A/N sorry this was so slow, life caught up with me for a while there. Lot's of love, and sympathy to those who are also sick!

Wings

On the morning of the 63rd Hunger Games' reaping, Haymitch isn't fully cognizant. He goes through everything in a sleepy daze. Worse than usual. Even Effie comments on it when she arrives early to give him a hug and pick out proper clothes. He can't seem to get her anxious eyes out of his head.

Not that he needs to be cognizant. Everyone except Effie mostly ignores him while he performs his paces. Still, he feels relief when he collapses into a leather chair on the train, prepared to stay inert for the entire journey. The tributes hide in their rooms, Effie bustles off to the bar car after saying something about being concerned and perhaps he needs a refreshment, and finally everything is quiet.

No, not simply quiet...silent, dead silence. His body goes tense and still, he keeps his eyes shut, listening hard.

Nothing.

He snaps his eyes open and looks around, and for the first time he realizes that although the furniture is the same, the layout has changed. More importantly, the usual rumbling and thunking of rickety wheels on the train track is gone. He staggers toward the window and sees the countryside zooming by, faster than ever before.

"Oh good, you're up," Effie chimes from behind him.

Haymitch turns around and leans against the windowsill, trying to look casual and not in the midst of a panic attack.

Effie hands him a glass, "This should help."

He takes a sip, and promptly starts hacking up a lung.

Effie recoils backward from his coughing.

"Sorry," Haymitch croaks, "hurts to swallow. Even water."

"That's not water," Effie points out.

Haymitch sets the glass down and hobbles back to his chair. Effie intercepts him before he can sit down, taking his arm gently and steering him to his compartment.

"I'll send the doctor in," Effie says as she sits him down on the bed and pulls the covers back.

"I'm not one of your tributes," Haymitch groans.

"Too bad you aren't," Effie snaps, "They're easier to put to bed."

She convinces him to lie down and throws the covers at him. Before she leaves, she makes a concoction from the mini bar, "this is a specialty drink in the Capitol. They use sodium to flavor it, among other things. It'll help, trust me." She sits at the edge of the bed and waits while he drinks.

She's right, much to his irritation, the drink does help. Plus she spiked it with something alcoholic, which eases his pounding headache.

"Effie," he croaks before she leaves.

She turns, still in the doorway.

"Did you buy district Twelve a new train?" Haymitch asks.

She huffs, "No."

"Hummm," Haymitch groans, falling back onto his pillows. Something is off. Very, very wrong.

"I petitioned the head gamemaker for the upgrade we deserve," Effie sniffs.

"The head..." a coughing fit catches Haymitch in the middle of his sentence. He rolls over to cough into a pillow pitifully.

Effie eyes him coldly from the doorway, "Yes. The old train was practically antique, and not in a good way."

"Of all the stupid..." Haymitch coughs again.

"Manners, Haymitch," Effie tuts. She steps into the hallway and the door slides shut behind her. His exaggerated loud coughing follows her all the way down the hall and into her room.

It's the last she sees of district Twelve's mentor for the rest of the night. When it comes time to escort the tributes to the stylists, she finds herself alone. An attendant informs her the doctors carried the mentor to his room in the penthouse after pumping him full of antibiotics. Effie anxiously sees to her duties and waits in the receiving bay with the rest of the escorts. Right before the tribute parade begins, Haymitch arrives, carrying a handkerchief and looking puffy. He stands next to Effie, who leans away from him slightly.

"I'm not contagious anymore," Haymitch grumbles, "Funny how much faster and better Capitol medicine works than the herbs back home."

Effie frowns, but leans closer once more to smooth a stray lock of hair back from his face; something she had been clearly itching to do. She straightens his tie impulsively, and gives him a once over. He suddenly realizes how accustomed he is to her administrations, something he didn't notice until their absence.

"And what is this?" the announcer's voice says over loudspeakers, "A rather unorthodox presentation from District Twelve?"

Haymitch and Effie's heads jerk towards the screen.

"Haymitch," Effie says quietly, "who is our stylist this year?"

"Is it not Orion?" Haymitch responds.

The camera zooms in on the twelfth chariot.

Effie whimpers, covering her mouth with her hand as if it were possible to hide her pained shock.

"Guess this means no sponsors this year," Haymitch observes dryly.

Effie whacks him in the arm with her purse, but she knows he's right.

Because inside the twelfth chariot are two bats, waving their wings to the crowds, beady eyes staring blankly, human faces with bat noses and bat ears.

Effie feels as if she might cry.

"Tigris," Haymitch says with sudden realization, "I bet they stuck us with Tigris."

"They wouldn't," Effie breathes, "That...mutt...was fired." She swallows her tears and scans the room. Sure enough, elegantly lounging on a cement ledge like a cat, rests the tiny, otherworldly stylist known for her love of fur and animalistic creations.

Effie goes quiet, and still. Her eyes harden with anger. She stands straight and tall as possible, squaring her shoulders, and nearly takes a step, but Haymitch catches her arm and yanks her back.

"Not in public," he whispers harshly in Effie's ear. He's only seen her this angry once before; anger directed at him when he secured a sponsor deal behind her back last year.

Effie snaps her attention to him and seems to sink back into herself. "Right," she agrees. She tries to take deep breaths, but Haymitch can see her shaking.

"Sit down," he directs her to a nearby bench, "I'll go talk to Tigris."

"I don't think she does talk," Effie says bitterly, "She purrs. And you can barely croak at the moment."

Haymitch ruffles the curls on the back of her wig and walks off.

She pulls out her planner and starts flipping through messages, trying to figure out where she could have missed this, what went wrong.

"Interesting costumes," Sempronia sits down next to Effie.

"Yes," Effie forces a smile, "We definitely will be noticed this year."

"Indeed. Finally district Twelve has a stylist who can appeal to their more...base...instincts," Sempronia smiles mockingly and nudges Effie's shoulder, as if sharing an inside joke.

Effie stares at her fellow escort, "Base instinct?"

Sempronia sighs and nods, "I don't know how you're still stuck with those miners. I've advocated for you to be promoted. I have it on good authority that this might be your last year representing Twelve."

"Base instinct..." Effie repeats.

"Yes," Sempronia says, "About the only thing they're built for is hard labor. Abernathy was a fluke, they'll never have another victor."

Effie stands and straightens her dress, her expression goes cold. For the first time Sempronia seems to detect Effie's discomfort.

From across the room, Haymitch senses trouble. He watches Effie launch into a self-righteous rant, similar to the ones she gives him, except more controlled. He gestures for Tigris to collect the tributes, recently arrived in their chariot at the end of the parade, and then walks over to take care of his escort.

She doesn't notice his approach, still in the throes of anger.

"...Twelve contains potential; overlooked, ignored. And I believe Tigris' underappreciated genius is a perfect fit." Effie finishes her sentence and then realizes Haymitch is standing next to her. She turns to him, a guilty look flashing through her eyes.

"The tributes are ready to go upstairs," Haymitch mentions guardedly.

Effie nods, "Of course." She side-eyes Sempronia, "Good luck to your tributes. May the odds be ever in their favor," and leaves, taking Haymitch's elbow along with her.

"The nerve!" Effie whispers as they walk away.

"I thought you couldn't stand Tigris?" Haymitch comments, feigning innocent confusion.

She sees right through it and glares at him, "you know I can't! And her designs are atrocious!" Effie moans, "But no one..." she takes a furious breath, her shoulders shaking, "no one makes fun of my district."

The possessive tone in Effie's voice catches his interest. Whether she took Sempronia's insults as a personal affront, or against district Twelve isn't clear, but he likes it.

Effie remains in a bad mood during the entire elevator ride. The tributes' costumes turn out to be body mods on their faces. The fur and the wings came off easily, but the ears, the noses, and strange translucent skin remain. Even if the children win, they will never look the same again. Tigris offers no explanation other than a defiant meow. The female tribute runs into her room, crying.

Effie slips quietly into Haymitch's room after everyone else retires to sleep. He's sitting at the end of his bed, drinking steadily and staring at the wall. Effie perches lightly on the seat across from him, studying the floor intently.

"I realize Capitol morality differs from district," she begins, "but even I recognize that what Tigris did was...inhumane..." she laughs bitterly, "literally not human."

Haymitch nods silently.

"We're going to..." Effie says, "there's nothing we can do. They're going to be a laughingstock. No matter how much we try to spin it."

"You realize this is your punishment..." Haymitch says.

"What?" Effie is genuinely confused.

"You demanded a new train. You cost them money, to support tributes they consider worthless. The head gamemaker fired Tigris last year. The only reason to bring her back is to ruin our chances. He knew she'd do something extreme to flout the rules that ended her career," Haymitch explains matter-of-fact.

"They would never..." Effie says.

"They did."

Her eyes water, and she knows she is going to cry. She doesn't want to, but the tears well up and won't go away. It isn't heavy ugly sobs, just simple streaks running down her face. She blinks rapidly and takes deep breaths to try to calm down, but it doesn't work. It's her fault; her fault, when she was making such progress.

Haymitch reaches out and takes her hand. Her head stops spinning, and she focuses on him. Slowly, her heart rate starts to go down to normal.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, changing the subject, "better?"

"Mostly," Haymitch says, "Although if you're worried about catching it...they say I'm not contagious but..." he moves as if to pull his hand away.

"No," Effie leans forward and clasps both hands around his, "I'm not worried. I'm probably doomed to catch it already, anyway." She smiles.

"Maybe," he concedes.

She laughs, studying their hands, running her fingers across his calloused palms; large, broad hands.

"Did you hear what Sempronia said?" Effie asks.

"Some," Haymitch admits.

"I'm sorry," Effie says, "I told her I wouldn't leave Twelve until we've had a victor."

"We?"

"Our team," she smiles up at him hesitantly, "you're stuck with me for a little while until I fulfill my promise."

When he doesn't respond she takes a deep breath and recomposes herself: cool, calm, detached, "It shouldn't take too long, anyway. Once Tigris is gone between my skills with sponsors and your survival instincts we'll train a victor in no time."

Haymitch rotates his hand in hers and grabs her wrist, hard, in an old-fashioned gesture of trust from Twelve. She doesn't recognize it, letting her hand hang limp instead of grasping his wrist in return.

"Have you considered the 'instincts' I have are not innate but acquired by necessity?" he asks.

She looks him straight in the eye. His grip is strong, strong enough to make her nervous if it were anyone but him. She wraps her fingers around his wrist and squeezes as tight as she can. Her rings press into his skin, probably leaving temporary indentations.

He runs his thumb down the inside of her wrist, right along the vein, gently, slowly.

The feeling in her body concentrates on those few nerve endings, her skin tingles, her thoughts go blank. Up until the point when he stops. Her eyes snap open, she hadn't even been aware she'd closed them. She laughs again to dissuade the tension, to distract him from her momentary vulnerability, and stares at their hands, unable to look him in the eye.

"This is the most human contact I've had in a while," Effie confesses quietly.

Haymitch's eyebrows raise for a split second before he replies, "me too."

Effie lets out another tense breath and hangs her head.

"I should go to bed," she says, "We have a...big big big day tomorrow." Her enthusiastic smile doesn't reach her eyes.

She releases his hand, stands up, and walks out. But her wrist is extra sensitive to touch for the rest of the evening.

The next day, while the tributes are training, the elevator pings and Effie quickly totters over to press the button and let the unexpected guest in. The door slides open and Sempronia sails through. Effie hastily backs out of the way, staring openly in shock. Sempronia inclines her head to Effie and then gestures to the five peacekeepers still waiting in the elevator. Each of the men are loaded down with plastic bins.

"Can I be of any help?" Effie asks, trying to disguise her sudden fear.

"No. I'm going to be of help to you," Sempronia gives the younger escort a benign smile.

Effie is stunned speechless. She doesn't know if it's even worth it to try and either prevent this intervention, or adequately fake gracious excitement. She settles for a pleasant expression of mild curiosity.

"Each of these bins contain fashions from fifteen years ago," Sempronia explains, "coincidentally, the height of my own career."

"Of course," Effie says, "Everyone knows..."

"Back then animal prints were all the rage," Sempronia interrupts, "I keep all my outfits. I have an extensive collection and I am planning on donating it to a museum one day. I have brought you the highlights of Tigris' line."

Effie can feel her mouth falling open as it slowly dawns on her what Sempronia intends.

"I've thought about what you said," Sempronia says stiffly, "and I admire your loyalty. Ironically, I think it's one of your qualities that will help you advance rapidly when you choose. Though I can respect your decision to wait until you've had a victor. It would provide more prestige after all," she raises her eyebrows at Effie meaningfully, "And if there's anyone who can take these old clothes and make them new again, it's you." The peacekeepers, having dropped off the boxes in the living room, troop back onto the elevator during Sempronia's speech. She ends it with, "try not to disappoint me."

Finished, and not waiting for a response from Effie, Sempronia sweeps elegantly out of the room, closing the elevator doors behind her.

"Why are there ten bins of fur on our coffee table?" Haymitch appears at Effie's side.

"Sempronia," Effie chokes out, still shocked.

"Ah," Haymitch says.

"I think she's what I could be, if it weren't for you," Effie notes quietly. She walks into the living room and busies herself with sorting through clothes.

Haymitch graciously pretends he didn't hear her last comment.

In the blur of courting sponsors and tribute interviews, Effie stands out magnificently. Her clothes are spot on, every piece a Tigris original but with personal flair. She collects compliments as Haymitch drinks, and when they stand next to her the bat-tributes dressed head to toe in fur don't look so inhuman. By the second day, Sempronia herself begins to wear token items of fur, and with her support the fad soon spreads. Not so widely that Effie believes it will last past the end of this year's games, but enough to earn district Twelve a few sponsors.

In fact, by the morning of the games, Haymitch actually feels optimistic about his tributes' chances. With the money they've raised in the past few days, he can at least ensure they won't freeze or starve to death. Effie doesn't seem to share his confidence. She's pale, and unusually quiet, wrapped in more furs than is fashionably appropriate. She takes the girl to her hovercraft, and Haymitch takes the boy. When he returns to the penthouse Effie's room is closed. It's the first year they don't watch the start of the games together.

The next day, Effie isn't at breakfast. Haymitch finishes eating and knocks on her door. He has to knock three times before he hears even a sign of life. And then, suddenly, a shriek.

"Effie?" he calls, trying to force his way through the locked door, but to no avail. Fortunately, it slides open from the inside soon enough. A very bleary eyed Effie stands in the doorway, a lace wrap around her body and a towel on her head. Her makeup, although looking as if she slept in it, remains flawless.

"I overslept?" she sounds delirious.

"Yes," he says cautiously.

"The tributes, did we get them to the hovercraft on time?"

"Yes," Haymitch says, "We did...yesterday."

"Yesterday?" she sounds confused.

He nods.

Her eyes widen suddenly, she lunges forward and clutches his arm, "Did I miss the countdown?"

Haymitch nods again.

She lets go of him and staggers into her room, pawing through half open suitcases. Haymitch watches her anxiously, half expecting her to topple over and collapse.

"I must...talk...sponsors..." Effie says. She pauses in her rush, leans against the bed frame, her energy drops rapidly, "oh, my head." She sinks dramatically onto the mattress and rolls over.

"Sweetheart?" Haymitch closes the door to her room, strides over, and places a hand on her shoulder.

"I don't feel well," she whines, "I don't think I can move. My head is so hot."

"Probably because you have a towel wrapped around it..." Haymitch reaches to try to take it off her but she flinches away and grabs his wrist.

"No!" she demands, "I must get up," she pulls on Haymitch's arm to help her stand, "I need to talk to sponsors."

"Not in this state," Haymitch says. He scoops her into his arms lightly, deposits her back in bed, and drags the covers over her, "I'll handle the sponsors. And call a doctor."

Before he leaves he can hear her shrill parting comment, "This is all your fault! You and your district germs."

He does his best on his own, for her sake. It doesn't go very well. And the tributes are especially helpless in the unusual desert arena. They do not starve, food is plentiful, they do not freeze, instead they burn. He curses Tigris and her illegal style modifications. Despite all Haymitch's efforts, the careers corner and finish off the two from Twelve within a week.

When he arrives in Effie's room to deliver the bad news, he finds her buried under a gigantic fur blob.

"Tigris has been here," Effie says weakly, "Came to give me this coat before President Snow sent her into exile. I think she thought to sweat the sickness out of me."

"Tigris gave you that?" Haymitch raises an eyebrow.

"Guilty conscience," Effie says, "Or perhaps begrudging thanks for me endorsing her designs."

She struggles underneath the blanket for a minute and then manages to reach out a thin, pale arm. Haymitch takes her hand.

"Have you been eating?" he asks, examining the bones in her fingers and wrists, sharper than they were the last time he saw them up close.

"Are they dead?" Effie asks, ignoring his question, "It's been nearly a week, this is the first time you've made an appearance...I can't imagine any other reason you'd come see me."

"Yeah," Haymitch sighs, "They are."

Effie releases his hand and turns away from him, a bare shoulder peeks out from underneath the fur coat. He hefts the heavy thing and tucks it in closer to her body. She says nothing.

"The arena was a desert," he explains, "They never stood a chance."

She still ignores him.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," Haymitch tells her. He waits half a second before asking the other question that has been bothering him, "Why are you still sick?"

"I refused medicine," Effie chirps pitifully.

"What?" Haymitch asks, incredulous.

"I thought...solidarity...district Twelve..." Effie coughs.

"Oh for crying out loud," Haymitch groans, annoyed. He crosses the room and opens the door.

"Where are you going?" Effie asks, trying, and failing, to peer over the puffy fur covering; not strong enough to actually sit up.

"To get you medicine," Haymitch grumbles. The door shuts behind him and he wishes, not for the first time, that the damn penthouse doors could be slammed. The automatic smooth, forced calm of the sliding motion when he leaves adds to his irritation.

A few hours later, when he returns, she's kicked the fur down to her feet, leaving only a sheet wrapped around her. He stoops down and feels her forehead.

"Haymitch?" she whispers, "What are you doing here?"

"Take this," he hands her an antibiotic and a glass of water.

She swallows the pill unquestioningly.

He brings a cool washcloth from the bathroom and places it across her forehead.

She grabs his wrist, "Did our tributes make it into the arena?"

"Sweetheart, you're sickness is making you delusional," he says.

"Are they alive?" she asks.

"We've already gone over this," he says, and adds under his breath, "I'm not repeating it again." He lifts the fur coat off of her feet and drapes it over her properly. She grabs his hand again before he leaves, and tugs weakly. She continues tugging, pulling him slowly down closer to her, and rolls onto her opposite side, until his arm is wrapped around her waist. A clingy, delirious Effie Trinket is rather hard to say no to.

"Sweetheart," he sighs, exasperated, "What do you want me to do?"

"Stay," she says. And coughs helplessly.

In a sort of bemused daze, he does. He lies next to her on top of the fur coat, his head propped against her fur covered shoulder, and holds her until she falls asleep.