Disclaimer: I own none of the recognizable elements of this story, and I make no financial gain from it.
Author's Note: This story will earn its M rating in later chapters. It's not intended for kids.
Capitol Nights
He'd hoped it might be different with them. He'd never thought it might be different, for he'd lived through far too much to be that naïve. But more and more, as their competitors died and it looked like they might actually make it to the end, hope had come to torment him. When they'd been declared Victors- both of them! - the wild elation he'd felt had lasted a good two hours before dreadful hope stole back in, now desperate and panic-touched. At least they're alive, he'd told himself constantly. It became his silent mantra: At least they're alive.
Of course, it wasn't different for them. Nor did Snow wait long to spring his trap. Two weeks was their grace period, the same amount of time he himself had once been given before a different trap had snapped what was left of his life into useless shards.
Now here they were in his house, holding hands, the boy very pale and the girl actually crying. And why waste time? Let's have done with this.
"You two have had a visit from Snow."
"Haymitch, he- you wouldn't believe- the dirty old-" Katniss can't seem to get a complete sentence out, so great is her shock and unhappiness.
Peeta squeezes her hand, murmurs, "Hush." To Haymitch he speaks in a grimly determined voice. "Snow wants to prostitute us in the Capitol." He stops, flustered, humiliated and scared, but trying to be strong for the girl's sake. Haymitch quietly waits for the second part of it, realizes Peeta can't bring himself to say it.
So he nods and says, "And- he threatened to kill your families if you don't cooperate."
"How did you know?" Peeta's eyes widen and he takes a small step forward. Haymitch remembers why it has always been so hard not to give a damn about this boy. "Did he do this to you, too?"
"No. My family was killed because I outsmarted the Capitol during my Games. I embarrassed them, and two weeks later my mother, my little brother, and my girl were all dead." He rubs his hands together briskly to indicate how quick and easy this bit of revenge, punishment, discipline had been for Snow. Over-done-with-gone. He had thought at first that Snow had killed him, too, and reflects with dull horror that being a ghost feels like not being able to move or breathe as your insides begin to rot. "What you need to take from that is that Snow doesn't make idle threats. He will kill them if you don't do what he wants."
"So what are we going to do?" Peeta looks at him as though he might have some brilliant idea that will get them out of this snare. It's funny, in a bleak way. He supposes he has given them some cause to expect brilliant ideas, or at least clever improvisations. And Peeta's been an optimist from the first day they met.
Katniss, his fellow pragmatist, saves him from having to say it. "We do what he wants," she says miserably. "What else can we do? He'll kill Prim."
So, that's it then. He takes a drink and regards them over his bottle: fiery, stubborn, brave Katniss; and responsible, caring, idealistic Peeta. He imagines Peeta living in an apartment in the Capitol for most of each year, entertaining wealthy men and women Snow sends to him, smiling and likeable and courtly because that's the persona Haymitch has helped him create; meanwhile learning that people only want one thing from him. Eventually, he'll learn that he is only good for one thing.
And Katniss- well, she will become just like her former Mentor, who it turns out still hasn't ever been able to save anyone. Had he really thought he could?
"There might be one thing I could do," he says.
"Really?" Katniss asks, wiping her eyes and leaning forward a bit.
"What?" Peeta asks at the same time, sounding so hopeful, like he'd just known Haymitch would come up with something.
Haymitch hesitates then, because his idea seems impossibly weak in the face of such hope, and it's a horrible idea, but it's all he has left. "Want a drink, sweetheart?" he asks, offering Katniss his bottle.
Katniss looks like she is considering it, stalling just as much as he is. She doesn't know what his idea is, but she doesn't dare let herself believe that it will save them. Not this time. She reaches out and takes the bottle from him, takes a swig and hands it back, wincing at the burn. Peeta bounces a disapproving look from one of them to the other, but doesn't say anything. Haymitch smiles at the teenage-girl-turned-murderer standing in his living room, and raises a questioning eyebrow at Peeta. The boy shakes his head impatiently, of course, but it would have been bad manners not to offer. Effie would be so proud of him, he thinks sardonically.
"I'm going to try something. I know people in the Capitol. I'll try to go there and talk to them. It probably won't work. You two should… prepare yourselves, I guess." That's as much as he's going to tell them. If this works, let them think that he's just that good at persuading people. Let them think that forever.
He perches on the edge of a darkly shining wood chair with a cushioned seat and back covered in green velvet, and from that vantage point he looks nervously around himself. There are three conversation groupings of similar chairs around low coffee tables. All of the other chairs are empty. There's a table against the wall with a silver pot of coffee, cut crystal decanters of various liquors, a plate of fruit pieces speared with toothpicks (each toothpick has a colorful foil fringe on the end), and no less than three large platters of pastries. All of this at 9am on a Thursday morning. Haymitch keeps expecting a delegation of Capitolites in sequined business suits to descend upon the anteroom.
Maybe then he could slip away unnoticed and forget this idea ever occurred to him. He badly wants to get himself a drink, but even more he wants to just kind of sink into the floor and rematerialize a safe distance away from the creature in the next room. Like maybe back in his house in Twelve.
The door opens, and even though he was expecting it he startles so violently that he nearly falls out of the chair. Gods, he doesn't want to go in there. He takes a couple of deep breaths and stands up. Halfway across the room he realizes he's heading for the liquor and has to redirect his steps to the door, which still stands mockingly open.
He steps in, crossing the threshold with an atavistic little shiver. Already he can smell the sick-sweet bouquet of Snow's cologne. It's the same cologne he was wearing twenty-four years ago, and it still smells like blood to Haymitch. It smells like his family's blood, like an unfinished rough wood floor soaked with blood and-
"Close the door," a voice commands.
Haymitch grasps the doorknob in a shaking hand and inadvertently slams it shut, cringing at the loud bang. "Ah, fuck," he mutters. Blood and gunshots and the old monster, smiling a knowing smile at him.
"Do have a seat, my boy," Snow says jovially. "We have things to talk about."
And so Haymitch comes forward and sits and feels roiling hate and black, all-consuming despair.
Snow looks at him shrewdly. "My boy, the people you've worked yourself into such a state over have been dead for twenty-four years. Does that help?"
Bizarrely, it does. He nods and swallows thickly. "I'm here about Katniss and Peeta."
"You've come to offer me your tail in place of theirs."
Has he? Is that really what he's doing here?
Snow nods as though Haymitch had confirmed it. "An intriguing offer. You've always been a clever boy. So- enlighten me: why would my Capitolites want to bed a forty year old drunk when they could have two fresh, pretty teenagers?"
"They want sensationalism," Haymitch replies. He's had a lot of time to think about that question, and this is the one angle that might work. "They want a sappy love story. They want to gawk at those two kids like they're animals in a cage and collectively coo every time they kiss."
"Yes, you're a clever boy," Snow says musingly. "I had considered that, of course. You're a bit long in the tooth, but you look decent enough when you're cleaned up. How about a threesome, hmm? You and Katniss and Peeta. Now that would be sensationalism, wouldn't you say? And just imagine the interviews I could make each of you give."
Shit. "They're just kids. I'm the same age as Katniss's mother."
"And yet, I could make you do it. I could make them do it. Do you believe that, my boy?"
"Yes." He doesn't believe it, actually. He's pretty sure there's nothing the old devil could do that would persuade him to do that with either of the kids. But he's not fool enough to invite Snow to try.
Snow looks mildly disappointed at his response. "Alright then, Haymitch. I accept your offer, for now. You will do everything the client asks. You will be perfectly compliant. If even one client complains about you, Katniss or Peeta will be making it up to them. Do you understand?"
Haymitch nods automatically, as he would to any command given by an all-powerful sociopath sitting less than five feet away from him. He's stunned, and he feels a sudden, panicky urge to call his words back. He hadn't meant it, right? It's clearly a horrible idea. Why the hell should it have to be him, anyway?
Get a grip, you damn coward. It's only sex. And you're hardly a virgin. So just get a grip.
"Our business is concluded. Wait in the anteroom, and someone will be along to take you to your new quarters and explain how everything works."
The last is said with a slightly suggestive tone and a cruel, condescending smile. Haymitch feels no urge to rise to the bait. Snow is gesturing to the door, and he gets up and leaves quickly. True, he backs out so he can keep an eye on Snow. Anyone would. Anyone who had smelled the blood and heard the words 'kill the girl' over and over for twenty-four years would.