Chapter Text
Once upon a time, there lived a woman born into a gilded world of excess. Though her family carried a mark of shame which was never spoken about, she was fortunate enough to be safe, cherished, and spoiled. She worked hard to rise above the old prejudices that came with her name, carefully curated her image, and tried to remain kind in the process.
Once upon a time, there was also a man born into poverty and oppression. Though he had little money, he was rich in love: he had his Ma, his little brother, wonderful friends, a job to put a few coins in his pocket, and a girl he fancied something fierce. He was descended from rebellious men, but he did not have the same desire to go against the tide. That was, until the day the hands of his oppressive government sank their claws into him, forcibly tearing away all the comforts he knew, and leaving him alone.
When the man and woman first met, they were both young. They found themselves pulled into the same world that neither had signed up for. The man was sent into a battle arena where he lost his friends, his enemies, and himself. The woman became a figurehead and mouthpiece for the gilded city's propaganda, climbing the heights, while the man fell into the depths of despair in his.
What the pair shared in common was the understanding that they had to stay in line to protect themselves and anyone they cared about. The woman saw the man suffering and had pity for him. The man saw the woman becoming more detached and vapid, and resentment grew. In spite of this, he clung to her like a lifeline. She let him.
As the man lost more and more of himself, the woman did, too. She wasn’t supposed to see the humanity in him, but she couldn’t help herself when he sobbed in her arms as nightmares spilled from his sleep into his every waking hour. Through his pain, she began to fully understand how unjust the system was.
One day, the woman realized the kinship between her and the man had grown into something deeper and much more complicated within her heart. She was sure he did not feel the same way, but she did wonder if something might have blossomed between them if the odds had been in their favor.
Then he left her.
Both of them were trapped underground as a war raged above their heads. Neither emerged without scars. She was pulled from the darkness, battle-worn and weary, and felt she no longer had a place in her once carefully curated existence.
She knew that she had not really been free—neither had the man—but she had enjoyed the illusion of it. The reality of her actions sank in like never before; she had been a thing of nightmares who had terrified a generation of children. She had been part of the system that upheld oppression. It was clear, without a trace of doubt, that no reward waited for her in this changed world. No one came to hold the woman and tell her she was alright.
No one went to the man's side to knock the bottle from his hand as he tried to anesthetize himself from the deep well of grief and sadness that lived in his heart.
Both believed they were unworthy of love and forgiveness.
Neither knew that their safely guarded hearts would find solace in the other's when they were reunited in a most unexpected way.
As far as cages go, gilded ones are the most sinister; bars wrapped in velvet and damask are still bars, after all. Effie Trinket had happily complied with these cages all her life, knowing that they had kept her safe. Only recently had she become an actual prisoner. Thankfully she was now a ward of Plutarch Heavensbee in the new Panem. Effie had not enjoyed her time in the late President Snow's captivity.
The benefit to being captive in the comfort of the Heavensbee mansion was that it much more comfortable than the cells beneath the Capitol where she had been for months. It was also nicer thatn the harsh captivity where Capitol citizens who had orchestrated, aided, and complied with Snow's regime awaited trial by the rebels. Well, they were no longer rebels, she supposed—they were the new regime.
Effie hadn’t spoken to anyone besides Plutarch in ages. She wandered Plutarch's massive house, which stretched an entire city block, but she had grown bored after wandering the halls which had felt endless when she first arrived. The only place she spent any measure of time these days, besides her room, was the library. Reading has not been the fashion in the Capitol before the war. Plutarch explained to her that it was a deliberate choice by President Snow; books lead to opinions that could make readers susceptible to seeing things from others' points of view. Books had been abundant before the Dark Days, enjoyed and loved by many, but countless works became sacrificial food to the winter's fires for survival. The Heavensbees had always been rich, and thus were able to keep theirs.
Today, Plutarch was in meetings with the new presidential cabinet, negotiating Effie’s release; this had been on the docket for quite a while, no one knowing exactly what to do with her. She wished she could go back to her flat or stay with her family. Or what remained of her family, that was. Effie had been pacing in her room, worrying about the outcome.
Effie sat on the cushioned bench beneath the window and rested her head against the pane, watching birds flying through the trees in the courtyard protected by the high walls of the mansion. Winter had melted away into a very beautiful spring. Effie wondered what it was like in the rest of the Capitol. Were people carrying on as usual? Had they picked up the broken pieces of their lives and begun to slot them back into place? Was everyone else forging ahead and leaving her behind?
A knock on her door made her heart leap into her throat. The door opened, and Plutarch let himself in. Was she imagining it, or did he look slightly triumphant?
“How was the meeting?” Effie asked.
“I have good news, and bad news. Which would you like first?” Plutarch
It didn’t matter these days. Unless they decided to imprison her somewhere, there wasn't much she was afraid of. Effie had already imagined every scenario and come to terms with the fact that the powers that be might still execute her, though it seemed like less of a possibility now that Paylor was their president.
“Surprise me.”
“The bad news is that you’re going to be moving out of the Capitol.”
“Oh.” Exile was one thing in abstract theory, but another when it was an inescapable actuality. “Where are you sending me?”
“That’s the good news. I pulled some strings, and there has been a consensus: you are going to 12.”
This, she had not expected. “You’re sending me to the district I was an escort for? Is that wise?”
“They wanted to send you to 13, but I didn’t think it would be to your liking. I imagine you’ve spent enough time underground.”
Effie clenched her jaw. Yes, she had. Effie had fought to keep sane, tried to block out the screams from her fellow inmates that echoed through the halls of the Tribute Centre. She shook herself free from the memories, lest it draw her down the wallowing sadness and anxiety that she had fought so hard to shed.
“Here’s the deal," Plutarch continued, "we’re currently in a sweet period: people want to forget and move forward with their lives. I want you to move forward, too, but it can’t be here.”
“So you decided it’s in 12?”
“Yes. And I’ve figured out how we will keep you from being a pariah.” He held out an envelope.
“This is a certificate of marriage… I don’t understand.” She unfolded the paper. It bore her name and—the air left her lungs. “You have got to be joking.”
“It’s the best thing we could think of to keep you safe. It will afford you every financial and legal protection of a marriage-"
“Married… to Haymitch?” She interrupted. And for nearly six years according to this certificate of marriage, backdated to July 17, 70 ADD.
“Congratulations.” Plutarch smiled.
“Haymitch?”
“It’s entirely plausible; you two have known each other for twenty-five years. You have an intimate history together. If anyone asked about personal details, you’d know almost everything about each other.”
Effie let out a soft snort. "I’d know about Haymitch.”
“He hears more than you think he does.”
This did not seem entirely likely. “You've told Haymitch about this?”
“Of course.”
“And he’s willing to do this? To pretend we’re married?”
“Yes.”
Effie rolled her eyes and folded the certificate. “What bribery did it take?”
“A case of my finest spirits, monthly, for a year. That last part was my own stipulation—I can't enable his bad habits for the rest of my life. Or his life.”
“Oh, joy. What a fine dowery that is." She let sarcasm drip heavily from her tongue. Being sold as a wife for twelve cases of liquor was an ultimate low.
“It’s this, or 13. The choice is yours.”
Hardly a choice, she thought bitterly.
Early the next morning, Effie arrived at the train station with the contents of her life stuffed into two suitcases and three bags.
Immediate disappointment washed over her when she boarded; this was not going to be the same luxurious journey that she had taken to and from 12 for twenty-four years—it was more or less a cargo train with a passenger compartment. She selected a seat by the window, and deposited her bags onto the vacant one beside her. Several others were in the car, destinations outside of the Capitol waiting for them. The train was due to arrive in 12 the next afternoon, so Effie tried to get as comfortable as possible, and began thinking about the sham marriage waiting for her.
It wasn’t as if Haymitch was a terrible person. True, he drank heavily, had suffered many losses which deadened him to joy for decades, but he had softened noticably after the 74th games. Effie had seen glimpses of the sixteen-year-old boy she met all those years ago when they were both young and naive (she more so than he).
He could be a beast, but she could give as well as he gave. Effie had to give him his flowers for his positive attributes in addition to his bad ones. Haymitch was incredibly clever, astute, and unfailingly loyal to those he loved.
Haymitch almost certainly had a laundry list of what he would like to change about Effie if he could. They were coworkers for twenty-five years, and discovered a system that worked for the pair of them; Effie expected they could apply this to a marriage. It seemed impossible that they would ever grow beyond friendship. Though there had been that unexpectedly chaste kiss they shared before he took Katniss back to 12, and his tender request that she not become a stranger…
She added that to the list of things she couldn't think about. The list grew longer each day.
As they began to speed away from the place she had called home, she felt a complicated rush of emotion welling up inside of her. Seeing firsthand just how terribly treated those who defied the ultimate power of the Capitol had been the final act that ripped the veil from Effie's eyes and forced her to see just how cruel the system was.
The day of her capture was harrowing. She pleaded first for mercy, then as time went by, she pleaded for death. She wasn't alone, catching glimpses of Peeta Mellark, Johanna Mason, and Annie Cresta among groups of stylists and other escorts. The authorities picked off her fellow game workers one by one, and executed them publicly for withholding information about the rebellion. Effie knew that there was no way most of them were in on it, but it was a necessary power play to keep citizens in line.
One day, the tribute center plunged into darkness. The screams stopped. People were moving around just beyond the door to her prison. Effie knew that it was a rescue mission after she heard Katniss’s voice coming through a television somewhere, trying to negotiate the release of the rebels. Hope was dangerous and fleeting. Snow had known a rebel team was breaching the building, and he had cut them off. Though they had managed to escape and saved several victors, but they hadn’t managed to find Effie.
It hadn’t been easy after that. Just as she was feeling her resolve begin to slip, everything had turned upside down. The halls of the tribute center had suddenly thundered with the force of what had turned out to be a bomb. Several bombs, actually. Alarms had blared, deafening and terrifying. The air grew hot, and she huddled in the furthest corner of her tiny cell, seeking shelter under a blanket against the cold tile floor, which offered the only respite from the heat.
Hours must have gone be, but it was nearly impossible to tell how long she stayed there. Then there were faraway voices calling out for survivors. Effie had peeked out from the blanket, squinting in the dust-filled air. Using the blanket to protect her nose and mouth, she gulped in a lungful of air and shouted as loudly as she could for help.
The rebels did not recognie Effie when they first rescued her. They put her in a recovery bed in the field hospital and treated her for dehydration, slight disorientation, and several bruised ribs. One nurse explained that President Coin had called for her execution.
That had terrified her.
When they confirmed her identity, they locked handcuffs around her wrists. Kindness was once again hard to come by. She learned that negotiating for her life had proved difficult, since Coin insisted on executing anyone associated with the games. Plutarch and Haymitch had vouched for her. The days melded together. There was a hazy memory of readying Katniss for Snow's execution. Then she moved to Plutarch's.
When the train slowed, making its first stop in District 2, Effie took in the scars the war had left behind on the landscape. This was going to be a long journey with stark reminders of the devastation that had touched everyone. She felt desperate to take leave of reality, and opened one of the new books she had packed. The fantasy world drew her away, keeping her occupied until she reached whatever waited for her in 12.
The man who met her at the station was not her husband.
"Oh, my dear Peeta!" Effie accepted the young man's hug. It had been so long since anyone touched her kindly. Or at all, come to think of it.
"It's good to see you, Effie. Let me get your bags for you."
The pair headed off towards Victors' Village, Peeta carrying her bags over his shoulders and rolling her suitcases. Chivalry, thought apparently dead in Haymitch's world, was alive and well in Peeta's. They caught up as they walked.
"I had no idea you and Haymitch were married! Guess it wasn't safe to mention anything before."
"You don't spend twenty-five years with someone without falling in love a little bit."
This might have been true. Effie sometimes wondered if something deeper than friendship passed between them. Nights when Haymitch had watched her with too much fondness, cracks showing through his walls with the aid of drink. There were lingering touches, innuendos, and heated looks. Once, there was a rumor that they were dating. Effie was quickly squash it, making sure photographers caught her at a fancy gala with a new man.
Effie's heart pounded as they reached the village, surprising her. Perhaps it was the exertion from the long walk, but she expected it was at seeing Haymitch again, with the awkwardness of their fake marriage hanging over them. A fabricated piece of paper to get Effie out of the Capitol hadn’t felt real.
Effie paused, hand on the doorknob. “Don’t worry, it’s clean inside. A friend, Greasy Sae, has been housekeeping. Despite her name, she is neat as a pin. Makes a hell of a soup, too.”
This was too much information to digest, so Effie made a mental note to ruminate on it later and to write a letter of thanks to Greasy Sae. She pushed the door open and let herself in. The house was cleaner and fresher than she had ever seen it.
“I’ll let you two have some privacy. Katniss is making dinner for all of us. We’ll bring it by later.”
The door shut behind Peeta, and Effie was alone in the oppressive silence of the house.
There was no noise in the house apart from the soft chirps of birdsong coming in through the open windows. No sign of Haymitch; Effie imagined he was sleeping the day away in bed. She had hoped he would already be up waiting for her; that seemed like the husbandly thing to do. Then again, Haymitch was not exactly husband material.
Effie poked around the house, checking he wasn’t anywhere on the ground floor. When she didn't find him, she crept upstairs.
Sure enough, there he was; her ‘husband’, face down on the bed, snoring softly, gripping a knife. Effie leaned forward to pluck it from his hand.
“Haymitch?” She kept her voice low and even, tapping him gently on the shoulder.
He started awake, glancing around wildly until his eyes fell on her. “You’re here already?”
“Hell of a greeting for your wife.”
Haymitch squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled a plume of alcohol. “Nagging me after three seconds? Classic.” He pushed himself up, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Thought your train was getting in at three.”
“It did. It’s nearly four.”
“Oh. Shit… I overslept.”
“That’s obvious. You’re lucky Peeta remembered.”
“It’s not like you don’t know the way.“ He yawned as he picked up a bottle on his nightstand and gave it a shake. Haymitch heaved himself to his feet and walked past her. Effie followed him. She looked around his kitchen, taking in the spotless counter tops and the overflowing breadbox.
“So,” Haymitch swigged from his bottle while he placed the kettle onto the stove, “perfect Effie Trinket is now my legal wife.” He prepared their cups and set them down on the kitchen table.
"Imagine that."
"Suppose you've been the closest thing to a wife for twenty-five years."
"I liked to think we were friends, but I don't think married partners—"
"Friends?" He interrupted.
Effie hesitated. She could read him easily after all their years together.His raised eyebrows, smirk, paired with the lack of mirth in his eyes, suggested he didn't reciprocate their friendship. How could someone consider a woman to be wife-like, but not a friend? It betrayed Haymitch's understanding of relationships, stuck as he was in the past on his teenage love.
"Well, I thought…"
Haymitch swigged from his bottle again, some of the drink escaping the confines of his lip and dribbling down onto his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand, and Effie inwardly cringed at the gesture—it appeared that his manners had regressed in his time back in 12.
Plutarch believed Haymitch and Katniss had been doing well after their return to their home, but Effie now noticed the slightly yellow tinge to Haymitch's skin, the smudges under his eyes, the length of his stubble, the stains on his shirt… it didn't appear as though everything had been easy for him upon his return.
It wasn't as though he ever looked spectacular when she picked him up for the reaping ceremonies; on several occasions, she had thrown him to a stylist upon arrival in the Capitol and insisted on a scrub-down. There was something more haunted and sad about him now. Perhaps the same sadness clung to her? Perhaps the collective trauma of the war, regardless of where you fell on the rebel or Capitol side, showed on all of them. They certainly showed in Haymitch's grey eyes.
Silence engulfed them for several long moments until the kettle whistled.
“I think we should talk about some things," Effie said as he poured boiling water into each of the mugs.
“Yeah, I guess we should.” Haymitch was staring at her, an odd expression on his face now.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s… strange to see you. Guess I thought we wouldn’t be seeing each other for a few years, if ever again… but here we are. How have you been?”
“It’s been strange, you’re right about that. I know I shouldn’t complain, since I was staying at Plutarch’s, but I’m rather glad to be away from that place.”
“If I never have to go back to his mansion, it will be too soon.”
“My sentiments exactly. Oh, before I forget, he’s given us both letters. Let me get them.”
She returned with one of her bags, depositing it on the chair next to her. Plutarch had given Effie a thick envelope for the pair of them, with instructions, requirements, and a stipend.
“A lot of rules for a sham marriage, isn’t it?” Haymitch dug further into his packet and pulled out a tiny envelope, read a tiny cardstock note, before peering inside. Whatever he saw surprised him. He shoved the envelope and the note back into the pack.
Indeed, there were a lot of rules. Effie assumed she and Haymitch would act as glorified roommates, but the terms detailed laid out were intense. The terms demanded that the pair commit to their roles as husband and wife both outside these walls and throughout the district. Apparently, the star-crossed lovers routine had worked again, now in Effie and Haymitch's their favor. Effie supposed she and Haymitch would be better at faking it than Katniss. Still, the thought that a representative could come to inspect them if they were not acting in accordance with their marital status was daunting.
Haymitch tossed the list of potential interrogation questions onto the table. “Damn it to hell," he grumbled. "Would a husband really know your favorite childhood memory? Or if you have a birthmark? I don't know if I have any birthmarks."
Effie didn't have the heart to tell him that she knew he had a small cafe au lait birthmark on the back of his right knee, nor that she had a mole on her stomach under her left ribcage, which he would definitely have seen if he was actually her husband and would presumably see her naked.
“Now might be as good a time as any for the gifts I brought for you,” Effie reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of fine Capitol whisky that she had absconded with from Plutarch's.
Haymitch’s eyes lit up. “The kids are coming over for dinner. I don't think they'll appreciate it if we’re both tanked.”
“They might think we were eager to toast our new life together. They won't see us as two people mourning the fact that we’re stuck together.”
“Again.”
“Again,” Effie echoed.
When had finished dinner and the bottle (most of the latter going to Haymitch), exhaustion was settling deeply into Effie's bones. Between the time change, the uncomfortable train journey, and the events of the last few days, she was ready for bed before the sun had properly set.
“So I have good news and bad news,” Haymitch said, reminscent of Plutarch. “The good news is you have your own room, but it’s not ready yet. There was an incident a few years ago where I hacked my mattress apart with my knife—don't ask—and I never got it replaced. The good news is, Plutarch is sending a replacement, but it probably won't be here until the end of the month.”
The end of the month? That seemed like an eternity. “Couldn't we borrow one from Katniss and Peeta?”
“Because they think we’re going to be sharing a bed. A new mattress for a married couple is believable.”
“So, where will I sleep in the meantime?”
“In my bed.”
“With you?” She couldn’t keep the alarm out of her voice.
Haymitch smirked, now with amusement. “No. I’ll take the couch in the study.”
Effie glanced at the bed, slightly rumpled from Haymitch. “Are your sheets—?”
“They’re clean. I napped on top of the bed this afternoon, but they were changed this morning. Promise. Towels and extra blankets are in the linen closet. Help yourself to whatever you need around the house, and just stay out of the third bedroom.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so?" His voice was hard and cold, an order laced with warning venom.
Effie was too tired to pry. She’d snoop eventually with or without his permission. “Fine. I’m off to bed.”
“Don’t worry about making noise in the mornings, I probably won't hear you. And if you find me passed out somewhere, just leave me.”
“Charming as ever.”
“Would you want me any other way?” Haymitch asked. "Night, Effie."
Effie could think of a few attibutes that could make Haymitch appealing.
She climbed into bed, on the opposite side of where Haymitch usually slept. It was mercifully comfortable. Effie wondered if Plutarch would send some more luxurious bedding along with the new mattress. One of the benefits of living at his place had been the most amazing sheets she had ever had the fortune to sleep on. There could be no harm in writing a letter in the morning with a few requests, and some money to cover them.
The room smelled like Haymitch: earthy, slightly musky, with an undertone of stale alcohol. Something about it made her feel incredibly lonely. Was this truly her home now? Would she learn to be happy among the drear of Haymitch's house? Positivity was harder to muster up after all she had gone through, therefore she would have to work harder to find good in this tragic place.
It was unlikely she would ever return to the Capitol, though it wasn't as though she had much to leave behind in the end, and she would have been an outcast if she had stayed. She hadn't been able to say goodbye to her parents, the reality that she might never see them again smacked her with cold realization. None of her friends reached out while she stayed at Plutarch’s. She tried not to dwell on everything too much, knowing that overthinking could drag her back into the now-familiar cycle which threatened the somewhat fragile grip on her sanity. Maybe her friends failed to contact her because they had not made it to the other side of the war.
The losses in the Capitol had been equally as devastating as those in the districts—no one had come out the other side without a few; some had lost everything. Effie always tried to remind herself of this when despair threatened to tug her into its suffocating depths. She had lost her sister, but then again, hadn’t she lost her years ago?
Effie chalked up the sudden and overwhelming sadness to exhaustion, and she allowed herself a quiet moment of self-pity for the events of the last year and a half. It started to burst out of the cage she had locked it in as she curled up in the blankets and allowed hot tears to fall from her eyes, wetting the pillow beneath her head. She cried silently until sleep finally claimed her, dragging her away from oppressive homesickness and grief.