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1.
"Oh look, there he is, propping up the bar, as usual. Between you and me, darling? Reason number one why I wanted this promotion so badly. Oh, now don't you worry a bit, he's a frightful bore but you'll do marvellously, I can already tell. Haymitch! I have someone for you to meet!"
Aster kept up a steady stream of chatter as he pulled Effie along. She tried to quiet the sudden bout of nerves she felt as they approached District Twelve's only living Victor.
"Mr Haymitch Abernathy," Aster said, "meet Effie Trinket, your new escort, starting next year of course. She was just given the nod, isn't that wonderful? I know the two of you will get along very well. Haymitch? Haymitch!" Aster rolled his eyes as the Victor finally turned his head from his intense perusal of his whiskey glass and looked over at them.
"New girl?" he grunted.
"Yes, Haymitch. I have only been telling you about my promotion for the last two weeks. I'm off to Six next year. Don't miss me too much, now, will you?" Aster laughed at his own joke and turned to the bar to order a cocktail, leaving Effie to face the man she would be working closely with from now on.
"Effie Trinket," she said, just in case he missed it the first time, and held out her hand. "I'm so pleased to meet you. I was so excited to finally get my assignment."
"I'll bet you were." Haymitch tossed back the rest of his drink and slid off the bar stool.
"It was only to be expected, of course," she said brightly as he took her offered hand, "it's only a little perseverance, you know, a little effort, and knowing one or two of the right people, and anyone can succeed in what they... set out to - oh!"
He didn't shake her hand like a civilised person. He looked at her for a few seconds as she spoke, then tugged her into him and kissed her firmly on the lips. As quickly as it happened he was brushing past her with a laugh and a light smack on her hip. "Well I look forward to working with you, sweetheart. Chaff, buddy, you hear that? Another escort bites the dust."
She spluttered a little, flustered and not knowing exactly how to react. Were all District men quite so... friendly? Aster just patted her shoulder and pressed a cocktail in her hand.
"You'll be just fine," he said, as she drank up.
2.
Everything was prepared for the reaping. Out in the square, the children of District Twelve were being organised into their ranks, everything nice and orderly and exactly according to schedule.
Only ten minutes or so until the ceremony would begin, Effie could practically feel the excitement running through the air.
She stood just inside the doors of the Justice Building, out of the glaring sun, running over her lines in her head. It was her fourth year as escort and it was all quite old hat for her by now, but it never hurt to be extra, extra prepared.
A commotion outside drew her attention. Someone stumbled over a chair, swore loudly, and then came and slumped in the doorway.
Haymitch. She hadn't even needed one full term as escort to know what a trial he would be. All of Panem knew he was a drunken wastrel of a man, his antics were practically legendary by this point.
He was actually on time for once - surely an accident rather than any deliberate effort to be punctual on his part. He was just as likely to arrive halfway through the ceremony, or not at all. Last year, Peacekeepers had to be dispatched to physically convey him from his house to the train before they could depart.
Slovenly as ever, his bloodshot eyes peered blearily around the dim interior as he swigged from a liquor bottle and dragged a hand over his face. Finally his eyes landed on her, and he heaved away from the threshold.
"Effie! Effie Trinket! Hey, there she is," he said as he staggered towards her.
She smiled tightly. "Hello, Haymitch."
He kept coming forward and she braced herself. It would only amuse him more if she tried to evade him, and encourage him to make a scene, so she chose to merely fume silently as he wrapped his arms around her in an extremely unpleasant hug. She cringed, trapped against his chest for several seconds. He stank of sweat and bile and liquor, and he clapped her back several times firmly enough to hurt.
As one final insult he pressed a wet, smacking kiss on her cheek before finally releasing her.
"Always a pleasure," he slurred, moving to slump on a bench against the wall.
This false, obnoxious affection - he only did it to be especially tiresome, she knew that perfectly well. He wanted to fluster and embarrass her. Unfortunately, knowing that this was his goal wasn't particularly helpful, because it always worked; she was always flustered, and always embarrassed.
He drank some more as she dug in her small purse for a compact to check her appearance.
"Don't bother." He waved a hand. "You look as lovely as ever."
"And you, of course, look as disreputable as ever."
"Well thank you, sweetheart, I will take that as a compliment."
She attempted to ignore him, examining her face in the small mirror. She had to appear live before all of Panem within minutes. There were no words - not words that she would repeat, anyway - to express how much she hated Haymitch Abernathy at times like this.
She only used cosmetics of the highest quality, of course, but even products that claimed to be stay-fast and non-transferable couldn't withstand the kind of slobbering, alcohol-laced assault to which her cheek had just been subjected. She fixed the damage as quickly and efficiently as she could, silently cursing the man who sat watching her with lazy disdain all over his face - disdain, and also some of her make-up.
When finally she snapped the compact closed he spoke again - or attempted to. Whatever sarcastic comment he had intended was superseded by a loud belch.
Stalking over, she drew a cosmetic wipe from the small packet in her purse and brandished it at him. "For goodness sake, wipe your face! You look like..."
"What? Got some of you on me, huh?" He just grinned, unconcerned, completely ignoring the hand outstretched towards him.
Stifling a huff of irritation, she took hold of him by the chin and wiped the traces of make-up from around his mouth none too gently. By some small mercy he tolerated this, and only sighed when she was finished making him - to what small degree such a feat could be accomplished - presentable again.
"Wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong idea now, would we?" He lifted his lazy-eyed gaze to hers and smirked. "Maybe next time my aim'll be better."
She blushed at the insinuation and quickly turned away. A low laugh followed her as she went out into the sunshine to give the microphone one last check. It was time for the Reaping, all eyes and cameras focused on her.
Thankfully, with her make-up freshly reapplied, her reddened cheeks wouldn't show.
3.
"Ah, damn it to hell." Haymitch's bitter words fell into the void left by their tribute's death.
The canon sounded on screen. Footage switched over to commentary and replays while, in the arena, the hovercraft would be descending to lift the broken body of a 17-year-old girl from the bottom of a ravine.
"It's not fair," Effie whispered.
There was a bark of laughter from her left, and then Haymitch stood and went to the bar cart. "Fair," he muttered. "Good one."
She had been doing so well. Unlike her fellow tribute from Twelve, Arica had survived the bloodbath. She had killed that boy from Seven when he tried to sneak up on her two days ago. She had avoided the death adder traps, and even managed to catch a few fish to eat, so she wasn't starving, either. It was day six, and there were only nine other tributes left and their girl was doing well and none of their tributes ever did well.
"That wasn't fair," she said, her hands tightening to fists in her lap.
The fallen tree created a natural bridge from one side of the ravine to the other. Several other tributes had used it to get across in the past few days. The entire career pack had trampled across it when they chased down the girl from Five.
"It should have held her weight," Effie said. "It isn't fair, Arica is only slim, she doesn't weigh much, that tree should not have fallen like that. She should have made it!"
She was on her feet now, barely noticing the hot tears filling her eyes, or Haymitch across the room staring at her like she was mad.
She was mad. She was furious. "That wasn't fair, why did they - why did they do that? That tree should have held, they did it on purpose, didn't they? Why did they do that?"
"Stop," Haymitch said harshly. "It doesn't matter now. Have a drink, why don't you? It's over."
"But it doesn't make sense. Didn't they like her? She had sponsors, she did well enough in her interview, she was sweet, why did they just kill her like that?"
"Effie, shut up, you can't -"
"But it's not fair! It's not fair, she was better than that! She deserved more than such a stupid, pointless way to die." Her voice was rising, becoming more and more wildly shrill but she couldn't seem to stop it, and why should she stop anyway when a girl was dead and nothing about it seemed right? "That tree was rigged to fall, I just know it, these Games aren't fair, they're never fair."
He was in front of her then, taking her by the shoulders and giving her a shake. "Hey! Stop it, you need to calm the hell down."
"I will not calm down!" She tried to shove him away, slapping at his arms. He didn't understand - she had liked Arica and now she was dead and it wasn't fair. "They did it on purpose, Haymitch, I know they did. Why did they kill her like that? She could have had a chance, she could have -"
She was cut off abruptly as he seized her by the back of the neck and crushed her mouth with his. It was a shocking assault of a kiss, and much too brief. She barely had time to register what was happening - hard lips and teeth and his unshaven bristles scratching her face and then he released her, almost flinging her backwards away from him.
The only sound then was of ragged breathing. Effie stared at him, her mouth open, her lips tingling.
For a few seconds he looked almost as surprised as she was. Then he scowled and backed further away from her.
"Well you shut up, didn't you? Lucky I didn't slap you. Fuck, Effie you can't just - you can't do that." He stalked back over to his abandoned drink, continuing to mutter under his breath.
She didn't move yet, slowly processing what had just happened. Both their tributes were now dead. Haymitch had kissed her. Finally, she closed her mouth, and then opened it again. "You have terrible breath, Haymitch."
When he laughed, she felt a small answering smile pull at her lips - her lips, which still felt like... Did they always feel this way after being kissed? She didn't think so. But then, she'd never been kissed quite like that before. Not even by Haymitch.
"Ah, Eff." He was there again suddenly, slinging an arm around her shoulders and leading her back to the couch. "Just take the damn drink next time, huh?"
She sat down beside him. She didn't know what had come over her; she was quite calm now.
"Here." He pressed a glass into her hand, and she sniffed but accepted it.
"If you paid half so much attention to personal hygiene as you do to the wet bar, Haymitch, I'm sure we'd all be grateful."
It was easy then, falling back into the routine of sniping and scolding for a little while. Haymitch would likely be called upon for interviews soon. Arica was in the top ten; her death would receive more coverage than Twelve's tributes usually did. Effie would be making appearances at various events and parties over the next few days, being sure to personally thank all of this year's sponsors - there seemed to be less of them by the year, and it never hurt to keep channels open and congenial. There would always be another Hunger Games, after all.
For now, the two of them sat tiredly and watched the sun setting in the arena. Nine remaining tributes were starting to settle in for the evening.
"It's always so cold at night," she said.
On the screen, a shivering child huddled under a pile of leaves.
She felt Haymitch's eyes flick her way, and the hand he had stretched along the back of the couch moved slightly behind her head. He was probably afraid she was getting upset again, but she wasn't. It was only a comment. She was calm, quite calm, and she wasn't going to cry, or babble, or ask questions she shouldn't.
Just like she wasn't going to ask Haymitch why on earth he had kissed her, even though she wanted to. Sometimes it was best not to know.
"Yeah. Yeah, it always is," Haymitch said eventually, and had another drink.
4.
She returned late to the penthouse - the lead up to the Games was always constant parties and events every night. She checked that the tributes were tucked away safely in their rooms before retreating to her own and preparing for bed.
All was quiet, until it wasn't.
She had just dried off after her shower and put on her nightgown when a commotion out by the elevator pierced the quiet. She threw on her robe and left her room, still hastily wrapping a scarf around her damp hair.
He was singing.
Well, if you could call it singing; bellowing like some dying animal was more accurate. He was also lying sprawled on the floor where he had no doubt fallen right out of the elevator.
"Haymitch," she hissed. "Stop that noise and get up at once! What if the children saw you like this?"
"What's it matter to 'em?"
"Up! Up up up! Right now, up you go!" She ignored his grumbling protests and tugged at his arm until he gave in and hauled himself to his feet - only managing it with a great deal of help from her.
Once upright he lurched violently and would have fallen again if she didn't grab him around the middle. He slung his arm over her shoulders and staggered as she began to lead him through to the bedrooms.
"You look different," he slurred in her ear.
She realised he'd never seen her without a wig or make-up before. Usually when he returned to the penthouse drunk in the middle of the night he managed to get himself to his room. Or at least had the decency to pass out wherever he was quietly, without making enough noise to wake the dead.
And at any reasonable hour, of course, she was always properly attired.
"I was preparing to go to bed," she said, feeling defensive. It was quite an intimate thing, letting someone see you in your natural state, usually reserved for close friends or lovers. She'd had several lovers, come to think of it, who had never seen her in so little.
Haymitch, of course, trampled over normal social boundaries with the grace of a raging elephant mutt.
She was so busy being annoyed about it, she almost missed his quiet grunt of apology. "Sorry."
"Just... keep moving."
It was slow progress. He was leaning on her so heavily he threatened to drag her back down to the floor with every step. But she got him to his door eventually, opened it, and manoeuvred him over the threshold before stepping away. She watched him warily for a moment to see if he kept his feet, and thankfully he did.
"Go to bed, Haymitch," she said, considering her escort duties now complete for the night.
He moved quickly when he wanted to, even when drunk. She barely turned away before she felt hands sliding around her waist. She gasped, putting out a hand to the doorway to steady herself as he pressed himself against her back and nuzzled his face into the curve of her neck. He mouthed at the skin there, and his hands bunched in the satin over her hips, and for a moment she considered it:
Seriously considered just letting him continue. The bed was right there. It would be so easy to fall into it with him and let him do whatever he wanted. To do whatever she wanted.
He mumbled something that might have been her name and kissed just under her ear, and then she felt him reach up and tug at the scarf covering her hair and she flinched.
Not like this.
In the next second she was shrugging out of his hold and stepping out the door.
"Go to bed, Haymitch," she said without looking back.
She doubted he would even remember it in the morning. She was afraid she wouldn't find it so easy to forget.
5.
She stopped him in the narrow corridor outside his door. They'd had the same quarters next door to each other, on the same train, for nine years. In that time nothing had changed, and yet everything had.
She hated herself for being relieved that Peeta had volunteered. She hated that there was a part of her grateful to see him go in another's place. It was this part of her that looked at Haymitch, standing there as scruffy and irascible as ever, and felt that if anyone was going to comfort her about all of this, it should definitely be him.
"Haymitch," she said, and put her hands hesitantly on his chest.
He looked down at her with surprise and she sighed rather unhappily. He shouldn't be surprised by it - how on earth could he not know? Sometimes she thought it must be the most obvious thing in the world, the way she sometimes felt around him. Her make-up and wigs could only hide so much.
Right now, for the first time, she actually wanted him to see.
"Haymitch," she whispered, and slid a hand up to his neck. She was about to lift her face up to his but he stopped her, his hands catching her wrists.
"Jeez, Effie, you have the worst fucking timing."
Her mouth dropped open and her heels clicked back to the floor. "Well, I am sorry, but I am upset, and you - you - well, you could at least be nice about it!"
"Trust me, this is me being nice." He tried to put her away from him, but she refused to be put.
"Nothing is going the way it's supposed to. Everything should have been better this year, but the tour was awful, and now -"
Now Peeta and Katniss might both die, along with half the most beloved Victors in Panem. It wasn't fair, she'd finally had a win, her three Victors, everything should have been wonderful.
"I know, sweetheart, but look, we can't -"
"Oh will you please just shut up and kiss me!"
His face hardened, then, but he did.
Suddenly he was kissing her liked she always imagined he would kiss her, given half a chance. He was sober, or close to it, and he kissed her with singular intent, bunching a hand in her golden wig and shoving her against the wall of the train, his tongue in her mouth and his knee pressed between hers.
He kissed her till she was dizzy and her legs were weak and she was seconds away from tearing off her own dress because she just wanted his hands on her bare skin so badly she couldn't think about anything else.
But before her hands could even free themselves from where they were trapped between their tightly locked bodies, he stepped abruptly away.
"Haymitch?" she squeaked.
That was one of the best kisses she'd ever had in her life. She couldn't imagine why he would want to stop; she could see he was not unaffected as he dragged a hand over his face and looked at her with a heated gaze.
"I need you to keep it together," he said, his voice rough. "And I need to keep it together. So that's not going to happen again, understand? Katniss and Peeta, they're our priority."
She found herself nodding, feeling a touch shame-faced through the haze of arousal. "Of course. Of course they are our priority, I know that perfectly well, thank you. But -"
"Just please keep it together a little while longer."
She didn't know whether he was telling her that, or himself, and he disappeared into his quarters before she could think to ask a little while longer till what?
6.
"Hey," Haymitch said, meeting her outside the sponsor's lounge and drawing her along with him as he began moving away across the complex. She had to hurry to keep up. "Listen, I gotta go see a sponsor. Guy wants to meet up over a meal."
"Oh. Well, hurry back, this is hardly the time to be gallivanting about. I hope it's a significant contribution, at any rate, though we don't need it so very much. Be sure to be appropriately courteous, Haymitch, some of these sponsors might carry over to next year. We won't always have such popular tributes, you know. Is that what you're wearing? I'm sure that was the vest you had on yesterday. I hope you changed your shirt at the very least. I know we are all very busy but that is no excuse for neglecting one's personal grooming. Especially if you are meeting someone important, you could at least try to be decently attired for once."
She was babbling. She knew it, but couldn't seem to stop.
These games were so wrong. Everything seemed so wrong this year, but what was there to be done? The Games had to go on. So she babbled about the usual things - sponsors, media reception, the tributes and their chances, as if they weren't people she knew and loved who were about to die.
And then there was Haymitch. Who had kissed her on the train when she made a pass at him and she wasn't even thinking about that, because he wasn't himself at all, and that unnerved her almost more than anything else. She watched the back of his head as he strode in front of her. She didn't usually come this way, she realised as she looked around. There was no one else about, everyone was watching the Games, of course.
"I really should get back," she said. "One of us should be keeping an eye on the arena. Do you think they'll want you on the panels tonight? I wish you would find time for a haircut, Haymitch. Oh, but you never make time for the important things."
Usually if she talked to him the way she was right now, he would be rolling his eyes at the very least, but he seemed to not even hear her as he drew to a halt so suddenly she walked right past him and had to double back.
He just stared at her as she drew level with him, his brow deeply furrowed.
"What's wrong?" she asked, hands moving to check her wig instinctively.
He did roll his eyes then. "Nothing. You should go on back. Just... take care of yourself, Effie, okay? Be careful," he said, and it sounded strange to her ears. He was only leaving for a meeting, and what danger could there be that she needed to take care?
A silly thought occurred to her - but no, he couldn't be leaving, there wasn't anywhere for him to go. And there couldn't be anything for her to worry about, not here in the Capitol. She knew there was some... trouble happening in the districts, but nothing like that would ever happen here.
"Whatever are you talking about?" she said lightly, her eyes dropping away from his even as she kept a smile on her face.
Her hands worried restlessly at the lacy ruffles of her dress, which just wouldn't sit right. She wasn't sure her shoes were quite the right shade of turquoise, either. What had she been thinking when she dressed herself today? Her outfit was wrong. Everything was wrong.
"I'm perfectly all right," she said.
He sighed, and took her hand from where it plucked uselessly at an errant frill, and squeezed her fingers for a moment. "Sure you are," he said, and then he put his arms around her, quite gently, brushed a kiss against her forehead, and was gone.
She stood staring after him, and feeling scared for some reason she knew didn't make any sense.
If only he hadn't been so gentle with her.
But he would be back after his meeting, they would work to ensure that one, at least, of their victors would make it out of the arena, and all would be well.
7.
When she woke, it was to the sound of machines beeping and murmuring voices. She didn't know where she was, aside from the vague notion it was a medical facility of some sort. Everything was so soft - the bed beneath her, the sheets covering her, the lighting, the voices that spoke around her. It was so different from everything she had known in the past weeks - months? - that she didn't want to question it.
Not that she would, anyway. She had learned to accept what came to her. Speaking up only made things worse.
A hospital bed, lights that didn't hurt her eyes, and whatever pleasant drugs she was quite sure were flooding her system? Well, it might all be an hallucination, but one she could tolerate easily enough for however long it lasted. She'd certainly had worse.
She drifted into consciousness and out, and each time she opened her eyes she was still there in the room with the beeping and the clean sheets. It began to feel real.
And once, she opened her eyes and found a face floating into view, hair hanging lank about his unshaven face. Of course it would be Haymitch disturbing her rest. If he said anything, she didn't hear it, but as she watched, he lifted a small, pale hand cradled between his, and kissed the back of it.
The rough feel of his chapped lips and bristles filtered through the soft haze of sedation.
A word echoed through her mind. Traitor. She couldn't think why.
She closed her eyes and welcomed the returning oblivion.
8.
Haymitch looked at her oddly sometimes when he saw her these days. She thought it was her hair. She hadn't worn a wig since the day they had made her put one on and be Katniss's escort one last time.
She wasn't anyone's escort now. She was assisting with the newly forming central government, endless days of bureaucracy, meetings, and reports keeping her satisfyingly busy. There was a lot to do, and it was all rather strange at first, and admittedly she still felt a little under-dressed when she went out in the morning. But, as with so many things in recent times, she was adjusting.
She wasn't sure how well Haymitch was adjusting. He was trying, she knew that much.
He had helped save her from execution. She knew that, too.
He kept coming to see her, just to talk, just checking in. He asked after her family. He kept her apprised of Katniss's defence, and Peeta's condition. He ate meals with her sometimes, and he was never quite as drunk as she expected him to be.
She appreciated it, though she didn't understand why he was making the effort. No, that wasn't quite true - she had suspicions. She just didn't know what to do with the things she suspected.
The games were over, and they were no longer escort and victor. There was no longer any tie between them. It wasn't as if they'd ever even really been friends. If it was anyone else, she would attribute it to common courtesy, but this was Haymitch.
He came to see her one last time when Katniss's trial was over.
He was saying goodbye, and when he leaned in and kissed her, she let him. She couldn't think of a reason not to. And it was a very nice kiss. His lips were warm and firm against hers, he had shaved recently, and his breath was fine.
When they parted, she pressed her lips together and stepped back, his hands dropping slowly from her waist.
"Well," she said, avoiding his eyes.
It was funny, the rebels had won the war and now everyone was meant to be free. But there were days when she felt like she'd been stitched together with too-fine thread that could snap at any moment. There was no freedom in being so fragile, when anything and everything could cause more damage. Even a simple kiss.
He was looking at her, still. It wasn't supposed to be like this, she realised. She wasn't supposed to disappoint him when he was trying to show that he cared. Or, at least, that he was sorry.
She knew there was a part of her that had always wanted these things from him, but she didn't know where it was anymore. Maybe it was gone forever. Reaching it, repairing it, would be difficult, and she was so tired, and there was still so much to be done.
The whole country was trying to pull itself back together, but nothing would ever be the same again, and they all just had to accept it.
He was leaving. It was over. At least this time she knew he wasn't coming back.
"Be good to Katniss, won't you?" she said. She took another step back. "And to yourself."
"Eff -"
"I really wish you the very best, Haymitch."
He stopped trying, then.
9.
It started with a phone call.
Well, no, more accurately, it started with a drink. Or four. Cocktails - not the same kind Aster had given her so many years ago to help wash away the lingering aftertaste of an encounter with Haymitch Abernathy. While these ones were quite tasty, they didn't do the job any better.
But back to the phone call.
"I remember every time you ever kissed me," she said. "You could have kissed me more, you know. I would have let you. I think so. Maybe. All right, I'll be perfectly honest and say it is incredibly likely I would have let you."
"Effie? Are you drunk?"
When his grouchy voice barked at her through the phone line she laughed and sank back on her sofa, where she was sitting, in her apartment, drinking alone. "Yes. Yes, I am drunk, Haymitch. I hope you're happy, you've driven me to drink."
"The hell I did. I haven't seen you in months and you're calling me now - why?"
"I wanted to call you before. I was afraid you hate me now. Do you? I'm sorry, it's probably rude of me to ask that, but I'm very drunk so I don't care especially." She threw herself back further across the cushions, feeling a sudden need to be drastically more horizontal than she currently was for this conversation. Or she made the attempt, anyway, succeeding only in whacking her leg against the coffee table and yelping. "Ah! Oh I hit my shin, ow, oh, why is that table so sharp? Are you laughing at me?"
"Yeah."
"My leg hurts and you're laughing. Is that because you hate me?"
"Now why would I hate you?"
"Well I don't want you to hate me, Haymitch, obviously. You kissed me and you left and what was I supposed to do?"
She'd kept going, after everything. Kept living, which for her mostly just involved working and going to a lot of counselling sessions, but none of that was helping with this particular problem, and all getting drunk was doing for her was making her severely uncoordinated and prone to embarrassing phone calls.
She listened to Haymitch sigh, and tried to picture him sitting in his house right now. It made her sad. She missed him.
"Hating you would take too much effort, sweetheart. I don't have much in me these days," he said.
"I wish I could see you."
He didn't say anything for a long time. When he finally did, his voice was gruff. "They have trains. Get your ass on one."
"I would, but... I think I'm too afraid to. I'm afraid to see you. And I'm afraid to go back to Twelve because I'm afraid people will hate me. I'm afraid of everything, really. Sometimes I can't sleep at all at night unless every light in my apartment is on. I'm a bit of a mess. I wouldn't have even called you if I wasn't so drunk, which is terrible because it's so nice to hear your voice and I'm glad I did even if you hang up on me now because I'll probably need another decade of therapy before I'm any good at this again. Oh, who am I kidding, I've never been good at keeping boyfriends, but I never cared about it so much before. Now would you please say something before I actually die from over-sharing?"
"What if I came to get you?" he said.
"What?"
"If you don't want to come here, I mean."
"Would you?"
"Well," he paused, and she heard him shifting around as she held her breath, hanging on his every word, "I honestly don't know. I might. I'm kind of a mess, too, in case you didn't notice. I'm a selfish old bastard you know, and I don't care that you're scared. Everyone is. But I might."
It was a miracle she didn't blurt out I love you right then and there. It was a very near thing.
And in the end, after that one phone call turned into two turned into three, she still didn't go to him, and he didn't come to her. Instead, they decided to meet halfway. Because he didn't really want to brave the Capitol just yet, and she was still too scared for Twelve, so they each boarded a train and got off in District Eight.
"I always wanted to see how they make silk. It comes from butterflies, you know," Effie had said when they were making their plan.
Though actually it turned out cocoon harvesting wasn't a particularly interesting or aesthetic process. None of Eight's still primarily textile-based industry held much sightseeing appeal, in fact. But it was a good place to disappear for a few days. No one there knew them or cared who they were.
When Haymitch stepped off the train, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, she was there waiting for him on the platform.
She'd been afraid of this moment - and was still afraid - because the last time she had seen him, she hadn't felt enough. Meanwhile, in the months since, she had felt far too much. She had been out of balance around him ever since she had met him, and when she saw him walking towards her she saw that it could still all end in disaster.
Still, he smiled at her as he came close, and when she put her arms around him and he leant down to kiss her hello, she didn't want him to stop. And that was a good start, at least.
10.
"Oh," she said, her voice high and breathy. "Haymitch, you know, I can't believe we didn't ever do this before. What were we thinking, why didn't we?"
She knew why, of course, but his breath and his hands were hot on her bare skin and he was pushing her knees apart and none of the reasons seemed to matter so much now.
"Why did we wait so long?" she murmured, blinking wide-eyed at the ceiling, twining her fingers through his hair.
She didn't think she had ever waited so long for anything in her life as she had for him.
And she was still waiting. What was he doing down there?
She pushed up on her elbows and glared. "Haymitch."
He laughed and kissed the inside of her thigh, and then his mouth slid higher. She sighed, her grip on his hair tightening as she said his name again.
11.
Every so often, he could still surprise her.
They'd known each other for years now, and grew accustomed to one another's faults long before they started to focus on more positive things about each other. There was a lot of comfort to be had in knowing someone like that - warts and all, as Haymitch liked to unromantically put it.
But still, in spite of all the years and familiarity between them, there were times he managed to turn all her expectations upside-down.
Like when he came to stay with her in the Capitol for long stretches while she was still working there. Even though it was difficult for him to be there, and they fought a lot, and they both wondered at times if they could make it work between them at all, he stayed. It had surprised her, then, that he thought she was worth the effort.
And there was the time when he gave up drinking for a while, just to see if he could without any outside influences forcing the issue. Even when it turned out, in the end, that he really just couldn't, not permanently, she loved that he had wanted to try. She'd never expected that from him, had taught herself not to. And she really hadn't expected it to happen that, at some point along the way, he began turning to her for comfort more often than the bottom of a bottle. But it did.
There were little things, too, he did that surprised her: the way he didn't complain nearly as much as she thought he would when she redecorated his entire house, or when she gave names to all the geese; he just started calling them that, too. He never brought her flowers, but when she wanted to plant some he helped dig the beds. He actually did complain about that quite a lot, but he helped her all the same.
There were even times when he actually managed to get along with her mother. That was always particularly astonishing when it happened. She didn't even manage that most of the time.
And then there was the day when he surprised her most of all.
"Good morning!" she greeted him brightly as he came in from the yard, smiling as he left his muddy boots outside the door. She almost had him house-broken by now. It had only taken months of constantly reminding him not to track filth from the geese pen all over the floor, but progress was progress. "Sit down, I made your favourite."
He came and peered over her shoulder as she stood at the stove. "Huh. So you did. Okay, what am I in for?"
She laughed, perhaps a little too loudly. "What? Don't be silly, it's just breakfast. Sit." She waved him to the table, cursing his suspicious mind. As if she never cooked for him.
Well, yes, she did leave most of the cooking to him, since she wasn't very good at it, but even she could manage pancakes, especially on her day off when she had plenty of time to get things right. They were barely lumpy at all, and he didn't exactly turn his nose up when she brought the heaped platter over to the table, wasting no time in filling his plate and covering them with syrup.
He still eyed her shrewdly, however, over the untouched stack. "So, just checking, I'm not being buttered up right now?"
"No, no." She sat down heavily in her chair. "Well, there is something."
He snorted. "Knew it."
"Just a little something I want to talk to you about."
"Am I going to like this something?"
"I..." She had no idea, that was the problem. Although she strongly suspected he would not. "Well, there's pancakes, though. You like pancakes."
"Everybody likes pancakes."
"Well just eat, then, or don't, I don't care. Never mind. We'll talk about it later."
He shrugged and tucked in while Effie sat across the table, clicking her fingernails nervously and feeling increasingly like she might be sick.
"Not hungry?" he said, with a total and complete lack of concern, because he was an absolutely horrible person sometimes who enjoyed making her miserable.
"I'm fine." She sipped some juice.
"Right," he drawled, stuffing more pancakes in his mouth. She started to bite her knuckle, stopping immediately when she saw him follow the motion with his eyes. He took another bite, but only held out until he swallowed. "So are you going to tell me, or are you just going to sit there till your head explodes?"
"All right, all right, I'll tell you. But I don't want you to - just, please could you try not to - just... don't overreact."
He groaned and pushed his plate away. "Spit it out already."
She stared at him, and knew that for all his posturing, he was tense, too. Not nearly as tense as she was, of course, because only she knew what she was about to say. Once he did, then he would really be tense.
His frown deepened as the silence stretched out. "Eff -"
"I'm pregnant."
A long, terrible moment passed. Then he sagged back in his chair, the tension leaving him. "Oh. Yeah, okay, well I figured."
"I beg your pardon?" She gaped at him stupidly. "Wait, you already know? How did you know? Why didn't you say anything?"
"'Cause I wasn't sure, and it coulda been a lot worse than that."
"Worse than me being pregnant?"
"You could have been sick. Or one of the kids could have been sick. Or you could have been cheating on me or leaving me and that's why you've been so weird lately."
"Oh."
"I mean I knew something was up."
"I have not been acting that weird. I may have been a tiny bit preoccupied... And how does that even equate to pregnancy or cheating or dying?"
"I mean, it's also been a while since you had your... you know." He spread his hands wide. "Not like you don't always make sure I know about it."
"I do nothing of the sort."
"Yeah, you do. And yes, it occurred to me you might be pregnant. I hoped you weren't cheating or dying on me, anyway."
"Well I'm not, I'm just... pregnant. Which seems like quite enough. You're - you seem rather all right with it." It was worrying her greatly, actually. He was far too calm.
He shrugged. "It's new, I'll give you that. But we've got a while to get used to the idea. You've been at me to clean out that spare room forever, guess there's actually a reason to now."
She put a hand delicately to her forehead. "I'm sorry, but what is the matter with you? We're not talking about a renovation project, we're having a baby. Why aren't you running for the hills?"
"Since when am I the panicky type? That's more your style, sweetheart."
"Well how wonderful, may I panic, then?" Her voice rose dramatically, not waiting for his permission. She was definitely about to panic.
Frankly, she'd already been quietly panicking to herself for days. If he wasn't going to contribute to the general hysteria of the situation, she had it quite well covered.
"Oh, come on," he said, "what's the big deal? It's just a baby, women have 'em all the time. No need to overreact."
"I hate you."
"All right, c'mere." He reached over for her hand, and she stood up and let him draw her round the table to where he was sitting. He pulled her between his knees and put a hand on her middle, smoothing her shirt down over her flat belly. "It'll be great, I can't wait to see you get all big'n fat, waddling round here like a broody mama goose."
"Then you will be disappointed. I am telling you right now, there will be no waddling."
"Just you wait." He chuckled as he leaned in and kissed her gently, just below her navel, making tears spring to her eyes.
She sniffled. "So you're happy?"
He kissed her again and she felt his answer rumble through her. "I'm happy."
"Well that's good but -"
"But what?"
"You're right, I'm going to get so fat!" she wailed.
The tears started to flow in earnest then, and laughingly he pulled her down onto his lap and into his arms.
12.
"So what do you think?" he said, watching the firelight reflecting in her eyes. It was just the right sort of night for it - it was late and the house was quiet, just the two of them sitting here together. It happened less and less these days, and they needed to make the most of such opportunities when they arose.
"I think that you are one hopeless romantic, Haymitch Abernathy," she said teasingly.
He snorted. "Apparently. I'm not the one who forgot our anniversary."
"It's not even a real anniversary," the protest came automatically, though she'd been plenty sheepish when he brought it up earlier. "It barely counts."
"Uh-huh. How come I remember that one time forgetting, and you making me sleep on the couch for a week?"
"More like one night. You always exaggerate."
"At least a week, I'm telling you, my back still has the kinks. You have a few issues with selective memory."
She gave a small shrug. "Well, anyway, that was before we had children. You're probably lucky I didn't make you sleep on the porch, I had much higher standards for romance back then."
"You don't say. I'm here tryin' to be romantic right now, and you just want to argue about it."
"I am not arguing, merely pointing out it's never been a real anniversary."
It wasn't, either. All it was, was the day they first came together deliberately, both of them there on a train platform half a country away, ready to try.
They'd marked the day as the years passed, sometimes more formally than others. Last year she'd been heavily pregnant and cranky as hell. He seemed to remember she spent the whole evening with her feet up on the couch, eating the chocolates he'd given her and refusing to share, while he got to handle the routine of bathing and putting a fussy toddler to bed.
He rolled his eyes. She didn't even have the excuse this year, and she was still being difficult. "But it should be, is what I'm saying."
"Now, after all this time?"
"We probably waited long enough, don't you think?"
"Exactly. Why now?"
"I don't know. Hell, maybe just so I can stop worrying you're gonna run off with the new baker's boy."
"Oh, honestly, that boy is nineteen, and I said he was handsome once. Besides, I'd never do that to Peeta, he's had such trouble finding good help."
"You think you're funny."
"I think you're absurd."
"I think you oughta shut up and eat the damn toast before I change my mind about marrying you."
She crossed her arms and regarded him haughtily. "Fine, I will, but only if you vow to love me forever and call me beautiful at least once a day for the rest of our lives."
"Once a week," he countered. "Don't need you getting any more vain than you already are."
"Twice a week, and you also have to rub my feet when I ask."
He lifted his eyebrows. "Honey, if I have to rub your feet on demand, then you have to -"
She smacked his arm. "Haymitch!"
"What? I was going to say make me pancakes."
"You were not."
He smirked. "You do the other thing anyway."
Her mouth twisted up. "Well, I like the other thing. Fine. Pancakes."
"Then we've got a deal?"
She nodded, unable to contain her wide smile. He shoved the toast in her mouth before she could say anything else to spoil the moment.
If he'd known it was going to be this difficult to marry the woman he never would have bothered getting her in front of the fire to begin with. Or at least he would have waited another five years or so to try it.
She gave him a reproachful look as she munched and swallowed, then brandished the other bit of toast at him. He grabbed her wrist and ate it from her fingers. It was too blackened round the edges to taste good, but he couldn't have cared less.
"All right, now what?" she said.
"Now you kiss me, beautiful, because you just married me."
She laughed as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "That's one. I'm going to keep count."
"Oh, I know," he said as she leaned in and kissed him, warm and sweet and with breath smelling faintly of burnt toast. "I know you will."