Prompt : please could you do a fic or Drabble or something of the first time haymitch calls Effie 'sweetheart' or 'princess' or whatever affectionately rather than mockingly :)
Five Times Haymitch mocked her by calling her pet names and one time he meant it
1.
Heavy silence after someone dies is a cliché.
There is never silence after someone dies for the very good reason that life never stops for anybody. A tribute falls, another keeps on killing, birds chirp, people chat, the Capitol goes on.
Effie Trinket who has been providing him with a constant trickle of words ever since he has first refused to shake her hand on Reaping Day abruptly falls silent.
Haymitch isn't surprised.
She is the embodiment of cliché : loud to his quiet, witty to his cynical, boisterous to his stationary, blinding to his grey. His perfect counterpart in everything. If this were a love story, they would be star-crossed lovers.
This isn't a love story.
This isn't a story at all.
Just a sad little tale in which kids die for no reason and a spoiled little girl thought it would be glamorous to escort them to their death.
Death is never glamorous.
In another time, in another life, he would have offered a word of comfort to help her through her sudden moment of realization.
He doesn't have it in him to pity her anymore.
So instead, he watches the tears pool in her eyes and he sneers.
"What's the matter, sweetheart?" he mocks. "Not so fond of the Games anymore?"
She doesn't answer.
He doesn't think she has the words.
2.
Two years of working with Effie Trinket has taught Haymitch two things :
Rule one : don't listen when she talks.
Rule two : don't provoke her when you failed to obey rule one.
Haymitch isn't good with rule two. The fact is, he loves provoking her. He loves poking and probing and pushing her buttons until she loses her perfect countenance of little Capitol drone.
So when she comes back to the penthouse one day, looking dejected, with reddish eyes, when their tributes have been dead for days he knows that's not the problem, and she asks the fateful question of "What is wrong with me, Haymitch?", he can barely hide his glee.
"You want me to make a list?" he snorts.
She barely blinks, she goes on ranting about shitty boyfriends and supposed friends who sleep with them, too used by now to him not listening.
But he is listening.
He made a list of what is wrong with her long ago. It starts with CAPITOL written in bold caps, underlined three times and framed for good measure. She's a spoiled brat too. She is sometimes naïve to the point he wants to shake her. She keeps nagging at him all the time and about everything. She gets under his skin like no one else before.
He doesn't share the list.
To him, it's not really deterrents.
He likes a woman who can match him in a fight of wits.
"Well, maybe you're not good enough, darling." he taunts when she's done explaining why it makes no sense for her boyfriend to run off with her best friend.
She's more hurt by that comment than by anything he ever threw at her face in the last two years. He sees it clearly : the flash of pain on her face. A second and it's gone, swallowed by the mask of the escort but it's enough for him to understand that he has found her real weakness: her fear of not being enough, of failure. It makes sense, he figures, she tries so hard to be perfect all the time, she keeps pretending to be someone she's not to appeal to people she doesn't know…
She's starved for love.
He never pushes that particular button again even in his most drunken rampage.
He never calls her darling again either.
3.
"Dance with me, Haymitch!"
The request comes out as breathless laughter, barely loud enough to be heard over the deafening music booming out from the huge speakers.
She stands there in her sequined red dress – too short, too revealing, too fucking tempting – her hand outstretched, sweat from her earlier dancing pearling on her brow, that delighted bright smile on her lips and, for a second, he wants to do it. He wants to grab her hand, let her drag him to the dance floor and, maybe, pretend for a while the world isn't the dark hell pit he knows it to be.
She has that effect on him.
It's dangerous just how much effect she has on him.
"I don't dance except between sheets, love." he smirks. "But if you want to tango…"
Next to him, Chaff chortles in his glass and Haymitch snorts too, if only to keep the pretence up, to not show that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't completely joking…
Effie's smile falters and then is forced back into place.
"Don't be ridiculous, Haymitch. You would never able to keep up with me in a tango." she retorts and then she's gone and Haymitch can only watch her find someone else to dance with, all the while listening to Chaff's laughter.
4.
They do end up dancing the horizontal tango and he is very much able to keep up.
It was bound to happen and it won't happen again – or, at least, that's what he tells himself every time.
She's sprawled on his chest and he stares at the ceiling, counting the seconds and willing himself to move. The moment he finds his courage and nudges her aside, she tightens her grip on his arm then lets got in a flash. It's brief but it happens and, to add insult to injury, she doesn't pretend it was a mistake.
"Do you have to go?" she whispers and in the dark of her room, her voice sounds more vulnerable than usual.
"Why? You want round two?" he snorts, and escapes her bed, escapes her arms that suddenly feel too much like a cage.
She wisely doesn't answer that.
But Effie isn't wise. She's smart but not wise, so it comes as no surprise to him when she insists instead of simply letting go.
"Perhaps I want more than round two." she snaps. "Has this ever occurred to you?"
Actually, it has.
And a part of him wants to stay in bed with her, it wants to cuddle and whisper sweet nothings. The part of him that's still sane, too aware of how dangerous such actions would be, hurries in pulling up his pants.
"Capitols will hold you, pamper you and tell you you're the most beautiful woman in Panem. They're probably going to call you babe too." he retorts. That was the latest rage. Everywhere he went in the Capitol men were calling their girls babe as if it wasn't the tackiest thing to call someone you were supposed to love. And if she thinks he hasn't noticed her looking at those couples with longing, she's mistaken. "You and me, we fuck. That's it. You have a problem with that, go find one of your little toy boys to play with."
She pulls the sheets up to her chin to preserve a modesty she doesn't have any more. He has seen all of her. He has kissed all of her.
"You are disgusting." she hisses.
"Whatever floats your boat, babe." he taunts, picking up his shirt and fleeing her room with as much poise as he can.
It's a good thing she can't aim to save her life.
The high heel crashes on the wall two feet away from his head.
5.
For the first time in years, they have tributes worth hoping and Haymitch finds himself working like he has never worked before to help them. He spends hours at night reviewing the cards on sponsors Effie has carefully drafted along the years. He studies them, learns the Capitols' weaknesses and their tastes so he will know who to target, who to sell his star-crossed lovers story to.
It's late and Katniss and Peeta are in bed for hours when she finally breaks the silence. It's been a few days of him dragging her everywhere, of the two of them charming sponsors as if it's the norm and not the exception.
"Can she win?" she asks softly, low enough that the words won't carry further than the living-room.
He wonders if Katniss understood already that he is betting on her and not the boy. The boy is nice and he will get them sponsors but he is not a winner. In the midst of the arena, Peeta will be too soft. He will be a liability. Effie understands that on some level.
"I'm not a seer, am I, Princess?" he grumbles because the truth is he doesn't know. He hopes so. He certainly hopes so. But he doesn't know.
6.
She doesn't even let him catch his breath before she's sitting on the edge of the bed, already slipping on her nightgown over her head, covering her tempting creamy skin from view. The train is still rushing on its way to the next District on this Tour from hell and Haymitch feels like it will never end. It gets more stressful every day. And it gets harder to relax every night even with alcohol, even when Effie sneaks into his room while the rest of the train sleeps.
"Sweetheart…"
Her back straightens instinctively, too used to being mocked or taunted every time he uses a pet name. She's ready for it even, it's obvious, ready to parry with a gibe of her own.
He trails a hand down her silk covered spine, waits until she turns her head to look at him.
"Stay?" he asks tentatively.
He has never done that before.
He has never stayed.
He has never asked her to stay.
She watches him for a few seconds, probably sure it is only a joke and he will laugh at her. When he doesn't, she slowly lies back down next to him until he wraps his arms around her. She melts against him and it's strangely perfect for a while. It won't last, of course, but for a while it is perfect and he can finally relax.
"'Night, Princess." he mumbles in her hair.
"Goodnight, Haymitch." she whispers.
And he pretends he doesn't hear the amazement in her voice.