I've always had a soft spot in my heart reserved for Haymitch. He's always intrigued me, and I always thought he deserved more love and credit than he got in the series. Thus, this story spawned after my immediate completion of the book series. I hope you enjoy it. :)
Where was that man?
He had grudgingly agreed to baby-sit the kids today, considering that Peeta and I had business to tend to with President Paylor at the Capitol. Things were still so fresh, even after twenty years. I could smell the pungent smell of blood emanating from the streets of the Capitol as though it were yesterday. Even now, when things seemed completely at peace, I didn't know if I could handle returning to the Capitol again.
This process would repeat itself each time I was called in for input in government affairs. You'd think the Mockingjay would've finished her song , but she was still seen as a force to be reckoned with; a melody that had to be replayed as a method of reassuring others more than anything else.
And Haymitch still had the nerve to back down from his deal even after all of our history. Honestly, the man hadn't changed a bit. Quite a bit of gray hairs had taken their place on his head, but he still remains to be as obstinate and impossible as ever. I shake my head in disbelief at Peeta.
"We have to go. Where is he?"
"You know how he is, Katniss. He's still coping. We all are. He's probably had too much to drink again and forgot. I'll go and get him," Peeta says calmly, trying to make the best of the situation. We were running late already, what difference would a few minutes make now?
"No, let me," I volunteer. "I'll bring him down here even if I have to drag him."
Peeta offers a wry smile in response, but doesn't protest. I give a huff of discontent as I make my way out the door and over to Haymitch's place.
The place is its usual pigsty-self. Empty bottles litter the counter and dirty clothes are scattered along the floor as if deliberately set to look as messy as possible. Therefore, it isn't too surprising when I find Haymitch sprawled out on his couch, head stuffed into the worn cushions.
"Haymitch," I growl, losing my patience with him immediately. When I receive no response, I try again, louder this time. Still nothing.
I give a long sigh and shake his shoulder a little too roughly, earning nothing more than a groan of discontent from the slumbering man.
That was surprising.
There was no knife to avoid getting stabbed with, and though I considered that he might've finally outgrown the habit, I still wasn't convinced that this was the case. I approached him more cautiously than before, placing a gentle hand on the back of his lolling head, a gesture that I had never used with Haymitch before. It seemed so foreign to not be shouting absurdities at him, or nagging him for the lack of his ability to stick to his responsibilities.
"Haymitch? Is everything alright?" I ask tentatively, growing slightly concerned (though I would never admit it openly).
There's still no reply, his head still stuffed in the same position that it had been since I entered. Still no sign of recognition or awakening.
I do the only rational thing I can think of, considering that I'm stretched for time. I smack him over the head, determined to get him to wake up.
He groans loudly once again, and this time manages to roll over. He cracks one sleepy eye open and glares accusingly at me. I shrug.
"I tried to be gentle," I say in my defense.
Upon further inspection, I find that he, in fact, has not been drinking after all. He doesn't smell like alcohol, but his face still retains flushed cheeks; his eyes are glittering in a strange way.
I had seen this empty, dazed look in the patients my mother had once treated. It was a look that could only be caused as a result of delirium.
I reach out a hand and place it softly on Haymitch's forehead. It's soaked with sweat, and feels unnaturally warm against the palm of my hand.
"Katniss," he hisses, clutching his stomach with both hands. He turns a sickly shade of green, and before I could register what's happening, he promptly vomits on the ground next to me.
I'd had enough decency to back away, but still crinkled up my nose at the scent and the sound of his helpless retching.
So this was why he hadn't shown up. It wasn't because he didn't want to, it was because he simply couldn't.
I shoot a rare look of pity in his direction, but quickly transform it into a look of exasperation.
"Why didn't you call for help? Peeta and I would've understood."
The words seem to take a long time to reach Haymitch's fuzzy mind. He blinks at me slowly, dumbfounded. While he makes an attempt to formulate a response, I rush into the kitchen and clean up the mess on the floor as best as I can. He makes an attempt at thanking me, but I just tell him to shut up.
I don't want to be rude, I really don't, but something has triggered me to act this way whenever I'm worried for people I don't want to feel worried about. Haymitch is the one person I've never had to worry about. He's Haymitch. He's unbeatable with the odds always in his favor. He gets his way through sheer determination, and doesn't give a damn what anyone else thinks of it. To see him like this is riveting. It messes up the cycle.
I wet a washcloth and place it on his forehead to put out the flames of the raging fever.
Then, Haymitch sneezes.
It's deep and wheezy, so foreign to my ears. I've never seen him sneeze before, let alone be sick.
"What are you doing here, sweetheart?"
Even now, his use of the pet name "sweetheart" is still as condescending as ever rather than affectionate.
"You were supposed to baby-sit today, remember? Guess I can't blame you for not showing up now. Damn it. You know I can't stand being tolerant of you," I joke darkly.
He chuckles, but the act causes him to double over in a fit of harsh coughing resounding from his chest. He swears under his breath and then lies back against the headrest of the couch.
"So what do you plan on doing now?" Haymitch asks casually.
"I don't know. My only baby-sitter needs a baby-sitter himself. I'm going to have to cancel the meeting."
"Don't," Haymitch argues, abruptly sitting up, "have Peeta watch over the little parasites. You go to the Capitol."
I scowl. "I'll try to forget the fact that you just called my children parasites, and no, you shouldn't be left alone with a high fever like this. How long have you been sick?"
"Not long. It's just a cold that's going around," he says evasively.
"Haymitch," I say warningly.
He sighs in his put-out way and murmurs, "Three days."
"And did you even once try to find help in those three days?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
He doesn't answer me. He doesn't have to. We both know that he's obviously incapable of taking care of himself, which is why he probably hasn't eaten anything in three days either. One look at his tongue as he's speaking also confirms my suspicions that he's dehydrated.
"Damn it, Haymitch," I snarl and go back into the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water for him. I sit down on the edge of the couch as he takes small sips. He's being uncharacteristically docile.
"I'm going to go tell Peeta what's happened," I decide, getting up from my place on the couch. "I'll be back."
"You don't have to, I'm fine," Haymitch assures me, though his trembling hands and fever hazed eyes beg to differ.
"Rest," I whisper before I can stop myself. I step out the door and the bright sunshine startles me for a moment. Haymitch's place is always dim and my eyes have trouble adjusting to the light as I jog back to my house. Peeta's pacing back and forth when I arrive.
"What took so long?" he inquires. "Where is Haymitch?"
It seems so strange to have to announce the news aloud, but somehow I manage to do it, "He's sick."
Peeta sighs, "Katniss, I know, but he's our only-"
"No," I interject. If the circumstances had been different I might've laughed at the way he had perceived the sentence. "Not sick as in mentally sick. I meant sick as in physically sick. He's been burning up with a fever on his couch for three days."
Peeta looks a little stunned, but recovers well. "So what now?"
"You tell me," I say.
"We could probably get someone else to look after the kids."
"No, you know I don't feel safe having others watch them. Haymitch may be a drunk, but he never drinks around the kids, and I feel better knowing they're at the hands of someone who will sacrifice his life for their protection. I can't leave them with anyone else. It's too risky," I plead, refusing any alternative.
"Alright, I'll stay with the kids and you go. The Mockingjay should be there," Peeta compromises.
"What about Haymitch? He can't be left alone. He's dehydrated and-"
"I'll go and check on him every once in a while. It'll be fine, darling. Think about this for a moment. You're worrying about Haymitch. Are you sure you haven't caught his fever?" Peeta grins playfully, and I smack his hand away as he makes an attempt to feel my forehead.
"I'm fine," I mutter furiously.
"If it really matters so much to you, then we can cancel the meeting. It's nothing urgent, after all. We're so late that I bet it's already over anyway," Peeta consoles.
"I guess your right," I concede, and allow him to plant a kiss on my lips.
"It's settled then. You go and take care of Haymitch. I'll stay here."
"What?" I squawk. "I mean, I told him I would come back, but I didn't agree to watch over him. I'm not his nursemaid. We need to get someone else. I-I don't know how to take care of sick people."
Peeta smiles brightly. "I seem to recall someone saying the same thing during our first experience with the Hunger Games. That same someone did an excellent job keeping me alive during my feverish state in the cave."
I nibble on my lower lip and nod. I had gotten myself into this mess in the first place. It was time I cleaned it up. I silently make my way back to Haymitch's house.
The couch is empty, and something smells like its burning in the kitchen. I sprint across the room, fearing that he's about to set the house on fire.
I find Haymitch dozing fitfully at the kitchen table, his head cradled in the nest of his crossed arms. Behind him, I find groosling in a pot, which is starting to turn a shade charcoal black as clouds of smoke erupt from it. I put out the fire and toss the groosling out, knowing that not even a healthy stomach would be able to digest it now. Still, it's a shame that it has to go to waste.
"Haymitch," I call, shaking his shoulder. He rouses much more quickly this time, his groggy eyes meeting mine. The knife has found its way back into his hands, but I'm able to strip it from his grasp before he tries to hurt either one of us.
"Why are you still here?" Haymitch groans, rubbing his temples. I'm willing to bet he's got a pounding headache from the fever and lack of liquor that he's consumed as of late. He's as sober as could be right now, and it's paying its toll on him.
"Play nice," I admonish, and start to pull him out of his chair.
"What are you doing? Let me go," he struggles to no avail in his weakened state.
"You're going up to bed, where you belong," I explain, tugging on his arm to get him to follow me. He stumbles over his feet and almost kisses the floor, nearly pulling me down with him. Thankfully, he's able to grip the counter for support, and we're able to reach the staircase without further incident.
He's too weak to make it up the steps alone, so I take his right arm and wrap it around my shoulders.
"Hey, sweetheart, wouldn't do that if I were you. Peeta might get jealous," he teases.
"You'll keep quiet if you know what's good for you," I warn, gradually helping him up each step. He falters a few times, but catches the railing successfully each time. He's on the verge of physical collapse by the time we reach the bedroom. He plops himself down on the mattress ungracefully.
I wrestle his shoes off and pull the bedcovers up to his chin. If he's going to play difficult, then two can play that game. I tuck him in tightly to ensure that he won't be going anywhere without getting himself seriously tangled in sheets, and then blow a piece of stray hair out of my face, exhausted from the effort of carrying his weight up the stairs.
"The next time I get sick, you'd better be kissing my feet." I glare at him, but he's already drifting off again.
He looks so vulnerable that it's the first time I've ever viewed him as endearing. I brush the locks of hair away from his face like I do so frequently with Peeta and the children when they fall asleep, trying to even out the harsh creases in his forehead that have been caused by so much turmoil.
I wet another washcloth and place it on his forehead again, wiping away some of the perspiration that has built up on his flushed face.
"Trying to cook in your condition?" I shake my head again. "You're as stubborn as ever when your sick, aren't you? You would've burned the whole house down." I place a stack of handkerchiefs on his nightstand along with more water.
"I guess I never properly thanked you though. You were quite the mentor, but I survived, didn't I? You made sure of it. Thank you," I whisper, even though I know he's oblivious to everything I'm uttering.
Eventually, I keep myself busy by tidying up the house a little. I do the dishes and wash down the counters downstairs. No wonder Haymitch is sick. This place is the perfect breeding place for germs. In time, I even find a medical kit stored in his closet. It contains a thermometer, bandages, fever reducers, and some mild painkillers in small packets. The packets with the painkillers have been ripped open, even though there are still a few left. I can guarantee this is what Haymitch has been using to eradicate his hangovers.
The familiar sound of groaning brings me back upstairs, where Haymitch is tossing and turning fitfully in his sleep, no doubt having fever induced nightmares. I walk over to his bedside and attempt to calm him, but he's unresponsive. The washcloth has been flung across the other side of the room, and he's attempting to kick the covers away from his body in a futile attempt to cool down. His body is still shivering with chills from the fever, and he's getting all clammy again.
I'm unsure of how to help when I feel strong hands on my shoulders. I almost jump out of my boots, but relax when I realize it's just Peeta.
"The kids are playing in the house. I'll be putting them to bed soon. I came to see if everything was alright with you, and the door was open, but I locked it now just to be safe. How's the patient?"
His voice seems to wake Haymitch because his eyes flutter open and he gasps as he enters reality again. The sharp intake of breath stirs the cough again, and he's struggling to breathe. Peeta shuffles over to him and offers him the glass of water that I had placed on the nightstand. He takes it without a complaint and gulps it down, spilling some of it on his shirt.
When he's gotten his bearings back he splutters, "Not you too."
"Afraid so," Peeta chuckles. "Come on, old man. You're going to let a little flu ruin your intimidating demeanor? Don't tell me that's all it takes."
Haymitch is sitting up and clawing at Peeta's retreating form fervently. "Get back here, you little brat."
Peeta just laughs, and I glare at both of them to settle down. I grab the medical kit I found previously and removed the thermometer from it.
"You've been snooping through my stuff," Haymitch frowns.
"Not snooping, just cleaning up. You don't have to be all secretive with me, Haymitch," I remind before trying to coax the thermometer into his mouth.
"No, thanks. Both of you can get out, now," Haymitch growls, batting my prodding hands away from his form.
"Sorry, that's not an option," I dismiss him. I try to reason with him to get him to let me check his temperature, but I'm sure he views the action as too damaging for his pride to handle.
"Everyone gets sick, Haymitch. I've dealt with much less cooperative people than yourself, or did you forget that I have two children? Now, stop being such a baby, and just let me help you."
Haymitch is acting as sour as ever, and he flops onto his stomach, refusing to associate with Peeta or myself.
"If I have to treat you like a child then I will," I tell him firmly.
Peeta has the nerve to find all of this amusing. He takes the thermometer from me and makes a twisting motion with his arm in the air.
"Look, Haymitch, here comes the train to the Capitol!"
Haymitch lifts his head from the pillow and gives him a death glare that clearly states that he isn't afraid of strangling Peeta right now.
"GET OUT!" he roars, flinging a pillow at Peeta. He jumps away just in time to avoid getting hit.
This shouting provokes another round of coughing that makes Haymitch blotchy red in the face. I pat his back awkwardly.
"You're in no condition to be shouting," I scold him, then turn to Peeta. "Peeta, stop making things worse."
He flashes me an apologetic smile. I place my hand on Haymitch's forehead. He's still tolerant of me, knowing that we mutually understand each other.
"You're warmer than before. Haymitch, just listen to me for once in your life," I ask him politely, not knowing what else to do as his situation grows more desperate.
It works. He rolls back over and willingly lets me place the thermometer under his tongue. He's still shooting daggers at Peeta with his eyes, but I pretend not to notice.
I've picked up a few things from my mother and know that the fever is bad when the thermometer reads 103.2. Actually, it's horrible.
"Peeta," I say shakily, and he instantly picks up on my concern. He takes the look as his call to action and speeds across the hall and into the bathroom to set up a cold bath like my mother used to do for her patients.
I bite my lip. If Haymitch was adamant about taking his temperature, he definitely isn't going to like this.
"Haymitch," I whisper softly, "It's bad."
He winces, "I know."
"We don't have any medicine beside these weak fever reducers. We're running a cold bath, and then you can take the pills after you eat something."
Haymitch seems too far gone in his delirium to care.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks numbly.
I consider his question for a moment. "Because you saved me. You helped me survive. You never let me make the journey alone, even when I felt like you didn't care about what was going on in the arena. You cared. You cared all the way to the very end, even though you had to be a big jerk about it."
He smirks that irritating smirk of his and starts to get himself out of bed. He manages to make it to the doorway before Peeta has to help him make the rest of the journey to the bathroom.
I understand that this is shattering Haymitch's pride every second that it goes on, but I also know that he's trusting me to make things right again. He's letting me pay back the debt that I've always owed him.
Still, he wisely manages to slam the bathroom door behind him with a sense of finality, locking Peeta and me out. I can hear the splash of the water and his rustling movements as he soaks in the cold water. Peeta stands outside the door to make sure he doesn't slip or drown, and I go back to the kitchen to prepare some stew.
When I get back to Haymitch's bedroom, he's fast asleep again, and Peeta is kicking back in the armchair against the opposite wall of the bed.
"No problems yet?"
"Other than the fact that he almost wrung my neck out when I suggested I help him get dressed, no," Peeta grins.
"Stop torturing him by rubbing this in," I reply, shaking my head with a guilty laugh.
"Some humiliation will do him good. Maybe it'll help lower that giant ego of his."
"I doubt it," I joke , then wake up Haymitch to hand him the bowl of stew. He takes it without a complaint, obviously starving after going three days without any proper food. He wolfs it down, and his actions manage to convince me that he's going to be just fine. He promptly dozes off again when he's had his fill.
"You go home to the kids," Peeta urges me. "I'm going to crash on the couch tonight in case something goes wrong. I'll come upstairs every few hours."
"You sure? It's really no trouble for-"
"It's fine, Katniss," he smiles. "I owe it to him for teasing him so much before. Don't worry."
I nod. "If you need anything, don't be afraid to come call me."
"Alright, goodnight," he plants a soft kiss on my lips.
"Goodnight," I smile tiredly.
I take one final look at Haymitch and I know that somewhere, deep down, a heart is buried inside that body. It's always been concealed in the shadows. He's afraid to show it, but I know he cares. He cares for the kids, he cares for Peeta, and he cares for me. I know that his heart is concealed with a bitter hatred of the world because of how it has ravaged him. It took his life. It shook him up and stripped away all that he held dear, and I can empathize with him.
So, I'll be there if he needs me because as much as we disagreed with each other, we couldn't agree with each other more. We were so alike that it pitted us against each other instead of being an actual advantage.
It seems that we always fought our allies out of desperation.
But I'll still be there because I know he will be there too, proudly wearing his scars and fighting until there's nothing left to fight for.
Because after all, there were things that were still worth fighting for.
