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some protector (part two) | haymitch abernathy x reader

word count: 11.9k (i'm sorry, i'm insane.)

pairing. haymitch abernathy x fem!reader

summary. after snow rigs the reaping for the 75th hunger games, haymitch is forced to watch you in the arena, truly unable to protect you. based on “some protector” by role model–this time it’s the first part of the song.

warnings. sotr spoilers. normal haymitch trauma stuff? more violence than the last one because it's the games. references to sa within the context of capitol prostitution/slavery (like with finnick and the other victors).

notes. i mixed movie and book canon! many thanks to everyone who read part one—i know it was crazy long, and this one is LONGER. i’m so sorry. i did NOT want to write a part three but i write too much so i have to :( do you guys want a taglist?

part one. | part three. | read on ao3.

—--------------------------

| Are you still picking up the pieces?

Am I still worried 'bout you?

Haymitch swore your friends were plotting against him. Between your stylist Elodie acting as the guardian of your dressing room and Effie fussing over his suit and making up reasons for him to check on Peeta, Haymitch found it impossible to speak to you before you took the stage for your interview with Caesar Flickerman.

Meanwhile, you were too preoccupied with trying not to ruin your hair or makeup and figuring out how to breathe normally in your dress to think about your conversation from the night before. The tightness of your corset made it hard to think about anything at all.

Once you turned twenty-five, Elodie opted for a more mature wardrobe. Your styling team deemed it impossible for them to push the frivolous princess persona since you were “so far” from being a teenager.

Gone were the frivolous Princess dresses, and in their place came similarly unrealistic corseted gowns with scandalous necklines and high leg slits.

Snow instructed her to transition you from “Princess” to queen, and you hated it.

Your gown for the evening had a sheer bodice with jeweled embroidery outlining the heavenly bodies across your chest. If it weren’t squeezing you to death, you might’ve been able to appreciate the dress designer’s artistry. The corset was designed for aesthetics, not functionality.

Though the skirt and billowing sleeves used so much fabric that the train behind you extended at least six feet, it was so thin that you were left shivering under the air conditioner unit.

The open back of the bodice wasn’t much help, either. A large bejeweled sun spread across the small of your back to conceal a corset fastened so tightly that you thought your ribs would bruise.

To be fair, though, you’d gained a new appreciation for corsets a couple of years ago when the laces were too tight for one of your clients to undo, which left you with a night off. You sent a bouquet of flowers to Elodie’s apartment the next morning.

Tonight, the worst part of it all was the enormous crown resting on your temple. Your dainty tiaras and circlets had been traded for a solid gold crown carved into sunbursts with encrusted yellow diamonds.

When you first saw it, you protested that you might poke your eye out if it slipped off, but Elodie laughed it off dismissively.

The heavy headpiece combined with a tight slick back bun made for a grueling headache that couldn’t be remedied by increased water intake.

While you’re waiting backstage for your interview, Johanna Mason takes one look at your outfit before bending into a mocking bow. “Is that thing as uncomfortable as it looks?”

“Worse,” You grin despite the brevity of the situation, grateful that you aren’t totally alone. You two hadn’t really spoken in the past, but this week had been full of surprises. “You look terrifying but beautiful, by the way.”

“Thanks, Princess.” Johanna smirks, the spikes on her earrings swinging with the movement of her head.

You shoot a look at Finnick, who’s surprisingly wearing a shirt. “Looks like they’ve finally run out of variations of unclothed merman.”

He nods thoughtfully before shooting you a mischievous look. “Yeah, I’d hate to be you—I don’t think they’ll ever run out of seductive princess dresses.”

“Hey!” Before you can smack his arm, Mags does it for you, shaking her head with a fond smile as she looks between the two of you.

Balancing on your ridiculous stiletto shoes, you put an arm around Mags’ shoulder to pull her into a quick side hug. Your dress makes that range of motion more difficult, but you manage it.

Beaming, you quip, “I knew I was your favorite.”

“(Y/n), five minutes till you’re on. Beetee, get ready.” Elodie steps toward you to adjust your train before Finnick can retort.

Mags gives your hand a squeeze, Johanna shoots you a mocking salute, and Finnick shoots you a real smile as Beetee enters the corridor, offering you his arm to walk you onstage.

“This is it, (Y/n).” Beetee murmurs, his hand squeezing yours as the two of you pause by the curtain. “Remember what we practiced?”

You nod absently, but you’re jolted to attention when he says firmly, “Forget it all. Don’t cry unless you think you need to—what’s most important is unity. You know the plan. Do what you do best: show the Capitol that you care about more than just yourself.”

Beetee looks at you with such a conflicted mess of pained affection and determination that you can’t resist testing the limits of your dress and throwing your arms around him for a hug. “Love you, Bee.”

You’d never done that before, but the impending arrival of the Games instilled the philosophy that “you only live once.”

Beetee is taken aback, but a second later he pats your shoulder with restrained affection. “You too, (Y/n).”

His heart twinges at your earnest expression, and he can’t help but think that you and Ampert would’ve gotten along well.

A moment later, Caesar calls your name and you follow your cue to strut onstage. “And next is the Capitol’s princess…(Y/n) (Y/l/n) of District 3!”

When you step into the spotlight, the crowd roars in welcome. Toward the front, Haymitch sits entranced by you despite his best efforts.

The Capitol’s exploitation of your body disgust him, and he knows you hate the dresses Elodie traps you in, but you really are beautiful. Haymitch can’t tear his gaze away from your face, entirely overlooking anything below it in spite of your prep team’s hard work.

Despite your secret but intense disdain for Caesar Flickerman, you greet him with a warm smile. “Caesar, it’s great to see you. How’s your family doing?”

He squeezes your hand and presses a kiss to the back of it as he winks at the camera, “(Y/n) (y/l/n), sweet as always! No wonder they call her ‘the people’s princess!’”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes while Haymitch does it for you a few feet away.

Instead, you maintain a demure smile, feeling the flush appearing on your cheeks and hoping it will pass for bold makeup.

The television host continues to grin as he releases you to sit across from him. “The family’s great, but tonight is about you! How are you doing? I’m sure this whole thing has been difficult.”

You can’t tell if his tilted head and measured look of concern is genuine or calculated. Either way, you’ve learned how to play this game. Leaning forward, you cover his hand with yours and lower your voice conspiratorially, “Caesar, we’ve known each other for years. I can tell you the truth, right?”

His grave expression cracks a little, and you can tell from his eyes that he’s eager to hear what you have to say. “Of course, (Y/n), of course!”

“Well, when I heard about the news about the 3rd Quarter Quell, I was devastated. I cried my eyes out.”

Caesar nods sympathetically and once again, Haymitch rolls his eyes when you cannot. Caesar and the Capitol audience seem to be eating up your false show of vulnerability.

“But you know what the worst part of it all was? The Capitol promised us victors peaceful lives. We did our part—the least Snow could do is hold up his end of the bargain.”

The direct name drop has the crowd gasping, while Caesar’s eyebrows rise the slightest bit. He opens his mouth to cut you off, but you continue, “I mean, look at some of the older victors. They’ve lived full lives, Caesar. Mags and Beetee served their districts faithfully, but they’re still being sent back into the arena. Haven’t they earned their rest? Haven’t we all?”

You can’t help it when your voice cracks and tears fill your eyes. You dig your nails into your palms as you retract your hands from Caesar’s to rest at your sides. I will not cry. You refuse to let them misinterpret your anger as fear.

“Well, as you said, (Y/n), you victors have served the districts faithfully. Why not honor this last request that the Capitol has given you?”

Though you can’t hear him, Haymitch scoffs loudly. The audience members turn to look at him, scandalized, but quickly ignore him when they realize who he is. Meanwhile, you can’t resist an eye roll this time.

Caesar doesn’t seem very convinced by his words, either, but he continues on. “I know we all find it very admirable that you think of your friends first, (Y/n). Your kindness always touches our hearts. Don’t you all agree?”

The crowd cheers, and several people burst into tears. You take a deep breath to regulate some of your frustration. Forcing your lips into a smile, you remark, “You flatter me too much, Caesar. It’s not kindness, it’s decency.”

Though the first half of your statement has Caesar beaming, his smile drops as you add, “If the Capitol had any sense, they’d call this all off. Forever.”

You expect them to drag you off the stage at any moment, so you hold your head high and make unwavering eye-contact with various members of the crowd. Some continue to cry, while others glare, clearly offended by your bluntness.

That won’t be good for the sponsorship numbers. I’m sorry, Beetee. Though you know your message is worth it, you mourn the inevitable harm that it’ll bring to your friends.

When you glance at the section Haymitch sits in, the two of you lock eyes. As much as he hurt you the night before, you can’t look away. His eyebrow rises slightly in acknowledgement, but you don’t miss the fear in his eyes. The corner of your mouth lifts slightly in an attempt to encourage him.

It doesn’t work—Haymitch’s stomach drops. He knows the consequences of painted posters, and you’ve made yourself a bold one.

Meanwhile, Caesar is panicking. He knows that he’s lost control of the conversation. Snow will be irate, and Caesar knows the blame won’t fall solely on you.

The television host is about to signal for someone to escort you away when he realizes who you’re looking at. He grins again, but this time it’s a genuine expression of relief. “(Y/n), I’ve been hearing rumors about you and a victor from District 12. Are you sure he doesn’t have anything to do with these strong emotions?”

Haymitch freezes before taking a sip from his flask, sensing a multitude of eyes on him. He maintains an apathetic expression on his face, inwardly cursing. He trusts that you’ll be able to handle this on your own, but he regrets his carelessness nonetheless.

Your head snaps toward Caesar, kicking yourself for allowing Haymitch to distract you. You feel naked as all eyes fall on you, but you refuse to let the silence hang over your head. Forcing a laugh, you smile sheepishly, “You’d know better than I do, Caesar, because I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

Caesar won’t let you get out of it so easily. “Are you sure? I’ve heard that the two of you are pretty close…friends.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“I’m pretty sure I’m twice Peeta Mellark’s age, and I’ve actually never met him or Katniss. Haymitch, on the other hand, I do my best to avoid.” You deflect the question, hoping your three minutes are up.

Caesar sighs, and you’re relieved to find that you’ve done your math correctly. “Unfortunately that’s all we have time for now, but we’ll continue this conversation when—I mean, if—you make it out of the arena. Everyone, one last round of applause for everyone’s favorite princess, (y/n) (y/l/n)!”

You blow a kiss to the crowd as you’ve done countless times before, and for a moment Haymitch thinks you might be looking at him as you do it. He shakes off the thought, blaming the delusion on the alcohol as usual.

As you walk past, Caesar reaches out to grab your hand and press a kiss to the back of it, but you pull your fingers from his grasp with a polite smile before striding briskly offstage.

It’s a small act of rebellion, but does it really mean anything if you’ll be dead by the end of this week?

You pass Beetee on the way behind the curtain, and he nods grimly, as if to say, “you did good.”

“Good luck,” You whisper to your former mentor before rejoining Finnick, Mags, and Johanna.

Finnick shakes his head soberly as Mags squeezes your hand reassuringly. “I don’t think I’ll be able to top that.”

“I will.” Johanna’s jaw is set and you can feel the fury radiating off of her. When she looks at you, though, you see respect in her eyes. “Still, calling out Snow was big. I didn’t think you had it in you, Princess.”

“It’s easier when you’re going to die.” You turn to Finnick, setting a hand on his shoulder and pinching. “Don’t say anything rash, Finn. I’m sure Joanna and Peeta Mellark will say more than enough for the rest of us.”

Among the victors, Peeta had gained a reputation for his quick wit. You didn’t have to meet him to pick up on his cleverness—you’d gathered from his victory tour interviews that he was well spoken and quick on his feet.

Joanna smirks and Finnick shrugs your hand off. “You’re full of it, (Y/n/n). You’re always doing exactly what you tell me not to do.”

You level him with a stern look. “I don’t have anything left to lose. That’s the difference.”

Finnick and Mags exchange a glance, remembering the afternoon when Haymitch wiped your tears and led you away with his arm around your shoulders.

As Finnick prepares to enter the spotlight, he mutters just loud enough for you to hear. “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

| Why, yes, I am and I always will

Yes, I am and I always will

After saying a final goodbye to Peeta and Katniss, Haymitch finds himself standing outside of the District 3 apartment again.

He knows the doors will lock by midnight and the consequences will be endless if he gets caught, but he refuses to let you enter the arena without him making amends first.

Bourbon-less this time, he stands on the doormat and presses the buzzer before knocking incessantly. If he doesn’t end up saying goodbye, it won’t be for lack of trying.

On the fifth knock, you open the door. At the sight of him, your eyes widen as you hiss, “Haymitch? Have you lost your mind?”

You look ready to kill him, but Haymitch ignores your questions, stepping into the doorway. “Look, (Y/n), I need you to know that I…that I’m sorry, and–”

You ignore that speaking those words seems to be killing him. Putting a hand on his chest, you push him out of the door with all of your might. “You can’t be here! You know the doors will lock any minute now. Who knows what he’ll do if he finds you here—get out of here, Haymitch!”

You attempt to shut the door in his face, but he catches it, pushing it open wider with his left arm. “Hey, I’m trying to apologize here, Sweetheart. Do you know hard that is for me to–”

“Don’t be an idiot, Haymitch!” There are tears in your eyes now, and you struggle to close the door again. You look anywhere but his face, which leans closer to yours, his brow creasing with concern.

You push at him again, growing more frantic when he doesn’t budge. “None of it matters anymore, the Games are tomorrow and you can’t be here. You can’t–”

“(Y/n), let him in.” Beetee appears at your shoulder, and you look at him, perplexed, before complying. You wipe furiously at your eyes, embarrassed by your unrestrained show of emotion.

Haymitch wonders wryly if materializing out of nowhere is a District Three trait, but he shoots Beetee a grateful look before stepping into your apartment.

“I’ve bought you a little bit of time,” Beetee explains gravely. Again, he regrets that he has little to give you, but at least he could convince Plutarch to help him do this. It might be the last good thing he’ll ever do for you, depending on how things go in the arena. “The cameras are down, and the auto-lock has been overridden for seven minutes.”

Haymitch feels a stabbing pain in his chest, as Beetee’s words remind him of a conversation from twenty-five years ago. He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing the memories down, at least for the next seven minutes.

Conflicted, you glance between Beetee and Haymitch. Haymith nods, “Thanks. Beetee.”

The older man shakes his head grimly before stepping away. “Six and half minutes, Haymitch.”

You and Haymitch are left alone again. You know time is scarce, but you’re truly at a loss for what to say. You still feel like you have an open wound from the night before, but you don’t want your last interaction to be one that you regret.

“I can’t believe Haymitch Abernathy is risking his neck just to apologize. Miracles do exist.” Though your words are sarcastic, there’s no venom in them. Another tear rolls down your cheek, and you don’t bother to wipe it away.

You can’t bring yourself to be angry, which you blame on your personality rather than the soft spot you have for Haymitch Abernathy. You’re still in denial about that one.

“So, will you forgive me, Kid?” When you nod, Haymitch’s shoulders lose some of their tension and his brow unwrinkles as he really looks at you. His hands itch to pull you closer and rest on your cheeks so he can wipe away your tears with the pads of his thumbs.

He steps closer to you, but keeps his hands to himself. Opting for words of kindness instead of physical affection, he says softly, “You really are the best of us.”

“Hay…” You know you’re wasting precious seconds, but for the first time since you met him, you can’t think of anything to say to Haymitch Abernathy.

His throat tightens at your accidental use of a nickname. Almost against his will, he reaches out and tucks a stray hair behind your ear, letting his fingertips ghost over your jawline before his hand returns to his side. “Take care of yourself in there, Sweetheart, you hear me? Before anyone else.”

“That’s not the plan.” You correct him calmly, your eyes fluttering at his touch. You cross your arms, hugging yourself tightly. “Peeta and Katniss come first, you know that.”

Haymitch glances at the gold bangle on your wrist. He knows you’re right. Not only are your words the truth, but he also knows he can’t argue with them. “You’re next, then. Promise me.”

“I won’t.” You tilt your chin up resolutely. “You know I can’t do that.”

Beetee reenters the room to interrupt, “Two minutes.”

As Haymitch looks at you with an aching heart and the strong urge to throw something, he knows he doesn’t love you—not quite. Not yet.

But when he pulls you into one last hug and you don’t resist, a thought briefly passes through Haymitch’s mind: he might, someday. If given the chance, he realizes he could love you, and suddenly his heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest.

“Be safe, Haymitch. I—we need you to be waiting when we get out.” You allow yourself to be optimistic in this last moment, for his sake more than yours. You rest your head against his chest, closing your eyes.

“One minute,” Beetee forces himself to look away and give you this last moment to yourselves.

Trembling, Haymitch presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head, at a loss for how to properly say goodbye if this really is the last time. “I really don’t want to find a new drinking partner.”

To both of your surprise, you laugh, momentarily breaking the tension, “So you finally admit that you enjoy my company? Even more than Chaff’s?”

Yes. Haymitch’s chest tightens with affection. “I’ll answer that when you get out. Give them hell, Sweetheart.” He steps out the door and turns back to look at you.

“I’ll hold you to that. And you know I will.” You move to close the door, and the brevity of the situation finally weighs on you. Eyes widening, you pause, “Haymitch, I–”

Before you can finish, the door swings shut on its own and locks with a click. Haymitch curses loudly, slamming his fist on his side of the door. The soundproof walls and doors make it impossible to hear the rest of what you said.

“Hold onto that thought, Sweetheart.” Haymitch leans against the door, speaking aloud even though he knows you can’t hear him.

He returns to his apartment to sleep for the night, grabbing a bottle of bourbon before he goes to bed. Deep down, he knows no amount of alcohol will wash out his fear.

| Yes, I am and I always will be some protector

In the arena, the metal plate beneath your feet comes to a stop, and you take deep breaths as you run your fingers over the gold bracelet on your wrist to center yourself. A panicked tribute is a dead one, and your friends on the outside are counting on you to survive. The rebellion needs you to.

You glance to your right and see Beetee appraising the arena three platforms away. He observes the small waves lapping against the tribute plates. Though he remains straight-faced, you feel a twinge of guilt—he isn’t the best swimmer, and you’re not strong enough to get both of you to the Cornucopia.

As if he can hear your thoughts, Beetee’s eyes shoot to his right to meet yours, and he shoots you a stern look. He shifts his arm slightly, intending to draw your attention to the gold band on his wrist. He’s warning you to stick to the plan.

Before you can respond, the voice of Claudius Templesmith, the announcer of this year’s Games booms overhead, and you look up. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the seventy-fifth Hunger Games begin!”

When you glance back at Beetee, he’s focused on his belt. His fingers run over its notches, feeling for concealed compartments or hidden mechanisms. You figure you have half a minute until the gong rings.

Glancing to your left, you see Cashmere Perry. You often run into her at Capitol parties, but you know you won’t find any comraderie from her once the Games begin.

Cashmere feels your eyes on her, and she turns her head to stare you down. You tear your eyes away, trying to forget when you shielded her from a wealthy client on the night after the 64th Games.

Snow hadn’t taken kindly to it afterwards, but he overlooked your flimsy lie about not wanting an eighteen-year-old from District 1 to take one of your best clients. The excuse only worked twice, but Cashmere and Gloss seemed grateful enough at the time.

Back in the Capitol, Haymitch observes your tense shoulders and faraway gaze with a pit in his stomach. His knuckles turn white around his glass of whiskey. Snap out of it, Sweetheart.

He could read the empathy in your posture from miles away. The gong finally rings, he lets out a sigh of relief when you dive into the water without hesitation and outswim the tributes closest to you.

You make it further from your platform in one leap than you expected, and you force yourself to swim with quick but controlled strokes, not allowing panic to hinder your progress. You ignore the sound of the cannons firing. You can’t afford to stop and wonder who they’re meant for.

Keeping an eye out for other tributes, you reach out to touch the side of the Cornucopia island.

As you pull yourself up onto the rocks, you scan the ground for knives or a knapsack of supplies. Though you figure survival tools are less imperative than the weapons, you know that the Gamemakers often use the objects they provide to hide clues about the arena.

Beetee drilled that into you before your first Games, and it saved your life. Without it, you never would’ve made it through your first night in the tree arena.

Sprinting to the nearest cluster of resources, you zeroed in on a set of knives. Something in your gut tells you that the Gamemakers placed it just for you, just as they planted the large axe at your feet.

You consider tossing it into the water, but resist, realizing that it might be meant for Joanna. A cannon goes off as you're closing your fingers around the set of knives, and then there’s a scream.

Straight ahead, Enobaria of District 2 stands over Cecelia of District 8 with a sword raised. Cecelia and Enobaria’s district partners Brutus and Woof are nowhere to be seen.

The television broadcast jumps to the three of you just in time. From his spot on the couch, Haymitch curses inwardly and Effie gasps beside him, subconsciously grabbing his arm. They both know where this is going.

Without thinking, you sprint toward the grappling women, shrieking, “Cecelia!”

You feel regret rising in your throat, but it’s too late.

Though both women look up, Cecelia is distracted for a beat longer, and she fails to roll out of the way of Enobaria’s blade. The knife that you’ve hurled at Enobaria lodges into her shoulder too late–the broad sword has already slashed across Cecelia’s throat, cutting off a final scream.

Enobaria slashes again for good measure. There’s no room left for speculation about whether Cecelia survives. Boom!

Haymitch’s mind flashes to Kross and Tesla and the 69th Games. He hopes yours doesn’t.

“No!” You don’t cry, but your skin crawls with rage. You’ll blame yourself later, but now, your mind fixates on Cecelia’s three children, hoping their father had the foresight to avoid the broadcast.

Though you knew Cecelia’s survival was unlikely, her death feels unnecessarily cruel. It’s difficult for you to ignore the crimson stain on Enobaria’s sword and the stomach curling violence it leaves in its wake, but you manage to tear your eyes away.

Mentoring fifteen year’s worth of Games made for infallible exposure therapy.

Enobaria always had a sadistic edge about her, acting in bloodlust rather than survival. She easily could’ve gone for a more merciful kill, but as always, she chose brutality instead.

When she reaches for the dagger in her shoulder and rips it out before storing it in her belt, you think only of the children. No fear, just justice. If you have to face Enobaria this early on, so be it.

In the past, you found yourself empathizing with her—she was only trying to survive, just like everyone else. But after years of watching her mentor tributes, you realized that she had started to take out her anger on the Games’ victims instead of their orchestrators. You had trouble pitying her after that.

You square your shoulders, refusing to flee. You find some comfort in the fact that her bloodlust will hinder her logic.

Meanwhile, Haymitch wills you to let it go. In a hushed voice, Effie says what he can’t. “Run, (Y/n)!”

As they both expect, you don’t. Unable to help herself, Effie’s grip on Haymitch’s arm tightens. Thankfully no one else in the room notices, too fixated on the flatscreens as the footage shifts to a confrontation between Katniss and Brutus.

While he can’t see you, Haymitch tells himself that if there are no canons, you’re alive. He holds onto the absence of booms like a lifeline.

“Should’ve left it alone, Three.” Enobraria brandishes her sword with a growl.

Instead of responding, you reach down and hurl a rock at her before sprinting to grab a sword a few yards away. You pray it will be enough of a distraction to let you grab a better weapon.

Midway through your fight, the broadcast returns to the two of you. Enobaria lunges at you and you push her back with a sword in your right hand and a dagger in your left. You manage to deepen the slash in her shoulder from your first knife, and she bares her fanged teeth with a snarl.

She’s stronger than you, but sloppy. Perhaps you can use that to your advantage.

Haymitch takes another sip of his drink, remembering a similar scene from the 59th Games when the District 1 tribute had your back up against a tree trunk. You aren’t eighteen anymore, and you don’t have the mechanism of falling trees to save you this time.

Your arms shake slightly with the effort of pushing Enobaria away, and you feel an inkling of frustration. (Y/n), you idiot. You should’ve gone to Katniss and Peeta like Plutarch told you to.

Effie gasps when you drop your knife to put both of your hands around the hilt of your sword.

Picking up on your wavering focus, Enobaria can’t help herself from taunting you. “We could’ve been allies, you know. Cashmere and Gloss would’ve given you a painless little death if you hadn’t—”

“Enobaria!” After the mention of Cashmere, a warning shout grasps Enobaria’s attention long enough for you to twist her sword aside and attack again. She manages to parry, but she nearly drops her weapon when a crossbow bolt embeds itself in her good shoulder. Before you can react, Enobaria dives into the water.

You turn to find the source of the crossbow and see Blight from District 7 standing a few feet away with a grim expression.

Blight turns to aim his crossbow at Cashmere, who follows Enobaria’s lead and dives into the water. The blonde locks eyes with you before she escapes, and you briefly wonder if she actually meant to distract Enobaria instead of warning her. Either way, you know it won’t happen again.

Before greeting Blight, you lean over to close Cecelia’s eyes, remembering how Katniss sang over Rue. In your mind, you send an apology to your friend. Celia, if we had more time, I’d do the same.

You settle for crossing her arms over her chest and covering the wound on her neck with a bandage strip from a nearby backpack.

Though the broadcast changes again, Haymitch and Effie feel like they can breathe again. Effie rises from the sofa and moves toward the back of the room in search of champagne. You’re in good hands with Blight, who wears a gold bangle that matches your own.

You jog over to him after retrieving your dropped knife and the sword Enobaria cast aside before she fled. “I owe you one, Blight.”

“Keep that in mind if it’s just us left, yeah?” Blight quips without humor, shouldering his crossbow and scanning your surroundings in search of other tributes.

“Hey, (Y/l/n)!” A sharp voice calls your name, and you turn to see Joanna half-carrying Beetee. You run to them, slipping Beetee’s other arm around your shoulders so you can take over for Joanna while Blight follows, rotating his weapon to provide cover for the three of you if necessary.

You force yourself to remain calm. Beetee’s conscious, and he can walk. Things could be much worse. You allow yourself to joke, “I looked away for five minutes! What did you do?”

Turning his head, Beetee looks at you and deadpans, “I got you a knife—like you wanted.”

You follow the slight roll of his head and your eyes lock on the hilt of a knife sticking out of his back. You curse, “That psycho used my knife to stab you. That is not what I wanted, old man. Now I’m going to have to clean it before I use it.”

At that, Beetee scoffs. You turn to Joanna, eyes softening. “Thank you.”

“It gave me an excuse to kill the jerk from District 6.” The redhead ignores your gratitude as she scans your surroundings, rolling her eyes. “Of course they rigged this thing for Odair.”

You blink, taking in the beaches on all sides for the first time. “Huh.”

Despite the way that it affects your own odds, you find comfort in the fact that the arena appears to be constructed in Finnick’s favor. It would make it easier for him to look after Mags and make it back to Annie if Plutarch’s plans fall through. You could find some peace in that.

Somehow, you chuckle. “I guess you’re right. We should find him and give him hell for it.”

“I like the way you think.” Joanna grips her axe more tightly before you, Beetee, and Blight head for the nearest beach. You make sure that Blight and Joanna each grab a knapsack before you go. If you can figure out what makes this arena tick, breaking it will be much easier.

| Holdin' on from a distance

I'd never wanna intrude, no

When you find Katniss and Peeta on the second day, you hope things might finally start going your way.

Your spirits are dampened after the forcefield kills Blight and the jungle’s torrential downpour leaves you, Beetee, and Joanna covered in blood. But when you catch sight of Finnick following Joanna to your campsite as she explains the last twenty-four hours, hope begins to resurface.

Peeta and Katniss exchange looks when you practically leap into Finnick’s arms in a tight embrace. The couple’s minds go to Haymitch and Annie, but you and Finnick are too relieved to see one another to notice.

You and Mags had practically raised Finnick after his Games, and you would die to keep him alive. Mags would, too.

When you finally notice her absence, you know.

“Mags–” Finnick looks at you with tears in his eyes, and you shake your head, telling him he doesn’t have to explain. You hug him more fiercely as you both fight off the urge to cry. Exchanging glassy frowns, you silently agree not to let the Capital profit off of your grief.

“That’s a lot of blood.” Finnick says quietly as he gives you a once over, hoping none of it is yours.

“Are you telling me I stink, Finn?” Your retort is halfhearted, and you look at him fondly as the two of you finally separate, ruffling his hair a bit as you step back. “Sorry, I think I got some of it on you. At least it’s from the rain, and not any of our friends.”

You force aside the picture of Blight and Cecelia’s lifeless eyes that appears in your mind. “If we run into Enobaria, let me kill her. Come on, help me with Beetee.”

Without a further explanation, you return to Beetee’s side, grabbing his arm and helping him to approach the waves. Finnick doesn’t press. He appears on Beetee’s other side, offering him a sympathetic grimace.

As the three of you hobble past Katniss and Peeta, you offer them a quick smile and nod, which Peeta returns but Katniss does not, as she remembers Haymitch’s crazed reaction to your Reaping.

“This is going to hurt, Bee.” You cringe, noting how the dried blood practically glued his suit to his skin. Beetee grunts in response as you gingerly help him out of his suit. You, Finnick, and Beetee wade into the water, and you scrub at his hair and skin.

Joanna is already in the water to your right, stripped of her suit and halfway clean.

When you’re satisfied with the cleanliness of Beetee’s wound, you and Finnick help him to lay on his stomach on a mat from one of the knapsacks. While you were in the water, Katniss had gone into the jungle in search of moss.

After she makes a pad to place on Beetee’s wound and begins bandaging his back with vines, you lightly put a hand on her arm. She startles at your touch, but nods curtly in response to your soft words of appreciation, “Thank you.”

The genuine, unchecked warmth in your eyes catches Katniss off-guard. She quickly looks away and turns to Beetee, admitting, “I think this is all we can do.”

“It’s good. You’re good with this healing stuff—it’s in your blood.” You can hear the half-smile in Beetee’s voice. His brow remains unfurrowed, which means that he’s in significantly less pain than he had been. You nod in agreement with his compliment.

“No, I got my father’s blood.” Katniss shakes her head and waves off your gratitude before walking over to Peeta, who stands at the fire cooking more shellfish. He reaches out to touch her arm, affection coming to him as reflexively as breathing.

I can see why Haymitch has a soft spot for those two. You smile fondly at the pair before looking down at Beetee. He seems fine for now, his eyes closed with his head resting on his arms, so you grab his suit and begin scrubbing the blood out of it.

“Here, I’ll take it. Go wash up.” Finnick coaxes it from your hands. He grins at you softly, recalling a quiet conversation he had with Haymitch in a dark corner after the tribute interviews.

“Plutarch didn’t say so, but I do,” Haymitch said. He hadn’t exactly asked, but Finnick understood the silent plea to protect you.

Finnick already planned to look out for you and Mags in the arena, but he simply nodded in response to the District 12 victor’s request. “I’ve got her, Abernathy. Trust me.”

Somehow, Haymitch found enough faith to believe him.

You roll your eyes as you follow Finnick’s command. “I get it, Odair, I still smell.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Finnick makes a face at your retreating back before adding, “But you always were dramatic.”

You scoff, but feel a wave of gratitude as you slip under the waves.

Finnick takes the opportunity to update Joanna on the last twenty-four hours without your presence. When he converses with you later, he’ll leave out the details of Mags’ death. It’s a small mercy that you weren’t there to witness it, and he’ll do his best to preserve that.

Once you’re clean, you feel like your brain has been cleansed, too. And after you’ve eaten a few shellfish and drank fresh water from the spile, you find yourself able to think clearly again.

Cross-legged on the beach beside Katniss for the first watch rotation, you sift sand through your fingers as you watch the waves lap against the sand.

Scanning the horizon, your eyes fall on the rocky paths jutting out from the Cornucopia. You think aloud as you squint, “Am I miscounting, or are there exactly twelve spokes?”

Katniss turns sharply at the sound of your voice, following your gaze. “I counted twelve earlier.”

Voice rising, you sit up straighter and lean forward as you look at her. “And there were twelve chimes of the gong last night, right?”

Lightning cracks on the island across from you as a bright bolt hits the tree, just as it did last night. Katniss’ eyes widen in recognition. “It’s a clock.”

“Which means we can—” You rise to your feet, but Katniss cuts you off. “It starts at midnight. Get up!”

She moves to wake Peeta, her movements frantic, but not rough. You do the same to Joanna and Finnick, placing a hand on their shoulders and shaking them until their eyes fly open. “Get up. We need to go now.”

Haymitch watches the livestream from his bedroom, having left the sponsors’ revelries for the night. After a long day of wracking up sponsorship funds, all Haymitch wants to do is rest. But he can’t sleep yet. He probably won’t be able to sleep at all until you’re out of the arena.

The tablet screen lights up his face as you and Katniss wake everyone up, and he feels a twinge of pride. His sweethearts solved the puzzle. He raises his glass to you before taking a long sip.

Finnick suggests that you all go to the Cornucopia to test your theory, and you watch from the rocks as the fog starts at exactly two in the morning.

While Joanna grabs a couple of large axes with a smile as bright as the moon, you dig through the piles in search of something to dress Beetee’s wounds with. Fisting a roll of bandages in your right hand, you glance up in time to see a shadowy figure sneaking up behind your mentor, who’s too preoccupied with the wire in his hands to notice.

You resolve not to make the same mistake as you did with Cecelia. Forcing down a scream, you aim Blight’s crossbow and one of its bolts embeds itself in Gloss’ forehead. “Bee, look out!”

Gloss drops his knife as he falls backwards. It clatters to the ground within inches of Beetee’s neck as the older man jerks his head out of the way. Without hesitation, Katniss reacts to your movement, shooting an arrow into Gloss’ heart.

Cashmere lets out a scream of rage, which is cut off when Joanna buries an axe into the blonde’s chest. Unflinching, you aim your crossbow toward Enobaria, and the bolt clips her side. For once, you can’t muster any sympathy. She and Cashmere picked their side.

Peeta rolls out of the way of a spear thrown by Brutus, and the District 2 tributes hurry to distance themselves from Finnick’s trident.

Katniss notches an arrow, pursuing Enobaria and Brutus as they duck behind the rock formations of the Cornucopia. Two canons fire. Goodbye, Gloss and Cashmere.

You and your allies brandish your weapons as you chase Enobaria and Brutus, who are sprinting across the beach, their eyes on the jungle ahead.

Suddenly, the ground beneath you shifts roughly and you’re thrown onto your stomach. The Cornucopia begins to spin so rapidly that you can’t see straight. Slamming the point of your knife into a small crevice in the ground, you hold on with both hands, too busy fighting to stay out of the water to check on anyone else.

When the island slams to a stop, you spit sand out of your mouth and scramble to your feet, frantically checking to see if your friends survived. To your relief, no cannons go off.

Joanna stands shakily, her hair covering her face. Finnick helps Peeta to his feet, and you reach for Katniss, who accepts your hand after some hesitation.

“Where’s Volts?” Joanna asks, wiping the sand out of her eyes with an angry swipe of her arm.

Come on, Bee, I can’t lose you, too. You call his name fearfully, but you’re met with silence. A quick survey of the island confirms that he’s gone, along with the bodies of Cashmere and Gloss.

You feel a lump in your throat, but then there’s a loud splash. Finnick dives into the water, tossing his trident onto the rocks behind him. Peeta retrieves it, holding it at his side as he waits for Finnick to return.

Katniss notches an arrow to offer cover. Following her lead, you raise the crossbow, noticing in dismay that there are only three bolts left.

You have several knives in your belt and two swords strapped to your sides, but you have a feeling that long range weapons will serve you better against Brutus.

A few yards away, Finnick grabs Beetee by the arm and starts to tow him back toward the Cornucopia.

Out of the corner of your eye, Katniss lowers her bow before blurting, “Cover me!”

She dives into the water as well, and you watch with wide eyes as she swims to retrieve Beetee’s pack, which had drifted in the direction opposite to him. You realize she’s after Beetee’s wire. You’ve got a smart girl, Haymitch.

When Beetee is back and breathing normally, Katniss drops the spool of golden wire into his lap. He glances up at her through water-covered lenses before tossing it to you. “Thanks, Katniss. Look out for it, (Y/n).”

You catch it with one hand, stuffing it into your backpack before extending your arm to pull him to his feet. “Let us know if you have trouble walking, Bee.”

“Let’s get off this stinking island.” Joanna interjects, picking up her axes again.

While the others replenish their weapons, you retrieve bandages from Beetee’s pack and help Finnick to wrap the cut on his leg from Enobaria. “I’m going to kill her.”

Your animosity takes him aback, but before he can respond, you tie off the bandage aggressively. He inhales sharply. “I thought you wanted to kill her, not me.”

Patting him on the knee, you pull him to his feet with a dismissive shake of your head. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

Katniss helps Beetee to stand, and your group makes its way to the closest beach. When Joanna mentions water, you all come to a stop at the edge of the jungle.

“Well, it must be monkey hour. And I don’t see any of them there.” Peeta leans forward a bit to peer between the trees. He reaches into the front pocket of Katniss’ backpack. “I’m going to try to tap a tree.”

Finnick’s head snaps in his direction. “No, it’s my turn.”

“I’ll at least watch your back,” Peeta protests, a frown forming on his lips. You shoot a look at Finnick, trying to figure out what his plan is.

“Katniss can do that,” Joanna wraps her fingers around a large leaf from the tree above her head and pulls it off before handing it to Peeta. “We need you to make another map. The other washed away.”

Katniss and Peeta exchange an unreadable glance before Peeta sits down on the sand with the leaf draped across one of his knees while Katniss follows Finnick into the jungle.

“You should go with them,” Beetee suggests, his eyes on Katniss’ tense shoulders as she disappears between two large bushes.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Your brows furrow as you glance at his back. “Do you need me to check your back?”

Beetee shakes his head, “Watch their backs. We still don’t know what’s out there.”

“Alright. Look out for the boys, Jo.” You give Joanna’s shoulder a squeeze, and her head turns rapidly to look at you. “We are not doing nicknames, (Y/l/n).”

You laugh instead of answering as you go after Katniss and Finnick. While you walk, you scan the treeline for signs of life and spare an occasional glance for the ground, not wanting to stumble upon any unwanted surprises.

After a few minutes, your eyes land on Finnick, who holds out a hand to Katniss as he examines a freshly made hole in the thick tree trunk before him. “Katniss, got the spile?”

As she begins to hand it to him, a blood curdling scream echoes from deeper in the jungle. Without a second thought, Katniss drops the metal cylinder before sprinting in the direction of the noise, already sliding her bow off of her shoulder.

“Katniss?” Finnick’s concerned call falls on desperate ears.

The two of you can hear Katniss shrieking as she shoves her way through the foliage. “Prim? Prim!”

“I’ll follow her, grab the spile!” Your legs fly into a sprint, and you pull two knives out of your belt as you pass Finnick.

Leaping over tree roots and ploughing through low hanging branches, you follow the screaming to a clearing in the middle of the forest.

Katniss’ braid smacks against her back as she stands, scanning the surrounding trees, breathing hard with her eyes widened in panic. “Prim?”

You cringe at the sound of a young girl’s cry, but you force yourself to focus and find the source. Craning your neck and leaning your head back, you peer up into the treetops. Then you see it. A little black bird, perched on a branch a few feet above her head. Snow’s jabberjays.

“Katniss? Katniss, listen to me, it’s just a jabberjay.” You reach out to put a hand on her shoulder, and she turns sharply, notching an arrow. When she realizes it’s you, she lowers her bow slowly. You reach out again, wanting to offer comfort, but she takes a step back.

Her eyes are locked on yours as you say slowly, “Your sister isn’t here, Honey, it’s just the birds.”

Before she can respond, Haymitch’s pained yell breaks out through the clearing. “(Y/n)! Run, Sweetheart! Get outta here!”

Katniss’ eyes shoot up and the jabberjay hits the ground before you have a chance to react.

“Was that Haymitch?” You feel her eyes on you as your shoulders tense.

Your mouth hangs slightly ajar, and your shock leaves you fumbling for words. “I don’t—”

“(Y/n), run!” Haymitch’s voice cuts you off, his shouts filling the clearing. At the same time, Prim’s screaming starts up again.

This time, you’re visibly more shaken than Katniss. You have no idea when the Capitol had gotten that recording, and you had no desire to wonder how.

“Haymitch,” The soft cry slips out of you before you could stop it. You know it’s only the jays, but the voices sound too real.

Katniss lets two more arrows fly, causing the noise to stop. She retrieves her arrows quietly, bracing herself for more birds to appear. You wish you hadn’t left the crossbow with Beetee.

Back home in the Capitol, all eyes in Hyraclis Roman’s viewing room zero in on Haymitch. His attention snapped toward the screen.

Why would Snow use his voice against you? Haymitch feels his blood run cold when he remembers the two nights he waited on your doormat, eventually pulling you into a hug behind closed doors.

If Snow knew that he’d visited you, what else had he noticed?

Instead of rage, Haymitch finds himself paralyzed by fear. Plutarch, I need to find Pl—

Haymitch is jolted out of his panic when one of your old clients, Olicious Prest, claps him on the shoulder with a smirk. “Who knew the Capitol drunk had game?”

Turning to look the bronze haired businessman in the eye, Haymitch weighs the political repercussions of punching him in the face. Technically, the plan is to get you and the rest of your allies out of the arena within the next twenty-four hours. You won’t be needing sponsors after that.

“(Y/n)! Katniss!” Finnick’s arrival snaps Haymitch out of his spiral. He’s grateful for the distraction when your reunion with Finnick captures Olicious’ attention. Haymitch can only roll his eyes when the billionaire purrs, “Ooh, a love triangle? I’d pay money to see how that plays out.”

“I can make that happen.” The sarcasm is lost on Olicious, and Haymitch only feels slightly gratified when the other man pulls out his checkbook and scribbles out a hefty sum.

The District 4 victor barrels through the forest, reaching you first and squeezing your shoulder. He glances between you and Katniss with concerned eyes. “Why did you—“

“Finnick!” Annie Cresta’s voice shrieks from somewhere in the treetops, and Finnick’s head turns so quickly that you feel relief when his neck doesn’t crack.

“Finn, it’s just the jays.” You reach out to grab his arm, and he shrugs you off, eyes wild. “Where do you think they got the screams from?”

Somewhere behind Haymitch, the real Annie gasps. Glass shatters as she drops the drink in her hand. She’d been on edge since Mags died, and this certainly wouldn’t make it better.

Haymitch finds himself thinking that if you had been there—but you weren’t. Annie stands alone, trembling.

He briefly considers acting in your stead when Effie materializes at Annie’s side, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders.

As she turns Annie away from the screen, Effie locks eyes with Haymitch across the room. It’s as if your spirit has possessed Effie to move, and Haymitch knows it’s going to cost her.

You’ve made them both soft. For once, Effie doesn’t seem worried about appearances. She whispers to Annie, her words imperceptible to anyone around them as they move away from the front of the room.

Effie’s thinking only of the 69th Games, where she hesitated to stand at your side. You never held it against her, but it weighs on her. She knows this moment with Annie is her second chance. She takes it.

In Haymitch’s mind, this signals the beginning of the end far more than anything else he’s seen in the last year. He clings to that thought as he watches your body slam against the forcefield trapping you, Finnick, and Katniss in the four-to-five o’clock section of the arena.

Haymitch feels like his heart is being bludgeoned while he watches Katniss and Peeta, who have pressed their palms against their opposite sides of the barrier. He looks on with a clenched jaw as you reach out to check Finnick’s bloody nose. You scowl when you realize that you don’t have anything to clean it with.

Then the innumerable horde of jabberjays finally arrives, and Haymitch takes one look at the bourbon bottle clenched in his fist and resists the impulse to hurl it at the television.

You curl up near the forcefield, reaching out to pull Finnick into a comforting hug instead of attempting to block out the birds. Meanwhile, Finnick slams his hands over his ears like he’s trying to bash his head in.

You sit squeezing your eyes shut as tightly as you can until Katniss gives up on shooting the jabberjays, collapsing in a heap beside you. When you put your other arm around her shoulders, she allows herself to lean into your side, her hands pressed tightly over her ears, mirroring Finnick.

Haymitch trembles with rage, hardly caring what those around him might see. Part of him wants to storm out, but he remains on the couch with his fingers gripping his glass so tightly that his joints ache. If you’re suffering because of him, the least he can do is sit in it with you.

Though the live feed pans to Enobaria and Brutus for the next fifteen minutes, Haymitch knows you still haven’t plugged your ears, choosing to comfort the younger tributes instead. You really are the best of us, Sweetheart.

When it’s all over and Peeta sits with Katniss in his lap, rocking her gently, Haymitch wants nothing more than to jump into the screen to get to you.

He feels slight relief when Finnick pulls you into a hug, your bodies trembling. Beetee comes to sit beside you, resting a hand on your shoulder while Joanna sits on the other side of Finnick.

No tributes had ever displayed this level of affection during the Games, but your allies figured that if this was the last one, there was no point in depriving one another of temporary comfort.

A few of the sponsors coo at the sight of Katniss and Peeta and you and Finnick, which creates a knot in Haymitch’s stomach. Annie seems unbothered by the commentary, so Haymitch forces himself to focus on you.

You sit silently, knees tucked under your chin and arms wrapped around your legs high enough for you to bury your face in.

Though Peeta and Katniss converse in hushed tones beside you, you don’t seem to hear.

You count out two long exhales and two long inhales, trying to let the ringing in your ears pass.

In a rare display of affection, Beetee gently runs a hand over the top of your head. With an ache in his chest, he realizes that he hasn’t done that sort of thing since Ampert’s Games. Your shoulders loosen the tiniest bit, finding comfort in the fatherly action.

You finally join the group conversation when Finnick asks skeptically if the Capitol could manipulate someone’s voice with technology. Beetee glances at you and you look up, nodding slowly. “In Three, we learn how to do that in grade school.”

Your voice is soft, and a relieved tear falls down your cheek. The incessant shouts of Haymitch, Beetee, Wiress, and your brother had drowned out your thoughts so relentlessly that you forgot they were fake.

As Haymitch watches the tears stream down your cheeks from Hyraclis Roman’s ridiculous cobalt blue couch, he swears this’ll be the last time the Capitol finds entertainment in someone’s tears. Especially yours.

The next sponsor parachute that falls carries bars of chocolate, and you don’t need to look at the tag to know who it’s from. Turning the paper over in your hand, the ghost of a smile creeps onto your face. He says keep giving them hell. - E

By some miracle, the look on your face has Haymitch feeling some semblance of gratitude toward Olicious Prest.

The candy works wonders for the group morale. For the first time in years, Haymitch remembers Silka and the chocolate balls without needing five drinks. This time, he settles for one.

A few minutes later, Peeta catches another parachute, this one carrying healing ointment for Beetee and Finnick’s wounds from District 4.

“Someone’s mentor is working overtime,” You comment wryly as you smear honey-colored paste over the cut on Finnick’s thigh. He shoots you a look, and you tilt your head at him curiously. “What?”

Finnick exchanges a glance with Beetee, and Haymitch knows that they’ve figured it out. He decides he’s fine with that as long as you don’t.

| Does he love you any different?

Am I still sounding like a fool?

All you can think about as you stalk Enobaria through the jungle is Haymitch. You hope he isn’t watching, because you can picture him downing a bottle of whiskey when you die. Quit it, (Y/n), you’re not going to die—she is.

Your forearm throbs where Finnick cut the tracker out of it, and you roll your shoulder before raising the crossbow. Three bolts left. Better make them count, Sweetheart.

You hear the last thought in Haymitch’s District 12 drawl and you shake your head, willing it to go away. Stop it, (Y/n). Focus!

Letting one of your eyes slide shut, you use your right hand to snap a dead branch in half. Your attempt to distract her from her search for Katniss works.

Enobaria's head snaps toward the sound, and you hold your breath as she slowly creeps toward your hiding spot in the bushes. Just a bit closer…

When Enobaria pauses five feet away from you, you pull the trigger and watch as the crossbow bolt pierces her throat. She falls, her back hitting the ground with a thud.

Stepping out of the bushes, you stand over her with your crossbow aimed at her forehead. “You shouldn’t have gone after Cecelia—I should shoot you for Finnick and Beetee, too. If only one of us is leaving this hellscape, I won’t let it be you.”

Enobaria's eyes widen with fear, and a gargle exits her throat as she tries to speak, her hands clawing at her throat. Blood covers her fangs as she manages to squeeze out, “Please…just….kill…”

The humanity in her expression has your chest tightening with guilt. You comply with her final request, dealing a killing blow before kneeling at her side. Gently closing her eyes and removing the bolt from her throat, your shoulders slump as you sit back on your heels.

Shame crushes you without warning. Burying your face in your hands, you tangle your fingers in your hair until your scalp hurts.

You think of your crossbow bolt embedding itself in Gloss’ forehead, then of your swords spearing through the male tribute from District 1 during the 59th Games.

You see the female tribute from District 4 desperately reaching for you as she falls from the highest treetop in the forest of your arena. You didn’t catch her.

You recall cutting the hammock strings that the fifteen and seventeen-year-old tributes from District 2 slept in and turning your back at the sound of their screams as they plummeted through the foliage. You hadn’t found the courage to look down at the damage afterwards.

You’re sobbing now, grieving the lives you ended to save your own. Lives endangered because the Capitol used children to settle grudges.

Plutarch might have a plan, but the end of the Capitol doesn’t feel close enough. Paralyzed by your emotions, you don’t notice the sound of leaves crunching beneath Brutus’ boots as he approaches you from behind.

A cruel smirk creeps onto his face as he raises his spear and stabs it through your back. You scream in pain, looking down in shock at the spear tip protruding from between your ribs.

“I’m surprised the weakest link lasted this long,” Brutus leans down to speak quietly in your ear before ripping his spear back out.

You fall forward, using one arm to keep you from landing on your face while the other clutches your side. You can feel the blood soaking your fingers, too shocked to curse him, much less speak. You feel a twinge of remorse. Haymitch is definitely watching now. I’m sorry, Hay.

“Are you going to beg me for your life, Three?” Brutus grabs you by the shoulder and drags you to your feet, turning you around so he can look you in the eye. He gives you a once-over, shaking his head in disbelief. “What a disgrace. You’re a Career. Too bad you’re—”

Brutus is cut off when a large stone slams into the back of his head. He rears back, his elbow slamming into someone behind him.

He releases you, and you force yourself to stand straight, shifting your feet to maintain your balance.

Your eyes widen in horror as Brutus slams his spear into the chest of a man with one hand. Chaff.

Haymitch’s drinking partner meets your eyes, and though you’re stricken by the pain in his expression, there’s no regret. A ghost of a smile crosses his face before he slumps to the ground at an awkward angle.

“No!” You shout, tears streaming down your cheeks. Chaff doesn’t move again.

The cannon booms, and Brutus turns back to you, laughing. “The morphling really thought he could play the hero. Are you really crying, Three?”

You pull a knife out of your belt and lunge toward him, hoping the adrenaline will carry you far enough to kill him.

Before you can make contact with his chest, Brutus grabs your wrist, squeezing until the small blade in your hand falls to the ground. “You District 3 freaks never know when to give up, do you? Latier—”

A machete spears through his heart before he can finish. Peeta rips his weapon out of Brutus’ back and watches silently as the man from District 2 hits the ground beside Chaff.

Five seconds later, another cannon booms.

Peeta’s chest heaves with anger. You step toward him with an arm extended to rest on his shoulder. “Peeta–”

Your legs give out from under you and you inhale sharply as you’re reminded of the wound in your ribcage. Peeta reaches out to catch you, trying to keep you on your feet. He curses quietly, eyes widening. “Sorry, (Y/n), I didn’t notice that he got you.”

You wave him off, closing your eyes as you adjust to the pain. “You need to find Katniss, Peeta. Leave me here.”

Peeta glances at the bangle on your wrist and then back at your face, remembering Haymitch’s stormy expression in his dressing room before the interviews with Caesar Flickerman.

Haymitch had refused to answer any questions about whether his foul mood was related to you, but Peeta didn’t need that kind of confirmation. The flicker of regret in Haymitch’s eyes was enough. Peeta can’t find it in himself to leave you behind.

“You know I can’t do that.” He shakes his head resolutely. If Katniss was going to be the one who made it out, he could spare some kindness for you. You’d both be dead soon anyway.

The irony of him repeating the words you’d spoken to Haymitch four days ago is lost on you, but Haymitch notices.

From his seat on the hovercraft, the blond leans over the tablet in his lap. If Katniss is his, then Peeta is certainly yours.

Despite the tightness in his chest that appears when he notices the blood gushing from your side, Haymitch finds himself laughing when you shoot Peeta a piercing side eye.

Haymitch runs a hand over his face, wiping away the tears from his eyes as he wills Beetee to break the arena faster so he can get you out. “Hold on, Sweetheart, we’ve almost got you.”

“What about your leg?” You scold, trying to jerk free from Peeta’s grasp. You don’t get very far, doubling over when you feel a sharp pain in your ribs.

“I’m fine.” Undeterred, Peeta loops your arm around his shoulders, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re a stubborn one, Mellark. I can see why you drive him crazy.” You don’t have to specify who you’re talking about.

Peeta shrugs as the two of you make your way toward Beetee’s tree. “Couldn’t say for sure, but I think you do, too.”

Your surprised laugh turns into a cough. “You have no idea.”

As you walk, Peeta realizes that the only tributes left are your allies. Feeling freed to search for your friends without fear, he calls out, “Katniss!”

“Finnick! Joanna! Beetee!” You follow suit, holding your hand tighter against your wound. The two of you continue limping forward.

“Katniss?” Peeta repeats, louder this time. In the distance, Katniss yells, “Peeta! Peeta, I’m here!”

Again, she cries, “I’m here! I’m here!”

Peeta picks up his pace, but you can tell that his bad leg is struggling under your combined weight. He hollers, “Katniss!”

“Peeta, just leave me here.” You plead. He doesn’t dignify you with a response, pretending he doesn’t hear you as his eyes scan the trees for a glimpse of Katniss.

When he attempts to increase your pitiful pace and drag you along, you try again. “You can come back after you find her, okay? I won’t go anywhere. Just find Katniss, and I’ll be right here. I promise.”

Peeta stops, looking at you with guilty eyes as he considers your proposition. He almost works up the resolve to deny you again when Katniss calls for him again, her voice cracking this time. “Peeta!”

Gently, Peeta lowers you to the ground, resting your back against a tree trunk. “I’m sorry, (Y/n), I’ll be back.” He hands you a knife from out of his belt, just in case.

As he limps out of sight, you sigh. “I thought he’d never leave.”

After a minute of sitting alone, you curse quietly, closing your fingers around the hilt of the last knife tucked into your toolbelt. “I forgot about the mutts.”

Letting your head fall back against the tree, you inhale sharply when the pain in your side increases. The bleeding doesn’t seem to be stopping. Your eyes are transfixed by the small puddle of blood covering your fingers. A wry smile appears on your face as you grow paler. “I guess I won’t have to worry about the mutts after all.”

In the cloaked hovercraft overhead, Haymitch leaps to his feet, scowling. He tosses the tablet aside when the footage switches from you to Joanna, who is sprinting through the jungle in search of your friends.

Haymitch's shoulders are tense with frustration toward Peeta and Beetee, but he knows he’s most furious with you. “Why d’you have to be so stubborn, Sweetheart?”

He looks up at the cockpit before calling, “Plutarch, how much longer?”

Plutarch glances back at him with a pitying glance. “We’re still waiting on Beetee.”

In response, Haymitch slams his fist onto the padded med table prepped for the injured rebels—which now included you.

First Plutarch told him he couldn’t drink, and now you might be about to die. He’s ready to seize control of the hovercraft himself when the whole aircraft rocks.

“We’re in.” The pilot calls. “Dropdown in five.”

Haymitch practically falls into his seat, slamming his seatbelt down as the craft prepares to land.

On the forest floor, you make peace with the fact that you're bleeding out. The adrenaline has fully worn off. Once again, in the face of death, all you can think about is Haymitch.

Unsure if the broadcast is rolling, you resolve to use up the last of your energy anyway. “Haymitch Abernathy, if you’re listening, I love you, you impossible man.”

If Haymitch had heard you, he might've cried. The tablet lays on the floor where he’d thrown it, too far for him to reach from his seat.

While he braces for the impact of breaking into the arena, your eyes slide shut as your lips form a content smile. Beneath your eyelids, you can see the radiant glow of Snow’s legacy falling apart. It’s worth dying for.

| Why, yes, I am and I always will

After the extraction, Haymitch waits anxiously for Katniss to regain consciousness. Explaining the plan to her won’t be easy, and he knows she’ll be furious when he informs her about the aftermath. He’s broken several promises, and he doesn’t feel ready to face that.

Then the moment he’s been dreading comes. Katniss tears into the cockpit with a bandage on her head. He, Plutarch, and Finnick sit her down to explain. The air feels thick, like the seconds before a bomb detonates.

“Where is Peeta?” Katniss hisses at Haymitch, leaning forward to force him to look at her.

“He was picked up by the Capitol, along with Joanna.” Plutarch shoots Haymitch a look, but he ignores it.

The betrayal in Katniss’ eyes fills Haymitch with so much shame that he has to look away. He wonders briefly what you would do in this situation. Comfort was your strong suit, not his.

Just as Haymitch looks away, Katniss lunges at him across the table. Then they’re grappling on the floor and she’s doing her best to claw his eyes out. Her nails tear into his skin without restraint. Blood pours from his left eye and it takes all of his strength to keep her from getting at his right.

Part of Haymitch considers surrendering to her wrath, but his conscience isn’t strong enough for that anymore. Instead, he returns her obscene insults with meaner ones. He has no desire to physically harm her, but he holds no reservations about hurting her feelings.

When Finnick finally pries Katniss off of Haymitch, she spits, “You saved her, didn’t you? You left Peeta there and took (Y/n) even though you promised me .”

Haymitch recoils, the accusation wounding him more than anything she had screamed while attempting to blind him. Blood drips from his damaged eye and he shakes his head bitterly, “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Sweetheart.”

His whole body aches for a bottle of bourbon as Finnick drags Katniss back to her bed.

Meanwhile, you regain consciousness when you hear someone moving by your med pad. Haymitch? Did the plan work?

Your eyelids are too heavy for you to lift, and your head is pounding. You try to wiggle your fingers, but fail.

Somehow sensing that you’re awake, the guest at your bedside speaks. “I’m hurt, (Y/n). I can’t believe you didn’t think to tell me that you’re in love with Haymitch Abernathy.”

Your heart drops. Though you’re unable to open your eyes, you’d know that voice anywhere. Snow.

You’re glad you can’t move, because otherwise you’d be weeping. If you’re alive and the plan failed, that means you’ve won the 75th Hunger Games. Congratulations! All of your friends are dead.

When Snow scoots his chair closer, you wish you were, too.

146 notes · View notes

avengerstowerarchives · 2 months ago

Text

some protector | haymitch abernathy x reader

word count. 9.9k

pairing. haymitch abernathy x fem!reader

summary. overwhelmed by the feeling of caring for someone and fearful that snow will notice, haymitch drives you away. in the years that follow, haymitch still finds himself looking out for you. based on “some protector” by role model.

warnings. sotr spoilers. normal haymitch trauma stuff? mild violence. references to sa within the context of capitol prostitution/slavery (like with finnick and the other victors). mentions of vomiting?

notes: jumps between present and past–might get kind of confusing, sorry! flashbacks are in italics. if haymitch seems ooc it’s probably because i wrote this when i was sad and didn’t have access to any source material.

part two. | read on ao3.

—--------------------------

At least he didn’t throw rocks this time. Alone aside from a cluster of empty beer bottles, Haymitch leaned back against his couch and smiled wryly to himself. Getting you to leave without having to resort to violence had been a victory—he knew you’d be more stubborn than the Everdeens.

His mind briefly returned to Asterid Everdeen and a stone hurled in drunken desperation, and he ignored the shame rising in his throat. It was far from his finest moment, but it was a necessary one.

Shaking his head, he cracked open another beer, hoping a fourth drink would be enough to help him forget what it felt like to have company.

Every time you came around, curtains stayed open to let the light in and the kitchen smelled like fresh bread, but the alcohol stopped working. Haymitch felt something he hadn’t felt in years—protective. He finally had something worth taking.

Then the nightmares intensified, and he saw faces he spent a decade too drunk to process—Ampert, Maysilee, Wyatt, and Louella—his sweetheart. But somehow, Lenore Dove and her ballad stopped coming around.

On his worst nights, all he could see was you: your trembling hand at the District 3 reaping as you volunteered for a weeping twelve year old, your sunshine yellow dress in the Capitol parade, and you and the male District 1 tribute balancing on a thick tree branch, two of your knives attempting to push back a sword.

In Haymitch’s dreams, you didn’t win that fight. As it had been every year prior, his flask was his lifeline through the 59th Hunger Games. But years afterward, he dreamt of your arena in technicolor anyway.

And when he dreamt of flames, instead of his Ma and Sid, he saw your third-floor Capitol apartment, too far gone for the firefighters to reach. So Haymitch kept drinking.

You’d chided him for his alcohol dependency, but he upped the intake—whiskey, wine, vodka, rum, even Teddy Branson’s moonshine again—anything he could get his hands on. Still the nightmares kept coming.

He mustered up his gruffest facade to drive you away, but you still appeared on his doorstep bearing fruit for the disgusting protein smoothies Effie wanted him to drink and an insistence that his twelfth-floor windows had the best view. You deflected his sharp insults with quick retorts and freshly baked muffins.

But the meadow was the final straw. The night after the 65th Reaping, Haymitch woke up with a drenched brow and his heart thundering in his chest. He blinked away visions of crimson gumdrops and coughed up blood staining blades of grass. Visions of you. Not Lenore Dove, you. It felt like betrayal.

Haymitch couldn’t let you hang around after that.

The next time you let yourself into his house—today—he ensured it would be the last. Instead of hurling insults, he resorted to bluntness. He didn’t shout. He didn’t drag you out the door or chase you with a bottle in hand.

He told you point blank that you weren’t wanted, calling you a bother and admitting that he’d finally had enough. He was lying through his teeth, but his grave expression caught you so off guard that you didn’t think to question it.

You left his Capitol suite living room with eyes sad enough to make a grown man cry, but all he felt was relief. I’m sorry, Lenore Dove. She’s gone now.

Though the apology eased his mind a bit, he still couldn’t shake the foreign feeling of guilt. It was like a pebble in his boot—too small to be significant, but still inconvenient enough that it couldn’t be totally ignored.

Haymitch shook his head again to clear his mind. The condensation on the neck of the bottle dampened his fingers as he tightened his grip. The sensation reminded him of your tears, but he told himself he’d much rather see tears on your cheek than blood on your temple.

Haymitch glanced at the empty beer case on his coffee table. Should’ve gotten more than a five pack.

| (Am I guilty? Am I sorry?)

(Do I miss you at the party?)

Yes I am, and I always will

A trio of Capitol women with varying shades of neon green hair shrieked with laughter at the sound of crashing glass. Haymitch barely batted an eye as the horde of Capitol elites jeered at the 65th victor, some teenaged boy from District 4 sitting in an ornamental fish tank.

Haymitch hadn’t bothered to learn tribute names during the games–he’d learn the winner’s from the victory propaganda. There wasn’t a point in learning the rest anyway.

“Finnick! Over here!” A man clothed in polar bear fur rapped on the glass of the tank, grinning wildly. “I sponsored you in the games—I sent the steak!”

“They always—” Haymitch glanced to his left to make a jab at the Capitol elite when he realized the stool beside him was empty. His mouth drew into a grim line before he threw back the contents of his glass and signaled the bartender for another.

In his defense, you used to stay glued to his side at functions like this since you were the Games’ newest victor. Swapping sarcastic comments with you had become a reflex. Even before you began inviting yourself into his house, you crashed a multitude of his parties.

On the night the two of you meet, Haymitch finds a spot in the darkest corner of the room before loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top buttons of his dress shirt.

Once he feels like he can breathe again, he takes a large sip of the brandy in his glass.

“Heard you know your alcohol. Which one’s the strongest?” Without warning, you appear by his elbow, stumbling into the cocktail table he stands behind.

If Haymitch wasn’t wasted, he would’ve startled at your voice yelling in his ear to overcome the music blaring overhead. The alcohol makes him immovably apathetic.

Maybe if he pretends he didn’t hear, you’ll just go away. He did not want the Capitol’s newest darling following him like a lost puppy. Maybe if he pretends he didn’t hear, you’ll leave him in peace.

The impracticality of your heels have you gripping the edge of the tabletop to prevent it from tipping over. Your stylist had dressed you in an obnoxiously voluminous green tulle dress that was meant to make you look like a forest fairy, or whatever Elodie had called it. The sheer material doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Your tiara slides slightly as you tilt your head, waiting for his response.

He simply grabs his glass and takes a long sip, rescuing it from the wobbling table.

Your eyes narrow, accepting the challenge. You needed this advice. Your mentor warned you about what Snow did with the Capitol’s favorites, and you knew only drinking would get you through it.

Leaning in closer, you raise your voice slightly and force him to acknowledge you. “Just give me a drink to order and I’ll leave you to brood in peace.”

Haymitch wonders what he possibly could’ve done to make himself look approachable. Was he losing his edge at twenty-five? “Didn’t your parents teach you about ‘stranger danger’?”

“Bold of you to assume they lived long enough to teach me.”

Haymitch doesn’t dignify your quip with platitudes, nor does he spare a glance at your ridiculous ensemble. He returns to ignoring you. You kind of respect that.

Shrugging, you explain, “Look, Beetee refuses to come to these things, but he said you’d be the best drinking partner of the lot.”

The mention of Ampert’s father has Haymitch’s shoulders stiffening. You notice how his fingers twitch around his glass, but don’t pry. “Come on, Abernathy. Just say a couple words and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Boy, were you stubborn. “Did it ever occur to you that Beetee might’ve been making a joke?”

“Do you really think Beetee would make a joke?”

Haymitch sighs, “Meeks, get the kid a vodka soda. And you—get out of my face.”

“You ordered me a pop? Seriously?” You ignore Haymitch’s demand that you leave him alone and wrinkle your nose at the drink set before you. He gives you a pointed look, and you raise the glass to your lips, downing half the glass in one go.

Big mistake.

Haymitch watches, slightly amused at your naïveté as you lean over, coughing violently. “You’ve never drank before, have you? That should teach you to stop bothering me.”

You send him a nasty look in response, and in a miraculous moment of kindness, he orders you a glass of water. The hit on your pride is immense, but at least you didn’t throw up all over his shoes. “Just you wait, Twelve—I’ll be able to drink you under the table in no time.”

After that first night, you ran into him at enough parties that you made good on that promise. By the next time you saw him, you could handle your high heels and your alcohol.

At a sponsor’s party celebrating the 62nd Games, you maintain your tradition of joining Haymitch in the corner.

“Hey, Twelve.” Once again, you materialize out of nowhere, this time with a whole bottle of bourbon. You know the nickname bothers him–an obnoxious reminder that he is the lone victor of the twelfth district. You use it anyway.

When he doesn’t respond, you say simply, “Haven’t seen you since the last one.”

Haymitch sighs. “What do you want, Princess?”

You hardly bat an eye at his biting tone. Somehow his rudeness makes the Capitol’s nickname for you slightly more bearable.

“Still as charming as ever.” You uncork the bottle before pouring a generous amount into your glass. When you twist it toward him, he accepts your offer grudgingly. “I brought my own drink. Tophir never gives out anything strong enough—he’s stingy.”

Haymitch raises his glass to you mockingly before taking a sip, but says nothing. Once again, he wonders what in the world you could’ve possibly seen to make you want to talk to him. Finally, he asks, “Did Mags send you over here to bother me?”

“I’ve noticed that people tend to steer clear of you, and I wanted to use those bad vibes for good.” You roll your eyes before adding, “I love Mags, but not enough to do this out of the goodness of my heart.”

“I doubt anything you do comes from the goodness of your heart.” An image of you volunteering at your reaping pops into his brain.

To his annoyance, you shrug it off. “Like anyone else here is different. Well, maybe Mags.”

You finish off your glass and reach for the bottle. Haymitch grabs it before you can, refilling his cup and setting the bottle back down on the table.

Eyes narrowing, you shoot him a look, though there isn’t any fire behind it. “You couldn’t even pour me one?”

“Property tax, Princess.”

“Your company is not worth that much.”

Haymitch shakes his head. “You’re the one that came over here.”

Suddenly, a hand rests on the small of your back before trailing up to the back of your neck, cutting off your response. You shudder as one of your regular clients whispers in your ear, “I paid Snow for the rest of the evening, Princess.”

He catches you so off guard that you flinch before you can stop yourself. You hope he’ll dismiss your shaking as excitement. The corseted blue dress Elodie tied you into earlier feels suffocating, and you take a slow breath.

Haymitch remains expressionless, but he feels disgust bubbling in his stomach as he examines the man behind you. The Capitol man’s designer blue suit and slicked back hair reek of arrogance.

For the first time in ten years, alcohol fails to make Haymitch numb. The worst part of it all is your expression. Immediately, you fix your face and any trace of discomfort is gone, replaced by a forced smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“At least let her stick around till the bourbon’s done,” Haymitch slurs, attempting to play the alcoholic card.

The other man eyes him warily, tightening his grip on you. You understand what Haymitch is trying to do, and deep down you both know it isn’t going to work.

Unflinching, you bare your teeth into a forced smile that the man behind you doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s fine, Twelve, I’ll leave the rest of it here with you.”

It doesn’t matter that Haymitch can’t find words to respond with because then you’re gone. You avoid his gaze, and he looks away as you let the man lead you up the stairs.

Haynitch downs the rest of the bourbon straight from the bottle, not bothering to pour it into his glass.

The next morning, you find a brand new bottle waiting outside of your door. No note is tied to its neck, but you know who sent it. Miraculously, your lips crack into a half smile. Maybe Haymitch Abernathy has a heart after all.

The neon-haired women scream again and more glass shatters, snapping Haymitch out of his reverie. He tore his gaze away from the empty seat beside him before grabbing a full bottle of bourbon by the neck and retreating to his apartment.

None of the other guests noticed except for one. After watching him slip out of the room, you stepped out of your hiding place and stood near Finnick, who had been moved from the oversized fishbowl into a gilded fishnet.

The whole affair has you feeling nauseous, but you push aside your panic to slip your hand between the gaps and give his fingers a comforting squeeze. The fourteen year-old shoots you a brief half smile, but you can feel that he’s shaking.

There’s nothing you can do except comfort him in the morning. Your mouth sets into a grim line.

Haymitch had the right idea with the bourbon.

| (Am I dragging this forever?

Am I thinking 'bout September?)

Haymitch kept leaving bourbon on your doorstep on what he knew to be your worst nights, but after he kicked you out of his life, the amount of bourbon on his shelves never returned to normal. He never minded drinking for two…or five.

His drinking habits remained the same, but his house had certainly changed. Takeout boxes increased, as did piles of dirty clothes. The curtains stayed drawn, the kitchen cabinets sat empty, and he set a personal record for the most alcohol bottles ever accumulated in his living room with every passing day.

All the while, Haymitch pretended he didn’t notice, and his biweekly trips to town to restock his alcohol cabinet increased.

Victor’s Village had never felt so isolated, despite the fact that he’d been the only resident for fifteen years. Well…for the most part.

After the 63rd Games, Haymitch spends exactly one relatively peaceful week in solitude before he jolts awake to the sound of a fist pounding on his front door.

Wiping sleep out of his eyes, Haymitch takes his sweet time getting to the door. If the Peacekeepers want to see him this early in the morning, he plans to make them wait. Haymitch pulls on a shirt slowly, scowling as the knocking grows louder and the throbbing in his skull increases accordingly.

When he whips open the door, instead of standing face to face with a district peacekeeper, he’s met with the sight of you grinning in a zip-up hoodie and sweats and surrounded by a multitude of paper bags. You lift your chin as a greeting, adjusting the duffle bag on your shoulder and waiting for him to let you in. “Haymitch.”

“What’re you doing here, Kid? And why so early?” His anger falters slightly at the initial surprise, but it returns at the sight of the slowly rising sun.

You don’t appreciate being called a kid, but you let it slide. After seeing your interaction with the man at Tophir’s party, Haymitch decided to never call you “Princess” again, and you quietly returned the favor by tossing the nickname “Twelve.”

“Mags sent me. ‘M here out of the goodness of my heart and all that.” You slip past him into the house before he can stop you.

Haymitch’s neutral but sleepy expression hides his mental calculations. After concluding that sending you away will be more difficult than scaring off the people of Twelve, he crosses his arms and waits for you to explain yourself.

You slide your sunglasses onto the top of your head and set down several grocery bags before assessing the damage. You note the remnants of sleep in his eyes and the half-conscious scowl on his face. This might just be the most sober you’ve ever seen him.

Dirty dishes are spread out on the table and overflow in the kitchen sink while empty bottles surround his couch like a barricade. The kitchen looks unused, and there’s even a cobweb growing in one corner of the ceiling.

“Seriously, Abernathy, how can you live like this? You got back from the Capitol last Tuesday!”

“Mags sent you to babysit? At sunrise?” Haymitch ignores your questions, too shocked to do anything about your unwelcome entrance. You are one of the first people to see the inside of the house since he moved in thirteen years ago.

“Well, the sunrise part was my fault–I’m an early riser.” You begin emptying the grocery bags, placing ingredients in the refrigerator and cabinets. “I’m supposed to make sure you don’t swallow your tongue or something like that.”

Haymitch runs a hand over his face. Now he definitely needs a drink. He pushes past you to retrieve a bottle of vodka.

“At seven in the morning? Seriously?” Your left eyebrow rises in disbelief. Shaking your head with a slight grin, you roll up your sleeves and turn on the sink before lathering soap with a sponge. “Mags is right, you really do need an intervention.”

“Hey!” Haymitch snaps. “You’re in my house at this godforsaken hour and I didn’t tell you to come in, so shut up and get out.”

Shouting doesn’t scare you anymore. Instead of running out the door, you smile more widely and the glint in your eyes has Haymitch internally bracing himself. “You’re horrifically hungover, aren’t you?”

His frown deepens as he reaches for a glass of water. He did not like your tone.

“I’m so sorry, I’ll try to speak more quietly,” You promise, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. Just as he takes a sip from his glass, you bang two pots together, the clang loud enough to fill the room. “Oops.”

Haymitch scowls, letting out a curse as he lifts his free hand to clutch his head. “Get out of my house!”

You ignore him and continue scrubbing the dishes. Little does he know that your dispatcher wasn’t Mags at all–it was Effie. The escort admitted she was at her wits end trying to make him presentable during the games, but recently she had begun to worry about his drinking problem and what it meant for his odds of survival.

She didn’t find your quip that “at least Haymitch is consistent” very amusing. Instead of laughing, she insisted that you might have a better chance at helping him than she did. The bourbon had to count for something, after all.

Between your growing curiosity about Haymitch’s life outside of the Capitol and Effie’s promise that she would get you out of your night work so that you could watch Haymitch in District 12, you found yourself with an offer you couldn’t refuse.

While you begin scrubbing a grimy cast-iron skillet, Haymitch’s thudding footsteps leave the room.

“Keep drinking water!” You call over your shoulder. You start humming quietly while you do the dishes.

Once you’re finished, you step into the living room and round up his collection of empty bottles.

Unsurprisingly, Haymitch is nowhere to be found.

“It’s honestly not as bad as I thought it would be,” You declare loudly. You’re met with silence. A backhanded “compliment” isn’t enough to provoke him this morning. Unbothered, you pull back the curtains for some natural light and get to work cleaning the windows.

Later, over eggs and toast, Haymitch grudgingly engages you in conversation. He’d hoped that if he ignored you long enough, you’d leave, but he should’ve known by now that you were too persistent for that.

He scowls, “Did your folks in Three finally have enough? How’d Mags get you here?”

“Free vacation.” You pointedly ignore his question about your family.

“Twelve is no vacation, Sweetheart.” The scoff slips out of him so quickly that he doesn’t process the nickname till after he’s said it.

“This is an intervention, not a proposal, Abernathy.” You dismiss the moment flippantly, and he’s grateful.

His slip of the tongue has him ready to kick you out of the house again, but before he can usher you out the door, you’re on your feet, venturing further into his house in search of laundry.

He barks your name from the kitchen. You hear the scrape of his chair as he pushes it away from the table, followed by the slam of his glass as he downs more vodka before following you. “What’re you doing now? Don’t go upstairs!”

You stop at the base of the staircase, hanging onto the railing as you lean back to look at him. “I’m threatening to do your laundry so that you feel insulted enough to do it yourself. Mags said it might work.”

That was actually all you, but it was worth a shot.

Haymitch huffs, “You wouldn’t. No vacation is worth that.”

“Watch me. Anything’s a vacation compared to the Capitol.” As usual, your biting sarcasm reveals a bit of truth.

Haymitch runs a hand over his face, sighing again. He has a feeling he’ll be doing that a lot. If you’re going to insist on staying Twelve, he’s going to make you pick another house to stay in. Preferably as far away as possible.

Half a bottle of scotch later, Haymitch attempts to bargain, suggesting that you stay in Twelve but lie to Mags and leave him alone.

His suggestion falls on obstinate ears. You clutch imaginary pearls. “I can’t believe you would cross that line, Abernathy. Mags is an angel, and anyone who lies to her is going to hell.”

Haymitch can’t tell if you’re serious, but none of it really matters because you’re still here and he has no idea how to get rid of you. He can’t afford to make too much of a scene, and he doesn’t have the energy to bury a body. “Fine. If you’re staying in Twelve, just keep out of my hair.”

“Are you sure? You look like you might need help wash—”

“Watch it, Kid.” He cuts you off, shooting you a nasty glare before lifting his glass.

You smirk, but don’t finish making the jab. “I’m going to take a look at the garden. If I’ll be stuck here babysitting you, I might as well get a new hobby.”

Haymitch makes no move to stop you, letting out his hundredth sigh of the day as he swirls the liquid in his glass.

You seem to think that he’s all bark and no bite, and it’s not like he can carry out a threat of violence because you’re a victor for crying out loud. Your handlers have every inch of your body insured.

You’re stubborn, and Haymitch decides he isn’t sober enough to deal with you right now. Hopefully you’ll grow bored in a couple of days and you’ll leave on your own accord (you don’t).

Even so, he realizes your position as one of the Capitol’s most prized victors should keep you relatively safe. And it’s not like he cares about you anyway. That’s as safe as you can get.

One morning in mid-September, Haymitch jolted awake at the crack of dawn. He’d forgotten to close his curtains all the way after falling asleep on the couch, and the early morning sunlight shined through the window enough to disturb his sleep.

As he watched the sky turn from a dark charcoal to a mix of hazy pink and fiery orange, he found himself half-expecting a knock on his front door. Once he processed the thought, he pulled himself to his feet to retrieve his first beer of the day.

Muttering to himself, he blamed it on a lack of alcohol rather than the loneliness that had arrived in your absence.

| (Am I wrecking reputation while you're making reservations?)

When you suddenly found yourself freed from the responsibility of looking out for Haymitch, you resolved to dedicate all of your energy to your mentees.

It didn’t take long for you to realize that the most efficient and profitable way to do that was to take advantage of the networking opportunities Snow unintentionally but literally dropped into your lap.

If the Capitol was going to auction off your body every night, you might as well take some of the profits. So you did.

Haymitch first witnessed your tactics during the 66th Hunger Games. You’d done your best to fulfill your promise to never bother him again, but the thought of you still left a tightness in his chest.

At one of the Capitol viewing parties, he caught a glimpse of you from afar, cozying up to a man in a gold suit. Haymitch immediately recognized the heterochromatic blue and brown eyes and cobalt blue hair.

The sponsor whose wallet you were trying to service is Hyraclis Roman, one of Panem’s wealthiest businessmen.

Businessman was a generous title, Haymitch thought, because all Hyraclis did was moderate one of the Capitol’s largest betting systems during the Games. He took a steep cut off the wagers and made enough to live less than a mile from Snow’s mansion. Worst of all, Hyraclis Roman used his profits to buy a night with the victors—the children—he bet on, and everyone knew it.

You hated Hyraclis Roman, so when Haymitch noticed your legs draped across the gambler’s lap and the possessive hand on your leg, he thought he might’ve finally drank his max and gone to hell.

Haymitch grabbed hold of the vodka bottle on the table to his right before taking a long drink.

When you threw your head back in a laugh before resting your hand on Hyraclis’ chest and leaning forward slightly, Haymitch’s jaw clenched.

In response, Hyraclis grinned eagerly at you with dark eyes and moved his palm a bit higher. Haymitch shuddered with disgust, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the two of you.

Though Hyraclis did his best to monopolize your attention, you could feel Haymitch’s eyes on you, and your cheeks flushed with a mix of shame and frustration.

While you’d prefer for Hyraclis to never have his hands on you at all, Snow made that an impossibility.

If these men were going to put their hands on you regardless of your consent, you were going to take as much of their money as you could.

You knew that if you could only explain it to Haymitch, he would understand. But you couldn’t, so you sat there and pretended you didn’t see him staring with a bottle of vodka.

Haymitch felt ready to bash Hyraclis over the head with it given the opportunity, but you mistook the blond’s protectivenesss for judgment.

Naturally, Hyraclis interpreted the red tinge on your cheeks as excitement. When he leaned forward and pressed a long kiss on your neck, your stomach lurched and you turned away from Haymitch.

Later, you leave the party with Hyraclis’ hand pawing your waist and consider telling Snow that you’ll never do this sort of thing again.

But when you wake up the next day and Hyraclis writes you a hefty check for you to use for your tributes, you force yourself to be pleasant.

After a month full of nights like that one, the District 3 male tribute wins the 66th Hunger Games, and somehow you find the strength to endure Snow’s exploitation. From then on, you appeal to the affections of more clients, and Haymitch watches.

| Yes I am, and I always will

When the male from District 8, Kross, thrust his javelin into the heart of your tribute during the 69th games, you screamed.

The sound was enough to jolt Haymitch into a state miraculously close to sobriety, and his gaze immediately shifted away from the footage on the flatscreens.

After ten years as a mentor by the age of twenty-eight, the losses shouldn’t have caught you off guard anymore. Everyone in the room knew that, which is why you’d earned disgusted looks from the sponsors.

Sure, the kindest mentors like Mags cared for their tributes and equipped them for survival as well as they could, but the seasoned veterans learned how to guard their hearts early into their lifelong sentence. Snow labeled emotional outbursts from mentors as inappropriate behavior. Capitol citizens could cheer and weep; Mentors could not.

Scandalized gasps filled the room as you crumpled to your knees, and a horrified whisper observed that your mascara was running. The lack of decorum wouldn’t do you well in the next support raising cycle.

Your fellow District 3 mentor and District 3 escort froze, unsure what to do, but definitely unwilling to compromise their positions.

As you stared at the screen, you forgot everything Beetee and Mags had ever told you about shielding your emotions. You were too distraught to realize how this would nullify your flirtation with the sponsors, much less how it might provoke Snow.

This wasn’t the first time one of your tributes had made it to the top five and been killed, but this kill was particularly brutal. This year’s reaping sent your former classmate’s daughter into the arena—an eighteen year old girl named Tesla, who had been one year away from escaping the reaping forever. She was the same age you’d been when you won your Games.

Instead of letting one thrust of his spear be enough, Kross wrenched his javelin out of Tesla’s chest before going in for another strike. And another, and another, and another. He used so much force that you could hear it.

You pressed your palm to your mouth to quiet your screams, cringing at the feeling of bile rising up in your throat.

Though it had been years since you had spoken more than three words to Haymitch, he found himself crouching by your side as the other mentors looked on, their faces a mix of stoicism and pity.

Kross’ mentor, Cecilia, sent you an apologetic look that you couldn’t see, and Finnick’s eyes shone with relief at Haymitch’s unexpected display of empathy.

After Finnick won his Games, you made him vow to never get into trouble on your behalf, but at eighteen, the resilience hadn’t been crushed out of him yet. If Haymitch hadn’t moved when he did, Finnick’s brotherly instincts would have moved him to your side.

The room filled with loud whispers, but Haymitch cast aside any worries about what they might be saying. His main concern was to get their attention off of you so that Snow would have less to punish you for.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the screen, so he grabbed your elbow and pulled you to your feet. “Come on, (Y/n). You gotta move.” He spoke quietly enough that only you could hear.

He assumed you wouldn’t accept his help, but your body reverted to the old habit of treating him like someone safe, and you weren’t present enough to remember that you avoided him now.

All of the eyes in the room were on the two of you as he guided you out of the spotlight with an arm around your shoulders, pressing you to his side to hold you up and shield you from view. To the rest of the room, this uncharacteristic softness is almost more scandalous than your screaming.

Once the two of you made it toward the back of the room, Effie appeared on your other side, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder as she whispered words of encouragement.

If you hadn’t been on the verge of a breakdown, you would’ve acknowledged her kindness. Effie prioritized propriety, and emerging from the crowd to comfort a hysterical woman was the opposite of that.

You gagged, “I’m going to throw up.”

To Effie’s credit, she didn’t flee. Her brows furrowed in concern, and she began ushering you to the nearest bathroom.

Without loosening his grip on your arm, Haymitch used his free hand to reach for a bucket of champagne on a nearby table, shooting its patrons a forced smile before dumping its contents onto the floor and handing you the bucket.

Just in time. Though your hands were shaking, you were grateful to have something physical to ground you. Unable to shove down the nausea anymore, you raised the ice bucket closer to your face.

In normal circumstances, you would’ve scolded Haymitch for making a pointless mess for an Avox to clean. Now, you’re too occupied with making sure you don’t throw up on the carpet.

Since the footage had shifted to a different tribute, the attention had been diverted from you. But even if it hadn’t, sickness was more normal than weeping. Viewing parties were no stranger to vomiting caused by alcohol or gluttony.

Once you made it to the bathroom, you heaved the contents of your stomach into the toilet, shoulders shaking as you gripped the porcelain. You felt fingers lightly brushing your scalp as they gathered up your hair and held it away from your face. You wanted to think it was Effie, but the hands were calloused and free of acrylic extensions.

The situation felt horribly reminiscent of others from years past.

“When will you admit that you have a problem?” You wonder aloud as you kneel beside Haymitch, who is currently emptying his stomach in Caesar Flickerman’s guest bathroom.

Over the last week, Haymitch’s alcohol intake had increased drastically, which was especially alarming when you considered the large number that was his typical average.

You and Effie chalked it up to Haymitch’s characteristic lack of self-preservation, and he didn’t correct you. In truth, his nightmares had gotten worse, but there was no way he was going to tell you that—especially when those dreams featured a certain District 3 victor during the 59th Games.

“Haymitch, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. Effie’s losing her mind.” You resist the urge to smack him on the back of the head.

Haymitch grunts in response, and you pause your berating to brush his hair out of his face with your fingers and lift it out of the way. He tries to shrug you off, and you chide him. “Don’t be difficult, Abernathy, you know I’ve seen you look worse. This is only partly emasculation–I’m mostly doing Effie a favor.”

If Haymitch hadn’t been throwing up his dinner of bourbon and scotch, he might’ve let out a grudging laugh.

When your hand begins to rub his back soothingly, he told himself that he was too drunk to tell you off, even though most of the alcohol in his body had been ejected in the last five minutes.

A few seconds later, he has a moment of respite. After taking a small sip from the bottle of water you offer him, he rasps, “Don’t you have someone else to bother, Kid?”

“Effie booked me for the night to keep you from choking on your vomit.” Despite your flippant tone, you hold his hair back with surprising gentleness. “You know she can’t handle this kind of stuff.”

Effie really couldn’t handle that kind of stuff, Haymitch scowled. He willed her to come back soon so he could take his hands out of your hair and distance himself again as quickly as possible.

As usual, Effie didn’t adhere to his will. Her whereabouts remained unknown, and he redirected his attention to you as you stopped retching and began to hyperventilate.

“It’s alright, Kid. Breathe.” Haymitch’s voice broke through your panic, his tone soft. He gingerly turned you to face him, his hands resting on your shoulders in an attempt to ground you.

You struggled to follow his instructions, inhaling a sharp breath through your nose and gasping an exhale through your mouth.

“Come on, Sweetheart, you can do it.” He dismissed the use of the nickname as a byproduct of the alcohol again.

While he slowed his breathing for you, you closed your eyes, trying to match his pattern of a four second inhale followed by a four second exhale.

“It’s called box breathing,” Haymitch overhears you whisper softly to the fourteen-year-old girl who is the 62nd Hunger Games’s female District 12 tribute.

Though there were no direct rules against mentors speaking to tributes from different districts, the nature of your interaction pushed against unspoken rules.

If Snow’s in a bad enough mood, it’s something you can be punished for. Haymitch knows that would be his fault.

A week earlier, you had lost it on his front porch, demanding to know why he never even tried to give his tributes some advice and railing that he never even offered them basic empathy.

You even accused him of being just as heartless toward the weak as the rest of Panem.

Haymitch hadn’t been able to come up with a response, so he remained silent and kept his face as unreadable and emotionless as ever. That night he dreamt of Wellie and the Doves.

Once the two of you are back in the Capitol, though, Haymitch regrets not telling you off. Though your efforts to help the child are subtle, Haymitch knows that Snow will see the small act of unity as a threat.

Haymitch tells all of his tributes to steer clear of you after that.

By the time you had your breathing under control, you were too tired to think about Kross or Tesla, much less sit up straight. You slump back against his shoulder, too drained to move. Surprisingly, he doesn’t push you off.

The two of you sat on the tile floor, the room silent aside from your uneven breathing. Despite himself, Haymitch didn’t want to leave until you felt well enough to curse him out and push him away yourself.

After what felt like years, Effie reappeared with a glass of water, and once you had taken a small sip, you finally spoke. “Thanks, Effie. Should’ve had more bourbon this morning.”

You didn’t say anything after that, not even about what had happened after the 65th Reaping.

| Yes I am, and I always will

Be some protector

Though Haymitch’s actions at the 69th Games were an indisputable contradiction to the words he used to get you out of his life, neither of you addressed it afterwards, nor did you attempt to revive your friendship.

Haymitch would die before he let Snow use you to hurt him, even as a platonic bond.

Meanwhile, your motivation for maintaining your distance stemmed more from self-preservation. Your pride prevented you from showing up on his doorstep again, chalking up his actions at the viewing party as an anomaly.

You reasoned that although Haymitch Abernathy had a heart, he only acted on it every decade or so, and he had just reached his quota.

The next six games passed with the two of you as acquaintances. When you happened to make eye contact with him at parties, you simply nodded in acknowledgement and kept walking.

You learned how to barricade your heart during the games. You continued to buy your own bottles of bourbon after rough clients, and Effie replaced you as the person trying to reign in Haymitch’s drinking habits. She proved to be far less successful than you were.

Haymitch avoided watching you leave parties with horrid Capitol elites, he never acted on the “intrusive” thoughts that dared him to show up at your doorstep, and he never attempted to make contact.

He didn’t seek you out after the failed rebellion of Johanna’s games, though he secretly wondered what your reaction might’ve been like behind closed doors.

Likewise, you didn’t knock on his door after Katniss and Peeta left the arena together, despite the fact that you couldn’t stop yourself from studying Haymitch’s expression at the viewing parties. You watched him charm partygoers and round up sponsors, which Mags confirmed was something he’d never done before.

The relief on his face when the Gamemakers called off the games after the Nightlock stunt had something lightening in your chest, grateful despite yourself that something had finally gone right for Haymitch Abernathy.

Still, you wondered to yourself if things might have turned out differently if he had fought this hard for his tributes in the years past. You couldn’t work up the courage to ask him yourself.

You don’t bridge the gap, and neither does he.

Until the third Quarter Quell.

After Snow announces his vision with a sneer, Haymitch hurls his full glass of rum at the television. True terror pierces his heart at the thought of returning to the arena. Although his rage boils over as his mind goes to Peeta and Katniss, the first face he pictures is yours.

Peeta and Katniss make respective visits, each begging him to save the other, and he comes to a realization that completely knocks the wind out of him.

If Wiress’ name is drawn, you’ll volunteer in her place, just as you’d replaced a child in your first games. Beetee will certainly try to stop you, but Haymitch knows it would be futile.

Haymitch’s plan to volunteer in Peeta’s place won’t work in your situation either. Wiress’ mind is too fractured for her to volunteer in your place. Even if it weren’t, Haymitch knows you would never allow her to go back into an arena.

He runs his hands over his face roughly, dread washing over him when he realizes that there’s no solution.

Since you and Wiress are the only remaining female victors from District 3, there are no other options.

Haymitch fumbles in the dark for a full glass of beer. You’re doomed, and he knows it.

After reflecting on Peeta and Katniss, Haymitch figures out what he has to do. When Peeta’s name is called, Haymitch will volunteer in his place and do everything he can to protect Katniss. And you.

This is his only solution, so he doesn’t stop to consider what would happen if Effie reads off his name first.

Meanwhile, when you hear the news, you find yourself praying that Haymitch doesn’t end up in the arena. If the involuntary alcohol detox doesn’t kill him, you’re sure Snow’s mutts will rip out his throat.

You don’t want to guess who might win the Third Quarter Quell, but something in your gut tells you it won’t be Haymitch.

You hardly stop to think about yourself; sending Wiress into the arena isn’t an option. You crack open a bottle of bourbon and try to distract yourself from the anxiety rising within you.

You manage to suppress the urge to weep until your mind goes to the rest of your friends, especially Beetee and the victors of District 4. You know that Finnick’s odds are high, but the knowledge that either Mags or Annie will be his partner in the arena has you sobbing till you can’t breathe.

You jump at the sound of your telephone ringing—no one uses that number anymore. If anyone needs to send you a message, they’ll use their communicuff.

You grasp the neck of the receiver and twist the cord around your finger. “Hello?” Despite your best efforts, your voice sounds watery. You breathe in shakily before asking quietly, “Hello? Who’s there?”

You hear a sharp inhale, before the other end of the line clicks. Is this some kind of sick prank? Was it Snow?

Back in District Twelve, Haymitch slams the telephone receiver back onto its base and tears a trembling hand through his hair.

He has no idea what had possessed him to call you, but hearing the fear in your voice only worsens the sharp pain in his chest.

On the day of the Reaping, Haymitch stands stone-faced between Effie and Peeta. While tears fall down Katniss’ face when Effie reads off her name, Haymitch braces himself for Peeta’s name to be called.

Effie steps lightly toward the glass bowl in her gigantic heels and monarch butterfly dress, and Haymitch wonders frustratedly if she could possibly go any slower.

When she unfolds the paper, Effie’s eyes flutter with shock. Anyone who didn’t know her well would’ve missed it, but Haymitch notices. That can’t be good.

There is a nearly imperceptible tremor in her voice as she breathes, “Haymitch Abernathy.”

No. Haymitch’s jaw clenches. His name being called hadn’t been an option—Peeta couldn’t be the one going back into the arena.

Katniss’ head whips toward them. Do something, her eyes plead.

Peeta’s chin tilts upward, avoiding Haymitch’s pointed gaze and Katniss’ wide eyes. “I volunteer as tribute.”

Katniss fails to mask her face when her heart drops.

Haymitch grabs the seventeen year old boy’s arm and attempts to pull him back. “I can’t let you do that.”

“You can’t stop me.”

Haymitch sees your face in his mind. To him, this is about so much more than just the star-crossed lovers of District 12. “Peeta—“

Peeta’s brows draw together as he wrenches his arm out of Haymitch’s grip. “You can’t stop me.”

The words hit like a death sentence.

Haymitch feels more helpless than he’s felt since the 2nd Quarter Quell. Desperately, he hopes there will be some kind of miracle in District 3.

Once they’re on the train, Haymitch storms around like a madman. After the tablet in his hands is unable to pull up the District 3 Reaping, he hurls it across the train car. “Effie, turn on the TV!”

Peeta and Katniss snap out of their mournful stupor, exchanging a look at Haymitch’s hyper-irritability. This seems like more than just a side effect of being weaned from alcoholism.

Peeta wonders briefly if he’s the cause, but when Effie follows Haymitch’s instructions with pitying eyes, he senses there’s something bigger he’s missing.

Effie fast-forwards through a highlight reel of the Reaping broadcast, and Haymitch snaps at her when she passes District 3.

Instead of chastising him, Effie rewinds the clip and rests her hands in her lap. She twists the ring on her pointer finger distractedly, her posture uncharacteristically tense.

Effie can usually poker-face her way through a crisis, but not this time.

As he sits on the edge of the couch, Haymitch grips a glass half-full of brandy, his knuckles turning white.

Peeta wonders where he got it, but Katniss shrugs it off. They’d spent weeks attempting to get Haymitch to sober up during training, but the last thing they needed now was to deal with detox symptoms.

Onscreen, the District 3 escort makes his usual quip about ladies going first, and Haymitch feels a wave of anticipatory nausea.

It feels like years before a slip of paper is selected and a name is called. “Wiress Wright.”

Before Wiress can move, your hand is already up. “I volunteer as tribute.”

Wiress moves toward you to protest, but Beetee grabs her arm to keep her from stepping forward. He gives you a grim nod that you return with a forced smile.

The camera pans to you, and you keep your head raised, staring directly at it with a look of quiet defiance. You don’t shed a single tear, and if Haymitch hadn’t been so sick to his stomach he might’ve felt a twinge of pride.

He can’t watch after that. He thunders to his feet, chucking his glass at the carpet before stomping off to his quarters. He finds it dissatisfying that the cup shatters so easily.

Stricken with fear on your behalf, all of the color leaves Effie’s face. She wordlessly turns off the television and lets him go.

In the distance, a door slams and more crashing follows. Peeta leaps to his feet, starting to follow when Effie stops him. “Peeta, just leave him be.”

“He’s going to hurt himself,” Peeta shrugs off the hand on his shoulder.

“Peeta.” He freezes at the firmness in Effie’s tone. She refuses to leave any room for an argument. “He’ll wear himself out eventually, but there’s no use in trying to reason with him now.”

The look in her eyes tells him that she speaks from plenty of experience.

“What’s special about the District 3 tribute? Why does he care?” Katniss speaks up in a flat tone, but she levels Effie with a piercing gaze. She asks not because she’s worried about Haymitch, but because she knows this unknown variable matters.

If Haymitch has a conflict of interest, it might be the tipping point for Peeta’s odds of survival.

“She’s an old friend.” Effie says carefully, not wanting to spill open the can of worms, but unable to fully dismiss it all.

“I didn’t think Haymitch had friends.” The words could’ve been a joke, but coming from Katniss, there isn’t an ounce of humor in them.

Effie sighs, shaking her head disappointedly. “He doesn’t.”

Another crash comes from Haymitch’s room.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make sure he doesn’t finish destroying his things and start going after my perfumes.” Effie avoids Peeta’s searching gaze, and he and Katniss are left alone.

| Some protector

That night, after Peeta and Katniss have gone to bed on the Distinct 12 floor of Victors Tower, Haymitch grabs a bottle of bourbon and slips away.

Against his better judgment, he steps into the sleek elevator and hits the button labeled with the number three.

He grips the metal railing till his fingers are sore while the elevator makes the nine floor descent.

He takes a deep breath before hitting the buzzer outside of the District 3 tributes’ apartment.

Beetee opens the door, unsurprised to see the disheveled blond wearing a horrifically wrinkled shirt with slumped shoulders and dark shadows under his eyes.

Gruffly, Haymitch says, “I need to see her.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Beetee remembers the months that followed your final return from District 12. You hadn’t been that withdrawn since your first night with a Capitol client, and it killed Beetee when you refused to explain what had happened.

Beetee may not be able to spare you from the Games, but he resolves to do his best to shield you from this. “I can’t let you do that.”

For a moment, Haymitch’s liquid courage falters, and his thoughtless audacity is replaced by some semblance of shame.

As Beetee starts to shut the door, the weight of the bourbon in Haymitch’s left hand reminds him of his original purpose. “I need to see her, Beetee. We don’t have much time, I can’t—“

“It’s okay, Bee, I’ll handle it.” Suddenly you’re in the doorway instead, and Beetee leaves the two of you alone with one last frown sent toward Haymitch.

“What do you want, Abernathy?” Your voice is tired, but not friendly. This is the first time you’ve really looked at him since he held you against his chest in the sponsors’ penthouse bathroom.

He doesn’t answer for a minute, distracted by his need to see how you’re carrying on. He notices your hair is let down and unkept, while the bags of sleep under your eyes give away the state of your sleep schedule. Your pupils are rimmed red, and your shoulders slump. You’re already so different from the bold persona he’d seen on TV the day before.

“Haymitch.” When you say his name, it’s a warning instead of a question.

Instead of answering, he drops the bottle of bourbon and pulls you into his arms, all in one motion. One arm wraps tightly around your upper back while the other winds around your waist.

You freeze, and even though he fully expects you to push him away he holds you more tightly.

You don’t have the energy to fight him, and you let your forehead drop onto his shoulder. Something in his chest tightens as you practically go limp in his arms.

The hand he rested on your shoulder slides up to cradle the back of your head, and he rests his chin on the top of your head despite his better judgment.

Later, he plans to blame it on alcoholism. Now, he forgets about future consequences and focuses solely on you.

You sniff pitifully in response and he stiffens in surprise when your arms wrap around him to return the hug. He softens when he feels your tears dampening his shirt. “I’m so scared.”

The brevity of your confession and the smallness of your voice reminds him of your surroundings. He gently guides you into your apartment and closes the door behind him.

He doesn’t miss the fact that he left the bourbon behind, but he’s shocked to realize that he truly couldn’t care less right now.

Once the apartment door is shut, it’s like the floodgates are opened. Your soft crying turns into sobs, and he holds you up, whispering what he hopes are comforting words into your hair.

Blanching, Haymitch realizes that you really have carved out a soft spot for yourself in his heart, and he has no idea what to do with that knowledge. He doesn’t even know how to comfort people anymore.

He doesn’t get picked as a shoulder to cry on, and he certainly doesn’t have any recent experience with being on the receiving end of that either.

The last time he’d cried in front of anyone was when Burdock led him to Lenore Dove’s grave, and that really didn’t count.

Haymitch’s pulse is racing, and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s terrified for you or of you.

Once your weeping has eased a bit, you pull back, cringing. “Sorry, your shirt is covered in tears and snot.”

Vulnerability is a death sentence in the Capitol, but aren’t you bound for death anyway? You do your best to shake off that thought.

He tucks your hair behind your ear, and his heart twinges when he realizes it’s damp with your tears. Gruffly, he remarks, “Just try not to do it again.”

You can tell that he’s joking with you, in his strange Haymitch way. You shoot him a watery smile. “You think you can go get the bourbon you left in the hallway?”

He scoffs, “Of course you noticed that.”

The room settles into a more familiar rhythm after that. Alcohol and banter—that’s something you and Haymitch feel better equipped to handle.

Once you’ve each had a glass, neither of you acknowledge that you’d spent the last fifteen minutes clinging to one another like it was normal even though you hadn’t hugged once during your fourteen years of complicated acquaintanceship.

By the time you two finish the bottle, the clock tells you that it’s two in the morning.

Your styling team will arrive in three hours, and you both know that it would be best if they don’t catch Haymitch here.

“You should get some rest,” He says gruffly, trying to muster the strength to get up and walk out the door.

You tilt your head thoughtfully, “I think I only slept through one full night before my first Games.”

Haymitch’s jaw sets and he fights to keep his fury toward Snow and concern for you from getting all tangled up. “(Y/n), I need you to team up with Katniss and Peeta. We need you to take care of yourself, or you guys won’t have a shot.”

“You know I’ll protect your kids with my life.” You stare at your empty glass, fighting the urge to disassociate. You intend to remain light, but your words sound more like a surrender.

“No.” That isn’t what he wants.

Your head shoots up at the forcefulness of his voice, and your eyes meet as you watch him silently.

“Not with your life. I—we can’t let Snow have that victory. He watches you with your tributes, and you know he’s seen what you’ve done for the other victors.”

Even if Snow hadn’t punished you for your small acts of kindness, it was common knowledge that he knew every move that the victors made.

You hadn’t been dragged off for torturing after coaching Finnick through his first panic attack or helping Cashmere recuperate from a cosmetic surgery, but you should’ve known that Snow would respond eventually.

Haymitch is floored by a sudden realization. Had your name even been in the bowl at the reaping? Snow might have orchestrated it all, knowing that you would always volunteer for Wiress and making it impossible for her to do the same for you.

“Haymitch—“ You start to argue, but he cuts you off.

“He can’t do anything when you’re out here because your clients…like you too much, but once you’re in there? Snow’s gonna do everything he can to get you, (Y/n), because you haven’t let him win. You’re still good.” After saying it out loud, he realizes it’s true. He needs another bottle of something.

Meanwhile, you’re shaking your head bitterly. Is that really how he sees you? You scoff, “You do realize that I’ve killed a lot of people, right? I also raise two new killers every year.”

Haymitch is taken aback. Did you really see yourself that way? You, a woman who had been pulled into two Hunger Games but never reaped?

His fingers curl and uncurl from the fists he’s subconsciously made at his sides. Between gritted teeth, he spits out,“That blood is on Snow’s hands, not yours.”

You raised an eyebrow, “You seriously expect me to think you believe a single thing you’re saying? After who knows how many bottles of that?” You gesture toward the empty bottle dismissively. “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t be drinking yourself to death.”

Your lack of understanding triggers a sharp defensiveness in Haymitch.

The bourbon no longer warms Haymitch’s system, and the buzz is gone. There’s only numbness in its wake. He wants the ache to stop, and reflexively, meanness slips out. “You’re nagging now? I forgot how much I hated having you around.”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that for much longer.” You throw back the retort in a flat voice. It’s the morning in Haymitch’s apartment all over again. You’re not even hurt anymore, just tired. You blink, as if to ward off tears, but you realize you haven’t got any left. “You should go before someone else sees you.”

Haymitch pales, immediately regretful. He reaches out a hand, but you’re already pulling away. “(Y/n)—”

Suddenly, Beetee is there. “You heard her, Haymitch.”

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”Haymitch doesn’t stop the nickname this time, desperate for reconciliation.

You’re already walking away. “Goodnight, Abernathy.”

“(Y/n), I—” Before Haymitch can try again, Beetee ushers him toward the door, disappointment and anger rolling off of the older man in waves. Haymitch turns to look back at you, but you’ve already disappeared into your room.

Beetee sends Haymitch into the hallway without another word. The apartment door shuts softly behind him.

Once he’s in the elevator, Haymitch slams his hand against the wall. Back in the District 12 apartment, he cracks open a beer, on the verge of officially ending his semi-sobriety.

As he watches the sunrise come up through the window, he scowls. Seventy-five long years of the sun rising on a reaping. And this one had been yours.

Setting the beer down, he recalls a conversation with Plutarch and fatal affairs discussed in code. Haymitch decides that even if you can’t stand to look at him, he’ll do anything to keep you alive.

A 75th reaping. If they get this right, yours will be the last.

| Be some protector to ya

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