"Can we just leave him there, boss? I mean, what good is it?" Thom Peat stood beside him as they looked down the steep hill where the boy lay collapsed and unconscious.
It was still fucking raining. He'd never gotten that lightning bolt he'd wished for. Oh, how'd he'd wished. He was still too sober.
He shook his head in response.
"We owe him more than a ditch death." Haymitch stepped forward and slowly, staggeringly, worked his way downward. The wash from the storm had created a run out heading downwards. His footing was uneven. The Peat boy stayed at the top and tossed down a rope.
When he reached the bottom his eyes met the sky with clarity and without nightmares. What the fuck was going on? He leaned down and tied the rope under the boy's arms. As Thom began to pull him upwards Haymitch caught on the wound on Peeta's side.
This wasn't a good sign at all. He could see the puckering red lined pale skin surrounding it. He could see the grey yellow of his skin in the Arena. He could see the leg being slashed with a sword that should have removed it completely. He could see it all behind his eyes. He pressed his fists to his sockets and crouched low for a moment, exhausted and oh, so sober.
How different it would all have been if he'd just bled out in the Arena like a good little Tribute. He hated the thought.
"Boss, he's caught on something. Better get a move on up here." Damn, this Peat kid was annoying – it was like talking about a caught fishing line, not a kid. He was just a kid. They all were just kids. His head was pounding. It was still raining. He pushed his way upwards and twisted Peeta's limp frame loose of the brush.
When they reached the top they took a moment to breathe and then lifted, together, Peeta's bulky frame. Why was this kid so heavy?
It was mid-afternoon before they got him back to his house. Sae met them as they were rinsing him off in the tub.
"How is she?" He didn't want to know. He hadn't seen her since they'd found her crouching under the hot spray of the water.
"She's resting. Hasn't said a word."
They got the boy into some clothes and set him in the room that didn't look like a hurricane mess.
"I didn't even know he was back." It was a statement. He hadn't known. He hadn't noticed.
"He's been back for a couple of weeks. They've been paying for care services and since I was the only one who took the job..." Her voice trailed off as she worked on the glass in his feet. He could see where all the blood had come from now. He could breathe a little easier now. He could drink now. He left to find the old stash the boy had kept before 75.
He stayed with the boy. He'd felt guilty for the Arena. He felt guilty for the torture. He wanted to be terrifying when he finally woke up. He waited down the hall until he heard the thump ring out and slowly struggled to the door frame. He was crumbled on the floor. He looked pathetic. He looked sorry. He helped him readjust.
"What the fuck?" He'd been wondering the same thing. How had he not been notified that this threat had returned? He was caught between hate and duty.
"Thom and I had to drag your carcass back up the hill. I'm a little tired." He'd been awake too long to count. Too long and too sober. He lifted the flask to his lips and took a pull. He could cure one problem now. The rest? Well, that was never something he could solve. The boy knocked him back to the present by playing the reality card.
"It was all real then," There was a pause that hung in the air. "Why didn't you let me stay out there? It would have been better for everyone," Haymitch knew that. He knew this kid's death would have solved so many problems. But the time had passed for that – it'd passed in 74. He'd promised to keep him alive. He moved to stand, unable to ensure that his facade of calm could stay in place as the rage from the night's events rolled back into his mind.
"Because there are important people in this world who need you to survive. Now, stay down and rest for once," He struggled not to mention the real reason Peeta had been brought back alive – for her. Always for her. All of Panem owed her. Owed the boy, too, he figured. It was all so tangled. He lurched for the doorway, his bones and soggy skin heavy. He had to get out before he showed his hand.
"Is she... Is she alive?"
He didn't want to answer that. The boy deserved to suffer the guilt and the shame. He'd already suffered so much. He nodded his response instead.
"How did you find me?" He was getting tired of this questioning. Hadn't he told him to rest? His feet carried him faster down the hallway.
"Boy, you were never graceful in the woods." It was a departing shout as he moved farther away. He didn't plan on coming back. He planned on ending up back in his kitchen with his clear poison and his knife.
He found himself instead walking into her house, pulling open the porch door and finding himself flush against Gale Hawthorne.
The kid was like the fucking old ninja myths that he'd heard about in the Capitol. Not a sound.
He stepped around him, avoiding the menacing feeling of Gale's eyes, and proceeded up the stairs to find how much of the flame remained.
When he reached the doorway he was surprised to find her already up and moving. The change was drastic compared to the reports that Sae had been giving him – at least those he remembered. He could see the blossom of colour on her cheek and the harsh bruises on her thin arms as she stood staring out the window. The sun surrounded her and he saw flames burning her up. He saw a phoenix. He clapped his knuckles on the door frame and cleared his throat with a fresh burn from his flask.
She didn't turn to meet his eyes.
"Fancy of you to come out of hiding," her voice was like sandpaper, cracking with each syllable. He deserved that. He couldn't help the anger that rose in reaction to the hurt.
"Funny, I thought a good hunter didn't get snared in a trap, twice." He felt the bile rise in his throat at the words. He was a terrible fucking human being. "You need to steer clear, sweetheart. The boy isn't right. He's dangerous. He's not the old Peeta anymore." He didn't think his warning could be clearer. He didn't think it had to be.
"I need to see him, Haymitch." Fucking rebellious.
"No, you don't. I didn't pull you out of that cell to be ripped apart by a mutt."
"So you got me out of one cell to bring me to another?" He had hope for this flame yet. Right now it was burning. He took another sip from his flask wanting to feel a different kind of burn in his gut.
"Little bird, I've just been trying to keep you alive." It was too honest for him. He wanted to put the words back in his mouth. She turned slightly to face him, no words on her lips. He could see the heavy shadows under her eyes; see the line where her head must have hit something hard. He didn't know if there were other wounds he couldn't see.
His mind's eye flashed with the horrors of the Capitol. With Finnick Odair's sordid stories. With the tortured tales he'd tried to drown. Suddenly he needed to know. Suddenly he couldn't face knowing. His stomach churned.
"Did he force himself on you?" She looked as though she'd been slapped. She shook her head, her lips tight.
"Never."
At least the boy would live.
He could see her drifting. See her eyes losing focus. She turned back to look out the window and began to sing quietly to herself.
He hated this Katniss. This was the broken version of the Mockingjay. This was the Capitol prison cell Mockingjay. How often did she fade? He hadn't paid attention.
He needed to start paying attention.
"Don't go over there, sweetheart. Unless you've got someone with you." He left quietly and met Gale in the kitchen. He was playing with what appeared to be a deck of cards. He hadn't seen a set in decades.
"Thanks for watching out for her, Waste Case." It didn't even wound – he'd heard it too many times. From every Tribute parent picking up their casket instead of their kid.
"Keep up the good work, Cousin."
His feet carried him home where he switched from his flask to his bottle.