"Do you have the day off, Mom?" asks Rory.
Hazelle pauses raising a mug of tea to her lips. Although she's grown to prefer coffee, she brewed half a pot of tea this morning. If she wasn't stalling to go to Haymitch's, where there's a surplus of unused sugar and coffee grounds, she could have coffee. But she is so she can't. She sighs.
"Not really. I'm revising my schedule with Haymitch today, and I've a feeling he won't be up for a while." As she sips her tea, Hazelle reads the clock in the kitchen - half past ten. She would be at Haymitch's house by now, late or not.
"No surprise there," Rory mutters, and while Hazelle wants to reprimand him, she doesn't. After all, he's not wrong.
"Finish your ham," she tells Posy, sliding her plate closer toward her.
Posy rubs her eyes and picks up her fork. "I liked all the people last night. I want to do that again."
"I'm sure we will." As Vick rinses his plate in the sink, he asks Hazelle, "It started raining not long after you left again, right?"
"Hm? Oh, yes. We tried sitting it out at first," she answers, the minty aftertaste biting her tongue, scolding her. She shouldn't lie to her children but there's no good way to tell them why she chose Haymitch Abernathy, who could be counted on to be drunk at that hour, over a group of friends and neighbors.
Rory and Vick share a look and snicker, which rouses Hazelle from her thoughts. Posy giggles along with them even though she's as confused as Hazelle. Rory asks, "Who ended up with the bottle?"
"Boys, don't go asking about adults' business," Hazelle chides with a stern look. Not only would it be rude of them, but they'd learn that she didn't return to the bonfire. She finishes her tea and stands. "I should head over now."
As the rain whips and spatters against her Thirteen-gray hooded jacket on the way to Haymitch's, Hazelle can't help but remember the night before: his drunken ranting, her yelling back, his cutting words - all while his scowl looked more pained than angry, which drove Hazelle forward rather than away. But he saw through that and drove her away himself, and now she must return. Working for him has always been her backup, her ostensible intent, and she'll need to resort to it once more.
What bothers her most is that they both confessed things they kept hidden for years to each other, and now she'll have to pretend like it never happened because it kind of didn't for him. She wants to forget the wasted effort but only Haymitch drank from that bottle. He won't remember, and she honestly wishes otherwise so they could still understand the other. They were almost there yesterday morning when he was sober. It's frustrating that he wasn't last night. Then again, if he was, Hazelle wouldn't have said as much as she did.
Her apprehension mounts with each step but she hurries along, as dawdling will only prolong it. As she crosses the scuffed threshold into the entry and shrugs off her jacket, she hears muffled voices from somewhere in the house. Following the sound, Hazelle passes through the kitchen, where several covered baskets sit abandoned on the table and a puddle of vomit lies where she stood beside Haymitch's chair last night. She turns into the hallway and discovers Katniss crouched beside Peeta, who's cowering against the wall.
Sprawled on the floor behind them is Haymitch. His mouth is dark with what Hazelle realizes is dried blood.
She gasps, and Katniss glances up at her before she returns her attention to Peeta. "You need to come back, Peeta." He tries to look around her at Haymitch but she forcefully turns his chin. "That ain't your fault."
"Real or not real?" Peeta implores shakily. Hazelle notices his blue irises are missing, his pupils dilated even though most of the lights in the house are on.
"Real: Haymitch is hurt. Not real: it was your fault."
"W-was it yours?" There's a flash of white as he bears his teeth but then he shakes his head and twists his lips into a thin, contorted line. "Not real, not real. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. Just come back and stay with me."
Slowly, the boy's body relaxes enough that he uncoils from the wall. He whispers something to Katniss, who kisses his sweaty forehead and then presses it to hers.
Maybe Gale was right about those two.
When she finally faces Hazelle for the first time in months, Katniss only says, "Help me get Haymitch to the couch."
Peeta hasn't moved much from his spot on the floor, his wan face now openly concerned for his mentor. While she and Katniss sling Haymitch's arms around their shoulders, Katniss commands Peeta to call for the doctor. He turns for the study, where the telephone is, then hesitates. "Who... who do I call?"
"Find his contact information in the study." As he leaves to do this with a rapid nod, Katniss adds, "If you can't reach him, run to the site!"
"Why are you having him do that?" asks Hazelle, grunting in effort as they lift Haymitch. Her arms and abdomen burn with the tension. Her rather sedentary schedule in Thirteen has softened her some, and so she struggles alongside Katniss. "He's strong enough to carry Haymitch by himself."
"Blood, especially from and all over someone he cares about, is one of his triggers," Katniss explains. "He needs to keep himself occupied, and I know he still wants to help." Katniss must need to occupy herself as well; she continues, "When Haymitch wasn't at breakfast, Peeta and I came here, found him only a few minutes before you came. I figured he was bound to relapse eventually - Haymitch, I mean. But, well, if Peeta had come alone like he usually does..." She shakes her head.
They reach the couch and awkwardly dump Haymitch onto its worn cushions. Whether they are too rough, Hazelle can't tell; Haymitch doesn't react. He's not even snoring. He is breathing, though, the rise and fall of his chest keeping her from outright panicking.
"Has this happened before?" asks Hazelle, slightly winded.
"No." Katniss frowns down at Haymitch. "Not that I'm aware of, anyway."
"Who's the new doctor?"
Katniss shrugs and tucks a stray lock back into her braid. "All I know about him is that he's from my mother's hospital. Haymitch said he called him yesterday morning."
Hazelle nods as she remembers the phone call that interrupted their conversation. "I hope he's here."
"He should be by now. The train came early this morning." Katniss shifts beside her. "I'm glad you're here, Hazelle," she mumbles.
Hazelle's brows tilt in apology. "I know I probably shouldn't be."
Katniss leans away from her, considering her anew, a question forming in her gray eyes. Hazelle answers it.
"There's not enough words to tell you how sorry I am, Katniss. If we caused you any distress in coming back... I didn't know what had happened." She turns her face away to steel her voice, blink back tears. "I can't speak for my son. As much as I hope that you two can somehow work this out, that you can forgive me and - and him, I understand if you can't. But I want you to know that I still care about you regardless."
"There's nothing to forgive you for," Katniss assures her earnestly. "I was afraid you didn't know and so I kept away. It would've been too much." After a deep yet quiet breath, she shakes her head. "As for Gale... I can't. It's still too much." This crumples her face but then she nods to herself, as if deciding something. "But the rest of us, we're all stuck here together now."
"Good thing we like each other," Hazelle says in a heartening voice, all while knowing deep down this will be bittersweet at best. But most things are, the older she gets. She suspects Katniss understands this, too.
Katniss offers a weak smile. Before it can falter on its own, Peeta reappears.
"Doctor Olsen is here but he's at the site. He'll be on his way soon," he says, his eyes trained on the hardwood floor. "He wants us to check that Haymitch ain't bleeding out or breathing weirdly before we hang up."
"He's been breathing fine," Katniss says, "and the blood was dried when we found him. I'll clean him up to see if there's any more blood." As she wets a dishrag in the kitchen, Peeta retreats back into the study.
Hazelle, who's been standing in the living room, unhelpful, reaches for the rag when Katniss approaches the couch with it. "Let me."
"He's not your mess to clean up."
Bristling, Hazelle counters, "And he's yours?" She nods toward the study. "Your help is needed elsewhere." Katniss acquiesces a little too easily, leaving Hazelle to gently scrub the blood off, uncertain whether she had a hand in putting it there.
Whether it's a drunken nap or a blackout, Haymitch always awakens with a flash of panic, ready to kill, to defend. Jolting back into consciousness, he feels the couch cushions beneath him and looks around urgently.
Today the instinct, a remnant of the arena, may have actually saved him; Katniss is nearby, and she looks about ready to kill him.
"Got your feathers in a bunch, Mock-?" He coughs, his throat painfully dry and sore, like he spent the night swallowing woodsmoke. But his tongue tastes like iron and the acrid tang of regurgitated liquor.
He's slapped and then embraced by something small and lean, and the latter action doesn't placate him; he tenses, reaching for a knife that isn't there, until he sees her black braid.
"Don't ever do that again," Katniss scolds into his shirt. Haymitch uses one arm to comfort her and the other to push her off him. Somehow it works. His left wrist burns, and he holds it to his chest, confused. The girl goes back to glaring at him.
"What happened?" he asks, his voice still oddly strained. His entire body feels fatigued and miserable, and a migraine pounds against his brain in a merciless rhythm. Obviously, he's hungover but he can feel an unfamiliar ache that leaves him a bit concerned for himself.
Standing above him, Katniss considers him critically. "You relapsed," she says, "and so did Peeta."
Haymitch breathes out a swear as the implications in her low voice settle. He can't remember anything, which isn't nearly as alarming as the idea of the boy having an episode. The pain in his wrist and, hell, in his entire being forgotten, he rises from the couch with a stifled groan, asking Katniss whether Peeta is here.
"No, he's finishing the delivery. We told him he should go home but he didn't want anyone to miss their bread orders." They both roll their eyes at this. Of course the boy would insist on helping everyone except himself.
"We?" repeats Haymitch, but with a sinking feeling, he already knows who else is here.
In the kitchen, Hazelle sits at the table mending a shirt. "You're awake," is all she says when she sees him. She tells Katniss, "He should be here any minute. Go see if he needs flagged down."
"Who? Peeta?" Haymitch asks as Katniss passes him and leaves through the front door, her quick pace dizzying him. In his own haste, he didn't realize how lightheaded and cold he feels. He has to blink a few times to right his vision. The house is awfully bright but wavers and blurs like he's still drunk.
Hazelle answers, "No, the doctor."
Haymitch nods only a little, his neck stiff and his head a burning chunk of coal. Doctor Olsen should be here today. If Peeta hurt himself or anyone else, the poor bastard may have a few consecutive appointments on his first day in Twelve.
"I finished the laundry for you."
Haymitch stops massaging the tender knot that he discovered on his head and looks at Hazelle. "Excuse me?"
Hazelle continues to mend. "I finished the laundry - since you didn't. I also mopped the kitchen and cleaned the downstairs bathroom before I started this." She holds up the torn shirt. "I figured you wouldn't mind."
"I thought you were going to wait until we-? Never mind." He rubs his head, muttering, "Feels like I screamed myself hoarse and ran for an entire day with an axe in my head."
"I can't imagine how exhausted you are," she deadpans.
Haymitch chuckles acerbically, thinking her competitive. "Hey, not my fault your answer to everything is aggressive cleaning."
Glowering, Hazelle replies, "Not unless you count drinking yourself unconscious - that is, after you vomited on the floor and coughed up blood all over the bathroom sink." She tosses him a dishrag that he presumes was used to clean him off, which he promptly drops. "Though really, it was your being found by a boy who's subject to episodes when he's terrified that caused us all a great deal of stress. But it's not your fault." Her voice has gone choked and accusing but thankfully Haymitch can't see any tears welling in her eyes; he'd honestly have no idea what to do if Hazelle started crying in front of him.
Suddenly breathless, Haymitch finds himself gripping the table for support. "I can't remember a damn thing. I didn't-" He shakes his head in disbelief, his breath hitching at the pain that erupts from the action.
A chair groans as it's pushed out, which hurts to hear, and then Hazelle is beside him. He tries to back away, mortified by this show of weakness, even more ashamed of himself. There's pressure on his shoulders, and he looks behind him to see Hazelle coaxing him to sit. He obeys, slouching at the kitchen table like he must have been last night, before everything went to hell.
"You scared the hell out of us," she tells him.
"Is Peeta okay?"
Hazelle pauses, considering him silently for a moment. "He was still a bit shaken up when he left but he... recovered?" Her voice lilts in uncertainty over her word choice. She tries to clarify, "He didn't have a tantrum - or whatever happens. I don't know. He was just shaking and muttering to himself. Katniss coaxed him out of it."
"He didn't hurt himself?"
"No."
"Who's the doctor for, then?" Haymitch asks drily.
"You scared the hell out of us," she repeats. Her brow, while raised in indignation, is also knit with worry, and Haymitch finds he's not really angry with her.
"Fucking great," he groans. Coughing up blood or not, he's not looking forward to a doctor coming to tell him things that he already knows yet stubbornly, fearfully ignores.
"Just wait on the couch for him. He's on his way. I'll get you some water."
Haymitch waves her off as he lumbers to the couch. "Don't bother." Despite his protesting raw throat, he doesn't want any more of anyone's help. He settles onto the couch. "I guess we should reschedule that meeting. I'll count today as a full work day but you can go home." Before Hazelle can protest or, worse, comply too readily, he adds, "Tell the girl to leave, too, on your way. Send her to help the boy pass out bread or rescue puppies or something."
There's no sound or movement in the kitchen so he isn't sure whether she interpreted that as thanks as well as an apology like he meant. But then she speaks up, her voice actually apologetic, "It's not all your fault, either, you know."
"A lot is," Haymitch reminds her, arms folded over his head. Every damn light in his house is on. Hazelle is silent.
He hears the water run and the clang of a cup as she sets it on the table. A moment later, the front door opens and closes.
He doesn't sleep so much as rest after that, and so when he hears the doorbell, he sits up and greets the tall, muscular, bespectacled man in the entry.
Doctor Antony Olsen walks with a simple cane, not unusual for a man in his early fifties, except his pronounced limp suggests the injury is fairly recent. From his record, Haymitch knows he was a military doctor who defected in District Four.
"Well," the doctor sighs, "I can't say that I'm glad you're among my initial patients, Mister Abernathy." His reedy voice doesn't fit his large frame, though Haymitch doesn't mind; with his dark skin and eyes and his height, the doctor would remind him too much of Chaff Anders if his voice was a mellow bass.
Cringing, Haymitch corrects the doctor, as he did on the phone only yesterday, "Really, it's Haymitch - especially now." President Snow pretty much ruined formal addresses for him. The aftertaste of blood ghosts over Haymitch's tongue, and he nearly shudders.
Doctor Olsen remembers this with a nod. He gestures to a chair as if to sit but lugs his case onto it before Haymitch thinks to nod himself. When he opens the strange case, Haymitch can see rows of vials and medical instruments in packaging. Doctor Olsen snickers at his sharp intake of breath upon noticing the scalpels and syringes. "I hadn't finished unpacking."
Haymitch remarks, "You took your time coming."
With an apologetic smile, the doctor tells him, "The struggle of triaging. Some of the workers at the reconstruction site were quite worse for wear without realizing it. I'm also a little slow for reasons you should find obvious."
"Yeah, you didn't tell me about your leg." No one had, not even Verbena.
"Because I wanted this job," Doctor Olsen says with a dry laugh. "My boss didn't make a point of mentioning it so I omitted it as well."
"No, yeah, I just mean that," Haymitch starts, rolling his eyes at himself, "I could have went to you or something." He already feels like a jackass for causing all this trouble and even interrupting the medical treatment of the workers - just so someone could come and tell him that he's a wreck.
Doctor Olsen waves a hand dismissively. "Don't worry, Haymitch; walking actually helps the pain. The wound was a present from some of those rogue Peacekeepers who revolted a few months ago, and it's healing well enough. I'll be slower than usual for a while but I'm no less of a physician for it and I'm not so proud as to endanger anyone in the meantime. I'll put good use to my car and my cane. There's just no need today."
"Fair enough." Inwardly, Haymitch notes he's a better man than himself, who just hurts the people around him without even meaning to. To refocus the conversation, he asks, "So if you've already determined that this isn't much of an emergency, why even come?"
"Well, from what Peeta told me, I ruled out a tear in the esophagus, which is the worst possible scenario in your situation that wouldn't result in your death before I could call for outer-district help. That doesn't mean you're well, though."
Doctor Olsen runs his simple tests on Haymitch, and Haymitch allows him to because he's not in any shape to hinder someone he hired himself from doing their job and, okay, he's a little afraid that he may be dying. His answers in the interview are honest, reserved, and sometimes uncertain but all he's asked about is physical matters, which are a hell of a lot easier to consider than mental. The doctor doesn't write anything down.
Deeming Haymitch's wrist minorly sprained, Doctor Olsen bandages it and instructs him how to rewrap it after applying ice. Staring at his bruised wrist gradually disappear behind elastic wrapping, Haymitch wonders how badly his drunken self, irrational and violent, reacted to blood in his mouth. He braces against another shudder - or maybe they've been shivers; he is cold - and continues answering questions that don't concern that.
At some point, Haymitch touches his head absently and winces, which alerts Doctor Olsen. After briefly examining the knot on Haymitch's head, Doctor Olsen shines a flashlight in his eyes and has him squeeze his hands.
"Ah, you've a slight concussion. You didn't move around for hours after acquiring it so you actually managed to sleep most of it off." That explains the splitting headache, the fatigue - everything that felt like the worst hangover ever.
"So that's not a concern?"
Doctor Olsen answers, "Shouldn't be if you rest and avoid becoming a regular patient of mine. I brought some painkillers and a reusable icepack with me, which should be enough. You've taken worse falls without serious injury, haven't you?"
His drunken plummet off the stage during the reaping two years ago hasn't been forgotten, then. Haymitch shrugs, impassive. "Guess so."
By the end, though he still feels achy and hungover and apparently concussed, he's not as concerned for himself as he is for Peeta. He just wants to see the kid but he listens to the doctor give his diagnosis.
"Initially, I feared there were varicose veins in your esophagus but you don't exhibit signs of cirrhosis yet. Your mouth was bleeding from a few small veins in your throat bursting due to violent vomiting, capable of healing given time and rest. I shouldn't have to prescribe an antiemetic so long as you avoid any harsh substances that can erode the esophageal lining of your throat: gastric acids, liquor, a regurgitated mix of the two..."
Haymitch holds up his free hand. "I get it."
Doctor Olsen says, "Your jaundice would fade, too. I'm sure you are well acquainted to detoxes but relapsing every time afterward is actually stressing your liver out more. With alcoholic hepatitis likely in the equation now, we can begin a treatment plan but you'd need to swear off drinking for it to be effective."
Haymitch tenses. "I think you've done all you can for today, Antony," he tells him, whose sad, disappointed look in return shows he got his point across.
So his oscillating bouts of sobriety don't help at all. Haymitch bitterly muses to himself that he doesn't need to try anymore, then, and the thought leaves him feeling dejected. He'll either die this way or feebly try to repent for good, only to slip back toward his fate. He can't even fathom recovery, and he has only himself to blame.
They turn at the small knock, followed by the front door swinging open. Recognizing the pair of gaits that stride into his house, one with the faint clink of a prosthetic, Haymitch is up and hurrying toward them.
Peeta and Katniss wait in the kitchen, the bread baskets empty except for the towels that had covered them prior and a pumpkin-orange umbrella. The bottoms of their pants are muddied. Peeta pulled off his shoes in the foyer, and Katniss did the same - probably only out of consideration for Hazelle - so they stand in their socks.
"Are you okay?" Peeta asks.
"Are you?" For Haymitch, that's an infinitely more important question.
"Yes, I'm fine," Peeta replies tiredly. Since the hijacking effects will likely never leave, he tends to recover quietly and somewhat hastily. "Katniss said you were awake, and I wanted to visit before heading home."
Haymitch half-smiles with genuine pity. "Worn out?"
Katniss crosses her arms. "It's been a long day, thanks to you."
Haymitch meets her scowl icily. "No need for you to state the obvious, sweetheart; my memory ain't shot yet."
"You're heavier than you look, you know. I should have just dumped water on you."
He rolls his eyes at her, then wraps an arm around the boy in a brief embrace. "Worry about yourself, all right?
There's more than a hint of anger in Peeta's expression when he pulls away and says, "Take your own advice for once."
Looking away, Haymitch claps him on the shoulder and introduces him and the girl to Doctor Olsen. They shake hands, and the doctor doesn't seem to regard them as celebrities, which is a relief. He's also treated Haymitch as a contact and today, a patient. Past titles must not matter to him, a good mentality to have in reconstruction.
"Perhaps between the three of us," Doctor Olsen tells them, "we can keep your mentor out of trouble."
Haymitch doesn't trust himself to reply so he downs the water that Hazelle set out for him with the few pills. He winces at the stretch of his throat, at the dry, sour taste of the pills, and at himself for ruining what could have been a good day for everyone else.