Prompt: I copied this from one chapter and I would love to prompt that situation. Thank you. "It would be her revenge for that horrid night when she had been half-afraid he had died on her. It had taken her one hour and two cold showers to wake him up that time."

The Best Painkiller

The smell is the first thing that assaults her nose when she comes back to the penthouse, feet aching from too much dancing and lips hurting from too much fake smiling. It's late and she's tipsy and all she aspires to is a shower and her bed.

But the smell is strong and reminds her that her duties don't end at trying to secure sponsors.

Truth be told, her duties don't encompass picking up her victor from whenever he passed out but it is something she started doing as penance and now continues doing just out of friendship. And, maybe, because when he isn't completely drunk and doesn't insist on infuriating her, Haymitch is actually charming. Sometimes.

She knows why he drinks. What he has yet to say in one of drunken rambling, she has pieced together by herself. He is hurting, all the time. It must be exhausting. Often she tells herself it's why she lets him use and abuse her body, leave bruises shaped like fingertips on her hips and thighs. It's all a lie, of course. It isn't pity that drives her to seek his embrace or that lights the low burn in her belly. She's drawn to him despite everything. She hates him and loathes him but she also feels for him and she is determined to be his friend.

Which is why instead of retreating to her room and the shower she craves, she wanders to the living-room.

The smell is even stronger there and it takes everything in her not to gag.

She switches the lights on and looks around. There is indeed a puddle of sick on the carpet but no trace of the man responsible for it. Perhaps he went out, perhaps he simply dragged himself to bed. With a sigh, she retraces her footsteps and heads down the corridor.

She has barely turned the corner when she sees him.

This is where the smell comes from. He's lying on his stomach, his face in a huge puddle of sick and for all intent and purpose he looks dead.

For a second, she stands there and that's exactly what she thinks: he's dead.

Then she's running, forgetting about her aching feet or her disgust at the smell. She skids to her knees next to him, not even caring that her dress is getting soiled and pushes him on his back, immediately wiping his mouth and nose because if he drowns in a puddle of his own sick, god helps her, she will kill him…

It's disgusting. Disgusting. Her hands are sticky and she will make him pay for that later.

She has only the vaguest idea of how to take someone's pulse. She has seen it done on TV, of course, but it's different to have to do it by yourself, to know someone's life may hang in the balance and so she awkwardly feels his neck and then when it fails, puts her hand on his chest and just… Breathe.

She feels the beating of his heart under her palm.

It's slow, slower than it usually is but it's there and she feels tears of relief streaming down her face because damn him for a second she truly thought he was dead.

"Wake up." she demands, shaking him. "Haymitch, wake up!"

He doesn't even stir.

The slap is gone before she can even try to control her violent urge. She doesn't know if it's payback or if it's because it seems like a sure way to make him regain conscience.

His head rolls to the side but his eyes remain shut, his eyelids barely flutter when he starts retching again. She turns him on his side, wrinkling her nose, and waits until he's done before dragging him all the way to her room. It's the closest. And it's slow going.

She kicks off her heels because they hinder her movements, and grabs him under the armpits. He's heavy and he's a dead weight.

She needs to wake him up.

She knows she needs to wake him up.

She should call for help, she muses, she should call the Games clinic but they've been there before and she knows if he wakes up hooked to a drip, strapped to a bed, he will hate her that little bit more. Of course, that also means he will be alive to do it. Priorities though. She needs to wake him up. If he wakes up, maybe she won't need to call for help. If he wakes up…

She's thirty. She's not old by any means but she knows her back will hurt her the next morning. She's panting and sweating like a cow by the time she manages to pull him in her shower. She switches the water on and hisses when the freezing stream pours on both of them.

Haymitch twitches and groans, he lifts his hands as if to protest but they fall back down. She sits down and pulls him up so his back leans against her chest and his face is right under the spray.

"Wake up. Wake up. Wake up." she chants, her teeth chattering. It's five minutes before his eyes open and his eyelids drop right back down. His fingers coil around her wrist, he kicks a little with his leg and she reaches up to turn the water off. Shivering, she hauls him up closer. "Haymitch, talk to me."

"You're a pain." he slurs.

Her giggles are hysterical. She's crying and laughing at the same time. "Can you stand?"

"Better not." he counters, turning on his side and curling up, his head tucking itself under her chin, cushioned on her breasts, his legs hooked over her left one… "Go to sleep."

"No, no, no." she snaps. She tries to shake him off but he is wrapped around her so tight she can't escape him. She reaches out and turns the water on again. The water is so freezing he grunts and turns his face into her neck. "Stay awake."

She doesn't give him a choice anymore. She grabs her shower gel and washes her hand and then she starts the painful labor of cleaning him up. His face first and then the rest of him. She props him sitting against the tiled wall, strips him of his damp clothes and makes sure there isn't any trace of sick left, only declaring herself satisfied once he smells only of wild flowers and citrus. His eyes are clouded but tracking her every move so she switches to warm water and sighs in relief when it clatters against her skin. She strips too because her wig and her dress are heavy and clinging to her skin and washes herself because she feels disgusting.

He sits there and watches and she thinks the spark in his eyes is one of latent lust. He would try something if he were in a state to do so, she muses. She keeps an eye on him as she slips on a nightgown and towels her hair but he simply stays where she has dumped him and looks at her. When she pulls on his arm, he does make an effort to stand up.

It's rocky going but he manages to stay on his feet and obediently lets her towel him dry.

"I should call a doctor." she says, to herself more than to him.

"Don't." he grumbles.

She purses her lips, knows what she should do and knows what she will do. He has a gift to make her do mistakes.

He doesn't fight her when she tells him to sit on her bed. She goes fetch a pair of sweatpants and one of his shirts but when she comes back, he's lying down under her covers on his stomach, hugging her pillow, his eyes still open but bright with sleep.

With a sigh, she drops the clothes on the foot of the bed and climbs on the other side. She places a hand on his shoulder blade and tries not to take it personally when he flinches.

"I'm sorry." he says.

She doesn't think it's aimed at her, doesn't think he's particularly sorry for inconveniencing her or scaring her to death. It's more of a message to the world, she figures.

"I know." she answers.

She presses a kiss on his nape because she can and he won't remember it. She's not really surprised when he reaches back for her hand and tugs until she is half draped over him, he always craves cuddles when he's that drunk, always craves human touch and affection.

She can't help relieve his pain.

But she can appease it for a little while.