It's not a prompt but I was thinking the other day and… Well in my head the hayffie relationship has kind of phases : first the hate/contempt that lasts for a few years, then of course the attraction kicks in and they move in the "no string attached/one night stands" kind of relationship, then the "not-so-casual-just-sex" relationship when neither wants to admit they had feelings and to finish the post MJ where Haymitch realizes he has loved her for some time. So, I was thinking that maybe it took some time post MJ before they managed to settle down and I could picture the "it won't happen again" phrase being repeated time and time again in their relationship and I've talked a lot to say nothing because it is very clear in the one-shot XD
Five Time It Would Never Happen Again And One Time It Does
1.
Haymitch didn't know how it happened precisely, he had been too lost in his drink when it had started. They had been arguing – something about talking back to sponsors she had spent a whole week gathering – she had kept pushing him, physically shoving him, calling him names and accusing him of drinking his problems away like a coward. He could remember something snapping in him at that word. Coward. Such an ugly, ugly word…
He knew he had pushed back. He knew there had been a struggle. He knew at some point, his hand had been around her throat.
How they had gone from there to her bed, he couldn't remember. How he had ended up on top of her, he didn't know either. The drunk haze only lifted when they were almost done, inconveniently early for him to realize it wasn't really good - for her, at least.
There was a second, after he had collapsed on her, out of breath and utterly spent, when her hands rested over his shoulders tentatively. His mouth found her neck in an awkward attempt at… He didn't know precisely. It lasted for three heartbeats and then she pushed him off her, bolted from the bed and secured a satin dressing gown around her body.
"It never happened." she announced.
He was in total agreement with that statement. He looked at her and felt nothing but disgust : her wig was still on her head, so straight he wondered if it was glued or stitched to her skull, her make-up was smeared around the mouth but otherwise intact. She looked like a clown. She looked like a Capitol citizen. Her high-pitched voice assaulted his ears, her accent was unbearably pronounced. She was always so bubbly, so set on being the perfect Capitol doll, so fake. She was all he despised and he couldn't help but feel disgusted at the thought that he had stroked her body, kissed her skin and made her his. He had always refused to sleep with Capitols, refused to give anything to a Capitol and there she was.
She wasn't the only one who repulsed him in that room, though. There was still desire underneath the disgust. He watched the satin cling to her curves, so short her legs looked endless and he was unable to suppress the tinge of primitive want. Perhaps his brain was still clouded by alcohol. He would never have wanted her if he had been sober, he tried to tell himself, he would never have touched her.
"What's the matter, sweetheart?" he taunted. He didn't want to grab his clothes and leave like a thief. He didn't want to make it easy for her. "Can't admit you fucked someone from a District?"
All he got for his trouble was a soiled shirt in his face, quickly followed by his pants and underwear.
"If you call that fucking then you clearly need some lessons in the field." she sneered. "Leave. Now."
She was ugly when she sneered.
"Not my fault if you're not good, Trinket." he spat. He climbed off the bed, his clothes a rumpled heap in his fist and looked down at her, relishing in the height difference now that she wasn't wearing her heels. "Can't say the sight of you gets me up."
He saw the slap coming and grabbed her wrist before she could actually hit him. She shook his hand off.
"You are a pig." she hissed.
"And yet you kissed me first, how is that?" He was bluffing. He had no idea if it had happened that way or the other way around. He didn't particularly care either.
"You repel me." She marched in her bathroom and slammed the door shut.
It was such a childish exit he couldn't help but laugh. It was a mocking and cruel sort of laugh.
"Right back at you, sweetheart!" he shouted through the door.
That, he vowed as he exited her bedroom, would never ever happen again.
2.
She was crying when he found her in the penthouse living-room after he finally hauled his ass back up from the 71th Hunger Games victory party.
"Seriously?" he chuckled. "We're celebrating the death of twenty-three kids and you're sobbing because someone called your dress ugly? Newsflash, sweetheart, Viola is a bitch and your dresses are always ugly."
"Leave me alone." she snapped. "Why can't you just…" She covered her face with her hands and tried to get her breathing back under control but she failed. "Leave me alone."
"If you wanted to be left alone, you would have gone to your room." he replied, walking to the liquor cart without a single glance for her. "You wanted me to find you and comfort you which will happen when hell freezes over. I'm not going to hold your hand because your poor little pride took a strike."
He poured himself a glass of whiskey.
"You think you know me so well, don't you? You don't know anything." She laughed to herself. It was all bitter and broken, so far from her usual false cheerfulness, it made him turn to look at her with something akin to interest. There was an opened bottle of wine, half gone already, and an empty glass on the coffee table in front of her – that probably explained it, alcohol made tortured poets of the most insipid people.
"Right. Let's say you're about to die and your life flashes in front of your eyes…" He swallowed a mouthful of whiskey and held out his other hand, counting on his fingers. "Pink heels, pink dress, pink wig, pink bra and, shockingly… another pink wig. How did I do?"
"Badly since pink has been out of fashion for two years." She filled her glass with dark red wine. From where he was standing, it looked like blood. "You forgot the names."
"What names?" he asked, trying not to get distracted by the way red wine tainted her lips. Everything was blue this year : her dress, her wig, her make-up… All different shades of blue that clashed with each other and made her look like an Ice Queen or a corpse depending on the amount of liquor he drank and how morbid his thoughts were.
"The names I reap and you fail to save." she said matter-of-factly.
It was like a slap. "You're a bitch."
"Resort to name-calling all your want." She laughed again and he wanted to throttle her to make it stop. "It won't change the truth."
"Don't pretend you feel guilty." he hissed. "Not when they're all dead and you're here crying over a stupid comment from an even more dim-witted bitch than you are."
"Who says I'm crying over that?" If she didn't stop laughing at him soon Haymitch might have to strangle her. She toasted him with her almost empty glass. "For someone so clever, you are sometimes utterly daft."
He flopped down on the armchair and watched her, making his whiskey twirl in his glass. Her make-up was beyond repair, there were dark blue traces on her cheeks, patches of skin visible under the white powder, she had lost her purple fake feather eyelashes somewhere… Her eyes looked smaller like that but they were still blue, the prettiest shade of blue she had on her. "You're a monster."
He expected another round of laughter, he was surprised to see her stand up. She slowly placed her glass on the coffee table, on the coaster of course, and walked closer to his chair. His eyes were riveted to her legs. Too long, too enticing… He could perfectly recalled the way they had been wrapped around him…
"If I am a monster, what does that make you?" she asked. She pried the glass from his fingers and downed the whiskey in one long gulp. It shouldn't have been as hot as it was. "What do you call someone who desires the monster?"
"I don't want you." he scoffed.
Yet, when she straddled his lap, he didn't push her away. And when she pressed her lips against his, he responded eagerly to her kiss.
"Liar." she mocked with a smirk.
He was a liar and it made him angry because he didn't want her to be right. He tore the wig off her head. She gasped in pain and pin flew everywhere but blond hair toppled on her shoulders and he regretted having done it at once : in part because he had obviously hurt her but mostly because it made her look… human.
Her eyes dropped, her previous confidence gone. He touched the curls tentatively, it was soft. Her hair looked wild, the kind of untamable mane that probably explained why she'd rather use wigs than spend hours trying to style her curls. He couldn't help but wonder if it was all a grand metaphor : hiding her true nature underneath Capitol garments. He rejected the idea at once. Not only was it a ridiculous notion but it was also a dangerous one. It could make him like her and he didn't want to like her.
It had been years since they had accidentally ended up in bed. They had been true to their agreement to never mention it again. His hand ran up and down her thigh, waiting for her to do something, waiting for disgust to rise in his stomach… It never came. Loathing and contempt had morphed into tolerance over the last few years. He had grown accustomed to her, he could work with her as annoying as she was. She was better than any other escorts he ever had, at least she tried. She didn't disgust him as much as she used to. Oh, he still hated her, of course… But he was used to her now.
She kissed him. It was slow but that wasn't what he wanted so he deepened it until their breathing was quick and their hearts were racing. Soon enough, they were naked and trembling with need.
"Tell me I'm beautiful." she requested.
His brain was so lost in lust, he almost complied. He swallowed back the words at the last possible moment. His only answer was to thrust harder into her until she cried out, it triggered his own release.
It soon turned awkward again.
They laid on the floor of the penthouse for a few minutes, limbs still entangled and sweaty skins pressed tight against each other. Once again, she was the first to recover. She sat up and fumbled around for her underwear. When she didn't find her bra nor her panties, she settled for her dress.
"It doesn't mean anything." she stated but it was less aggressive than it had been the last time. He wasn't sure who she was actually talking to.
He watched her creamy skin disappear under the ugly blue dress before he rubbed his face. "Don't do that again."
She frowned and glanced over her shoulder. "I beg your pardon?"
He shrugged. "You came onto me twice, I'm not your fuck toy."
"I came onto you…" she repeated disbelievingly. "Haymitch, you were the one who kissed me last time. You were the one who started tearing at my clothes."
"I was drunk." He had absolutely no recollection of what had happened the last time. He barely remembered it, truth be told.
"You're always drunk." she muttered. She twisted her hair so she could put her wig on again. "It doesn't change anything. This cannot happen again. It has no point."
"Again." he snorted. "You started it."
"I wanted… I wanted to feel something else than…" Her sentence trailed off and she waved the rest away with a careless hand. "It doesn't matter. This was a poor show of judgment on my part. I will thank you to keep it to yourself."
He thought about Chaff, about the hour his friend had spent laughing to the point of hysteria when Haymitch had told him about having sex with her the last time and sneered. "Who do you want me to tell? You're ashamed of fucking me but I'm just as ashamed of fucking you, sweetheart."
"I never said I was ashamed." she corrected quietly, picking up his clothes and throwing them at him. He wondered if she was doing that with any of her lovers or if he was just that lucky. "There is a difference between shame and regret."
He studied her. She was bustling all around the room, gathering the pins and the rest of her belongings, carefully avoiding to look at his naked self. He kind of wanted to ask her what it was she was so deeply regretting but he didn't dare. He was curious about her, curious about what was upsetting her earlier since it had obviously not been Viola's comment about her dress, curious about the wild hair under the wig… He was curious and that wasn't good because if he ever got caught up in her, it would be the end.
"Whatever, as long as we're clear." he huffed, starting the tiring process of getting dressed again.
"Nothing happened." she agreed. "And it certainly won't happen again."
3.
His house felt like a tomb.
Sitting there, on his couch stained with liquor and unidentified food, waiting for someone to come and get him, it felt like being buried alive already. Katniss and Peeta were with their respective family, Haymitch was only too aware he would have no one to look at during the Quell Reaping, no one to offer support and comfort. He wanted a drink, he wanted a bottle, he wanted to get so drunk he wouldn't have been able to recognize his own name. He wanted… He wanted to forget. Everything.
There was a customary knock on the front door and then it creaked open. His eyes darted to the clock on the fireplace mantle : precisely one hour and a half until the start of the Reaping, as always. Her heels clicked on his boarded floor, they went to the kitchen first and paused. Haymitch imagined she was taking notice of the changes in the house. Thanks to Hazelle's persistent nature, it didn't smell like animals had crawled in various cupboards to die anymore, it looked tidier too.
Effie found him eventually. She stopped on the living-room threshold as if she was unsure of being welcomed any further. She was used to wake him up before a Reaping and to drag his sorry ass to the bathroom, she wasn't used to finding him already dressed, washed and ready to walk to the square.
"Sober at last." he managed to croak. He had meant to be funny but even to his own ears it sounded haunted. "Finally happy, sweetheart?"
She was wearing a dress that looked made of thousands of butterflies, there were some on her golden wig and on her arms too. Her make-up was also golden, toned down from what she usually wore. She didn't look happy. He hadn't expected her to be. She had grown attached to the children. She had changed a lot in the last couple of years. Her eyes were open now, he knew it without having to ask. He wasn't sure when exactly it had happened but he knew it had. They had become friends for lack of a better term.
There were tears in her eyes.
He didn't want to see them. He stood up and started pacing, anxious for the clock to go faster or for time to freeze – he wasn't sure which. He wanted the whole nightmare to be over all the while knowing there would be no end. The Reaping would only be the start whatever the result.
"You should go and check on the kids." he said after a few minutes of frantic pacing on his part and uncharacteristic silence on hers. "Peeta is at the bakery."
The clicking of heels echoed again but it came closer instead of fading toward the front door. He stopped with his back turned to her. When she placed her hands on his shoulder and gently prompted him to face her, he did.
"Effie." he warned.
"Take what you need." she answered. She brushed her hand against his cheek. "I need it too."
He kissed her. It had been almost four years since the last time but she still tasted of wine. He wondered if she had been drinking on the train and then he stopped wondering at all.
He was angry and she was upset. It made for a frantic kind of sex, up against the wall, her dress hitched up to her waist and her long legs wrapped around his hips. He was rough and she was tender. For each bite, she kissed; for each squeeze, she stroke… It was as desperate as it could get. When she came, his name was almost a sob in her mouth. When he came he crushed her lips under his and hoped death felt a bit like this.
They remained against that wall for the longest time, still entwined, his forehead on her shoulder, her face buried in his neck. He kept expecting her to scold him about the state of her dress but she never did.
When they finally heard the stomping of Peacekeepers invading the village, they stepped away from each other. They fixed their clothing in silence. Some of her butterflies were crushed, they looked dead but Haymitch didn't tell her. Neither of them said that it wouldn't happen again, there was no point in saying it aloud, they both knew it. Either Haymitch would end up in that arena or he wouldn't but, even then, he doubted Snow would let him live much longer after the Quell. Maybe the rebels would declare war, in which case he would probably be dead long before the end… There was no again. Haymitch had only one thing waiting for him and it was death.
"Haymitch?" It was a hurried whisper. "You aren't alone. Whatever happens, whatever the outcome of the Reaping is…" Her blue eyes avoided his. "I stand by you."
The Peacekeepers banged on the door more than they knocked and they barged in before Haymitch could reply to that. It was probably for the best anyway.
4.
The once luxurious building was an utter mess of walls with holes and over present dust. The whole city seemed buried under dust, Haymitch thought, as he climbed the stairs to her floor, mindful of crumbling steps. He wasn't totally sure the building was safe to begin with but given that most of the Capitol was in ruins and that she was popular neither with rebels nor with Capitol citizens, it was probably the best Effie could hope for.
He waited in front of her door with some nervousness, too aware he had failed her time and time again in the last year. He should have protected her better from the Capitol and he should have shielded her better from Coin. She was alive, yes, but at what price?
He knocked again and waited some more. He was about to leave when he heard noise from inside. Nothing more than the creaking of a loose board. It didn't take him long to understand what was going on.
"Effie, it's me." he called through the door.
It was a full minute before he heard her walking closer. Still, the door remained locked. "Haymitch? What are you doing here?"
It wasn't exactly welcoming but it wasn't entirely distrustful either so he took it as a good sign. He wanted to make sure their friendship was still there. He had explained to her after her rescue what his reasoning had been for leaving her behind, he had truly thought she would be safer, and she seemed to have accepted it but…
"You're going to let me in or not?" he grumbled, a bit annoyed.
"I am not…" She stopped and he heard her sighing. "Alright, I suppose." Then the lock turned and she stepped aside. He didn't miss the way she turned the bolt again once he was inside and checked three times that it was secured. He realized at once why she hadn't wanted to let him in. Make-up and wig were missing, leaving her bare face and her hair exposed. He suppressed the urge to touch the once beautiful curls, her hair had been cropped short during her time in prison and even he could see it was neither fashionable nor pretty. She was wearing a dark pink dress from before, he could tell because it was hanging on her too thin frame. "I apologize I am not dressed to entertain, I was cleaning."
Her voice was flat and almost detached. The old Effie would have freaked out at the idea of being seen like this but now she didn't seem to care. It frightened him a little. He followed her to the living-room that she had, indeed, obviously been cleaning. There were a lot of trash bags all around the room. Most shelves were upturned, her furniture was all damaged and the big windows must have been blown out by the numerous bombings because she had hung huge white sheets to keep the wind and the dust outside. The couch was still in good shape so he sat there, trying to evaluate her loss.
"How bad is it?" he gestured to the little mementoes broken on the floor.
"I still have a roof over my head so I'm in no position to complain." she replied, avoiding his eyes. "Would you care for something to drink? I can't say I have any alcohol but I do have some tea if you're interested."
"Tea is fine." He followed her to the kitchen. She was acting a bit skittish but less than she had been in the hospital. "They're releasing Katniss."
Her hands froze on the kettle for a second but then she resumed the mindless task of pouring water and putting it to boil. "This is good news." She sounded unsure.
"Yeah." he shrugged, passing a hand over his face. It was the end of days of absolute nightmare he and Plutarch had spent pleading her case to people who didn't care much one way or another. Haymitch hated politics. "Paylor is taking command. She's a good woman. She will make a good President." Paylor had been his personal choice, he was glad she had been appointed.
"I don't know who she is." Effie confessed, taking a seat at the kitchen table.
By the time he had explained what Paylor had been doing in Eight for years, the kettle had boiled and he had a smoking cup of tea in front of him. Effie sipped her tea in silence even though it was much too hot to drink. "I'm taking Katniss back to Twelve tomorrow."
The cup paused in front of her lips. For the first time since he had arrived, her eyes met his but darted away just as quickly. "Oh." She placed the cup back on the table and made it turn slowly between her hands. Her nails were long and painted green and blue again, they must have insisted on a manicure when Coin had dressed her up and used her as a puppet to prep Katniss for Snow's execution. He had been so mad when he had found out… He could still remember the broken nails in the hospital, he had held her hand for long enough for the image to be seared upon his eyelids. "Is that wise?" Suddenly she couldn't seem to stay in one place, she straightened curtains, fussed over a vase with long dead flowers, put their still full cups in the sink… "Twelve is in ruins from what I understand. Where are you both going to live? Is it…"
"Some people started rebuilding and the victor's village is still standing." He stood up slowly, not to spook her. "It's their condition for her freedom. She's to be shipped to Twelve. Out of sight, out of mind." She had started washing the cups. It was probably a great proof of trust that she accepted to turn her back on him. Still, her loud intake of breath was perfectly audible when he placed his hands on her shoulders. He didn't know what he was doing precisely but he didn't want her to think he was leaving her behind again. He would have stayed longer if he had been given the possibility, even with the bad memories the Capitol kept triggering. Peeta was still there, Johanna and Annie were still there although he had understood they were both planning on leaving for Four in the next few days but, above all, he didn't want to leave Effie alone after the ordeal she had gone through. "It wasn't my choice."
"Are you… Do you plan on coming back eventually?" She lowered her head, pretending to focus on her dishes. It wasn't convincing, not when the cup was covered in soap and forgotten in her hand. It exposed her neck though. Her hair was so short he could see every bone in her nape.
Her question left him unsettled. Did he plan on coming back to the Capitol? Not really. He would be happy to never see the city again yet he found himself wishing to ask if she wanted him to. It made no sense at all.
"You could come and visit." he suggested instead.
Her laugh was broken and disbelieving all at once, just like her. She turned around and his hands fell back to his side. "We never lied to each other, not before the rebellion anyway, could we not start now?"
There was a spark of the old Effie in her eyes and he was so happy to see her again, he nodded. Blunt truths, that was what they had always exchanged before and the blunt truth was he would probably never come back to the Capitol and she would never come and visit in Twelve. "This is goodbye then, sweetheart."
He didn't know why he felt so sad and disappointed. He had always known it would be goodbye, that was the reason he had wanted to see her before leaving for Twelve.
They stood there awkwardly for several minutes, too close for mere friends, too far for lovers. They had never even been proper lovers. Three stolen moments didn't make them lovers… Not in Haymitch's head at least.
She took the first step. It was hesitant and tentative but she closed the distance between them and she kissed him. Her lips were soft and when he placed his hands on her waist, she felt more fragile that she ever had. He was afraid she would shatter if he was the least bit too rough. They had always been rough, he had always been rough, yet he tried.
He touched her hair but she grabbed his wrist and guided his hand back to her waist. "Don't." she whispered. "It's even worse than before." She kissed him before he could deny it or say it was still better than her stupid wigs. She never stopped kissing him when she guided him to her bedroom, shedding his clothes on the way. He was naked when they reached her bed but the problem arose when he tried to unzip her dress. "No, the scars…" she protested, not meeting his eyes. "Leave it on."
He touched her cheek and waited until he was sure she wouldn't lose control and start crying before he kissed her mouth, her cheek and then her short hair. "Let me see." It was only a request, he made sure not to sound demanding, he made sure she knew he wouldn't insist if she said no.
She hesitated for the longest time and then she gave a brief but shaky nod. She didn't try to help when he unzipped the dress and slipped it over her head, she let him undress her like a doll. The damages on her body, once she was naked, were unmistakable. The doctors had erased the most visible scars on her arms and legs but they hadn't bothered with the other ones. Most were still an angry red, some clearly belonged to wounds that had gotten infected at some point, they were swollen and ugly looking. She turned her head away, probably because she didn't want to see his reaction. She had never been self-conscious about her body before, he realized, she didn't like her hair, true, but her body had always been an asset and now…
Truth be told, he didn't mind the scars as much as he hated the pain behind them.
"You're beautiful." he told her, finally complying with her request, years too late.
"Liar." she scoffed. There were tears in her voice.
"You're sure you want this?" he asked her even though he had never bothered asking that question before. It wasn't their way. But she looked so frail, so broken…
She coiled a hand behind his neck and pulled him to her. "Finally acting like a proper gentleman." Her smile was small and cautious but it was still teasing and he rolled his eyes. "This is goodbye, it will never happen again so, yes, yes… One last time." She winced. "Just go slowly."
He had never done slow before but he did his best. He started by kissing every scar he could find. He learned their shape, their taste, their size… He didn't ask what caused them and she didn't tell him but each kiss was an apology and she welcomed every one of them.
This time was different, he mused, it felt different. Perhaps because he was less focused on his own pleasure than on hers, perhaps because it was about worshiping her body rather than selfishly ravishing it… Perhaps because it truly felt like a last time. He wasn't sure.
He stroked and kissed every inch of her skin. He made her body hum with pleasure and he took pride in that because he understood, a bit late, that she hadn't been sure she could enjoy sex at all anymore.
He didn't leave her bed afterwards and it made for a nice change not to dash for his clothes. One last time turned into three by the time night fell and dawn appeared. He would have been content to remain tangled in the sheets with her and ignore the outside world.
"You have to go." She kissed his shoulder.
He wanted to tell her he would stay after all or to ask her to come with them but the words wouldn't pass his lips. What future did they have? None whatsoever. She would never leave the Capitol for Twelve and he would never leave Twelve for the Capitol – and that was only the smallest problem, the main one was that they couldn't stand each other for long periods of time. And yet… Yet Haymitch had missed her so much during the rebellion that he thought he could endure her presence forever if he had to. He had been too worried for her, too heartbroken over her disappearance… It wasn't just…
"Haymitch." she insisted, escaping his arms to sit in the bed, the sheet tightly wrapped around her chest. "You have to go or you will be late. Katniss needs you."
That did the trick. He got dressed slowly with an obvious reluctance. His clothes were all over her apartment, she remained in the bedroom. He was tempted to go back and say goodbye, kiss her goodbye even, but, in the end, he slipped out the door like a thief in the night. He would probably never see her again. There was no word for that kind of farewell and a kiss would only have tasted bitter.
5.
"What are you doing?" he mumbled sleepily. His eyelids were heavy with sleep but he forced them open. His bedroom was dark, too dark for the night to be already at an end, but Effie was sitting on the foot of the bed, clasping her bra back on. Leaving, his brain supplied. "Come back to bed, sweetheart."
"I need to go back to the inn." she replied.
It took him a few seconds to grasp what she was talking about. The notion of an inn in Twelve was still a strange one even after the rebuilding. She was wearing her dress by the time he realized she was serious.
"It's the middle of the night." he pointed out.
She tucked her hair behind her ears nervously. It had grown back in the last two years but she kept it at her chin and she straighten it more often than not, wigs weren't in fashion anymore. "I have to raise up early tomorrow. I have a lot of work in front of me."
Work helped keeping her grounded, he knew. He hadn't been there to witness the nightmares and the panic attacks in the very aftermath of the rebellion but he had witnessed some over the previous two years. He had learned through the kids she was struggling to find a job and he had just known working would help her get better so he had suggested to Plutarch that she could be an asset – not that she was aware of that. Plutarch had taken his advice and hired her, now she spent half her time in Twelve trying to coordinate efforts with the Capitol to implement Twelve's very own channels network. Channels networks were a growing business in Panem and Plutarch had become a tycoon.
"All the more reasons to come back to bed." he retorted, sitting up to switch the lamp on. "It's a half an hour walk to the inn."
"Have you seen my heels?" She crouched and looked under the bed.
"Effie." he snapped.
She closed her eyes and breathed out before lifting her head to look at him. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"That's hardly the problem here." he snorted. "You don't have to leave in the middle of the night."
She stood up and smoothed the creases off her dress. "I must have left them downstairs."
"You're not going to leave now. Wait 'till morning." he insisted, lifting the covers on what he had come to think of as her side of the bed.
"I… No, Haymitch." She shuffled awkwardly from one foot to the other. "We don't have that kind of relationship. This was an accident…"
"Accidents don't happen ten times in a month." he snapped, fed up with her refusal to see the facts for what they were. He had tried to be comprehensive, he had tried to let her move things at her own pace, he had tried to drop hints about having breakfast together or coffee or whatever couples did but nothing seemed to work.
Each time she came to Twelve, she ended up in his bed and each time Plutarch forced him to haul his ass up to the Capitol, he ended up in hers. Every single time, she claimed it was a mistake and declared that it wouldn't happen again. At first, Haymitch had thought it was a desperate attempt on her part to hold on to who she had been before the rebellion but now he wasn't so sure. It seemed to him she was afraid and he didn't know about what. Either way, it was becoming as ridiculous as it was confusing… She shoved him out of bed, she sneaked out in the middle of the night, she pushed him away only to kiss him the next minute…
"It won't happen again." she said, folding her arms over her chest defensively.
"Like it didn't happen again last time and the time before that?" he sneered. "Face it, sweetheart, it will happen again. It always happens again."
"It shouldn't." she hissed. "It can't."
"Why?" He threw the covers aside and stood up. She stepped back, a fickle of fear flashing in her eyes. He froze. "Are you afraid of me?"
"No." she replied angrily. "Of the things in my head. Don't… Don't shout at me, please." She tugged on her hair with a shaking hand. "Please."
"Okay." He forced his voice to soften slightly. He wasn't a stranger to panic attacks after all, he knew how easily it could be triggered. He reached for her hand slowly and untangled it from her hair. "Come back to bed, we can talk about us tomorrow." It was a reasonable request, he thought.
"There is no us." She dropped her eyes and refused to meet his.
"We're sleeping together, I would say that makes an us."
"We aren't… We…" she stuttered. "It won't happen again."
"It will." He shrugged. "You will come back, you always do, and I'm done playing this game. I told you once, I'm not your fuck toy." She turned her head away as if he had slapped her and he winced at his own words. "'Not what I meant."
"I apologize." she whispered. "It was the last time."
"It's not what I meant." he repeated, grating his teeth in sheer frustration. "Sweetheart, can we stop with the pretending already? We're sleeping together. We are – I don't know what we are but we are." He brushed his fingertips against her cheek, relieved not to see her flinch. "I want us to be."
He felt… ready. It was a strange feeling for him but he thought he could do it, try again, try to move on with Effie, try to love again even maybe. He wasn't sure but he thought he could and for him that was a lot.
For a second, he thought she was going to relent and climb back into bed. Perhaps they would get to eat breakfast together in the morning for once – perhaps he would even cook breakfast – he saw it unravel clearly. It would be an easy life and a good one : they would fight from dawn to dusk, they would fuck each other senseless, they would drive each other mad… It wouldn't be perfect because nothing ever was but it would be good.
She stepped back, evaded his touch, her eyes darting all over the room. "It won't happen again." She was gone before he could fully register what she was saying. He caught up with her downstairs, she was shrugging her jacket on and putting her heels on at the same time.
"Effie, if you leave now don't bother coming back." he warned her. It was a mistake probably but he was fed up with the whole thing. There was no reason for it to be so complicated. She wasn't the escort and he wasn't the victor anymore.
She didn't meet his eyes and she didn't say anything when she closed the door on her way out.
That night, he drank himself to a stupor and when Peeta swung by the next morning with some bread, Haymitch wasn't surprised to hear Effie had cut her stay short and had gone back to the Capitol on the first train.
When the kids asked what had happened – because they actually weren't stupid and had noticed Effie's coming and going in the middle of the night – he answered nothing. Apparently, that was all there ever was between them anyway.
6.
Effie came back around fifteen bottles of cheap wine after she had left. Haymitch preferred to measure time in bottles rather than in days but he thought it must have been about a week.
"You have some nerves." she hissed as soon as he had opened the front door on her insistent knocking. She pushed him aside and came in without being invited which, even Haymitch didn't need to be told, was rude. Her pink wheeled case clattered behind her, it was loaded with matching bags, three from what he could see. "What right do you have to give me ultimatums?" She abandoned her luggage in the corridor and continued ranting on her way to the living-room. He wasn't sure but he thought the word "alcohol" was the main feature of her little speech.
He closed the front door with a frown and followed her to the living-room. She was already busy tidying the cushions on the couch and picking up the empty bottles from the ground. She couldn't help herself, he thought, but instead of irritation, he was surprised to feel fondness.
"You are the worst. The absolute worst, Haymitch Abernathy." she rambled.
"Effie." he tried but she didn't stop to listen. She was now focused on piling on the coffee table the dirty dishes he had left on the floor.
"You are an absolute slob." she declared. "Your manners are inexistent. Your general behavior is appalling. Even a nail would be more sensitive than you are."
"Effie."
She finally paused, an expression of disgust on her face at the sight of the three days old leftover of stew in the plate she was holding. "Couldn't you wash the dishes now and then? This is truly revolting."
He grabbed the plate from her hand and carelessly placed it on the pile. "What are you doing here?"
They stared at each other for a long time but then she lowered her eyes to inspect her fingers. "My hands are dirty now." Her fingers did look rather sticky. He wordlessly stepped aside to let her access the kitchen. If possible, her expression darkened when she saw that room. The sink was full of dirty dishes, there was a basket full of wet clothes he had washed but never bothered to hang out to dry, a bottle of liquor was spilled on the counter… The smell wasn't pleasant. "You are hiring a housekeeper. You will put an ad tomorrow."
"You're crazy." It was the only logical explanation.
"The politically correct term is damaged." she corrected, glancing over her shoulder once before running her hands under the tap. "But yes. And so are you."
"Fair enough." He shrugged. "So, you're here to compare our respective craziness or what?"
She didn't find a rag to dry her hands so she shook them above the mountain of dishes until most of the water had left her skin. He supposed it gave her time to think. She turned around after a while and walked back to him uncertainly. He didn't move when she placed a hand on his chest, directly above his heart.
"I am here because for some unfathomable reason you make me feel better, safe, and feeling safe is a luxury for me now." It was clearly a difficult confession for her but she met his eyes this time. "I went back to my apartment last week and I realized it was empty. I felt… I felt lonely and all I could think about was that I am never lonely or afraid with you. I've spent so much time forbidding myself to depend on you like that… All those years… Haymitch, I have wanted you long before the rebellion, you kept rejecting me and it hurt. I'm damaged, you said it. You want me now but if you change your mind tomorrow… I can't bear that kind of hurting again but I also can't bear the idea of not seeing you again so… Here I am."
He brushed her blond hair away from her face. She hadn't straightened it that day, it was curly and it looked all wild. "That was quite the speech, sweetheart."
"It was, wasn't it?" She laughed that broken laugh he had come to hate. It was too insecure, too far from what he knew of her.
"What happens now?" he frowned because he hadn't gotten much out of her story apart from the fact that she was afraid of losing him and having him at the same time.
"Now…" She licked her lips nervously and stepped closer. "Now, I am going to seduce you and you are going to let me."
He lifted his eyebrows in amusement. "Clever me."
"Quite." She was smiling when she kissed him but then she wrinkled her nose. "Although, perhaps you should shower first and brush your teeth."
He rolled his eyes but it wasn't too high a price to pay. "Shower then sex and then what?" Because that was the crux of the matter wasn't it? Would she leave again as soon as they were done?
"Then…" she hesitated but in the end she simply wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. "Then you find space for my things in your wardrobe and we put them away. You really need a shower, when was the last time you touched a bar of soap?"
"When Peeta cleaned vomit out of me probably." he retorted. "I don't know… Five? Six days?" She tried to get away with a disgusted "yew" but he held on. "Come on, I've smelt worse…"
"You are taking a shower everyday from now on." she commanded. "I will banish you to the couch otherwise."
"You will banish me to my couch in my house. What are you now, moving in?" he scoffed and then it dawned on him that she had been talking about putting some of her things away and that there was an awful lot of luggage in the hall… The prospect left him so unsettled that he let her wriggle free. "Sweetheart, are you moving in?"
"Don't be daft." She walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs and he followed her like a lost puppy. A part of his mind was finding it truly degrading, the part that was craving sex told him to shut up. "I only brought a case and three bags. Of course, I'm not moving in."
"Of course." he muttered.
"I will leave some clothes here." she decided without consulting him on the matter. "I bought some things for you too and I left them at my apartment for your next visit : a spare toothbrush, a spare razor, that aftershave you like… Some spare clothes too…" She walked through his bedroom to his bathroom with a pointed glance for the unmade bed. "Although I might bring back some of them next time. You badly need new clothes, I noticed most of your shirts have holes in them."
"I'm not sure I get it." he confessed as she started the shower. Next thing he knew, she was unbuttoning his shirt.
"We're committing." she stated, slipping the shirt off his shoulder. "We're a couple. We're committing."
"No more it won't happen again?" he pressed, taking off his pants. He tried to kiss her but she avoided his mouth and handed him his toothbrush instead.
"No more it won't happen again." she promised while he was brushing his teeth. She wandered to the shower and inspected the booth warily. "How dirty is this?"
She was turning her back on him and that was a mistake. He spat the toothpaste, grabbed her by the waist and pushed her under the spray with him.
"My dress!" she sputtered, unsuccessfully trying to wipe the running stream of water off her face.
"Who cares, you have others downstairs." he teased. "Let me enjoy the committing."
Committing, as he came to learn, was a lot funnier than it was cut out to be.