Acknowledgements: S, who read this first in spite of her workload. Thank you for believing in me always. My muse, who has violated our agreement to let me endure the semester without words (but because you keep me sane, I forgive you).

Notes: This takes place after As the Sky, but it is NOT necessary to have read it to get this. To catch you up if you haven't read AtS, the gist is that Effie and a TV crew went to District Twelve to film a documentary on its recovery, it was a success, and thereafter, Effie stayed with Haymitch. Furthermore, because I'm busy (and often very tired), updates will be few and far between at best, for which I apologize deeply (and will probably continue apologizing every update). That said, I hope you enjoy this! Feedback is always appreciated, especially if you have suggestions on how I can improve. :D

Early in the morning, Effie heads down the stairs of Haymitch's house in Victors Village, hiding a yawn behind her hand. The sun has only just begun to peek out over the horizon, painting the tops of the trees and houses a pale gold. The light filtering in through the curtains and windows is not yet enough to light the house's interior, but Effie makes the walk to the kitchen in the shadows, the prospect of greeting the morning bringing a small smile to her face.

She doesn't bother with the lights, goes instead to start some water boiling and sit at the counter to stare out the window at the waking world. It's mid fall, but there has been a warm spell for the past day or two, and they have been keeping a few windows open to help cool the house. This morning, it is chilly, just the way Effie likes it. She tugs her robe tight about her and listens for the geese, for the larks and wrens, their familiar songs the only sounds to allay the dread that is twisting her stomach into knots.

"It's silly," she had told Haymitch the day before. "After everything that's happened, that something as simple as this scares me so much is—well, it's silly."

Haymitch had shrugged and said, "For what it's worth, I'm damn near terrified."

"You aren't even the one who has to face this," she had said, shaking her head. "I don't know what I'll do."

"You'll deal with it," he had stated, as if it were the simplest and best advice in the world. "It'll be fine. It's like you said, you've dealt with far worse. You can do this."

As she listens to the birdsong starting in earnest outside, Effie hopes that he's right.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs draws her from her thoughts; within moments, Haymitch shuffles into the kitchen, heading for the stove.

"I'll get it," she says, standing. "You're not awake enough to make coffee. You'll spill it everywhere."

He gets the tin of ground coffee out of the cupboards anyway, surprisingly coordinated for someone who looks as though he could sleep for another five hours.

"Consider it my gift to you," he tells her, reaching for their usual mugs. "You know, in solidarity."

Effie shakes her head, smiling, and goes to help him. "I appreciate it." She spares a moment to brush some hair out of his eyes, then gets the sugar and some spoons. Between the two of them, they're done within minutes, going to sit at the table with their steaming mugs. Effie grips hers tightly, afraid to drop it as she remembers today's task, and shudders, the strength draining from her momentarily.

"You look paler than normal," Haymitch remarks.

"It's just nerves," she says, shrugging. She takes a sip of coffee, but he is too perceptive despite his grogginess, and he sees the quick, tight grin she gives in the second before her mug touches her lips. She feels his eyes on her, sees him, out of the corner of her eye, frowning as he watches her.

"You're really that upset?" he half asks, half states. When she shrugs again, he says, "It's just your mother, Eff."

"You don't know her," she says at once. "All that I used to be—the timetables, the proper behavior, the sense of fashion—don't laugh!—I learned all of that from her. And she's always been more of all of that than I have been. Which reminds me: I don't know what to wear!"

"Didn't you pick something out a few days ago?" His reaches for the long sleeve of her robe, lifting it at the end as if it will reveal another article of clothing underneath. "Red? Orange? Something garish."

"Vermilion," she corrects, pulling her arm back. "But I don't know anymore. It's a good color for the fall, but—" For a moment, she lets the sentence hang, mentally going through her wardrobe. It is smaller than it used to be, and more subdued as well, but still colorful, still her. The vermilion dress she had settled on has puffy sleeves and layered skirts, but it had felt more and more wrong the more she looked at it. She had left it ready to put on today, but she has been unconvinced of her choice since at least the night before.

Sighing, she sets her mug down on the table. "And that's without thinking about what to do with my hair. Which color wig? Or maybe I should go with a scarf?"

"Just wear your real hair out."

She gasps, nearly knocking over her mug in her haste to bring a hand to her heart. "Are you serious?"

"Yes." He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee, completely unaware of the audacity of his suggestion.

"I can't do that," she huffs, placing her hands one over the other on the table. Does he not understand, after all this time, that her hair is the one part of herself she has kept absolutely sacred for as long as she has been able? Growing it back since the rebellion has only made it more so, and even moving here for good hasn't changed that. Aside from Katniss seeing it on the morning she went to talk Effie out from within the shadows of a vivid nightmare, she has only allowed Haymitch to see her head uncovered, and she has not even considered making another exception for anyone.

"Why not?" he asks. "She's your mother. It's not like she hasn't seen it before."

"She hasn't seen it in… goodness, ten, fifteen years? I can't even remember the last time."

"So she's long overdue a look at it, isn't she?"

"That isn't the point." She presses her lips together, frowning at her mug, as if in it she'll find the words for what she cannot express. "It's as if… Well, you don't walk out into the world showing everyone your scars, do you?"

"That's because normal clothes cover them."

"But if they didn't, you still wouldn't, would you? You wouldn't just go outside naked."

"No," he says, "and fuck anyone who'd think of nudity as a fashion statement."

"Exactly." She sighs. "Obviously it isn't the same. Going out without covering my hair doesn't constitute nudity, but—" Frowning, she meets his gaze, the steadiness of his stare a comfort she cannot, in this moment, be without. "I was taught growing up that a person's worth was measured by how they could afford to dress. A person's body was a canvas, and we were all walking works of art as long as we were on trend. Being in any way natural was unthinkable. It was base. Ugly." The last word comes out in a whisper, the old stigma suddenly fresh in her mind. As she is right now, with her hair tied back and no make-up on her face, she is hideous by the standards which ruled her old life. Sometimes when she looks in the mirror in the morning, she is back in that world, and she wants to cover her face thrice over with make-up and wear the brightest wig she owns. Without those things, she isn't worth half a glance.

"My mother taught me how to make myself beautiful," she says softly. "I don't want to disappoint her."

Sighing, Haymitch sets down his mug. "Somehow, I don't think she'll be that upset with you if you aren't covered with glitter. I think she's plenty happy with the fact that you're alive."

"That's not good enough." She shuts her eyes. "It's been well over a year now."

"Why do you think she's even coming here?"

"I'm sorry?"

He holds her gaze for a moment when she looks at him again, then repeats slowly, "Why do you think she's even coming here?"

"To check up on me," Effie answers, frowning.

"To see you," he adds, nodding. "To see how you are."

"Yes." She waits a moment, but he merely nods. "I'm afraid I'm missing your point."

"She's coming here, to the district you and everyone else thought was so miserable. She's putting aside what she believes about this place, all because she wants to see you. She could've asked you to go visit her, but she didn't. She's making the trip. She's facing whatever fears she has about Twelve."

He arches his eyebrows, staring straight at her, and as his words hit their mark, she gazes down at her hands.

When she had spoken with her mother on the phone last week, Effie had been too busy processing the news of her visit to even begin to understand the why of it, and she had forsaken reason, thinking instead of how it used to be. In those days, her mother would not have let Effie get away so easily with smearing the family name thus, and the visit would have been to offer her prodigal daughter one last chance to come home and rectify her mistakes. She could not force Effie to do things now, nor could she have then, but the reproach would still have been delivered, the shame shifted fully onto Effie's shoulders to bear for the rest of her life and perhaps after, if her transgression became cautionary tale. Effie had regressed since that phone call, becoming defensive when the topic came up, spending more time in the bathroom every morning and enumerating the long list of her imperfections, classifying in her mind the additions to them from her time in captivity.

Old habits crept up so easily when something potentially threatening appeared.

"That's very sensible," she says, but she isn't yet sure she believes it. She has never known anyone from her old home to be so willing to understand an outside point of view.

"Do what you want," he tells her, leaning back in his chair. "Don't wear that vermilion dress, though. It's ugly."

"You say that about all my dresses," she says, a hushed chuckle taking with it some of the tension in her frame. There is a lightness in the air now, and as the morning light brightens the kitchen, he rests his hand upon her forearm, she begins to feel brave.

Some three hours later, the passenger train makes its stop at Twelve, and Mitrodora Trinket calls from the station to announce her arrival.

"Give me half an hour, my dear, then come meet me at the town square," she says, her voice lilting and warping with the accent of the Capitol's upper classes.

Effie imitates it unconsciously, her former speech patterns coming to her with surprising ease. "Yes, of course. I'll see you shortly."

When Effie hangs up, Haymitch grimaces at her from where he is scrubbing away at the frying pan.

She heads for the bathroom without a word, avoiding meeting her own gaze as she brushes on a thin layer of eye shadow. After an hour of agonizing over what to wear, she had settled on a compromise: one of the subtler dresses she owns in a style she has come to love since relocating, enough make-up to cover the scars on her face without giving her skin the appearance of hard, unfeeling porcelain, and a wig of pale pink, an old favorite that her mother had given her years ago.

Downstairs, she hesitates a moment by the door, and Haymitch takes the opportunity to place a flower, a dahlia from the vase she keeps on the coffee table, in her wig.

"Thank you," she breathes.

"Relax," he says. "It's just a short visit. It'll be over before you know it."

"I'm being ridiculous." She inhales deeply and stands to her full height. "If I'm not back by sunset, go look for me."

"I'll be sure to do that," he says, rolling his eyes.

She smiles, touches his arm, and heads outside.

A hint of last night's chill hangs in the air, but a few seconds in the sun warm Effie's skin even through the long sleeves of her light green dress. She's wearing her favorite pair of boots, brown ones commissioned from Marsh, the shoemaker. Effie works far less now than a year ago, but she makes enough to afford new clothes and accessories. She buys most of her things in town, but sometimes she will treat herself to imports, mostly finer gowns and fabrics from Eight. A few months ago, she had asked Marsh if he could make a pair of boots with a few inches to their heels, and since he'd completed them, she had been in bliss.

They may not be in style, but perhaps they will impress solely because she loves them so.

She spots her mother from afar, a particularly bright spot amid the colors of the new town square. Twelve has blossomed in the arms of its newfound freedom, its residents finding happiness in the little things that Effie and her people had taken for granted for generations. But even against the backdrop of a cheerful basket of flowers atop a decorative pillar, her mother's orange and violet outfit stands out. Pursing her lips, Effie approaches her, making bets with herself as to how long it will take for her mother to identify her amid the bustling crowd of a work day at mid-morning.

It turns out to be not long at all. As soon as Effie enters the square proper, her mother waves her over, and after double kiss on each cheek, they sit on a nearby bench, just under the shade of a young oak.

"I'm staying at such a lovely place," says Mitrodora. "It's small, but clean. Tastefully decorated, too. Overall, I would say it's absolutely charming!"

"I'm glad you think so," says Effie.

"I would have come earlier, but do you know that they are booked for weeks in advance? And it's such a small place!" Mitrodora shrugs. "You've done them a world of good, dearest."

Effie shrugs, giving a half-hearted smile. "I wonder about that sometimes." The steady influx of visitors has been good for local business owners, but the fawning of her former compatriots has been off-putting. She has heard about it from the inn's manager, who opens her dining room to the residents of Victors Village when they come by with special baked goods. It's a small, cozy space, and now Peeta's baked goods are rationed out to ensure everyone gets to enjoy at least one pastry. As the manager watches people pass and the supply of pastries dwindle, she shares, under her breath, complaints about some of the more irritating visitors.

"Thanks to you," she says sometimes, staring right at Effie. Then she laughs and pats Effie's shoulder. "Business is good."

"There's a doctor from District Two in the room next to me," Mitrodora continues. "He's a gem of a man, so thoughtful. I was happy to see you'll have someone to go to should something ever happen."

"Yes."

"I'm so glad to see you kept that wig, darling. It was always one of my favorites."

"Oh—yes," Effie says, smiling. She had forgotten how quickly her mother could jump from one topic to the next; smiling is the only way she can think of to excuse herself for not keeping up. "Of course I kept it. It's one of my favorites as well."

Mitrodora nods, glancing down at Effie's shoes, doubtless evaluating the whole of her daughter's outfit. Effie digs her nails into her palms, fighting the impulse to turn away. When the silence becomes too long to bear, she asks, "How long will you be staying?"

"I'm not certain yet," her mother replies. "I haven't purchased my return ticket." She pauses a moment, then adds, "I was hoping I would buy two of them and you would come with me."

"Mother—" Effie presses her lips together, pressing her nails deeper into her palms. "I live here now."

"Ah, that you do. Yes, indeed." Mitrodora nods. "May I assume we'll be planning a wedding soon?"

"Mother," Effie gasps, frowning. "I—"

"Forgive me my forwardness," Mitrodora continues. "It's just that we expected you and Seneca Crane to marry, you know, and we were so excited. But then he—well, I needn't remind you."

Yet she has done just that, and the memories of those days tear through Effie's heart anew. Her chest burns. Tears sting her eyes. She takes a deep, slow breath, counting to ten from start to finish. Her mother does not know the truth about Seneca's death. Few do, for in the face of countless crimes against the people of Panem, the execution of an accomplice to those transgressions is but a minor detail. Heavensbee would probably die for a story on that, but Effie has walked away from television work for a long, long while.

"Now you have the victor."

"Haymitch," Effie says at once. "His name is Haymitch."

"Haymitch Abernathy. Who could ever forget?" Mitrodora looks up and smiles, staring at a storefront across the square. "Who would have thought? My daughter, charming men held in such esteem."

She means it as praise, but Effie winces regardless. It's too much old Capitol, too real, too immediate. "That was never how I intended it," she says. "It's just how it happened."

Nodding, Mitrodora sighs. "I only want to see you happy, Effie."

"That's—"

"And I wanted you to know what it's like to have a family of your own. Your brother gave me grandchildren, but it would be different if—"

"I can't." Effie lowers her gaze and frowns. "Forgive me. I don't mean to be rude by interrupting you, but—" She inhales deeply, meeting her mother's gaze, her guard down for the second it takes to repeat her confession. "I can't.

Again Mitrodora nods. The simple gesture renders her older than she looks, doing away, for just a moment, with what cosmetic surgery and make-up have sought to hide for years now. In only one year since the rebirth of their nation, time has taken a heavy toll on them all.

"I am trying to understand," Mitrodora admits. "It's difficult, mind you. There is so much to process. But I am trying very hard because I think you have been made to endure enough."

Effie bites the insides of her cheeks as she nods, counting through a breath.

"But please also understand that we miss you very much," her mother continues, a hint of desperation making her voice tremble before she quietly clears her throat.

"I know."

"Please consider a visit now and again, for a day or two."

"I will."

"Don't feel obligated, but please consider it."

Nodding, Effie repeats, "I will." The promise binds her spirit, and she will never be able to undo it.

Haymitch is waiting for her in the kitchen, a mug set out for her on the table, next to a glass with his choice of liquor for the day. When she sees him, she stops by the table, and when it becomes clear that she does not intend to move, he stands and goes to her.

Wordlessly, Effie slides her arms about his waist and rests her head on his chest. In response, he holds her close, gentle despite the tension in his frame. They are used to this now, these silent exchanges that promise safety and comfort, banishing one another's ghosts even if only for a while.

"That bad?" he asks after some time.

She tightens her hold on his shirt. It's too soon, and she has not yet processed her thoughts well enough to form words. Shifting, she lifts a hand to her head and says, "Help me take this off."

By now he is as fast as she is at this, his nimble fingers finding and removing pins and wig and cap with care. She sets the wig on the table, adjusting the dahlia in its pale pink curls as Haymitch smoothes her hair into place.

Breathing shakily, she glances at the table and sees the glass and the mug as if for the first time since arriving.

"You made me tea," she says, meeting his gaze.

"Have to boil the water, actually," he clarifies, "but I started to. Didn't know when you'd be back, but I figured you might want some when you did."

She nods, manages a small smile. "You are absolutely right."

As he goes to turn on the stove, Effie sits and stares at the liquor in his glass. Just a sip might help her get words out, even if they are a mess. The conversation with her mother is fresh in her mind, the words clear, the impressions heavy. She sees her mother's outfit when she closes her eyes, the oranges and yellows too bright, an artificial autumn that Effie would once have found delightful. Still, compared to how they had both dressed little over a year ago, Mitrodora had chosen subtlety over expression, and beside her, Effie had been dull and boring save, perhaps, for her wig.

As the water starts to boil, she runs her fingers through her hair, relishing the feel of it and how it has grown in the past year. It isn't beautiful, despite what Haymitch may say to her, but it's hers, and she wouldn't trade it for even half the comforts of her old life.

Haymitch pours boiling water into Effie's mug, sets the pot in the sink to cool, and takes his seat again. He picks up his glass and drinks.

Effie watches him through the steam rising from her mug.

"She wants me to go back with her."

He snorts, arching his eyebrows as he sets his glass down and reaches for the bottle at the center of the table. For a moment, she thinks he's going to drink right from it, but all he does is fill his glass almost to the brim. "Some request," he says and takes a drink.

She nods, pressing her lips together as she clasps her hands tight in front of her. The only sounds in the room for those few, long seconds are the ice in his glass and the glass on the table when he sets it down again. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears, but she doesn't count it – surely he can't hear that.

She takes her mug, the ceramic hot against her skin, and sips, burning her tongue. She winces, feels his gaze on her, but does not put the mug down.

"What did you say to her?" he asks.

"That I would consider it."

"Really," he scoffs. "That's not something to say so lightly."

"No." She blows into her mug, sipping more slowly this time. The tea is still very hot, but she suffers no additional burns.

He holds up his glass, staring at it as if admiring precious stones. Finally, he asks, "So what will you do?"

Inhaling deeply, she sets down her mug. It is the question she has asked herself since her mother had brought up returning in the square, the one that had rendered her speechless upon seeing Haymitch sitting here waiting for her, ready to listen to the story of how many horrors this simple visit brought up against her will. She cannot dawdle any longer.

Meeting his gaze, she gathers her thoughts together and listens to the silence they leave in their wake.

"I'm going to go."