Acknowledgements: R, my goddess of a beta, for her many years of wonderful friendship, and for her patience with me and my constant blathering about this fic as I wrote it. Also S, who dealt with my babbling as well, and who has been a far better friend than I deserve. Shulik on Tumblr, for her generosity and encouragement, which she so kindly offered this humble stranger when I doubted myself in the face of her amazing work. My muse - you have touched me for now and for always, and I know not what else to give you but my endless gratitude.
Effie nearly chokes one morning, her throat so dry from screaming that the inhalation for the next cry is one breath too many. The ensuing coughing fit doesn't help matters, but such involuntary reactions are inevitable, like the scenes that play out in her head nearly every night.
Shaking, she makes her way to her bathroom, turns the tap on, and drinks. The water cools her skin as it drips down her chin and neck, anchoring her further in her apartment, dimly lit with early morning light, safe from those months of darkness and despair.
It's safe here, she tells herself, splashing more water on her face for good measure. I'm safe here. It's been months. This is a new Capitol, a new Panem. I'm safe now. Safe.
As soon as she'd been able after her surgeries, she had been permitted to work in a capacity much like before, only this time she was to put her skills for managing people and activities to good use. She threw herself into the tasks given her with all the zeal she had for her duties as escort, counting down the days until she could see Katniss again and pretend, even if just for seconds at a time, that it was their first time as a team, before Katniss had fought for her life, before Effie had finally understood the true horror of Coriolanus Snow's regime.
Effie doesn't know why Katniss shot Alma Coin, but even when the shock of it made it hard to put together coherent sentences, everything she said when called to the stand was in Katniss' favor. After all, it's because of Katniss that she's here, that anyone at all is here, that their world has changed at last.
The nation is still transitioning, but there are fewer national broadcasts and fewer people who need directing to and fro. Those first few weeks had demanded every ounce of her energy, every moment of her attention. A lesser person would have lacked the time to properly undress at the end of the day and dress to perfection in the morning, but not her.
But now there is not enough work to keep her busy, to exhaust her within inches of collapsing. She has the time to think and to really see herself in the mirror in the morning and at night.
Her eyes are red from tears she hadn't realized she'd shed in her sleep; her cheeks are a perfect, even red save for the lazy pink of a scar that's still healing; her hair is the worst of all.
Whirling, she leans back against the sink and stares at her trembling hands.
"It's safe here," she whispers. "I'm safe here. It's been months. It's over."
But it isn't over, and she's not sure it ever will be.
Breakfast is a lazy affair on off days like today. Effie makes coffee, sweetens it while the eggs boil. All the while, she is planning, organizing, thinking, because today is going to be a big, big, big day.
Before Peeta had been allowed to return to District Twelve, Effie had carved time for regular visits with him into her schedule. They never said much when they sat together, because while pleasantries and thoughts for the future were nice, neither of them could bear being the one to bring up what they should discuss.
At the train station on the day that he left, Effie began to feel again, and that feeling had been sadness.
"If there's anything at all I can do," she had said and trailed off, because what could she possibly do for him now?
But, gracious as always, he nodded. "You, too."
They went from gently shaking one another's hands to holding them tight, and then he was off, taking the flicker of feeling with him.
She has been as hollow as the tunnel his train went through ever since, until today. Since waking, she has thought of all the things she's tried to get past this: doctors, pills, music - even liquor, which had worked until she'd woken up the next morning with the world's worst headache.
The only thing she hasn't done is talked with someone she trusts. Her surviving friends and family are out of the question, as many of them are too busy complaining about how difficult life has become and how good it used to be to even begin to understand, and the rest won't be able to do more than pat her on the shoulder and tell her everything will be all right. Her doctor, while helpful, can only do so much. She'll never try morphling because, as horrible as the memories and the nightmares are, she doesn't want to run away from them at the expense of her life, or what it could be. She understands the desire, even the need for the escape that drugs and liquor bring, but it's not for her. She is a talker and a doer, not a thinker.
So she finds herself biting hard on her bottom lip as the phone rings once, twice, a third time. She peeks out her window at the city below, the neat lines of the city streets reminding her of altogether different things that Peeta's voice cuts through.
She smiles, genuinely, for the first time in far too long. "I think," she says after hello and how are things, "that there is something we can do for one another, if you'd be so kind as to hear what I've been thinking."
"Of course I'll hear it," he says, sincere in the utmost.
He said once that Katniss didn't know the effect she had on people. Effie thinks Peeta is much like Katniss in that regard, because he cannot possibly know how far his kindness reaches, how even the offer to listen has begun to chase away the specters haunting her night and day.
With Plutarch Heavensbee's blessing, she leaves for District Twelve the next day. The train ride feels longer now that she isn't planning the minutiae of the tributes' schedules in the days leading up to the Hunger Games. Effie drinks half a bottle of wine on the way there, but she dreams that night anyway, dreams of the children she never brought back home. They fill her little room, staring at her with wide eyes, skin and clothes covered with coal dust, faces drawn with hunger and fear.
She wakes up apologizing, sets the tray with the rest of the wine out in the hall, still apologizing, and drinks nothing but water to replenish what she's lost and is still losing in her tears, apologizing with every breath until she falls asleep again. The empty darkness that greets her this time is sweet but short, because they will arrive soon and she must get ready.
The familiarity of morning preparations calms her, and by the time they reach the platform at Twelve, she is collected if not calm. No one is waiting for her, but she doesn't need a guide. This district is familiar territory despite once having been the last place she wanted to be.
The rebuilding effort has done much in the short time since starting up and given the amount of damage done. She doesn't see much - she rushes to Victors Village with her head down, too aware of who she is to these people, what she's done to them to walk at a normal pace when she has done nothing to blend in.
She'll start doing her work once she's settled. There may not be much for her to do back in the Capitol, but she still had to have a reason to be away. Luckily, Heavensbee agreed that a piece on District Twelve's progress post-bombing and post-war will be inspiring to the new nation. One week is plenty of time to draw up a proper report on current developments and projections and to give suggestions as to proper presentation of the program.
They'll probably hate the mere suggestion of it, though mostly, she thinks, it will be because it's her and she's dressed as if very little at all has changed. She has chosen a sky blue wig, a grey dress that ends above her knees, white gloves that reach past her elbows and nearly touch her short sleeves, and high-heeled blue boots to match. She is a glaring reminder of everything they hate and so many people fought and died to destroy. Hopefully they will also remember that she was pardoned at Katniss' request. It's the only thing Effie has got going for her.
"I appreciate your hospitality so much, Peeta," she says once Peeta has let her inside. His house looks more or less the same as she remembers it. If anything, there is more art on the walls and on the shelves, beautiful accents that make every room very his.
"It's nothing," he tells her. "I've been staying with Katniss, so you'll have the house to yourself for the most part."
She smiles, looking out one of the windows that faces Katniss' house. "How is she doing?"
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him follow her gaze. "Not bad. Better than the last time you saw her, definitely."
"I'm so glad to hear that." She remembers very clearly that day months ago. The haunted look in Katniss' eyes had given Effie the push she'd needed to pull herself together and act stronger than she felt. Katniss had needed her support. If reprising her role as escort was the only thing she could do to help the icon of the rebellion, she had decided she would do it well. "Is she home right now? I'd love to see her."
"No, she went out to the woods early this morning." He breaks free of the moment first, looking away from the window. "Can I get you anything?"
"Some water would be lovely, thank you." She follows him into the kitchen, leaving her bags by the stairs for later. It's enough time for him to have her glass of water ready. As she takes it, she asks, "How have you been?"
He shrugs. "Better. Sometimes worse," he adds almost sheepishly, "but mostly better."
"You're in my dreams sometimes, you know," she says suddenly, her gaze darting down to her glass. The water is sweeter out here, closer to the natural elements that are still somewhat foreign to her. If she could lose herself in the cool, clean taste, she would. "Your voice, more than anything."
She glances at him in time to see him lift a hand to the back of his neck and nod. "Same with you, actually. But it isn't so bad now."
Because of Katniss, surely. Peeta is lucky. No, both he and Katniss are lucky that they have each other.
"I'll help you take your things upstairs," he says, and Effie nods.
The guest room is just the right size for her, and the view from her window is beautiful: a few houses, a sliver of a grassy field, and trees as far as the eye can see. How did no one from the Capitol ever take the time to really see how breathtaking the districts are? How did she never see it, every year she came here?
"I think it's an interesting idea, by the way," Peeta, now standing at the door, tells her. He waits until she's turned to face him before continuing. "The television special."
"Thank you," she says, smiling. "It didn't take much to convince Plutarch to let me come here for some preliminary reports. He's such a softy for uplifting stories." She rolls her eyes, and Peeta chuckles quietly. Plutarch Heavensbee is a showman at heart, and she has preyed on that just so she can have the chance to be here for her own reasons. "I don't think it'll be so easy to talk the people here into it, but it can't hurt to try." If she succeeds, she gets to stay here longer. It's selfish, but at least this time, her efforts will help rather than harm.
The sounds of cursing, honking, and shattering glass drift in through the open window. Effie frowns, and Peeta laughs, shaking his head. "Looks like one of the geese tried to attack the hand that feeds it."
"Did he really start raising geese?" Peeta nods, and Effie rolls her eyes, chuckling. "I honestly thought you were joking when you told me."
They share another laugh, then Peeta is off to see if Katniss has come home, and Effie is left to get settled in. She makes quick work of unpacking her clothes and setting up her work space in the desk by the bed. Tomorrow, she'll get started on her project. She has set aside all of today for adjusting and more detailed planning.
When the sunlight turns golden orange, she shuts the window against a chill that has nothing to do with the air.