ashes

by sadcoms

Summary:

"You got what you wanted, you know."

"I got what I expected," he corrects, and wonders if that makes it worse.

There is a story that says a flock of geese once saved a city. Haymitch remembers it the second it becomes clear he'll have to return to the wreckage of his home.

Notes:

Based on Mockingjay and doesn't regard Sunrise on the Reaping as canon because I find Ancient Rome way more interesting than Romanticism.

There is a story.

A flock of geese once saved a city, disturbing the night with angry, ravenous screams that echoed around its great walls and temples, warning its guards and citizens of a rapidly approaching army. The city awoke, fighting under the light of a full moon, sparing its capitol from destruction, its temples not yet abandoned by their gods, and in the morning the city remained. Some say it still does.

Haymitch finds it in one of Plutarch's books, years and years before he is confined to the president's mansion and the afterwards of everything that follows. His mind returns to the tale in between flicking through footage of the trial, weighing on him the second it becomes clear he'll have to return to the wreckage of his home.

Not that he ever considered going anywhere else. He had assumed, simply and selfishly, that he wouldn't survive, if not from a careless bomb strike or an enraged victor then from withdrawal. He's damn sure Plutarch had assumed the same thing.

He had thought he would be nowhere. That's usually the place he finds himself, anyway.

"What do you need?" asks Plutarch, only glancing at him sideways, no longer finding him of any interest. Not now when he's just finished being the star witness in Katniss' trial, a role he had cast himself in as a silent threat, an order for Haymitch to behave.

Still, Haymitch isn't sure that secretary of communications has quite the same ring to it as Head Gamemaker. He wonders if Plutarch thinks the same.

"Geese," he answers, "what with all our canaries being dead now."

Plutarch pauses, fixing him with a stare. Haymitch thinks that even after all these years, it still disconcerts the man that they know the same stories, even if they've taken different lessons away from them.

"Would you like me to crucify you some dogs as well?" he says at last, eyebrows raised. Clearly, the Academy was not kind to him about his namesake.

"Just the geese will do," he answers flatly.

Plutarch sighs. "At the risk of sounding callous, I don't think anyone is going to be invading District 12. There's nothing left to capture."

"And if someone were to try, would you tell me?" asks Haymitch.

A cold smile twists at Plutarch's mouth, and he holds his gaze for a long time. Calculating, gloating, undaunted.

"I'll send you the kind that bite," he says eventually. "I assume that's what you're after."

"Aren't you glad we know each other so well?" smiles Haymitch, and that's a threat, too.

.

There was a phrase their ancestors enjoyed throwing around before the Dark Days, though its legacy survived in the Capitol, the deal with District 13 looming over them until their typical forgetfulness took hold.

Mutually assured destruction.

Plutarch always has been something of a traditionalist.

.

He gets back to District 12 and drowns. The weight of the past year, decade, this not quite a half century of so-called life, breaks over him and he splits and crumbles, pieces of him scattered amongst the ashes of Panem. He tells Katniss he'll see her tomorrow and he sees nothing, not even his front door, no way out, and he hates himself more than ever for that. She is broken and for him this is just another echo in an infinite rock bottom, jagged rocks glinting below, always waiting to send a gleaming axe flying back at him. Though it feels a little different this time. Hollower, more final, perhaps even lonelier than normal. Names crowd in his mouth: Cinna and Chaff and Finnick and Seeder and Wiress and Mags and Portia and Cashmere and Maysilee and Merrilee and Prim and Madge and Darius and Ripper and Boggs and -

and he chokes, soundless, like his ribcage has cracked, lungs punctured. Outside, the sun shines and birds impossibly, unforgivably begin to sing again, and he lets himself hear and feel and see none of it. There is poison in his mouth and darkness strangling him, ripping him apart. Over and over again, he watches Chaff die, hears Finnick's last gurgled breath, holds Maysilee's hand, strikes the match whose flame will engulf his district, shovels dirt on the graves of forty-six tributes who never stood a chance, tears his nails from his fingers and breaks the fragile bones of his hands as he claws his way out of District 13, spits blood in the apoplectic face of President Snow -

until there is nothing left of him. Until he is spread everywhere and nowhere, traces of himself lingering across Panem no matter how hard he tries to destroy himself, to make himself disappear.

Eventually, and more than reluctantly, he digs himself out. A force of habit, because no one else has ever remembered to or cared to try. Even then, lucidity comes in fragments. He sees a glimpse of Katniss, fragile and held together by the taut string of a bow and Peeta's scarred hands. He didn't even know the boy had been let out of the Capitol, though Haymitch doubts he has been condemned to this place the way he and Katniss have. No prizes for guessing what led him back here, and it's with some degree of bitterness that he wonders if Peeta has ever seen a single thing in District 12 other than her. Haymitch doesn't go towards them, sick of intruding, and disappears further inside the gloom and rot of his house.

The next time he comes around, he finds he's ripped his phone out of the wall and chucked it outside. Again. It suits him well enough - there's no one left he wants to talk to and the only people who want to speak to him are the dead. The television stays, flashing bright and colourful and untrue. More distraction, another circus. A sight worthy of another drink.

Too late, he realises his bottles are running empty, sucking down dregs until his mouth is filled with blood, tiny shards of glass flecked between his teeth, digging into his tongue. Bile is climbing its way up his throat, sweat trembling off him, and he realises he's running, hard and fast. Chased by the memory of circling the lonely room in District 13, waiting for an end that refused to come, begging for daylight. He stumbles over his own feet, not sure where his nightmares end and reality begins, his district suddenly rendered eerie and foreign. Empty space where buildings should be, ghost lights flickering in the distance, scorched outlines of corpses. Piles of rubble, piles of limbs. The Meadow an open cemetery. Ash and smoke choking him. Bodies turned to charcoal, his hands smeared with blood and dirt.

None of it is new. He has seen it all a hundred times before, and yet he cannot wake up. There is a sunrise, cold and harsh and glinting like a knife, and he cowers from the light, begging his mind not to conjure up new details.

He doesn't know who finds him. Doesn't recognise their face, though it is sallow and hollowed by keen grey eyes, and he thinks that in another life he would have known the kid's name; would likely have watched him die. He is hauled up, directed away from the Meadow and its open graves, and pointed in the direction of the victor's village.

His feet know the way but his mind doesn't, clutching at memories that no longer have any use. Any home he once knew burned away. Didn't he always say he'd end up nowhere?

The baker's son rises with the dawn, light catching on his half-healed skin grafts. Haymitch looks at him, the golden boy caught alight, struck by the fact that he was used to the sensation of burns long before Katniss was. Both his tributes on fire, Haymitch long covered in soot, cinders at his feet. Haymitch wonders if the Mellarks have been buried yet, if he has found their graves, if their bakery will be rebuilt.

Peeta sees him, finally, peering at him. He must be a sight, covered in dried blood and caked in mud, and for a moment they both seem to remember that first train ride to the Capitol. Haymitch soiled in his own sick, the boy with a death sentence washing him with large, gentle hands.

"Clean yourself up," is all Peeta says, and Haymitch thinks there might be hope for him after all.

.

He drifts, shivering and sobbing, until there is a loud knock on his door.

When he finally reaches it, he finds a box of liquor and a crate of angry, hissing Roman geese.

The train must have come. Plutarch didn't forget about him after all. He's not drunk enough to know whether that's a good thing.

He opens the liquor first, blunting his knife in the process. There is ruffling and one loud, head-splitting honk of displeasure beside him that makes him wince, and suddenly the geese seem like one of the worst ideas he's ever had, which is saying something.

.

The geese are hungry, violent things that snap at his fingers and have fat, rounded bodies that beg for a knife stuck in them.

(There are stories about that, too, he remembers. Heavy, gluttonous geese that couldn't fly as fast or as high as cranes, as mockingjays, left to be torn apart by wolves and slain by hunters. It seems like the Capitol never did pass on fables to its children, not the way the districts always shared their songs.)

He feeds them haphazardly and irregularly, throwing feed outside the door whenever he remembers to, mind only half-dulled by drink. They prove to be hardy and impervious, focused only on their own comfort and survival. One of the few things that might just survive being around him, he thinks.

They do their job, too, flapping and hissing at anyone who comes near them, himself included, appeased only by grain when they're not picking over the still-scorched grass of the green. Were anyone else to come near the house, he is sure they would chase the intruder off.

Well, he had some faith in them, until he finds a loaf of bread on his doorstep one day, the morning's quiet uninterrupted. A week later, Greasy Sae barges into his home, putting on coffee and some kind of soup without a word, and against his will, too. Not that it seems to matter much.

"Ok, the boy I understand, he has wheat to feed them," he complains, voice slurred to his own ears. "What the hell did you give them?"

"Corn," she answers, which is the closest thing he's heard to a promising update from District 11 in a long time. "Need to fatten them up if we're to eat them in the winter anyway."

"Why wait? Pick one and I'll wring its neck now. My pleasure," he mutters darkly, though the idea of eating them has never much appealed to him. He heard that long ago, they too were gutted, entrails used for the taking of omens, a future to be found amongst blood and viscera. He wonders if his own insides spilled out a warning, had he looked closely enough, instead of being too busy convulsing on the ground, hearing the return of an axe whir past him.

He blanches when she places a cup of coffee in front of him, the scent overpowering him. The soup similarly goes untouched, bile sticking in his throat, making him wretch.

Never one to let drunken curses or vomit deter her, Greasy Sae returns a few days later, once again insistent on the futile task of feeding him and badgering him about getting someone to clean for him now he knows he's staying. It brings back memories: hiding away from Hazelle, lost without the clutter of his house, swimming in its emptiness; hushed phone calls from Cinna, Beetee, and Plutarch, always speaking in code, translations lost in static; Peeta, pulling bottles out of his hand and flushing their contents down the sink, trying to command a halt to the shaking of his hands; Katniss, seeking him out for some semblance of understanding or reassurance, something he could never give her. His body and mind, taut and fraught, unaccustomed to anything but isolation and defeat and cynicism. Always knowing he would have to give it all up again, eventually.

He finds himself craving white liquor, something of a rarity now that Ripper is no longer around to make it. The acidic taste, the clank of the bottles, the overbearing fumes - a home to him, just as much as the coal dust and the starved children and the black market. It doesn't help that the train hasn't come for a while and he's getting low on his usual supply, either.

Greasy Sae shuffles into his kitchen and he barks at her that she's meant to be caring for Katniss and not him, his sentence and exile far quieter, though likely just as enforced.

"I just go where I'm told to," she replies, and his eyes flicker to the window, glancing in the direction of the house alongside his, and he's tempted to point out the Mockingjay never was one to give commands. Admittedly, he and Plutarch and Coin had never been big on letting her.

He begins running a hand through his hair, fingers catching on knotted curls. It's been a long time since he looked in a mirror. He thinks he shattered most of them, ages ago. He wonders if he's gone grey without noticing.

Sae slams another soup on the table in front of him, comments, "You got what you wanted, you know."

"I got what I expected," he corrects, nearly spitting the words at her, and wonders if that makes it worse.

.

He pushes past the noise in his head and the tremble in his fingers. The pulse of his blood that tells him to drink, to dull his senses, to escape. He sleeps during the day when he can, mind always restless and ticking, waiting for the train to come, and once night has fallen he collects any scrap of news available to him. The television, flickering with news in the dark; Greasy Sae, coming to feed him and easy to nudge for gossip; strolls along the village, staring at the scaffolds emerging out of the district's ashes.

The trials have dwindled to one sentence updates. Katniss and her mother have finally spoken. The Capitol and Career districts are disgruntled at still being put on rations. Peeta has baked enough bread for one loaf to make its way into just about every home in the district. They've planted seeds into the ash-ridden soil, provided by the Capitol because they're getting sick of feeding everyone; no one has any hope that they'll grow, but Katniss and some of the others headed into the woods and came back with local seeds. He peers in the background of news footage, searching for Plutarch. Gale. Beetee. It unnerves him that, these days, he's not sure who else he should be looking for.

.

Katniss shoots an arrow at one of the geese through her window, grazing its tail feathers. It's the closest either of them have gotten to visiting each other in months. Another earns hisses and swipes from that mangled cat of hers that somehow made its way back from District 13, so Haymitch figures he might as well try to build the birds some kind of enclosure instead of letting them roam free across the green.

He heads towards where the Justice Building used to be. The trains might not have brought liquor but they've brought supplies of other kinds, not just food and grain but material. Bricks, remodelled by District 2 from singed and blood-stained chunks; wood, probably digging into District 7's stockpile, or scavenged from felled trees elsewhere; and an abundance of metal and barbed wire, likely smelted down in District 1 from an array of things on both sides. Bullets, guns, armour, fences. Arenas. And despite it all, Haymitch is left with the distinct impression that District 12 is getting the dregs of it all, still just an afterthought.

For a moment, lost among a sea of people that seem to have a purpose and drive that long, long escaped him, he wonders if he should help. Pick up a paintbrush, a hammer and some nails. He used to be strong, once. Which is as true and as useful as pointing out he used to be young, so in the end he simply forces some silver into Leevy's palm, despite the fact that these days it doesn't mean much at all.

It's been a long time since Haymitch worked with his hands, his back screaming at him and his arms and shoulders aching when they cooperate enough to stop shaking. Sweat beads on his forehead. He'd kill for a bloody drink.

"About time you did something to stop your birds shitting all over the place," comes a voice.

Tomorrow has come at last, then.

He turns around to look at her, not quite able to force a tired half-smile. "What can I say, sweetheart. Takes me a long time to do anything."

Katniss doesn't reply, face faintly registering surprise at the lack of bite in his voice. His eyes flicker over her: the oversized leather jacket, the thin braid she's put her hair in again, plaited more messily than when Cinna and her mother did it, and the uneven strands that frame her face. Less gaunt and ashen than the last time he saw her. The boy's done her some good. The woods have, too.

Eventually, he goes back to the fence and she goes inside. Hours later, the geese announce the arrival of Peeta, going up to him and sticking their beaks in his pockets and palms, searching for grain. Without a word, he picks up the hammer and goes to join him by the fence, shoddy but near enough to completion. Haymitch swipes it out of his hand.

"You've done enough, don't you think?" he growls. He'd have thought that, by now, Peeta would know kids from the Seam don't like to owe anyone much. The boy blinks his surprise. "And stop feeding my bloody geese, would you?"

"They seem half-starved most of the time."

"That's the point," he counters. "Makes 'em more alert."

"Well, one of you has to be," Peeta mutters.

"Exactly," he says, sharp.

Peeta tilts his head, and Haymitch notices when his fists clench a few times, a rapid pattern of something. Slowly, Peeta nods at him, the geese, the fence, then turns and hurries inside Katniss' house.

.

At some point, the train comes, bringing a crate of alcohol that someone knowingly and inevitably brings to Haymitch's house.

At another point, he is awoken by a cackling sound, one that makes him lurch towards the window and peer into broad, burning daylight, and when his eyes adjust he finds Katniss and Peeta building some kind of shelter for the geese, watching Greasy Sae's granddaughter laugh as she throws feed at them. He grumbles and goes back to sleep.

.

"I don't see why you can't feed yourselves," Greasy Sae announces one day. "The boy bakes, the girl hunts, you drink. I'll do one proper meal a week for the lot of ya, but that's it."

He figures it's the closest thing to an invitation he's going to get these days.

He brings a bottle of wine, because his Ma did raise him pretty well, all things considered, and because even he occasionally has some notion of reciprocity. He also makes a point of knocking on Katniss' door instead of barging in, though he's the only one who does; Peeta's home is increasingly dark these days, more vacated than not, waiting for another diasporic soul to be overwhelmed by nostalgia or to run out of options elsewhere.

They sit down at the table, nice and civilised, and Haymitch retreats into silence, content to observe the pair, their quiet looks and gentle touches. He pushes at his food, suddenly exhausted, leaden with another realisation. That it was, in some ways, easier at the Capitol, where he could be loud and uncouth and drunken in all the worst ways, and have it mean something other than self-destruction, even if it was just to piss Effie off by eating with his hands. Another facade, crumbled away.

Here, in District 12, he doesn't know when he is imposing himself on others and where he is expected to make himself known. He doesn't know what will absolve him, though he has long suspected that's something of a lost cause, and never more so than now.

Haymitch suggests turning on the television. Both Katniss and Peeta look at him in surprise, but he shrugs, goes to it and blows the layer of dust that's collected on the screen, and eventually they gather around it, wine in hand - white, because they've all seen too much blood.

They stumble upon some kind of address by President Paylor, talking about - what else? - unity, strength, transformation. Forgiveness. Kindness. He wonders who wrote her speech for her. Whoever it was encountered the enduring problem that it's far, far easier to be inspiring when there's a war going on. Though Haymitch had managed to fail that too, hadn't he? He glances at Katniss, winces at the memory of her being shot, mouth still formed around the words he'd put there.

Paylor looks tired. Nearly as tired as she did when they'd encountered each other in the mansion, though thankfully less bruised. Haymitch has no reason to dislike her, respects her well enough, even, but he finds it interesting how the militarism has faded from her, brushed and painted away by stylists, all that candor and strength increasingly buried. An emergency president for a transitional regime, no wounds left visible to wear. He heard that, long ago, when there were still kings and emperors, every ruler had to be perfect. Unscarred, flawless; reflective of the supposed divinity that had selected them and placed them on high.

"Look, there's Plutarch," says Peeta, nodding at one of the reaction shots. A single face amongst the crowd. Haymitch's jaw clenches.

Plutarch, who was never stupid nor modest enough to have the ambition of being president, he knows that now. It was always too visible, too vulnerable. No, he'd always understood that being able to handpick presidents, to move people into place like they're on a chessboard, is another kind of power. One he finally has.

"And they say no one wins the games," mutters Haymitch. His eyes drift towards Katniss, face and hands and body marred by burns, eternally recognisable from her scars alone; forever the Mockingjay set aflame. He glances at Peeta, hears the heavy tread of his prosthetic leg as he taps absentmindedly on the floor below them; can almost feel the heat of the flame that licked across his face and barely missed his eyes. He thinks of Chaff, holding out the stump of his missing hand. Of Beetee and Wiress and Annie, lost in their own heads. Of Johanna, arms bruised from morphling pinpricks, tufts of spiked hair covering scars. Of himself, body worn and torn from the war he's waged against it.

He stares at Plutarch, pale and unblemished and well fed, sees him whisper to someone beside him and silently chuckle at his own joke, and thinks he looks nothing like any victor Haymitch has ever known.

.

He begins writing letters, stumbling towards the station with piles of envelopes as the dawn creeps in before he goes home and sleeps the day away. Anyone whose name and vague location he can remember, he'll write to: Beetee, asking about the weather. Annie, inquiring about her pregnancy. Johanna, checking if she's washed recently. Asterid, wondering how the hospital is going. Pollux, interested to know where the latest story is.

Mostly, and predictably, he writes to Plutarch. He asks about District 13 and the status of their military, the rolling elections throughout the districts, the unrest, the world outside, for a copy of the bloody train timetable, even.

Katniss reminds him he could just ask for another phone, then shrugs and says most of her conversations are boring when he reminds her that someone could be listening.

Eventually, the train comes bearing replies, and he roams over the letters, reading between the lines. District 3 is the same as always, says Beetee. Annie spends most of her pregnancy floating, saltwater in her mouth. Pollux was last in District 2, filming Gale. Asterid doesn't reply. Neither does Plutarch.

I don't know if you're trying to write in code, but don't bother, Johanna writes to him. No one can fucking read your handwriting anyway.

.

Haymitch nearly sneers when Katniss tells him about the scrapbook. He doesn't mean to - after all, he's not one to judge how anyone pulls themselves together, even when he was trying to pry morphling needles out of Johanna's hand. He's simply too aware of how young Katniss is; that she hasn't carried decades worth of sorrow and loss.

Forgetting has never been a problem for him. He sees too much, thinks too much, remembers it all. He rattles off forty-six names of dead children and it isn't even the start, but Katniss doesn't ask him for the rest, for his Ma and his brother and his girl, the forty-seven tributes who fell faster than he did, the nineteen who didn't leave the 75th arena alive and were the closest thing he had to friends; the bodies who lay strewn across District 12, starved and beaten long before they were burned.

The scrapbook is just another reminder he has never known how to live for others, if he's ever known how to live at all.

He can't add much to the pages other than names, anyway. He remembers how one tribute's head split open, how another wrapped around herself and cried for her mother as she froze to death, the colour another's face turned as he choked down poison. The pages only scream what he doesn't know: their favourite food, the name of the pets they left behind, the songs they hummed when they were falling asleep. The softness and lightness of a human life, before its brutal and gory interruption. He always has remembered the wrong things.

.

He finds himself in the Meadow again, digging with his bare hands. The television distorts, twists, shows him Games that stopped playing long ago. He locks himself away in his house, lets the geese chide him through the walls, tries to stop the trembling in his hands and fails, splitting his palm open on the edge of his knife.

The letters he writes are incoherent and desperate and, finally, burned, his fireplace belching black smoke at him, making him choke, blaring down on him with heat. A coal miner's son, through and through despite it all. Escaping has never meant much in District 12; fate always catches up, forces you to repeat the same mistakes.

Drink fails to dull his fixations, the loops he treads around his house, in his mind, futile as ever and particularly painful in their simplicity. He knows where his family is buried and it has never made anything easier, their graves left untended, lost to time. So many goodbyes he still runs away from and refuses to say. So many graves he hasn't visited that he should have. Wiress and Seeder and Mags, even Cashmere. He has known for a long time now that blood runs deep, deep into the soil everywhere on this land.

Yet he cannot stop thinking of Chaff, his body uncollected from a broken, exploded arena; of Cinna, bloodied and beaten and discarded, engulfed in darkness and horror when what he brought was life. Finnick, left behind in a sewer, scared and alone.

What did you do with them, with their bodies, where are they, he scrawls, shaky and illegible. And then, smaller and inadvertent and stupid enough even a child wouldn't write it, I want them back. Give them back.

.

Despite travel no longer being prohibited between the districts, the only people who have come back to District 12 are the ones who grew up in it, and even then not everyone has chosen to return, moved permanently elsewhere like the Hawthornes and Asterid. There haven't been any new faces, not even that of a camera crew. It seems mass graves don't attract many tourists or much attention these days, not when there's now an excess of them across Panem, though before the war it was already an overcrowded collection.

He realises it's been a long, long time since he belonged somewhere. The victor's village had always been more prison than home, far away from his part of the Seam that had been crumbling into disuse and abandonment well before Snow knew his or his family's name. Something of a holdover from before the Dark Days, when the divide of the district wasn't quite so stark, winter always clung to him more than it did his friends and his hair had curled where theirs had remained straight as a blade. His eyes had been too grey and too dangerous for the town, hair and complexion too dark, covered in a perpetual layer of coal dust. They had never taken to him, and certainly not after the sweet shop had closed down. The Capitol hadn't either, for that matter, though that goes without saying.

The point is he's not sure he's ever truly fit in anywhere. The point is everything he has known and loved has been ripped away too many times, and he has run out of ways to rebuild himself. He is too old and everything is simultaneously too new and too unchanged.

He has been many things, victor and rebel and fool and fugitive, and now he doesn't know what to be, what to mold himself into.

He sits at Katniss' kitchen table, pouring spirits into a glass under some guise that he and he alone isn't going to drink the whole bottle. Katniss stares straight ahead, lost, wading through grief. Peeta paints another portrait, a far kinder hand and gentler memory than Haymitch has ever had.

He has more in common with the boy, both of them orphaned, minds addled. He has more in common with the girl, grey-eyed and banished and threatening. He has nothing in common with either of them, too old and too alone, irreparably damaged yet somehow lacking scars.

He doesn't know where else he would go, even if he could leave.

.

Sometimes, when he's lost track of how long he's been asleep for and doesn't know whether it's light or dark outside, he hears the geese chatter and his mind begins to thread itself together, assembling the vestige of a plan. More instinct than anything, really, and a remnant of one at that: get Katniss and Peeta out.

It doesn't matter that he no longer knows the direction the threat would come from, let alone the path to safety. It goes without saying that every other time he tried to save them was more for his benefit than theirs, and that any subsequent time will be the same.

.

The television blares, tells him it's been a year since the war was won. Since Snow surrendered. Since Prim died, and all that would come to symbolise; all it would start in its own right.

Predictably, the screen focuses on the clean up and rebuilding more than just about anything. There's a list of names as memorial for the dead, refusing to say which side put who where. Plutarch deigns to show his face, discussing the strength of his programming, how it highlights a more united Panem, walking the thin line between distraction and education and inspiration. We have to all learn to see each other as human again. To connect. Blah blah.

All Haymitch can see is what's missing - a future, tangible and fast-approaching; a place beyond them, left out of memory - enough that he finds a scream ripped out of his throat, smashing a glass at the wall behind the TV.

Not for the first time, Haymitch contemplates murdering him. Plutarch's killed more people than anyone else Haymitch has ever known, other than two presidents, and still he remains remarkably bad at it. Simultaneously craving spectacle and justification all at once, if not someone else to blame. Haymitch has considered it before, back at the Capitol when he was waiting for Katniss to shut the hell up and stop singing, watching another president be sworn in. He could do it quick and close to silent, and people like Beetee would always suspect it was him but probably wouldn't have the evidence or energy to prove it.

And still, he isn't sure if that would actually help, unclear as to why Plutarch is doing what he is and whether it's down to arrogance or stupidity or a corrupt and broken committee. He thinks Plutarch has rewritten himself so many times, strained to appear as so many different things to so many different people, that he doesn't know who he is; doesn't know the difference between what he is and who he wants to be, and doesn't care to. Not when he's the one writing the book, instructing everyone on exactly what his legacy should be.

Haymitch thinks that, at the end of the day, they both share the same amount of faith in humanity and its ability to avoid bloodshed and cruelty. It seeps in as if by design, man's teeth as sharp as any mutt's. They share the same selfishness, too, that calculated self-preservation that lets them persevere when far better men fell far earlier, and in Haymitch's more hopeful moments, it's that which makes him think that maybe this quiet will last, Plutarch not wanting to risk another war in his lifetime. That while Haymitch is on borrowed time, Plutarch might just live long enough to spare Katniss and Peeta, too.

.

"Are you keeping things from me?" Katniss asks. He can see the tension in her jaw, eyes blazing through tangled dark hair and patchwork skin.

"That would imply I've been informed of anything worth concealing. So no," he answers.

It's one of those bad days she tends to save just for him, her mind reworking over everything. Clinging to facts and fighting fantasies, sitting in the dark because she can't bear any speck of light, any flicker or buzz too close to a flame and the drone of a hovercraft. Haymitch does little more than sit with her, both of them left sinking while Peeta is out handing bread to others or carrying some leftover game Katniss caught in an earlier, better moment. 

"You should have told me. All of it. I said I wanted to start a rebellion," she says, teeth gritted, and he wonders if her mind is still trying to find ways to save Prim. His does the same when he can't sleep, though the list is near infinite now. How he could have saved Chaff or Cinna or Finnick or -

"Why didn't you trust me?"

He exhales a wry laugh. He wants to point out that, at some point, she stopped asking. Curiosity lost amongst the orders given by Plutarch and Coin, too busy following Gale's lead, or simply trying to hide from Peeta; the chaos and tragedy of him, the one Haymitch and the Capitol had wrought, together. That even now, she doesn't turn on the television, world narrowed to this house, the boy who resides in it, the unchanging woods.

"So many times I've heard how similar we are, but I've always found it pretty easy to spot the differences," he says, bringing his glass to his lips.

Her eyes narrow. Not the answer she expected, then. She's searching for ways he's being mean instead of just stating simple facts, though admittedly it does sometimes feel like those two things overlap more than not. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He swallows, winces.

"It means that, if it came down between you having to betray the two people you love most in the world and betraying the revolution, I knew what you would do. Which option you would choose," he says. "And how it would differ from what I did."

.

(He has a fantasy, deep at the bottom of a particularly mean and acidic bottle that leaves his entire skull aching, split open. His imagination does not make it worth the pain, but nothing in life ever has, and the train brings limited supplies as it is.

Sometimes, if he goes into the dark deep enough, floating to where the terror and nightmares can no longer reach him, he escapes from the past and thinks of the future. He sees the Meadow, long and pale green and flowering again, children running amongst it. Katniss and Peeta watching them, capable of a love and gentleness he hasn't been for a long time, neither of them reliant on drink or morphling. The world around them still in-tact, older and wiser than he's ever found it. He pretends that time has given them some understanding of his decisions, his choices. That they have found some kind of forgiveness for him, even if it was too late for him to see.)

.

The TV announces that they will begin tearing the arenas down, one by one. It almost feels like a loss, especially with nearly all of the victors gone. Nothing left now but images on damaged tapes. He hears fragments of arguments with the archivists about those, too, oddly edited interviews and quotes that Pollux sneaks into his letters, the line between glorification and instruction and remembrance blurred.

He begins to see photos and footage of the demolitions. Some of the less memorable and therefore less popular arenas had already fallen into disrepair, and the early ones didn't last, lost to time and new constructions. The 75th arena was already destroyed when they'd left it, and when they show the 74th it seems smaller than any of them remembered, so mundane for something that ignited so much. Trees, a river, a wheat field, some rocky terrain. The three of them blink, and it's gone. The camera pans to a small crowd outside, some cheering while others weep silent tears.

Haymitch's arena was one of the first to go. The very same year he had been crowned, in fact, Snow already keen to erase people's memory of the Gamemakers' folly. It had never been opened to the public, something about the poison being too unsafe, leeching into everything, rendering it hazardous. A risk to be annihilated, for the good of the people.

"A shame," Plutarch had declared once, staring at an image of it. Postcard pristine, the air smelling of butterscotch. "So cruel, so clever. A glory befitting the 50th. It could have been such a triumph."

.

The night is long and still. He tries to drink it away, as he always has, steady sips that muffle his mind, keep the nightmares at bay. The television has faded into a static murmur, his body turned heavy and drowsy.

And then he hears the geese.

If he's learned anything in the passing months, it's that geese usually make noise for a reason. Right now, their voices are more inquisitive than agitated, but the fact that they're awake when they shouldn't be turns him keener, more alert. By the time he's heaved himself up and moved towards the door, bottle and knife occupying each hand, they noises have turned angrier, more demanding, a low, dangerous drone caught amongst them.

He opens the door to a cacophony of feathers and screams, and for a moment he thinks it is Maysilee returned, blonde hair and blue eyes lost amongst the flap of wings as she fights off candy pink birds with sharp beaks, and then the words catch up to him.

"Mutt mutt mutt mutt mutt."

There is a goose in Peeta's grips, wailing loud and voracious like a siren, snapping its beak, and then instantly it falls silent, its neck snapped by sturdy hands.

The rest of the flock flee, departing with a round of hisses and some cries of outrage, running with long necks and outstretched wings that aren't strong enough to fly, and in their absence he can more clearly make out Peeta, chest and shoulders heaving, dead bird dropped at his feet. Even in the dark, Haymitch can see the depth of his eyes, pupils blown wide and pitch black.

Haymitch has never been one to surprise easily, and certainly not twice. For once, he knows what to do.

He leans against the doorway, deceptively casual as he looks backwards, calls out over his shoulder, "Mockingjay! Run."

The effect is immediate. Peeta lunges for him, rabid as he tries to get through the door, desperate to complete his mission, his programming, and misses the bottle in Haymitch's hand as it swings towards the side of his head, shattering against his skull and turning his vision stinging and bleary with liquor. Haymitch feels a hard, brutal elbow pressing against his sternum, his throat, fingers wrapping around his wrist in a bone-breaking grip, and he drives his knife into Peeta's good leg, just above the knee; a pained, startled cry gives him time to kick his prosthetic leg from under him. He lands a punch on the side of the boy's jaw, too, just for good measure, and then they are both shaking, trying to catch their breath in the doorway, leaning against each side of it for support.

He sees a figure shift out of the corner of his eye, concealed in the darkness, the house beside him seemingly still emerged in sleep, undisturbed.

"You got any of that morphling left, sweetheart?" he asks, panting but already taking off his jacket and trying to bandage it around Peeta's bleeding leg.

"No," says Katniss, so quiet he can barely hear it.

"Shame. That was my last bottle," he says, then barks at her to find a doctor already, watching her and the geese scurry further away from him.

.

"We need a better system," he announces, flicking his finger at the cast on his wrist. You'd think that, for a district that produces medicines, he could finally get some decent fucking pain relief, but no. He aches and his head is thumping in more ways than one. Peeta was offered something stronger than he was but, ever the masochist, he refused it, so instead of slipping into grogginess he's wallowing in self-loathing. Katniss has that blank stare on her face again, drinking what must be scalding tea seemingly without notice.

"Dunno. Geese seemed to do their part right," snorts Peeta, uncharacteristically bitter.

"Agreed. Most of us I did, in fact," says Haymitch. "You," he points at Peeta, "got yourself out of that bedroom before you throttled her. I only lost one goose, and it will still be usable in some kind of stew. You," his eyes land on Katniss, "are the problem here."

For a moment, it seems like Katniss hasn't heard him. Then, almost completely monotone, she says, "What was I supposed to do?"

"The same thing I always tell you to do. Keep up, sweetheart," he sneers at her. "Run. Stay alive. I'm not going to yell out Prim's name every time the boy has a nightmare just to get you to move."

She glares at him, open and roiling loathing, then chucks her tea in his direction and storms out, slamming the door behind her. Haymitch tries to shake the scalding liquid off him, rubbing at where his skin is already beginning to sting.

Silence hangs in the air. Exhaustion sinks down onto him, reminds him of all the places he is bruised and swollen and hurting.

"So you knew this would happen then?" Peeta asks eventually. "That I would relapse. You planned for it."

Haymitch exhales wearily, rolls his eyes. "And at what point, exactly, were you expecting me to become an optimist?"

.

In the following weeks, Peeta turns quiet and contemplative. He stops baking, returns to his house and fills it with light, whispers real real real under his breath and keeps his windows open at all hours so he can peer out across the green in the hopes he'll catch a glimpse of Katniss. Falling back into old ways, like they all do. Haymitch is inclined to think it's only fair for him to finally get a turn.

The geese won't go near Peeta now, even when he comes bearing grain and in spite of his slow, limping stride, so Haymitch takes to feeding them at regular intervals. He looks to one side, gets a glimpse of Katniss, sullen and solitary; turns to the other and sees Peeta, a softness hanging about his face despite its guilt and confusion. He notices the red scars collecting on his arms, and figures that the space between his nails and fingerbeds must be stained with blood again.

Most days, Haymitch wanders further into the district to confirm that no crate of liquor has turned up. Something about a growing expectation of self-sufficiency, probably, though most people here still know how to go hungry if they have to. He hears that when the trains do arrive, they usually come empty, ready to be filled with boxes of medicine, the factory's production grown swiftly, its list of ingredients surprisingly varied. Haymitch eyes the list, brows starting to raise slightly, and tries to make a note of where every box goes, how many stay within the district.

One day, he comes back and spots Katniss sitting outside, skinning a fresh rabbit, and begins to smell burned bread. The scent hasn't seemed to caught her attention yet, but the geese have raised their heads. He chucks some feed at them before he lets himself into Peeta's house, as soundless as he knows how to be.

He finds him right up against the window, arm cuffed tight enough to turn his fingers blue, veins bulging, skin scattered with bruises, dark pinpoints dotted alongside faded crescent scars.

"Easy," he says, placing a hand on Peeta's shoulder and feeling him startle, muscles growing defensive.

"It's - it's not," the boy stumbles. "I'm not Johanna."

Haymitch raises an eyebrow, jaw setting harder. "No, you're not. You're not trying to escape. Just hijacking yourself back, aren't you?"

The first time he saw Peeta sheepish was just after he'd requested to be interviewed separately, and Haymitch had, mostly without meaning to, gotten him to confess his love aloud for the first time. He grew used to the sight of an uncertain and angry Peeta during the endless days in District 13, hours spent going over his own mistakes, the only reward a lack of progress and a lack of penance. The guilt-ridden Peeta had come later, turning him even more masochistic and violent with it.

The Peeta he sees now is somewhere in between all those.

"It's not like before," he says. "I know what's real. I'm not confused. I just…it's all so dull in my mind now. Washed out. The only thing that still shines is her." His brow furrows. "But I want all of it. The sprouts in the Meadow and the blur of the woods and haze of the horizon. I want to see them properly, bright and new."

Haymitch thinks that, if anything, he's always found the greyness and quiet of the district comforting, a balm to his senses, though that was always what the liquor was for. Then again, Peeta hadn't been saturated in colour and beauty and poisonous pleasure in his arena; didn't spend over two decades mired in excess and glitz and artificiality at the Capitol. Nor did Haymitch have a girl to lose himself in anymore, to soften his memory and his hands and his purpose. Only cold, hard, and infinite loss.

"Then pick up a paint brush," says Haymitch, snatching the venom away from him. Peeta's hand wraps around his wrist, pressing on the bruise still there, and Haymitch swallows down a wince, the sensation as if his very bone was still tender. Only a moment later, Peeta's grip slackens, not quite slipping away.

"You never did forgive me for flushing your stash, did you?" says Peeta, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

"Nope. Haven't forgiven Plutarch for sneaking a wedding's worth of alcohol into District 13 but failing to slip me a drink in seclusion, either," he answers, shaking Peeta's hand off. "Good thing I'm not above believing in payback."

.

Tell Dr Aurelius to knock off any other "experimental" trials, unless he wants to start treating the third victor from District 12, he writes. I won't make it easy for him.

When have you ever? replies Plutarch, a sentiment he might believe more had he received a reply to any other letter he's sent. He wonders if Plutarch has always responded to threats better than questions. Another thing learned too late.

.

If there's one thing he knows how to do, it's keep a secret, which he thinks Peeta is counting on. And Katniss has never been very good at seeing the world outside of herself, at picking up on interactions before they directly affect her, which makes it easy enough. Besides, the boy has always fallen into confession easily, especially when it comes to her, and the only difference now is that he won't have a camera and an audience and Caesar bloody Flickerman by his side when it happens.

Haymitch is not quite sure when his affection for either kid began to morph into something like faith. As if that would absolve him, excuse his habit of seeding chaos between them and abandoning them to it. As if something like happiness and peace could be anything resembling inevitable. He almost laughs when he realises that, if that were the case, he would be rendered even more obsolete than he already is, if not entirely redundant. For a moment, he really does feel like he's back in the Games again.

So life goes on. The train pulls into the station, finally carrying liquor, and he can't tell if it's some kind of warning he's not heeding or if Plutarch has simply forgotten about him and no one else understands the liquid's importance. He runs his eyes over the inventory, noting the supplies that come in for the factory and its medicines; orders a sack of grain be sent to his place; helps crack open a crate of supplies, dried meat and fruit and cans from the Capitol.

He watches Thom run a hand through his hair and ask, "What are we going to do with it all?" gesturing between it and the wild food, piled and harvested elsewhere, before his face breaks into a grin and he laughs, exclaims, "I"ve never said that before!" Then he shoves handfuls of blackberries into Haymitch's hands like they're silver coins, staining them a deep red. Haymitch snacks on them as he walks home, the way he used to when he was a boy.

When he arrives, he finds Peeta leaning against the fence, sketching the setting sun, rubbing shades of orange between his fingers. Haymitch makes a note to himself to request more colour supplies when he writes to Plutarch. They nod at each other before Haymitch goes inside, and by the time he's poured himself a drink and headed to the window, the geese have tucked themselves away, ready for slumber, and Katniss has joined Peeta, capturing his lips in a kiss. As Haymitch turns away from them, he thinks it almost cruel to remind them that there is a world outside of themselves. Outside of Panem.

.

He sees Gale on the TV again, sharp and clean, hair still cut short and militaristic where everyone else who's returned from District 13 has let theirs grow long again, falling past the nape of their necks. Haymitch writes to him, caught between extracting information and trying to appeal to his better nature, if he still has one.

Come back, just for a little while. To see what you salvaged, he writes. To see what everyone else has rebuilt.

Haymitch knows he won't, and wonders how much of it has to do with Katniss. How much of it has to do with the allure of somewhere else, somewhere new and big and strong, a place that aligns better with the visions Plutarch and Cressidea and Beetee have put in his head. A place where smoke and ash doesn't linger. Somewhere that doesn't make you dream of spitting out coal dust, no matter how long it's been since you were down there, lost and trapped in the dark.

.

He sneaks into the cargo hold on the next train to the Capitol, stashed away amongst the medicines. The carriage rumbles louder and rougher underneath him now and he sips from his personal supply of alcohol instead of the Capitol's finest, but otherwise the journey is familiar, engraved in his mind after two decades of ferrying children to their deaths and bringing back coffins, so he knows exactly where he is at all hours despite the lack of windows. They wouldn't help much, anyway, because while he might know the smell of District 8 and the change of the tracks that signifies they'll be pulling into the Capitol in three hour's time, he knows most of the scenery outside is ash, rubble, and corpses abandoned to the process of decay.

He hops off the train when it pulls in, bag slung over his shoulder, and if anyone notices him, they don't care enough to comment. These days, it's been a long time since he was on television, a footnote in both the Games and the revolution, if that. He knows exactly where to go, making his way to a tiny, diminished conclave of grand houses. The Capitol's last, in fact, almost single-handedly salvaged by Plutarch from the bombs and the flames under the guise of heritage. The Heavensbee's heritage, specifically - the same one that allowed him to fund an army, that he always planned on returning home to when all was said and done.

Never one for guards, Haymitch simply lets himself into the house and lies in wait, quickly locating the well-stocked liquor cabinet and pouring himself a glass or three. It occurs to him that Plutarch could be in District 3, maybe District 2. That it could be days until he returns. Not that anyone will notice Haymitch's absence in the mean time. Or perhaps Plutarch will arrive in tow with an assistant, another calculating Fulvia-type looking for a nice title, some touch ups for the camera and a fat salary.

Eventually, he hears the door open and the accompanying heavy tread of Plutarch's footsteps below him. He makes his way to the library, the way Haymitch knew he would, and he hears more than sees Plutarch start, too busy wincing at the sudden light switched on overhead.

"Turn that off," he slurs.

"Haymitch?" asks Plutarch, recovering himself. He does as instructed, making his way to the desk and turning on the lamp instead, filling the room with warm low light. He takes in the heavy history books lying on the desk, perused and abandoned, the glass laid out in front of Haymitch, and the decanter he's already made a dent in. His frame seems to loosen, shedding some of its nervousness and suspicion.

"Helped myself," Haymitch mutters.

"I'd expect nothing less," smiles Plutarch, seating himself in the plush chair across from him and pouring himself a drink. "You know you're always welcome."

Haymitch nearly scoffs at that, but swallows it down. Plutarch begins topping up Haymitch's glass, but he waves it away, digging a flask out of his pocket and thinning the liquor with it. Plutarch chuckles, more to himself than anything, and raises his glass in a silent toast before taking a sip.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks.

"You haven't been answering my letters," Haymitch says. "And TV cameras are increasingly hard to come by back home. How is that singing show going, by the way?"

"Splendid," answers Plutarch, still smiling. "But I'd have assumed you preferred we stayed away from District 12. Keep it quiet, away from prying eyes. If not for your sake, then for Katniss'."

Haymitch grunts, taking a long swig from his glass and slamming it on the table once it's empty. Plutarch shakes his head, caught between amusement and exasperation, and, not to be outdone, mirrors the action, draining his own glass before filling another one.

"Been here two minutes and you've already brought the girl up," he growls. "What, are you losing confidence in your negotiation skills, Plutarch?"

"Hardly. My point is I'd have thought your priorities would have changed," comes the clipped reply. The usual veneer of jolliness has dropped, quicker than ever, boredom and dismissal rising to take its place. "Let us worry about the politics, Haymitch. It's not like you ever enjoyed the spotlight anyway. Or do you plan on running for office yourself?" He hiccups suddenly, clears his throat. "Pardon me."

Haymitch snorts. "And here I thought you'd turned into a hard drinker."

Plutarch glowers over the rim of his glass. "You'd drive anyone to it, and you know it."

Competitive as ever, Haymitch thinks. Always a Gamemaker at heart.

"You're supposed to work with the districts. Day in, day out," he pushes. "Your job is to keep us informed."

Plutarch lets out a huff. "There is a method to these things, not to mention a right time and a right place. You've never taken an issue with the way I've handled things before."

Which is a blatant lie, resembling the truth only because Plutarch had tried to discard him before he could voice his dissent adequately. The inhabitants of District 13 driven away from him, reminded of his unreliability and his inebriation; the remaining victors, abandoned, left to the masses, far away from where Haymitch could have any sway over them or where they could bloom into any kind of threat to Plutarch. All those meetings with Coin he wasn't asked to attend, war plans kept away from him.

He says nothing, but lets his fury show plain on his face, and Plutarch starts to bluster.

"You and everyone else accepted my help. There were…expectations to that agreement," Plutarch replies carefully, his eyes narrowing, his grip on the table tightening. "I thought you, better than anyone, understood that. Or have you come to live up to your name's etymology and try to supplant me?"

Haymitch barks out a laugh. "Don't be stupid. I don't want to replace you at all. Would be a waste of time and effort on my part, too. Like you say, we've always had an understanding. I just wanted to remind you of it, face to face."

He stares the man down, almost all trace of drunkenness gone. The Capitol always has underestimated his tolerance for liquor. Plutarch stares back, and Haymitch watches as he starts to seize up, head slightly tilted, his eyes taking on an almost bug-like quality, darting around rapidly, though his gaze lingers on his glass and the near-empty decanter. There's a kind of tremble to him, his breath turning laboured, muscles straining, pulling oddly at his mouth and where his fingers are frozen, pressing against the table.

"Po…ison," he wheezes out.

Haymitch leans forward, hovering over his empty glass before dipping a finger in and swirling it in the remaining dregs. He brings it to the tip of his tongue and licks it, then gives Plutarch a half-smile.

"No. I'm not the president, though I suspect that title isn't where the power lies these days," he says. "This is a concoction of my own. Did you forget that District 12 is now known for medicines? Night terrors aren't just for victors anymore, there are plenty of people likely to cause harm to themselves. Some of those drugs we make slow 'em right down, albeit only…temporarily."

He draws out the word, watching Plutarch's eyes soften into a glare. Haymitch makes a show of stretching because he can, joints and bones sizzling and popping from disuse, and heaves himself out of his seat, limbs a little heavier than he'd like but functional. He walks over to the other side of the desk and leans against it, slowly pulling his knife out of his pocket and beginning to twirl it between his fingers absentmindedly, not looking at him. He can almost hear when Plutarch's pulse starts to race again.

"There's no much to do in District 12, other than drink. The geese are pretty self-sufficient," he says. "You were right, my mind doesn't work nearly as fast as it used to. Can't complain much when that was always the point of the drink. It still wanders, though, and you haven't given me reason enough to stop paying attention."

He fixes his stare back on Plutarch. "You might find my exile more enjoyable if you changed that."

Even if the man's tongue wasn't too heavy to reply, Haymitch wouldn't expect any kind of meaningful answer, so he begins thumbing through the books he pulled out. Covers stamped with names of the fallen, of bygone days of glory and victory; of lifetimes filled with endless starvation and viciousness. Empire after empire after empire.

"How far does your history go, Plutarch? Cause last time I checked, Rome still fell. You're not going to build yourself a better legacy by simply rewriting it and repeating its mistakes," he says, eyes skimming a page. "I'd suggest you call me next time you're unsure of what the future might look like. I usually have some ideas."

He flicks the book shut, the muffled thud of its weight seeming to reverberate around them. In a flash, he's fisted a hand in Plutarch's hair, wrenching his head back and readying his knife. He hears Plutarch's breath coming out in quick, shallow rasps, gaze fixed on the gleaming point of Haymitch's knife. Haymitch spins it between his fingers again, and thinks this might be the first fight of his life where he's had the advantage, unfair as it may be.

"I should have done this a long time ago. Maybe then you would have seen it all better. The cost. Because you know what they say, Plutarch. It's all fun and games - until someone loses an eye," he smiles, and plunges his knife into the soft, rubber-like flesh of Plutarch's.

.

Different, from the rush and haze of his memory. Though this time it's more deliberate and less desperate. He hears Plutarch gasp, the hoarse ghost of a cry escaping through his esophagus, body erupting into a tremble, a constricted and terrible spasm, the closest thing it has to an escape or a fight. Haymitch twists his wrist, feels nerves and fibres sever, and wrenches the blade away, taking the eye out with it, blood spurting and gushing over both of them, room loud with the brutal and familiar sound of flesh yielding to a knife's edge.

He flicks the eye off his knife, stomps on it, and when he looks back Plutarch has stilled, his breathing steadied, remaining eye gone glassy. Haymitch figures he would have slumped were he not held up, muscles rigid and frozen, senses overwhelmed by shock and pain. Haymitch pockets his knife and lands his knuckles in the empty socket of Plutarch's eye, blood smearing across them, dripping thick between his fingers, before he turns and sweeps the glasses and bottle into his bag, not caring when they shatter and stain the insides.

Finding Plutarch's phone, he wipes his hand against the dark material of his pants and dials one of the only numbers he still knows.

"Go to District 12. Listen for the geese. Don't argue," he instructs, then hangs up. He'll admit that the following call to the hospital sounds somewhat less urgent.

.

He rides the train out of the Capitol before the dawn breaks, and in the emerging light his head thrums, hands clenched, grasping for a drink. He wonders how long his supply back home will last. How long it will have to.

It is still daylight when he gets off and makes his way to the victor's village. He must look even more of a wreck than usual, covered in dark, drying blood, bag reeking of alcohol where it swings and tinkles from his shoulder, too loud amongst quiet, pale and curious faces framed by dark hair.

He knocks on the door. Waits, listens to one, three, five, seven, nine, eleven clicks as it opens, and is tempted to point out that it must be one hell of a security system, though he already knows it hasn't worked all that well.

"Beetee," he greets, gruff and indifferent. The man's eyes are cautious through the thick lens of his glasses, eyeing him. "How nice has Plutarch been to you recently?"

For a moment, the man doesn't react, and then slowly, his mouth stretches into a smile, caught somewhere between delight and fear. It's been an awfully long time since he's had a proper hand to play, and they both know it.

Beetee lets him inside, hands him a towel and a basin for him to clean himself with, and apologises for his lack of a good, stiff drink, though he makes coffee, and right now that's enough.

"I take it that one of you has some kind of proposal for me," says Beetee.

Haymitch's eyes flicker towards him, flashing back to the plans and blueprints hung around him in District 13. How they were snuck away from his prying eyes, kept from him, Gale roped in to stand as his replacement, less accustomed to watching violence play out up close, still angry enough to be desensitised.

"Just the usual," he replies evenly. "An eye for an eye."

The words linger in the air, and Beetee begins to nod, working the phrase over in his mind, thoughtful in that methodical way of his. Haymitch is struck by the image of him at another table, saying no to a final Hunger Games, then agreeing to meet with Plutarch again, anyway. Right now, the man could reach for his phone, call the Capitol, and Haymitch doubts he would move to stop him, not interested enough in his own life and not convinced he would win against all the gadgets surely hidden away, either. But Beetee has always been angrier and more contradictory than most people ever give him credit for, and Haymitch can't help but think that, by now, he must be sick of building weapons and keeping secrets, curiosity forever tainted.

The last thing Haymitch is asking for is another revolution, let alone another war. The only change he expects, that he hopes for, is that now Plutarch might have to work a little harder. Have all that trust he relies on come a little slower, a little uneasier, the way Haymitch has always given it to him, because at the end of the day, politicians and their audience - citizens, they prefer to call it - are shallow bastards, more interested in someone's face than the destruction they've left in their wake. Gale has the career to prove it. Now, when they look at Plutarch, people might remember the carnage he's responsible for. Now, everyone might finally see what Haymitch has seen all along.

The phone rings, and Beetee goes to it. He answers wordlessly, eyes kept on Haymitch, head tilted in curiosity.

"Yes, of course," he says. "Though I'm not sure how much I can do. Would the Capitol surgeons not…yes, I understand. What about District 4, or 12? I've heard they're making real advances with medicine." Haymitch almost smiles to himself. "Right. Yes, I'll be there soon."

He hangs up and takes off his glasses, rubbing at them with a cloth. He holds them up, thick lenses catching on the light, and he peers at them, intrigued. Dangerous. He follows the sun ray, odd patterns shining through, and lands on Haymitch.

"I think I might be getting too old for this," Beetee admits, placing his glasses back on his face. "I'm quite glad of it. It's about time the world stopped finding a use for me."

"Funny. I was just saying the same thing about myself to Plutarch, in a sense," says Haymitch, running a hand through his curls. "Though he seems to move through the world just fine, working how he always has. I guess the past hasn't caught up to him."

"We'll see," says Beetee, and Haymitch's smile turns sly.

.

He is stiff and aching by the time he arrives back in District 12, creaking as he moves. He heads towards the factory, chucking his bag into the incinerator and hardly blinking as it blazes, ignoring the questioning looks and reprimands he gets from the staff. They shoot him concerned looks, not sure whether to ignore the bloodstains he's covered in or inquire about them, but the fact that no one stops him indicates the news hasn't gotten to him yet. He doubts it will, just as he's sure the broadcasts will keep Plutarch's name out of the headlines; play on, business as usual, except for someone else's name temporarily listed as producer in the credits, insignificant and inconsequential to most eyes.

The only change he finds in the district is that his house actually has some lights on inside it. He goes to the geese first, counts them, chucking feed at them that they pick at half-heartedly before tucking their heads back inside their feathers, asleep. He reaches out to stroke one, fingers grazing soft down, and gets a gentle nip in return.

"And where have you been, old man?" asks a voice. He turns around, watches the grin drop from Johanna's face when she sees the bloodstains. Her eyes narrow, focusing on his face, working out that it isn't his. "What the hell did you do?"

.

Bone-tired and desperate for a drink, Haymitch says nothing and locks himself in his bathroom, hiding himself behind the sound of running water. Not enough to make Johanna scream anymore, but enough that it sends her stomping downstairs, leaving a trail of thrown and broken things in her wake.

Haymitch sinks into the tub and dips below the water, muck and grime and blood running off him, easing some of the tension and pain in his back and shoulders, quieting his head. When he finally emerges, dressed in the closest thing he has to clean clothes and towelling off his hair, he finds himself met by a trio of glares.

"No one is dead," he tries, hoping that will be the end of it and strongly suspecting it won't be.

"Are we about to be?" asks Peeta.

Haymitch tilts an ear towards the window, shrugs. "I don't hear the geese cackling."

"What is with you and those fucking birds," says Johanna.

"You left," is all Katniss says, small and accusatory. She's balled up in one of his chairs, too small for it, knees curled up to her chest.

His eyes flicker around the room, looking at all of them, before they land on her again. He speaks, trying and failing to keep the edge of bitterness out of his voice. "And I came back, sweetheart. The way I always do."

.

Johanna stays the night and a few more after that, venturing into the woods with Katniss and coming back at dusk talking about different kinds of sap and bark. Peeta takes to barging his way into Haymitch's house mid-morning, not close enough to noon for either Haymitch's or Johanna's liking. He brings a silent and bleary-eyed Katniss along and sits her at the table with them. None of them speak, hands wrapped around mugs of coffee, but together they listen to Peeta crack large goose eggs into a sizzling pan and eat the yolks running golden and rich over fresh bread, still warm in their hands.

Haymitch says nothing as the television remains off; as the three of them work their way through his dwindling liquor supply, knowing he'd be a fool to expect anymore on the next train. None of them mention the Capitol, let alone ask about it.

.

One day, when the sky is blue and cloudless, there is a shadow overhead. One of the geese looks up, hoots a warning.

"Out," he orders, snapping his fingers at Katniss and Peeta and directing them towards the backdoor. He glares at Johanna, gestures for her to finally slink off his couch and go with them, and she rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue but follows, spinning her axe in her hand as she goes.

The hovercraft touches down on the green, bringing everyone in the village to their front doors to look at it. Plutarch steps out, cold and blue-eyed. From what Haymitch can see, he has a decent enough replica, one capable of moving but not seeing or recording, if the way he's walking is any indicator. He's slower, a little more hesitant, more cautious on one side. Still, he knows where to go, heading straight for the most dilapidated house in the district, now that everything else has been rebuilt, and smearing goose shit on his shoes as he walks up the drive, which Haymitch will admit he's not above snickering at.

"Bastard," says Plutarch by way of introduction, barging his way inside.

"Heavensbee," he greets, smirking. He's never been one much for schadenfreude, usually too cynical, too wary of the wrath that comes with humiliation, but just this once he'll make an exception.

"I'm having your phone reinstalled. I'm not coming out here every time you think we should talk," Plutarch declares.

Haymitch gets a closer look at him. The eye socket hasn't settled right, and likely never will. There's a rawness to it, still ringed by redness and a fading bruise, a thief of the humour that usually softens Plutarch's face, the one so many people found deceptive over the years. Maybe now they'll stop underestimating him.

Plutarch peers at him, completing his own inspection. "Run out of liquor already, huh?" He reaches into his coat, throws a manila envelope onto the table. "Here, maybe this will shut you up."

Haymitch crosses over to it warily, but undeniably intrigued, and begins to leaf through its contents: letters, newspapers, classified documents. He'll need time to make sense of it all later, but it resolves some of the questions hanging around in his mind, pieces slotting into place. And then he turns a page, and for the first time in his four decades of life, he sees a photo of the world outside, caught blurry and indistinct, likely frozen, a single scene plucked from footage. It feels the same way spotting the mockingjay in the corner of the television did, doomed to fly over the smoking rubble of District 13 forever.

Footage. Movement. A world beyond Panem, beyond the sea of District 4 and the woods of District 7. Bigger than all of them.

He flicks through the pages quicker, eyes raking over the images and words, face setting grim and pragmatic.

"It's no worse than I expected," Haymitch says finally, looking up.

"It's no better, either," counters Plutarch.

Not for the first time, they find themselves at a standstill, staring each other down. Haymitch, always wanting to know more than not, no matter the cost, driven to another cliff's edge, forever eyeing jagged rocks. Plutarch, used to seeking out patterns, so accustomed to orchestrating chaos and violence that he forgets he still has the capability for being surprised.

"We were always going to tell people about this," Plutarch says eventually. "You just get there quicker than the rest of them. Ever heard that patience is a virtue?"

"Sod the rest of them," he snarks. "It wasn't just about that, and you know it. You owed me."

Plutarch leans back, visibly angry in a way Haymitch has rarely ever seen him. "Be that as it may, any debt has been settled now. You made sure of that."

Haymitch says nothing, though he follows him out as he walks back towards the hovercraft. Halfway down, Plutarch pauses, turns his gaze towards Katniss' house, letting it linger there before he turns to glance back at Haymitch. He'll find nothing but indifference, Haymitch comfortable in the knowledge that firebombing District 12 again and killing off the most famous victors of the Games and the revolution would be political suicide, not to mention it's one of the few things Gale would never allow. Still, the implied threat makes his fingers twitch and long to grip his knife again.

A goose wanders by, stretching out its neck, a gesture partway between curiosity and a warning, and cackles at the stranger. Plutarch startles at the noise, caught by surprise on the wrong side and nearly stumbling before he recovers himself, creature finally placed in his memory.

"Still alive. That's a change for you," he says, chuckling at his own joke and knowing Haymitch can hardly deny it.

He turns around, gets back into hovercraft, and has barely left when Haymitch sees three faces making themselves known in his periphery.

"He looked…different," says Peeta, frowning, face scrunched in confusion. Not quite able to put his finger on it. He looks at him, blue eyes searching grey ones. "Real or not real?"

"Real," Haymitch answers. "I'm glad to know one of you is paying attention."

.

Johanna leaves the next day, bound home but likely to stop by District 4 on the way, reluctantly agreeing to pass their well wishes on to Annie and pick up the burden of taking photos of her and Finnick's son. He runs an eye over her arms before she leaves, not committed to looking at all the other places he might have missed for bruises.

Ten days later, he gets a letter from Beetee informing him that, upon a recent visit to Plutarch, he discovered a new guard stationed at the Heavensbee's place: a flock of geese, keen to chase off anyone who dared come too near. Haymitch reads it and laughs.

.

The evening is quiet and unassuming. The television plays away as it does, predictable and unremarkable. Not for the first time, he considers setting fire to his place, moving somewhere smaller and less lonely; living in a new house, one less mired in filth and history, this one never truly clean. He'd go somewhere with more space for the geese, less on top of his neighbours, perhaps closer to the area he grew up in, now that they're free to build anywhere again.

Faintly, he can hear Katniss singing, sounding soft and pure like she did at the Capitol, voice echoing muffled and distant around padded walls. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. He wonders if Peeta is having another flashback, if the sound soothes him.

He goes out and feeds the geese. He wonders how long it will be until a train brings him his liquor. How long Plutarch will remember him for; if he'll ever forgive his transgressions enough to listen to him. At least now there is nightlock, carried out of the war and stashed away deep inside his room in the case of withdrawal or an ambush he's not quick enough to evade. His mind runs over the papers he has tucked away, counting the ways everything could go wrong; all the ways this one moment of reprieve, this temporary lapse in violence, long fought for and earned through too much bloodshed, might end.

Inevitably, as he does, he ends up counting the dead; sees their faces swimming before him, his Ma and his brother and his girl, his tributes, Chaff and Cinna and Seeder, unable to answer when their mouths hollow and ask if it was worth it. He's tempted to tell them that they at least got an end, not expected to simply carry on, lugging a thousand lifetimes and a thousand deaths with him. Caught between one catastrophe and the next, never able to truly rest.

But for now, for this one night, Haymitch listens, and the geese stay quiet.

Notes:

This ended up being less angsty than I expected it to be and also involved me reading actual articles about like, the Byzantine empire and Ancient Roman social memory and geese rearing to write it so. Here we are. Kudos and comments are appreciated.