.
Her tongue darts out of her mouth, wetting her lips once and then she huffs, “Fine. Guess I’ll just go drink water then.”
Rowan gives her a toothy grin, “Sounds like a wonderful idea.” Emerald eyes trail down her, stopping at her bare feet, “Do you need to borrow shoes?”
Stell turns away from him, waving a hand dismissively over her shoulder, “No, no.” And then she’s headed back towards the door, Rowan following a few paces behind. “Go put a shirt on, would you?”
His laughter follows her outside, even as she closes the door behind her. For good measure, she glares in the direction of Amos’s house and ignores the lights that’re on in Finnick’s. Her breath forms little clouds in front of her as she makes her way back across the street and this time, when she enters her home, she notices a manilla folder sitting on her coffee table before the hearth.
Her name is written on the front, in big loopy writing that she doesn’t recognize. Curiosity wins out and it only takes a minute before she’s seating on the couch and opening the folder.
The pictures are as mesmerizing as they are horrifying.
Pencil sketches of little moments. Moments captured perfectly by who she knows must be Peeta, because the first one is of two hands resting beside each other, fingers reaching through metal bars at the bottom of a solid wall. The smaller hand littered with small scars along the knuckles, both covered in callouses. He’s somehow captured the desperation for human contact and the solace they were able to provide for one another.
Stell leans back into the couch cushions, gently setting aside the first picture and focusing fully on the second. It’s a view of her being led past Peeta’s cell window. He’s captured the majority of the door, and then there, through the window, being carried between two peacekeepers, is Stell’s limp form. Her hair matted with blood and hanging over her face, her foot drags along the floor. The next is their shared wall again, with Stell sitting beside it, her hand resting through the bars once more, ready to provide comfort if need be.
She goes on, small things only she would know. The wall where they chained her, shackles hanging open against the floor. She hadn’t known he’d seen it. The hallway between their cells. The laboratory like room that separated their holding area from Johanna’s.
And then he’s drawn the Quell. There’s Stell, standing in the water, her trident poised to strike a fish in the shallows. Behind her sits the cornucopia on its rock island, the jungle far beyond and the sun beating down on them all. Beetee sitting with his wire, Johanna with her knees tucked up to her chest beside him.
The last one makes her heart skip a beat. They’re both wearing their Quell uniforms, and Finnick sits on a rock near the edge of the jungle, Stell tucked perfectly into his side. His arm is around her shoulders, his chin resting atop her head that’s rested against his chest. They looked relaxed, the both of them, perfectly content despite their predicament. But the expression that Peeta’s captured on Finnick’s face, as his eyes are looking slightly down at Stell?
She refuses to name it. Refuses to look at it for a moment longer and tosses it aside quickly, only to reveal a letter.
Dear Stell,
I hope this finds you well. I’m not sure when we’ll get to talk again, but with everyone talking about the upcoming Capital invasion, I figured it may be a while. I'm doing alright. They still let me go down to the cafeteria for meals and Katniss is hesitant to let me sit with them all. Haymitch and Effie are welcoming at least, as are Prim and Delly. Prim wants me to paint a portrait of Buttercup once I have supplies again. Unfortunately, District Thirteen doesn't see the point of paints, so I'm left with paper and pencils.
I put in some of my sketches for you, it helps me to see it drawn out, to get it out of my head. I'm hoping it's the same with you.
Finnick came by earlier and told me they’re sending him home; he’s excited to see you.
I know we never really talked about what happened to you while we were prisoners, but I know they hurt you a lot more than they hurt me. I could hear your screams through the walls sometimes. And when they'd bring you back, the guards would mutter about how you still wouldn't say anything. They hated how strong you were, but I always admired it.
I knew if I tried talking to you about this, you would’ve just hung up the call. So I wanted to at least write it and hope you haven't stopped reading yet. I'm glad Finnick is going back to help you. He said that you've been having trouble adjusting, that's why they wanted them all to go back. Selfishly, I'll miss having him here in Thirteen.
He helps me understand what happened in the Quarter Quell. That, and my first Games. He’s told me about you too, just to satisfy my own curiosity. Don’t worry, nothing embarrassing, he mostly rattles on about how great you are. Honestly, it gets a bit annoying, but his eyes light up in a way I’ve never seen before, so I never stop him. But he can answer a lot of the questions I have. He promised me that he'll only be a phone call away if I want to talk about either Games any further.
Anyways, I hope you aren’t too hard on him, on any of them, as they try and help. I hope you call if you have time, there’s not much for me to do here besides sketch and talk to the doctors.
Give everyone my best and don’t be too mean,
Peeta