AN: Hey guys, I'm really sorry but I decided to take down my other story because it just wasn't right and it needs some work. Instead I have decided to give you this sort of Haymitch/Katniss one-shot. It may be a bit fluffy I'm sorry if it's a bit boring or not very good but I prefer just writing short stories at the moment. Please let me know what you think, I apologise for any errors. Basically this scene is set when Katniss is in hospital in 13 after being rescued from the Quarter Quell arena. I know a lot of people have written fanfics like this but this is just me having a go at it! Thank you!

Strands

I stare blankly around the white box of a room, studying my reflection critically in the mirrored glass which stretches the width of the wall opposite me. My hair has become greasy again due to lack of attention from the ever persistent Capitol stylists - I'm rather relishing the fact that they can't reach me here in 13. My face is narrow, features sharp and prominent and my skin is still a faded yellow due to alcohol withdrawal.

As well as this, my eyes are still a little bloodshot - despite the fact I haven't had a drink in days and there is a mess of grisly stubble on my chin. I'm not really sure why I'm trying to stay sober, there are enough places that I could go to sneak a drink in 13 and it's not like Katniss has any need for me at the moment, considering that she's totally unconscious and flat out on the bed in front of me.

I regard her for a moment, her thick brown hair a mess of tangled curls resting gently on her shoulders and I watch her eyelids flutter as I let out a gentle sigh from my hard plastic seat placed close to her bedside. That's another thing about 13, there's a general lack of anything comfortable.

It's been almost a week since we heaved Katniss, Beetee and Finnick out of that dreaded jungle themed arena that Plutarch was responsible for thinking up and only a matter of days since Katniss dragged her sharp fingernails down my poor neglected face. She's managed to leave a neat little array of scabby red lines across each cheek and I'm thankful that she didn't get to gauge my eyeballs out.

Katniss shifts slightly in her sleep, rolling to face me on her side. I watch her, my flecked steely grey seam eyes consuming every detail of her marred young face. It's when she lifts her hands from under her crisp white sheet and lays them on her pillow that I realise she is clasping something between them.

Her fingers are bony and pale and I study her as she brings the thing she's holding close to her face, burying her nose within it and inhaling its scent. It looks like a piece of soft cotton fabric in a shade of familiar dark blue. Wait - familiar dark blue? It's then that I notice what looks like a shirt sleeve in the bundle of fabric and I realise - that is one of my shirts.

I try to drag the stinky dirty thing away for her but her hands have a surprisingly strong grip on it. She moans as I try to pry her fingers free of it and she ends up digging her sharp nails into my hands. For now I decide to relent although I can't help but wonder why she would want to bury her nose in my sweaty, alcohol ridden garment.

"Haymitch," My eyes dart up quickly from my hands where I was absent-mindedly picking at my ragged fingernails. Sweetheart here has obviously not had enough morphling because she seems to have woken up. I gaze at her cautiously as I rise from my seat, intending to go and find a member of the medical staff, but as I move past her she leans out and grabs hold of my wrist.

"Don't go." She looks at me sincerely and I can understand that perhaps she doesn't want to go back to being trapped in drowsiness just yet. Instead I decide to take the opportunity to question her about the presence of my old shirt.

"Where did you get that from?" I ask quietly, inclining my head towards where my shirt is still wrapped in her hands. She regards me for a moment and I think I catch a ghost of a smile hover on her lips.

"This? Oh, my sister Prim gave it to me a few nights ago -it's yours, isn't it." She says this as more of a statement than a question and I raise my eyebrows slightly.

"Yes, it's mine, I was just wondering why on earth you had it," I reply. I'm sure there's a smile lurking in her features now, although I also notice as I study her eyes that she looks a little embarrassed.

"You know how Prim often sits with me at night?" She asks slowly and I nod my head slightly in response, my eyes not leaving hers. She tries to prop herself up on her pillow and I lean in swiftly to help her.

I catch a slight blush on her pale cheeks as she continues. "She told me that there was one night where I just kept saying your name over and over. Apparently I was crying in my sleep and she couldn't stop me. I guess she had a sort of brainwave when she saw your shirt laying on the floor - and yes you did just ditch it here so technically I didn't steal it."

" Oh yeah," I smirk, "I got a bit hot one night in here and I thought you wouldn't mind if I took my shirt off." She cringes, probably at the thought of my bare chest and this elicits a grin from me. The answer to my next query is obvious but I go ahead and ask anyway, "So what was this brainwave?"

She rolls her eyes but I'm surprised and flattered when she actually takes the liberty to answer. "I suppose Prim thought that it would act as a kind of comfort, your shirt, because it obviously smells of you...I think that she hoped it would calm me down - if I could breathe your scent then maybe I would believe you were there with me."

Katniss has gone an attractive shade of scarlet now, revealing her deep embarrassment but I can't help but ask one more question, "And did it work, did it stop your nightmare?" I grin teasingly at her but her face grows serious, a frown forming on her determined features.

I watch her intently and she groans, goes to lie back down and turn away from me to face the wall but her bleary movements are just too easy to judge. I catch her hand and pull her back round before she can settle on the other side.

She seems a little stunned and considers our embracing hands for a moment. I run my thumb soothingly over her palm and to my surprise she sighs and I watch her relax. "Well?" I push, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She fidgets for a moment, and her face become serious again as she considers her answer and I smile genuinely as I watch her soft brow furrow. I've almost given up on hearing an answer when I hear her whisper a tentative, "Yes, it worked."

She's staring down our linked hands and refuses to look up at my face so I lean down and gently lift her chin to meet my gaze. "Good," I whisper as my grey eyes meet hers. They're softer, darker than my own but also dangerous and fierce.

A smile quirks her lips and I realise I've been gazing at her for too long to be plausible and I quickly shift my stare. A small laugh escapes her lips as she lays back down against the pillow, her hand still clasped in mine.

I jerk awake, my eyes darting open, Katniss' scream still resounding in my ears. Panic rises in my chest as I search the room for her and finally realise she is hanging off the edge of the bed, her head practically in my lap, face twisted up to look at me. "Let go," she gasps, her distant eyes calling to mine.

I have just about come to the conclusion that she must have been dreaming, and am on the verge of telling her so when she speaks again. "Haymitch please, let go of me!" Confusion thunders in my brain and I stare into her terrified wide eyes. Then my stomach drops as I look down at my hands. Her hair is tangled through my fingers, clenched in my tight fist, each strand yanking violently on her scalp.

"Sweetheart I'm sorry, I didn't realise, I'm so sorry," I choke out as I rapidly try to work my fingers free of her locks of hair as gently as possible. Finally I manage to release her and she jolts away from me, springing to the far side of the bed. I try to reach out a soothing hand but she almost turns hysterical. I'm terrified that she's going to hurt herself, "Katniss, I'm so sorry, I would never try to hurt you," I repeat desperately, but she is lost in the realms of terror.

I consider trying to put her morphing drip back in, I think I would be strong enough to restrain her and hold her down until it knocked her out, but I just can't do that to her – it would shatter any remains of the relationship we have, which is unstable at the best of times. Instead, I decide to back to the corner of the room opposite her, my eyes still studying her cautiously.

I sink down against the wall where she can have a clear view of me. It must be very early in the morning as the hospital is deadly silent. I helplessly try to search the mirrored glass for any signs of a shadow, telling me someone is present, but I think that if they were they would have come in by now. Since it is still night there must be only one nurse on the ward, and I doubt there is anyone else about. It's just me and Katniss.

She begins to shudder uncontrollably, her racking breaths escaping only as sobs which soon become screams. That's when I know she can't simply be crying about me anymore. She starts rocking wildly on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped over her ears and clutching her hair, knuckles white. My heart feels as though it is being torn in two, I long to run to her and comfort her, wrap her in my strong embrace, yet I know that I can't go near her right now for fear of her becoming dangerous. If there is one thing that I know Katniss hates being vulnerable.

Katniss looks exhausted, and I dare to believe that she has almost cried herself out. She rolls onto her side and continues crying, the tears leaving glistening tracks across her tormented features. Her sobs have quietened though, yet she looks so conflicted I just have to do something, so in the end I settle for speaking.

"It's okay Katniss; I understand what you're going through." I can't see much of her face due to the fact it is covered by strands of her hair which cling stickily to her features because of her tears. I'm not certain but I think I can still make out her slate coloured eyes studying me though. Her breath seems to have evened out a little now and I think I hear her murmur something in response.

"What was that, sweetheart?" I ask tentatively. She lifts her head off the mattress a little, using her elbows to support her still quivering form, to make her response.

"You could never understand." Katniss' voice is a firm whisper, but she still refuses to meet my gaze as she says it. This is probably a good thing because her words send an electric current of anger through me, the selfish, naïve girl. It takes all my strength not to leap up and throttle her.

"The pain, the grief, the fear, relentless and never ending nightmares and memories every second you take a breath, every moment you close your eyes. The fact that you can't count the amount of people you've killed on your fingers and the number just keeps growing; the vulnerability and inability to protect what remains of your family and the overwhelming darkness which now haunts your life. I think I understand you perfectly, sweetheart." I hiss releasing a shuddering and angry breath, willing myself to stay calm.

Her body has frozen, all movement ceased, her eyes lock onto mine, unblinking. "You're right," she murmurs shakily, her hands clutching the sheet in tight fists. I hold her gaze as she pulls her legs up to her chest, resting her chin on her forearms which lay across her knees. We stay like this, studying each other, learning emotions from only our eyes and although she is fierce I sense the danger has gone.

Katniss surprises me when she suddenly swings her legs over the edge of the metal bedframe and touches her toes hesitantly to the floor. I regard her as she stands shakily and begins to take a few wobbly steps around the edge of the bed towards me. She is about a metre and a half away when her pale arms stretch out to me, letting me know it is acceptable to help her, touch her. I extend my hands from my position on the floor and she grabs them desperately, steadying herself as she stumbles.

I shift my hands to her waist and she flinches, I am about to remove them when her gaze meets mine and she relaxes. I let her slide down the wall next to me and it is when I glance over at her that I realize she is crying again, tears dripping off her chin and splashing into the tiled floor. "Sweetheart," I murmur as I place my muscled arm around her shaking shoulders. She clutches the fabric of my shirt and places her cheek against my chest. I wrap her in a strong embrace and realise my shirt has already been flooded with her tears. As I hold her I whisper "I'm here sweetheart, you can trust me."