Prompt : I have a prompt for you, I hope you haven't done it before, if so, I'd die to get a link. Can you write about the very first time Effie sees Haymitch naked (his chest) and is confronted with his scars? I don't imagine this to be when they are about to have sex, but when he's totally drunk and she has to clean him. And she suddenly feels a certain affection towards him? Thank you, favorite Hayffie writer.
Scars
Effie was tipsy and, as far as she was concerned, it was a delightful thing to be.
Her tributes were dead – again. She had failed to secure a single sponsorship offer – again. She was the laughingstock of the Capitol – again. The new opening in Three, and her only chance at a promotion, had been granted to a younger woman – again. She had lost – again.
Yes, tipsy was a good thing to be.
Sometimes, she almost understood Haymitch and his compulsive drinking. A few more years of this job and she would probably be carrying a flask around too – she certainly wouldn't be the first escort to do it, Three's former escort, the one who had just 'resigned for personal reasons' was very friendly with the victors from Six, she was often seen popping suspicious pills at random times. The woman had worked with Six's prep team for years before becoming Three's escort. It made Effie wondered if all escorts were bound to end up like their mentors.
It didn't bide well for herself.
It was very late and the penthouse was quiet when she stepped out of the elevator. She made a face, she loathed silence. Silence led to introspection and Effie didn't want to think. That was why she spent her time with friends, being alone wasn't meant for her. When she was at home, she always left the TV on if only to fill the emptiness, to block any wayward thought.
She was halfway to her room when she heard the scream.
It made her blood run cold, her heart started racing, her brain was working in overdrive to overthrow the effect of alcohol, the surge of adrenaline alone was dizzying… She froze, her whole body tensed in an instinctive fight or flight stance.
The scream had been a yell of pain, of terror, what followed wasn't more reassuring.
"No! NO!" a man bellowed at the top of his lung.
It was Haymitch's voice and Effie relaxed but just slightly. Nightmare. It certainly wasn't the first she had witnessed, they had been working together for three years and Haymitch's nights were never smooth. The first year, she had been too stupid and still too naïve and had rushed to his help – he had almost slit her throat with his knife. The second year, she had offered sleeping pills at every possible occasions, he had claimed they didn't work well on him. She wondered what this year would bring yet she still turned around and walked in the direction of the screaming, unable to simply leave him to his misery. She wouldn't shake him awake again, she had learned her lesson the first time, but she could throw things at him until he snapped out of it.
She followed the noises to the living-room and wasn't particularly surprised by the mess he had made of the room. Turning the lights on wasn't enough to wake him up. He had half-fallen from the couch and was thrashing against invisible opponents. There were a lot of empty bottles around him and he had obviously been sick at some point because his shirt and his pants were soiled.
She pursed her lips and thought twice about helping him.
Her usual method when he put himself in that state was to call an Avox and let them clean the mess. But it was late and she didn't want to go to all the trouble of tracking down an Avox at that hour.
"Haymitch." she called out, louder than strictly necessary. She ventured closer, avoiding the puddles of alcohol – or vomit, she wasn't sure – on the floor. She couldn't see a knife but she knew it didn't mean anything, sometimes he seemed to be able to conjured them out of thin air. "Haymitch." She grabbed a pillow and swatted at his foot. He only thrashed harder, begging for something under his breath. She tossed the pillow at his head. Her aim was slightly off but it hit him in the mouth and he sat up straight, eyes wide and frantic, before gravity caught up with him and he toppled off the couch. "You're welcome." she declared, not without much irony.
"Mabel?" he mumbled. He tried to get up but, clearly, the alcohol was still in his system because he after several unsuccessful attempts, he fell back down. "Mabel?"
"It's me. Effie." she asked inching closer cautiously. His eyes were glassy but when she crouched next to him – after making sure her dress wouldn't touch anything disgusting – there was a spark of recognition. "Who's Mabel?"
He shook his head. "Dead."
"Oh." she winced. "Was she a tribute?"
"My girl." he slurred, much more forthcoming in his inebriated state than he would ever be sober. "Dead."
She didn't need him to repeat the information but he looked so sad that she patted his shoulder. "I'm sorry."
It didn't seem to register.
"'Need a drink." he muttered, trying to get up again. He managed to sit this time but he still had to clutch the couch to remain upright and Effie had no choice but to grab his arm to steady him.
"No, you don't. You've had enough." she chided him. "You need your bed. Come on, I will help you."
Calling an Avox would certainly have been easier than hauling him up to his feet and then stumbling around the room, supporting his dead weight. By the time they reached his bedroom, her dress sported several suspicious stains and she had to hold her breath regularly not to gag. He reeked. Her original plan of dropping him on his bed and rushing to her own shower to get the grime off her body died down of itself.
In for a penny, she thought as she guided him to the bathroom.
He was submissive, like he always was when utterly drunk. He complied with her wishes and sat down on the closed lid of the toilets while she efficiently got rid of his shirt, pants, socks and shoes. She drew the line at his underwear.
Once half-naked, he still stank of sick, liquor and sweat.
She heaved out a deep sigh, wishing she had drunk a little more herself but not letting herself dwell on that thought. She had manners, after all, and her manners dictated she helped him. It would have been bad form to leave him in such a state. She wondered how the Avoxes usually did it. A bath or a shower would have been the easiest solution but then she would have to deal with damp underwear and she simply wasn't ready to go that far.
So instead, she grabbed a cloth and some soap and scrubbed him clean. His initial reaction was a flinch and he stared at her with such a kicked puppy face that she froze, not daring to move another muscle.
"Effie?" he murmured.
He never called her Effie. It was always Trinket or sweetheart or whatever demeaning pet name he felt like giving her that day. It sounded like a question, a need to make sure she wasn't just a random stranger touching him in ways that were by far too intimate even for their volatile partnership.
"Yes." She forced herself to sound confident, to sound in-charge, as if it was totally natural for an escort to cover her victor with soap.
He blinked and then leaned sideway to rest his head against the wall. He didn't look in any danger to topple over so she left him be and chose to see that as a quiet permission for her to go ahead. She wanted to fill the awkward silence with mindless chit-chat but she found she had nothing to say so she kneeled in front of him and run the cloth along his arms, under his armpit and reached his chest.
She hesitated for a second there because he was unlike other men she had seen. Capitol men were well-groomed – something Haymitch definitely wasn't – and that extended to unnecessary hair. In the Capitol, men waxed their chest and back and pretty much every part of them. She knew it wasn't a thing in the Districts but she had forgotten, and being confronted with the proof right in front of her eyes was… disconcerting.
Haymitch wasn't hairy. It looked and felt more like fuzz. The thicker line of hairs that started in the middle of his chest and ran way past his navel to disappear beyond the waistband on his boxers was intriguing. For some reason, it made her mouth water. It was manly and appealing in ways she couldn't have explained.
She glanced at him but his eyes were closed and he didn't seem to have notice her momentary distraction so she kept running the cloth over his chest. That was how she noticed the scars. She didn't know how she could have missed them to begin with. The biggest one was on his side, it was as long as her hand, the flesh had been torn away and so obviously patched together in a haste, it made her frown. She placed the cloth down and brushed her fingers over the length of it, the scarred tissues were bulging from the skin, a pale white against his otherwise tanned complexion.
This time, when she glanced up, he was watching her. "Is that from your Games?"
It was a stupid question. What else would leave such a mark? She knew what had happened during his Games. She had watched the Quell like everyone else when she was twelve and she had watched it again when she had been appointed as his escort to get a sense of who she was expected to work with.
"Why not having it erased?" she asked. "They do wonders now, you know."
She wasn't sure such a scar could simply be erased, though. It was too ugly, the surrounding flesh too damaged… It was a butcher's work. Yet it had probably saved his life… She wondered how near a miss it had been. She remembered the images, how he had been gripping his torn open stomach to keep everything inside. It wasn't the gruesome scene the Hunger Games ever saw but it had been unpleasant enough. That axe had almost gutted him.
He didn't say anything, he simply watched her, his grey eyes tracking her every move even as she switched the cloth for a clean one and rinse the soap off his body. He didn't move even when she toweled him dry.
There were other scars, tiny compared to the white gash on his side, but not less ugly. Whoever had patched him up after his Games had done so in a hurry or, perhaps, had mistaken him for a lost cause and hadn't bothered to do a proper job.
The last thing she did was run a wet cloth on his face, particularly on his chin and the stubble he had failed to shave yet again, just to make sure he was thoroughly clean and no trace of sick were left.
"Here you go, Haymitch." She forced a beaming smile on her lips. "Don't you feel better? Cleanliness is next to godliness as my mother used to say."
She was bracing herself for the next part – convincing him to stand up again so she could help him to bed – when he moved a little unsteadily to rest his forehead against her stomach.
It took her a few seconds to understand what the words muffled by the taffeta of her dress. I'm sorry.
"Sorry?" she repeated, taken aback. "Sorry for what?"
Not that he didn't have any reason to be sorry… He had a lot to apologize for where she was concerned but he had never bothered before and she truly doubted he would ever bother in the future. Whatever he was sorry about, she had next to no illusion it was about her.
"'Don't know." he mumbled. He shrugged and looked up at her. "Everything?"
His hand rubbed the scar on his side and she didn't need him to say more. She knew the story – everyone in the Games business knew the story – his family and his girlfriend had been killed after his Games because of his actions during the Quell. She didn't see what was wrong with what he had done, using the force field had been clever in her opinion, yet it was still a defiant gesture in the Capitol's mind.
He looked so miserable… There was so much despair in his eyes…
The surge of protectiveness came out of nowhere. Most days, she hated Haymitch, she loathed him even, but she never wished him any harm. The man in front of her was broken, hardly held together by liquor and cheer force of will, and for what?
She brushed his hair away from his face. "You have nothing to be sorry about. Nothing. None of it was your fault."
He didn't believe her, that was plain to see. He closed his eyes and pressed his face against her stomach again.
"Everything will be alright." she promised. "You will see."
She would make sure it would be, she vowed.