A/N: This is the story I had in mind when I wrote their convo about 13 over breakfast. But the tone is not as playful. Titles following Sink or Swim by Tyron Wells' lyrics. Catching Fire, before interviews.
Caught in the middle of a crossfire
"I suppose it can't wait tomorrow morning," he says to the man with the gun.
"It won't take long." answers the peacekeeper.
"But... but..." I stutter, suddenly out of air, frantically trying to come up with an excuse that would buy us time. Haymitch meets my eyes and I fall silent. His hands curl up in fists and I hold my breath as he follows them.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart." he says as the elevator doors close on him and the three peacekeepers sent to retrieve him. "Don't wait up for me."
I do wait anyway. Katniss and Peeta have gone to bed hours ago, after their scores were revealed, before the peacekeepers arrived unannounced.
I'm left worrying alone, so I try to occupy my mind with something. Preferably something I can control: schedules for the upcoming days and possible sponsors' files. I revise plans over and over, changing dates, making small corrections at times, pretending it's the most important thing in the world as it used to be.
But my hands are clammy and I can't stop fiddling with the pen, I contemplate picking up the phone every few minutes but then I realize I have no one to call, no one I could talk to, no one I can trust after the dreadful experience that was Victory Tour. But Haymitch.
My heels discarded by the sofa, I pace the length of the room unable to clear my mind of the image of him hanged, noose around the neck, in a public place for everyone to see or his lifeless body left in the wild, no one the wiser. Gone forever.
At three in the morning I finally collapse on the floor in the empty room, tears smudging my make up, but for the first time I couldn't care less.
Lost my balance on a high wire
Dawn is close when the elevator doors slid open and he stumbles in the room. I must have dozed off but I'm back on my feet, hurrying to his side and pulling him into my arms even before I can size up his state. He's alive and back and that's all that matters.
He grunts and steps away: "Easy. I'm not drunk enough for that."
He bypasses me to reach the liquor cart and pours himself a glass as I look at him astonished.
"You've been away for five hours." I hiss taking in his wrinkled clothes and tangled hair.
He only shrugs and the idea he's avoiding my eyes on purpose alarms me for the first time. Was he not taken by peacekeepers? Could he have been drinking his head off 'till morning in some slum after being released? Could I be such a fool to think he would care to tell me?
Am I shaking with fear or rage?
"I thought you were dead." I whisper, eyes burning with tears I stubbornly smother.
He stares at the bottom of his glass, pondering my words, before downing his drink "I might need an aspirin."
His lack of response to my worry is drowning my words in a knot of questions that, I know, will have no answer. "Not if you keep drinking." I hear myself resolutely saying instead.
He pauses, refilled glass trembling mid air. No, he has not been drinking for hours, I can tell. Putting the glass back down he starts sliding his jacket off with some difficulties. "Would you be a doll and help me undress?" he asks gruffly.
He winces when I touch him and he still avoids my eyes. He's alive, I repeat myself when I get a glimpse of his bruised skin underneath.
Trying to figure out what to do
I follow him to his room and layer by layer I unveil a map of bruises and cuts on his chest, back and arms, telling a longer version of what he dismissed as a night of friendly talk with peacekeepers.
We dance around each other clumsily, I unbutton his shirt as he unbuckles his belt, shuddering and hissing every time my fingernails brush his skin.
"Katniss and Peeta must not know." he instructs me as I fold his clothes with shaky fingers.
I suggest he runs a bath while I get painkillers. He nods and shies away in the bathroom.
I go back to my room, quickly discard my wig, change into night clothes and get rid of what smudged make up is left. Puffy eyes and quivering lips, that sinking feeling is back and I try to find something to hold on to, still not wanting to admit I'm scared, not even to my reflection in the mirror.
But he's been away for five hours and I knew just then that I couldn't do anything for Haymitch. Or Katniss. Or Peeta. Peacekeepers could swarm in and take them away any minute, like last night, and my Capitol citizenship or my eloquence would count for nothing. For how many connections I created over the years, for all of the influences I carefully built, for all of the efforts I put into helping them, getting closer to the highest powers, none of those Capitol pot belly powdered faced wealthy lawyers would lift a finger for Twelve's victors. The odds will never be in our favor. Hope alone is not enough and I wonder if this feeling is common amongst the districts citizens.
The truth weighs heavily in the air as I collect the first-aid kit.
For the first time I feel useless.
Pushed to the edge of my reason
I'm back in Haymitch's room in time to see him emerge from the bathroom in his pajamas bottom.
"This will help with the bruises and the swelling." I inform him handing over a small jar.
"Will you?" he asks giving it back. I nod and sit on the bed with him, spreading the cream on his skin as delicately as I can manage. This I can do, I tell myself. This is easy. Bruises are already darkening but at least he's not bleeding. He is uncharacteristically silent as I work on his wounds and I can't help observing they could all be easily concealed with proper clothing.
My vision soon blurs and tears escape my eyelashes as my forehead comes to rest between his shoulderblades. He lets me weep for a moment, my arms around his middle in a futile attempt at keeping him close. Then slowly he turns around taking my hands into his, forcing me to look at him while he brushes away the tears.
"Don't cry." he orders curtly.
"I thought you were dead." I snivel half-ashamed.
"I'm not."
Words that won't wash away the feel of him slipping away from me.
"I gave my bangle to Finnick this afternoon," he spills in the end, sighing. "They thought I was scheming against the Capitol. I thought it would help Katniss trust him as an ally. I'm sorry." he adds.
I'm speechless for a while, registering his confession. But he's looking at me like he does, with that determination that tells of self imposed restriction and unspoken regret. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and compose myself as well. When I reopen them I'm grounded again, safely anchored by his steady hands and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, faking my bright Capitol smile.
Everywhere around me it's treason
He doesn't invite me to stay and I don't ask, but he's still holding my hand when he shifts on the bed to lift the covers. He lays uncomfortably on his back and I tuck him in, drop my slippers at the foot of the bed and climb in beside him.
In the first lights of the morning we lay side by side, too tired to sleep. It would be just over a couple of hours anyway. I shuffle closer to rest my forhead on his shoulder, stifling the fear of rejection bubbling inside.
Instead, he finds my hands under the sheets and threads his fingers with mine.
"I need to know you will still be doing the smart thing, Princess." he whispers staring at the ceiling. I nod letting my eyelashes tickle his arm. "I can't afford to worry about you too right now." he adds. "The golden tokens..."
As a Capitol citizen I never thought I could be in any danger. Untill now.
"I know." I lie. Because I will wear golden strands again and I will want everyone to be dazzled by them catching the light, making a statement. I curl further around his arm, mindful of the wounds, wanting to feel him closer still.
"If things go south," he warns again "I want you to only think about yourself. I want to be sure you'll be alright, Effie."
I squeeze his hand.
I will. I'll smile and cheer and fake it for the crowd. I will pretend nothing changed and I will only tell what they want to hear. And I'll be alright.
I watch the comforting rise and fall of his chest at the crack of dawn.
Katniss and Peeta needs him more than I do, I tell myself around the lump in my throat.
I don't want to do that to you
I'm waken up by his thumb brushing away the tears, evidence of a restless sleep. I don't remember the nightmare, but I still feel its cold grip around my throat as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
He watches me like he's never seen me before. "You look awful." he says at last.
I smile even with tears streaked cheeks. "Make up does wonders."
He snorts. Make up and fancy dresses will erase last night the Capitol way: conceal his cuts and bruises, dissipate my nightmares, make us whole again.
My fingers trace light patterns on his skin haphazardly till he stills my hand. I lift my eyes to meet his and I read a subtle pleah. "We could all use a day off."
I nod staring at his chest rhythmic rise and fall. Still alive, I repeat myself till I breathe easier again.
"We could spend all day in bed," he suggests "it's not like Katniss and Peeta need any more camera training after Victory Tour."
"I will write them a message, tell them they have the day for themselves." I say lifting the covers to get up. He grunts trying to sit up in bed but merely succeeds in brushing his fingerpits down my arm. "I'll be right back." I assure him with my brightest smile before kissing his brow.
The boldness lasts only untill I slip out of his room and as I keep reminding myself nothing will happen while I'm not there, making sure he's safe and sound, I pen my message through jittery tears.
I catch myself before breaking down completely, curse my nerves and dry puffy eyes. I'm back in Haymitch's room with breakfast and a brave face, holding him close 'till I feel the steady ground beneath my feet again.