I can't stop writing these two I love them so freaking much.

Based on Volee's prompt: "Also I request a canon compliant hayffie fic based off of "save the last dance for me" by michael buble and have it set during the victory tour of catching fire"

I tried, I really did. It just didn't wanna end there.

(Title taken from the aforementioned song)

Contrary to popular opinion, Haymitch did actually know how to dance. Properly too, with his hands and feet in all the right places and everything. And it wasn't as though there was anything wrong with dancing.

It was just the woman he was currently dancing with he didn't particularly like.

He'd already forgotten her name – Leela, or Lila, or Lily, or something with an L – and he didn't much care to ask again. She was insipid, babbling in his ear about something or other. He'd tuned her out a long time ago, stepping through the motions of the simple waltz on autopilot as he watched the other dancers around them.

Katniss was dancing with Plutarch. That in and of itself was cause for concern, and he kept an eye on them as much as he could without arousing Lina's suspicion. Katniss had a pinched look on her face, that look she got when she was confused or suspicious, but she was dancing smoothly without a misstep, and Haymitch was taken aback by the rush of pride that swept over him. She was doing well, his little bird, and if they were incredibly incredibly lucky, they might just all get out of this in one piece.

As a team.

The thought made him look around, over Lilith's head. There she was – Effie Trinket was spinning easily in the arms of some guy in a gaudy purple jacket. He licked his dry lips as she tilted her head back and laughed easily at something he said. The man was definitely checking her out – from what Haymitch could tell, he was spending more time staring at her chest than he was looking at her eyes.

"Mr. Abernathy, are you listening to me at all?"

With a little shake of his head, Haymitch looked back down at the woman in his arms. "Uh, of course. My apologies."

Depressingly, Linguini was the most interesting of his dance partners for the next hour until Haymitch finally put his foot down and informed his next partner none too politely that he needed the bathroom. He escaped towards the buffet table, pleased to be finally off the dance floor, and examined his food choices.

He was halfway through loading up a plate – he was here, might as well eat – when Effie materialized at his shoulder, looking flustered. Her cheeks were flushed, the bright color bleeding through her foundation. "Haymitch!" She put her gloved hand on the inside of his elbow. "Have you seen them? I lost sight of them halfway through—"

Haymitch jerked his head to the right before she was finished speaking. "They're over there, dancing near the fake trees." He'd checked on them not five minutes before Effie had appeared.

Tension bled from Effie's shoulders and for an instant, she couldn't mask the pure relief that showed on her face. It was a powerful emotion and it had Haymitch raising his eyebrows at her, surprised, before her smile was firmly back in place. "Well, how lovely. Are you having a nice time?" She asked, glancing at the plate in his hands.

"Oh yeah, loads." Haymitch rolled his eyes and Effie whacked him gently with the back of her hand.

"Honestly, Haymitch, you could at least try and stow the sarcasm for a single evening." She tossed a smile easily at a couple picking at the buffet and linked arms with Haymitch, steering him to a more private corner of the square.

Haymitch scooped a bite of food off his plate and into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Hm. Not bad." Effie looked pleased and he swallowed the mouthful. A bit of an awkward silence fell over them. Effie was watching him expectantly, like she was waiting for him to say something. He blinked at her.

"What are you staring at, Princess?"

Effie snapped her gaze away. "Nothing! This certainly is a lovely party, isn't it?"

Haymitch's brow creased. "I guess, if you like all the fanfare."

"And everyone's having such a lovely time, eating and socializing and dancing…" Effie's eyes flicked back to him and oh, so that was it. A slow grin curled the corner of Haymitch's mouth and Effie looked away instantly, clearing her throat.

"You shoulda just said something, there, sweetheart." Haymitch teased and Effie crossed her arms across her chest defensively.

"I wasn't just going to be so forward, Haymitch, honestly, how incredibly rude." She muttered.

Haymitch opened his mouth, fully intending to tease her a bit more when over her shoulder he spied Plutarch standing off to the side. The Gamemaker looked directly at him before he turned and wandered pointedly off towards a secluded patio surrounded by trees and lights.

"Actually…" Haymitch's voice was slow, careful, and he put his plate down on a nearby table. "I'm gonna need a rain check on that." He looked down at her. She looked confused and a little hurt and something in his stomach twisted a little. She had no idea what he was planning – she probably hadn't even noticed that he hadn't had a drink in weeks – but he'd be damned before he let her put herself in any danger for a half-cocked idea of his that would probably just get them all killed.

The less she knew, the safer she was.

So instead, he let an easy, mocking grin cross his face and nodded at the dance floor. "Go on out there. Have fun, loosen up, have a drink or six. Bat your eyes at all the guys, eh?"

Effie's lips tightened. He'd offended her, judging by the anger dancing in her eyes, and she flounced away from him, heading for the other side of the ballroom.

"Just save the last dance for me!" He called after her. She didn't stop or turn and he dropped his hand to his side, watching her vanish into the crowd. He drained the last of his drink (non-alcoholic punch. The lack of whiskey was killing him, but he couldn't afford to lose control if anything he was planning was going to work.) and headed after Plutarch.

They never did have their dance that night. Haymitch spent the remainder of the evening having sub-textually laden conversations with Plutarch and Effie flitted around the party, socializing and laughing with the other guests.

It wasn't until he was on the train home that Haymitch remembered the dance, and the look in her eyes when he'd laughed off her tentative invitation.

Then everything was moving like lightning and the puzzle pieces of his plan were being jammed together instead of carefully placed. Effie called his name at the Reaping for the Second Quarter Quell with thick emotion clogging her throat and Peeta was moving in to take his place before he could make a single step across the platform.

Effie met his eyes over Peeta's head and Haymitch lost the ability to breathe because he knew that look. Finally finally Effie was realizing what it meant every time she called a name – what it was like to lose someone she loved to this mockery of entertainment.

Haymitch wasn't nearly fool enough to assume she loved him, but he'd seen the way Effie looked at Katniss and Peeta. He'd seen how broken she'd been, barely holding it together on that platform as she all but condemned them to death for a second time and he hated the Capitol just a little bit more for stealing away her innocence and naivety.

Then everything was chaos, and he barely had time to be guiltily relieved as he rushed Katniss and Peeta through training, pulling every string he had and then some to win them as many advantages as he could. When he wasn't delicately balancing politics, he was with Katniss, Peeta, and Effie, discussing strategy and trying to drum how important alliance was into Katniss's thick, stubborn skull.

Meanwhile, Effie was trying in her own way to bring them together, as a team, as a family, and if it were any other time, if he wasn't simultaneously trying to bring two of the most important people in his life through the Games unscathed as well as co-head the biggest rebellion Panem had ever seen, Haymitch would appreciate her efforts.

There would be nights as he lay awake, staring unblinking at the ceiling, that he would almost convince himself to tell her. He spent so much time stressing to Katniss how important it was to have allies in the arena that it seemed grossly hypocritical to flat out lie to Effie when he knew deep down she'd back them up without even blinking.

But he was selfish – that was really the core of it. He repeated it to himself like a mantra – the less she knew, the safer she was. He could fool himself into thinking that by not telling her, he was protecting her.

He'd tell her. He would. He just needed more time to figure out how to do it.

Then Katniss split the sky in two and he was out of time.

Hours later, he held Katniss in his arms as she thrashed and screamed, shrieking his broken promises to the sky. He held her as she wore herself out enough to be dosed with a sedative and he held her as she slumped over, tear-stains on her cheeks. He smoothed her hair back from her sweaty forehead and pressed a shaky kiss to her hairline and thought of the Capitol party for the first time in weeks, of a dance that never was and of a woman he wasn't sure he'd ever see again.

District 13 didn't exactly thrive but it got by, fueled by anger, emotion, and a thirst for revenge.

They launched a mission to the Capitol, a stupid, dangerous mission that somehow, miraculously, managed to reunite them with not only Peeta but Annie and Johanna as well.

When he asked, gruff and impatient, Plutarch pulled him aside and told him quietly that they had no idea what happened to Effie Trinket.

It was like a hope he didn't know he'd had was suddenly extinguished like a candle in a hurricane – not that he'd hear a hurricane over the roaring in his ears.

He pushed her out of his mind and focused on his job – no matter what happened to him, they were still in the middle of a war and it was his job to get as many people through alive as possible.

Then everything went to hell and back again and in the midst of it all, almost as an afterthought, one of their spies returned with a report of a Capitol prison full of traitors.

And hey, any traitor to the Capitol was alright in Haymitch's book at this point. He organized the prison break and sent his team on their way. With any luck, the jailbreak would bring them back at least a few useful soldiers – but with the Capitol's tendency towards hospitality, he'd better warn the few rebels he had left with some useful medical experience that they were about to get busy.

He was shaken awake from where he'd passed out at his desk, face pressed into a map of Panem by Plutarch. His friend (Ally? Partner?) was white as the grave and Haymitch instantly sat up, concerned.

"You need to see this."

Somehow, Haymitch knew exactly what he was about to see.

He almost didn't recognize her. She was thin – painfully thin – and pale as death. Haymitch was by her side in an instant and it took him a second to realize the tortured mumble was coming from him.

"No, no, no, damn it, you can't die on me now, sweetheart. You were supposed to be safe. They were supposed to leave you alone."

There was a large bruise above her eyes, an ugly purple-yellow mix and he brushed shaking fingers over it.

"You gotta wake up, princess. Remember? You promised me a dance. You promised to save the last dance for me, and the Effie Trinket I know would never be so rude as to go back on her word, so wake the hell up."

For a moment, nothing moved. It was as though the entire world was balanced on the head of a pin, frozen, holding its breath.

Then everyone was moving.

"She's stopped breathing."

"Back up, move!"

"Grab me that, we need to move fast!"

Plutarch grabbed Haymitch around the shoulders and steered him from the room as the world crumbled away. After all this – It wasn't fair. He was trying so hard and it just wasn't fair. Effie Trinket had done nothing but taken three broken victors and turned them into a family.

She didn't deserve to die like this.

Haymitch drank too much that night for the first time in a very long time and in the back recesses of his mind, he could hear a clear, familiar voice scolding him with every gulp.

Somehow, against all odds, their little rag-tag group of rebels pulled out a victory.

He went back to District 12 because he had nowhere else to go. He couldn't stay in 13 forever, and despite everything that had happened there, District 12 was still his home.

He couldn't explain the geese, though.

It took two years, five months, and thirteen days for Effie to visit him for the first time. He was standing barefoot in the middle of the field, pant legs rolled up, flinging bread to his budding flock of geese.

Peeta had shoved the loaf into his hand that morning almost nervously, glancing over his shoulder at Katniss.

"For the geese." He'd mumbled as Katniss stepped close to him and curled her fingers in his.

He was… getting better. They all were. Katniss and Peeta were still a little broken, a little nervous, a little jumpy, but they were getting by. Together.

That didn't mean there weren't bad nights. Nights where he'd wake up in a cold, terrified sweat, hand on the phone next to his bed and echoes of screams in his memory. Nights where he could hear Katniss screaming from next door, hear her shrieking "Real! Real! Real!" over and over. Nights where he'd pretend he didn't hear Peeta's broken sobs or Katniss's shaky comforts.

He finished tossing the loaf of bread and turned around to go back inside, vaguely considering lunch, when there she was.

They faced each other in the middle of the meadow, just looking. Haymitch drank her in – her high cheekbones, pale skin and thin, wisps of blonde hair that floated around her ears like a halo. She was wearing it short. He liked it.

"Effie."

She smiled, slightly, and took a step closer. "Hello, Haymitch. You look… well."

"I'm getting there. You're blonde."

Effie's hand went to her hair. "The natural look is coming back into style. I'm just keeping up with the trends."

Haymitch snorted and for a moment, it was three years ago, and they were Mentor and Escort again.

The wind whistled through the grass and Haymitch took a step closer, then two more, then broke into an easy stride, not stopping until he'd reached Effie Trinket. He stopped abruptly, just short of touching her and stared. From this close he could see the freckles across her cheekbones, faint beneath the light foundation.

He reached forward and stopped himself.

"What is it?"

Haymitch didn't answer. He needed to stop talking to his hallucinations – not after the first time, when he really thought she was standing in his living room, complaining about his curtains clashing with his sofa. He'd turned around to grab his bottle again and found Katniss standing in his doorway, staring at him talking to himself with a mixed look of pity and understanding.

Instead, he lifted a single finger and touched her wrist – she stood still, watching him as the single touch turned into a brush of warm fingers around smooth skin.

She was real. She was here, standing in front of him. This wasn't a hallucination.

Haymitch trailed his fingers up her arm to her shoulder and then to her neck, tracing her jawline and moving up to her face. He rested his hand on her cheek, curling his fingers and closed his eyes, breathing out shakily.

Effie reached up and curled her fingers against his face, skin smooth against the scratchiness of his unshaven cheeks and tilted his head forward, resting her forehead against his.

They stood together, breath mingling as they shared airspace, for what felt like forever.

When she spoke finally, Effie's voice was very quiet and he pulled away slightly. "What?"

She leaned back and looked into his face. "I said…" She began, eyes flitting away from his eyes to focus on a point somewhere over his left shoulder. Her lips curled into a hesitant smile and somewhere behind them, a goose honked.

"I believe you promised me a dance."

Love you, babe, thanks for the beta 3