Disclaimer: Back again Suzanne. DIDYAMISSME?

A/N: Ok guys. Seriously. I need to simmer on the fics. I have horrendous exams in a month. . . OHNAW. These Hayffie Feels are. . . uncontrollable. *CRAZY FACE*

This will be a three-parter lads and ladies, I've pretty much written the other two chapters anyway so there won't be a long wait for them. . . Hope you enjoy! :) (Also, if my medical notes are inaccurate, I apologise. . . I did a bit of poking around on the net so fingers crossed).

The Boy In The Bed

"You're an animal, Haymitch Abernathy!"

"And you're a joke! A cruel, sick joke!"

"You've told me this all before, and it's tiresome now."

"Don't you walk away from me!"

"You can't even stand up properly; I'd like to see you stop me. . . I'll be back in here anyway, no doubt picking you up when you've passed out on the floor. You've never taken care of yourself."

"Why do you even care?"

He grunted as he pulled the device off his arm, swinging his legs off the bed. His blood pressure was higher than it had ever been, the doctor had told him. Haymitch had only rolled his eyes as he felt a sickening throbbing in his head, the doctor shaking his head as he'd presented the victor with a slip of paper. They both knew he'd still be drinking as soon as he got out of here.

"They're still alive, your two." His tone was unimpressed.

Haymitch glared at him, his eyes fixed on the other man's head as he flicked through his medical file, before placing it back on his bedside table. Haymitch had no idea how he'd ended up back here; clearly he'd gone completely overboard on the drinking last night to warrant a trip to the Games Clinic.

The doctor left, and he winced in pain as the door slammed shut. He rubbed his forehead, letting out a long sigh- a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding- desperately racking his mushy brain for any semblance of a memory of last night. He opened the slip of paper, wondering what prescriptive drugs he could be expecting now.


Haymitch's mouth curled up in a sneer as he stared at the door, screwing up the small bit of paper and throwing it where the doctor had stood.

He mashed his lips together as he remembered being on his fifth or sixth drink at dinner last night, ignoring Effie's disapproving glares as he'd repeatedly summoned the Avoxes over to top him up. Haymitch had watched her expression; drinking more just to spite her. He'd gradually slumped so far down in his chair his eyes were barely at table level. He'd drank through that though.

He groaned as he remembered shouting at Effie about god only knows what. Her hair. Her attitude. Her stupidly tall shoes. . . The Games. The Capitol. Her. For some reason she always got the brunt of his drunken outbursts; she infuriated him no end; but it was increasingly ending up with him feeling guilty the morning after. He didn't like her being upset with him, and he didn't know quite why. That in turn, of course, infuriated him more.

They'd ended up in some sort of showdown in the main living area, her eyes burning like the sun as she'd stood there, outraged. Eventually, she'd stormed off to her room, and he'd followed her and continued his yellings, slumped up against her bedroom door. She hadn't responded. She was always the better one in these situations.

He'd kicked her door down during one of their rows a few years ago. His drunken fury had been pulled away from him like the air in his lungs when he saw her sat there. No Capitol mask on, a book in one hand, her bespeckled eyes fixed on the Games. It had stunned him completely; she was beautiful, and he'd been trying to see her like that again ever since. Of course he had never just asked her, so instead he tried to recreate the scenario in which it had happened. . . which started with him getting blind drunk.

Another time when he'd sat outside her room, shouting abuse until the sun cracked over the city, he swore he heard a sniff from the other side of the door, and his stomach had dropped like a stone. He'd skulked off at that point, ashamed and a lot more sober.

Haymitch squinted in concentration, his eyes suddenly opening in revelation as he rolled up one of his sleeves- a deep bruise running along the outside of his forearm like a purple rash. The injury was positioned as if he'd held up his arm up to try and shield his face.

Ah. Yes. He remembered now. She'd thrown a vase at him. She really had been furious.

He honestly couldn't remember if he'd tried to throw anything at her, or back at her depending on the chronology. He grimaced; if he was drinking in District 12, he'd be apologising to his broken furniture. Here, it was nearly always Effie. Neither of them really did apologies though; two incensed, stubborn people with their horns infinitely locked. If he ever did say sorry it was always strained, and she would accept it quietly, a frown on her face- or if he was a lucky- a weak smile.

Haymitch felt the urge to vomit, although he wasn't sure if it was from his raging hangover or an expression of general displeasure at himself.

He hadn't been back to the clinic in years, and the whole place made him feel queasy, and closer to death than anywhere else: his own personal purgatory. He closed his eyes for a second, remembering the operating room further down the corridor with its great, glass wall. . .

Haymitch let his eyes settle on the small window, the Capitol sky grey and overcast. It was one of those days where he wondered whether the sun had actually risen at all. His mind drifted to the arena, wondering if they were seeing the same sky he was.

The last time he was in here was a few years back, when he'd got so drunk he'd managed to fall down the flight of stairs in the penthouse suite and nearly cracked his head open. . . he'd apparently tried to blame Effie for distracting him whilst there was blood pouring from his forehead. She was even more annoyed when he'd pressed his hand to his forehead, then his bloody hand to her ankle as she stood above him. Her little white silk socks ruined.

She'd still helped him though, hauling him into an upright position as he'd thrown up onto the carpet. He'd felt warmth flood through him as she'd rubbed his back, waiting for the medics to come and take him to the Clinic.

Haymitch had come back later the next day, his head all bound up. He'd fallen asleep in one of the big, white, egg-shaped chairs in the living room, drowsy from the painkillers. He'd woken up, his vision blurry, but he could have sworn Effie had been watching him as she sat on the sofa, the Games on in the background. He still didn't know if it was the drugs playing tricks on him or not, but he swore he saw hurt glint in her eyes, her face grave.

The moment came as quickly as it went though, and she picked a glass of water up off the coffee table, shoving it and more painkillers into his hands before leaving the room.

The time before that. . . well. His intestines had been falling out of his body, and he was unaware that his family were being slaughtered. The only people he'd had for company then were the surgeon and his daughter; nuturing him back to health. He'd spent days with that little girl, playing with her, listening to her read to him at the Clinic. It was the last time he'd ever felt truly cared for. They'd even accompanied him to the train station when he was forcibly shipped back to District 12 by the Capitol, the man with his arm around his little girl on the platform as they sadly waved him off, tears in her wide eyes. Haymitch had one hand clutched onto his paper bag of drugs and bandages, the other pressed to the window as he watched them vanish into the horizon. He'd swallowed as he'd let his forehead fall against the glass, eyes closed, the skin on his stomach was red and sore where the doctor had been forced to remove the stitches minutes before he was bundled off back to poverty.

You need to wake up, please.

He remembered clambering off the high-speed train, every face in District 12 yelling his name and cheering as he waved half-heartedly into the crowd. He wasn't good at it- being the happy and convivial tribute bringing honour to his District. He wanted to be at home. Sleep. Sleep and forget.

He clutched onto his bag of medication a little tighter.

The crowd dispersed when he walked off to the Victor's Village, and he spotted the one house with little glowing windows. He grinned as he sped up, his heart beating that little bit faster when he thought of his family, breaking into a hobbled run as he covered his stomach protectively.

He flung the door open, the grin wiped off his face within seconds. His girlfriend's mother stood by the dwindling fire. Tears. There weren't even any bodies to bury.

Every day and night had been the same from then on; each minute bled dry in his new house as he paced around- sober and crazed. Alcohol soon took over, and the sun and moon had blurred into one; every dull surface weeping red as if he was looking down at the children he'd murdered. He would stand at the dirty window of the kitchen like a ghost. . . his house the graveyard he haunted.

He would stare out bitterly into a cold, empty village. Alone. Always alone.

Being a mentor for the Hunger Games at least gave him some annual structure and contact with human life. . . before the two children of the group inevitably died. It drove him further into the ground every year, but he liked the quietly intense presence of Cinna. . . and the less quiet and far more intense presence of Effie.

Haymitch tore his eyes away from the dull skyscape, his sight falling to his palms as he tried to rub some feeling back into them. He should probably go back to the penthouse, rustle up some sort of apology to the headstrong peacock no doubt strutting around trying to clean up the destruction left by him. Actually see how the kids were faring. God he was useless.

He reached across to the side table, picking up his plain, metal cuffs, rolling down his rumpled sleeves and trying to do them up. Haymitch growled in frustration, his large, rough hands refusing to cooperate with the small, shiny lumps. He gave up and shoved them in his pocket. Effie would help him do them. He visibly winced at her increasing presence in his thoughts.

He really did need to find her. Apologise properly. Haymitch couldn't cope with her blanking him; he'd much rather she was squawking at him about the new lace boutique or her vintage ocelot fur shawl or Seneca Crane's incredible beard. That bloody beard.

Haymitch was by the door when he had a sudden brain wave, the struggle of such a mental endeavour in his state a near miracle. He narrowed his eyes in thought, before turning on his heel and walking back to the small table in his room, picking up his file and leafing through it.

He wanted to see what that obnoxious Capitol doctor had written about him, probably some joke about his drunken reputation for the next doctor to read when he, no doubt, ended up back here. That jumped-up, white-coated imbecile wasn't going to get that satisfaction. He flipped to the last page, sorely disappointed when he found only details about his alcohol blood content level, his behaviour and his prescription: N/A.

Huffing to himself, he turned back a few pages. The end of his Games medical report. Haymitch is showing rapid signs of recovery, particularly with the advanced medication I'm giving him, he should be well enough to return to District 12 within the week. The primary injury at the abdominal cavity is healing without any signs of infection. The possibility of non-infected peritonitis originating from gastric juice has also been averted . . .

He kept flicking backwards, noticing how thorough the reports were, written in a long, elegant scrawl that covered everything from physical damage, short and potential long term psychological trauma, medication and the doses, the operation techniques. . .

After 28 hours, Haymitch awoke from his coma. Disorientated and noticeably distressed at first, he was soon calm and was responding well to the medication. It took him several hours to remember the final moments of the Quell, and even then does not remember anything between the end of the Games and being transported here. . . having suffered such trauma some memory loss is not unexpected. . .

His mouth quirked up in a smile when he saw a line written along the bottom in green pencil: He is doing much better. A little smiley face was drawn next it.

He furrowed his brow as he studied the penmanship, letting his fingers brush across the faded hand writing. Haymitch felt his heart ache a little; the boy on these papers did not know how much his life had changed. . . all the simple things he'd wanted in life snatched away from him. He'd won. Killed to win. It wasn't enough.

He turned to the front page, eyeing the big Capitol medical stamp on the front of the report. Haymitch was about to close the file when a name caught his eye; he felt his heart stop beating in its hollow cage, his blood still in his veins.


Dr Egidio Trinket

A/N: Prepppaaareeeee to be transpooorrrrrted back in tiiiiiiime for ol' schooool Hayffie Feeeeels. (I'm so sorry. . . my brain right now it is GAH). Minx xxx