A/N: Thank you for reading! This work was originally posted to AO3. It looks like there is a much more active THG fanbase here, though. If you love THG content (and Doctor Who) you should check out my tumblr! My blog is Teller Means Plate, and my username there is also bennieren.
This work started as something that was only supposed to be ten chapters. It sort of got away from me! But it was so much fun to write, so I really hope you like reading it as much as I liked writing it. Have fun! Don't forget to review!
Part One
The Victor from 12
The sky outside his window is a soft, pearly white, like the inside of a dove's wing. The sun will either come pouring through mid-afternoon, or be buried under dark rain clouds. He tries to focus, to see shapes in the clouds, like he used to do with Terra before the Quell. Just that passing thought, "before the Quell", brings up the thudding in his temples, and the old drainpipe taste in his mouth.
He sits up, relinquishes his hold on his knife. The clouds are too uniform for shapes, anyway. And the reason he feels so bad, well, worse than usual, is because today is the reaping. Two tributes from District 12. Two lambs for slaughter. Would it be another 12-year-old, like last year? Knowing full well how much he will regret drinking on an empty stomach, Haymitch feels along the floor for his bottle. He is almost certain there was a swallow left to fortify him in the search for more. Maybe an arrogant little merchant kid, just as unprepared for the elements, and even more unprepared for real hunger as any of the Seam kids. His hand finds home, and he pulls the bottle up to eye level.
Well boy howdee, this must be his lucky day. He had passed out before finishing, and nearly half is left.
"Haymitch! Haymitch Abernathy! Oh, my god, the smell! No, I won't go in there. Bring him to the Justice Building and we can prep him there."
Rough hands grab him under his armpits and haul him up.
"Effie?" he shouts. He looks to his right and sees Darius, then to his left and sees Cray's face before he falls forward, braces himself on the table, and pukes. A scrap of bread from last night immediately begins soaking up the bile like a sponge, and then floats on top of his sick, the sight causing him to puke again.
"Come on!" shouts Cray. "Pull yourself together!"
"Where the hell is EFFIE?"
"Out here, darling! Please come out! It's a big, big, big day!"
"I know what fucking day it is, you absolute ninny."
Darius redoubles his grip under his arm, and so does Cray, and they're marching him to his own front door. When Haymitch stumbles and falls to the ground, Darius tries to be gentle as he helps him up, and whispers in his ear, "Come on, man. It's not you who'll get in trouble if we're late."
Haymitch hangs his head, carefully places his feet. No one should get in trouble over him. That's why he's stopped talking to people. Except Effie once a year, for about two weeks in that sideshow they call the Capitol.
He allows them to lead him out of his house and into a waiting car.
"What about clothes?" Darius asks, buckling his seat-belt for him.
Effie wrinkles her nose and puts a gloved hand over her mouth. "I don't know. I'll arrange something. Don't go back in that house, it's a health hazard."
Darius smiles and shuts the car door. He and Cray step back to the sidewalk. They have to walk to the reaping. They're not important enough to merit a car. You have to murder people for that privilege.
"Hey Effie," he says, leaning close to whisper, so the driver won't hear.
"Oh, Haymitch, your breath!" she cries, and pushes him away.
He leans against the car door, and rests his head on the window. "I was just gonna ask how you like being a murderer."
"One day," she mutters, fidgeting with the clasp on her bag, "One day, I'll be assigned to a decent district with decent victors. I just know it."
"One day, sweetheart, we'll all be dead, and that's the best we can hope for."
They drive in silence the rest of the way.