And as I'm putting out the flame

Somebody brings up your name

There was a knock at the door. Haymitch cursed whoever was knocking, because he just wanted to spend the day wallowing with his alcohol. He supposes he does that every day, but still. So he mutters a steady stream of who the fucks and at this god damned hourses as he wrenches open the door. He barely has time to glance up and see who it is before he's pushed backwards by a pair of hands to his chest, vision obscured by a face attaching itself to his lips with urgency.

He's backpedaling, first out of hangover and out of confusion, but as a hand slides up to his neck and he starts to remember how to taste – he knows who it is. And he can't help but grin, even if his mouth is busy doing other things.

Ah, the return.

She's somehow pushing him into the wall while pulling him toward her, and as he puts his hands on her hips he realizes that she's already shed her shirt. When she goes for his neck he catches a glimpse of it laying crumpled in the hall a few steps behind them.

Well, Haymitch had to admit he hadn't been expecting this. Not that he was complaining. This was a full-on frontal attack. This, Haymitch liked. This didn't make him feel so guilty.

So he let her continue, one, because why not, he liked the feel of her hands all over him, the feel of her hair beneath his fingers, the feeling that he was able to spark something within her. And though he tried not to think it aloud, the feeling that she sometimes came to fulfill a desire instead of a gaping hole in her chest.

And two, because she was so damn good at this domination thing. How had he not noticed it before?

He was suddenly aware that she wasn't wearing pants anymore either, on top of her shirt being gone. A shiver ran down his spine as she trailed her stubby nails over his shoulder, his arm, because when he looked down he saw perfection in physical form pushing up against his decaying flesh. Not really decaying, no, but he was such a dirty old man for letting her stoop to this level, to lousy ol' him. But she tugged on the back of his head until his face was forced upward and caught in a lusty kiss. One of her hands worked its way down his back, leaving a trail of cold where her hot little hand had just been, until said body part sneaked its way into the band of his flannels. It elicited a growl from him, a feral impulse that demanded he draw her closer to him with a yank. Fight fire with fire, that's what he'd always done. Why rethink the strategy now? So he curled a hand into the base of her braid at her neck, forcing her head up so he could better eat on her lips, his tongue slipping against hers, teeth nipping. Her hair was a mess, not that he'd had the chance to look at it, but rather felt the stray pieces tickle his face as she kissed him, felt the spikes of its uneven length poking out of her braid when he pulled on it.

She pushed, he pulled, and he finally got himself off that damn wall and was pinning her against it. His hands planted themselves on the wall on either side of her head, trapping her there. He stopped ravishing her suddenly; tilted his face downward as if to catch his breath. To be honest, he was catching his breath because Fire Girl was quite the breath taker. But he also did so as to create an angle that stopped her from kissing him, held her against the wall. He had to give her a little credit for her act tonight as she tried to tilt her own lips up to meet his, but was forced into failure. She made a sound of frustration.

"Back so soon, sweetheart?" he asked, razors on his tongue.

He thought he heard her snarl.

"Just fuck me already, you bastard," she said, her voice throaty. "You know that's all you want."

She took the opportunity to roll her hips into his, eliciting yet another shiver from Haymitch. She was making it hard to control himself, and she knew it. But he grabbed her hips and pushed her back against the wall. She collided with a light thunk, and glared up at him from beneath a curled brow.

"And what would you call what I'm doing ...right now?" he drawled.

"Torturing me."

"HAH," a cruel laugh spouted out from his lips as he pushed her hips further into the wall as she wiggled in his grasp. "Torturing you!"

She scowled. And then he thought he saw the beginning of the waterworks threaten to appear.

"Just stop talking to me, okay?" she said.

Hmm. Something was with her tonight.

He admitted he was never the one to be pushed against walls in his own house. Something was on Fire Girl's mind. That had to be it. The fact that she didn't want to drink it out first was a little off, but Haymitch could shrug that off. He doubted he'd want to know what was nagging her anyway.

His eyes roamed over her; he was trying for leering but it just came out slightly worried. Of course, she was the only one who picked up on that.

"As you wish."

He took a step forward and wrapped his paw around the back of her neck, leaning in for a consuming kiss that she matched stroke for stroke. His hands sneak down to the curve in her back, to her behind, to her thighs, and she lifts a leg so he takes his cue, lifting her up off the wall. He's taking his time how, lavishing her neck lazily, and running his hands over her bare shoulders like he loves doing.

"Hurry the fuck up, Haymitch," she grits out, frustrated.

He purrs in her ear in response. "I'm getting there, sweetheart."

"Well you've already got me there, so just-"

He audibly growls. "So you don't even bother with making me want it? Just you, you, you?"

"That's what this relationship has always been about," she says between her heavy breaths, somehow managing to scowl at him too. "You, you, you."

"Me?" he asks, getting hot under the collar with her persistence at ruining the moment, at not playing along with their usual game tonight. "I think you have it a little backwards, sweetheart."

"When have you ever known what I wanted?" she says then, a dangerous tone to her voice. One that made him cringe back his emotions. Wait… emotions? What were those.

He knew what she came here for, even if he didn't know anything else. So he slid down his pants, the light flannel falling to his ankles as he pushed up and into her. She grits her teeth together, holding back a gasp.

She didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

Haymitch was awakened by a sudden coldness near his forehead. He was groggy, so he didn't bother to open his eyes, just laid there as if he was still asleep. The coolness he'd felt was soon replaced by a smattering of warmth, of movement, shifting from his forehead to his cheek. That's when he opened his eyes just a slit, and saw the dark outline of her wrist. What was she doing? Caressing his face, playing with his hair? Who told her she had the right? Well, it did feel awfully good… No. This wasn't how they were supposed to work. He was about to show his wakefulness in full as protest, but his eyes snapped open before he could stop them. And he regretted it immediately. Because he hated seeing her like this. This? The single tear escaping down the pillow side of her face, rolling onto her cheek and soaking into the cushion below. Her fingers at the tips of his too-shaggy hair until she'd noticed his consciousness and dropped them back to her pillow.

And her eyes, she'd erased the emotion in them as soon as she could, yet he'd seen a trace of something that made him think it wasn't long lost Bread Boy she was shedding a tear for like she usually did. That it was something much closer to her, hell, probably in the same room as her, that was making her do this. Possibly even in the same bed. And he loathed it, this effect he had on her.

He couldn't look at her like this, didn't want to have to deal with her and her emotions. They'd always been too strong for him to tame down anyway, that's why he'd taken to let her drink with him instead of talk to him after the whole… Peeta dying thing. So he pushed himself out of the cradle of a slept-in bed and over to her lips. He put his mouth to hers. Softly, lips closed. He was met with a rush of warmth emitting from hers, mixing with the feel of golden honey swirling in his gut. Wait, the what?

He pushed himself away like he'd just seen a ghost.

"No," he whispered, and as he stared horror-stricken into her face, he saw pain.

"I can't-" he was scrambling out of the bed as fast as he could, trying to untangle himself from the sheets and hearing a **rip as he stumbled onto his feet. "I won't-"

She was sitting up in his bed now, watching him struggle.

"Fuck, I need booze." And he stumbled out the door.

She finds him at the table, drunk as a skunk. She walks right past him to where her shirt lies crumpled in the hall.

"Leaving so soon?" He asks, the usual biting sarcasm in his tone.

She stands, letting the shirt fall limply over her torso.

"Yeah," she says tonelessly. "For good this time." She doesn't turn to look at him.

"What makes you think you'll keep your promise 'this time'?" He mocks her.

"You."

The single syllable slices through the air between them like a knife aimed directly for his heart.

If he had one, that is.

Heart or not, Haymitch can still feel the sharp sides serrating something within him. But the thing with Haymitch is, he doesn't get ready to make nice when he's hurt. Conciliatory is the last thing he gets. Haymitch, he gets mean. And sometimes he wishes he didn't, but that's just the way it is. He sits stone-cold as his face grows red with anger and his grip tightens on the bottle in his hand.

"You did it again last night," she continues coolly, pulling on her leather moccasins by the couch. He hadn't even seen her wearing any shoes last night. Guess it doesn't matter now.

"What?" he spits out.

"That thing you do sometimes." She had finished tying her shoes and stood to face him. "Kissing me real tender, running your hands over my shoulders again and again. The nice stuff."

He stares her down, takes a drink while she talks. Swiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he replies, "So what's the problem? 'Nice stuff?' I do that stuff all the time."

"I know." But there's a different meaning to her voice than he was hoping for. He'd meant his response to be sarcastic, meant that everything he did with her was 'nice'; it sure felt nice. But she'd gone twisting his words again.

He looks up at her, daring her to go on. To further this discussion in the direction he so clearly did not want it to go.

"And then there was this morning."

Haymitch's state turned deadly. Fuck. No. He'd come down here for a reason, to expressly avoid what he'd done this morning. Morning after stuff.

She shakes her head and a sad smile twitches at her mouth. A rueful laugh tumbles from her lips before she speaks.

"You try to be so hard, acting like everything just happens, that you don't give a damn about me. Like fucking me for six months is just a phase we might still grow out of like we mean nothing to each other." It's then that she turns her head up to look him in the eye. "And you can't tell me that's not true."

Haymitch tries to swallow around the huge lump that'd been growing in his throat, but it seems to have completely blocked his airway. He can't really breathe, let alone swallow.

Haymitch always kept people at arms length; he'd had to, he'd hurt everyone he'd ever loved by just caring about them. But he had his needs too, so he'd let this start, had let it continue as long as she didn't ask questions, didn't say she loved him, didn't tell him much of anything. He'd just tried to separate his emotions and his actions, keeping them locked up and compartmentalized. And it had worked, for a while. But lately things were starting to unravel. He'd noticed too. How could he not? The walls starting to break; what he'd always kinda felt for the Girl on Fire starting seeping into his actions, into his touches; but he'd never before crossed a line like he had this morning. And now he was so close to losing her.

So he wanted to say something, he needed to, but that lump of coal was still plugging his throat. She was still staring at him, eyes welling up, and he felt like he was drowning, but his pride, it wouldn't let him…

He tried clearing his throat, but a horrible throaty sound came out instead, with a shaky, "I…"

She nearly lets loose a sob, pushing a lump of hair out of her face.

"I don't want to stay away from you, Haymitch, but I have to. For my own damn sanity." She spins to make her escape, but doesn't even get out the door before he sees her form contort and a sound he's never wanted to hear him inflict on her come out of her body: a lung-wracking sob. The door slams shut behind her, blocking the impact of the howl. But he can still feel it shaking his bones.

She leaves, and he breaks down.

AN: Sorry about the superlong wait, beloved readers. As usual: school happens. But I'm still devoted to Haymitch/Katniss, so don't give up on me! In other news, how's the story coming? Review? x