Title: From the Ashes

Rating: MA

Genre: Angst/Drama/Romance

Characters: Katniss/Haymitch; Katniss/Peeta

Summary: What could possibly be more dangerous for Katniss Everdeen than The Hunger Games?

Author's Note: Takes place at the end of Mockingjay when Katniss and Haymitch return to District 12. I own nothing. Please ignore any typos…my brain certainly does.

"Well," Haymitch's voice breaks through the haze of my thoughts as we stand in the foyer of my home. I look at his face—half obscured behind a curtain of unwashed blonde hair that hangs in lank strips down to his scruffy chin. His eyes are darting around the room, avoiding looking at me. "See you tomorrow."

He hoists his bag a little higher on his shoulder as he turns for the door, the clink of the bottles barely muted by the thick canvas encasing them. Doubt it. I think as I watch him close the door on his way out.

Except for Greasy Sae and her not-quite-there granddaughter, the house is empty. Despite the fire in the hearth, I feel a chill in my bones and wonder if I will ever feel warm again. I am alone in this world, and everything…everything I have done has been in vain. I close my eyes as the memory of Prim, engulfed in flames, takes hold of me. I close my throat around the scream, choking it off and sink to the floor, rocking back on my heels as I cover my ears.

Prim. Finnick. Boggs. Cinna. Castor… The list goes on and on of the people I've killed, but somehow, even greater is the loss of the people still alive. The people who have sent me alone to my exile. My mother. Gale. Peeta…

A strange howling, like the sound of a dying animal echoes in the room and I look around to find the source, only to realize it's coming from me. Suddenly the house feels like a tomb filled with memories of everyone I've ever loved, and I can't stay here. Greasy Sae tries to call me back as I burst through the front door, but I ignore her as my feet propel me forward.

Where? Where am I going? And then I see Haymitch's lights still burning and I know where I'm going. I don't bother knocking before I spill in through his front door, slamming it shut behind me as I gasp for air. I'm not winded by the short jog to his house, but by the pain that threatens to suffocate me. Suddenly, I can't breathe at all and I clutch my chest. My heart is beating too fast, too hard. I try to call out to Haymitch, but I can't speak. I stagger sideways, knocking into something and hear it fall over and shatter to the floor, but I don't bother looking to see what it was.

Haymitch appears in the kitchen doorway, a perplexed and wary expression creasing his face before he seems to understanding. My vision starts to dim and blur around the edges and I'm filled with the sensation of falling. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I know it'll hurt if I hit my head again, but before I can even think about bracing myself for impact, I find myself cradled in a strong embrace.

"Breathe," Haymitch tells me, though he sounds like he's speaking to me through thick glass. "Breathe, Katniss."

The faint smell of alcohol assaults my nose, and the only thought I have before everything goes black isthat we haven't even been back in district 12 for half an hour, and he's already hitting the bottle. Typical.

When I come to, my head is pounding and everything seems a shade too bright, even though heavy curtains are drawn over the window. I realize that I'm in bed, but not my bed, and recognize the covers pulled up to my chin. Haymitch. I think immediately. I sit up too quickly and nearly pass out again, but a hand steadies my shoulder and Haymitch's voice is softer than possibly I've ever heard it.

"Easy, sweetheart…" He tells me. I feel the bed shift as he sits down next to me, his hand only releasing my shoulder when he feels I've regained enough balance to hold myself up.

"What happened?" I ask, feeling foggy and weak.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," he admits. "You showed up here, hyperventilating, and passed out."

Then I remember the thoughts that had led to my panic, the feeling of being utterly alone in the world. I feel myself ripping apart at the seams, but before I can fall apart, Haymitch pushes something into my hand. I stare down at the bottle in confusion.

"Trust me…it'll help."

Slowly I begin to understand everything about Haymitch that I had been so blind to before. Whether I didn't recognize it because of how much I hated him, or just because I was too caught up in my own problems to care, I ignored the very basic reason behind Haymitch's drinking. Memories flood my mind—watching the tape of Haymitch's Hunger Games with Peeta, the day he told me of everything the Capital had taken from him after his victory… For 25 years Haymitch has been drowning his pain and suffering at the bottom of a bottle.

I don't know what prompts me to do what I do next—Pity? Despair? Lunacy?—but I reach up with one hand, cupping it at the back of Haymitch's neck and drag him forward until our lips meet. His lips are hard against mine and the scratch of his beard irritates my face, but something deep within me doesn't care. Part of me needs this while the other part of me is repulsed.

"Kiss me," I whisper against his lips, trying to coax him into kissing me the way I want to be kissed.

"Katniss…" He breathes, trying to gently push me off of him, but I drop the bottle and clasp my hands behind his head.

"Kiss me." I demand more fiercely, and on impulse I bite down on his lip, though not hard enough to really hurt him.

I hear his sharp intake of breath, and then he's crushing me against him. His arms are locked around my body and his lips press even harder against mine, but there's a yielding softness to them now as well. My tongue darts out, wetting his upper lip and then his mouth opens and he's kissing me so deeply that I moan in response.

I shift onto my knees, wanting to be closer to him, needing to satisfy the burning ache that consumes my entire body. I throw my leg over Haymitch's, straddling his lap, and this time he moans as I sink down against him. I feel the hardness pressing up between my legs and shove my tongue deep into his mouth as I mash my body against it.

In all the times I'd felt this kind of passion with Peeta, we'd never had the opportunity to do much more than kiss and touch. Certainly I had never been bold enough to let my body's need take over to this point, or if I had started to, Peeta had always put a quick end to it.

Haymitch, on the other hand, was just as starved—if not more so—than I was. His hands travel down my back and over the back of my pants as he guides my hips against him again. I break from the kiss, breathless, but not sated as more heat floods down between my legs. I drop my head back as I move against him again and again. It feels so good and erases the pain entirely, but it's not enough. I need more.

I feel Haymitch's breath against my throat as he kisses the exposed skin, and feel one of his hands working the fastenings on my pants. Yes… I think, thankful that Haymitch isn't as noble as Peeta in this arena. His fingers slip down the front of my pants, working their way beneath my undergarments, and suddenly he's fanning the flames that have set me on fire.

Any rational thought or trepidation I might have had about being at Haymitch's mercy in such a way abandons me as I give over to the pleasure he's bestowing upon me. Whether or not Haymitch has had any sexual experience beyond the girl of his youth remains a mystery, but he certainly knows what he's doing now.

I feel myself writhing against him, lost in the insurmountable pleasure emanating from his skillful touch. I feel like something is building inside of me, a kind of pressure that keeps intensifying with every stroke. I'm quivering, and whimpering, clinging to Haymitch now as if he's a lifeline, then his lips are at my ear and he's breath is ragged.

"Let go, Katniss." He whispers.

Let go? I think. Let go of what? And then his fingers pulse upwards and press against something inside of me that sets off explosions behind my eyes. I cry out and feel every muscle in body seize up, and the pressure that had been building up spasms out of me in warm, wet waves of ecstasy. I'm trembling as I start to come down from my high, somehow exhausted whereas moments ago I had been so alive with my need. I sag against Haymitch, my fingers idly twisting in his hair. He makes no move to retrieve his fingers from me, but that suits me just fine as I can feel my body pulsing around his long digits.

I feel myself start to drift off to sleep against him, and that's when he gently slips his hand from me and lays me back against the pillow. Irrationally, I reach for him and clutch his shirtsleeve in my hand. "Don't go."

"I'm just going to wash up." He said, his voice slightly tremulous. "I'll be back."

Mollified, I release him and close my eyes against the sleepiness as I listen to him move into the bathroom. The shower comes on but I never hear it turn off.

I stir when the bed shifts beside me, catch a faint whiff of soap and shampoo and hear Haymitch exhale as he lies down next to me. I roll over to face him and he looks at me with that same wary expression he had last night, but I push his arm up out of the way and lay my head on his chest. It takes him a few seconds before he settles his arm around me and fixes the covers so that we're both enveloped in their warmth. As I drift off again, I decide that anyone who can make me feel that good isn't so bad.

I feel myself pulled from sleep, feeling safe and warm and altogether not completely miserable. Haymitch is still sleeping with is arm draped around me, his nose against my hair. I have to admit that, even though this is Haymitch, this feels nice. Strange, but nice. Yet, I'm glad he's sound asleep, because I have no idea what I'll say to him once he's awake. The fact that I used him for my own benefit isn't lost on me, and it begins to eat away at the cocoon of contentment I've felt since falling asleep with him. Would Haymitch mind being used? Did he know that's what I was doing? It hadn't been my original intent… I had kissed him because I had understood his pain and felt that it was something we both needed. Now…I'm starting to question that.

Guilt begins to gnaw at my gut and I try to carefully slip from under his arm. I need to get out of here before he wakes up and I have to explain myself. Usually Haymitch sleeps like a rock, like a nuclear explosion wouldn't wake him up, but as I carefully lower his arm back to the bed, his tongue comes out to wet his lips.

"Leaving?" He asks, still half asleep.

"Yes." I tell him, hoping he won't ask me to stay.

"'k…" He turns over on his stomach and then he's out cold once again.

I gawk at him, half confounded and half jealous at his ability to fall asleep so quickly. And he's not even drunk. My mind quips. I don't bother with being quiet as I get out of bed, fasten my pants, and swipe a near empty bottle of alcohol from the nightstand. The one I dropped last night lays in a wet heap on the floor. I step over the mess and head for the door, not looking back.

My house is empty, but I find that Greasy Sae has stored the remains of dinner from last night. I don't bother warming them up as I stand over the sink and eat. Thoughts of Prim, Peeta, and Gale begin to resurface in my mind as I consider what to do with myself for the day and find that everything I'd ever done involved one of the three of them. The thick stew clogs my throat and I twist the cap off of Haymitch's bottle, draining it to wash down the stew. The alcohol burns, and mixed with the meat in the stew tastes more foul than ever, but I find myself lamenting that I hadn't grabbed a fuller bottle.

I briefly consider going back over to Haymitch's to pilfer more of his stash, but quickly dismiss it. With nothing better to do, and the suffocating grief of my thoughts pressing down on me, I decide to curl up on the couch and go back to sleep. But the reprieve I found last night in Haymitch's bed ends here. My dreams are filled with images of Prim on fire, screaming at me, telling me it's all my fault, that I've failed her. Her arms are around me, not to comfort me in her embrace, to make me burn with her. Around us stand all of my victims, the people I've murdered, staring on in quiet vengeance. In the background I can see Snow laughing, the blood dripping from his lips, self-assured that he won after all.

I bolt upright, screaming and struggling free of the arms that encase me, crashing to the floor. The blanket that's covered me tangles around my legs. When I realize it had just been a dream, I break down in sheer agony. I slump to the floor, laying my head against the cool floorboards as I sob uncontrollably for what feels like hours.

I wish I had died in that first arena. Peeta probably wouldn't have made it out either, but at least nothing after the fact would have happened. District 12 would still be standing, Prim still alive…no one would have died for me…because of me. I could have kept Prim safe if only I'd just died.

Alone and cold and wallowing in my grief, I no longer know how to keep a lid on my emotions. I want to stay on that floor until death finally comes for me, but the ghosts continue to haunt my every thought and I can't stand it anymore. I push myself to my feet and, with great effort, find myself back at Haymitch's.

He doesn't ask me if I'm alright—whether because it's blatantly obvious that I'm not, or he doesn't care, or he simply knows exactly how I feel—but we sit in his living room, shoulder to shoulder on the couch and share a bottle of alcohol. We don't speak, but mostly because neither of us has anything to say and we've both never been big on small talk.

The alcohol leaves me hazy but numbed after a while and I sink further into Haymitch's side, stealing the warmth of his body as my eyes watch the dancing flames in the fireplace. I used to think fire was beautiful…now I hate everything about it. Katniss…the girl who hates fire. I think bitterly.

"Does it ever get easier?" My voice is barely a whisper, but still sounds far too loud in the companionable silence that had preceded it.

Haymitch takes a long pull from the bottle. "No."

I take the bottle from him and take several small sips. Suddenly I find myself wondering about Haymitch's love—the one Snow had killed after he'd won the Quarter Quell. "What was her name?"

"Katniss…" he says quietly in warning.

I can't help myself; a hint of a smirk lifts my lips. "Her name was Katniss?"

Haymitch rips the bottle from my hand as he mutters something under his breath. For a long time he doesn't answer but then very quietly I hear him say, "Mica."

Somehow, knowing her name doesn't feel as satisfying as I thought it might. I tried to imagine what she might look like, how she must have loved Haymitch. I can't imagine Haymitch being in love, but I know from watching the tape of his Quarter Quell that Haymitch was very different than he is now. The arena changed him…just as it changes all of us.

"I'm sorry." It seems inadequate, and he merely grunts in response. We're quiet again as we continue drinking. "You're a terrible mentor you know."

He looks at me, his mind slow from the alcohol as he tries to figure out why I would say this to him now.

"You're advice to us was to stay alive." I tell him. "If you were a good mentor, you would have told us to blow ourselves up in that 60 seconds before the gong."

He snorts as he tries not to laugh, but then he can't stop himself. I can't remember ever hearing Haymitch laugh before, and marvel at the joyous, infectious sound bubbling out of him. "Can you imagine the look on Snow's face if all of the tributes blew themselves up before the Games really began?"

We both give into to gales of laughter, talking about the strategy needed to plan such a coup, and what Snow might do to retaliate. It's a grim topic, but in light of all the recent horrors, oddly humorous. It feels like years since I last laughed, and I feel pleasantly light headed as the endorphins mingle with the alcohol in my system. I'm leaning heavily on Haymitch now, and realize that he's put his arm around me at some point. We seem to become aware of this at the same time because the smile fades from Haymitch's face and he starts to move away. I fist my hand around the front of his shirt in a silent plea and he settles his arm back across my shoulders, his forehead falling forward against mine.

"We must be crazy." He tells me quietly.

And I know it's true, but I don't care anymore. "Kiss me."

I want to feel that same sweet bliss from last night, the euphoria that wiped away all of my despair. I want to escape from Hell with him and forget everything.

This time Haymitch doesn't protest. His lips are on mine as desperately as mine are on his, and we kiss each other into a frenzy. That throbbing ache starts low and dull between my legs, and I quickly straddle his lap as I did last night, moving against him to relieve the ache. Haymitch's hands carefully slip underneath the hem of my shirt, his warm palms flat against my back. I moan softly into his moan, deciding I like the way he touches me, and it seems to encourage him. His fingers gently knead the muscles on either side of my spine as he them upwards. His tongue is rolling around my mouth, nearly as intoxicating as the alcohol. When his finger traces the band of my bra, over my ribcage, and along the cup, it's nearly all I can do not to rip my clothes off.

Haymitch's hand gently closes over my breast, squeezing gently, thumb stroking my nipple through the garment and lighting a whole new fire within me. I break the kiss, tossing my head back as I make some sort of strange mewling noise and press myself against his hand. I'm practically vibrating with my need and Haymitch seems content on taking things as slow as he can get away with.

"Haymitch…" my voice is strained.

"Say it." He tells me. I groan in frustration. "Say it, Katniss."

Effie Trinket would probably faint at my next indecorous words, but Haymitch merely grins and rips my shirt off over my head, somehow unfastening my bra in almost the same moment, and then my breast is in his mouth and I am, once again, the girl on fire.

This time when his fingers find their way between my legs, it's not enough. I need more. I groan in frustration and Haymitch smirks at me before he flips us around so that I'm sitting on the couch and he's now kneeling on the floor in front of me.

"Trust me." He says, a glint in his blue eyes, that curtain of hair giving him a mischievous look that I don't trust for a second, but he doesn't give me time to voice my dissent before he's pulling off my boots and dragging the rest of my clothing down my legs, leaving me completely nude on his sofa. For a moment I feel self-conscious as his eyes drink in the sight of me, but his gaze isn't lecherous or depreciating. There's something in his eyes I've never seen before and it makes me feel beautiful and sexy despite the scars and burns that riddle my flesh. Haymitch hooks his arms under my legs, dragging me down to the edge of the couch, then presses a kiss on my inner thigh as he parts my legs. His fingers feel almost as soft as satin as they ghost up the inside of my thighs as well, his thumbs spreading the wetness that has collected on my sex, and then he's leaning in and kissing me between my legs.

I feel gooseflesh rise on the tops of my legs as his hair tickles my thighs, and I comb my fingers through his hair, finding it still relatively clean from his shower last night, and softer than I imagined it might be. The scrape of his beard between my legs actually adds to my arousal rather than detracts from it and I splay my legs further apart to invite more of his kisses. I jolt when his tongue sweeps between the folds of flesh, but then he's licking and sucking that little of bundle of nerves and I forget everything I know.

I never imagined anything could feel as good as what Haymitch is doing to me now. Last night pales in comparison, and I can't imagine it ever getting better than this…until I feel his fingers enter me. Suddenly Haymitch is in a vice grip in my hands as I grind myself against him mindlessly. It feels so good and I want to feel the explosions so bad that it doesn't cross my mind that he can't breath until he's trying to pull away from me.

I fight him, almost whining when he stops what he's doing, but then realizing I'm suffocating him so I quickly release him. He's breathless but laughing as he pulls back and I have the decency to blush.

"Sorry."

"Don't be." He says, taking a minute to calm his breathing before he moves back in. "Just try not to kill me."

This time, I run my fingers through his hair, but stay mindful of the amount of pressure I'm exuding from my arms and legs. By the time he's brought me to the edge of bliss, my legs are shaking, and I'm all but screaming his name, begging him not to stop until I'm over the edge. Haymitch stays with me until the end, locking his mouth on me, pulsing his fingers inside of me, and letting me grind myself furiously against his face until I sink back, twitching and sated.

When Haymitch pulls back, I see his face glistening with my wetness and he suddenly looks very beautiful to me. The fire light is playing off the blonde in his hair, turning it golden. He seems younger in this moment, though I can't place why I think so. I quietly move from the couch, straddling his legs as I kiss him deeply. I can taste myself on his lips and tongue, sweet and tangy.

"Teach me how to love a man." I ask of him. Beyond the basics of sex, I know nothing—especially not the kinds of things that Haymitch just did to me—but I want to know how to please men…how to please Haymitch and make him forget everything the way he makes me forget.

"Katniss…" His protest is a sigh and I feel his arms encircle me. "This is…too dangerous."

"Why?" I ask, pulling back to search his face. After the Hunger Games, the war, the deaths, destruction and despair; after everything we'd been through, this is dangerous? He doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to. The look in his eyes tells me everything.

Haymitch Abernathy is falling in love with me.

TBC