Bring Me Down.

Sweet like a kiss, sharp like a razor blade

I find you when I'm close to the bottom.

- Miranda Lambert

AN: So this is just a oneshot of angst, and the Haymitch found here differs from the Haymitch I usually write, so don't be alarmed. Also, the tense may get a little wonky, sorry about that one. R&R appreciated as always! 3

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins does.

The door was wrenched open. The screen door banged against the side of the house, and Haymitch could see a silhouette hunched in his doorway. It had an awkward but defiant stance as it lingered there, dripping rainwater onto his hardwood floor. If he cared about things like houses, he'd be upset by this. If he cared about things like privacy, he would be offended by this kind of intrusion. But, as the silhouette took step after measured step forward, its form became slowly swathed in light from the bare bulb of the hall. Haymitch smiled. Well, it came out as some convoluted form of one, but it was a smile to him. Because it was her. And he never minded the intrusions when she was the one making them.

There was something about this girl, something fiery that warmed something deep down inside of him, like a fire in his gut, like the sensation of drinking a good bottle of whiskey on an empty stomach. Intoxicating, one might say.

So she'd come into his house without asking permission, another thing Haymitch would never excuse unless it was her sin. But he kinda liked it when she took charge. It made him smirk.

So she'd walked into his kitchen, facing the drunk sitting (or, rather, slouching) at the table, his glass firmly planted on the surface and hand curled protectively around it. She just stood there, facing him, then took her braid in her hands and wrung it out onto the kitchen floor. Haymitch realized he should care about this defiling of his property, but just couldn't bring himself to say anything. He just continued to smirk at her while, before,

"Here we are again, sweetheart." She physically loathed him calling her that and he knew it, but it just felt so good to make her squirm. Oh, how he loved to make her squirm.

"It's the rain," she started speaking without even thinking, "it reminds me of – " But she didn't say it. It was taboo, and they both understood. He was off-limits, something to go unspoken between them.

So she diverted her gaze and stared at the puddle gathering around her feet.

He chuckled, grabbing at a half-full bottle of some white liquor and before slamming it down in front of her. It was what she was here for. Well, that, and...

"You're disgusting, you know that?" she spat at him tiredly before taking the bottle in her hand and lifting it, letting the contents drain down her throat.

She was always like this, tired and so beat down, when she came to him. He used to give her liquor and let her sleep on his couch, maybe let her head home if she could still walk. But he wasn't her mentor anymore, and she wasn't the little girl from the Games. She stayed there on her own now.

To her comment, he simply replied, "And yet you always come back."

She got that glint in her eye at that, and Haymitch felt that delicious rush of something like fire course through him as she glared in his direction, tilting the bottle up to her lips again like it was her lifeblood.

"Shut up," she warned.

"Make me." It was childish, and he knew it, but there was an undertone to his response that he prayed she'd pick up on and run with.

But instead, she just rolled her eyes and kept drinking. So he decided to push his luck.

"Or haven't you accepted the fact that you come running to me for comfort whenever you miss your poor little Bread Boy?" He can see the angry tears building in her death glare, but he doesn't stop, oh no, because when does he ever? Enough is never enough for him, he has no boundaries, no borderlines to care about crossing, so he continues. "Oh, I get it," he snapped his fingers and leaned forward in earnest, meanly, in his chair. "This the only way you feel comfort, in't it, sweetheart?" The nickname rolls scalding hot off his tongue, headed directly for her heart. "You going to somebody who'll kiss out the loneliness? Somebody who'll fuc-"

"You know what, fuck you!" Katniss is suddenly standing and dry-heaving words at him, chucking the bottle at his head.

Haymitch rises, too, rocking to his side to avoid the bottle, then stalks drunkenly toward the girl. "You always do," he whispers, and she retreats, matching his steps but in the opposite direction until she finds herself pinned against the countertop by his hips. He reaches up a hand drags his fingers across her cheek to the hairs at the base of her neck. "Don't you, sweetheart?"

She puts forth a wimpy effort when she tries pushing his arm away, turning her face. Tears are leaking from her eyes. She's looking away, unfocused on some trash pile on the floor, so he grips her cheeks between his fingers and turns her face to him, the pressure scrunching her lips together so slightly so that when his mouth attaches itself hungrily to hers, he can taste her, can taste the saltwater tears and the sadness, and he wants so badly to just kiss it out so there would be none of it left. But Haymitch doesn't do nice, doesn't do inter-fucking-personal charity work, so he bites down on her lip, trying to get her to come alive at least once more. Like the girl she used to be. Before all this.

He feels a small vibration upon his chest, and realizes that she's hit him, her fists balled up on his shirt. He growls a little, pulling her closer to him, and starts kissing at her neck. As he makes his way south towards her collarbone, to the spot he knows drives her crazy, it raises goosepimples across her bared flesh. He senses her hands flatten out on his chest, her delicately tilted throat give out a half-gasp. He pulls away to take in the sight of her, but barely gets a glance before her lips crash into his with a clash of teeth bumping against each other, a nip of lips and heat of tongues as she attacks. Her eyes are closed, her brow furrowed.

Her consent, if hesitant, to this madness.

He knows the right thing to do would be to stop, to tell her and himself that this was destructive, desperate behavior they were practicing, and it was unhealthy. But Haymitch had never really cared about right and wrong, had developed his own sense of morality throughout the years mixed with a little libido, and this was breaking none of his personal ethics codes. Well, probably. But he leans in anyway, grinding himself against her with urgency, daring to bruise her lips, pulling her head closer by his hand at the back of her neck. Her hands rise, circling his neck, clawing him nearer and returning the pressure as she bites at her mentor's lips. This is so fucked up, they're both thinking it, but since when has anything ever been right in either of their lives? It's right enough, it feels right when her hand ball up in the collar of his shirt and pull him closer, when his hands close in on her hips, his thumbs drawing wide circles there. Their mouths open, battling each other for the upper hand, or for who's going to outdo who tonight, in another round of this crazy, fucked up thing they have going on.

But they don't think about it, have learned not to, as she pushes back against him, up on her tiptoes trying to gain leverage, and in response he lifts her up and puts her on the countertop. He doesn't object when her legs wrap around his torso, and she doesn't object when his fingers move to the buttons on her shirt. When he slides the fabric down over her shoulders, she breaks away for another strangled half-gasp. But, damn, the way she looks when she gasps, her head bent back, her neck bared to him, her eyes closed and tear streaks shining down her face and neck in the dim lighting... She could be a portrait. Of what, exactly, Haymitch doesn't stop to contemplate. Instead, he follows the glistening trails with his mouth, his thumbs working slowly over her nipples, moving in circles and making them rigid beneath his touch. She's pulling at the hair at the base of his neck, the part that turns brown when he sweats, and she knew how that tiny little action drove him crazy, she was milking it for all it was damn worth. He was getting hard, and was mad about it, the way she had this effect on him - and so damn quick - so he bit into her lip in punishment and ground his hips into the space between her legs, making her respond with another intake of breath. In a rush of fingers, his pants were off and she was struggling to kick off hers without falling off the counter and without breaking the contact of Haymitch's mouth with her left nipple. She was wet (because he was so damn good at getting her there), so much so that she was practically dripping onto the countertop. Finally freed of her pants and panties, she pulls down the band of his boxers and he springs free. Her feet twist together at his lower back, heels digging into him as if to say hurry up already, you bastard. Or maybe that was just his interpretation. Either way, he didn't need a second telling, nor did he need spoken consent to get started.

Without priming her up like he would any old girl, he slammed directly into her, digging his nails into her back as she moaned and screeched all in the same breath. His length entirely submerged, he wiggled his hips around to get the right feel before pulling out and pushing back into her, this time even deeper. He was being forward but agonizingly slow, he knew this, and while he'd love to just get on to flesh-slapping fucking, he wanted to make her pay. It'd been too long since he'd seen her last. Damnit, he could barely last a week without her anymore. That was one thing he'd have to start working on.

But he couldn't help it as he brought his pace slowly back to normal, couldn't help how his hands moved in soft caresses over her bare shoulders, how his lips placed soft kisses on that collarbone. Granted, he was slamming into her, harder now, but he was spiraling out of control, and his fingers dug into her lower back, his lips sucked at her neck, and he felt a hand rise to support the back of her neck, like you would a newborn, and a flash of something like tenderness threatened to start spilling into his gut until he tried to banished it.

He was pumping harder. She was breathing so heavy, matching him stroke for stroke. They were both coming way too soon, he could feel it, but he wanted to be an asshole so he came inside her before she had the chance to orgasm. In his ecstasy, he felt an impact on the left side of his face, and looking up groggily he realized he'd just been slapped by a now pleasure-ridden Katniss.

"Violence makes you come, sweetheart?" he throws at her jaggedly.

She doesn't even answer, just pushes him away as the last waves of pleasure descend over her, and he's pulled out before she stops trembling with the force of the orgasm. This isn't right, he thinks. But this was how they did things. He finally builds up the courage to look at her, and she's got tears in her eyes. She was probably thinking about Lover Boy the whole time they were at it, wished Haymitch was him. Well, he wishes things were different too, wishes she wouldn't come over here only when she was all broken up and in need of a fuck. But things weren't different, and hey, she did keep coming back.

So he'd take what he could get, he decided, while staring at her on his countertop, spent and trying to collect herself. He just realized the fact that he himself was sprawled in a kitchen chair, naked and limbs and member askew. She got herself down from the counter, bent over to pick up her pants, and Haymitch's piece gave a twitch, threatening to wake back up again.

He decided to do nothing about it, simply looked on as she turned to the sink, filled a glass with water. He expected her to take a long drink from it, but instead, she turned on her heel and threw the water directly in his face.

"Violence doesn't make me come," she spits out. He sputters.

Her expression turns sad, her voice barely above a whisper. "You know it's you."

He stares for a second. Then he begins to laugh. So what, because she trusts him so much, she'll let him fuck the shit out of her before finding herself a normal, healthy relationship that might actually fix her up a little? She's so fucking blind. Why did she ever trust him, and why in hell does she keep trusting him? God, Haymitch doesn't even trust himself, especially not with her.

Her face hardens over into its expressionless mask, and she leaves.

Haymitch finally registers that it's still raining after the dull echo in his ears subsides. Suddenly overcome, he snatches at the nearest empty bottle and slams it to the floor, watching contently as it shatters.

There. Now he wasn't the only piece of broken, worthless shit in this house.