Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

My whole life?

I’ve had more names than birthdays.

Darling. Sweetie. Pumpkin. Duckling. Honey.

Bec.

Bex.

Becca.

Becky.

Rebecca.

But the one that stuck the hardest?

Being known as Haymitch Abernathy and Effie Trinkets "Druken Mishap" to the world.

*****

“Ma?” I called, stepping into the house.

It was late, around 21:15 and the last of the light was bleeding out behind the seam of District 12’s tired rooftops.

We’d lived here since I was two. Since Ma followed my dad across districts like a moth to a dying flame. Since she traded Capitol gold for coal dust.

“Ma? What was that noise?” I said, louder this time, my boots scuffing across the hallway floor as I moved toward the living room, then the dining room, then the kitchen. “Ma? You in here? Ma?”

Living room: empty.

Dining room: empty.

Kitchen-

Bang.

A voice, slurred and sharp as broken glass:

“Dammit, Effie, why’ve ye always got a stick up yer ass! Huh? Huh? Answer me, you foul bi—”

I pushed the kitchen door open. My eyes blew wide.

My father– Haymitch Abernathy –had my mother– Effie Trinket –cornered against the counter. One arm braced beside her head, the other gripping her wrist. Drunk. Again. The reek of white liquor clung to him like a second skin.

“Pa! Get off her!” I cried.

He turned slow, heavy, like his bones were made of soaked bread. His eyes were unfocused, but anger gives drunk men an uncanny sort of aim, and he pinned me with it.

“Well look who’s home,” he slurred, “District Twelve’s little disappointment.”

Ma seized the moment, twisting out from under his arm. He caught her sleeve, missed, and stumbled forward instead– straight toward me.

“Move,” Ma hissed, grabbing my hand, tugging me back.

But Haymitch wasn’t done.

“No- no, no. We ain't not done talkin’, Effie. You can’t just-" hiccup "-run off every time I tell the truth.”

His boot scraped the tile as he righted himself, using the counter for balance. He blinked, then pointed at me.

“And you. You think you can just interrupt grown folk?”

My pulse hammered in my throat. I stepped in front of Ma anyway.

“Leave her alone,” I said, voice shaking, but steady enough to make his jaw clench.

For a moment— a sliver of one —his expression faltered. Something old and broken flickered behind his eyes. Something almost sober.

Then it snapped.

He lunged.

Ma yanked me back. His hand swiped the air where my face had been.

“Haymitch!” she shouted, voice cracking.

He winced at the sound like it hurt him. Maybe it did.

Then he grabbed the nearest thing on the counter– a half-full bottle –and hurled it.

It missed us by inches, smashing against the doorframe. Glass rained down in sparkling little shards across the floor.

I gasped. Ma covered my shoulders with her arms.

Haymitch stood frozen, chest heaving, staring at the broken bottle like he hadn’t meant to throw it. Like he didn’t recognize his own hand.

For a long, strange moment, none of us breathed.

Then-

“Get out,” Ma whispered.

Not to me.

To him.

Haymitch blinked. Then again. His face crumpled, then hardened, then went blank– a drunk man’s favorite disguise.

He shoved past us, staggered toward the back door, and disappeared into the twilight.

The silence afterward felt heavier than the shouting.

Ma’s hands trembled on my shoulders. Mine weren’t doing much better.

“Come on,” she murmured, voice thin, “let’s… let’s go clean up.”

But I wasn’t looking at the glass.

I was staring at the door he’d left through.

Chapter Text

The first few minutes after he left were quiet enough that I could hear the tick of the old clock in the hall.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Like nothing had happened.

Like the shouting hadn’t rattled the walls.

Like the bottle wasn’t in glittering pieces across the floor.

Ma exhaled slowly, then squeezed my arm.

“Rebecca… darling, I’m alright.”

She wasn’t.

Her hands were trembling so hard the rings on her fingers chimed against each other.

“I’ll get the broom,” I said, because it was something to do, something to fill the space before one of us broke.

But my legs were shaking too as I crossed the kitchen, each step crunching softly on stray glass. I found the broom beside the pantry, brought it over, and Ma knelt down before I could stop her.

“No- Ma, I can-”

She shook her head. “You shouldn’t be the one cleaning up after him.”

“But neither should you,” I whispered.

Her lips tightened, but she kept sweeping the larger pieces into a shaky little pile. My throat burned watching her– my mother, Effie Trinket-Abernathy –once so polished she glimmered, now on her knees in a dim District 12 kitchen, picking up after a man who loved her in all the wrong ways.

I crouched beside her and took the dustpan from her hands. “Let me.”

For a second she didn’t move. Then she let her hands fall gently into her lap.

“Rebecca.” Just my name. Soft.

Her voice wavered like a string pulled too tight. “He didn’t mean to– he wouldn’t hurt you on purpose.”

“I know.”

I did. And I didn’t. And that confusion had been part of my life since I learned what liquor on breath smelled like.

Ma looked at the doorway where the bottle had hit. A smear of clear liquid glistened on the wood, reflecting the fading light.

“I used to manage him better,” she murmured.

“It’s not your job to ‘manage’ him,” I said a little too sharply.

Her eyes flicked to mine- surprised, then sad.

“Oh, darling. After everything we’ve lived through… I’m just so tired of war. Even tiny ones.”

The glass in the dustpan clinked, and the sound made her flinch. That did something ugly to my chest.

“Ma?” I said quietly.

“Yes?”

“It’s not your fault.”

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could catch it. She turned her head a little, as if embarrassed to let me see.

“When he drinks,” she whispered, “he forgets he’s safe. We both forget. I… I expect too much from a man who survived those Games and so much more. And he expects too much from himself.”

“Yeah, but he shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“I know.” She wiped her cheek. “But love makes fools of us all.”

I wasn’t sure he deserved that kind of grace from her but I didn’t say it.

We kept sweeping in silence for a while. Her breathing slowly evened out. Mine did too.

When the last shard was gone, Ma stood and brushed off her skirt. Her knees wobbled. I caught her before she could pretend she didn’t need catching.

She rested her forehead against mine.

“You’re my brave girl,” she whispered, voice thick. “You always have been. I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

“I’ve seen worse,” I tried to joke, but it came out hollow.

She cupped my face with both hands, thumbs brushing my temples. “You shouldn’t have to.”

Her hands smelled faintly of vanilla lotion. Something delicate, something hers alone, untouched by District 12 or Haymitch or any of the things that wore her down day by day.

I leaned into her palms.

“I’m scared for him,” I said softly. “And for you.”

“And I’m scared I’m losing him,” she replied. “To grief. To memory. To the bottle.”

Nineteen years since the rebellion, since the Games ended, and still the past stalked us like a mutt in the woods.

I wrapped my arms around her waist. She hugged back tightly, fiercely, as if anchoring both of us to the kitchen floor.

“We’ll be alright,” she said into my hair. And then again, quieter: “We have to be.”

The back door creaked distantly in the evening breeze, an empty reminder of where he’d gone.

Neither of us let go.

Not yet.