A/N: I was rereading Catching Fire when I felt the need to write a scene from Haymitch's point of view. After President Snow announces the cruel twist to the third Quarter Quell, the 75th Hunger Games, we see Katniss run, hide, scream, cry, and worry before she goes to Haymitch. This is their confrontation, as well as his initial reaction and the scenes before Katniss arrives, through Haymitch's eyes. Enjoy.

Flickering Flame

President Snow is on the television, giving a solemn speech about the third Quarter Quell. I'm trying hard not to think of the last one. My Games.

"On the seventy-fifth anniversary," says Snow.

I cough and suppress the rage I feel boiling up inside me.

Stupid goddamn mandatory Capitol programming. Watching Katniss pose and twirl around in those frilly wedding dresses was more than enough for one evening. On top of the well-staged excitement for the victors' wedding, President Snow decided to throw in the Quarter Quell reading as well. I'm sure it wasn't an accident. Just as a reminder that the Capitol isn't playing any games. That Katniss Everdeen better watch her back.

The President continues, "As a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol..."

I scoff, lurching up from my seat on my battered sofa to shuffle toward the kitchen to crack a window. I yank at the collar of my soiled shirt, sweating in my sober stupor. The television is loud enough to hear from the other room anyway. Don't worry, Capitol, I'm listening to every word of your goddamn sick broadcast, blah, blah, blah...

"The male and female tributes will be reaped," says Snow.

I cringe a bit at the thought of another set of children to take under my wing. Another pair of doomed Seam kids forced into my responsibility. I'm so sick of watching these children die year after year. It's driven me crazy for 25 years...good God, has it been a quarter of a century already? I'm getting so old.

I marvel at my ability to last this long without completely losing it or something, and take a little solace in the possibility that Katniss and Peeta will take on the mentoring of this year's tributes. Then I regret the solace and feel pity for them instead. It's the worst job in the world. I've held myself responsible for the deaths of 46 District 12 tributes in the past years.

I've gotten two out.

Two.

And now they must suffer what I've suffered.

I run my hand over my eyes and sigh. I really need a drink.

But then President Snow finishes his announcement.

"From their existing pool of victors."

My stomach drops. I think I'm going to be sick. That doesn't mean...

I sink to the floor, my legs unable to hold me up any longer. An expression of shock and horror is frozen on my weary face. No.

I won't go back into the arena.

I won't.

I can't do it. I can't go back in there. I can't live through that again. I can't do it.

My heart picks up speed, pounding against my chest, and my breathing becomes uneven. I'm hyperventilating. I'm panicking.

Then a thought occurs to me: this is not a coincidence.

This is about Katniss.

I know she's in danger. She knows she's in danger. We know she's upset the Capitol greatly with her unintentional symbol of rebellion, with her little handful of berries, and we know President Snow would just love for her to be dead right now.

But how does one go about killing a victor of the Hunger Games? How does one murder a beloved celebrity without upsetting an entire nation? Snow knows she'd become a martyr for the cause she didn't mean to start if he just had her killed or arranged some accident. She'd become an even more perfect symbol to rally behind. The innocent catalyst destroyed by the common enemy. Then the Capitol would really be in trouble.

So how does one kill a victor?

Why, send them back into the arena of course.

The rules for the Quarter Quell were written almost a hundred years ago. Who could blame the tragic coincidence on the Capitol? Who, but fate?

President Snow is a brilliant man. Evil, but brilliant.

And then I worry, not about myself, but about Katniss.

This was designed to be her downfall. She is the only existing female victor from District 12. She will be in that arena, where the Gamemakers can pull any string they want, kill her off in a matter of seconds if they wish. Not to mention the lethal, experienced survivors that will be in there with her.

This is a very dangerous situation indeed.

I feel sick to my stomach. I went through hell to protect that girl. I worried about her day and night for weeks when she was in the arena and all I could do was sit by and watch, and wait, and try to get her out alive.

I almost suffered withdrawals for that girl, on my promise to stay sober enough to help her. I almost drove myself mad caring, for once. I hadn't let myself care about anything for years and years before Katniss Everdeen. They were all the same. Weak. Pathetic. Hopeless. I didn't want to try anymore. I had given up. Then she came along, and she had this...this fire. She had a spark in her, an indestructible will to survive. And I wanted that fire. I wanted her to light it in me, the same fire I once possessed, the same fire that had flickered and died out years ago. She reminded me of myself.

So I fought for her. And I got her out alive. And I felt safe, finally. I slept a little better at night.

But now...the nightmares are back, and the fears, and the paranoia. She scares me so much. The thought of her starting something perilous she never meant to, of the Capitol loathing her, doing everything in their power to bring her down, scares the shit out of me.

It's times like this that I curse myself for caring so much.

I can't let that girl die. I just can't. Not after everything. Not after I let myself care about her so much. Not after I did so much for her. After I put so much of myself into her survival.

She needs to live.

I need her to live.

I need to figure out a way to keep her safe. I need to be in that arena with her. I need to protect her.

Suddenly, my front door pounds open, and I hear heavy, wet footsteps stomp down the hallway. When I look up, I see Peeta framed in the doorway.

"Haymitch," he chokes, and I want him as far away from me as possible right now. I need strength, and if Peeta is weak at this moment, I won't be able to hold myself together much longer. I need to be the strong one.

I pick myself up off the floor and motion for him to join me at the table before sinking heavily into a chair myself.

"Did you—?"

I nod numbly. "Of course I did."

And Peeta says the thing on both our minds. The thing that's plaguing us both. The thing that makes us both sick with worry, with longing, with sorrow, with hope, with dread:

"Katniss."

I nod again. "I know." I clear my throat. "I'm going—"

"No! Haymitch—"

I hold up my hand. "Listen to me—"

"You can't!"

"You've done all you—"

"Haymitch, let me—"

I slam my hand down hard on the table, and the sound shocks Peeta into silence.

"You've done your time, Peeta. You're young. You're smart." I chuckle bitterly. "You're clean. You're sober."

"Haymitch..."

"You can do more good from the outside. You can guide Katniss to victory. I'm just a sick old man. I'm no good. My time is done."

"Haymitch, no!"

I heave a big sigh and let the boy talk.

"Please, Haymitch, please. You've got to let me go in. You've got to give me another chance. To protect her. I need to." Peeta folds his hands on the table in front of him and stares hard at them, his brow furrowing. "Please," he begs in a controlled whisper, the desperation barely edged out of his voice.

"Only one of us gets out," I say steadily, taking a deep breath and trying to prevent myself from shouting myself hoarse. "It's damn well going to be Katniss, and we both know that."

Peeta nods.

"If you're out here," I tell him. "You'll be waiting for her as soon as she gets out. You'll be together." I nearly choke on my next words. "You want to be together, don't you?"

"Of course I do, but—"

I hold up my hand again for him to listen. "I'll do my best to protect her in there, but I probably won't last too long," I say, more calmly than I thought I was capable of. "Same for you. If only two of us can survive this, it better be you and Katniss."

I'm so ready for death, I realize. I've been ready to die for years. I barely care anymore.

Peeta stares hard at me, and I wonder what's going on in his head. I wonder if he's scared to die at all. I'd think he would be, but he's laid down his life for Katniss so many times I'm not even sure. He's so damn noble it makes me sick. I wish I could be like him.

"You chose her," he says quietly. I almost don't hear him. But he's right. I did choose her. Of course I chose her. I'll always choose her. "You owe me this time."

"Do I now?"

"Yes," says Peeta, his volume rising a bit now. "You chose to save her life, so now you owe me whatever I want."

I say nothing.

Peeta stares at me hard. "And I want you to give me a chance to go in and protect her. Me this time."

I let out a huff of air from my nostrils that's somewhere between a snort and a sigh and rise unsteadily to my feet. I go to the cupboards and retrieve a bottle of white liquor, pop the cap, and find my way back to my seat. Peeta is still staring straight ahead.

I take a swig of my drink as Peeta says, "I guess it'll come down to whoever doesn't have their name called."

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"Because you know I'll volunteer if it's you, and I have a feeling you'll do the same."

I gaze steadily at him for a few moments before giving one curt nod and a slight grunt.

He holds out his warm, strong hand to me and says, "May the best man win."

I chuckle and tip back another drink. "May the best man win, kid." Then I shake his hand, he stands, nods at me again, and leaves. "And may the odds be ever in your favor," I spit under my breath. He probably can't hear me.

His footsteps retreat down the hall. I hear the front door click shut. He crosses the green and enters his own home.

And I am alone.

And all I can think of is Katniss. In the arena. Whatever horrors the Capitol has cooked up for this year's sick Games. I wonder where she is. I glance out the window, into the cold darkness. I wonder how she's taking it.

I wonder how long it will be before she comes to me. I wonder if she will at all. I laugh coldly at the thought. Katniss crawling to me for help? Hardly. She'll want me to go in instead of Peeta. She'll want him to be safe outside. She doesn't give a shit about me, of course. She barely gives a shit about the boy. That's why she's out there alone, mourning the loss of her own life. Hers.

I toss back another swig of liquor and return my gaze to the dirty table before me. Then I return the bottle to my lips. Then again. And again. Until everything grows dark around the edges and my pain blurs. And I wait.

I don't even hear the door open this time. I'm too angry and sad and drunk to give a fuck. And what do you know? The girl on fire herself pads into my kitchen, and I just turn and look at her, my half-drunk bottle of white liquor clutched in my hand, my trusty knife in the other. I never know exactly when I'll black out, and I don't like to sleep without it.

"Ah, there she is," I say sardonically, my voice slicing the air between us. "All tuckered out. Finally did the math, did you, sweetheart?" She winces, but I don't care, I don't care, I don't care. "Worked out you won't be going in alone? And now you're here to ask me...what?"

Katniss is silent. She shivers for a moment, but I don't care enough to shut the window or offer her a goddamn seat. Let her suffer. Let her be uncomfortable. See if I care.

"I'll admit, it was easier for the boy," I continue, tipping my head back and dumping another gulp of booze into my mouth. "He was here before I could snap the seal on a bottle. Begging me for another chance to go in. But what can you say?"

Katniss shifts her weight from one foot to the other and stares at the floor. I have a feeling she doesn't know what she can say.

I put on a bad impersonation of her and mock, "'Take his place, Haymitch, because all things being equal, I'd rather Peeta had a crack at the rest of his life than you?'"

She bites her lip and her eyes flicker for a moment, glancing up at me. Then she shakes her head and stands firm.

"I came for a drink," she says.

I burst out laughing and slam the bottle on the table, because that's the last thing I expected her to say. Because it's funny how much she's like me. Because it's so goddamn funny that she wants to be like me. She wants to be drunk, disgusting, resented. I hate her for it and love her for it at the same time, and pass her the bottle.

I know she's never drunk before. She takes too much and coughs herself silly. I laugh again, feeling wrong and right all at the same time.

"Maybe it should be you," Katniss says once she adjusts to the burning. "You hate life, anyway."

I laugh without humor another time. "Very true." And I can't help but think it is. Life is shit. "And since last time I tried to keep you alive, seems like I'm obligated to save the boy this time." As soon as the words leave my mouth I know I don't mean them. I'd never save Peeta over Katniss. Not in a million years. I didn't the first time around and there's no way in hell I would this time. Katniss is too special. She's too...Katniss. She demands saving just by existing.

"That's another good point," agrees Katniss before throwing back another drink.

I watch her carefully, my mind clearing enough to examine her. She's been crying. Her face is red and puffy. Her clothes are filthy and wet, her hair matted and muddy. She looks like hell. Beautiful. Like an angel burning in hell.

"Peeta's argument is that since I chose you, I now owe him," I tell her.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and looks at me.

"Anything he wants," I go on. "And what he wants is the chance to go in again to protect you."

I watch Katniss take this bit of information in. I see a million emotions cross her face, and I see her hate herself a little more. She knows how self-centered she is.

"You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know," I say softly.

"Yeah, yeah," she says, brushing me off. But I know she knows it. I know it hurts her. "No question, he's the superior one in this trio. So, what are you going to do?"

I sigh and reach for the bottle in her hand. "I don't know. Go back in with you maybe, if I can," I say. "If my name's drawn at the reaping, it won't matter. He'll just volunteer to take my place."

I take a drink, and then another, and then hand Katniss the bottle back. She sits across from me without saying anything for awhile.

I can see the wheels turning in her head but can only guess what she's thinking of. Probably Peeta. Probably how she'll say goodbye to him. How she'll spend her last hours with him. Or maybe of Gale, and the goodbye she'll have to give him. Another one. I think of goodbyes, and how I have no one to give them to. Katniss has two admiring young men to choose from, while I am alone. I wonder what she'd say to me if she had to give me a last goodbye, what she'd do, but push the thought from my mind. She'd never think of me.

But she surprises me with the next thing she says.

"It'd be bad for you in the arena, wouldn't it?" she asks softly, almost a whisper. "Knowing all the others?"

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe she does think of me.

"Oh, I think we can count on it being unbearable wherever I am," I say bitterly, hating myself more every moment. I nod at the bottle in her hand, my mouth suddenly dry, my throat aching for the burn. "Can I have that back?"

She wraps her arms around it adorably, innocently. She's a better actor than I give her credit for, sometimes. "No," she says.

I lean down and grab a new one, opening it and swallowing a few mouthfuls.

"Okay, I figured out what I'm asking," says Katniss. "If it is Peeta and me in the Games, this time we try to keep him alive."

I stop and try to fight against the wave of nausea I feel, and it isn't the liquor. That would mean letting Katniss die. And that's something I just can't do. I just can't. If only she knew.

"Like you said, it's going to be bad no matter how you slice it," she says quickly. "And whatever Peeta wants, it's his turn to be saved."

I set my bottle down and cover my eyes with my tired hand.

"We both owe him that."

But we don't. I can't give him that. I can't save Peeta, I realize, because I want what I promised him. I want to get Katniss out of the arena, of course, but I want to get out too. I want to survive with her. I want to live for the first time in 25 years. I want to live if Katniss lives.

"Besides, the Capitol hates me so much, I'm as good as dead now. He still might have a chance," she says.

I look back up to her face. She's pleading with me. She needs me. I want her to need me.

"Please, Haymitch," she murmurs, and my mangled heart breaks a little more. "Say you'll help me."

I look away from her, examining the condensation that has formed on the outside of my bottle, frowning. I try to imagine a world without Katniss Everdeen, and it just looks dark. It looks meaningless. It looks like the world did for years to me, lost in a drunken haze of self-hatred and desolation. Whether she meant to or not, whether she knows it or not, Katniss saved me. How can I condemn her to death? How can I promise to save anyone but her?

"All right," I finally say, the lie burning on my tongue. It's just so hard to say no to her.

"Thanks," says Katniss.

And she leaves.

And I'm sorry for lying to her face, but I have no intention of saving Peeta. Fuck my promises. I will get Katniss out of the Hunger Games alive again. I have to. She's the girl on fire. She's the hope smoldering in the hearts of every rebellious citizen of Panem. Every tired soul weary of the Capitol's abuse.

She's the fire burning in me, rekindling my will to live.

She's the girl on fire.

And I must not let her flame go out.

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