Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Haymitch had always been grateful to not have a soulmate. Well, not always. He had once, a long time ago now, wished with everything in him that a gold string tied Lenore Dove’s wrist to his, invisible to everyone in the world except them. Once she died, though, he was glad to not bear the dun string declaring that one side of a soul bond was gone.

Seeing what Snow did to Lenore Dove made Haymitch boundlessly grateful that he had no soulmate to threaten or murder. Small blessings. So when he woke up one bleary, hungover morning to a glimmering gold string around his wrist, he panicked.

Twenty-four. He was twenty-four years old. Far too old for his soulmate to just now be born. Some poor babe with a broken, wasted soulmate to weigh them down. He just assumed he was one of the unlucky ones born without one. Not everyone had a soulmate. Why would he?

And oh fuck no, what if this baby one day grew up to be reaped and he had to mentor them to their death?

The thought sent him straight for a bottle.

Greasy Sae woke him in the afternoon. It was a Tuesday, which meant the woman came by to cook a week’s worth of meals from the provisions delivered to his doorstep each Monday. She found him passed out against his kitchen table and knew well enough not to wake him when within striking distance.

“Boy, wake up,” she hollered from near the door.

Haymitch woke up with a start. Morning? No. It was afternoon light and Greasy Sae was here. “Delightful as ever,” he returned.

Greasy waddled into the kitchen. Her bad hip must be aching from all the spring rain. She made herself at home in his kitchen and rightly so, she was the only one who ever cooked anything in there. Usually she kept her own business while she cooked, long ago having learned that Haymitch was a poor conversationalist. But today was different.

“Just came from a birthing.” This perked his ears up. Might she have just helped deliver the baby with the horrible destiny? “Astrid Everdeen gave birth to a hale little girl. Screaming her lungs out from the first moment like she would bring down the very sky. Your old pal Burdock is fit to burst from pride.”

No. No no no no no no no. Bad enough to have a soulmate. Bad enough to have a soulmate, but it had to be 24 years his junior. Bad enough it was a baby, but it was Burdie’s. Oh, Burdie.

“Get out!” he roared. Greasy Sae flinched. “Get out!” This time his words were accompanied by a cup - the first thing he could grab from the table. It didn’t hit her but she still got the message.

The next morning, Haymitch woke up on the foyer floor in a pool of his own vomit.

XxXxX

He couldn’t react. Haymitch knew his house was bugged by the Capital. So he inspected his wrist in his peripheral vision only. Yep, shimmering magical string still there. Fuck.

Just like he’d heard in stories from his Ma when he was young, a thin band of gold appeared around his wrist. One end led off in the direction of his soulmate. She’d have a string around her wrist leading back to him. The golden light petered off after about a foot or so, dimming until it was invisible unless he came close enough that they could see each other. Then they’d be able to see the entirety of the string binding them together.

Thank everything holy that the sting wasn’t visible to anyone but them. If Snow knew. Even now, Haymitch’s eyes darted around the house, catching on the cameras and microphones he’d found over the years. He contemplated leaving the house altogether but the bright May sunshine deterred him.

Thank goodness this meant Burdie never needed to know that his innocent babe was tied to his angry drunk of a former best friend. Small miracles, indeed.

It was tradition in Twelve that folks didn’t talk about whether they had a string around their wrist or not until they found their soulmate, and even then, only once they’d both turned 19. No one wanted to tempt fate when they were still old enough to be reaped. And plenty of folks never found their soulmate, restricted as movement was across the Districts. If your soulmate was born in Eight or Three or the Capital, well, you never told anyone about that string, now did you. Plenty of folks lived happy lives and marriages without being soulmates.

So Burdock’s baby would grow up knowing not to talk about the golden string. Sometimes you could tell when a baby had a soulmate, though. They tried playing with a shiny string no one else could see. But their parents would deter this and by the time the baby was old enough to talk, then knew not to talk about that.

Haymitch could hide pretty well from the child. He all but hid eleven months of the year, anyway, coming out only for his annual trip to the Capital to watch kids get murdered. But one day Burdock’s little girl would see him, at the reaping or maybe on one of his trips to the Hob. What would she think when she realized that her soul was made of the same stuff as the District drunk’s? The mean old man no one wanted to speak for fear that it would jinx them and their name would be called in the reaping?

Poor girl.

The best thing he could do for her would be to ignore her and pray that he never had any reason to speak with her. She could live her life as happily as anyone who grew up in the Seam, marry some coal miner one day, and birth babies she prayed didn’t ever enter the Games. The thought made his stomach go sour but he wasn’t a selfish enough beast to inflict any other life on her.

Burdock’s daughter. Screaming her lungs out. Good. She could be stubborn like him and together, they could defy this fate.

Chapter Text

He saw her at the reaping. Twelve years old. She had the straight spine and light gait of a hunter. Burdock must have taught her how to steal out from Twelve and shoot. She wore a threadbare dress and braids in her hair. And she was beautiful.

Now, don’t go judging. Haymitch wasn’t that kind of wrong. He didn’t look at a 12-year old child and see anything romantic or sexual. But she was pretty in the way a child can be. Smooth skin and bright eyes. And, he supposed, his soul would find her beautiful in any circumstance.

She stood near the front with the other 12-year old girls. Some of them were crying and holding each other. But not his girl. She stood still as a statue, still as a hunter, only her eyes moving. He saw how they clocked the cameras and the peacekeepers and the stage. He saw her eyes widen fractionally as they landed on Effie (dressed as a crepe paper fruit salad today) and tighten when they landed on him.

Their eyes caught and Haymitch felt lightning race up his spine. He stumbled. That kind of shock would make anyone stumble, even if they weren’t drunk. And Haymitch was drunk. Of course he was. It was the first year his soulmate might get reaped. He’d dare anyone to make it through a day like that sober.

He supposed she must have felt that same electric thrill. Her eyes squinted even tighter. But that was her only tell. No one but Haymitch would have noticed. His wrist twitched as he righted himself – the one with the string – and he noticed hers did too, right at the same moment.

Two kids’ names were called. Neither ended with Everdeen. Haymitch didn’t let himself look back at the girl as he stumbled into the Justice building with this year’s dead children.

XxXxX

Haymitch had seen her before. Of course he had. Twelve wasn’t all that large. And even living as far apart as the Seam and the Victors Village, their paths crossed. In the Hob when she accompanied Burdock to sell a turkey or a brace of hares. In town, where she looked into the candy display of the Donners’ shop with hungry eyes. He could buy her all the candy in the window, till she was fit to bursting. He could buy her anything, he was rich and never spent money on anything but food and liquor.

But the idea of buying her candy, feeding her gumdrops, lodged itself in the gears of his brain. Haymitch made it into an alley before he vomited and vomited again until nothing but bile and spit came out.

He heard about her, too. People talked. Katniss. He didn’t even let himself think the name once he’d heard it. Good singer. Middling student. Taciturn. Loved her baby sister fiercely. Seemed like everyone in Twelve did. Burdock’s second daughter, eight-years old now, charmed everyone she met.

He wondered why whatever power made souls had cut theirs from the same cloth. Was she a good healer, able to care for an alcoholic like him? A calming presence, balm that would sooth his rages? A stubborn little thing that would go toe to toe with him when he was put in the District jail overnight for his drunken behavior?

He couldn’t bear to even think her name so in his mind she was The Girl.

XxXxX

Burdock was dead. No, not Burdock. Burdock. Burdock and about a dozen other men in the mine.

Haymitch heard the news when he was passing the bakery, a clutch of town women talking in hushed tones but not hushed enough. One was listing off names, “Hawthorne, Davies, Everdeen…” The others shook their heads in that way that folks due when the news was such a shame.

“What about Hawthorne, Davies, Everdeen?” He grabbed the speaking woman’s arm to get her attention. She yelped. The other women jumped back from him in alarm. “What about them?” He shook the gossip’s arm to get her talking.

“Mine accident.” He saw her lips move more than he heard her.

“Burdock Everdeen?” He choked on the name. She nodded. He let go of her arm like it burned him and stumbled away.

The Hob.

Rotgut.

The Covey graveyard.

Haymitch hadn’t let himself return to Lenore Dove’s grave for years. He did that day. Laying on her grave getting sloppy drunk, he knew he’d be a disappointment to her like this. He drank more.

Oh, Burdie.

The Everdeens had a spot in the District Twelve grave. Burdock wouldn’t be buried with his Covey cousins on his ma’s side. He’d be with his father’s kin. Where people could lay flowers because Burdock was a good man and many in the community liked him. They respected him. Too many families in the Seam only ate meat because he traded it into the Hob, Capital-priced rations too dear for the little scrip the miners earned.

How was his family going to eat now? Astrid and his daughters. The Girl. Sometimes people gave Astrid gifts to thank her for her healing, but without Burdock’s pay, they’d starve.

The Girl would starve.

How could Haymitch help? What could he do to get them food or money that wouldn’t be traced back to him? The Capital could never find out.

Too drunk to think, Haymitch put off figuring out how to help The Girl. He wallowed on Lenore Dove’s grave for hours, drinking himself to numbness. He’d worry about helping The Girl in the morning.

Chapter Text

Haymitch was caught in a loop of uncertainty and despair for months. How could he help in a way that wouldn’t put The Girl in Snow’s crosshairs? He was paralyzed. Then, the reaping. (Not The Girl, some other girl.) Then a month in the Capital watching children die.

While in the Capital, Plutarch tried to catch his eye and set up a clandestine conversation. Haymitch got drunk instead. He saw Finnick Odair batting glittered eyelashes at some tycoon at a party. The poor kid was being whored out by Snow to anyone who could pay and the light had gone out of the pretty boy’s eyes. At least Snow had the need to look decent to his Capital cronies and no one touched Finnick until the kid turned 16. The legal age for prostitution in Panem.

Sixteen was the law but desperate kids certainly pedaled themselves at younger ages and they could always find Johns. Fuck. The Girl. She was 12. Was that too young to consider it as a way to feed her mom and sister? Had she already?

Haymitch must have swayed on his feet because Finnick braced him with a hand on each of his upper arms. “Steady on, old man,” he said with a friendly smile. Finnick knew Haymitch wasn’t interested in buying, so it was safe to touch him like this without inviting further intimacy. Even once Haymitch righted himself, he continued to stare at Finnick. Finnick stared back, waiting.

“You ever need a place to bug out, you let me know, kid.” Haymitch didn’t know why he said that. No, that’s not true. He knew exactly why. He might not know how to protect The Girl, but at least he could do right by the boy in front of him.

Finnick nodded, hearing his words but also looking for what Haymitch hadn’t said. He turned away before the kid could read anything further than a kindness for a kindness.

A long week of dying kids later, Johanna Mason from Seven won. His own kids, a pair of friends who committed suicide together, hadn’t made it a whole hour. Haymitch tried not to watch the Games after that but something about what he did notice snagged in his brain. Something about this Johanna kid’s story in the arena didn’t line up.

Before she even made it back to Seven, Johanna’s family and much of her neighborhood came down with some respiratory something or other. High fatality rate. No vaccines or cures. No one from her family survived. The Capital news noted the sad irony of the victor having no one to bid her welcome home and Haymitch knew. He knew. Plutarch and Beetee had gotten their claws into another tribute and another family was destroyed. Another kid used up and destroyed and every year she’d have to come back and mentor more kids to their deaths.

Would she be sold like Finnick? She was a mean little thing but that could be beaten out of her. Would she be tortured like Wiress? Once so brilliant and now a mumbling, stuttering mess. Would she keep fighting, become one of Plutarch’s little foot soldiers now that her family was gone?

Haymitch wondered if Snow enjoyed this, the games behind the Games. The outsmarting and outmaneuvering that happened only for those who knew how to read between the lines. Did he find it fun to come up with new ways to punish would-be rebels then flaunt the lies on the news for everyone to believe? Snow lands on top, after all.

Fuck Snow. And fuck Plutarch and Beetee and anyone else that had convinced that poor girl that she had a chance to paint a poster, somehow gum up the Capital’s works and expose their weaknesses for the world and Districts to see. Fuck all of them.

Haymitch rode the train back to Twelve with a pair of coffins tucked away in one of the other cars. He poured whiskey – proper capital whiskey – into his coffee. Not for the first time, Haymitch wondered about the coffee in his cup.

Coffee didn’t grow in Panem. Neither did bananas. Or chocolate. Or any number of things. Which meant there was a world out there outside of Panem. And what did they think? Did they try to distance themselves from Panem? Trade with their noses turned away because this country that ritualistically murdered children had something they wanted? Or was this common? Did other countries have their version? Instead of an arena, maybe those kids played a game where they had to commit suicide and the longer they waited the more gruesome the murder but the last one got to live? Maybe the kids all did shots together and the last one who didn’t die of alcohol poisoning got to win happily ever after?

If not, what could Panem possibly have that was so valuable that other countries would trade with gleeful child murderers?

Suddenly, Haymitch didn’t want his doctored coffee anymore. The food laid out on silver platters no longer looked appetizing. He walked back to the sleeping car like a zombie, shuffling feet bringing him to his berth on autopilot. He laid down on top of the covers fully clothed and didn’t get up again until they reached the station in Twelve.

Chapter Text

Haymitch didn’t even have a chance to react to Burdock’s baby girl getting reaped before the unthinkable happened. “I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute.”

The Girl walked up to the stage looking for all the world like she was already dead. Face slack, eyes blank. For a moment, their eyes met and Haymitch shook his head as minutely as he could. No, don’t give the secret away. She didn’t look at him again. At Effie’s urging, she said her name. “Katniss Everdeen.” The unthinkable name.

He fled into the Justice building as quickly as he could, making sure he didn’t look at her again, then waited while The Girl and the boy said their goodbyes. He heard her plea to the Hawthorne boy, “Don’t let them starve!” and panic nearly buckled his knees.

He ran to the train as quickly as they were permitted and hid in his sleeping car for as long as he could. Eventually he emerged. He tried so very hard to act like he always did, like he’d already written this year’s crop off as dead. Once again, she tried to catch his eye. This time she also tried to speak. “You’re–” was all she got out before a quick eye cut to the camera clued her in that they were not in a private setting.

He played his part. The drunk disappointment of a mentor. Threw in a line about how, “From now until your short lives end, everything you do and say will be recorded on camera for the Capital’s entertainment.” She swallowed so hard he heard her throat. Smart girl.

What was Haymitch going to do? The Girl had been reaped. There was no way Snow orchestrated it. Haymitch had been so careful, no one knew his connection to The Girl. And it hadn’t even been her name called, but her little sister. Burdock’s baby.

This was the nightmare scenario and yet. Haymitch could finally intercede in her life and try to help her. She was good with a bow, he knew that much from the birds and rabbits and squirrels she sold on the sly. If Burdock taught her to hunt, maybe she picked up a thing or two from Astrid’s healing. Maybe he could keep her alive.

Haymitch had only tried to garner sponsors for his tributes the first year. He saw how uninterested the Capital muckety mucks were with his kids. No one wanted to support tributes who were obviously canon fodder. It hurt to try so he stopped.

Could he do it for her? Convince them that Twelve had a chance for the first time in 24 years? Even Peeta Mellark said it, his mother knew, The Girl had a chance. He could coach her into showing off for the judges and keeping quiet in front of the other tributes. They’d make sure she had a bow in the arena to keep things interesting. And once she was inside, he’d beg and plead and promise and scheme and do everything he could to help her.

Without attracting Snow’s eye. Or Plutarch’s. Fuck. This wasn’t going to be easy and Haymitch hadn’t been half sober in over two decades.

Shortly after Effie and The Girl went to their sleeping cars for the night, the boy, Peeta, came to him. This wasn’t unheard of. Other tributes had tried to corner him alone to make their case for why he should back them over their counterpart. But Peeta said something absolutely unexpected.

“What do I do to keep Katniss alive?”

What? “What?”

The boy licked his lips, nervous. “I know I don’t have a chance in the arena. But Katniss does. What can I do to improve her odds of making it home?”

It was like a fever dream. Haymitch hit the boy in the side of the head to see if it hurt. Peeta said, “ow,” and rubbed at the spot but Haymitch didn’t feel anything. Maybe this was a hallucination.

“Why would you want to help her? Even if you know you aren’t going home, what’s in it for you?” His eyes narrowed. Could this be a Capital ploy? A plant of some kind to see how Haymitch responded? Did Snow suspect? His eyes cut to the nearest camera and back. The boy was clearly working himself up to say something. “Spit it out,” he demanded.

And boy did he. “I’ve been in love with her as long as I can remember.”

Well then. Fuck.

The wheels started to turn. Haymitch stayed silent, letting the idea flesh out into a fully formed strategy. He must have been silent too long because Peeta huffed and turned away. Haymitch caught him by his shirt collar. When Peeta turned back, he held up a finger to signal patience for another minute. Before his life had fallen apart, Haymitch used to be good at games of strategy. He’d beat Burdie and the boys most of the time at any game of craftiness over chance. That rusty brain of his had a slow time cooking this one up. This one mattered a hell of a lot more than the rock candy stakes when he was a kid.

“Does she know?” he asked. Peeta shook his head. Haymitch nodded. “Good. I’ve got an idea but I think it will go better if she isn’t read in on it.” The boy looked hopeful, which was just the saddest thing to see in a tribute. “The night before you go into the arena, you’re going to let this juicy morsel drop in your interview.”

“I’m just supposed to spit it out for the whole country?!” This must seem more devastating than death to a 16-year old kid.

Haymitch waved his concern away. “I’ll tee up Caesar. Let him know he should ask about your love life. He’ll eat this up. Once you two are inside, I can play up a star-crossed lovers story for the game makers and sponsors. They’ll love it.”

Peeta was nodding, looking more relieved now that they’d moved on from declaring his unrequited affections to all of Panem and onto how he’d die helping The Girl. “What do I do in the arena? If she’ll ally with me I can try to protect her.”

Haymicth snorted. “Have you met that girl? You tell her you have a crush, she's as likely to slit your throat as kiss you.” He had picked up that much from her in their short time on the train. His Girl was a hellcat, a survivor. And together, they’d keep her alive.

Chapter Text

Telling His Girl that Peeta made her look desirable was like telling a ruby that turning the light on made it shiny. The ruby was precious whether in the light or dark, but it was also all hard edges. Peeta highlighted her desirability but also made her look softer, attainable. Thankfully his interview came after hers.

Her ire died down as Peeta left to get his wound treated. She looked Haymitch dead-on for the first time since she tried to speak to him on the train. He let himself look at her. She was beautiful despite the Capital makeup and Cinna’s finery. And she was terrified. And she was so young.

She looked down at their wrists. This close, the entire length of string was visible, shining a light only they could see. She couldn’t say anything. Neither could he. But this might be the last moments Haymitch got to lay his own two eyes on her. And what he wouldn’t have given to be able to say a real goodbye to Ma or Sid or Lenore Dove. Or Burdock.

Haymitch put his hand to the side of her face. The light from the string at his wrist lit the side of her face golden. “Stay alive, sweetheart.”

Her mouth went slack and that was ok, what could she say to him now? But her eyes burned like a storm. Like all fire.

XxXxX

Cinna found him begging a pair of industry widows to sponsor burn ointment. He clapped Haymitch on the back and chimed into the conversation. “I know it isn’t my place to try to win sponsors for tributes just because I have the honor of styling them, but I will say this. That girl has more than style. She’s got heart. Volunteering for her sister like that? And she’s smart, a survivor. She’s everything I am proud of in Panem.”

The woman on the right cooed and leaned into Cinna’s arm so abruptly a piece of the elaborate foliage she had in her hair fell out. Cinna politely didn’t notice. “We have to get our Girl on Fire some ointment! She’s supposed to be on fire, not burnt!” Both women tittered at this piece of wordplay. It took everything Haymitch had to remember that rolling his eyes would not help His Girl.

Haymitch shook hands with the biddy and walked away. Cinna kept pace with him. “There’s something different about this girl,” Cinna said quietly.

“Is there?” Haymitch replied. Stupid.

“Enough to get your drunk ass in a proper suit, chatting up Capital wealth.” Haymitch didn’t say anything. His facial expression probably already said too much. “She one of us?” Cinna asked.

What? Oh shit. “No. No.” Haymitch had to nip that idea in the bud if he had any hoping of getting her out alive.

“Some of our friends think she has potential. Like I said, a survivor and real heart? People are noticing her.”

This stopped Haymitch in his tracks. He turned his full attention to Cinna. “It takes more than a will to survive. And heart? You don’t think every kid we’ve murdered in the last 75 years didn’t have people they loved?” Haymitch wanted to live, to get home to his family and girl. And he cared. He cared about his family and friends and all of those fucking newcomer kids who believed he could keep them safe. He cared about blowing up his games and look where it got him.

He didn’t say any of this but it must have played out plainly on his face because Cinna backed up a step with his hands up in that universal don’t-shoot gesture. “The girl is on fire. It gets attention.” He paused, clearly for effect. “Look at you.”

XxXxX

Haymitch learned three things:

1. His Girl understood how he thought. Or maybe he was the one who understood her. But he was able to give her advice with the nature and timing of his sponsor gifts and she got it. She got him.

2. Watching His Girl pretend to fall in love with someone else, even his co-conspirator in keeping her alive, made him want to pull the arena walls apart with his bare hands and then rip Peeta into small pieces.

3. This combination gave him worse stomach problems than the rotgut he drank like water at home.

XxXxX

Haymitch hadn’t worked for anything in his life as he tried to get His Girl out of the arena alive. Chatting up the sponsors became easy once the star-crossed lovers story took off. Convincing Crane to change the rules had been an entirely other piece of work.

And then, and then, that last-minute switch back to the original rules. He could have broken Seneca Crane in half.

And then the fucking berry stunt. Genius. Pure genius. But His Girl had no idea the enemies she just made. She might have made it out of the arena alive, but she had no idea the storm that would come for her. That would rage and tear at her for the rest of her life.

Then some small part of Haymitch – a part he wasn’t proud of and tried hard to suffocate – whimpered to know that even though His Girl made it out of the arena alive, he’d never get her. At no point in the last 16 years had he imagined a scenario where he would get to have a relationship with his soulmate. But these past stupid weeks had weakened him. Without permission, he imagined. Two victors. Together. That fragile baby bird of a dream was dead before he laid eyes on her again after the arena. She was Peeta’s now.

No. She was the Capital’s now.

Chapter Text

Katniss Everdeen lived in the Victors Village. Haymitch was her mentor. They had every reason to have a relationship with each other without arousing any suspicion.

“I was going to walk into town. Care to join me?” he asked at her front door. Haymitch rarely went into town and never with a companion, but living victors could change a mentor, right?

She stared at him with confusion. He blinked at her blankly. She saw the understanding cross her face. Cameras. Microphones. Their houses had more bugs than an anthill.

“Yeah. I promised Prim I’d pick up some herbs to add to the goat cheese she’s been making.” She sounded more robotic than the actual robots in the Capital. This girl couldn’t act to save her life, and acting was just the thing she needed now to survive.

They walked a few paces from her door before he spoke again. “You doing ok, sweetheart?”

She snorted, an ugly sound that made Haymitch smile. “Between the nightmares and Peeta’s sad puppy face, I’m living the dream.” Then she caught herself. “I should be grateful. I don’t have to worry about whether Prim will have enough to eat and the Games are over.”

He remembered this moment. When he thought it was over and he’d won. His moment had been shorter, the people he loved slipping through his fingers within days. The threat from Snow explicitly stated. He was going to have to be the one to tell her.

“Katniss, you know this is the rest of your life, right?” He didn’t think she knew.

“What do you mean?”

“You are going to have to convince the Capital that you are madly in love with Peeta. You have a victory tour together. Every year, you are going to have to mentor new tributes. You will never be out of the Capital limelight or their crosshairs. This is the rest of your life.”

He felt fissures in their shared soul. He watched the light leave her eyes. He was the one that did that to her.

“They’ll kill Prim and my mom if I don’t, right?” There was no inflection in her voice anymore. Fuck. He hated this.

“They killed mine.” That got her attention. “I tried to flood the arena. Managed to make it glitch for a minute or two. My family died in an untimely house fire as I was arriving back in Twelve. They killed my girl, too.” Saying those words to Katniss, his soulmate, felt – there were no words for the maelstrom of emotions. For Lenore Dove. His love. For Katniss. His soulmate.

“I suppose that explains you.” It was a remark not intended to wound, but it found a mark all the same. The pain must have shown because she followed up. “I meant that between the Games and your losses, I’d end up drinking myself to death, too.”

“Not to death,” he amended. The question didn’t need asking before he answered. “I made a promise I haven’t yet fulfilled and so I am doomed to live. Not doing a good job of keeping that promise, though,” he mused.

“So, in order to avoid your fate, I need to pretend to love Peeta for long enough for us to realistically have a falling out.” She nodded to herself.

He stopped walking, annoyed, and snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Wake up, sweetheart.” She batted his hand away but he continued. “Your love, a love so strong you defied the Capital? That’s forever. Snow will make sure of it. If only to make you both miserable.”

Her shoulders hunched as only a teenager’s can and she moped. “Why should Peeta be miserable? He gets the girl.” What a reminder that she was only a kid herself.

“Which is worse, spending your life with someone you don’t love but who you like and respect enough to befriend? Or spending your life with someone you love who will never love you back?” Even a drunk asshole could have that much empathy for the kid.

“You aren’t taking one important complication into account.” He didn’t need her oh-so-subtle glance down at their wrists to know what she meant. Thank their lucky stars that they’d stopped in the field between the Village and town. No one around and a clear line of sight to know no one was lurking.

Haymitch put his hand to her face like he did the night before she went into the arena. “I knew who you were to me from the morning you were born and I woke up with this string on my wrist. And I knew that I would never approach you. You are so much younger than me – ” She looked like she was about to interrupt him so he forcefully continued on over her. “You are young enough to be my daughter. And I would never give the Capital the chance to hold your safety over me. I knew. I couldn’t bear to look at you. To watch you grow up. To think your name.”

She leaned into his hand and his heart fractured. He pulled his hand away like she’d burned him.

He had to continue. “For years I had nightmares about you getting reaped. And then you went and volunteered and I thought I’d collapse and die right there. But you survived. You survived. So I’m still your mentor, and I’m telling you that if you ever leave that boy, the audience in the Capital will hate you for it, and Snow will pounce.”

Haymitch was certain he hadn’t spoken this much all at once since he was a kid. He felt lightheaded.

Katniss started to walk again, obviously turning his words over in her head. He walked alongside her. Eventually, she spoke again. “When I kissed him in that cave, I thought I was going to throw up. That’s a soulmate thing, right?”

Damnit. That must have been her first kiss. And Haymitch forced her to give up that piece of herself in the Games. “Yeah, I think so.” He scratched the back of his head, sheepish. “I don’t think I had that problem since you weren’t born yet.”

“The girl who got killed?” He nodded his head. “Just kissed?” Her voice was high, tight, trying for casual and falling endearingly short.

“I lost my virginity to her when I was fifteen.” He cleared his throat and went for broke. “And before you ask, she was the only girl I ever loved. But I’ve had the occasional one night stand over the years. I just thought the nausea had to do with the alcohol. I forgot it would also be because of you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He waved her sarcasm away. “You know what I mean.”

“So I’m going to spend my life with the boy with the bread and you are going to spend your life watching.” She summed it up depressingly well.

“We’ll survive, sweetheart. So will Prim and Gale and Peeta and your mom. That’s the important thing.” He had to remind himself of that, too. She would survive and that was the important thing.

Chapter Text

They shot the old man in Eleven and Haymitch thought he could feel Katniss’ heart stop. He pulled her and Peeta up to the attic of the Justice Building, a youthful Plutarch like a ghost standing at his side. She was shaking and Haymitch did the only thing he could. He pulled Katniss close and held her. She held on right back, tight like he was the only thing keeping her from drowning.

Peeta was furious that they’d discussed anything without him. On the one hand, ok, fair. On the other, he got to parade Katniss around like she was his so he could count himself lucky he still had all of his teeth. But Haymitch could see the strategic value in bringing Peeta in on at least this much. Katniss looked at him as she pulled out of his embrace and he nodded.

Haymitch read him in on the uprisings in the District, on how their actions were seen as rebellion, and the threats against their loved ones. Katniss promised to look like she was in love and read the speeches off Effie’s note cards, but he could tell her mind was a thousand miles away.

In District after District, they tried, Haymitch would give them that. Katniss proved that she was literate and Peeta sold the great love affair. In their wake Districts rioted. Haymitch stayed just sober enough to help them and just drunk enough that he didn’t have nightmares at night.

XxXxX

For all he gave her a hard time, Effie Trinket showed her worth in spades. She coached Katniss and Peeta on event etiquette and expected behavior. She wrote speeches that were too bland to be called patriotic but also too bland to be called anything else. That woman might be the only friend Haymitch had in the world and he had never said as much to her.

“Thank you, Effie.” It must have seemed like a non-sequitur to anyone not privy to the goings on in his brain.

“It’s my job and my honor, Haymitch. You know that.” She demurred but he could tell she liked being appreciated.

“I don’t mean the kids.” She raised her eyebrows at him. “You’re my friend,” he explained and he watched her face go soft.

“Haymitch Abernathy, I look at you and I still see the boy who helped me pick up my makeup.” He knew she meant it, too.

XxXxX

Haymitch saw Plutarch dancing with Katniss at the ball in the President’s Mansion and time stopped. He knew what Plutarch was saying. Well, not the exact words, who knew what Plutarch was up to these days. But he knew that every word was doublespeak. Was he friend or foe? To be trusted in a world where no one could be trusted? Katniss kept her face blank, she’d learned that much on the tour, but Haymitch knew her well enough to know she was petrified.

While everything in Haymitch screamed to go to her, he intercepted Plutarch at the edge of the dance floor instead. Without even looking his way, Plutarch said, “In the hedge maze. Twenty minutes.” Then he was gone into the swirl of chiffon and money.

It took Haymitch the entire twenty minutes to figure his way to the center of the hedge maze in Snow’s lower garden. He had a tirade planned but before he could open his mouth, Plutarch said, “Either you’re in or you’re not.”

“In.” It wasn’t a question. He needed to know what was going on to be able to protect Katniss.

“We have more friends than we did in your Games.” True? Who knew? But Haymitch played along.

“What role do Katniss and Peeta play?” he asked. No point in showing his hand.

“Not the boy. He’s sweet but all he’s good for is cover. We need the Girl on Fire.” Shit. Haymitch gestured for Plutarch to continue. “You’re in?” he reiterated.

“Yes, I’m fucking in.”

Plutarch squared his shoulders, ready for a fight. “What changed?” Haymitch scoffed. “I need to know what changed, Haymitch, because last time I saw you, you were slurring and stumbling and told me I was the reason your family was burned alive. So I need to know what changed.”

Fuck. What could he say that was convincing? Think. Think. The best lies were close enough to the truth. “That girl is my best friend’s kid. I should have grown up Uncle Haymitch and instead I had to mentor her in the arena as a stranger. I couldn’t be there when he was alive. I owe it to him to take care of her now.”

Plutarch nodded. It was close enough to get him in. “We’ve been planning for the Quarter Quell for six years. And the Girl on Fire waltzed onto the scene at the exact right moment.”

“She was a year early,” Haymitch said, though he knew Plutarch never misspoke.

“No, she’s right on time for the Quell.” Plutarch was Head Game Maker as well as a rebel cell leader. What was he saying? Think. What was he saying?

Haymitch went still and his organs turned to water.

“Back in?” His voice shook.

Plutarch lifted his glass in a toast to Haymitch catching on quickly. “Snow thinks he’s punishing victors who have gotten out of hand. Thirteen will have a handful of the most important faces of the revolution in one place at one time for evacuation.”

Thirteen? Plutarch certainly had made some new friends in the last twenty-five years. Haymitch did his best to keep from shaking. “What’s my role?”

“Keep the girl alive. She listens to you.”

It was all Haymitch wanted to do. But it seemed that job was going to be exponentially harder than he’d even imagined with just a headstrong firebrand and a lovesick puppy to mind. The truth was, she was in no more danger now than she had been an hour ago, Haymitch just had intel now. Intel that he’d be damned sure kept her alive.

Chapter Text

It took Peeta fifteen minutes after the announcement to make his way to Haymitch begging that they prioritize Katniss’ life over either of theirs. Haymitch gave Peeta his word and the boy went off to reconcile himself to his likely imminent demise.

Katniss didn’t come for nearly an hour. She made him promise to save Peeta. He said he’d volunteer for the boy or, if he went in Haymitch’s stead, he’d prioritize keeping the kid alive. Assurances secured, she bought it and swiped a bottle. “No time like the present to start drinking.”

He nodded, distracted. He knew that if his name was called, Peeta would volunteer to go into the arena by Katniss’ side. The question was, if Peeta’s name was called, was Haymitch a greater asset in the arena or outside? He was too preoccupied to notice that Katniss was staring.

“You aren’t nearly hysterical enough,” she noticed.

“I’m not one for tears and fainting couches,” he bit back. She continued to stare. It unmoored him so he drank, as solid an anchor as he could hold onto.

“You’re too calm.” Her face transformed. One moment pensive and the next moment Katniss was on her feet, glass smashed on the floor, fury contorting her features. “You knew.” He was too stunned to school his face and he knew the moment he slipped. “You knew. You knew they were going to throw me back in there and you didn’t think to tell me?”

She stormed away from him and for a moment Haymitch thought she would leave altogether but she turned on her heel, got up in his face, nearly spitting, and demanded. “You are going to tell me everything.”

“No.” Haymitch had found his calm again. His center. Keeping Katniss alive. She pulled her hand back to slap him but he was fast enough to catch her wrist. The string under his hand lit up like fireworks and they both sagged a bit with the relief that came when they touched. He kept his voice steady as he continued. “You can’t act to save your life. Or Peeta’s. Or Prim’s. So, no, I’m not telling you anything.”

She listened. She nodded. “But you know enough to be able to keep him alive. Promise?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. I promise.”

XxXxX

What nobody bothered to print on the Victors Village brochure was that if you put that many damaged people in such close proximity, not a night went by when you couldn’t hear one of their screams. That night was a symphony.

It had been similar on the train during the Victory Tour. Some nights Haymitch could barely restrain himself from going to her room to hold her. The only thought that kept him in his own bunk was the knowledge that every inch of the train had been bugged. This knowledge once again kept Haymitch rooted in place at his table, drinking himself sick to the sounds of his soulmate’s night terrors.

XxXxX

July 3rd. Almost reaping day for the Quarter Quell and Haymitch’s 41st birthday.

Katniss showed up on his doorstep. An early birthday present if only she’d known it was almost his birthday. “I want to talk strategy for sponsors. Walk with me.”

Horse shit but ok, he’d walk.

“Into town?” he asked as he pulled his shoes on.

“No. Along the fence.” That meant she wanted to make sure there were no witnesses as well as no one to overhear.

They walked beside one another in silence. The sun was hot and the air was muggy and the mosquitos wouldn’t quit. Neither complained and neither started talking. To be fair, Haymitch wasn’t sure what they were supposed to talk about. He waited.

At a spot that had nothing in particular recommending it, Katniss stopped walking and tugged on his hand to stop him, too. The warmth of her touch spread from his fingers, along his arm, and into his chest.

“I want you to kiss me,” she stated. Bold as anything.

“Well sweetheart, I’m not that kind of man. I expect flowers, a little wooing,” he deflected. What else could he do but deflect?

“You may have a shot at living a long happy life, neighbors with Peeta, but I know my number’s up.” Her words curdled the acid in his stomach. “I won’t live long enough to stage a breakup with him. But at least give me the chance to kiss my soulmate once before I die.”

She was serious. He could be, too. “No.”

She stomped her foot. “Damnnit, Haymitch. This is the last time I’ll see you without cameras everywhere.”

He dug his heels in. “I’m not kissing you.” What upside down world had he woken up in this morning?

“Why not?” she huffed.

“Because you are a child,” he nearly roared.

“I’m old enough to kill children in a murder game. I’m legally old enough to consent to sex.” She was winding herself up to launch further into a tirade but he grabbed her upper arms and shook her.

“Sweetheart, don’t do this to me. You’re seventeen and I’m an old man.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. This was not the day he’d imagined for himself.

“You’re my soulmate. Some power that knows more than me or you connected us,” she argued back.

“There are words for old men that touch girls your age. There are places in hell reserved for old men that touch girls your age.” He was pacing. The girl was driving him to pacing and pulling his hair out.

She caught him around his waist to stop him. They both stilled. Katniss picked up his hand and placed it on the side of her face. His other still hung limp at his side. She pulled him closer by the bottom of his shirt. Their eyes were still open when their lips touched. Her mouth was soft and full and where Haymitch wanted to be buried when he died.

His other hand came up to frame her face. He tilted her head to deepen the kiss and he poured all of his hunger, all of his longing, all of his want into this one moment they had. She matched him with teeth and panting breaths. And after a long moment, he pulled her away from him, their eyes still locked.

He couldn’t tell her that there was a plan and maybe a chance that they would both outlive Snow and one day – when she was older – they could be together. But he couldn’t lie to her either. So he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into hers for a long goodbye. Then he walked away without another word, back to his empty house and his plans.