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His Mockingjay shattered the moment her sister burned. The broken pieces held together by rage alone until she made sure Coin and Snow were both dead. He knew she’d hoped to die too, had reached for her nightlock and been denied the satisfaction. She’d been locked away ever since to go slowly insane, that was the line he was using anyway. Haymitch had spent hour after hour, day after sober day fighting to keep her from the executioner's chair. She’d gone mad with grief, had no idea what she was doing when she’d shot Coin. Half of that was true at least.
~
Finally after using every trick in the book he won his appeal. He was allowed to take her home, as long as he was her keeper. It was hardly different to how he’d spent the past two years. Ever since her fire had convinced him to try – for the first time in decades– to keep them alive they had become his in a way. He’d never wanted kids, growing up in the Seam in the forgotten District 12 why would he? Why would he want to subject another human life to that? Even if you ignored the fear of the reapings there was still poverty and the mines and no life he could ever hope to provide. There had been a brief, very brief, moment where he’d dared to allow himself to hope for more. On the train home from his Games, as traumatised as he was he couldn’t help but think of his girl waiting for him. Of the children he knew she wanted. Maybe he could give that to her? With a big house in the Victors' Village and no need to worry about money, maybe he could break his own rules? Of course that speck of hope had only lasted as long as the train ride. He’d reached District 12 to find her and his family gone, slaughtered, a tragic accident. He’d never thought of having children after that, yet somehow twenty-five years later he’d gained two. And once again he was forced to choose.
Peeta, his mind ravaged by the Capitol was trapped away receiving treatment to try and reverse the damage, to lessen the effects of the hijacking. Katniss, equally trapped in a room in the training centre trying over and over to allow herself to die. He hadn’t visited her, no one was allowed but he’d been keeping tabs on her. Not eating, not moving, refusing the morphling until the pain got too much to bear. Her body still ravaged from the fire that took away her reason for living. At one point they thought she truly had lost her mind when she begun to sing, hour after hour until her voice was hoarse, and now... nothing. Silence, like a self-imposed avox she moved around like there was no one left inside, a shell leftover of the Mockingjay she once was. There was no competition, of course he had to choose her.
~
If she was surprised to see him she didn’t show it. Didn’t show any outward reaction at all. Haymitch waved away the staff and closed the door leaving them alone. He was supposed to tell her the plan – there was always a new plan – to get her home, to free her from this prison. Instead he just sighed. A heavy exhale as he thought of how unprepared he was for this. How was he supposed to take care of her? He was barely able to take care of himself and he was under no illusions that he’d fall off the wagon as soon as his feet hit the ground in 12. He’d have to set something up, someone to take care of her when he couldn’t, feed her at least. Lord knows he could never cook a decent meal. Sae maybe? She’d somehow survived the bombings, old woman was like a cockroach. But for now it was down to him. A hovercraft was booked ready to take them back to 12, to the bombed out remains of the backend of nowhere.
“Hey sweetheart." He stepped past the uneaten remains of her last meal to where she lay on the bare mattress, staring with unseeing eyes at the wall. “Your trial’s over. Come on. We’re going home.” If he’d expected a flicker of response he would have been wrong. He grit his teeth as he looked her over. She was thinner than he’d ever seen her, even before her first Games. Her skin was red raw from the burns and covered in patches of dried blood where they clearly kept reopening. She was covered, barely, with a thin paper gown that itself was smattered with small pinpricks of blood. He should have come sooner, have demanded she needed proper medical care. Plutarch had given him two hours. Time to get her cleaned up and presentable, it seemed like an impossible task.
Haymitch rose from his seat and crossed to the bathroom, he turned the taps on the tub that was way too opulent for something found in the training centre before picking up the phone. He called for towels, clean soft clothes and some fluids. He doubted he’d be able to force food into her, maybe he could get her to eat on the hovercraft.
~
By the time the bath was full of warm water and soft sensitive bubbles the items had already been delivered. Pushed through a convenient slot at the bottom of the training room door. Haymitch took them through to the bathroom before crouching at Katniss’s side, he pushed her burnt hair away from her face half expecting her to bite his hand off. “Plutarch’s ordered you clean and dressed ready for the hovercraft,” he said trying to get her to meet his eyes, “I volunteered,” the word came out as a sneer, he wanted to get a rise out of her, something, “doubted you’d want some Capitolite with their hands all over you.” All his usual tricks to get through to her, to see that fire, weren’t working and something like fear struck him that maybe she really wouldn’t come back from this.
Gently, ever so gently, he collected her in his arms leaving behind the paper gown that provided no modesty anyway and carried her to the bathroom. She was as light as a child, a broken girl, not the fierce image of a the Mockingjay he’d helped create. Lowering her into the bath slowly he cradled her head like a newborn unsure if she would be able to keep herself upright, whether she would just slip under the water in another desperate attempt to die. It wasn’t as though he was a stranger to the feeling, to wanting to just stop existing. The alcohol had never been so kind as to take him, and he’d been too damn stubborn to do it another way, for once he hoped she was like him, that she’d stubbornly cling onto life too. “Sweetheart,” he turned her face towards him, only letting go when he was sure she wouldn’t slip under. “I need to rehydrate you." He held up the vial of rehydration solution, a lurid purple mixture that had no right to be the colour it was. That about summed up the Capitol though, didn’t it? Haymitch watched her eyes for any hint of... anything, anything to show she agreed or disagreed or that she was even still in there. Still nothing as he tore open the syringe and plunged it into the vial, drawing up the vivid liquid inside. He wiped at the crook of her elbow with an alcohol pad, the medicinal tang made his stomach twinge as he fought with his sobriety. There were so many bottles just feet away in another part of the training centre. But for now his concern for his Mockingjay won out. “Sharp pinch,” he warned, waiting again for some recognition as he slowly broke her skin. An ever so slight crinkling of her forehead was the only response he got as he pressed down slowly on the plunger, forcing the solution into her veins. “All done." He gently withdrew the needle and pushed all of the rubbish to the side. Someone else would clean it up, if the Capitol even planned on keeping the training centre, he kind of hoped they tore it down or better yet blew it up. Either way it wasn’t his problem anymore.
Hydration dealt with, that was the easy part. Now to tackle actually getting her clean. If there was anyone else he thought she would actually trust he’d happily hand the task over to them but that list was few and far between nowadays and somehow, after everything, he was still on it. He sighed again grabbing the softest sponge he could find and rolling up his sleeves. “Y’know I can’t help but remember you skipping out on cleaning me up,” he dipped the sponge into the bubble filled water as he spoke, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. “Peeta always drew the short straw there. Although with how you’d wake me up I don’t think I’d want to experience it. Probably throw me in the shower fully clothed and turn the cold water on.” The smallest hint of a smile on her face made his heart soar. “Real funny, sweetheart,” he took her arm and began swirling the sponge over her damaged skin, washing away the blood and grime, “always knew you were a sadistic bitch.” The twitching at the corner of her mouth didn’t stop as he teased her so he continued, trying to ease the tension of the moment.
As he moved onto her other arm she almost looked relieved. He’d hoped her skin was healed enough to handle the rubbing of the sponge over it and it seemed he was correct although the bath was turning rust coloured as the blood came away from her skin. He’d hoped to wash her hair too but that seemed unlikely as the water became dirtier. Her nails were bitten raw he noticed as he reached her hand, it was probably for the best though, he could only imagine the damage she could have done to herself with long nails.
Next he moved to her legs, kneeling beside the bath he let his arm trail in the water, washing from her feet up by feel alone stopping about mid thigh. Some lines he refused to cross. He hoped the bubbles would take care of the places he refused to touch. He briefly wished Peeta had been around to do this task for him, pre-hijacking Peeta of course. The image of the boy's reddening cheeks brought a smirk to Haymitch’s face. Peeta may have been able to scrub him clean of vomit but he almost certainly would have refused to touch Katniss in such a state. Although he’d chosen Katniss, he really did hope Peeta would make it back one day, she needed the boy more than she cared to admit, anyone with half a brain could see that.
With her limbs clean Haymitch pulled the plug and let the dirty water drain whilst helping her sit up. He ran the sponge over her exposed back whilst she hugged her knees, beginning to shiver slightly now she wasn’t enveloped in the warmth of the water. It was hardly surprising, there was barely an ounce of fat on her to keep her warm. She’d looked healthier when she’d come out of her first Games and that was saying something. He remembered barging in on the remake team as they’d ummed and ahhed over what modifications to make to her body. A little extra here and here, a lot more there. It made him sick. It wasn’t surprising, it was the Capitol, but he’d never truly paid much attention, never wanted to in honesty, to what the Victors were forced to do. But she was one of his own. Just a kid from the Seam with the same dirty brown hair and coal dust grey eyes. In another lifetime she really could have been his.
Her teeth beginning to chatter brought him back to himself. He took the shower hose attachment from the wall and set it to warm, bringing it over her body and washing away the rest of the soap and dead skin that clung to her. The shivering stopped and she sighed slightly, her relief obvious. Haymitch hooked it back in its place directed so the spray would continue to fall on her as he found something to wash her hair. The spray sent droplets flying out of the tub and over his shirt but it hardly mattered as he worked the soap into a lather in her hair. It was matted and charred, different lengths all over where it had gone up in flames. He knew she wasn’t the sort for vanity but deep down he knew it would probably hurt her knowing her ever present braid was gone. He knew his time was running down but that didn’t stop him from smoothing conditioner through her hair, rubbing firmly and working his fingers through the tangles.
~
By the time he turned the water off she was clean and smelled faintly of chamomile. Hopefully it was soothing to her sore skin. He tucked the towel under her arms as he lifted her from the tub the way he used to lift his baby brother from their tin bath what seemed like a lifetime ago. He placed her back on the edge of the mattress whilst he grabbed the salve she was supposed to be using and took a generous handful. Again he worked on her limbs, rubbing harder than he had with the sponge as though willing it to penetrate her burns. To help her heal. He let her keep the towel clutched to her front as he applied it to her back and shoulders, a small amount of modesty as though he hadn’t just been bathing her. She never flinched away from him though and it spoke to the trust that had grown between them. How they just understood each other, even now whilst she was in the pits of despair.
With only twenty minutes until Plutarch was due Haymitch grabbed the soft sweatpants and jumper that had been provided. He helped her with the jumper first, slipping one arm at a time through before lifting it over her head, the whole time standing behind her. Next he moved to kneel before her, his knees protesting after the time spent crouched beside the bath. The towel still lay over her lap as he pulled on one sock and then the other before placing each leg through a pair of cotton underpants and then the sweatpants. He wrapped one of her arms around his shoulder as he pulled her to her feet, dragging both items of clothing up as he went. For the fact he hadn’t dressed another person in over two decades it wasn’t a bad job. He threw the towel into the bathroom as he gently lowered her back to the bed and sat behind her. There wasn’t a hairbrush to be found so instead he ran his fingers through the lengths of her hair, detangling it the best he could. Haymitch could almost feel her relaxing as he did so.
Fifteen minutes to go. Barely any time at all yet instinct guided his hands through her hair. Taking a section and splitting it into three the way his girl had showed him all those years ago, whilst they’d lounged in the meadow his hands playing idly with her hair. Side over to middle, side over to middle, his hands fumbled through the pattern until he held something that almost resembled a braid before realising he had nothing to tie it with. The shrill ringing of the phone on the wall made him jerk slightly, his hands falling from her hair. Katniss snapped rigid as he made his way to answer it.
Plutarch. It was time.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said turning back to find her fingering the ends of his attempted braid, an eyebrow raised as though to ask how he'd learnt such a thing. He shook his head letting out what might have been a chuckle if he could find any humour in the situation. “Don’t ask.” Bending down once again he scooped her easily into his arms. “Time to go home,” he whispered softly pressing a kiss to the top of her head which had tucked easily into his chest.
Haymitch had never wanted children, but he would burn the world to the ground if anyone tried to take her from him now.