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Capitol Nights, chapter 37
Katniss jolts up, instantly transitioning into full wakefulness. Her gray eyes are wide as she scans the darkened bedroom, holding her breath. There's movement beside her and she snaps around with serpentine quickness, already coming up onto her knees in readiness to strike out or leap away.
Peeta leans away from her, head lowered. "Easy," he whispers. The sound that dragged them both back into this reality comes again, unmistakable this time: a ragged scream.
"Haymitch," Peeta says.
Katniss nods, pulling her knees up to her chest. "I thought maybe last night was just a dream," she murmurs. "What are we going to do?" Her voice is tired and flat and hopeless. She sounds old.
"I'll take care of it," Peeta tells her. "Go back to sleep."
Katniss snorts, a thoroughly unlovely sound in anyone else. She looks so deceptively vulnerable, sitting there in the dark with her hair loose and falling around her shoulders, so precious and so breakable. Peeta takes her hand and squeezes it, and she returns the gesture accompanied by an unreadable flicker of deep gray eyes. He gets out of bed, straightening his t-shirt and shorts as he makes his way to the door. "Go back to sleep. I'll be back soon," he whispers before slipping out of the room.
Peeta flicks on the lights in Haymitch's room, quietly shutting the door behind him. The bed's in disarray, sheets and covers pulled halfway off and trailing over the floor. The dark-colored blankets don't show it from here, but the beige sheets are streaked and blotched with red. The bed is empty.
"Haymitch?" Peeta steps cautiously into the room. There's no answer, not even the sound of breathing. Haymitch could be anywhere in here. And if he were still in the grip of his night terrors he'd be screaming or crying or at least panting. If he were awake and lucid he'd doubtless be telling Peeta to get the hell out. But there's only this frightening stillness, as though he's lying in wait.
"Haymitch, it's just me, Peeta. Don't jump out at me, okay?" Tense, anticipating that at any second a deranged man who has about five inches and probably fifty pounds on him will come hurtling at him out of the darkness, Peeta slowly moves further into the room. He has no choice.
On the other side of the bed, bloody footprints track towards the open bathroom door. The light is off in the bathroom, and there's no sound from within. Peeta stops, looking toward that pocket of unknowable darkness.
This is bad. If he's in there, why isn't the light on? Why isn't he making any noise? Is he hiding in there? If he's that out of his head, he'll probably attack the first person who steps through the door. But what if he's hurt, worse than before? What if he tried to run on broken toes and fell, and he's lying in there with his head cracked open?
"You have to," Peeta tells himself. "There's no one else. You have to." If Haymitch comes at him, he'll try to slam the door shut between them. If that doesn't work he'll just have to hit him in the throat, put him down quick. Haymitch will stop when he recognizes Peeta. He wouldn't really kill him; even at his most addled he wouldn't do that. "You have to," Peeta tells himself one more time. "Go on."
"Haymitch, are you in the bathroom? I'm coming in, okay? Just me." One more step brings him to the threshold and he rapidly flicks the light switch and grabs the door handle, ready to jerk it shut.
Haymitch is crouching in the bathtub. He's naked, head bowed, looking at Peeta through a curtain of hair. He doesn't move or make a sound.
"Haymitch," Peeta says, coming into the room, "what are you doing?"
Something catches the corner of his eye, and he looks at the full-length mirror on the wall next to him. Up here at eye-level, it's a spider web of cracks. Some of them extend all the way to the gilded frame.
Peeta grabs a thick white towel from one of the shelves and drops to his knees in front of the tub. Haymitch isn't really crouching. That would probably be impossible for him right now. His feet are flat and pulled up under him, his back pressed against the smooth marble. Peeta touches his arm; he flinches and closes his eyes tightly. He's still deeply in the fog. With him sitting like that Peeta can't see everything they did to him, but he can see enough. The whole side of his right hip and thigh is a deep, angry shade of red and there are long, regular-sided welts where someone beat him hard enough to break the skin. The left thigh is better off, but still heavily bruised. There'll be more of the same on the backs of his thighs and on his rear. It has to be hurting him to sit there like that, but he's not moving: silent, head bowed, eyes closed. Both of his feet are swollen and discolored, his toes folded under to a degree that just shouldn't be possible. The exceptions are his big toes: they are canted outward at strange new angles. Fresh blood runs down his left hand and wrist in gory rivulets.
Peeta had intended to drape the towel over him and try to get him to stand up. Now he shakes his head and sets the towel aside, wanting to close his own eyes. Instead, he gets up. Keeping one eye on Haymitch, he gets all five of the washcloths from the shelf and runs warm water over them. As long as Haymitch is out of it, there's no reason to try to get him back into bed in this state. Peeta doubts he could make him move until he comes back a little, anyway. And the bed's filthy. He'll clean Haymitch up as much as he can, and when he starts to respond Peeta will be ready to drape the towel over him and go strip the bed.
"Give me your hand," he says. There's no response, but Haymitch doesn't resist when Peeta pulls the injured hand towards him. Splinters of glass protrude from the skin between his knuckles, and Peeta eases them out one at a time. One of the shards slices into his thumb and he hisses softly and wipes his hand on a washcloth. It's a thoughtless, reflexive movement. There's far more of Haymitch's blood on his hands than his own.
Dabbing away the blood as gently as he can, he tries to look for more splinters. His efforts are impeded by the blood that keeps welling up around the cuts. Bandages, he needs bandages. Peeta looks around the Capitol bathroom as though expecting a pile of dressings to be waiting next to the towels. Then he pulls off his t-shirt and starts tearing it into strips.
"Peeta?" Katniss is standing in the doorway, watching him, her sharp eyes taking in everything.
"We're fine, Katniss. Go back to bed," Peeta says, darting a look at Haymitch. He still hasn't moved.
Katniss comes into the room and drops down on her heels next to Peeta. "Haymitch?" she says in a wary, questioning tone. She looks to Peeta. "What's going on?"
"He broke the mirror. Really, you should go. He won't like you seeing him like this."
"I don't mean what's wrong with his hand," she snaps. "Hey, open your eyes!" She claps her hands. Neither effort produces any response. "How long has he been like this?"
"Since I got here." Peeta ties the strips of his torn shirt around Haymitch's hand and sets it back against his leg. "At least wait in the bedroom."
Katniss glares at him. "I have seen men naked before, Peeta. I know about what they have. I'm aware."
"Please. Look, I don't know how much of this he's processing right now, or how much he'll remember."
Abruptly, Katniss looks away. "You're right," she says, sounding upset again. "I'm sorry. This is just so fucked up, all of this. I don't even know what makes sense, or what to think, and I don't know what to do."
"Neither do I," Peeta tells her. "Would you get rid of the blankets? If you want to, I mean. If it bothers you too much, that's okay. I don't mind doing it."
"I'll do it," she says, standing up. She's keeping her eyes pointedly averted from Haymitch, now. She turns and walks out without another word.
Peeta begins wiping off as much of the blood as he can from Haymitch's legs. He tries to be gentle around the wounds, but he can't be sure whether he's hurting the man or not. There's still no reaction. "Can you stand?" he asks. He takes Haymitch's wrists and stands up. Haymitch comes slowly to his feet, his chin almost resting on his chest. It lets Peeta see how bruised his balls are, but there's nothing he can do about that.
Haymitch won't step out of the tub on his own. Peeta has to lift each of his feet up and guide it over the edge and down onto the tiled floor. The man moves woodenly, neither resisting nor helping. Peeta wraps the towel around his waist and pulls one limp arm over his shoulders. When he moves forward, Haymitch moves stumblingly alongside him. His gait is jolting and staccato. Whenever his toes touch the floor he jumps a little, hopelessly trying to favor both feet at once. His eyes are closed again, his features tight with pain. He has yet to say a single word, or even utter a sound.
"Bed," Peeta tells him, stopping. "Lie down." Katniss has stripped the bed to the mattress pad. She stands on the other side of it with her back turned to them, her posture tense.
Peeta has to push Haymitch down onto the mattress and lift his legs up. He spreads the towel over his hips. Then Katniss is at his side, pushing a cream-colored satin robe into his hands. "Put this over him. It's better than a towel." She keeps her face averted as Peeta switches the towel for the robe. Haymitch startles him then by moving, but it's only to draw his legs up and pull his arms in against his chest.
"Are you waking up?" he asks. Haymitch doesn't answer.
"Is this what we do, now?" Katniss asks. "Bathe him and put him to bed like he's a child?"
Peeta stiffens. "You didn't have to help. I told you I'd handle it." He tries to dispel the anger he feels at her words. Except for that horrible night when she came back from the forest, he's never been angry at her before. It's the last thing they need right now. "You heard what he's been through tonight. If you can't be patient with him, maybe you should leave." He searches for a way to soften his words. "I know blood upsets you. Really, it's fine. I'm almost done here, anyway."
"I didn't mean it like that. I just meant-" She shakes her head, brushes her hair back. "Look what they've done to him. Look what they've reduced him to. Do you really think babying him is going to help at all?"
"Don't use that word." Peeta twitches the robe up to cover one bare shoulder. "Someone had to clean him up. I don't know what else to do.'
"This is our fault." Katniss makes herself look at the figure on the bed, curled up under the robe. "They never would have gotten him if we hadn't come along."
"Yeah, I know. But what could we do? I'd die if those- those filthy bastards ever laid hands on you." He speaks desperately, pleadingly. Please don't let that be what she's suggesting. "Katniss, please." Impulsively he lays a hand on her belly, appealing to her. Katniss steps back at once, as though his touch burns. "Please, promise me you'll never let them take you. I'd die."
"I promise. Never. Not after what they've done to him." She can't even say his name in connection with the broken thing that lies curled up on the bed. Haymitch isn't supposed to be like this. He's supposed to be strong and irreverent and immature and infuriating. He's not supposed to be broken.
"They don't get to destroy both of us," she says lowly. If Haymitch doesn't come out of this, she'll be the only one left. Peeta isn't Seam. He's brave in his way, and sensible, and she thinks in time he'll be strong (if any of them live that long). But he isn't of their kind. Whatever she and Haymitch have started in Panem, she will have to carry on alone if he doesn't come back to them. And she doesn't know if she can do that.
"We'll find a way out of this," Peeta tells her. "District 12 and the Capitol aren't the whole world. We'll find a way to escape, the three of us and our families and-" he hesitates slightly, "- the Hawthornes. We'll go where Snow can't reach us."
"We'll die, you mean?" Peeta gives her an aggrieved look. "Sorry," she mutters.
"When we get away from all this, he'll recover," Peeta continues his ephemeral painting, insisting she believe in it. "He'll be just like he was."
"Oh, goody. I can hardly wait." Katniss rolls her eyes, manages a slight smile for her husband. It's worth it to see Peeta smile back. "Thanks for letting Gale be part of your fantasy future," she says to change to subject. "That was sort of sweet."
"Oh well, a man's got to do what a man's got to do," Peeta says, affecting a long-suffering tone. "I suppose I do have to include him, right?"
"Yes, you do," she says primly. She could kiss him. She really could. But she's not entirely sure that Haymitch is insensible, so she abstains.