Notes: This piece is coming from a very personal place, so I'm putting my all into it. As a war vet, I know the shit Haymitch will have gone through in this story quite well. It's traumatic, it's horrific, and it's definitely not something I'd wish on someone. I'm not asking anyone to put themselves entirely into his shoes — but try to imagine just a fraction and I hope that you'll get as much out of this as I do. Forewarning: no apologies, no sugar-coating, lots of cursing, and definitely no unnecessary, cutesy fluff.
Not to worry though; there's a happy ending!
Triggers will apply, such as: mentions of war, vivid descriptions of violence, blood, depression, PTSD, anxiety, panic attacks, explicit language, explicit sexual content, and perhaps others as related to military and wartime issues. Please proceed with these things in mind.
They'd told him before that he'd probably need to seek counselling, but when you were already in denial of ever having a problem to begin with, going to seek out "help" for said problem is the last thing on your fucking mind.
So Haymitch dealt with his issues like any other screwed up person: he sought the solution to his problems at the bottom of a bottle.
Night after night, he drank until he was so wasted, he puked on himself and then drank more. Sometimes the inside of his stomach would greet the world more than twice in a sitting. Instances like those meant he'd had a panic attack earlier in the day, his heart thumping away in his ribcage because of a stupid word or some mental imagery that triggered a whole slew of bullshit he wasn't ready to deal with.
Either way, it wasn't a "problem". Emphasis on the quotation marks.
"Look, I'm not trying to start shit, but what you're telling me is utter CRAP. I'm not gonna go to a goddamned therapist if you paid me a million bucks," he heatedly told his doctor after another trip to the ER for alcohol poisoning.
That, of course, was the beginning of his fall from grace. Not that he hadn't been toeing the line already with his general behaviour anyway. He lived in a dump, sat on his couch for hours on end during the day doing nothing but making mental excuses for why he didn't need to do anything more productive, and was pretty much a failure through and through. Sure, he had a nice savings built up from enlistment and re-enlistment bonuses and pay he hadn't squandered away like plenty of his shipmates. But see, that was the kicker: money didn't mean shit if you didn't do anything but drink yourself into a vegetative state almost every day.
If his parents were still around to see him, they'd probably disown him outright.
"Mr Abernathy," the MD began, rubbing the bridge of his nose for a moment. "I'm afraid that you have no choice at this point. Several ER admittances in such a short period of time has raised some flags. You'll be admitted into Mental Health as an inpatient for observation, and then be assigned a regular therapist to help you navigate some of these issues."
He was just about to shout something derogatory when the man held up his hand. "Please don't make this more difficult than it needs to be. I'm sorry, but this is only for your well-being. Brutus?"
A huge man built like a brick shithouse slid into the room, like he'd been standing right outside the door waiting for this moment. Probably was, come to think of it — guarding the exit with his stupid fucking smirk just in case Haymitch decided to fight his way out.
Clenching his jaw, he dropped his balled fists and lay his head back. The clear IV line rattled against its metal clamp much like his mind was doing inside of his skull.
"Fine. Do whatever the hell you want. I don't give a fuck."
Riding down the halls of the VA hospital wasn't new to him. The drab white ceilings passed by like flashes from his own life: too quick to really take notice, but bright and glaring and indistinct enough not to matter to him most of the time. Maybe that should have meant more to him than it currently did. If those bits of his life actually meant more to him, perhaps he wouldn't be in this position, arms tangled up by the plastic lines running through his body like a fine network of veins.
"Here we are, Mr Abernathy," the nurse said with a pleasant, but sympathetic smile. His gurney stopped abruptly as it fell just short of the wall of his new room for the next two weeks.
"Doctor Heavensbee will be your psychiatrist while you're here — he's coming down shortly."
With that, the nurse pulled the privacy curtain and he was left alone. The distinct lock of the door didn't escape his notice.
Letting out several steady breaths, Haymitch looked up at yet another ceiling. This one wasn't a simple, plain white, though; it had a few cracks and some water stains that somehow steadied his heartbeat and made him identify with the imperfections. He wasn't whole or polished, either, was he? His mind wandered beyond the cracks, back to the steady thrush sounds of the ocean waves hitting the side of the LCAC.
They'd been riding about 40 mph, the bounce and sway of the vehicle matching the impatient churn of the waters below them. Hovercrafts were supposed to be smooth rides, weren't they? His 1st class laughed at him when he asked, saying gleefully, "Shit kid, if you think this is a problem, wait till your ass gets out to the Persian Gulf or till you pass through the Torres Strait. Then you'll know the meaning of pukin' out your guts. Word of advice though: remember the gas chamber in boot camp?"
Another Seaman Apprentice next to him cringed and muttered something foul under his breath, while Haymitch just nodded and tried not to look that interested.
"Swallow the chunks down before you cough 'em up, or you'll be sick as fuck all over the decks PLUS you'll have to mop it up. Your CO's got a stick up his ass a mile long."
Visibly stone-faced, he leaned back in his seat while all of his insides shuddered on a long exhale. This was way different from anything he'd ever anticipated upon putting that pen to paper.
"Mr Abernathy?" a voice questioned, pulling Haymitch back from the past.
The man who was peeking his head inside his door looked kind-faced, but he wasn't in any sort of mood to be nice.
"Who the hell's asking?" he gruffed out, this close to growling.
Smiling, this guy just sauntered in like he owned the place, replacing the lock and tucking his set of keys in his white coat as he walked around to the end of Haymitch's bed.
"I thought so. My name is Plutarch Heavensbee. Apparently you and I are going to have plenty of snarking sessions to come in the future. I trust you don't want to be here?"
That was putting it mildly. Aloud, Haymitch simply said:
"Does it fucking look like I do?"
At the man's laugh, he lifted his head from his pillow and found himself staring. Because when was the last time someone didn't get easily offended around him and walk away?
"It's hard at first, I won't lie to you." Plutarch took a few steps over. A chair was noisily dragged up and they were finally face-to-face, at perfect eye level so Haymitch didn't have to lift his head much to look at the man. Good, he didn't trust a doctor who'd lord over him like they were so damn elevated above him. "What we do is a combination therapy: sessions with a therapist as well as medication as needed. Perhaps group therapy if you feel comfortable with it."
Gritting his teeth, he kept his mouth shut. He didn't need drugs for this and he would never fucking talk to a group even if his life depended on it. He could do this himself, damnit.
"You don't have to do this alone," the doctor said. Like he'd read Haymitch's mind. And maybe, in a way, he did. He was trained in shit like this, wasn't he? That knowing look of his — it was very nearly unnerving, but he wasn't born yesterday.
"How about fuck all that and just let me do things my way, huh? Anyone ever ask what the hell I want to do? No one fucking bothered because," he said forcefully, speaking over Plutarch who'd started to say something, "because it's EASY to tell me I'm gonna need someone else to meddle. I never fucking ASKED to get to the ER. Some damn asshole in my rundown building called each time. So who the hell's business is it if I drink myself to death? I'm a fucking adult and I'll goddamn do as I motherfucking please!"
Breathing heavily, fists clenched so tightly his palms were dented with half-crescents, Haymitch dropped his head back and stared straight up at the ceiling, gaze burning so hard he genuinely thought he'd burn the doc with a single look.
Plutarch, to his credit, didn't rise to the bait, nor did he address Haymitch for a minute or two. It was so quiet, he had to look back to check that the doctor was still there. Which he was, steadily looking at him — not with pity or disgust in his eye, but something so unfamiliar, he felt a strange tug in his gut.
"Are you ready to let me say something now, Mr Abernathy?"
Scolding. That's what that tone was. But not like a parent to his kid; more like a peer that was visibly disappointed and was trying to make you feel ashamed of yourself. Oddly enough, it was working.
A harsh breath escaped through his nose and he managed to tone it down this time, but he was still quite pissed off. He turned away again to let the rest of his thoughts out.
"None of you're telling me anything new. Tying me up like a damn animal," and he lifted his wrists as much as he could while pointedly looking back at Plutarch, his movement stopped an inch above the bedsheets by the velcro strapped around the tight skin. "Treating me like I'm some psycho. That your idea of therapy? 'Cause if that's the shit I have to look forward to, sorry doc, I ain't interested."
And that was that.
The doctor sighed softly as though he knew their conversation was over.
"All right, we'll try again later. Meanwhile, I'll ask Cinna to come untie those straps for you."
Haymitch wanted to say something else in reply, but the doc abruptly stood and turned, not once looking back nor adding anything else before the door clicked shut.
Well. Shit.
It wasn't long after that the same nurse from before knocked and came in a few seconds later when nothing but silence met him.
"I hear you gave him an earful," the nurse said, his smile almost proud.
Haymitch snorted from his bed, the temptation to roll his eyes so strong, he felt a headache come on. "Yeah, could say that."
Soft, cool hands palmed the straps around his wrists and easily, quickly pulled them apart. He looked at the nurse's hands as he worked. Calloused, firm, but they worked efficiently and not needlessly harshly. His nametag read "Cinna". If Haymitch had a hundred on him right now, he'd bet on Cinna having seen some shit in order to be that compassionate. In his experience, people weren't typically this gentle with him unless they'd walked a mile in his shoes in some form or another.
"You a vet?" he asked, his voice much less gruff than usual.
Not looking up from his task as he headed for the bedside table to prepare clean pillows, Haymitch could see the smile lifting his lips from the man's profile.
"Not exactly, but I know enough to empathise. Unlike many of the doctors here, unfortunately. There are very few who can imagine the things you might have seen, and of course, the things you do to cope." With that, Cinna glanced over at him and the look in those dark eyes… Haymitch found himself rooted to the spot, his own gaze glossing over as he was pulled back into a vivid memory.
Velez was working quick, but the pool was getting bigger and darker. His hands were coated in red, the stark contrast with the sand sending a strong punch to his gut.
"Quicker or he's gonna die," he breathed in a numb state of calm. Work quick and don't identify. Detach and administer. That was the key to emergency combat medicine.
"I'm doing it but his pulse is thready, man!"
He held the kid steady as Velez stuck the IO in, the sick sound of his sternum giving in to the IV needle echoing in his head. His hands pushed down harder to staunch as much of the bleeding as possible, but fuck, it was coming too fast and —
"Abernathy?" the kid slurred, his eyes cracking open, a dirty red streak coating his teeth when he tried to say something else.
"Nah bro, I'm your girl and you're getting the best blowjob of your life."
The crude joke came out so much lighter than he knew he'd feel later. It had the desired effect though: the kid smiled and shut his eyes, his breathing visibly steadying. Thank god he didn't know just how bad he'd been shot, or that if he survived, he'd lose both legs. That look in his eyes though, as they fluttered open to look at him again. The look that said "thanks" and then the limp fall of his chest as Velez shouted and Haymitch zoned out, hands still holding tightly to the wound as though it might bring his 18-year-old shipmate back.
Back to the present, where Cinna was calling his name, a hand lightly settling on his shoulder.
"Yeah? Yeah, I'm here," he confirmed, his loosened hand coming up to pat the back of Cinna's. His fleeting smile was enough to convince the nurse.
"Good, stay here for a bit. Dinner's coming and you just know that hospital food is to die for."
The two laughed a bit before Cinna said his goodbye and left Haymitch alone with his thoughts. He found himself wondering when the last time he'd actually laughed and smiled for real was.
Two rather uneventful days passed, and he'd barely heard a peep from anyone but Cinna. Plutarch never came back, but he'd sent a few folders over with a handwritten note that he was called on an emergency — that he'd be back the following Monday.
In those two days, he'd felt the beginnings of the unforgiving effects of withdrawal and yeah, even the damn solitude was getting to him. Even though back in his dump he was alone most of the time, he'd gotten used to Cinna's coming and going with meals and bed checks. Even sometimes just stopping by for a quick chat. It was strange how quickly he'd actually come to trust the man, though he wasn't really questioning it. There'd been so few people he trusted in his life, he knew that he didn't place it lightly and that those few who earned it wouldn't turn around and hurt him with it.
On the third morning, he was just stretching his back and sitting up in bed after his cup of coffee when three sharp raps hit his door. "Hello, hello!" he heard as it opened before he'd even told whoever it was to 'come the fuck in' in his best unwelcoming tone.
She came in like a gust of hot, sun-fucking-shiney air, all smiles and blonde curls in a perfect updo and a whiff of such girly perfume, he thought he'd gag.
"Mr Abernathy!" she said in a high-pitched voice, the painted pink claws at the ends of her fingers tapping her clipboard. "How are you this morning? Well-rested?"
He was getting goddamn tired of being referred to as "Mr Abernathy" in this place, so he forced himself to smile — came out more of a creepy looking grimace, really — and offered, "Hi Princess, I'm so damn well-rested, my dick is too limp to give you a proper salute."
She was just pulling up a chair when she stopped. Literally pulled the warm air out of the room as though she had the power to freeze with a look. A look which was so scandalised, he felt the bubble of laughter rise up from his chest and bark out into the cold silence.
"Really, that is entirely uncalled for," she spoke tight and loud above his laugh. He could see the moment she'd dismissed his rudeness and sat herself down at the end of his bed, the tip of her prim and pretty nose lifting just the slightest bit. "My name is Effie Trinket and I will be your therapist for the next several weeks. Isn't that marvellous?"
Though he had a feeling she wasn't quite as enthused to be his therapist as she might have been a minute ago.
"Yeah, fucking marvellous. To take me on, you gotta be wearing big girl panties under that skirt."
Her crystal blue eyes went flinty, but she didn't show much else on her face aside from the neutral line of her lips. That alone felt like a huge character change for this woman. He mentally patted himself on the back.
"I assure you that I am fully qualified. I would like to begin with a few simple questions and then we can schedule out the first week. Then from there we can see how things progress and whether you can move on to the next stage. Any questions for me, Mr Abernathy?"
Oh but she was pissed at him. Haymitch almost genuinely smiled this time as his hands settled atop the sheets, his entire frame more relaxed than he'd been these last two days. Couldn't let her think he gave two shits about her, though. "Yeah, got it. I ain't a fucking moron. Get on with the questions."
The corner of her smile twitched the slightest bit down and she leaned back even farther from his bed, but she rattled off from another list and then they got down to the questions. Basic things like his full name, birth date, general mental health, specific health shit, and blah blah blah. For each question, he answered with a smart mouth and a corresponding smirk if he'd said something particularly crude. Trinket was doing an admirable job of not rising to it, but he had a feeling that she couldn't handle it as well as Plutarch. The irritation rolled off of her in waves by the time she stood up.
"Good, I believe we are quite finished here. Thank you, Mr Abernathy. I will see you tomorrow."
As she turned and put the chair back at the spartan desk by the window, Haymitch got a nice peek under the hem of her white skirt. Oh yeah, definitely big girl panties that matched her nails. She gave him a perfunctory smile before leaving, and he couldn't help leaning back against the headboard donning a shit-eating grin.
This will be so much fucking fun.