AN: I recently discovered Hayffie and realized it was everything I didn't know I wanted in my life. A lot of the fics I've read work off the idea of the two of them having been involved with or at least interested in each other over the course of the books, which is an entirely reasonable idea and one I enjoy very much, but it got me thinking: what would a romance between them look like if everything was exactly as it looked in the book, with Effie thoroughly Capitol and Haymitch a gloomy old drunk who wasn't particularly fond of his escort? Thus this story was born.

In case you're curious, this is set basically right before the last long paragraph of the last chapter of Mockingjay.

. . . . . .

Day One

. . . . . .

It's been exactly fifty-one weeks since the downfall of President Snow's regime when Haymitch Abernathy sees Effie Trinket again.

Normally he wouldn't have that number right at his fingertips—he only keeps track of what day it is so he knows how soon to expect the next train shipment of alcohol—but for the past few weeks Peeta has been nagging him and Katniss daily with reminders that Unity Day is coming up and that they are going to attend District 12's celebration.

None of them actually want to attend, feeling that being the face, brains and heart of the revolution is more than enough public service for one lifetime, but Peeta insists that they go. They've been formally invited and the people want to see them, and Peeta says they owe it to their district, which was all but destroyed during the rebellion for having the audacity to be the birthplace of the Mockingjay. Haymitch assumes that Peeta is giving them weeks of endless warnings so that Katniss has time to resign herself to the prospect of making a public appearance—the girl is still shell-shocked, and even before the war happened, she never liked being in front of large crowds—and so that Haymitch can't claim he forgot it was happening and drink himself into oblivion that day.

(Haymitch bickers with Peeta over the idea, as a matter of principle, but there's a lot of truth in what the boy's saying, and he knows that when the time comes, he will be cleaned up and reasonably sober at their little party.)

So Peeta's reminder this morning that the celebration is in one week is why Haymitch knows it has been exactly fifty-one weeks since Snow's surrender when he hears an unfamiliar knock at his door: crisp, firm, politely demanding entrance. With a feeling of dread in his heart—in his experience, few good things ever come from unexpected visitors—he rolls off his couch and stumbles to the door, buttoning his shirt along the way just in case.

He has to blink several times before he recognizes the woman on the other side of his front door. For the first six years he knew her, she was always dressed in the absolute peak of Capitol fashion: elaborate dresses, white face powder, colorful wigs (to his District 12 eyes, she'd looked ridiculous, although he knew that according to her peers she was stunning). Then the last time he saw her, she was gaunt and emaciated, her naturally dishwater blonde hair tangled, looking impossibly small in her hospital bed. No makeup was required that day to make her look as white as a ghost.

But today, she looks entirely different. She is dressed in what he knows from Plutarch's descriptions to be the new Capitol fashion: neutral and dark colors, clean lines, leather boots. "Based on what the rebels wore," Plutarch explained to him once, and then simply shrugged at Haymitch's baffled expression. She's bundled up warmer than is strictly necessary for late October; maybe it's colder in the Capitol right now so she assumed 12 would be cold as well. Her makeup is light, and her hair—her natural hair—is swept up in a braided updo. And for the first time, he understands what the Capitol citizens saw in her. In her own way, she is stunning.

But she's also completely unexpected and not entirely welcome. "Effie," he says flatly.

She gives him a small smile. "Haymitch." Her voice hasn't changed—still theatrical and melodious, still heavily tinged with the distinctive Capitol accent—and he can't help himself: he winces. For six long years, he only heard that voice during the darkest part of the year, when she showed up in 12 to destroy his home just a little bit more, to force him back into a life where he befriended children only to watch them die violently. It's not her fault that the Hunger Games happened, but apparently he still associates her with them. Hence the wince.

And she sees the wince, and her expression falters, but then she tightens her grip on her handbag and pastes her smile back on. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm in the neighborhood," she explains.

His response comes out more abruptly than he'd intended. "Why?"

"Peeta invited me down for your Unity Day celebration. And though the Capitol celebration does promise to be extravagant, I thought—" She hesitates, and a frown mars that perfect brow before disappearing behind her perfect smile. "I thought it might be nice to spend the holiday with friends."

Are they friends now? This is news to him. But he definitely wouldn't put it past Peeta to invite her; the boy always was a tender heart.

"And I've been in the city for months. I thought some fresh air might be healthful. Invigorating."

He nods. "You staying with Peeta?"

She nods. "His guest room."

He is out of conversation topics. "Well," he says, then pauses, looking for words, then gives up. "Welcome."

It doesn't sound particularly convincing to his ears, and from the look on her face, she agrees. "Thank you," she says quietly. "If you don't mind, I suppose I'll go unpack. I'm sure I'll see you around."

Knowing Peeta, that's probably true.

. . . . . .

"So I hear you were a real jerk to Effie," Katniss says.

Haymitch looks at her over the top of his glass of water, considers, and then nods. "Yeah, I probably was." He takes a drink. "She tell you that?"

"Not straight out," says Katniss, "but it was pretty clear, reading between the lines. Plus, you're not exactly a ray of sunshine, no matter who you're talking to."

From where they sit on Haymitch's porch, he can see a window open on the second floor of Peeta's house, in a room that isn't usually occupied; he supposes that's Effie's room. "It was just . . . unexpected." He puts on a bad approximation of the Capitol accent. "Didn't have time to compose myself properly to receive the Queen of Sheba." And then he scowls at the cup in his hands. "She always was easier to deal with when I was drunk." Unfortunately for him, he ran out of alcohol four days ago and unless he can beg, borrow or steal from someone else in 12, he'll get no more until the supply train arrives. The worst of the withdrawal symptoms are past, but the cravings are still there in full force.

Katniss sighs a bit longingly. "Yeah, that's probably true of a lot of things." Like Haymitch, she has demons she'd like to drown—maybe more than he does—and she has turned to alcohol a time or two before, but she also has his shining example in front of her to act as a warning, to remind her that if she picks up a bottle in order to live comfortably in her own head, she might never put it down again. So as much as she's tempted, these days she copes without liquid help. When she first told him that she viewed his alcoholism as a cautionary tale, he'd responded magnanimously that he was always glad to be of service.

"What about you?" he asks. "You happy to see her?"

Katniss shrugs. "I'm not thrilled—I haven't been missing her—but being mad at her, being mad at most people from the Capitol, is just . . ."

She trails off but he knows what she means. "It's like being mad at a little kid," he finishes. "Yeah, they did wrong, but they didn't really know any better." He takes a swig from his glass. "Plus if you yell at them they'll probably just burst into tears."

Katniss gives him a wry grin. "Exactly." That's one reason he enjoys these visits of hers, which have been happening with increasing frequency over the last eight months: she gets him. He sometimes thinks that if he'd ever had a daughter, she'd probably have been a lot like Katniss. So it's probably good he never reproduced.

"I kind of thought you'd be glad to see her," she says. "I thought you two were friends."

He raises an eyebrow. "Me and the princess?"

She shrugs. "They told me the only reason Coin didn't execute her was that you and Plutarch fought so hard to keep her alive."

That's true, he did. But then no feeling person could have done otherwise. His mind flashes back to that day when Paylor radioed him to say they'd found his old escort in a Capitol prison, and did he want to come down and give them a hand with her? He'd been very still for a moment, relief coursing through his veins; after all, it was definitely the rebellion's fault (his fault, really) that she'd been arrested in the first place, which was why he'd given the squadrons sent to the prisons instructions to look out for her. When he arrived at the hospital where they'd taken her, he barely recognized the waif in the pale blue hospital gown, but she recognized him—the only familiar face she'd seen in months—and she clung to him like a vine and trembled like a leaf. Clearly her captors had not been kind to her, and instantly he'd known: she was Capitol to the core, a silly image-obsessed socialite who'd been complicit in the gruesome crime against humanity that was the Hunger Games, but he couldn't leave her to her fate at Coin's hand. She'd been through enough because of her association with 12. For the sake of his own conscience, he'd fight for her.

But all of this is too much to explain to Katniss, so he says simply, "Like you said, she was never evil, just . . . Capitol. And both sides were out to get her; Snow arrested her because she happened to have been assigned to babysit the three of us, and Coin would have executed her for the same reason." He shrugs. "I felt bad for her. But I didn't expect to ever see her again. Definitely didn't expect her to tell me today that we're friends."

"Hey," Katniss reminds him with a grin, "don't forget, we're a team." She leans back in her chair. "Effie . . . Effie meant well, I think. She cared about us, the best she could. And Peeta does seem really happy to see her."

Haymitch chuckles at that. "You worried about that? Beautiful woman, sleeping in your boyfriend's house?"

As he'd expected, Katniss bristles at the use of the word 'boyfriend.' She and Peeta are definitely something to each other these days—he sees the way they look at each other, the way they touch a little more than is strictly necessary, and he knows that she let Peeta kiss her once, very briefly—but she still strenuously objects to putting a label on it. After all, putting a label on it would make it real, and making it real would just make it one more thing she's afraid to lose should their new-found peace and freedom turn out just to be a cruel ruse or a beautiful dream.

But she scoffs at the idea of being jealous. "I don't think Peeta knows how to break someone's trust, even if he wanted to."

Haymitch nods in agreement, then gives a rare compliment. "He's a good kid."

A hint of a smile crosses Katniss's face. "Yeah, he is." Then she wrinkles up her nose. "So I guess if he's trying to give Effie a chance, so will I."

She looks expectantly at Haymitch, and he marvels for a moment at what a good influence her not-quite-a-boyfriend has had on her. "Fine," he says. "We'll be nice to Effie."

. . . . . .

They get their first chance to put this into practice that very night, as Peeta has invited them both over for dinner. This isn't unusual; he has them over for dinner four or five nights a week, because neither of them can cook to save their lives and Peeta is excellent at it. Haymitch is never sure if it's because cooking is similar to baking or if the kid just has a talent for all things food-related.

But tonight is special, he sees when he shows up. Tonight Peeta has pulled out all the stops. His house, always immaculate, is decorated with fresh flowers and there's a fine white cloth on the table. And the smell from the kitchen tells Haymitch that Peeta has outdone himself today. Best of all, there is a bottle of something red and delicious-looking on the sideboard.

"Present from Effie," Peeta says when he sees Haymitch looking at it. "She brought it from the Capitol."

"That wonderful woman," Haymitch grins, picking up the bottle. "This is—"

"Cranberry juice," Effie's trilling tones come from the hallway.

"Cranberry juice?" Haymitch repeats, making a face. "Why would anyone drink cranberry juice, and why would you get my hopes up like that?"

"It is delicious," she says. "And not my fault that you immediately assume anything in a bottle is here to get you drunk."

"Would it have killed you to bring wine?"

"It might have killed you," she says. She gives him a stern, disapproving look, lips pursed, and it's almost as familiar to him as the look of fatigue that stares back at him daily from the mirror. For a moment in his mind they are back on the train, an escort and her victor, bickering yet again about his drunken escapades. In a strange way, it makes him feel nostalgic.

"Come on, you two," says Peeta firmly. "Time for dinner."

The roast venison is delicious, and Effie, holding her fork delicately in a gloved hand, declares it to be as good as any venison she's ever had at the Capitol. Peeta uses this as a segue to ask her about life in the Capitol these days.

"Oh, it has changed a great deal," Effie says seriously. "Fewer people, of course, and those of us that are left had to relocate into parts of the town unaffected by fighting. And it took months to clean up all the defenses President Snow had around the city—there were all these . . . booby traps, apparently, that would go off if people came too close—"

She cuts off as Peeta and Katniss both visibly tense; Haymitch supposes that they're remembering their terrifying incursion into the city. Perhaps Peeta is remembering when he had an episode and, in his out-of-control state, knocked Mitchell into one of the pods and killed him. But he supposes Effie doesn't know these things, as she was imprisoned at the time; at the very least, she clearly has no idea why Peeta and Katniss look so upset, and she looks pleadingly at Haymitch for help.

So he supposes he can save the conversation, if he must. "Looks like clothes have changed too. You're not as colorful as you used to be."

This is a sufficient distraction from the awkwardness. She glances down at her austere brown and gray dress and fawn gloves and smiles. "Yes, they're beautiful, don't you think? This is what everyone's wearing now. After . . . everything, everyone wants clothes that are less frivolous. More serious, out of respect for what has happened."

Haymitch fights the urge to roll his eyes. Districts are struggling to rebuild, soldiers and victors are coping with bodies that may never fully heal and minds that may never fully be at peace again, and how is the Capitol dealing with it all? By wearing more serious clothing. Good thing they didn't experience as much actual fighting as the districts did, because they would genuinely not have been able to cope, not even with the help of all the serious dresses in the word.

That's unfair of him, he knows. Many Capitol citizens suffered greatly, many died, many watched their own children get blown apart by Coin's bombs. But they didn't see nearly the same amount of destruction as the districts. And before the rebellion started, they never starved or feared the Peacekeepers; they never watched family and friends die in the Games. They never knew the horror of a reaping.

Well, this conversation is getting them nowhere. "Where are you working at now?" he asks, although he already knows the answer from his frequent phone calls with Plutarch.

Effie smiles. "I'm working for our old friend Plutarch. On one of his shows, Stories across Panem. Perhaps you've seen it?"

She looks around hopefully, but Haymitch and Katniss just look at her blankly and Peeta shrugs apologetically. All three of them agree that they're happier staying out of touch with the rest of the world, and their televisions stay off.

"That's all right," she says, sounding disappointed. "I'll have to show you an episode while I'm here; it's really wonderful. We travel around the Capitol and the districts and ask people to share stories about their lives—what their district is like, how they live now, how they lived before the rebellion. All done very tastefully, of course. We were all so isolated from each other under President Snow, and Plutarch saw this as a way to increase awareness and unity across the country."

Sounds just like Plutarch, using entertainment to make a point. Knowing him, it probably works, too. Haymitch thinks the show sounds awfully dull, but Peeta looks interested. "I'd love to see that," he says sincerely. "And I'm not surprised you ended up on TV. You were always good at it."

Unexpectedly, Effie freezes, and a look crosses her face that reminds Haymitch of the way Katniss looks when she remembers . . . anything, really. "Oh, I'm not in front of the camera," she says. "I . . . I had enough of that as an escort." There's a pause, and then she fakes a laugh and plows into a conversation with Peeta about how beautiful his house is with a great deal of forced cheerfulness that can't cover the tension in the room.

And Haymitch sits back in his chair and listens with eyebrows raised. He's learned two things tonight: one, that this is going to be an incredibly awkward week, since Effie keeps accidentally stumbling into the conversation topics they'd rather ignore and they seem to be good at doing the same thing to her; and two, Effie Trinket is not as okay as she pretends to be.

. . . . . .