A/N: This is my first published fic, so please bear with me. I'm partial to the map of Panem that places district seven in the northern Montana/southern Canada area, so mixed snow and rain in early September is really not that unusual. Set during Mockingjay, Katniss/Gale friendship (or romance if you want to construe it that way, which you shouldn't because I'm team Peeta), a little Katniss/Haymitch friendship as well. Oh, and I don't own the Hunger Games. It would be really cool if I did.

**Solace**

When I wake, it takes me a moment to realize why I feel so bad. Well, I know why my head is throbbing. That would be the fault of Johanna Mason and the concussion she gave me back in the arena. I have to think hard before I remember what I dread about today. We're going to district 7 today for more filming. Cressida insists that I'm wonderful on camera and we badly need more footage for the propos. I'm worn out and in a chronically bad mood, though, from all the filming we've already done and seeing Peeta's interview. Plus my headaches have gotten worse.

I lie in bed for a minute, holding a wad of balled up blankets to my aching temple. Once it's clear that my headache won't go away by sheer will, I get up, dress in my mockingjay outfit, and decide not to even bother getting my schedule. I head down to the dining hall where I find my mother, Prim, and Gale already sitting at our table. Once I have my tray of hot grain and baked apples, I join them. I told my mother about today's trip to 7 as soon as I found out about it in command yesterday. She knows I could very well encounter violence like I did during our visit to 8. She's worried, and she won't meet my eyes, but I can feel her looking back at me each time I look away.

I look down at my tray, not impressed with my breakfast. I start to poke at the apples with my spoon. "You ready for today?" Gale asks.

"Sure," I say flatly. "You? Ready for another day as cousin-bodyguard?"

"Sure," he echoes. I nod, resting my elbow on the table and propping my sore head in my hand.

I take a bite of apples. The fruit feels gluey on my tongue. The taste is off; the usually pleasant tangy flavor seems too strong, too acidic in my mouth. I swallow quickly and take a swig of milk to cleanse my palate, but that tastes bad too. I set my glass down, trying not to show my distaste and reveal that I feel queasy. I drop my spoon in the bowl of grain, which has congealed, and I decide not to even try to eat it. I'd rather feel hungry later than more sick now. I push my tray toward Gale. "Want some?" I ask.

He gives me a look, and I know he knows that I feel bad. He doesn't say anything, though. My mother and Prim already know that my headaches have been worse lately, and this morning they are already busy worrying about the filming in district 7. No need to pile on more concerns just now.

Gale drinks down my milk, then stands to leave. I hug my mother and Prim and tell them not to worry. The filming won't take too long and I'll be back with them at dinner. At least I hope I will.

Gale and I leave the dining room and start toward the hanger. "Don't you have to see the preps? Get all polished up?" Gale asks with a slight grin.

"Not anymore. Haymitch finally convinced everyone that I look more realistic in the propos when I don't wear makeup," I reply. I'm glad to bypass getting fancied up today. I don't think I'd have the patience to sit still for the preps to do their work.

I absently rub my temple as we walk. "How bad is it?" Gale asks.

"Eh," I say, "Not too bad. Not the worst." The worst was about ten days ago, when Gale and I were in training. We were doing the sort of moving target archery practice I had done when training for my second stint in the Hunger Games. I had been trying to hit all six fake birds soaring over my head, but suddenly I just couldn't focus on my targets anymore. My head, which had been throbbing dully since early morning, felt like someone was driving a hot poker into my temple. I'd dropped my bow and stumbled toward the edge of the training area, clutching my head. I made it out of everyone's way before I threw up. Then Gale and somebody else—Boggs, maybe?—were at my side. I vaguely remember groaning with pain and nausea as tiny stars flickered at the edges of my vision and Gale holding me. Then I was in the hospital with my mother standing over my bed.

A huge debate had followed the incident about whether I should be put on medication to dull the pain of my headaches. I was present at three long command meetings during which Coin had presented spectacularly constructed arguments in favor of me taking the pills. Our mockingjay couldn't be ill when she was so integral to the rebel cause; if I ended up in combat I would need to have my full strength, I had suffered enough pain when I went through the Games, and so on. Plutarch added his reasons as well, but I didn't listen to them much. I was already too angry with Coin.

No matter what they said, I refused the medication. I remembered all too well the hallucinations and mental fog I had experienced when I took pain pills after my second Games. I had brought up this fact several times during the command meetings. Didn't the mockingjay need a clear head in the face of danger? However, my real thought was, how much are you going to manipulate me, Coin, when I'm strong bodied and weak minded? Will you just make me do your bidding and know that I can't fight back? In the end, I was allowed to make up my own mind. It wouldn't have looked good for me to be on bad terms with Coin and Plutarch.

"Is it close to the worst?" Gale asks, his brow furrowing, "You really don't look so great."

"No, it's not that bad," I say, which is true, but I know that my strength and reflexes aren't as good as they need to be if we end up in combat.

We enter the hanger, where Plutarch, Haymitch, Cressida, Boggs, and the insect cameramen are waiting for us. Cressida looks me up and down and says, "We really should have sent you to the prep team." I know I probably have circles under my eyes, but I don't think I look that bad.

As we're led to our hovercraft, I notice that one of the doors to the outside is open. A stream of sunlight comes in through the door. I dash toward it, taking in a deep breath of clean, outside air. It smells like grass and dirt and home. I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the breeze on my face, soothing my head a little.

I've had barely ten seconds of bliss before Boggs comes to collect me. He keeps his hand stiffly at the small of my back until we are on board the hovercraft. I immediately take a seat across from Haymitch and help myself to a glass of water from the pitcher on the table before me. I sip the cool liquid and hold the glass to my temple. I'm finally pulling myself together.

The hovercraft ride to district 7 is expected to take about two hours. Once we get there, the plan is for me and Gale to walk around and look at buildings and talk to people in order to get the largest possible amount of usable footage with minimal effort and danger. I rest the less achy side of my head on Gale's shoulder and close my eyes, swearing that I'm awake and listening as we are lectured about the district layout and the schedule and the earpieces. After over an hour of this, I really do start to doze off. I'm bored and losing my patience, which has seemed only barely present lately.

Suddenly a fist bangs down on the table. "Shit," Haymitch spits. I bolt upright, making myself dizzy and bringing back the pain. I'm sure I'm about to be yelled at for sleeping or not listening, or something. "Can't we go around it? Where the hell did it come from?" What is he talking about? "Fuck it, we're closer to 7 than 13 by now. Just—whatever. Just get us there without killing us."

Haymitch pulls an earpiece from his ear and slams it down on the table. I feel a tinge of resentment that he is doing exactly what he's screamed at me for doing numerous times before.

"Uh, what was that?" Gale asks.

Plutarch answers. "Pilot. Weather system coming up." I realize that he, and possibly everyone except Gale and me, is also in communication with the pilot. "It's probably going to get a bit turbulent."

Gale presses his lips together and nods. He's such a rock, so strong and steady. I, however, drop my forehead to the table and groan. I don't know exactly how this latest development will affect me, but I can guess that I'll be in pretty rough shape when we land.

"Katniss?" Cressida asks, "Would you like to tell us what's going on?" She sounds genuinely concerned, but I've had enough. I'm tired, I haven't slept well, I can't stop thinking about Peeta being tortured and used by the Capitol, my head hurts, I didn't eat breakfast, I feel sick, I feel like crying, and I don't want to film anything today!

"Just a fucking headache," I say through my gritted teeth, "Just like every fucking day of my fucking life."

I hear the bottle of pills slide across the table. I pick it up with one hand and hold my forehead with the other.

"Just take one. You'll feel better. Almost instantaneously, I promise," Plutarch says. I palm the bottle for a moment, then, without looking up, throw it at Plutarch's head. I hear it hit the wall behind him.

"No," I say, though I've already made this clear. Then, stupidly, I mutter, "It's not that bad." But it is. The pain hasn't reached its worst yet, but everything else has. My stomach roils a bit, and I squeeze my eyes shut to keep back the nausea and the tears.

"Katniss," Gale whispers, his face close to mine. He lays his big, warm hand on my back. "I know. I know it's bad. Just take it. You'll be okay. We've got you. I've got you."

I pull away sharply. "Fuck you Gale!" I say angrily, "You know why I don't take them. And you said you agreed with me!" I stand and shove my chair away, moving as far as I can from the table.

I've barely made it to the alcove where our weapons are stacked in their heavy crates when the first wave of turbulence hits the hovercraft. I stumble a little and end up banging my shoulder into the wall before I sink to my knees. I know this behavior is not helping my case with everyone else, but I can't make myself care. The pressure of holding back tears is only making my headache worse, so I let them fall.

Gale knows why I don't take the pills. At first, he'd sided with Plutarch and Coin, saying that I should accept the medicine. He'd told me that he couldn't bear to see me in pain, especially not after seeing me suffer through the Games twice on television. Once I'd confided in him about the pills messing with my head and my speculation of Coin's motivations, Gale had changed his mind. He said I was right. I was strong.

But now he's changed his mind; he wants me the pain-relieved fog. Is he really so upset by the sight of me in pain? Is he trying to take care of me because he loves me? Or is Coin using him to manipulate me? Did someone tell him to do this? Or is the rebel cause more important to him than I am?

I feel nauseous and warm, so I pull off my bulletproof vest and curl onto my side. I close my eyes and try to block everything out. I've finally begun to breathe deeply and evenly when I hear footsteps behind me. Whoever it is sits down beside me and places a hand on my shoulder. "Go away," I grunt, thinking it's Gale.

"Sorry sweetheart." It's Haymitch. I roll onto my back to face him, but the position isn't comfortable. I feel sicker and more unsettled. I meet Haymitch's eyes, then return to my fetal position.

"I respect you, sweetheart. A lot. But you gotta deal with the consequences," He says with a slight sigh.

"Yeah," I whisper. "I'll be okay. Just lemme out when we land." Haymitch chuckles softly and pats my shoulder. He stands up to leave, but he falls down again as the floor bounces beneath us. My head throbs immensely, and I close my eyes.

I've somehow managed to force myself into a light sleep, but I jerk back awake as we land bumpily in district 7. I squeeze my eyes shut until we've stopped moving, although it's hard to tell because I'm feeling so dizzy. I struggle to my feet and walk drunkenly toward the door of the hovercraft, one hand holding my temple, the other in the small of my back.

The door opens and I step out into district 7. I am immediately confused by what I see. The sky is thick with clouds in varying shades of white and gray. The ground and buildings that I can see have a wet, soupy appearance. Coming down from the sky is an assortment of large raindrops and thick, feathery, white snowflakes. I take a few steps and slip in a manner that would be funny if it didn't hurt so much. I slide down and land on my bottom in the soaked grass and mud. The impact makes my entire body hurt, but especially my head and weak stomach.

Hands come out of nowhere and pull me to my feet. It's Gale. Once I'm fairly steady I shove past him and continue walking away from the hovercraft. I feel so sick, so horrible. My temple is beginning throb in prickling stabs. I feel clammy pins and needles all over my body, and I'm too warm even though freezing rain is stinging my face. Pale stars begin to form at the edges of my vision. I stop walking and breathe deeply, trying to focus on something around me. The snowflakes whirling by make me feel dizzier than ever, and I know I'm swaying a little. My mouth is filling with thick saliva.

Gale appears next to me again. "Katniss? What's wrong?" He asks.

"I'mna puke," I barely manage to whisper-groan before I'm doubled over. My hands scrabble for Gale's arm as I throw up all over his shoes. He holds me up and I lean gratefully against his solid body. An hour ago I'd yelled and cursed at him. Now I couldn't care less about his motivations and mind games. Now his security is all I want. Oh, well. I guess that's just what happens when you're sick out of your mind.

It doesn't take much to completely empty my stomach. I'm still hunched over, and Gale puts one of his hands, which is now cool and wet, on the back of my neck. I breathe and spit for a moment as my vision returns.

When I'm able to straighten up, I look into Gale's eyes, then slowly start walking again. Gale matches my pace and keeps his arm around my shoulders. I feel a little better, but my head is still very painful and I'm shivering as though I'm slightly feverish. I breathe in the cold air and focus my eyes on the buildings that are maybe 200 yards away.

We haven't made it too far when a low droning buzz fills my ears. At first I don't know if the sound is real or if it's just in my head, but Gale cocks his head and I know he hears it too. I look around, trying not to make myself too dizzy, and I just see it through the blowing snow and rain—a capital fighter plane—coming closer and closer. All I can do is point and gasp; my throat still burns from the vomit and my voice won't work. Gale follows my gaze and immediately turns us back toward the hovercraft. My feet won't work either, and he stumbles over me, sending us both to the ground.

Neither of us has on armor or an earpiece. My intention had been to return to the hovercraft and suit up after I either threw up or felt better. Gale pulls me back up and scoops me into his arms. I look over his shoulder as he sprints toward the hovercraft. I see the fighter plane drawing closer still, and then it's right on top of the buildings of district 7, where it pauses.

"Gale!" I scream just as the bomb drops, decimating the buildings. Almost immediately we're thrown forward and end up on the ground again. Gale is on top of me, shielding me from the shrapnel that rains down on us. I feel the impact as something strikes Gale in the back, and I can both hear and feel his yell of pain. I squeeze my eyes shut as the pounding in my head increases.

We lay on the wet ground clutching each other for maybe a minute before Boggs and Haymitch are pulling us apart. Haymitch lifts me into his arms and dashes back to the hovercraft, which has whirred to life again. We make it through the door with Boggs and Gale just behind us. Boggs is supporting Gale, who is bleeding. Haymitch sets me in a chair, and I immediately vomit a mouthful of bile onto the floor. I can hear Haymitch breathing heavily as he gently pats my back. I dry heave a few times, then I stand up and run to Gale where he is lying on the floor.

Boggs is dabbing a short, deep cut under Gale's left shoulder with rubbing alcohol. Gale breathes in sharply with pain. I burrow under his right arm, trying to give him what little solace I can even as I seek his comfort to heal myself. I silently apologize for my thoughts and words against him. Motivations and theories seem nothing compared to moments of real desperation and real pain. Boggs bandages Gale's wound, saying that it should hold up until we get back to 13.

Gale tightens his arm around me as the hovercraft takes off. I press my face into his uninjured shoulder and cry. For everything. For Gale, for Peeta, for my aching head, for Cressida and this wasted trip, for whoever may have been in the bombed buildings of 7, for my mother and Prim…

Footsteps approach and someone sits next to us on the floor. Haymitch's voice sounds very close to my ear. "Here. Just for now. You'll both be sedated when you get to the hospital. This'll tide you over for a couple of hours."

He holds two of the pain pills in his outstretched hand. I just want to feel safe and rest. I take the pills in my hand. I press one to Gale's mouth, and he takes it without complaint. Then I swallow mine. It goes down hard, irritating my sore throat, but I can already feel the relief blanketing us, providing us solace from the world.