"Effie and Haymitch's marriage doesn't really differ from any other seven years long marriage. They got together young and stayed together through both worse and better, and now they're slowly drifting apart. And like all married people, they have their secrets, and it turns out they might not know each other as well as they thought - at all. | Hayffie Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU"
Disclaimer: All characters except for the original ones belong to Suzanne Collins. Unfortunately.
Chapter I.
i.
The bar was filled with smoke, loud people and the promise of a long night.
Haymitch was leaning with his back against the counter, slowly finishing his second whiskey. His eyes wandered around every few seconds, occasionally meeting with the eyes of a short-haired woman sitting in the box opposite him across the room, then continued to observe the surroundings warily. Everybody was wasted, shouting something inarculate, ordering more shots. There was a live broadcast of a third-league baseball match on TV - Midland versus Pittsfield, only paid attention to by die-hard fans who were arguing over the score. Things could get quite lively on a Friday evening here, he mused. This one-horse-town in North Carolina wasn't a place you'd go for a vacation to, but it was a good place for different kinds of things.
If everything went according to the plan, he'd be done here soon. All of his senses were working in the way only a trained person's could, combined with effortless pretending that he was just like most of the people here, enjoying a Friday night like anyone else, hiding here away from his responsibilities, problems or angry wife for a drink or two, to watch the baseball game and to clear his head. He didn't really have a night like this in a long time and he almost gave in to his own game - he almost relaxed himself, entertaining himself with what was going on on the TV screen, enjoying the whiskey sliding down his throat and numbing him in all the right ways.
Bars like these reminded him of the early years of this. Just Chaff and him after a succesful action, and booze and long nights out in the streets of the city they were currently in. Sometimes it would be Stockholm, sometimes it would be Tokio, sometimes it would be some godforsaken town in the middle of Arkansas, and that was what made it so special. You never knew where the night was gonna end, though most of the time it would be a strange hotel room with a girl he couldn't remember picking up the night before by his side, tangled up in weirdly stained sheets and lying on his arm in such position so there was no way for him to escape, and he had to wait until she woke up, then face the awkward hangover talk before saying even more akward goodbye and looking for Chaff everywhere, before finding him sleeping on the sofa in the lobby- well, that was one version of how the night would end, and it didn't always have the same process and it didn't always end up in them puking out of the taxi cab on their way to their place. There were some pretty good nights, too. Or ones that would LEAD to something good.
Somebody walked in, a gaunt young man in a baseball cap and a navy blue nylon jacket that appeared almost black in the gloom with the number three on his back, and made his way through the crowded room to the bar. Haymitch turned around and waved at the bartender, a tall, young guy with greasy black hair drying a wine glass. "Sorry," said Haymitch quietly and placed a twenty dollar banknote on the counter, "I'll pay."
"Good, so it's two whiskeys and a soda," named the boy and took the money, counting in his head quickly.
"Keep the change," replied Haymitch mind-lessly, side-eyeing the man in the blue jacket who ordered a vodka from the other bartender and leant in, urgently whispering something into his ear. The bartender slowly nodded and then disappeared in the staff room, returning only seconds later with a key he discreetly passed to him on the counter. The man grunted something in response and walked over to the rear exit, nobody really paying attention to him because a Midland player just striked a point and everybody started either cheering or grumbling, totally focused on the Pittsfield couch yelling something at the catcher who got into a heated argument with the rival's pitcher - a messy scene that caused enough havoc in the pub for the man to get lost without anyone giving a care.
Haymitch took the chance at stealthily following the man as the whole room roared, waiting a few moments before walking out into the warm spring night as well.
The metal door closed heavily, echoing in the night's peaceful quiet and the man turned around with a startled look plastered in his milky pale, zit-covered face. "Wha- what are you doing?" he stuttered in a strong Russian accent.
"I got an invitation from a friend."
"You know about the club?" The man frowned suspiciously, slowly eyeing him up and down, probably looking for a gun or a recorder or something. The hesitation in his voice gave Haymitch a certain advantage.
"Ask Alan." Very few people, and certainly not this kid, knew that Alan Whitfield was shot somewhere in Arizona several weeks ago, and nobody seemed to care. Chaff had been keeping an eye on this group for a few weeks. He was better at this than Haymitch, he had patience and people skills, and less hit-and-go tendencies.
The Russian guy glared at him for one more second, then shrugged. "I'm Nestor."
"Hayden," he said quickly but convicingly, and he could almost hear Johanna laughing in his head.
Nestor finally melted and beckoned at him, walking in the opposite direction. Haymitch followed, keeping his distance a few feet behind him. The pub was located on the Main Street of Lancaster, a small town in Greensboro suburbs. It neighbored with a hairdresser's and a closed gym from the sides and old public garages from behind, forming a cobbled square-shaped backyard with tufts of grass growing between the tiles, that apparently lost its intended purpose of a nice summer seating and was now a dumping ground, judging from the barrells and tires and broken furniture carelessly scattered around. The garages were long abandoned and now served as the perfect meeting spot for all the cranks of the town.
They stopped in front of one of them, Nestor shakily bringing the key he got from the bartender to the locker on the rear entrance to the garage. Through the narrow, curtained windows shone a thin stripe of fluorescent light. The Russian unlocked, gifting Haymitch with one last uncertain attempt. "I really should not be doing this."
That guy wasn't the brightest person here, and Haymitch couldn't lose time. The cell phone in the inner pocket of his jacket vibrated, and he bit his lip to supress a groan. He knew who it was without having to look.
"They're in this garage," pointed Nestor out uselessly in resignation, and pushed the door open, allowing Haymitch to walk in first, then closing it behind them and locking it again.
Three pairs of eyes fixated on him. Their owners were sitting around a large round table in the corner of the room, three other chairs empty. The ingratiating smell of liquor and cigars lingered in the air heavy with smoke, and Nestor shuffled next to him, waiting who was going to ask first what this was supposed to mean.
"Who's that?" A rough-voiced man in his early fifties broke the silence first. He was holding a glass of burbon in fat calloused fingers, and from beneath his furry eyebrows stared at Haymitch with empty, dark eyes.
"This is Hayden," explained Nestor, nervously playing with the sleeve of his blue jacket. "He says Alan invited him along."
Three men raised their brows. "Alan hasn't showed up in a month, if not more."
"How come?" asked Haymitch dumbly.
One of the men, holding a cigar in his right hand, since he kind of lacked the left one, shrugged. "We don't know. He probably got echo from someone."
"You bet your ass he's in Tijuana by now," the third man chipped in.
The old man put down his glass, tapping on the empty seat next to him. "Sit down. I'm Harry, by the way. This," he waved towards the other two men, "is Joe and Mac."
"Hey." He sat down to them, Nestor following, but the guy named Harry snorted.
"I don't think so, boy," said Harry, jerking his head towards the exit. "This is a private party."
Haymitch shot Nestor a sympathetic look as the kid slowly unlocked the door, slipped into the darkness and then they heard the rustlling of the key in the locker again. He was almost glad that Nestor wasn't here.
"Drink?" asked Harry, lifting a bottle of whiskey in an offering gesture.
"No, thanks."
"Cigar?"
"Don't smoke."
"I hope you know how to play poker."
"Kinda."
Haymitch watched Mac as he emptied his glass, probably not his first this evening, and began to mix cards in one hand with surprising practice. While he was handing them out, the door opened again, and it wasn't Nestor. This guy was tall, chunky and had shoulder-long brown hair, in interesting contrast with his deep blue suit. He could just be a hippie-gone-wrong executive officer, or a lawyer you wouldn't choose to represent you with a gun at your temple, but somehow manages to win every time, giving all his earnings to some charity and living the boho way though life. Or at least that was the vibe he gave off. Harry stopped in his actions and put the cards down.
"Hey, Andy, sit down with us," proposed Harry and Mac started handing out the cards again, laying down Andrew's own pair. "We were about to play a game."
"Game?" the newcomer looked at Haymitch scornfully. "Who's that?"
"Hayden," replied Mac, "Alan invited him."
Andrew chuckled. "Really? Then you probably know where he is."
"I don't," said Haymitch simply. "It was an old invitation. I thought I'd find him here."
Andrew nodded slowly, probably not fully convinced but also not really interested anymore at the same time. He carefully walked to the table and slumped down next to Haymitch, who had to hold his breath for a second before breathing through his mouth. He didn't always take a shower and didn't bother to comb his hair sometimes, but compared to this guy, he was still a star in the personal hygiene field. He smelled like a cheap collogne, weed and maybe urine, but that could have been anything. Andrew opened the bottle of whiskey Harry offered him, took a gulp and then brought a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, putting one between his yellowed teeth and lit it up, blowing the smoke in Haymitch's face. All the cards have been dealt.
Joe started the game. "How much have you got?"
It took Haymitch a moment before understanding that the question was directed at him. He wasn't a big fan of card games in general. That was Chaff's field. His friend tried to explain the basics to him on a few occasions, but it didn't have the desired effect.
"You see," continued Mac when he saw Hamitch's hesitation, "small blind. How much?"
"Ten."
"Ten," repeated Joe with a mischevious grin and took the money Haymitch fished out of his pocket. "Alright. You?" he fixated his eyes on Andrew, trying to sit up straight on Haymitch's left side. Andrew snorted drunkenly, throwing a twenty dollar note on the table.
Haymitch put the money in as well, reaching for a bottle of gin provocatively standing on the table and used one of the free glasses to pour some of the alcohol in, watering it down with tonic. He put the bottles back in their place and drank the content of his glass in two gulps. The bitter taste of chinin chilled him and reminded him of something. He couldn't make out the whole memory, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered palm leaves and coarse sand. He hadn't had gin and tonic in ages, but it was her favourite drink, so most of the time, the taste of the drink was second-handed on her lips.
Mac raised his left eyebrow. There was a small, thin scar above it and it was up to anyone to wonder where it came from. "Joe?"
"Twenty."
"Harry?"
Harry placed a fifty dollar banknote on the table without a word, lighting up a cigar.
"Call or raise, anyone?" asked Mac, shooting Haymitch a quick side-eye.
Haymitch partially zipped down his jacket and pulled out his wallet, a plain leather one, one with fake IDs, a vial of cyanide masked as algiphen, and, especially for this occasion, way more money than he usually had on him. He handed forty dollars over to Mac. "Call."
Harry gave him a nasty look. Mac put three cards on the table. "Second round."
There was no clock in the garage as well as pretty much no air, and the annoying white light and covered windows gave Haymitch the illusion of what it must be like in a casino, having no idea what time it is and what's going out outside of here and now. He'd never been to a casino, at least not for long and not to play. "Check," he said, reaching for the bottle to make himself another drink, but something in Mac's look told him no. Instead, he placed his fingers on his right thigh, feeling the blade looming under his faded jeans.
The room was hot. Haymitch felt first drops of sweat forming on his upper lips. Everyone else checked as well. Poker wasn't as fun as Chaff always claimed. It was just waiting and giving up your money.
"Turn."
The fourth card was a heart three.
"Check."
Andrew and Joe checked as well. Harry put more money in. Fifty dollars. That guy was too confident for his own good. Haymitch's own cards weren't much.
"River." Mac kept looking at Haymitch and it was slowly making him uncomfortable.
The fifth card was a diamond eight.
Haymitch decided to risk it. "Twenty."
"Check," said Joe as Mac took Haymitch's money.
"Fifty," grumbled Andrew.
Everybody glared at Harry as he raised the bet. One hundred dollars - he was just trying to make them want to give up.
"Didn't you have enough?" snapped Andrew, his drunken state giving off his accent.
"Shut up," replied Harry raspily, not at all bothered. Andrew, on the other hand, did seem bothered. He drank liquor straight out of the bottle and muttered something about greedy assholes to himself, and rolled up the sleeves of his expensive jacket. His forearms were covered in tattoos that were a mix of everything, ranging from dates that could mean anything to random letterings. Haymitch could swear he saw the word 'Hellman's'. And then there was the small white rose tattooed between the jungle of strange shapes on the inner side of his veiny left wrist that gave him away.
Haymitch shifted in his seat, watching Mac wink at him as he tapped on the rim of his empty glass, his shallow dark eyes finally getting some tone to them. "Showdown."
Haymitch was faster than Andrew as his elbow made contact with the man's neck. Andrew fell off the chair, Joe getting up so quick his own chair flew a solid meter behind him, yelling some curse Haymitch couldn't hear because Harry was already pushing him down. He reached for his knife, pulling it out of his pants in a trained motion and pushing it past Harry's ribs where it stuck, making contact with his heart. Andrew was coughing on the floor and Joe was trying to drag him back to his feet, but Mac's gun ended his attempt to help before it began. Haymitch threw Harry on the floor, kneeling next to Andrew. He leant in so close he could smell Andrew's cigarette breath in his face.
"Be fucking still," growled Haymitch. Someone was knocking on the door - pounding, more like. He chose to ignore it, Mac kneeling next to him, holding Andrew down. Haymitch pushed his forearm against Andrew's neck. "Andrei Yashkin?"
"Da," gasped Andrew, his eyes reddening.
"Good. Chaff, are-"
Mac knocked Andrew off with the barell of his gun, grabbing him and throwing him over his shoulder. "I've never been better."
Haymitch ran to the door, shot off the locker and kicked the door open, stepping back at the sight that came along in front of him. Nestor kneeled there with a bleeding forehead, a tall young woman with short brown hair holding him down by his handcuffed arms. "Jo, what-"
"I just got him, he was eavesdropping," she cut him off. "He tried to get in when he heard the noise. Should we take him?"
"No," he replied. Chaff with Yashkin on his back slid past Haymitch, leaving him standing in the doorframe.
"We can't just let him walk away. Coin is gonna send us to go fuck ourselves with this, we already lost time and now-"
Haymitch shook his head. "Jo, leave him be. He doesn't know what-"
"We're taking him," said Chaff resolutely.
Johanna took action immediately, putting a black bag, God knows where she pulled it from that quickly, over Nestor's head, dragging him with her by his arm. Haymitch and Chaff followed through a small gap between one of the garages and the wall of the neighbour building. The strange four ran into the street lamp-lit night, passing a church whose bell just announced midnight and a closed grocery shop in which's backyard was parked an old white van.
"Sorry," muttered Haymitch as he closed the back door, Nestor quietly but obviously sobbing in the cargo space next to Yashkin's limp body.
Johanna rolled her eyes. "He's a big boy," she said coldly, starting the unwilling engine aggresively, "he will be fine."
"He won't," replied Haymitch absent-mindedly, fighting the urge look at his phone. Johanna shook her head.
ii.
The house was completely silent when Haymitch pushed the front door open, careful to not make a sound. The hallway was dark, he supposed Effie was already asleep, perhaps out of spite, she was probably pissed and she had the right to be, but at the thought of sitting through a lecture, getting scolded like a little child, he was glad he could just have a drink in quiet without listening to her listing all the things he's done wrong in her eyes this time. There would be plenty of time for that in the morning.
Their neighbourhood in the southern part of Richmond was a quiet, boring place. All the houses here looked the same, built in a classical style out of pale bricks, with tree-shaded backyards and a gravel driveway. It was a nice part of the city, the newest, but empty sometimes. They only had two close neighbours, the rest of the people lived carelessly scattered all around the area and they didn't know most of them. Haymitch chose this place - if it was up to Effie who grew up in downtown Denver, they'd have an apartment in the city centre, a modern, airless, sterile one, with expensive designer furniture, expensive designer paintings and preferably expensive designer bathroom rugs as well. It took a lot of compromise to create what they could both call home.
He walked into the kitchen, knowing the path by heart as his eyes still haven't accustumed to the dimness, and headed to the bar, reaching to pick up a bottle of whiskey he had there for all cases, when he heard footsteps and the light suddenly got switched on.
"Shit," he cried out as he turned around so quickly he stumbled, gripping the edge of the bar for balance, eyes searching for the source of it all even though he already knew it was her. She stood there in her short silky black robe, arms folded on her chest, an unreadable expression on her face. Haymitch let out a short sigh, opened the bottle and took a gulp from it, not even bothering to get himself a glass. "You scared the hell out of me."
Effie eyed him quickly, her facial muscles tense with the aggravation she was failing to hide. "You're late."
His eyes shot to the clock above the door frame. It was almost two. "I know, sorry," he half-sat on the stool. "Go to bed, I'll come soon."
She walked closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck loosely, wrinkling her nose as she took in the scent of his clothes. "You smell like a bar's floor, Haymitch. Where were you?"
"At a bar, obviously," he replied and slid an arm around her waist. "You should lock the door at night when I'm not here. I tell you that all the time."
"Don't come home this late then," Effie pouted and pressed a soft kiss to his stubble cheek. "So?"
Haymitch shrugged, taking another swig from the bottle, ignoring her peevish frown. "Kind of a shitstorm came, so Chaff took me out. I called you that I'd come later."
"I waited for you with dinner," she said and leant against him. "I thought later meant an hour or two."
"Stop doing this," he grunted. There they were again, her playing the hurt by your carelessness card, and act that was slowly getting old. "Go upstairs, Effie, I'll join you in a minute. I just want to have a drink."
"Have a drink, of course. Weren't you at a bar?" she rolled her eyes, stepping away from him in annoyance. "How did you get here, anyway? Did you drive drunk? I didn't even hear the car and I don't want to know who you really were with. And you do know that this isn't occasional drinking, don't you?"
He sighed, slamming the bottle on the marble surface of the island counter. "I was with Chaff, I just told you, for god's sake. Kinda hoped you'd trust me more, since I don't remember giving you a reason not to. So now that you know, we're going to talk about my drinking? Find something new to bugger me with, sweetheart."
"I trust you, I don't want to talk about your drinking, and I don't want to bugger you," she said patiently, placing one hand on her hip, the other over his on his knee. "I don't want to argue. But if you're going to get wasted, don't come over."
He knew Effie hated sleeping next to him when he was drunk, but Haymitch was suspecting her of just using it as an excuse to kick him into the guest bedroom when she wasn't in the mood for being with him at all, and that happened quite often. More often than he'd admit to Chaff, more often than he'd admit to himself. But he hasn't been exactly craving her company lately, either, and so he started spending more and more time in his study or in the living room, voluntarily. It wasn't going to solve anything, but it was preventing them from only going deeper into what Chaff called 'the seventh year syndrome'.
"The seventh year is the breaking point, Mitch," he claimed one day over a glass of Scotch. It was the day Effie left for London without telling him anything before, just leaving him a brief message on his answer machine, and Haymitch started having his first real doubts. "Either you're gonna make it, or you're gonna end it. And you know what possibility I'm leanin' towards."
"Yeah, thanks for your opinion," muttered Haymitch in response, thinking about his worcaholic of a wife, suddenly having a problem placing her next to the carefree college girl he married after a few months of an affair and started a life with without a single idea about real relationships. So many people only predicted them to last for a year, maybe two, then the passion would be gone, they'd realize they're completely different people, that they don't have real feelings for each other, nor do they have a reason to stay together anymore. They were wrong, partially. Both of them sobered up soon, but they somehow managed to stay together for seven years that weren't always sunlit, but that weren't always bad, either, and she eventually became the only certainity in his otherwise rather miserable life.
"I could just move into the study," he proposed wryly, sipping from the bottle, the burning sensation spreading down his throat to his stomach giving him the false sense of comfort. A pleasant warmth rushed through him as the whiskey left a bittersweet aftertaste on his tongue and made his eyelids pleasurably heavy, exactly what he felt he needed at that moment. "And you could do us both a favour in return and stop acting like I'm your pet. I had a fucked up day, stop making it worse."
"Oh, my apologies, then," Effie hissed. "I forgot you're the only one who had a hard day here. Or the only one who's tired. But mostly I'm just tired of you now."
"Ditto, Princess."
"Is this blood?"
"What?"
She tugged on the sleeve of his grey shirt. It was stained by small crimson drops, mockingly shining against the silver cotton. He stared at them, aware of her scanning every single move of his facial muscles. When he met her eyes, he shrugged. "I must have scratched myslef."
"But I don't see anything. Besides, it looks more like the blood was gushing out. No scratch," she retorted, pushing the sleeve up to look at his wrist. He winced and whisked out of her grip.
"I don't know, Eff. Maybe it's not even mine. Maybe it's Chaff's."
She growled quietly and he looked away. He hated how good she was at reading him. "Why on Earth would it be Chaff's blood, Haymitch? What happened?"
"He... he broke his glass," he said unconvincingly. "He then tried to clean it up, I helped him and-"
"Darling..." she sighed, cupping his cheek tenderly. He didn't want to, but he responded anyway, leaning into her small, cold palm, inhaling the scent of her lotion and feeling the well-known pressure of her golden wedding ring against his cheekbone. Their eyes met again for a second before he closed them and let himself enjoy this moment despite the tension that was slowly building in the room. Eventually he learned that all the liquor in the world would never do, holding her, having her near, that was the only thing that could calm both his mind and his heart after an action, as well as send jolts of guilt through all of him. Lying was easy, putting them through dealing with the reality was... harder than lying, for sure. And he hated being this cowardly, but he'd rather lead her on than explain the past seven years and burst her bubble in which they were still happy and he represented safety and hope to her. He'd probably been representing something else for quite some time, but it was still better than let her see someone he himself resented so deeply, he burried it under years' worth layers of lies.
Her voice brought him back to reality. "Haymitch, please. I mean it."
"What?"
Effie closed her eyes in despair, a small wrinkle appearing between her furrowed brows. "Are you even listening to me? Are you ever listening to me?"
"Sorry," he muttered and wrapped his fingers around her wrist to keep her hand where it was when he felt her moving it away. He didn't want to break the contact with her now. "Sorry. What were you saying?"
"I was talking about the marriage counselor. Maybe we really should try it. I know-" she slightly raised her voice when she saw him open his mouth to protest, "I know that we already talked about it, and so far, each time I brought it up, you just walked away. I don't want to fight anymore. I don't want us to end up like one of those bitter old couples who just argue all the time and resent each other and are just unhappy and feel like it's too late to do anything about it. It's not too late for us, Haymitch. Please, give this a chance. I think it's time."
Haymitch stared at her, his blood beginning to boil again. He trooped her hand away from his face, fully aware of the emotions that must have been written all over it. Marriage counselor. Those words truly have been spoken out loud in this house a few times before, and they have always resulted in a fight indeed. He wasn't sure whose idea it was, but he suspected it was either one of her annoying friends or her even more annoying mother who planted that idea in her head. Chaff probably talked to her, too. He never liked Effie, but he loved Haymitch, and he tolerated his wife for the sake of their friendship. And for the sake of it, he also wanted their relationship to be fine. He wanted Haymitch to be happy, and, strangely enough, he'd only ever seen him truly happy when he was with her.
But Haymitch didn't want to go to a marriage counselour. He couldn't help it - it felt like a last resort, we're-about-to-get-a-divorce thing, and he simply refused to believe that their relationship was in such a horrible state that they'd need to seek advice from a professional. And besides, it wasn't anybody's bussiness what their relationship was like. They just had a weak phase, suffered from the seventh year syndrome, fine, he'd admit that. It wasn't a big crisis. They didn't fight more than usual. According to her, it wasn't even the fights that bothered her. She always complained how they didn't do what they used to do, how all the excitement was gone. He'd admit that too. His drinking wasn't helping, either, though she apparently thought that was more of an outcome than a cause- "Ignorance is bliss, right?". But those things could be fixed, and they could fix it by themselves. He wasn't the only one to blame, after all; as far as he was concerned, she wasn't a saint, either.
"No," he said simply, reaching for the bottle she quickly hid behind her back, narrowing her eyes at him.
"Why do you keep doing this?" Effie shook her head, pushing him back on the stool when he leant in to take the alcohol from her. "There's nothing wrong with getting help, you know. And I just... I need to know that you don't want to give up on us. I need to know that you still see something worth fighting for here."
"I do," he replied, his voice coming off much sharper than he intended to, and he knew that the fragile peace he tried to make with her was over. "Damn, can't you just leave me alone for one fucking evening? Or what are you suggesting? Are you not happy here? Because if that's so, then sorry, but start with yourself, sweetheart. I'm fucking tired of this. Don't do this whole emotional blackmail shit here and try to look at it realistically. If you expected that it's still gonna be fucking honeymoon seven years later, maybe I'm not the problem here."
"Don't talk to me like this," retorted Effie coldly, smashing the bottle back on the counter. "God, whatever, Haymitch. Enjoy your drink, I'm going to leave you alone, as you wish. Liquor yourself to death if you please." With another frustrated sigh, she turned her back on him, quickly heading to the hallway. "Goodnight."
He didn't respond, just listened to her fading footstepts and the familiar thud of the bedroom door, followed by the click of the lock. Apparently he was spending the night on the sofa or in one of the empty beds whether he got smashed or not, so he wrapped his fingers around his bottle, got off the stool and switched off the lights on his way upstairs, the dark house tense with their previous exchange. He soothed himself that she wouldn't stay angry for long- that was his last thought as he collapsed into the cold, dusty sheets in the room furthest from the master bedroom, across the hallway from her and any responsibility. He sprawled on the bed and wondered if she stayed on her side of their bed (she had the left one, the one closer to the window, which she complained about all the time, because it meant always having to get up in the middle of the night to either close it or open it when the temperature stopped being comfortable) or chose the middle, and if she missed his warmth as much as he did, but fell asleep before finishing the thought, his fingers loosening their grip on the bottle.
The last thing he heard was the smashing of glass against wood and maybe something like a resigned snort from another room, but that was probably just his sleepy mind.