A/N: Hi :) Ever since watching MJP2 and squeeling at that kiss I have been wanting to write a little fic. I am literally uploading the first chapter with nothing else written because I want to hear feedback and try and improve. I know where this is going and will persevere even without the comments/reviews but what I'm basically doing here is begging for your feedback - even just a smiley face if you liked it and want me to continue :)

Oh also the rating for the story may change for future chapters as I tend to get a bit smutty ;) but I am feeling this as fluffy for now.

Hope you enjoy!

1

Effie woke from a restless nights sleep as the train jolted and shock her in her bed. There had been several unscheduled stops yesterday and now once again, they were falling dangerously close to being late. She was tired of feeling the nervous knot of anxiety that came with these uncontrollable delays. Debris from a recent storm seeming to lie over the tracks every few hundred miles. It was 4.30 in the morning. She should go back to sleep, get some rest, make up for the sleep she had lost to nightmares and stress dreams, but she knew it was pointless. The only thing that kept her going on these early days of the most recent of the games was being able to plan. Knowing that she could get her young charges where they needed to be, when they needed to be there. It was her way of helping the District Twelve tributes to be as respected as those from the other districts. Over the years of working for District Twelve she had warmed to the people, and the land, and she hated the thought of others looking down on them. She was acutely aware of the judgement District Twelve faced because she had once felt the same way. She cringed inwardly to think of who she once was before she became an escort, she hated that woman even though huge parts of her remained exactly the same. She was trapped as a Capitolite, there were certain standards that were simply expected of her. She had a favourite fantasy where she would drop her Capitol costume and live simply in District Twelve: Rid herself of the clothes that seemed to be more silly and less fun every year. Be satisfied with her natural face, no ridiculous make up or extravagant wigs, which had begun making her feel like a clown. Not having to focus on every part of herself and her life like she was constantly being scrutinised by an unseen but ever present controller. Of course even if any of it was remotely possible the people of District Twelve hated her. It wasn't outright, obviously, but she was just another face of The Capitol to them, it was her who swooped in and stole their children, and she felt their fear and detest for her radiate from their eyes. The tributes every year looked at her with misgiving and she could never get them to warm to her no matter how hard she tried. She just wanted to make it easier for them, make it even a tinier bit better, but everything she did seemed wrong. Her jokes fell flat, her advice, meant to be helpful, sounded like criticism, and her planning and scheduling just seemed like fussing. And maybe she could live with all that, live with the pointlessness of her role, the casual disdain she received from the people in The Capitol (because, of course, to them, she cared too much about her district), the never ending casual horror faced every year. Maybe she could have lived with all that, but what made everything so much worse was that everything she did, all the failings she felt, had a spectator who wasn't afraid of pointing out her faults.

Haymitch had still been young, in the giddy bloom of hate and alcoholism which now poisoned his every breath, when Effie had first been assigned her role for District Twelve. Her first proper job, out there on her own, away from her Capitol safety. She had let her preconceived notions of people from the districts shine brightly, she had truly believed she was better than them, better than him. He had soon made his opinions known, cutting her down sharply, and (although she had not let him see, and would never admit) making her cry bitter tears with the first inkling of regret for what she had let her life become. It was her first realisation that what she had achieved – the life of a famous escort - wasn't really an achievement, more like a life sentence of isolation. He had hated her ever since, rarely missing an opportunity to knock her down, and she had hated him right back. He had been the scapegoat for all her frustrations with her life, and sometimes she riled him up on purpose so that he would lash out her so she could feel that flood of hurt. She deserved it, she was just a "Capitol Whore", or whatever else he could come up with to hurl at her. Over the years, as she began to hate The Games and her role in them, she had warmed to him, as she had warmed to the district. She found herself having to actively remind herself that she didn't like him, that he wasn't charming he was just a drunk, that he wasn't tragic but just wallowing, that he wasn't flirting with her he was being disrespectful. "Sweetheart" and "Princess" indeed. Just the thought of him calling her these names followed by some insult or another made her blush, first with the memory of his attention on her, and then with the annoyance and embarrassment of the first blush. She didn't know when her feelings had muddled, she wasn't sure when the first time she caught herself flirting with him was, or the first time she had replayed their encounters of the day over to herself before she fell asleep, or the first time she had caught herself watching him. She could remember the first time she had made him smile with a bark of a laugh (some terribly inappropriate comment about a Capitol procedure, which had come very close to a complaint). It had thrilled her and made her open herself up more to the little things about the Capitol regime she couldn't bare anymore. He was changing her, and she so desperately wanted to change and become accepted by him, but that was pretty hopeless. She remembered the first time he had offered her a drink from his ever present flask, and her rude and snotty reply she had snipped to cover a range of ridiculous emotions that had flooded her. She remembered hating herself for it and working up the courage, over several days, to somehow make it right. She smiled as she relived the more pleasant side to the memory. They had been alone in the tributes apartment when she had asked for a sip. She had spoken so softly that he had grumbled at her with a smirk. "What was that Princess?" He had made her repeat it until she was basically shouting when he finally relented. "Of course, just be careful, I doubt you will be able to take it." It had taken all her might not to cough up everything she had swallowed, but she managed to. Though apparently the strain had shown on her face as he chuckled at her and passed her a grey looking hanky. She had wiped her eyes, which had watered with the fierce intensity of the raw alcohol (how could he drink that every day?!), and then kept it in her hand. He never asked for it back and she still had it, always tucked into her pillowcase, a fact which caused her to burn with embarrassment. She, at some point in all this, had begun acting like a love-struck teenager. She was being ridiculous. She knew this, but still she rolled on her side and reached into her pillow to finger the fabric.