Prompt : Please could you consider doing this as a prompt if you like the idea; since victors&escorts are like the equivalent to a celebrity, after the rebellion the media basically follows up non stop on effies breakdown and when haymitch hears about it he gets angry about how they are hounding her. Thank you. (also I apologise for my English)

Of Press, Survival and Bad Habits

Effie decked her head when she neared the grey apartment building, pulling the collar of her frayed coat a little higher. There were only three paparazzi in front of her home today but despite her best attempts to slip by unnoticed, flashes assaulted her eyes. Thankful for the sunglasses that partially hid her face, she rushed into the building and directly to the stairs. The elevator was broken again – it was probably closer to the truth to say it never worked properly.

If anyone had told her she would ever live in the least fashionable part of town, in a two rooms flat with an open kitchen that was barely bigger than her old dressing room, Effie would had laughed. Now all she wanted to do was cry.

With a quick glance around for the neighboring doors that remained blissfully closed – she was scared to death of her neighbors, she had never been around poor people before – she let herself in and turned the three locks behind her. That was the only extravagant purchase she had made in the previous six months.

"You need a better security system."

She jumped in fright and almost threw herself against the door in her hurry to unlock the bolts, to run away from danger, to…

"Effie, snap out of it." the intruder ordered grabbing her firmly by the shoulders. "It's me."

The voice was familiar enough that she relaxed a split second before placing it. The fight left her and she instinctively leaned against the chest pressed against her back. "Haymitch…"

"Yeah." he confirmed. "Sorry, 'didn't mean to scare you."

"Then you should have waited outside and knock like a civilized person instead of breaking in!" she hissed, turning around and shrugging his hands off while she was at it.

"I waited a bit. You were gone for ages." he said defensively. "I don't know what's worse, sweetheart, how easy the lock was to pick or the three people who passed me by while I was doing it and who didn't even stop to ask me what I was doing. You're not safe here."

"Yes, thank you." she laughed bitterly. "I truly did need you to come all the way here to tell me that."

She stormed past him into the living-room – there wasn't much room to storm past really, maybe three steps – and went directly for the small open kitchen, noticing the glass and the bottle of whiskey on the counter. Clearly, he had made himself at home.

"What are you doing in the Capitol?" she asked, taking the bottle of vodka from the fridge and grabbing a clean glass.

"You've got a lot of liquor." he pointed out, leaning against the counter.

She poured herself a glass of vodka without batting an eyelash. "Pot, kettle, black."

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Sweetheart…"

"Don't call me that." she cut him off. Because he was watching her as if she was going to break in a thousand pieces right in front of him, she downed half of her glass in one go and didn't even wince. "What are you doing here?"

"Visiting a friend." he growled.

"Yes? Which one?" She lifted her eyebrows in honest curiosity. "They must be important to you if you are willing to come back to the city. I thought you vowed to never put a foot back in the Capitol as long as you breathed."

That was what he had told her, after all, right before taking Katniss back to Twelve : "I'm never coming back to this damned place.". Then he had kissed her, left her bed, left her apartment and never glanced back.

"Yeah, that was before they started trashing you on TV." he scoffed. "Don't play games, I came back for you."

"For me?" she repeated. She wanted to laugh outright but she thought it wasn't really polite so she settled for a chuckle. "Why?"

His grey eyes tracked her every move as she opened a drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"You've stopped smocking years ago." he frowned.

"I fancied taking it up again." she snapped, placing a cigarette between her lips and fumbling with her lighter. Her hands were shaking badly and it took her entirely too long to light it up. Worse, his eyes remained glued to her unsteady fingers. "You didn't answer the question."

"The press is hounding you." he explained. "The things they say about you… The things you say when you go on those stupid talk-shows… The kids get upset when they see you on TV."

"That's how the Games are played, Haymitch." she shrugged.

"The Games are over, Princess." he reminded her with something akin to pity.

She wondered if he truly believed it. "For you maybe."

Of course, the press was hounding her. She was the only living escort left. And even if she hadn't been… That was how it worked when you once were famous. People loved you when you were at your highest but they loved watching you fall even more. Her Fall From Grace, Caesar had coined it only a week earlier. From one of the brightest stars to a depressed woman who lived with the scum of the scum, from a penthouse to the gutter, from a lady to a…

The press was hounding her, yes, but she was feeding them too. Three paid interviews a month were enough for her to pay the rent and cover the grocery shopping if she was careful. She had tried to find another job, a real one that would spare her dignity, but nobody wanted to hire her. To the Capitols, she was the rebel escort and to the rebels she was the Capitol escort. Everybody hated her. So she had made a living out of that hatred, she let them see her degradation, she let them pity her, mock her, spit on her… As long as they were still talking about her, she still had a way to make money out of herself. Once that would be gone, she was scared of what she would have to do… There wasn't much lower she could go.

"Peeta tried to call you." he said. "He left you messages. You never called back."

Peeta, sweet Peeta… It left her heart aching to think about the boy. And about Katniss too, naturally.

"How are the children doing?" she deflected, dragging the ashtray closer so she wouldn't put ash everywhere.

"Better." he frowned. "Are you done avoiding my questions now?"

Was she?

Her hands were shaking too much and she dropped the cigarette in the ashtray. She rummaged in the drawer right when her heart started racing. She cursed when she didn't find the bottle of pills but just as she was about to give up and search for the ones in the bathroom, her fingers closed on it. She popped two with a mouthful of vodka.

Haymitch was staring at her with horror.

Perhaps he had thought the medias were lying. Perhaps he had thought she wasn't really as far gone as everybody was saying.

"Is there a self-destructive habit you haven't picked up in the last year?" he asked in the calm sort of voice he always used when he was facing something really dangerous.

She thought about that for a few seconds and shrugged. "I don't get laid as often as they say. I'm a real slut according to the press but I don't have that many affairs in truth." She had certainly tried in the beginning, seeking oblivion in all its forms, however it never worked and she had left more than one man hanging. Drunk out of her mind or high as a kite, she never managed to climax and she started freaking out a long time before they even reached that stage anyway. Usually she fled or, if the guy was convincing enough, she closed her eyes and waited for the moment to pass. Sex wasn't enjoyable anymore. She figured it was because she didn't trust strangers. However Haymitch wasn't a stranger and even after her rescue, sex with him had been good, so she flashed him a teasing grin. "I wouldn't say no to a fuck if you're game."

Haymitch stared and stared and she hated it. She hated the way he was looking at her as if she had grown a second head. She hated the panic slowly growing behind his grey eyes and that he was trying to keep it from her.

"I guess not." she snorted.

"Sweetheart, what happened to you?" he asked in a soft voice. "The way you talk, the way you act…"

He reached for her hand but she stepped back, pouring herself another glass of vodka. It hadn't escaped her notice that his own glass was still half-full and that he wasn't jumping on alcohol like he used to. Perhaps he had finally put a leash on his demons. Good for him. She wished the pills would kick in already and she would relax.

"You happened to me." she said harshly enough that she hoped he would be hurt and leave. He didn't move though, he remained right there and so the treacherous words came tumbling out of her mouth. She hated herself for the tremors in her voice. "You left me behind."

There was a flash of anger in his eyes but she didn't think she was the target, he was mad at himself. "I already explained they were supposed to get you out, Plutarch said they would get you to Thirteen, I…"

"I don't mean after the Quell, I mean after the war." she cut him off. "You went back to Twelve and you left me behind."

Her fingers were shaking so badly she almost dropped the glass, so she downed it in hope it would soothe her nerves and placed it down on the counter.

"You wouldn't have come." he replied. "If I had asked you, you wouldn't have come."

She wouldn't have that much was true.

"You could have stayed." she scowled.

He shook his head. "You don't even believe it yourself. You know I couldn't stay."

"Yes, I know." she laughed and she tried not to sound too crazy or too bitter but she knew she failed. "Katniss needed you."

"Yeah, there was that." he shrugged. "And the fact we had no chance here. The Capitol is your home and you needed your home last year, I get that, but it tried to destroy us both too many times, sweetheart. You and me, in this city, we will always fall back on the mentor and the escort. The mentor and the escort… They fuck and that's it. I want more than that."

"And it would have been different in Twelve perhaps?" she snorted without amusement.

"It could be." he said. "Medias aren't allowed in the Village. Me and the kids, we're just people there, not victors or rebels, just… Neighbors. You could come back with me, be with us."

She studied him, not convinced she was hearing him right.

"And we would do what ? Live happily ever after like a couple of alcoholics?" she mocked. Still, she mused, it certainly beat the lonely nights in her gloomy apartment in her scary neighborhood.

"I'm an alcoholic, you're just acting out." he retorted. "You want help."

"I don't need help." she bristled.

"Then why did you call?" he accused and for a second she was taken aback.

"I didn't call." she scoffed. "Are you drunk?"

He watched her for a few seconds and shook his head. "You called me yesterday, sweetheart. You were crying and begging me to come save you – your words, not mine."

"You are drunk." she repeated, reaching for the bottle of vodka. He grabbed her wrist before she could pour herself another glass. How many times had she done the same for him in the past? She met his eyes and looked away just as quickly. "I never called."

"You were drunk. Or high, I don't know." he told her. "You said you needed me so I took a train and here I am."

She didn't remember.

That didn't mean he was lying, it wouldn't have been the first time her memories had gaps in it.

"And am I supposed to applaud?" she hissed. "Am I supposed to fall on my knees and thank you?"

"No, you're supposed to get your crap together, pack your bags and follow me back to Twelve where I can keep you safe, where you can feel safe." he snapped. "'Cause the rate you're going, sweetheart, I'm scared they're going to announce your death on TV any day."

"I don't need you." she insisted, tugging on her arm to free herself from his grip. He wouldn't let go.

"Effie." he said, calmly but with a seriousness that was almost angry. "I'm not letting you become like me, so we can do this two ways : either you go pack and we take the train together or I toss you over my shoulder and I go straight to Plutarch who will get me a hovercraft. Either way, your ass will be in Twelve by tomorrow night."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You wouldn't."

"Try me." he challenged.

He was serious. He was actually serious.

"Did it occur to you that maybe I do not want to go to Twelve?" she insisted, jutting her chin in the air. "Do you think people will welcome me with open arms in your District? It will be worse than it is here!"

"It depends of your definition of worse." he deadpanned. "In Twelve, nobody's going to ask you to go on TV to be humiliated in front of the whole country. I would say that's a plus. And the kids made me promise I wouldn't come back without you. See? You've got us. What's holding you back here?"

Her lips started wobbling and she instinctively reached for the drawer and the pills but he grabbed her hand again.

"You don't need it." he said gently.

"You don't understand…" she murmured, trying to keep a hold on herself.

"You're speaking to the guy who can't sleep if he's not half hammered. I get it, Princess." he countered.

"No, I mean…" She searched his eyes. "I am a junkie, Haymitch. It started with the painkillers after my rescue and then they gave me pills for depression and then… It just spiraled down. I am a junkie and I drink too much and… I'm scared it's too late. What if I go to Twelve with you and I fail to get it back under control?"

"Good thing I'm an expert in withdrawal then, yeah?" he teased, squeezing the hand he hadn't dropped. "We can make it through this, Effie. This is nothing. We survived worse."

"Promise?" she asked.

"Promise." he replied.