Prompt : Could you write one where Effie isn't left behind in Mockingjay and she sees Portia's execution while she's in 13 with Haymitch? (Sorry about it, I don't even know why I actually want to read something like this...)

Stay Alive

Haymitch scowled at Plutarch's argument and waved it away. He was about to remind him that they couldn't afford that kind of reasoning when Effie stepped out of the control room and into the deserted corridor.

"I need to know what you've decided about Katniss." she said, folding her arms. "I don't know how you people expect me to work like that."

Haymitch rolled his eyes. It was a good thing no one was there to hear her speak in this way. Even though she had been long disillusioned about the Hunger Games, she hadn't taken too kindly to Thirteen and the rebellion. Haymitch hadn't given her much of a choice in the matter, he had told her she was coming with him and that had been that despite Plutarch's protests or Coin's anger. The thought of leaving her behind to be incarcerated or tortured or God knew what made him want to hit something, so he had brought her with him to the hovercraft when he had ran away from the Capitol. She had been mostly relieved and grateful until rebels had forced her to strip off her wig, make-up and fancy clothes. The grey uniform wasn't suiting her, she hated it with a passion and she was getting more and more frustrated everyday with her hair that wouldn't ever live up to her expectation. She was the only one caring about that, as he had told her enough times, but she couldn't quite believe everyone wasn't as obsessed by her appearance as she was.

It would be laughable and really ridiculous if she wasn't so genuinely surprised and touched every time he told her she looked beautiful just like that.

"Sweetheart, you really need to work on…"

"Excuse-me, you will want to watch this." Fulvia said, popping her head out of the room and disappearing inside again. They all went in after her and paused in front of the biggest screen in the room. Plutarch's office where he spent all his free time spying on the Capitol tv programs and trying to hack into them was littered with computers and screens. "The prep team is already down. They're about to execute the stylist."

The words were not uncaring but slightly offhand, Plutarch's assistant didn't know Portia at all. Something dropped in Haymitch's stomach as he watched Peeta's stylist walk, chin high but wobbly lips, toward the firing squad.

"No…" Effie whimpered.

He blindly reached for her hand, knowing how bad this was going to be for her. He liked Portia well enough but he had lived far from her, Effie and Portia had become close friends after the last Games, though. She had modeled for Portia and Cinna, she had gone to parties with them…

As Portia turned to face the firing squad so obviously afraid but also so stubbornly refusing to show it, Effie turned suddenly and pressed her own face to his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her waist and rested his chin on the top of her head, ignoring Plutarch's sympathizing gaze. The pain of Portia's death belonged to Effie and him, not to Plutarch or Fulvia. They didn't know Portia like he and Effie did. They didn't love her, like he and Effie did.

They had already lost so many people…

He held her tighter, unable to get rid of the insidious thought that it could easily have been her on that screen. He didn't avert his eyes when they started to fire. He felt like he owed Portia that much, she was another person he had failed to save after all. Effie flinched at each detonation. She wasn't sobbing but he could feel his shirt getting damp with her tears.

When it was over, Plutarch turned the screen off. Effie's raspy intakes of breath were the only noises in the silence.

"You should… take the rest of the afternoon off." Plutarch suggested. "I will cover for you with Coin."

Effie started to protest but Haymitch immediately accepted. She gripped his hand tight on their way to her room and managed to keep it together until he had closed the door of the small closet that they had assigned to her. There was barely enough room for a single-bed and a chest of drawer. She had found a broken mirror, somewhere, and had proudly hung it on the wall. His room was far more spacious and comfortable but, for some reason, they always seemed to end up in hers.

She climbed on the bed and curled up on herself before starting to sob brokenly. He went to lay behind her with a sigh, gathering her in his arms and grumbling about the lack of space. It was mostly for show. They didn't particularly need space, since the Quell, Haymitch had trouble falling asleep if she wasn't with him. They had lost Cinna, Chaff, Johanna, Annie, Peeta… He couldn't bear to lose her too. He worried about her as soon as she was out of his sight.

"It was painless." he told her, pressing a kiss to her neck. It might sound like a small mercy, but small mercies were all they had left in this war. "It could have been worse, sweetheart."

"Forgive me if I don't find that comforting." she snapped. She gripped his arms though, as if she was afraid he would leave her to her grief. "I'm sorry, I'm…"

"That's okay." He closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of her hair. She couldn't use her usual flower shampoo but it still smelled like her and it helped his anxiety to slowly melt away. She was there, she was safe. He could never put that into words, he knew, because as clever as he could sometimes be, words weren't his forte but he didn't think he would have been as functional if she hadn't been in Thirteen with him. He wished he could, though, because she deserved to hear it.

"She had done nothing wrong." Effie whispered, between two sobs. "She was so kind and…" She turned around in his arms and buried her face in his shoulder again. "Hold me tighter, please."

He did as she requested, feeling a bit shaken up himself. Cinna's death had been easier to accept, after all, he had known as soon as he had seen the Monckingjay dress that Cinna's living hours were limited. But Portia… He hadn't thought Cinna would have been foolish enough to involve her in this stupid plan of his and she was so much the Capitol darling that Haymitch had thought she would be alright. Of course, Effie too had been famous and adored throughout the Capitol and he had still taken her with him… His reasoning was flawed. He should have at least tried to get Portia out…

"There's nothing you could have done." Effie said quietly.

Her weeping had died down while he had been busy dwelling upon his mistakes. His shirt would probably never recover but he didn't care much about that, it would made Coin scowl and everything that made Coin scowl also made his day.

"Sorry." he whispered. What an inadequate word that was… You could say "sorry I drank all the liquor" or "sorry I soiled your dress" but could you actually say "sorry I failed to save you" ? Or "sorry you're dead." ? Could he, in good conscience, say to Effie : "Sorry your best friend is dead" ? And yet, was there any other word to say?

"No, Haymitch…" She let out a sigh and propped herself on her elbow to look at him. He kind of wanted to avoid her eyes but he figured he had been enough of a coward for that day. She frowned and brushed a hand against his cheek. "There is nothing you could have done to save her, stop feeling guilty right now."

He didn't ask how she could possibly know what he was thinking about, she always knew. It was a superpower of hers, it seemed. He didn't bother trying to explain why he couldn't stop feeling guilty, he wasn't sure she could understand.

"It could have been you." he replied instead. It was calm and said in a matter of fact sort of voice but she still noticed the slight tinge of panic underneath it all.

"It wasn't." She pressed a soft kiss to his lips, her lips barely brushed against his. It was an invitation he was familiar with but he didn't take her up on it. He couldn't. Not when his imagination was leading him on to countries he was desperate to never revisit again. The picture of her standing in front of a firing squad was so vivid in his mind… "You saved me." She gripped his chin gently and forced him to look at her. "Haymitch, I'm right here, you saved me."

He blinked quickly but there was no hiding his inner panic from her. "I could have watched you die on that screen." His right hand clenched her hip. "There was nothing I could have done to save you. You would have been cold and dead in the Capitol and I would have been here and…"

She kissed the end of that sentence away. It was a forceful kiss, not pleasant at all. Their teeth clashed, their nose bumped, it was clumsy and they were never clumsy. It shocked him enough he managed to get rid of the awful image of her corpse.

"I'm right here." she said against his lips. "I'm safe. You saved me." The next kiss was softer, slower. "I'm alright."

His breathing eased. She was safe.

"Stay that way, would you?" he begged, knowing it was a helpless plea. There was a war raging and wars required casualties, the probabilities that both of them made it out unscathed… weren't good.

He wanted to say that he loved her and couldn't see himself living without her. He wanted to say she had crept on his heart while he wasn't looking and had seared her name upon it. He wanted to say he belonged to her like he had never belonged to anyone else as utterly ridiculous as it sounded coming from a grown man who was fighting for freedom. He wanted to say that and a thousand other stupid things but words failed him once again. "Stay alive." was all that came to his lips.