Anonymous requested: "Could you maybe do one were Olive falls over and hurts her self (idk like grazes her knee) and Haymitch has to try and comfort her?:)"
He had warned her countless times. That when Effie decided to go on a cleaning spree and mop the kitchen floor, it was slick and she shouldn't run across it. But did Olive listen? No, of course she didn't. She was incredibly hardheaded (which Effie faulted with his genes) and as a result, here he was now, standing over his wounded seven year old complete with tears and a busted lip. Inhaling deeply, he knelt in front of her.
"Let me see your mouth," he commanded.
Whimpering, Olive allowed her hands to drop to her side as her father examined the damage. It didn't seem like anything too major. Just a small cut on her upper lip that looked only worse in appearance due to the amount of blood dribbling from it. But the face always bled more than the rest of the body when cut. Haymitch didn't like to remember how he knew that.
"I'm sorry, daddy," Olive sniffled. "It was an accident."
"Do you see why I told you not to run in the kitchen?" Haymitch exhaled as he stood back up. "I'm not stupid, Olive. I tell you these things for a reason."
"I'm sorry," she repeated, the waterworks becoming stronger. "I'm really, really, reeeeeally sorry."
"I know," he mumbled, looking towards the sink. "C'mon, let's get you washed up."
Turning on the water, Haymitch grabbed an old towel Effie had cast off to the side and began to wet its surface. If someone had told him seven years ago, he'd be spending his time mending cuts on a child (his own for that matter) he would have laughed in their face. But now here he was, holding a damp cloth to his kid's mouth wishing Effie were here, and not shopping, as she was better at these things than he was.
"It doesn't look that bad," Haymitch told her. "It doesn't need stitches. But here," he took Olive's hand and held it to the towel. "Hold that to your mouth while I get some ice to keep the swelling down."
"Yes, sir."
Haymitch rummaged through the old fridge, finding a few spare pieces of ice. He then returned to Olive, slipping the objects in between the folds of the cloth. Letting out a breath, he looked to Olive. She seemed to have calmed down a bit, the initial shock and pain from her fall behind her. Yet, the tears still streamed down her cheeks. Saying some colorful words to himself in his mind, he took his thumb and brushed them away.
"Are you alright?" He finally asked.
She nodded, closing her eyes for a minute as more tears fell. Hesitating, Haymitch gentle held his arms open and grunted as Olive slammed into them. He held her to him, listening to her cry softly as the wet towel soaked his shirt. He knew she felt bad for her disobedience. And she would go about listening to him for a few weeks. But of course, like all kids, it was only a matter of time until he was back holding her on the floor, comforting whatever little bumps and bruises she caused herself.
Shaking his head, Haymitch sighed, patting Olive gently on the back. Kids would be kids, no matter how aggravating it was. But you loved them nevertheless. At least, he just had to keep reminding himself that when things like this happened.