AN: Only Hazelle's perspective here, and the next chapter will be from Haymitch's, and so on. Going forward, you might see a split perspective once in awhile for events where I think we'll want to hear from both of them.


The roseate dapples of sky that permeate the dark storm clouds cast the study in a dim yet lovely light, as if everything is beginning to blush. Standing by the door, Hazelle hopefully considers it a promise of an end to all the rain. She supposes nature is trying to recover from the dryness of the previous summer but its effort to revitalize the land that was tinder for the firebombs can still be unforgiving to its people.

Posy has been afraid of storms before she was even born, stirring restlessly inside Hazelle after every thunderclap. She can sleep through rain on a tin roof but thunder and lightning are otherworldly phenomena to her. The tunneling bombs, as Gale called them, in Thirteen sounded like thunder, and Posy was near inconsolable while they were in the bunker. Since her brothers knew they were bombs, they were just as terrified. Futile though it was, soothing her children's distress at least gave Hazelle something to do other than feel both claustrophobic and paralyzed, a muscle memory from blasting and digging far below the earth in the mines.

The thunderstorm that started last night roared all through the night and well into today. There was a power outage, something Hazelle hasn't missed. After her fight with Haymitch, she returned to the house to find her children's bedrooms empty. They hadn't experienced thunderstorms in almost a year, and the peals of thunder and lightning reminded them too much of explosions and falling fire.

So when Hazelle found the three of them under the covers of her bed, she held them through the night and into the morning, and they held onto her.

That was before she discovered both Peeta and Haymitch had relapsed. While she tried to enjoy the rainy afternoon playing cards with her children, Hazelle kept thinking about how she swept away the evidence of a night that its perpetrator doesn't remember, how Peeta looked so desperate and vulnerable as he begged Katniss for a literal reality check, and how none of them were particularly surprised at these happenings.

Inside the study, Haymitch slouches at his desk. Hazelle suspects the doctor advised bedrest but he also probably advised a lifestyle change and met the same stubborn refusal. Haymitch doesn't notice her while he turns an envelope over and over in his hands, his attention on some papers in front of him. His eyes were confused and not quite focused earlier, and now they scan a piece of paper evenly, still bloodshot but sober. An icepack sweats onto the desk, forgotten.

Whenever Haymitch's face isn't flushed with drink or anger, those boyish freckles resurface, revealing someone Hazelle can recognize. Like this morning, as she washed off his mouth, she sees the faint scattering across his nose, interrupted under his eyes by remnants of scar tissue. If she wasn't told of Katniss' volatile reaction to Peeta's capture after the Quell, Hazelle would have thought them self-inflicted. Haymitch looks worn with them, and this reminds her that she once knew a sapling of a boy but life has gnarled his limbs, thickened and callused his bark - just as it has done to her.

Hazelle knew better than to assume they could continue a childhood friendship. But she was a fool to think they could simply brush their past aside and begin anew.

She raps her knuckles on the doorjamb, and Haymitch looks up. "Hi," he ventures, setting the envelope down.

"Figured we'd keep the meeting today if you were awake." She let herself in quietly in case he wasn't. "Do you have a moment?"

"Will this only be about housekeeping?" he asks, his voice still a bit ragged.

"No."

Haymitch sighs and waves her in. "Yeah, I have plenty of time. I'm just deciding whether to rewrite some letters that I forgot to send yesterday. See, quite a bit happened since," he quips with mock conspiracy, like she wasn't there, "but I don't want them worrying, too."

"Who are you writing to?" Hazelle asks as she settles in a chair in front of the desk.

"Some of the victors I haven't heard from since we left the Capitol." Haymitch sits back in his seat and crosses his arms a bit gingerly, his left wrist confined in bandages. "Probably best to just send these letters from yesterday that say the reconstruction is coming along and the kids and I are just dandy, huh?"

"That's what they'd want to hear, I'm sure." Hazelle hesitates, then clumsily forces the question between them, "Are you okay - now?"

With a small, dry huff, Haymitch replies, "Doctor said so. Just a few burst throat vessels, a minor concussion, a sprained wrist," at which he holds up his wrapped wrist, "and a hell of a hangover. It could have been worse but it wasn't, so spare me any lectures. I already got a subliminal earful from the kids, and I suspect they're coming later with dinner as a veiled checkup."

She tries to smile. "They care about you."

He grunts. "They shouldn't, and neither should you. Stop looking at me like I'm dying." They both stiffen at the silence that last word leaves. "I'm not," says Haymitch, more to himself than to her, but then he scowls at the ceiling before correcting himself, "at the moment. That's what the doctor said so..."

Wanting to change the subject herself, Hazelle nods. "Okay."

"Now," he says, trying not to look relieved, "I'm thinking we continue Saturday being payday but reduce either your daily hours or days a week now that the house is maintainable. Whichever one is up to you, I don't care."

"You choose; it's your house," she says.

Haymitch frowns at her. "Well, it's only fair that you decide."

"I decided to work here again. Shouldn't the rest be up to you?" She never decided her schedule or pay when she worked down in the mines. Her laundry schedule was as soon as possible, and she couldn't afford to turn up her nose at her clients' offered rates. Stocking supplies and taking inventory in Thirteen was a duty expected of her, rather than a paid job. When she housekept for Haymitch before the Quell, they were both so bent on avoiding each other that she blindly accepted whatever he left in envelopes on the table. She wasn't in a position to complain but with his wages, she didn't need to anyway - and he obviously didn't keep track of when she came and left.

Haymitch shakes his head. "This ain't supposed to be like how it was. You're here on your own terms," he says, chopping his hand on the desk for emphasis, "and you'll work that way, too, if I have any say in it."

Hazelle hasn't had this kind of agency before. It's not as exciting as it probably should be. The rebellion was worth the freedom it gave her children - but for Hazelle, maybe like other older folk, it's something that seems to have come too late. "I couldn't have this spiel before?"

"I wasn't paying enough attention before," Haymitch admits.

"No charity," she reminds him, and he nods. She furrows her brow in thought. "When I got to this point the first time, I only needed to come for a few hours every other day. But I kept coming everyday because I wasn't sure when not to." She was deep-cleaning every nook and cranny by that point.

Haymitch nods again, slower this time. "All right. Noted."

Hazelle could shake her head and laugh at how they've gotten farther in just these past few weeks than in all those months before the Quell last year. Apparently, all it took was a few arguments and a health crisis.

They discuss figures, Haymitch guiding her in what's reasonable. She trusts him enough to accept the new wage without worrying about him swindling her; until now, he's just thrown large sums at her to help the only way he felt he could. He doesn't seem very attached to his fortune, blood money that it is.

Afterward, they sit in silence for a moment as raindrops pelt the windows. One of them should apologize.

Hazelle does first. "I'm sorry for what I said, how I acted this morning."

Haymitch just shrugs. "I did deserve it." He picks at the edge of his bandage on his forearm, and Hazelle is about to suggest that he leave it be when he says quietly, "Sorry for scaring you."

Her voice is soft yet adamant when she replies, "Haymitch, I'm not afraid of you."

He looks at her doubtfully with those gray eyes, somehow markedly different than her own. They've seen war and the Hunger Games and the green mountains outside and places Hazelle has never been. They've seen killing firsthand. But Hazelle doesn't worry for herself when she remembers all of that.

She tells him as much, "You don't scare me unless I think you're hurting."

He looks down at the bandaging again. "Well, I need to apologize, then, don't I?"

"I came here last night when you were blacked out." She had to tell him; it would have been lying not to, disrespecting their newfound, albeit unsteady, trust and this rare vulnerability from Haymitch.

He grimaces. "I don't know what all I said but-"

"You called me out," she admits. "Even then, you could tell I was only here because I'd rather busy myself with helping you than, um, deal with something else."

Rather than asking about her something else, Haymitch asks, brows tilted curiously, "Did I help at all?"

Hazelle shrugs, looking down at her hands in her lap. He doesn't remember that he told her he doesn't tend to get visitors unless they're there for something from him - from Haymitch, who would ask about Peeta through a relapse, a concussion. He also doesn't remember telling her what he thinks about her wanting to reconcile things between them now that she's safe. Though Hazelle plans to back off from now on if that's what he wants, she wishes that he'd let someone care for his sake if she - or he himself - can't.

Mistaking her silence, Haymitch groans with dread. "What did I say?"

"Oh, no, it was nothing you could've helped-"

"Hazelle." He's leaning forward on the desk, and she notices a frosty mint scent has replaced what had been a sour, acrid smell of blood-iron and vomit on his breath. "Don't excuse me, just tell me."

Her damn throat closes up so she can't reply the way she wants to, to assure him that he alone didn't upset her, that she wouldn't have gone searching for the distraction in him if Gale hadn't called back and wrenched her out of her illusions of the war and her own son's role in it.

She blinks a few times as Haymitch watches her apprehensively, and then she feels a warm tear on her arm. With another look at her lap, Hazelle sees the glistening drop on her wrist. The rain's gotten in, she wants to joke but the thought of that brings about memories of her leaky roof in the Seam, of Rohan and then Gale - because Rohan's gone - climbing up to repair it and cursing the same way whenever their clothes got snagged on a nail or the hammer caught their thumbs. None of that will ever happen again so Hazelle chokes out a sob in front of a man who's known his own share of loss and couldn't do anything about it, either.

"Gale," she cries before clasping a hand over her mouth.

Haymitch, whose hands hover partway across the desk, breathes out, his startled concern exchanged for grim sympathy. "I told you?"

"No, Greasy Sae did," Hazelle rasps after swallowing another sob. She should've figured he knew as well but she can't linger on that now with this pain weighing heavy as a stone on her heart, her shoulders trembling with the effort. "He called last night; that's why I came here. I couldn't think about it anymore so-" She gestures to him.

"You shouldn't have found out that way," Haymitch says but she shakes her head.

"Only way I'd learn the whole awful truth. Gale told Rory - his little brother - enough for him to believe that the Capitol stole his idea. He didn't tell me anything until I called already knowing that wasn't the real story. And he won't come back to Twelve." Hazelle dries her face with her shirt, bending down to hide her exposed stomach. "Damn it, I'm sorry, I shouldn't be-"

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. This is actually the second time I've cried about this to you." She rolls her eyes at herself, feeling equal parts pathetic and frustrated.

A bitter smirk twitches at his lips. "And I'm just as much help as the last time, huh?"

Hazelle huffs a little but doesn't reply further. He shouldn't have to help, and she shouldn't rely on these outbursts as the only way to deal with Gale. With a resolute sniff, she reminds herself to apprise Rory of Gale's eventual call. Perhaps once her sons work it out, Hazelle can as well...

"Look, Hazelle," Haymitch starts with a weary sigh, "your son ain't innocent but he's not fully responsible, either. Think whatever you want about what he planned - you'd probably be right in some respects. But keep in mind those designs had to be passed up the ladder for approval, and nobody stopped them. Hell, they even misused them. As far as I know, they were going to find a way to sacrifice the innocent to end the war no matter what."

A small chill runs through her hearing that. She closes her eyes, wrings the tears from her lashes. "I just wish I could've saved him from this somehow. I was too busy being proud of him."

"You trusted him," offers Haymitch, shrugging a shoulder. "I've seen people I trust go too far as well." His eyes flicker down to one of the letters. "And I've hurt people who trusted me. I've even done worse than that - so there's no shortage of nuance around here," he says, halfway flippant, before stopping himself and considering her somberly. In his inflection is another apology: "Whole thing's a damn shame."

"It is." Hazelle rubs her forehead, alleviating the tension there. "You are more help than last time, though. Thank you, Haymitch."

"Don't thank me yet," he tells her, even grimmer. "I knew before Sae did, and I'm the one who told her. Back when Katniss and I came back and I was... I never would've predicted she'd one day use it against you. But that doesn't mean anything now, does it?" He shakes his head and assures her, "It ends at Sae. I made sure of that."

Hazelle sighs to herself as she processes this, her mouth set in a firm line. The sense of betrayal for his drunken carelessness feels late, too. Really, Hazelle finds she's more upset at what's transpired than she is at anyone in particular for talking about it. At least Haymitch and Sae have both tried to settle the matter in their ways. She can't yet say the same for her son.

"Then you still have my thanks," she decides.

Haymitch gives her a grateful look that reaches his eyes. His brow knit in sympathy, he remarks, "What a shitty welcome back to Twelve so far. Just yesterday I promised I'd try to be an appealing friend. I've got my work cut out for me."

"Well, I've only been annoying you in return," she half-jokes.

"Yeah, you've been a real pain, cooking and cleaning for me and forgiving me and offering to be my friend and all." He rolls his eyes, and she breaks into a small smile. "But really, you deserve better, Hazelle. I'll see to it."

"Well, while you do that," she says, feeling a little self-conscious in the face of his sincerity, "I should head back."

When she stands, Haymitch follows. "I'll walk you home."

"You don't have to," she tells him in case he's only being courteous but he waves this off and, really, she should've known better than to think he'd do something out of mere courtesy.

What's more, she doesn't mind the idea of a shared walk now that they've reached some kind of understanding. And despite his tirade last night, he's not acting like Hazelle should stay out of his life. Maybe this is what they needed for him to come around. They still need to address what they already, albeit unknowingly for Haymitch, said last night but she'd rather it to be when Haymitch is sober and not concussed or ignoring his own pain to mend hers.

Until then, they walk through the house into the entry, where Hazelle retrieves her jacket and Haymitch his usual black overcoat.

"Wouldn't your-" Hazelle starts thoughtlessly but she's not sure whether to refer to the dingy waxcoat hanging in the closet as his father's when it hasn't been Colton Abernathy's coat in decades. Haymitch hasn't worn it for years, either, from what she can remember. "-Your lighter coat be better? That one fits you about as well as Katniss' jacket does on her. This one's thinner, too - better for this weather."

Haymitch wordlessly follows her advice though he hesitates before shrugging it on. Hazelle finds herself studying him as she hands him an umbrella. She first met this bright-eyed, graying victor when he was a freckled Seam boy wearing the same coat. They're adults now, of course, and the Seam no longer exists. The war's changed just about everything in District Twelve, even the people. But Hazelle can't deny that this reconciliation of past and present makes Twelve seem a little bit more like home again.

Outside, Haymitch collapses the umbrella before it unfurls completely; the storm has died.