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Today has her nestled amongst the silk dresses and fur coats. Haymitch parts the clothing from the wall, finding two wide eyes staring up at him. He lowers himself down, groaning at the pain that accompanies the action.
“Two and a half hours,” he tells her, back resting against the sliding door of the wardrobe. “That’s how long it’s taken me to find you today. You going for a record or something, sweetheart?”
The words, as always, mean nothing to Katniss. She doesn’t respond verbally, nor does she really acknowledge the information in any other way. Instead, she reaches out and feels his pocket, sitting up straighter at the sound of a wrapper in his pocket.
“You know the deal. Gotta come with me if you want it.” It’s just as painful to stand up again as it was to sit down, and part of him wonders why he bothered to sit down at all when he knew it’d be short lived. Haymitch knows why, though. It’s the routine, the familiarity. She won’t accept his help without it.
She’s looking up at him again with those big eyes, but when she is offered his hand, she takes it, fingers folding over the edge of his palm as she pushes herself to her feet. Haymitch is quick to put his hand out to cover the top of her head, the shelf above her causing one too many injuries lately.
Despite her size next to him, it’s impossible for Haymitch to feel like Katniss is anything but a small child. Stripped, has she been of her own independence, her rightful mind and thoughts. The trauma has taken her voice and her ability to function as she once did.
Prim is the one who died, but Haymitch doesn’t think the state that Katniss has been left in can be considered living.
Today is easy in getting Katniss back to his room. She’s always quiet, that’s a given, but today she seems especially subdued. He’s never sure what’s going on in her head, if there’s a stream of thoughts of if her inner monologue is mute, too. Haymitch is unsure of which would be best.
The treat from his pocket is a cookie. Covered in a clear plastic and filled with chocolate chips. Haymitch places it on the table, alongside a bowl of pasta and a glass of water. When this dynamic had first sprung up between them, Haymitch had presented Katniss with lamb stew.
The meltdown that came with it was not favoured by anyone.
“Five spoonfuls,” he taps the edge of the whole porcelain bowl, “all of your water. And then your cookie.”
Again, it is unclear if she understands him. There must be some form of acknowledgment, however, because Katniss takes the spoon and places it in Haymitch’s hand, looking at him expectantly.
“You’re spoilt, d’you know that?” Still, Haymitch loads the spoon with pasta, blows on it— because she’ll refuse it otherwise —and puts it to her lips. “Good,” he praises as she takes it without a fuss, and loads another.
In credit to Katniss, she finishes the entire bowl. A good thing for her body, but Haymitch can’t help but think that maybe the old Katniss is completely gone. Were there any of her left, she’d have counted five mouthfuls and then outright refused.
Then again, Haymitch doesn’t think he’d be able to do any of this, should even a sliver of the old Katniss present.
As she finishes off the cookie, Haymitch runs the brush through her hair. There is no longer enough to form a braid, and whilst Katniss’s prep team could certainly do wonders in it, the only person she’ll let near these days is Haymitch himself.
“Probably a good thing,” he says, mostly to himself. “Don’t think I could wrangle your hair into a braid on a good day.” Let alone with strands at differentiating lengths, the bald spots that appear every couple of inches.
A ponytail will do for today. It’s neat enough and sits at the back of her head, meaning that should she meltdown, there’s a better chance she won’t pull at it.
The bombs are not the only thing that have contributed to the lack of hair.
Katniss has no interest in watching TV, which is good, because outside of her ongoing trial and constant showings of the assassination of both presidents, there is nothing on anyway. She makes herself comfortable on the bed, tucking herself against Haymitch’s chest. Today, Haymitch is allowed to run his hand over her arm, the action provoking neither a whimper nor resulting in her jerking away.
“All right. Which one are we having?” Haymitch puts his hand beneath Katniss’s chin as to gently turn her head so the books on the bed are in her line of sight. “The rabbits, or the bears?”
Katniss reaches out, scarred fingers tapping the cover with the bears.
“Very well.”
Haymitch has to read the book three times before Katniss is satisfied. Each time that he finishes, Katniss takes the book and turns back to the first page, patting his chest encouragingly.
“You done now, huh?” He asks, putting the book aback on the bed.
Katniss doesn’t reply, but settles against him fully, bringing her thumb up to her mouth. Haymitch no longer discourages the action; it is one of the only things that soothes her. Instead, he takes the soft blanket from where it lays on the pillow beside him, and drapes it over her.
It’s been a good morning, which means he’ll push things just slightly; presses a kiss to the top of her forehead. Today, Katniss allows it. Makes a keen noise at the back of her throat and closes her eyes.
The smallest of smiles appear on Haymitch’s face. “You get some rest now,” he tells her, even though it falls on ears that cannot comprehend it. “I’ll be right here when you awaken.”
When she awakens, when she sleeps tonight, when he has to go and find her again tomorrow morning. Haymitch will be beside her, no matter the circumstances.