Thinking about how Haymitch has always been dangerous.
He was when they first took him to the games. Snow knew it the second he locked eyes with him- the snake was cruel, yes, but never wasteful, and yet he arranged for a covert meeting with the district 12 tribute to seize him up, attempted to negociate his surrender, used whatever means necessary to put out the defiance in his gaze. He knew instantly that Haymitch was a threat, and devoted himself to drowning him in so much misery that he would never be dangerous again.
He was dangerous when he met Katniss and Peeta. He knew the crowd by then, and played a love song for them masterfully, the boy and the girl as the strings, and it was such a spectacular performance that, when the lights came down, he pulled on them both and brought them back home safe. And despite the standing ovation from the crowd he noticed the shift backstage, and knew darkness was coming for them.
He was dangerous during the Victory Tour. For the first time in 24 years, he had something to lose. Two someones. He guided their steps, kept his guard up and his instructions clear. And when that wasn't enough, when the snake jumped from the ground to try and take everything from him again? Oh, he wasn't just dangerous anymore. He was ready.
And I just realised that one day, all of a sudden, the snake lay dead on the ground, and Haymitch didn't need to be dangerous anymore. And while the world remembers he can be, while the boy and the girl remember the fiery gaze and know it would spark back in a heartbeat should their safety ever be challenged- one day new people meet him, and they have no idea that he is dangerous at all. Annie's kid calls at ungodly hours and talks his ear off about a game he invented at the beach the day before, a lisp in his speech because another baby tooth just fell off. A new girl with braids walks into his house unannounced, leaves her muddy boots and pack to trip him wherever they land on her way to the kitchen, starts rummaging the place for chocolate for them both, and without even a greeting she jumps into a ghost story a friend of hers tried to scare her with at school. A new boy with blond curls dangles from his neck, uncaring of the integrity of Haymitch's windpipe, and screeches in delight as he watches the geese try and fail to nip his toes, just out of reach.
Sometimes, when their adults plan for it, two of the kids wait excitedly on the train station for the third to arrive. To his mother's dismay and Johanna's amusement, as soon as he spots them he forgets he's supposed to be the big, responsible one and tries to jump from the wagon, and then the three of them are off to their secret place, a lake in the woods they can't wait to fill with giggles, their grown-ups struggling to keep up with their pace. When the day stretches and the sun goes down, and the three of them rest their freezing feet and wet, tangled hair and mud-caked arms on Haymitch, and he lets them split what was meant to be his dessert- in those moments, every day more frequent than the last, Haymitch is not dangerous at all. And for those three kids, he has never felt like danger. He's just Haymitch, and he feels like safety.
















