Prompt : AU where Effie is prostitute and Haymitch is a customer. But after a few times, he is so obsessed with her he needs to just start knowing her and get her the hell out of there.
Hi! I chose to make this prompt a part of my "mafia verse" that you can find at chapter 96 and 143 but this one can also stand alone since it's kind of a prequel. I hope you like it!
The Escort and The Hitman
The smoke of cigarettes and cigars assaulted his lungs like every time Haymitch found himself in the President's office before or after a job.
"You are absolutely certain the man is dead, Abernathy?" President Snow asked in a soft voice that always reminded Haymitch of a snake.
"Yes, sir." Haymitch repeated for the third time, letting his eyes wander to Brutus and Crane in boredom. He couldn't wait to get out of the strip-club, he was yearning for a drink in a place where nobody would ask him how his last hit had gone. There were too many hitmen at The Capitol who were eager to hear the tale from what he had seen when he arrived.
"And how did our new recruit do?" the President insisted, looking at the woman who was standing slightly behind Haymitch.
Haymitch didn't glance at the new escort.
"Good. She did what she was supposed to." he shrugged. She had lured his target inside her hotel room where he was waiting, he had killed the target and urged her to get a move on before the police arrived. She had obviously been shaken but she hadn't even screamed. Beyond that, he couldn't say what she thought about the whole thing because they had barely exchanged two words during the whole mission.
"Effie's promising." Crane offered with a small smile for the escort.
The woman smiled back but it was a bit strained.
"Good." President Snow concluded, reaching in a drawer before flinging a wad at Haymitch. "Take the girl for the night too. My treat for a job well done."
"Thank you." he answered even though it burned his mouth to have to thank that man.
The escort seemed as eager as he was to get out of the office but, once in the corridor, she hesitated. The strained smile was still firmly set on her red-painted lips but her blue eyes were darting left and right in obvious distress. She toyed with a strand of dark hair, smoothing her red dress with the other hand.
"My room is that way." she said at last, pointing to the right.
A single look was enough to understand she was unnerved by the idea of spending time with him – and why wouldn't she? She had seen him kill a man less than two hours ago, for all she knew he could be a brute who would hurt her for his own pleasure.
It couldn't be further from the truth though. All he wanted was a drink, not a fuck. And she had seen enough for that night, he mused. He couldn't send her back to her room, they would put her back to work right away, not to mention that President Snow would be vexed that he didn't accept his "present". Escorts weren't exactly cheap at this club.
"We're going out." he told her. He didn't want to have that conversation in front of Snow's office. He headed to the front of the club without glancing back once, trusting that she would follow him. He waved at Chaff on his way out of the strip-club and didn't stop walking when he reached the parking lot. She did, he could tell by the sudden absence of clicking heels.
"Where are we going?" she asked at last.
He turned around. "Do you have an apartment?" But he dismissed the half-cooked plan before it was even out of his mouth. She was new, they would still be watching her apartment – Snow was paranoid that way.
"I'm not taking you back to my apartment." she replied firmly. She jutted her chin in the air in a demonstration of stubbornness.
"Good." he shrugged. "Never bring a client there." Stupidity was the first cause of escorts' deaths. "We're going to mine, then."
She still didn't start walking. "Why? I have a very convenient room right here."
"You had to be a pain in the ass, didn't you?" he sighed. "Look, you're booked for the whole night. Either you come with me or you deal with Crane."
She looked back at the club and then she started walking again. Finally.
"Don't you have a car?" she asked after five minutes.
He didn't. He walked around or he took the underground, it was easier to lose people in a possible chase.
"Do you have to talk?" he retorted.
She completely lost her forced smile in favor of a sulk. He watched her from the corner of his eye as they walked. She was struggling to keep up with him but she refused to be left behind. Stubborn, he concluded again, it could be either an asset or dangerous for her. She was very pretty although it was the eyes that caught his attention in the first place : the bluest of blue. The hair wasn't real, he was ready to bet on it but he wasn't a hundred percent sure : if it was a wig, it was a very good imitation.
"The man we killed." she whispered after a while. "Was he a bad man?"
He couldn't quite believe she would talk about that in the middle of the street, as deserted as it was. There was so much anguish and sorrow on her face, however, that he couldn't bring himself to tell her off.
"First, I don't know what you're talking about." he shrugged. "Second, there's no we in this sentence. You did nothing."
"I seduced him into following me." she argued.
She was shivering. He chose to believe it was from the cold. She couldn't be very warm in her red dress and he hadn't left her enough time to grab a coat. Rolling his eyes at his own stupidity – because why did he care? she was a bother more than anything else – he took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.
She looked up, obviously surprised. "I didn't think you were a gentleman."
"I'm not a gentleman." he muttered. "And you're not responsible for what happened tonight."
"I could have said no." she replied.
"Yeah." he snorted. "Best case scenario, you would be my next hit. Worst case, you would be Enobaria's. She enjoys screams of pain." She shuddered and this time, it wasn't from the cold. "Do what you're told, sweetheart, it's best for everyone involved."
"Effie." she reminded him. Haymitch didn't care much for names. In his profession, most of them were as fake as the people who wore them.
He made them turn around in the same street for the third time, just to be sure they weren't followed. Snow wasn't the only one who was paranoid.
Finally, when he was tired of walking in circles, he stopped in front of his nondescript front door.
"We passed in front of it four times." she pointed out.
"Another rule for you." he chuckled. "Never go straight home."
The elevator was broken again so they took the stairs. He felt a pang of contentment when he finally unlocked his door. He threw his keys on a nearby table, kicked off his shoes not caring that his socks were full of holes and placed his gun on the coffee table – he kept the knife strapped to his ankle though – before making a beeline for the whiskey patiently waiting next to the couch. His flask had been empty for a few hours now and the first swallow of hard liquor was a relief.
"Okay, here's the deal…" he started, turning around to face his unwelcome guest. And then he choked. He hadn't expected her to stand there in matching red bra and panties, the dress a heap of fabric on the floor. It turned him on more than it should have. He took another swing of whiskey as she stepped over the dress and walked closer with a seductive sway that explained why the man had been so eager to follow her earlier. She was good. He stepped back before she could come close enough for him to forget he didn't want it. "Look, sweetheart, you don't have to do that." He very much wanted to avert his eyes but he didn't seem to be able to. Fortunately, she stopped advancing on him, her brow furrowed in a frown. "You lay low here for two or three hours and then you can go home without anyone asking questions. As far as anyone knows, you did your job."
She flushed crimson. "You… don't want me."
There was a part of his anatomy that very much disagreed with that statement. "I want a drink. In peace."
He flopped on his couch to appear composed. It probably would have worked better if his big toe hadn't been poking out of his sock.
"Am I not satisfactory or… Do you like men?" she frowned, obviously still puzzled over the fact that a man had refused her. With a body like that, he mused, it couldn't happen very often.
"Nothing personal, I just don't pay for sex." he shrugged. "And no."
"Oh." She was embarrassed now and maybe even upset but it wasn't Haymitch's problem. "But then why did you bring me here, I don't…"
"You would have problems if they think you didn't do your job." he sighed, before throwing an arm on his eyes to block the light. "And I will have problems if I refuse a gift from the President. Sit down, have a drink, watch TV… Whatever. You're staying here for a few hours."
There was a few seconds of blessed silence before her high-pitched voice broke it again. "May I take a shower? I hate to impose but…"
"Bathroom's that way." He waved in the good direction. "Knock yourself out. Have a bath even."
She huffed and marched away, muttering about lack of manners. Haymitch ignored her and kept drinking. The problem when you were used to drinking too much liquor was that was a lot harder to actually get drunk. By the time she reappeared, her skin slightly pink from the hot water, he was barely buzzed.
"Did I say you could steal my clothes?" He lifted a curious eyebrow, not even annoyed at her snooping around. Besides, his blue shirt looked better on her.
"Since you didn't have the courtesy to show me to your bathroom or give me a towel, I had to take matters upon my own hands." she replied, perching herself at the other end of the couch. The shirt rode dangerously high on her thighs. "You aren't a very good host, you know."
"You're awfully demanding for a prostitute." he replied, keeping his tone light enough so she wouldn't take offence. "You weren't blond earlier."
It had been a wig, then. The blond curls fell to her shoulders, much prettier than the straight dark hair.
"I thought you might prefer blondes." she challenged, watching him like a hawk. He didn't reply. "So… Abernathy is your last name. Do you have a first name?"
"Do you have a last one, Effie?" he smirked.
"Trinket." she offered, too slowly for it to be true. It didn't surprise him. He had changed names so many times himself he could barely keep track. "Now, it's your turn."
"Haymitch." he shrugged.
"Haymitch." she repeated. "I like it." She leaned forward, placing a hand on his thigh. "Are you sure there is nothing I can do for you, Haymitch?"
"Well…" He took a swallow of whiskey watching her pale hand slowly running up and down his thigh. "Can you cook?"
The hand froze. "Cook?"
"Yeah. Cook." He pushed himself up, suddenly aware of how hungry he was. He never ate regularly and he sometimes found himself starving. He wasn't precisely sure it was food he was craving at this very moment but he chose to pretend it was.
The kitchen was dusty and mostly empty, stacked with takeout boxes and packages. It turned out she couldn't cook but she was very handy with a trash bag and before he knew what was happening, she was trashing everything, all the while claiming his apartment was a sanitary hazard. He made pasta because that was the only thing he could do without burning it.
"You have a posh accent." he commented after she was done trashing the whole content of his kitchen. He was trying to decide if adding whiskey to the pasta water was a good or a bad idea.
"It's British." she scowled. "Don't you dare put liquor in there."
"I wasn't about to." he lied defensively, rolling his eyes. She thought she had him all figured out, didn't she? "How does a British girl end up being an escort in Chicago?"
"I said I had a British accent not that I was British." she corrected him, turning the fire off. He let her deal with the hard task of getting the pasta out of the water, he always ended up spilling everything when he did it.
"Doesn't answer the question." he pointed out, rummaging through a cupboard. He found an old can of tomato sauce that would have to do.
"Isn't it always the same story?" she replied, dividing the pasta into two plates.
"Not always." He poured sauce and appraised the result. It didn't look very appealing but it didn't stop him from eating a mouthful. It was edible so he sat down at the kitchen table and started to eat. She did the same after a new muttered comment about rudeness. "Crane has a gift for finding pretty women with a drug addiction. He feed them back into shape. You don't fit the profile."
"I was a foolish girl who dreamed of fame and glory." she sighed with irritation. "I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I made enemies. President Snow's protection is an efficient deterrent."
"Maybe." He wasn't particularly convinced it would be enough to keep her safe. "It's a shame, sweetheart. You could do something else."
"Couldn't you?" she replied, toying with her pasta. "How does a man end up killing other human beings for money?"
"Well, for money." he chuckled. He would have to tell this one to Chaff, he would laugh.
She wasn't fooled, though. She watched him silently for a few seconds and then shook her head. "I don't believe you."
"You should." he lied around a mouthful of pasta. He washed it down with whiskey; he didn't want to tell her his sad little tale. It wasn't really interesting anyway. They all had reasons to end up in the shit hole that was The Capitol. They were all under President Snow's thumb. What did it matter how they arrived there?
"You aren't a bad man." she stated, placing her fork down. Obviously the pasta weren't up to her standards. He huffed but she reached for his hand, stilling it before he could bring the bottle to his lips again. "You aren't." she insisted. "When a beautiful woman strips down in front of them, bad men pounce on her, trust me, I know."
"Doesn't make me a good one, sweetheart." he warned her.
He studied her when she stood up and walked around the table. He didn't expect her to pass a leg above his to straddle his lap but his hands immediately went to her waist to steady her. Her lips brushed against his once, twice and then, when he finally gave up and chased her mouth, she kissed him properly. It was glorious. It wasn't just lust or desire but something tugging at his guts, something just… connected.
"You don't have to do that." he told her again, a bit out of breath.
"I know." she hummed. "That's why I want to." She kissed him again. "Not tonight though. Next time. But you will buy me a decent dinner."
"Sounds like dating to me." he snorted. "I don't date, sweetheart."
"That's alright. We can be friends." She pecked his mouth. "I need a friend. I think you need one too."
He waved at their position. "Doesn't this seem a bit overfriendly to you?"
"We can be the kind of friends who have sex." she scolded with some irritation. "Stop contradicting me."
"You're very annoying, you know." he grunted but, then again, he had a thing for annoying women.
It was him who kissed her next and he didn't stop until she moaned.
He wasn't sure who won that round.
He wanted to think he did.