Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Katniss went through the reaping in a blur. Her thoughts mostly went Prim? Prim? Prim’s here, am I dead, NO THEY’RE TAKING HER YOU CAN’T TAKE HER AWAY FROM ME-

And then she was on stage. The sun was in her eyes, the crowd ( her people, her district, dead dead dead and bombed ) silent except for Prim’s screeching as Gale held her back. Katniss almost wanted to run back into the crowd and hit him - how dare he touch what he murdered what he took from her - but her legs wouldn’t move. Her ears were ringing like when she and Rue had blown up the food stash in the Games. She could hear in both ears again, but the ringing was still there.

Peeta was next to her, young, concerned and fearful. Peeta and her were on stage. Peeta had both legs. Haymitch was on stage, off to the left, looking for all the world like he was about to be sick. Effie was still prattling on. Peeta was mouthing something at her, concern briefly over taking the fear on his too young face.  A face Katniss loved, had cradled, had held poisoned berries too and had begged to trust her. He wasn’t crying this time, but Katniss’s own dead fish look might have distracted him.

It was about now that Katniss realised where she was. When she was.

She managed to take out two Peacekeepers before she was dragged away from Prim and Peeta again, screaming for her sister the whole while.

She unfortunately didn’t wake up after that. She tried not to acknowledge the stinging pain from the Peacekeeper’s dragging her away. Pain meant it was real. And if it was real, she couldn’t exactly go to Peeta ( Peeta, her love, her sanity , her only reason for ever helping Coin in the first place and for staying alive in the after- ) and play ‘Real or Not Real’. He barely knew her here. What he did know of her was a starving snappish girl who’d happily believe the worst of him. Katniss was a starving, snappish girl who’d happily believe the worst of anyone. She was a kind of starving you could never take away, the snappishness of one who wished they had wolf fangs to go with the attack. Shen did believe the worst of everyone.

But not Peeta.

Not anymore.

He’d been a Mutt and he’d remained hers, had his hands around her throat and left her with nothing but bruises. He’d given her pearls and safety, and loaves of bread. He’d given her the colour orange. He knew her’s was green. Peeta had died for her, and she had almost clawed Haymitch’s eyes out for him. Had chanced the Cornucopia for his medicine.

No, Peeta was hers, and she was his. This Peeta or no. She needed him. Nobody needed him? Well Katniss fucking did.

She had to believe the best of him.

It was either that or loose her last remaining link to any form of mental stability, and Katniss had never taken well to loosing Peeta.

She had no intention of doing that now.

So the Games were on again? Well, Katniss was a Hunter this time. She wasn’t the little prey girl from 12 trying to make herself big anymore, she was a honed weapon who’d taken out two tyrants and then let her loved one’s try and rebuild her. She was what they made her.

She still clawed when they tried to take Prim away after her visit. Still struggled between instructing Gale to protect Prim or slitting his throat (She settled on some very specific and disturbing threats). She still took the mockingjay pin from the Mayor’s daughter, smiling bitterly at it, and pinned it to her shirt.

She hated being the Mockingjay, but it was what she was. It was what let her get Peeta back, tooth and claw. Cinna gave her her wings, based on this stupid piece of polished tin and bronze, and perhaps she loved the ghost of the man too much to let it go. She’d thought it was gold once. She should have known better, there was no such thing as gold in the Seam.

She let Peeta help her onto the train this time, eyes darting around as she took it all in again. The contrast between the silver and the dirt. It was just as awful and jarring as always.

Peeta’s hand was warm, soft. Callused only from working in the bakery, bearing none of the shapes formed by holding spears or gardening tools. His thumb didn’t have the lumpy scar from the Capital, during her time in 13. He didn’t linger, didn’t hold her as long as he could, didn’t even make eye contact.

It wasn’t her Peeta.

But he was a Peeta, and that made him hers, and Katniss ached fiercely. Let them try and touch him. She was the Mockingjay, and she’d happily burn down the entire fucking world.

Let it all rot, so long as she could keep this.

Katniss knew she hadn’t been that observant the first time around. She’d been scared, terrified really, and torn away from everything she knew. Suspicious of everything. In hindsight, that made her take some things at face value rather than reality. Like the fact that when she stole a sip of Haymitch’s drink, expecting some strong Scotch, she was met with water. Haymitch was drinking water when he stumbled out to breakfast looking absolutely smashed and exhausted. Coloured water served from an alcohol bottle into alcohol glasses, but still.

What the fuck.

Katniss hadn’t seen him look so awful in months. He’d been doing his best to be sober for them. Said they’d had enough shit in their life, they didn’t need an alcoholic mentor on top of it all during the end of the war - they’d convinced him to continue it after.

Seeing him like this, hurting and filled with clear self loathing, made Katniss a particular kind of furious.

But it didn’t explain the water.

Maybe he’d always done this? Tried to refrain from alcohol around them - he did call them kids after all - tried to only be hungover rather than actively drunk. Who knew? Not Katniss. She hadn’t cared like this before.

She couldn’t exactly ask her Haymitch either, and for some reason that hurt almost as badly as not being able to swap food with Peeta. She knew the apple pies by her plate were a favourite of his. This Peeta had never even tried them.

She took three and slid the plate in his direction anyway, missing his blink of confused surprise.

Haymitch was saying something. Peeta had asked for advice, just like last time. She slid her gaze over, attempting to listen.

“Uh…okay.” Haymitch lent back in his chair, swirling what Katniss knew now to be water ( why , why was he faking it ). “My advice? Embrace the possibility of your imminent death, and know in your heart that there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

Katniss had stabbed a butter knife between his fingers before she could even finish comprehending the words. Her Haymitch would never give up on her. Hadn’t given up on her, ever, had stood by her side. She’d known this was the turning point for when he decided to try. Last time I waited till he asked for marmalade . She thought to herself. Last time , whispered her subconscious, you didn’t realise he was lying, and you didn’t feel so fucking betrayed that your father was turning away from you . Katniss knew it was stupid - she couldn’t hold someone now to a standard they might never become. It was likely that if Katniss didn’t intervene, Haymitch really would drink himself to death in this life.

“Look at you, just killed a placemat.” Haymitch says, something unreadable in his eyes. “Maybe you do have a chance.”

That was new. It had the same ring as ‘Katniss, you can do this’ standing outside an Arena as he cupped her cheek and gave her some last advice, a father sending his daughter to a death match. As ‘Come here, you’re going to be okay, I promise’, as ‘Nice shooting sweetheart’, as ‘Just Katniss’, as ‘I’m with the Mockingjay’, as ‘We’re going home’. The supportive softness that Haymitch had slowly learned to trust her with, when he let himself have a heart again.

Maybe this was where it started, a knife in a placemat. Maybe this was where it always started.

Katniss sat back down.

She watched Haymitch pick out the knife, and gesture for Peeta to ask away, and thought about how this was the man who’d fought the Capital to stop them from altering her body. Who’d had steel in his voice when it came to her and Peeta.

He would have volunteered if Peeta had been chosen for the Quarter Quell. She’d seen the desperate grasp of his hand when Peeta volunteered, her other half stepping forward too fast for their father to stop him.

In the present, she watched two people she knew intimately, two people to whom she was a complete stranger, and thought Family, huh? Well, it always was a found thing . And let the past - now the present - carry on as it had.

Haymitch Abernathy was having the worst fucking day of his life. And that was saying a lot. He’d had a lot of fucking terrible days. Haymitch woke up with a pounding head, a crick in his neck, and hair that had definitely seen better days. He honestly would have considered the possibility that he’d gone back to the drink, and gotten so heavily smashed he’d lost time, if it hadn’t been for two things.

One, there was no solid gold bangle patterned with flames on his wrist - Finnick had given it back when they’d gotten him, Jo, and Kat out of the Arena. A good thing too, given the earrings Effie had made for Finnick as a sign he was one of them had been destroyed as thoroughly as the boy’s body when he died.  Haymitch hadn’t taken it off since, and knew in his soul he never would willingly, no matter how drunk he got - it was a symbol of their family, and Haymitch had only ever given it away once, to keep said family alive. That and, no matter how badly Haymitch wanted a drink right now, he’d been sober for nearly half a year. He’d been doing so well. After all, he could hardly tell Katniss to stay away from the alcohol if he himself wouldn’t. He’d been trying so hard.

Two, Katniss wasn’t here. Now Peeta was understandable - the boy hated when Haymitch drank, said it reminded him too much of his mother. He’d been the one in the past to drag Haymitch to bed and help Katniss wash him up, but the moment Haymitch was out Peeta would leave. So Peeta not being there was no surprise. But Haymitch knew that if he’d broken his word and got smashed, Katniss would either be at his side fuming, tongue lashing ready to go, or quite literally breaking down his door with the same goal. She’d snuck him alcohol once upon a time, but never after the rebellion - after the rebellion she’d basically told him he could be sober for them or he could get out of their lives. She hadn’t meant it, but he hadn’t risked it.

It was also that Haymitch had woken up on a train bunk, knife in hand and lights out, with bottles littering the floor.

More than two things, but overall, fucked. He felt like Katniss must have in the Arena when he was trying to send her messages with all the subtlety of hitting the girl over the head with a loaf of bread. No you don’t get water, you’re close to it already stupid girl, use your head, why would I give you something to get liquid out of trees, if you stop irritating Finnick I’ll stop sending food you absolute idiot stubborn girl we’re trying to keep you alive .

Haymitch was good at sending those messages. Whatever this was though, sucked.

I want my kids , he thought to himself. He rolled out of bed (gods when had he last washed the sheets) and immediately tripped over a bottle, stabbing the wall in a split second instinctive response. Great. The day was going great.

Well , thought Haymitch as he sat down to breakfast, feeling distinctly ill and somehow still hungover a day later. I got my kids .

The reaping.

The motherfucking reaping.

He hadn’t realised Katniss could scream like that, not about anyone but Peeta.

She’d apparently always been a feral little thing - Haymitch, despite himself, felt kind of proud. That’s his girl. She’d show them. She’d fucking show them all. How drunk had he been last time to miss all of that? The two peace keepers she took down, the clear concern and terror Peeta held for her. He vaguely remembered something about falling off the stage and cringed back in his chair a little.

Peeta was the next one to the table, looking vaguely startled to see Haymitch already there. He pushed a goblet of water towards Haymitch anyway, and sat down. Not that what he wasn’t currently drinking wasn’t water that he’d coloured himself anyway. Sobriety was an absolute bitch, but Haymitch couldn’t afford to do wrong by his kids right now. They were little and untrained, and they needed sponsors and advice, not alcohol and apathy. He’d have to build up to it, but Haymitch was pretty sure that he and Katniss couldn’t deserve a soul like Peeta in a thousand life times. If remaking his image (slowly, to avoid suspicion) was what it took, well fuck it, Haymitch had already sorta done it once. Under duress.

Still.

He took a long drink out of his glass, desperately wishing despite himself that it was hard liquor.

Addiction was a bitch .

He kind of wanted one of his geese, if only so he could hold it up to feral baby Katniss and say ‘this is you. Meet Kit-Kat, she too and likes to scream angrily and murder things. She doesn’t ever stop gnawing at my shoes’ and watch Katniss leap across the table and try and kill him with her bare hands. It’d be funny.

Instead he said something stupid and dismissive to whatever Peeta’s question was and watched Katniss stab the table.

Damn . He thought to himself. Clearly said something worse than last time. Fucking way to go Haymitch. Way to fucking go .

Still, he took the knife out the of the table and put it back down.

“Alright, uh, Peter was it?”

“Peeta.” Peeta said with a firmness and sense of self Haymitch had sort of missed.

“Peeta.” Haymitch said, trying his best to keep an uninterested sort of sneer in his voice. It was really hard when he kind of wanted hug the kid and also laugh in his face. Peeta had never really lost that fierce spark that made him a force of nature, subtler than Katniss, but it’d mutated over the years. Become more broken. Peeta had always played the Capitol game, as Katniss played the Arena.

“Well, kid, what’d you wanna know? Ms Placemat slayer over here seems to think I’ve got all the answers.”

Peeta gives him much the same considering look that he gave Caesar before the whole baby debacle. It was somewhat more amusing on a kid who hadn’t yet been through the games.

If it gets to the point again where it’s either or , Haymitch thought, thinking of Katniss’s screams as she clawed at his face, trying to stab him with a syringe, all her undying trust in him broken when he chose her over Peeta, I’m going to do what my fool of a fire cracker did, and I’m saying fuck it I’m keeping both .

He answered most of Peeta’s questions (average ones that any tribute would ask, questions about food and water and shelter) on autopilot, all the while planning how fast he could get to a jeweller. He missed his fucking bracelet, not that he’d ever tell anyone that. It might have been stupid sentimental useless jewellery but it was his stupid sentimental useless jewellery, so fuck off.

Haymitch missed his kids.

Update, Peeta was a snarky bitch. Haymitch had no clue how he hadn’t noticed before. Well, he did, he’d been drunk out of his mind and focused on Katniss, a girl who might actually survive the first few hours of the Games. But gods the kid had clearly developed his skill of saying something in the gentlest way that couldn’t possibly convey offence while the actual content of his words tried to bash your head in early.

“Holy shit.” Katniss whispered while Peeta waved at the crowds. When Haymitch glanced at her, she was oddly pale. “That’s Finnick Odair.”

Peeta’s head whipped around to Katniss while Haymitch’s snapped to scan the platform. Sure enough, hidden in the back of the crowd was Finnick. Mags son, and a kid Haymitch could have come to consider his own if they’d had more time. Almost had. The kid had been 14 when he won, and while he might be 20 something now, Haymitch remembered holding the boy as he shook and sobbed, remembered the amount of times he stepped between the kid and the ugly greed of the Capitol before Snow threatened them all. He’d never really been able to be close to the kid after that. Katniss had had nightmares about how he died for well, up until Haymitch ended up the past. Finnick was so heavily disguised it was a wonder the girl recognised him. Haymitch wondered why he was there.

“Gods kid don’t tell me you’ve got a crush on him.” He said to Katniss, Peeta’s oddly pale face switching back from the platform to Katniss like a bobble-head. Yeah yeah kid we all know you have a crush on the girl, I think it could be seen from space.

Teenagers. Gods. He’d have so much less patience if they weren’t his idiot teenagers. Still not much patience though.

Katniss’s face screwed up. “No! Well. Sort of? Not really? I mean you can’t have a crush on someone if you don’t know them.”

Haymitch, who’d watched Peeta moon after Katniss for some time only to find out they’d had exactly one (1) interaction before the reaping, hummed dubiously. Still, he let the matter rest, taking a swig of his fake whiskey as he stepped off the train and let the roar of the crowds over take them. He’d started rubbing real alcohol around the rim of the bottles so it smelt right. The crowd, at least, was familiar. The ogling never stopped, not even after the rebellion. You got used to it. But the kids weren’t. He turned back to look at them and saw Peeta smiling at the crowd, his twitching hands the only sign of his nerves. Katniss on the other hand had her shoulders up, head high as she scanned and rescanned the entire platform for threats. Her eyes kept straying back to where Finnick had been - the man must have left at some point, likely to not draw attention. Haymitch watched her wrap a hand around Peeta’s for a second, soothing the tremors almost subconsciously, before remembering herself and ripping it away.

She really was young. Haymitch had known it, but it was in a new light again.

This was a teenager, thinking she’s going to her death. Feral brat or not she’s terrified.

Haymitch sighed, and walked back, clapping a hand against her back. She stumbled.

“Come on kid, greet the crowd. Pete here has the right idea. Once we’re done here you can have a nap or something.”

Katniss eyed him incredulously, but did as he asked, a strained smile coming across her face as she waved and walked. She’d never been a good liar, let alone good in front of Capitol crowds. Peeta just winced at Haymitch’s purposeful incorrect use of his name.

While Haymitch normally put himself in front of his kids ( protect them, they’re going to get killed, pushing in front of Peeta time and time again to provide a barrier of his own body, holding Katniss close as she screamed- ) today he trailed behind. Guarding their backs, as they wouldn’t for each other - not yet. They hadn’t learned that trust yet. But Haymitch, hell or high water, would fucking get them there.

He’d earned his geese gods dammit, and he was going to get his mediocre ending if he had to punch Snow himself. Actually, particularly if he could punch Snow. He really wanted to do that. Show that fucker who got to hurt Haymitch’s kids.

After all, you don’t give a feral and starving wolf in a tight cage pups, and immediately think you can take them away again.

Haymitch might not have used his teeth since he was 16 and wildly sobbing over his only friend’s body, but he still had them.

He’d shown it when they tried to alter Katniss’s body. When Peeta lost his left leg and Katniss lost the hearing in her left ear. And he’d been smashed the whole time. Now he was in withdrawals sure, but he was piercingly sober. Gods help anyone who touched what was his.

It wasn’t that Katniss had forgotten how awful the Capital was, it’s just that maybe she’d gotten too used to the particular brand of awful that was war. The kind of awful you could fight back against. Not the kind of awful where uncaring soldiers sedate you and strap you to a table with full intention of doing whatever they want, not knowing if you’ll wake up looking the same or even you. Haymitch had saved her last time, not that she’d know or understood for a while. Judging by the yelling when she woke up, vision hazy and head fuzzy, he’d likely done the same this time.

Katniss ached with a painful love so hard it hurt. He didn’t know her. Had no reason to fight for her, but each time he did. He was a good man, even if he was a pain and so unreliable he was lucky geese were mostly self sufficient. Even if he still drank himself to unconsciousness in this time.

Katniss slowly became aware that someone was patting her hair. It wasn’t the creepy type she was expecting - her fight or flight instinct hasn’t even kicked in, which was a warning sign in and of itself. Instead it was soothing, gentle. Almost familial. She would have thought it was Haymitch if she couldn’t hear him outside. Instead, she opened her eyes and was met with dark eyes and gold makeup, and immediately burst into tears. Perhaps it was the pressure and horrid nature of living through the reaping again. Maybe it was the fact that none of her family knew her or loved her here. Maybe it was that she’d seen Finnick, but he’d actually been alive not a shredded hallucination.

Maybe it was that Cinna was brushing her hair ever so softly, dark eyes so soft with compassion and sorrow.

She’d watched him die. Her big brother, the man who gave her wings and fire.

She’d missed him.

She sobbed into his lap, unsteady from the drugs, and he soothed her. Words that went right over her head, the tone gentle and loving. He’d seen her as a person. He saw her as a person.

He learnt to braid her hair like her mother had, so she could keep something from home.

Katniss cried into the lap of a man who didn’t know her, the gasping terrified sobs of a young girl, and let herself scream.

Haymitch had been roughly a third of the way through tearing a stylist into shreds so tiny they would never dare go near another woman again when he heard Katniss scream. Even that alone would have got him moving, but it was the type of scream that chilled his blood. It wasn’t anger, or fury, or hatred, or even fear or pain. It was a scream of pure animalistic grief, one that Haymitch had only heard once, when the canon went off in the first games and Katniss thought Peeta dead. It was a scream he was sure she’d given when Prim was bombed in front of the manor. It was a scream that had Haymitch sprinting towards his daughter, slamming the door open with force, a blade already in hand.

( What did it say that he’d heard Katniss scream enough times that he could tell the difference? What did that say about his child’s life under his care? )

Peeta wasn’t there, was his first realisation. It provoked an awful need in him to hunt the boy down and check him over from head to toe. Two, Katniss was still on the table, untied and likely drugged but conscious and from what he could see, unaltered. There was a blanket draped around her. A good thing, as Haymitch already had to carefully orchestrate the deaths of anyone who’d seen or touched his baby’s without their permission, especially those who had so callously drugged his scared kids.

No one ever suspected a useless drunkard.

Third, Cinna was there, gently soothing Katniss as she sobbed. No doubt the terror and reality of her situation had hit her. Haymitch lowered his blade slightly, catching the stylist’s gaze. They regarded each other for a moment, sizing each other up. There was a moment of mutual understanding - you hurt her I end you, she’s only a child - and relief bled into Cinna’s shoulders.

“She’s physically okay.” He says quietly, hand not stopping for a moment as he spoke to Haymitch. “You’re her mentor right? Thank you for fighting for her. They still removed hair and so forth, but they mostly left her alone. It’s more than what any of the other mentors have done for theirs. I’m Cinna, I’ll be her stylist - well, especially now you seem to have eviscerated my colleagues. My thanks for that too.”

“They deserved it.” Haymitch says, equally quiet. This was new territory. Last time, Katniss hadn’t screamed - and if she had, Haymitch had been too drunk or too far away to notice or care. A terrible thought, but possible.

Cinna hummed in agreement, even as Katniss’s sobs petered out. He turned his gaze from Haymitch to Katniss, that trademark gold around his eyes far more tasteful than the Capital usually displayed.

“Hey, little songbird.” He murmured. “It’s okay. Your mentor is here now. He’ll take care of you. I’m Cinna, I’ll be your stylist - we’ll see each other tomorrow yeah?”

Katniss sniffed, finally sitting up and nodding. Haymitch hadn’t seen her this vulnerable around someone that wasn’t him or Peeta for a while. Let alone in the Capitol. Still, he supposed she hadn’t learnt how dangerous that vulnerability was here yet, it was just mostly pride that stopped her. He gave an awkward wave when Katniss glanced his way, glad he’d hidden his knife. Didn’t want to give the wrong impression.

She’s still quiet and sniffling, staring at the floor when he walks over, hesitating and then kneeling beside the bed. He hesitates again, visibly wavering, before he reaches out and puts a careful, rough hand on her arm. He remembers the way she had sprinted towards him, Effie, and Cinna when she won her Games with Peeta. The way she’d flung herself into his arms first, desperate. His touch now is much the same as how he slowly held her back then, gentle and cautious, almost disbelief that he could.

“Come on kid.” He says, softer than usual. He knows he probably smells like alcohol. He spilt some on his shirt when pouring a bottle down the sink earlier. He knows he’s being out of character, but dammit, his kid is hurting. Haymitch can’t not do something. He never could, even back when he lied to himself. These two wrenched their way into his heart and stayed like feral raccoons, impossible to remove no matter how hard he tried or how angry he got about it.

“Come on, let’s get you some clothes, and we can go get Peeta, okay? Then we can go to the tribute rooms, and you can rest. Alone. Safe. Okay?” He tries to push some levity into his tone. “I assure you, your one room will be bigger than the Mayor’s house. It’s insane.”

Katniss sorts, a wet and ugly sound but looks up. “Fine.” She turns her gaze from Haymitch to Cinna, something challenging in her eyes. “But I want pants.”

Haymitch sees Cinna breathe a subtle sigh of relief at the show of personality, and does much the same. Then he curses getting up, because fuck, how’d he forget how much his knees hurt at this point in time. Bloody hells.

Katniss trails behind Haymitch quietly, hands soothing over the jacket Cinna had given her. She’d fucked up, maybe. Showed herself to be weak. Sure, that’d got her Cinna’s worry, and Haymitch’s uncharacteristic softness, the type he only gave when utterly necessary, when he wasn’t close to lashing out at anything and everything. But what if they now thought her weak? What if it meant Haymitch didn’t find her worth the effort? Katniss wasn’t stupid enough to think she’d survive without his behind the curtain deals, no matter how good she was with a bow now. She’d always been able to hit a bullseye. She couldn’t just snap her fingers and conjure what she needed in the Arena though. That was her mentors job, and she might have just made herself not worth it.

She had to get back into his good graces. Had to show she could fight, had fire - that was what made him fond of her last time, and Katniss couldn’t bear to loose her father just because she’d been stupid and sensitive. He’d handled her wildness, in the 75th, but he’d been at their side for a year by then. He’d already been there through the nightmares and fights between me and Peeta. Had given me harsh truths and support at the same time, cruel to be kind in the way only he could be. But this Haymitch? This Haymitch smelt of cheap Seam whiskey, had deep marks under his eyes and greasy hair, had barely got his buttons right on his shirt. It looked like someone (probably Effie) had attempted to pick out clothes for him, and he’d approached them with the disdain he had for all things Capitol. This Haymitch barely knew her, and needed her far less than Katniss needed him. This Haymitch didn’t gruffly offer her stupid bits of glass that just so happened to be Katniss’s favourite shade of green, this Haymitch didn’t replace Effie’s makeup without saying a word, hadn’t purposely bought Peeta shoes with laces when Peeta was still half out his mind just to reteach him how to tie them and double knot his laces.

But this Haymitch was still Haymitch and Katniss still loved him with the desperation of someone who’d had nothing her entire life.

Peeta greeted them in a similar outfit to Katniss’s, minus the jacket (which had been shed from Cinna’s own shoulders) and seemed to immediately pick up that something was wrong.

“Are you alright?” He murmured to her behind Haymitch’s back as they followed the man to the tribute suites.

Once Katniss would have lashed out. Now she merely curls her hands into fists and shook her head. “I will be.” She murmured back.

“I will be.” I’ll make it alright.

Huh. Thought Johanna Mason, staring up at the ceiling. She had hair. Fucking hells.

Finnick owed her fifty pence.

She fucking told that bitch Hell was the Capital.

Chapter Text

It took Johanna maybe three hours, a lot of panicked Capitol officials, a ruined buffet breakfast, and her getting tasered by a Peacekeeper, for her to come to the conclusion that, yes the Capitol might be Hell, but it also was apparently just the Capital.

So, time travel.

Or she’d never got out of the Capitol, Thirteen never came for her and Peeta, and everything since including this had been her mind’s way of escaping reality.

Johanna doubted that one. She was a lot of things, Johanna Mason, but she wasn’t insane. Unhinged, sure, but insane, no. She clipped one of her axes to her waist, shifting back and forth a few times to ensure it was accessible and wouldn’t cut into her side. It was something she’d rather perfected during her Games, and the years after. Having your hands free was always useful, but like all Victors, she was never, ever without a weapon.

Finnick had kept lengths of rope and knives, Haymitch knives and glass bottles, Annie slept with vials of deadly poison under her pillow.

Johanna paused.

She had just been planning to kill Snow, see if she woke up again after dying a second time. Kat wouldn’t trust her in this time, and Johanna doubted she could be around Peeta without flocking him like a particularly loyal and vicious guard dog. She’d bonded with the soft idiot in captivity, and there was no way in hells she would let him be hurt again (more than necessary, she admitted begrudgingly). But that ruled him and Kat out. Haymitch would be a mess at the moment and Johanna honestly didn’t have the energy for him, Mags would think she’d lost it, and Finnick had enough on his plate as it was. Johanna couldn’t think too long about Finnick and his fate or she’d do something impulsive that involved a large amount of violence. But Annie?

Annie might actually believe her, if Johanna told her the truth.

New plan, Johanna decided, changing directions as she left the Capitol cells, glaring at the Peacekeepers as she went past. Find Annie, tell Annie the truth, and let Annie help her. If there was one thing her and that beautiful, fragile, crazy girl had bonded over, it was the want to keep Finnick Not Dead.

Yeah. Johanna thought, a vicious smile crossing her face as she climbed the stairs. We’re gunna burn this place down.

Peeta had been having a weird day. And that was ignoring the Reaping. The fact that he was going to die, and not one person had stepped forward for him. That was ignoring that he would have to fight Katniss Everdeen, which made him feel sick. Beautiful, brave Katniss Everdeen, who’d volunteered for her little sister, who’d fought and screamed and taken out two Peacekeepers when they tried to take her away. Peeta was terrified. He wouldn’t stand a chance against her.

A part of him, fragile and as new as his new reality, had whispered ‘That’s my girl’ with so much pride that Peeta had almost been stunned into not crying. He’d stayed quiet as his brother’s visited, as his father promised he’d remember him and take care of Katniss’s family. They expected him to die. So did Peeta. His Mother didn’t come.

Peeta, oddly enough, wasn’t surprised. Part of him had expected it, maybe.

When they went to leave, walking towards a train such a bright silver that Peeta hated it, hated how it looked against the background of 12. Like a viper, all cold metal that could have fed every family here for years.

His hand, when he held it out to Katniss to help her up, was like a habit. Like a movement that had happened all on its own. He looked at it, stunned at his own stupid boldness, and nearly stumbled when Katniss actually took it, letting him help her into the train.

He couldn’t look her in the eye, too scared of what might come out of his mouth. Her favourite colour is green. She can knit. She pretended she hated geese but actually didn’t. Peeta didn’t know any of these things, but he did – Peeta had no way of knowing these things, yet here he was. Perhaps he was losing his mind.

Again. Something bitter in him whispered, and Peeta did his best to ignore it. He’d just been Reaped. They were going to the Capitol. Peeta was probably going to die. Their mentor was a drunken mess and the woman who’d Reaped them was twitting on about manners as though she had no clue what it meant to starve.

Peeta had a feeling he’d follow Katniss Everdeen into Hell if need be, bone-deep, unmovable. It terrified him. It was a shame that he likely was, he considered, hoping into the train after her. It was a shame, that he would die, most likely at the hand of Katniss Everdeen.

Peeta figured he could be content with that, dying, if she was the one who deemed his life was of no more use. If she deemed him a ragged Mutt to be put down.

Peeta was three hours into his new life, and clearly already losing his mind.

What was real, and what wasn’t real?

Peeta wasn’t quite sure. Peeta was a baker’s son, he was 16, and he’d met Katniss Everdeen twice. He had just been Reaped, he was on a Capitol train, and he was scared.

Katniss’s favourite colour was green.

“Annie!” Johanna yelled, barging into the District 4 Mentor rooms with all the grace and subtlety of a gun. Thank goodness, for once, that the Games would be on soon. Imagine her stuck on a train going to District 4. Eugh. “Annie, babes, you will not believe the shit that’s happened now.”

Annie looked up, eyes red rimmed. Finnick was unmoving next to her, head under her hand in her lap. Johanna’s chest went cold faster than she could inhale.

“I think.” Said Annie, voice fragile in a way Johanna hadn’t heard since Finnick died. “I can guess.”

Johanna didn’t move, struggling to breath as she stared at Finnick’s still form. Annie jolted, paling further. “Oh! Oh no, Jo, Jo he’s alive. He’s just asleep, Jo, I promise.”

Johanna didn’t register collapsing to her knees, pressing her face into Annie’s skirts, hand coming up to clutch at Finnick’s. The pulse under her fingers nearly bought her to tears, silent gasping sobs into the safety of Annie’s hold. A cold hand settled in her hair, brushing over the top of her head, and Johanna recognised the long thin fingers as Annie’s. Finnick’s hand was lax in hers. Loose with sleep, rather than death.

Asleep. He was asleep. Not dead, not gone forever, not screaming in agony and haunting her night and day.

Johanna hadn’t expected to see him yet. Hadn’t expected how it would feel once she did. She’d figured she’d be able to push through it, like she did with everything.

She should have known better. She’d been the one to engrave the inside of their wedding bands, a shaky, sharp handwriting spelling Finnick Cresta in one and Annie Odair in the other. Of course she wouldn’t be able to push past it. Past them. Some of the closest people she had in the world.

Annie’s hand kept running through her hair and she began to hum, a District 7 lullaby that Johanna had stiltingly sang for Lucas.

Johanna cried.

Haymith buried his head in his hands, ignoring the splendour of the Tribute suite. He’d put Katniss to bed, cleared out all the alcohol the Capitol had put in his rooms and around the apartment, then collapsed on the couch. What was he doing? Gods, how had he managed this the first time, with all that fragile hope? These were kids. Fuck, they were only kids.

A door creaked, and he looked up. Peeta stood in the hallway, watching him.

“I couldn’t sleep.” The boy said quietly, before Haymitch could ask.

Fair enough. Still, this hadn’t happened last time. But last time Haymitch had drunk himself into unconsciousness in his room.

“You’ll get used to it.” He said, not unkindly but gruff. “You’ll learn to sleep light, and you’ll learn to sleep anywhere.”

“If I survive.” Peeta muttered, then glanced away.

Haymitch sighed. He wanted to tell the kid he’d get them out hell or high water, to have more trust in his own and Katniss’s capabilities. But Haymitch was well aware of how precarious and luck based the Arena was, and exactly how badly it had gone last time. He couldn’t promise anything. Even if the idea of loosing even one of them promised a swift return to addiction and death. He also knew, quite frankly, that Peeta wouldn’t believe him.

“We’ll see.” He said in the end. “But seriously, get some sleep. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Sleep out here or on the floor. It doesn’t matter what you do kid, and frankly, I don’t care, but you’ll need your strength for the tribute parade tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? Later today? Who even knew. For a moment he considered Cinna, making and altering outfits to perfectly fit people he’d only met today, and winced. Rest in peace that man’s sleep schedule, Haymitch wouldn’t be surprised if that was what the gold was to distract from.

It was funny. Haymitch had only been vaguely close with the man, enough to know he was genuine in his care for Katniss – that no ulterior motives lurked behind that affection. That had been enough for him. But now, with so few real allies, there was a chance Cinna may be more useful than expected. If the man could keep from getting killed.

He didn’t consider Effie – as much as the woman infuriated them, as much as she was part of their ragged family, the Effie of now was very much Capital. It’d take time to get through to her.

Peeta nodded in agreement to something Haymitch had said. Fuck if he knew.

“You’ll be there?” He asked. “At the parade?”

Haymitch hesitated. He had never returned to that Capitol fiasco since his own time as a Tribute. The one event mentors and Victors didn’t have to attend. But there was something in those eyes.

“Sure kid.” He said, sounding defeated to his own ears. “Sure. I’ll be there.”

Peeta nodded, eyes gleaming with satisfaction (how did Haymitch forget the layers of cunning Peeta could have, when it came to what was His), and left. Hopefully to actually get some sleep. Haymitch wondered if the whole thing had been a set-up, then dismissed it. This Peeta, young and fragile, was still gaining his wings. Only barely finding his feet in the game of manipulation and presentation that was the Capitol, that he would one day take to like a swan on water. But he wasn’t that man yet.

Gods Haymitch wanted a drink.

Kids. Teenagers. Eugh.

“Annie?” Johanna said eventually, drying her eyes, voice fragile. “I need a favour.”

Finnick woke up warm, with a rare sense of bone deep safety. Annie. His mind sobbed, relieved. Annie. Annie and Jo. He could barely remember getting to the District Four rooms, to be honest. He did remember Annie’s distraught face. He didn’t remember Johanna getting here.

Gods, Finnick hated the Capitol. He hated everything, nearly all his life had culminated in after his Games. Annie, Jo, and Mags, they kept him stable enough. But being in the Capitol? The heart of it all, ground under Snow’s foot? Finnick kept forgetting what it was like. The constant leers, the payments, the trades. The shaking at Annie’s feet as she reassured him that he was as real as she was, the violent throwing up and sobbing as a quiet and miserably furious Johanna held back his hair. The secrets piling up his tongue, the only currency worth anything, but useless all the same. What was the point in knowing intimately the cruelty of men and the secrets they held, if you couldn’t use them?

Every year, Finnick deluded himself that he was somewhat free. Every year, he was ground beneath Snow’s heel. One time literally.

This was hardly any different.

Finnick turned his head, burrowing into what he recognised as Annie’s skirt. The murmured conversation above him ceased. A gentle hand – calloused, rough, Johanna – brushed his hair back.

“Hey Fin.” Said Johanna, voice oddly soft. It must have been really bad, even if things were hazy for Finnick right now. Johanna had three modes. Sarcastic, murderous, and smug. Soft Johanna only came out at the worst of the worst times. Soft Johanna was as loved as Finnick loved all versions of his sister, but he hadn’t had Soft Johanna since the last time Annie was hospitalised. He got angry Jo a lot. Angry, furious Jo was how Johanna showed she cared while keeping herself safe. But Soft Johanna? Soft Johanna meant really bad shit had gone down, and Finnick was such a mess it was necessary. He’d likely have to do damage control.

“Shit went down, huh?” Finnick croaked out, coughing as his throat protested violently. Huh. A bad night then. Probably drugged too, by the lack of clear memory.

It probably said a lot about Finnick’s life that he wasn’t surprised. He was just glad he’d made it back on his own two feet.

Johanna huffed. Annie laughed, a soft tinkling sound made ugly by remnants of tears. Finnick loved it. Loved her.

“You could say that.” Johanna said. “Rough night all round, it seems. But hey, at least you can sleep in. Tribute parade later today – its like 3am Finnick don’t freak – and ya don’t have to be there for that. Get some rest, get your beauty sleep or something. Unlike me, you always need.”

Finnick ignored the jab, sitting up as his mind began to race. “The Tribute Parade?”

Johanna glanced over at him – fuck, she’d been crying, Finnick had made Johanna cry, what had happened, what did he do? – and nodded, looking confused. “Yeah, same as every year. We get to watch the little kiddies get shown off on their pretty little march to doom.” She snorted. “I swear if I see even one more dress made to look like a tree for 7, I’m setting something on fire.”

“The Governor of Informance’s house is flammable, and his security is lax on Thursday.” Finnick said on habit, secrets dripping from his tongue to the only people who ever deserved them. “Knock yourself out.”

Johanna’s eyes narrowed. “That the bitch that did this to you?”

Finnick honestly couldn’t remember. What he did know was that the Governor had a history of human trafficking. He shrugged, deciding to throw the man under the bus. Why not.

“Sure, probably. Head’s a bit messy right now on the memory front, sorry.”

“He drugged you?” Ah. Back to murderous Johanna. Familiar ground, home sweet home.

Finnick shrugged. “Someone did.”

Annie, the goddess she was, intervened before anyone could do anything that would get them executed, e.g. Johanna murdering heads of state with extreme prejudice and Finnick gamely cheering her on from the sidelines. “It’s late.” She said, tying the last of her lovely flame hair back in a braid. “Or early. And we all need sleep.” She gave Johanna a pointed look. “Murder plans can wait till the morning.”

She pulled Finnick further into the bed and he went willingly, settling beside her, the soft pillows barely triggering his fight or flight response. Not with her there. Johanna sighed and nodded, stacking her regular axes on the bedside table and sliding in beside Finnick. It had been a while since they slept like this. Johanna closest to the door, to protect them. Annie on Finnick’s other side to calm him, or him her. Finnick in the middle, for once not suffocated by the bodies around him, rather safe and guarded from any who might try their luck.

“Get some sleep.” Jo mumbled beside him, body already relaxing in the presence of those she trusted so deeply. “You’ll need your strength later. Besides, you owe me money.”

Finnick blinked.

“What?”

Katniss woke up, registered the massive eyes close to her face, and immediately rolled over again with a groan.

Effie twitted in disapproval. “Now, now, none of that. You have a Parade to prepare for! Come now, up you get, up you get! Your stylists will need all the time they can have.”

That made Katniss sit up. Right. The Capitol. Her messing up with Haymitch. The Parade.

Fuck. What time was it? It hadn’t taken Cinna long to get them dressed last time, but the hair? The makeup? That was never ending. That took hours.

“Come on, come on!” Effie urged, impatient as ever by the door. Katniss, with a pang, missed her Effie. The Effie who scolded her just like this one, but had an underlining love and maternal protection. This one was just impatient, and saw Katniss as some ugly ill-mannered District girl.

Katniss tried to ignore how that made her stomach sink, and moved over to follow behind Effie, wrapping her sheet around herself. It didn’t seem like the woman intended to wait for Katniss to put on clothes that the stylists would only take right back off.

Haymitch was already out in the living room, eyes bloodshot, dark stains under them. His shirt was half buttoned, and one sleeve

Pre rebellion Haymitch at his finest, Katniss thought with a sigh, bitter but fond. What was worse was it probably was his finest. Anything not utterly drunk out of his mind, apathetic and waiting for death, was a Haymitch that was trying. So a Haymitch that looked like shit, was only half sober, and was actually awake? That was a Haymitch that was trying. Hard. Trying hard for them.

Maybe Katniss hadn’t fucked up as much as she thought.

The idea inexplicably cheered her beyond belief, and she shot a sunny grin at Peeta, who immediately fumbled his knife and had to rather quickly avoid stabbing himself in the foot when he dropped it. He stared at her with huge eyes as she sat down, quickly cutting them away with a strangled sound when Katniss glanced over.

“Feral child.” Haymitch said, sounding strained and utterly exhausted. “I’m all for exhibitionism and the sponsors it’ll getcha, but please, if you’re going to wear a sheet at breakfast at least wear it as something other than a cape.”

Katniss glanced down as Effie whipped her head around, turning an awful colour before frantically shooing the men out of the room with shrill shrieks and huge hand motions, Peeta stammering as he stared mournfully at his abandoned breakfast. Haymitch went all too quickly, wincing at the sound levels – hungover, no doubt, if not somewhat drunk. It was funny honestly – two years under the invasive hands of Capitol stylists, and time in the Games, and barracks, and being fucking married made her a lot less sensitive about her body. Finnick taught her everything was a weapon, body included. You could give it to someone as a gift – then it meant something, but the rest of the time? It hardly mattered, not when your choice was between taking your top off or dying of infection and blood loss.

Katniss was still giggling when Effie came back to tell her off.

Being put together by Cinna was nostalgic in a way that Katniss hadn’t let herself consider in years. It was a lot like being around Prim after the 74^th Games. Being reunited with family that had no real idea what you’d been through. She looked down at a dress she’s once worn with revulsion, and only felt soft fondness.

What could she say, she had a fondness for fire. And as sweet as Cinna was, he did have a habit of burning things down.

Katniss was all too willing to be the torch he used to set the Capitol alight.

Cinna frowned, looking her over. There was something soft and troubled on that face. “I figure it’s not your style.” He said, fixing one of her shoulder straps. “But if it helps – and this will be our little secret for now, okay? – you’ll get to set it on fire. We’re going to show them that District 12 may be coal, but coal burns. Do you think you can bear with it for that?”

Katniss nodded. She already knew but she asked anyway. “Will Peeta have a similar outfit?”

Cinna nodded, carefully pinning something.

“Cool.” She watched him for a moment.

This time, she decided, when they went into the plaza on those ridiculous carriages, she would be the one to take Peeta’s hand.

They were a united front. It was time she showed the world – and Peeta – that she believed that.

Katniss needed to prove to Peeta she needed him. He was Hers. He was always going to be Hers, and she needed to cement her love and protection early.

I thought we agreed not to lie to each other, Katniss. Rang Snow’s voice in her mind.

No. Thought Katniss, with a kind of unstable cheer. But I can be truthful and tell you to get fucked, old man. I can and will burn your fucking house down, and the country with it.

Johanna, elsewhere, after 6 hours of actual sleep, suddenly woke up, squinting at the sunlight coming into the room.

“Kats doing something stupid.” She announced to the room. “I can feel it. I wanna go watch.”

Finnick whacked her in the arm, rolled over, and went back to sleep. Johanna squinted. “You still owe me 50 pence and we’re at least watching the chaos on the tv.”

She wasn’t sure if it was Finnick or Annie that threw the pillow, but it knocked the wind out of her either way.

"Bitch." She said with feeling, and promptly stole all the covers.

The outraged response was immediate.