imperfect fit ; an everlark au based off of 'the selection' series

e i g h t y - f o u r

I don't know how long I sit there. I keep listening for something outside the door, even though it's useless. When Peeta and I had been locked in a safe room a few weeks ago, we couldn't hear a single sound from the outside world. And there had been so much destruction then.

Still, I hope. Maybe Gale will open the door at any second. He can't be dead. No. Gale is a fighter; he's always been a fighter. When hunger and poverty threatened him, he pushed back. When the world took away his dad, he made sure his family survived. When the Selection took me, and the draft took him, he didn't let that stop him from hoping.

Hope. It's the shining light at the end of a tunnel. It's the only thing stronger than fear.

I press my ear to a door, praying for a word, a breath, anything. I focus, listening for something that sounds like Peeta's labored breathing as he laid dying underneath the table.

I pinch my eyes together, my mind begging for him to live. Certainly, everyone in the palace will be looking for Peeta and his parents. They will be the first ones helped. They won't let him die; they can't.

But is it past hope?

He looked so pale. Even the last squeeze of his hand was weak.

Be happy.

He loves me. He really loves me. And I love him. In spite of everything that should have kept us a apart- our Districts, our mistakes, the world around us- we're supposed to be together. We're meant to be. And he can't die.

I should be with him. Even now, while he lays dying. I shouldn't be hiding.

I stand up and start feeling around the walls for the light switch. I slap the steel until I find it. I survey the space. It's smaller than the other room I'd been in. It has a sink, but no toilet. Just a bucket in one corner. A bench is pressed against the wall by the door, and a shelf with some packets of food and blankets line the back. And then, on the floor, the gun sits cold and waiting,

I don't even know if this will work, but I need to try. I pull the bench over to the middle of the room and tip it on it's side with the wide seat propped up toward the door. I crouch below it, checking the height, and realize it won't be much cover. It will have to do.

As I stand, I trip over my stupid dress. I huff and hunt on the shelves. The thin knife is probably for opening and dividing food, but it works on the material just fine. Once my dress is cut into an uneven hem around my knees, I take some fabric and make a makeshift belt and tuck the knife in it for good measure.

I pull the blankets over myself, expecting there to be some sort of shrapnel. Looking one more time around the room, I try to see if there is anything I should take with me, something I could repurpose. No. This is it.

Ducking behind the bench, I aim the gun at the lock, take a steadying breath, and fire.

The sound echoes in the tiny space, scaring me though I expect it. Once I'm sure that the bullet isn't ricocheting around the room, I go up to check on the door. Above the lock, a small crater sits, exposing rough layers of metal. Ugh. I missed.

I hide behind the bench and try again. Shot after shot hits the door, but never in the same place. Then I try to stand up and do it. All I manage to do is get my arms cut by pieces of the door flying back at me.

It's not until I hear the hollow click that I realize I've used all the bullets and am stuck. I throw the gun and run over to the door. I hit it with all the force of my body.

"Move!" I ram into it again. "MOVE!" I hit the door with my fists, accomplishing nothing. "No! No, no, no! I have to get out!" The door stands there, silent and severe, mocking my heartbreak with its stillness. I slide onto the floor, crying now that I know there's nothing I can do. Gale might be a lifeless body only feet away from me, and Peeta . . . surely by now he's gone. I curl my legs to my chest and rest my head against the door. "If you live," I whisper, "I'll let you call me your dear. I won't complain, I promise."