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avengerstowerarchives · 16 days ago

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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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