Dead. She's dead. Everyone is dead. Katniss. Peeta. Effie. Mother. Father. Brother.

Haymitch twists in his sheets as the nightmares come rushing into his mind. In a brief moment of consciousness he curses his improving sobriety before being dragged back to the images in his head.

He sees his brother's face, laughing. He knows this memory well. It was a few days before the Quarter Quell and they were sitting on the floor in the cramped kitchen of their house. It's the first time his brother's name would be in the glass bowl for the Reaping and in an effort to comfort him they took turns imitating and poking fun at the Capitol people. He remembers his mother watching from the hallway, a ghost of a smile on her face while his father whispered comforting words to her. He remembers signing up for Tesserae twice that year, so his brother wouldn't have to, when they were close to starvation. He remembers brushing the soot of his brother's shirt on the day of the Reaping.

Then there's the fire. He can't forget it. He can't forget the smell of the smoke or the heat from the flames engulfing his home. The roar of the fire was so loud and the smoke was stinging his eyes and all he could do was scream in agony as he realised what happened. The column of black smoke rising a few streets down told him all he needed to know about the fate of his girl. He collapsed in front of the burning building and howled his throat raw, cursing everything. Cursing Snow, cursing the Games, cursing his victory. Cursing his survival.

He has always cursed his survival.

He thinks it's a wonder that he didn't try to off himself before, but each time he tried to bring a knife to his wrist or a noose to his neck the memory of his brother clutching his arm desperately before he got on the train would come flooding back to him, no matter how drunk he was.

'You'll win right Haymitch? You'll stay alive? For us… For me?'

And each time he would fling his knife away or tear the noose knot apart thinking, yes I'll stay alive, I'll stay alive for you.

For some reason, Effie is in his nightmare. It's not memories of her but rather the twisted product of his imagination. He sees her being dragged down and away from the penthouse and he doesn't understand why the Peacekeepers are taking her and he chases after her, bellowing her name. They hold him back as they knock her to the ground; her knees buckle under her and blood trickles down her face. Her eyes flicker up to meet his for a moment, a silent plea for help, before she receives another blow to her head and suddenly there's blood everywhere. He screams.

Haymitch is screaming from his room and Effie doesn't know what to do. It's strange that he's even sleeping in his room because he almost never sleeps there, since the sofa is so much closer to the kitchen and to his bottles of liquor. But recently she's noticed that he sleeps a little more in the nighttime and a little less in the daytime, that his supply of alcohol doesn't run out as fast as it did during her first few weeks in Twelve, that he smiles a little bit more.

A strangled cry that sounds very much like her name brings her out of her thoughts. She knows, from experience, that he's most lethal during a nightmare. She knows the moment he's startled awake he'll start hacking and slashing the air with that terrible knife of his but she can't bear to hear his desperate yelling anymore. She hisses as her bare feet come in contact with the cold floor, wondering when the nights became so chilly, draws her dressing gown tighter around her and pads across the hall to his room.

Effie gingerly pushes open the door and see's Haymitch writhing in agony on his bed, sheets tangled around his legs and across his torso. She can't quite see where his knife is so decides to call his name from a distance.

"Haymitch," she begins unsure, "Haymitch wake up,"

He simply tosses some more.

"Haymitch!" she tries a little louder.

When he doesn't rouse after a few calls she decides, against her better judgement, to approach him, shaking his shoulders roughly to try and bring him out of his terrors. That works, almost too well, because he jolts out of sleep with guttural yell, swinging his knife around him. She leaps away as the blade just grazes her upper arm but she can feel the sharp sting of it slicing into flesh and she lets out a pained yelp.

Haymitch comes to his senses when his eyes land on her. Her eyes are wide open and she looks absolutely terrified of him. His eyes drift to the bright red seeping into her pale pink silk dressing gown on her arm and he swears before discarding his bloodied knife to the side in rage.

"What were you thinking Effie?" he shouts, practically shaking in anger, "God, I could've… You could've..."

She opens her mouth to say something but he continues.

"I've told you before not to!" he roars as he untangles himself from the sheets, "Why did you wake me up?"

He grips her shoulders hard and she tries not to whimper as pain shoots up her arm, "Why?"

It comes out as a whisper, "You were screaming my name,"

He stills.

Then he swears.

Then he pulls her into his arms and clutches her as though his life depends on it.

They stay like that briefly, Haymitch breathing roughly into her hair while she stands, shocked. He pulls back quickly, tugging her uninjured arm towards the door, looking away from her.

"Let's get that wrapped up," he mutters, voice thick with emotion.

Effie carefully shrugs off her dressing gown when they reach the dim kitchen, grimacing at the large cut in the bloodstained fabric. She chances a look down at her arm, silently thankful for the fact that, despite the blood seeping out from it, the cut isn't very deep. He's surprisingly gentle when he tends to her wound; he soaks up the blood with a clean cloth and rinses her arm in the sink.

"Have to disinfect it," he mutters as he uncorks a small bottle of disinfectant, "It's gonna sting,"

It does sting and her eyes can't help but water as she squeezes them shut and grips the sink tightly. He winds a bandage around it, tying it off with a small knot, but his hand lingers by her arm. His fingers are barely skimming her skin and she risks a look in his direction but his pained eyes are trialed on her bandaged arm. Her breath hitches in her throat when he bends to press a shaky kiss on the white gauze.

He turns away without so much as a 'Goodnight Effie' and makes his way up the stairs.

The next day she sees him take off in the direction of the woods with his knife.

He doesn't return with it.