Prompt : I saw a text post a while back about how people say "I love you" in different ways, for example, "text me whn you get home" or "make sure you get enough sleep tonight", etc. I don't imagine haymitch would actually tell Effie he loves her a lot (particularly before the war when it would have likely been dangerous) so could you please do a fic of a couple of incidents where haymitch told Effie he loved her without actually saying "I love you"
I will be very, very honest, this one grew and escaped all control so it is very long. I'm not sure how great it is but… I did my best. Also warning for the occasional steam/smut and canonical violence toward the end.
5 Times Haymitch said « I love you » without saying so and one time Effie did
1.
"What's up with you tonight, love?" Chaff asked.
Effie was so rattled she almost shrugged.
"She's miffed 'cause her sister is out there playing queen of bees." Haymitch snorted, tilting his glass in the direction of Lyssa who was, admittedly, holding court in the midst of a few escorts and victors. It was difficult to say what they where drooling after : her body or her money.
"Don't be preposterous." she chided him.
"Ah, the prettiest sister who's so much better than Trinket?" Mason piped, appearing behind them as if summoned by the simple prospect of making Effie's life a living hell. "Not that it's hard, mind you. I need to see this for myself. Which one is it?"
Effie waved her fan angrily, stealing Haymitch's glass and taking a long sip. She knew she should have gone to another party.
"I see you keep my confidences close to your bottle of liquor, Haymitch." she hissed, handing him back his glass.
He rolled his eyes. "Don't start on me, sweetheart, everybody knows you have problems with your sister."
"Yeah, that's all around the rumor mill." Chaff mocked. "Daddy loves her best, we know all about it. Sorry, love."
Effie flushed red. "You should know better than listening to idle gossip. I have no problem with my sister and our father certainly doesn't love her best."
She left the victors there and went in search of sponsors – any sponsors but her sister.
She kept walking even when Haymitch caught up with her, barely slowing down her steps to match his lazy pace. She studied Lyssa from the corner of her eyes and couldn't help the familiar tinge of envy : perfect figure, so beautiful men literally fell on her knees in front of her… She looked like a Capitol doll, a delicate and pretty doll… She was kind too – and that was probably why Effie had never been able to hate her or directly resent her, nobody could hate or resent Lyssa even if she was the most beautiful woman in the room.
"You're prettier." Haymitch said matter-of-factly.
She glanced at him but didn't answer. He wouldn't have appreciate it, he was already looking away.
She brushed her hand against his and smiled.
He smirked back.
2.
The train was rocking slowly like it always did on a particularly rough patch in District Ten. The night was still young but their brand new tributes had been fast asleep for a few hours now – not that Effie let herself think about that, not if she could help it, because those children weren't any more victors potential than the previous ones had been and they would die in a few weeks and she didn't want to think about that, about any of that. She closed her eyes and rocked her hips, biting her bottom lip to prevent herself from crying out in pure ecstasy.
Haymitch's hands were gripping her waist, guiding her as she drove them both to an exquisite release. His right hand travelled up to her breast and she shivered at the feeling of his calloused palm on her skin. It triggered her climax which triggered his, and she collapsed on his chest, unwilling to move even though they were both panting hard and would have probably needed the space to breathe.
"Fuck, I missed it." he sighed, sliding the hand that was still on her hip to the small of her back.
"I'm sure you could have found someone willing to sleep with you in Twelve if you had missed it that much." she snorted, more annoyed than she was letting on by the thought.
"Yeah…" he shrugged. "But they wouldn't know me like you do, sweetheart."
They had been sleeping together for long enough that she knew what he liked. She knew what to do, what to say, where to kiss and where to bite… She did play him like a violin and she was an artist in that field.
"You could teach them." she countered, not knowing why she was pursuing a conversation that was making her uncomfortable. She didn't like thinking about who else Haymitch took to bed. They weren't exclusive. They weren't anything really.
"'It wouldn't be as good." he said, tangling his fingers in her hair and tugging gently until she finally slid against his side instead of crushing him. "Nobody can make me as angry as you do."
She sat up and stretched her arms over her head, rejoicing in the way his eyes devoured her like a starved animal.
"And is that a good thing? Making you angry?" she mocked.
"'Makes me feel alive." he mumbled, coiling a strand of her hair around his fingers. "You make me feel alive."
The quiet admission took her breath away but she didn't let him see. She schooled her features into a playful mask and leaned in for a kiss that would, she knew, only lead to a repeat of what had just happened.
3.
They slept together but they never slept together.
It was a rule albeit a tacit one.
A lot of rules had been changed lately. Katniss and Peeta had come in and wrecked them all to pieces.
Effie was exhausted in a way she had rarely ever been. Winning had been sweet for exactly one minute, a single minute she had spent spinning in Haymitch's arms, kissing him senseless and crying of joy. Then it had dawned on them both at the same time that the victory would never really be a victory : not while the berries were still looming over their heads like a sword of Damocles ready to strike.
She had tried to reach Seneca right after the Crowning but he had made her understand she needed to stay away from him for her own sake if not for his. She would need to play it safe in the following few weeks, she would need to watch herself, weight every word that would come out of her mouth, she would need to sell the children's love story every day and make sure everyone hear everything about it, she would need…
She was already exhausted by all she would need to do. Portia had offered to help though, so it should be manageable. She hoped it would be.
The train was rushing to Twelve, bringing her three victors back to their home, and they were all so tired she shouldn't have let Haymitch step in her room. It was the last night they would share for months however and she had let that argument sway her.
Neither of them was in top form. Sex was lazy and slow like it rarely was. She welcomed the change in routine, she welcomed the pleasure he gave her and when they were done and he softly kissed her, she surrendered to the fantasy that this was more than they pretended it was.
"You did good." he said against her lips.
She doubted he was talking about what had just happened between them because she had been better in the past and so had he and they had never commented on their performance before.
"So did you." she hummed proudly.
He hadn't drunk as much in the last few weeks. He had made such an effort… He reminded her of the boy who had won the Quell. Give Haymitch a purpose, something on which to focus, and he would thrive.
He rolled on his back and drew her against his side, one arm wrapped around her shoulder, the other tossed over his eyes. "I'm sleeping here. That's okay, yeah?"
It wasn't truly a question, it sounded more like a statement but she humored him all the same, relieved that the arm on his eyes prevented him from seeing the stupid look of joy on her face.
"Yes, of course." she answered, resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping her own arm around his chest. She was careful not to be tentative. It needed to seem natural.
It was a huge step and it made her feel warm inside.
But Haymitch didn't do feelings and this was definitely feelings so she would pretend she didn't understand what it meant even though where Haymitch was concerned, she was fluent.
4.
Victory Tour was hell.
Between coaching the children to act like they were truly in love, the administrative paperwork, the reports to fill and the schedules to keep, she barely got any rest.
"How long?" Haymitch asked from her door.
She looked up, startled. She hadn't heard the door opening and she had no idea how long he had been standing there watching her. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by papers, in silky shorts and a top, her blond hair pinned high on her head, with no make-up, her pink reading glasses on her nose and she gaped at him, too aware of what she was looking like.
He rolled his eyes, stepped in and closed the door behind him. "You look like a fish, sweetheart. Close your mouth."
Her jaw snapped shut and she flushed red, embarrassed and annoyed all at once. "What do you want?"
"I want to know if I'm sleeping with you or my bottle of whiskey tonight." he snorted. Then he lifted his eyebrows and studied her from head to toes. "Though, I think it will be the whiskey."
Humiliated, that was how she felt. She snatched the glasses from her nose and pulled on the hair tie, shaking the mane of curls all the while knowing it was only making it worse.
"I was working." she hissed. "And you should knock. It really isn't fair to expect me to be beautiful at all times. I… You should knock. It's not…" She was irritated to find herself stuttering, irritated that he had seen her looking so ugly, irritated to feel ugly… "Get out, Haymitch."
The last bit was almost a shriek.
"Okay…" he said, lifting his hands defensively. "Don't get your knickers into a twist, Princess, I just meant you were busy." A slow smirk stretched his lips. "I know better than expecting you to be beautiful at all times, you usually look like a clown. This is an improvement."
She refused to look at him. She stared at the schedules in front of her, unable to understand her own notes, unable to focus… In the end, she gathered everything in a pile of papers and placed it down on her bedside table, putting her glasses on top of it so she wouldn't lose them – something she was far too prone to do. Then she slipped under the covers, turned her back on him and switched the lamp off.
She had hoped he would get the hint but she hadn't expected him to act on it even if he had, so she wasn't overly surprised when she felt the mattress dip behind her and arms being wrapped around her.
"You are not getting any sex tonight, Haymitch." she snapped. "Out of my room."
"You're gorgeous." he sighed.
"Flattery won't get you anywhere." she retorted firmly. "I'm on a sex strike."
"I'm serious." he grumbled, pushing on her shoulder so she would roll on her back and look at him. Moonlight was trickling through the window, it was enough to see through the darkness. He was frowning. "You're fucking beautiful when you look like that. You don't need all that shit. Why can't you see it?"
She tried to see herself as he did but her natural self looked plain to her, ugly. Her mother had drilled it into her head from as long as she remembered that a woman needed to be careful about the way she looked. Never plain, never boring, never average… Beauty was a weapon and it had to be wielded, it had to be maintained, it had to be cultivated.
No man liked a plain woman.
Except Haymitch.
Haymitch loved her best when she was devoid of wigs and make-up. Even though he was partial to some lingerie, he loved her best naked. He wanted her when she was bared in every sense of the word, without her battle armor of fabrics, wigs and make-up, and wrinkled his nose when she was all dolled-up.
He was the only man who had looked at her when she was like that and had told her she was beautiful. Even her past long-terms boyfriends had avoided their eyes and pretended they couldn't see on the rare few occasions they had seen her like that. You simply didn't look natural in the Capitol, even with your lovers. Whoever told you you looked beautiful when you were looking like your plain self was lying, that was a rule.
She knew Haymitch meant it because he had told her plenty of times and she was too used to him mocking her not to know when he was serious.
"You're fucking beautiful." he whispered again, brushing his fingers against her cheek.
She blinked quickly to chase the tears away.
"Language." she chided him and thanks to a small miracle, her voice remained steady.
5.
She knew something was up.
She had known for weeks, really, since the Quell announcement, but at the moment, she knew something was up because of the way Haymitch was kissing her.
It was desperate and bitter and his grip on her neck was almost painful.
It was a goodbye kiss.
Finally he drew back and his grey eyes searched hers.
"I want you to go to your apartment and stay there." he told her in a low voice the bugs wouldn't be able to pick. "Someone will come. They will tell you I sent them. You will follow them. You won't ask questions, you won't resist, you won't take anything with you. Just follow them and I will see you in a few hours."
She didn't know what it was all about but she could guess and it didn't matter anyway.
She simply knew there was no way she was staying behind. No way he would leave her behind.
They were a team.
And she would stand with her team.
She nodded to show she had understood.
She expected him to walk away but he remained rooted there, in front of her, his hand still gripping her neck, his eyes still locked with hers.
Whatever he was about to do – and she could guess, oh, she could guess – it was dangerous and insane and there was no guarantee he would come back, no guarantee he would get the children back…
She could read the words in his eyes, those words that always remained stuck in his throat, those words that terrified him so much and that she had always been so careful never to utter even in the throes of passion…
She knew he wouldn't say them.
She knew he wouldn't manage it.
Still, she felt strangely disappointed when he pressed his lips against her forehead and then on her mouth for a last quick peck.
"Stay alive." he ordered.
She nodded again, understanding those two particular words for what they meant : stay alive because I can't lose you, stay alive because I…
She watched him leave and did as she was instructed.
She never reached her apartment, she was arrested in the street halfway there. It was a quiet affair. Four Peacekeepers who politely asked her to follow them. No passersby even blinked.
6.
She watched the arena explode from a detaining cell.
And then came the questions, not truly hostile at first : what did she know?, what did Haymitch tell her?, where had they gone?. The same three questions over and over again. She always answered that she didn't know.
When the first blow landed on her cheek, she wasn't surprised. Terrified, yes. Surprised, no.
The questions became more aggressive, the punishment for every I don't know became harsher.
They knew she was sleeping with Haymitch, of course, and they called her nasty names that would have made her mother die of shame. She lost track of time. Soon, her whole world revolved around the detaining cell. No humiliation was spared from forcing her to change into a prison jumpsuit in front of her guards to the bucket they told her to use as a makeshift toilet.
As far as torture went, she knew it wasn't bad, she knew it would get worse, but for her who had always lived a sheltered life, it was already hell.
She swallowed back her tears and her yells of pain at first. Then she gave up and let herself go completely.
That was when they finally decided she truly knew nothing. For a while, she hoped it was the end of her nightmare, that they would release her – she was a Capitol citizen after all, they had no right to treat her that way – but they simply moved her to another cell, to another sort of nightmare.
She had no information but that didn't mean others didn't.
Being hurt to hurt Peeta was even worse than being hurt for information she didn't have. They forced the boy to watch and each of his "I'm sorry, Effie." broke her heart more efficiently than their fists and their torture devices ever could.
After some time, she simply stopped existing. She retreated inside herself. A broken doll forgotten in a corner of a dark cell. Sometimes, they put her with Johanna Mason who kept tossing her snide comments if only to chase the boredom away. Sometimes, Effie even answered her and they bickered over stupid things. More often than not, she locked herself in her fantasy world in which nothing hurt and everything was peaceful.
She thought about Haymitch a lot. They had told her he was dead but she didn't believe them, she couldn't afford to believe them. She lost herself to made-up stories in which he knocked down the door and took her out of this prison. She never could imagine him confessing to loving her but it was alright, there were a thousand ways to tell someone you loved them : "You're prettier", "You make me feel alive", "I'm sleeping here", "You're fucking beautiful", "Stay alive…"
When they forced her to prep Johanna and Peeta for interviews, she did it because she had lost any will to fight them. Fighting them meant pain and she abhorred pain. She prepped them, hiding their bruises with foundation powder, adjusting the wig on Johanna's bald head, smoothing the pretty clothes they were given – so pretty, she had never thought she would see anything that pretty again. And she stood there, right behind the camera, a gun pressed to her head as incentive for Johanna and Peeta to say the right thing. Sometimes, Annie was there too, another gun against her lovely hair. Not often, though, Annie was disturbed and didn't know anything. They never hurt her. She was kept safe until they could get a hand on Finnick, he was valuable and they intended to get him back in one piece.
And then, one day, a day Johanna had spent taunting her even though she couldn't be bothered to reply, the door was knocked down. Men in grey rushed in, barked orders, one of them had Peeta slumped on their back, another one was supporting Annie… A third one helped Johanna up, realized too late she was too weak to stand, and scooped her up before she could protest.
"Wait! Trinket! Take Trinket!" the victor shouted.
There was a pause.
Then the leader shook his head.
"She's not on the list, we're here for the victors. We can't save everyone." the man said. He had a deep voice, a nice one. She decided he was a good man even though he didn't want to save her. "I'm sorry, Miss." he told her. "We can't save everyone."
She should have begged, she supposed, cried, pleaded for her life… She couldn't be bothered. It wasn't a good day. And when it wasn't a good day, she could barely do more than keep her eyes open. The man wasn't Haymitch and thus she didn't care.
"She's Abernathy's fucking escort!" Johanna raged as they took her away. "He will want her! Get her! Get her!"
Johanna's screams echoed for a while and then nothing.
The door of the cell was left open. She could make a run for it, try to escape… And then what would she do? Where would she go?
She remained right where she was, huddled against the wall, and when the sirens stopped screaming and a Peacekeeper calmly locked her up again, she didn't lift a finger.
They never bothered her again.
They had no use for her without Peeta and Johanna.
It was better and worse all at once.
Nobody hurt her but she was alone, isolated. They slid a tray of food through a trap in the door when they remembered she was still there – it wasn't every day, sometimes it was only once a week – and that was it.
Effie wasn't made to be alone.
She could feel herself slipping into a crazy state of mind.
She locked herself up in her imaginary world more and more often.
"You're prettier", "You make me feel alive", "I'm sleeping here", "You're fucking beautiful", "Stay alive…"
Those words were her prayers and she recited them daily. She couldn't remember his face. She tried but she couldn't. Only his voice was clear in her mind : deep and rough like sandpaper, often mocking but sometimes soft and gentle.
One day the ground shook under her legs, the wall against which she was slumped was moving to. She didn't know how long it lasted because she had no idea what time was anymore. She slept all the time even when her eyes were opened.
There were cries and shouts for help on the other side of the door, she didn't move. What was the point?
The door wasn't knocked down this time, it was opened the normal way and two men in grey stood there. They flinched and recoiled and she didn't understand why at first. Stupidly, she thought it was because she was ugly – she must have been ugly, her jumpsuit was in tatters, her hair was a mess of tangled dirty curls and she didn't even want to think about her face bruised one too many times. Then one of the men placed an arm against his nose and she understood it was the smell that was disturbing him. She didn't notice anything different.
"Is she alive?" the second man asked. "It smells like someone died in here!"
"Shut up!" the first man exclaimed, slowly creeping closer. Their eyes had met and she supposed he knew she wasn't completely dead yet. "Miss? You're okay? It's alright, we're going to take you out of here." He turned his head to his fellow soldier and gave him a sharp nod. "I don't think she can be moved. Go get medics."
Effie watched them both with mild curiosity. It wasn't until the second one was gone that the first one spoke again, slowly crouching next to her, as if he didn't want to spook her. She wasn't spooked. She didn't care.
"Can you tell me your name? There's a list…" he said.
"Not on the list." she croaked, her voice broken and rough. It hurt to speak. She coughed. It hurt to cough too. It was easier to lean her head back against the wall and to pretend nothing odd was happening.
"If you're here, you're important, Miss." the man argued. "There are only important rebel prisoners or known rebels' family members here. Either way, I'm sure someone's looking for you. Give me your name."
His hand was on the radio strapped to his battle vest, ready to communicate the information.
Whatever, she thought. She just wanted to be left alone and she wouldn't be on his list anyway.
"Trinket." she whispered.
"Trinket…" the man frowned. "Effie Trinket? Twelve's escort?"
She could hear the disgust in that last word and she curled up further, waiting for the blows to fall. They never came. The man was now watching her with a mix of pity and loathing but he never once lifted his hand and yet…
"Could you kill me?" she found herself asking despite the pain each time she opened her mouth to speak.
She thought she would find relief in that, being dead. You didn't hurt when you were dead. It would be like being in her fantasy world forever. She could deal with that.
Loathing completely disappeared from the man's eyes, leaving only pity.
"Nobody's going to kill you. You're safe." he told her. "You're on the priority list."
She was on a list after all, then.
She waited while he reported having found her through his radio, wishing he would go away and praying he wouldn't leave her alone again at the same time. Medics arrived soon after, dressed all in white – or what had been white once upon a time – they asked questions, probed her, pressed where it hurt… She didn't even have enough strength to try and escape them. It never served any purpose to try and run anyway. It only made the torture worse afterwards.
"I can't make her focus." one of the medic said. "She needs a psych evaluation as soon as she's in Thirteen."
"She's not going to Thirteen." her soldier friend countered. "She's to be shipped to the Presidential Mansion."
"What, with the Mockingjay?" the medic asked. "The Mansion's hospital is for VIPs. Who's she?"
"Abernathy's orders." the soldier replied. "Don't ask question, just obey."
Abernathy…
They put her on a stretcher but she refused to lie straight and fought against the straps when they tried to tie her up for her own good. In the end, they let her curl up on her side and rolled her away anyway. She closed her eyes and repeated the name in her mind again and again : Abernathy.
He was alive then.
Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
"You're prettier", "You make me feel alive", "I'm sleeping here", "You're fucking beautiful", "Stay alive…"
There was a short trip in a military ambulance and then they rolled the stretcher again. She kept her eyes closed. She didn't want to see. She didn't want to have her illusion shattered. Maybe it was all happening inside her head. Maybe it was a new twist of her fantasy world.
Other medics took over, exchanged words over her curled up form, tried to convince her to lie on her back so they could help…
"Let me through!" someone howled. "Effie! Let me though!"
Haymitch, she thought, right before something pricked her neck and she fell into a blissful medically induced sleep.
When she woke up, her right arm was strapped to her chest, the now familiar pain in her shoulder reduced to a soft throbbing. She didn't feel hungry or thirsty. Her first thought was that she was dead at last but a figure was looming over her and something was pulling at her hair. She didn't panic, there was no point. She watched, slightly astonished, as Haymitch worked a hairbrush in the mess that was her blond curls. He was so focused on the hopeless task he didn't even realized her eyes were opened.
As far as her fantasy world worked, that was by far the strangest story she had imagined.
She reached for his cheek but her aim was off, her arm too heavy, and she ended up whacking his shoulder. His eyes darted to hers at once, strangely shiny.
"Hey, Princess." he whispered, sitting down on the bed next to her hip. When she didn't answer he pointed to her head with the hairbrush. "They wanted to cut everything off but I told them no. I was trying to… I'm sure we can do something about it. It's a real mess but I can find you your fancy products or… Whatever. Anything." He lowered his voice, brushed her hair away from her face. "Anything."
She reached for his face again and, this time, he helped her, bringing her hand to his cheek and pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. He was careful. She realized there was a needle in the crook of her elbow and she was hooked to a dip.
"I was expecting you to yell at me as soon as you would wake up." he said.
She trailed her fingers on his cheek, feeling the familiar pricking of the stubble – or full beard now, she supposed – drinking in his features. She hadn't been able to remember him that clearly in weeks.
"The children are fine." he told her quickly. "Well… Fine is a relative word but they're alive. Finnick… Finnick didn't make it."
She heard him but didn't register the words.
"Talk to me, sweetheart." he begged. "Yell at me, say you hate me, but… talk to me."
She didn't talk.
She didn't talk for a very long time.
It took weeks before she accepted it was all real and not a flicker of her insanity. Haymitch split his time equally between her, Katniss and Peeta, spending most of the time at her bedside trying to salvage her hair. One day, he came back to find she had asked a nurse to cut it to her chin.
There were things too far gone to be repaired, she told him.
He was wary around her for a while after that. He kept expecting her to kick him out, she figured. She didn't. She wasn't angry at him, she didn't hate him like he seemed to expect. She was tired and the simplest task required entirely too much energy. She didn't care about her hair, she didn't care about being without make-up… If he hadn't pushed her, she wouldn't have cared about making the necessary exercise to regain an acceptable range of motion in her right arm again. Her shoulder had been out of its socket for too long, they had said, it was damaged forever.
She knew something was brewing behind the door of her hospital room, something about her. Haymitch was tensed, worried, fretful about leaving her too long if there wasn't someone else there to keep her company – and never just anybody, either Plutarch or Johanna, someone who could defend her with their authority or their fists. She wasn't stupid. She still didn't care enough to ask.
She had bouts of mutism when she couldn't bring herself to talk for days.
It was only when Haymitch arrived one day with an old dress of her, a golden wig and a case of make-up that she understood what had been happening. Of course. She was an escort and escorts didn't belong to this new world the rebels had created.
It was a bargain, he told her, a way to show she was with them, part of the team. Then she would finally be free. He would make sure of it.
She hadn't been aware she had still been a prisoner.
Her arm didn't allow her to dress herself with such complicated clothing so Haymitch dressed her like a child – or a doll. He had to help her with the wig and the make-up too. His attempts to secure the wig were passable, the make-up was a mess. The girl's prep team was only too happy to help and she let Octavia fix her eyes and her lipstick, tuning out her chatter.
She had been apprehensive about seeing Katniss again, unsure of her welcome, but, in the end, the mere sight of the girl was enough to snap her out of her trance. It was easy to play the escort, easy to force a bubbly smile on her face and a cheer in her voice, easy to act like she had always acted : pretty and dumb.
She wasn't pretty anymore.
She had never been dumb.
Still, she thought she fooled Katniss. The girl, at least, seemed pleased to see her.
She managed to keep her act going until the actual execution despite Haymitch's pointed staring and Plutarch's worried glances. She crossed path with Peeta in a corridor right before they were all due to go outside and, for a second, time seemed to freeze. Haymitch placed a hand on her arm, either to support her or stop her, she didn't know. She didn't care. Peeta was the first to take a step, the next second they were hugging each other so hard she could feel her bruised ribs protesting.
"I'm sorry, Effie, I'm so sorry." he repeated again and again in her neck.
"I know, Peeta. It's all fine." she answered like she always had in prison.
Neither of them cried but it was a close call.
The actual execution was a nightmare. President Coin made a speech that Effie didn't listen to, too busy agonizing over the leather shoes that were making her back and her shoulder hurt. She was tired, she had a headache and there were entirely too many people under the balcony. She had been isolated in a cell for months and only saw a few nurses and visitors a day after that. She wasn't ready for huge crowds of people. It was entirely too much. She gripped her clipboard and willed herself not to cry even when Haymitch brushed his shoulder against hers in a silent gesture of comfort.
Or maybe it had been a preventive step to shield her from what would happen next.
Because there was no way he didn't know what Katniss had planned.
Coin fell down, people screamed, and it was chaos.
Without Haymitch, she would never have made it out. She saw Gale and Peeta carrying Katniss away and she clung to Haymitch's neck as he shielded her, finally managing to get her inside. She was shaking and crying and he didn't let go of her until they were in what she supposed to be his room at the President Mansion.
"I need to check on Katniss." he said, sitting her on the bed.
She didn't protest.
She stayed right where she was until he came back, hours later, she hadn't moved a finger. He seemed taken aback at first and then worried. He asked questions she didn't understand, tried to coax an answer out of her but she wouldn't talk. In the end, he gave up and gently removed the wig from her head and cleaned the make-up from her face. He took off her shoes and her dress and helped her into one of his shirt before helping her into bed. He tucked her in and pressed a kiss on her forehead.
"You're safe now, sweetheart." he whispered.
She added that to the list of I love you that weren't truly I love you.
"You're prettier", "You make me feel alive", "I'm sleeping here", "You're fucking beautiful", "Stay alive…", "You're safe now."
In the following days, she only left the bed to go to the bathroom. She ate what he brought back and she always locked the door when he went out. It was like a brand new cell, a new more comfortable one, but she felt safe locked in there. To Haymitch's growing concern, she still wasn't talking much but ate what he gave her and he learned to pick his battles because she was thin to the point of being unhealthy.
A week after Coin's murder, they moved to Plutarch's house.
Effie didn't like it.
They couldn't stay at the Presidential Mansion forever. Peeta had been moved to another hospital, a secluded one where he would be free to wander the grounds without the risk of the press hounding him. Johanna and Annie had returned to Four. Haymitch never said what he would do once Katniss' trial would be over. The girl was still in rehab, the trial was still on-going, and Effie remained locked in Plutarch's guestroom, waiting for Haymitch to come home so she could feel safe again.
She didn't like it there.
She knew she should have been grateful for the hospitality. She was free to stay as long as she wanted, Plutarch had said so and Fulvia had nodded. Yet, she knew Fulvia was longing to be alone with Plutarch again and there were always servants in the house. It wasn't peaceful, it didn't feel safe. She spent most of her days huddle in a corner of the room between two expensive pieces of furniture and tried not to cower too much when Haymitch came back and sighed of frustration at seeing her still so broken.
She was trying, though.
One day, she asked after her family.
She shouldn't have.
It was Haymitch who broke the news and he held her tight afterwards but she didn't cry. There was no tears left for her to cry. They were dead. She wasn't surprised.
One day he came back and wouldn't meet her eyes.
"I'm leaving for Twelve tomorrow." he announced. "I'm taking Katniss back. You should come."
She shook her head before he even finished his sentence.
Twelve was too far away.
Twelve was too foreign.
People would hate her there, they would hurt her.
He studied her and nodded once.
"Yeah, I thought you would say that." he snorted. "You ever loved me even a little or you just liked the thrill of the forbidden romance?"
He shook his head and left.
He didn't come back that night.
He didn't come back at all.
It occurred to her she had been so worried about spooking her with her feelings that she had never reciprocated his attentions.
"You're prettier", "You make me feel alive", "I'm sleeping here", "You're fucking beautiful", "Stay alive…", "You're safe now".
Never had she hinted at having feelings, never had she let him glimpse the true state of her heart…
And now he was gone.
And she was all alone.
Plutarch tried to get her to talk, to eat, but she wouldn't move from the corner. He got really mad at some point and threatened to have her admitted in a hospital if she didn't make an effort. And then he said the magic words : Peeta needed her.
For the boy, she tried.
She picked herself up from the floor, she slipped on a pretty dress, and she visited him. She didn't speak but neither did Peeta. She came back every day.
After two weeks, they finally declared him ready to go back to normal life and released him in Plutarch's custody. He had a room but he ended up sharing with her. They huddled in her favorite corner and stared into nothing as soon as nobody was there to scold them.
"We're free." he said one night.
"I don't feel free." she whispered. "I feel trapped."
He grabbed her hand and squeezed.
"I want to go home." she added as an afterthought.
"Let's go home then." Peeta shrugged. "What's stopping us?"
She gave him a small smile. "I don't know where it is."
"With them." he offered as if it was obvious.
Perhaps it was, because the next day Plutarch had them on a train for Twelve. Peeta didn't look anxious about Katniss' reception, he looked at peace, happy. She didn't want to bother him with her own insecurities so she remained silent. Haymitch had left angry and he held grudges like nobody else… There was no guarantee he wouldn't slam the door in her face. What would she do then?
Twelve was in ruins but they had already starting to rebuilt. People stared at them as they passed in the devastated streets but she was relieved to find out it was Peeta they were watching, not her. Nobody was looking at her except for the curious glance everybody always gave a stranger. They didn't recognize her and why would they? She didn't recognize her own reflection in the mirror anymore. Her wig, make-up, heels and fancy dresses were gone. Only her plain self remained and that was probably the best disguise.
They settled at Peeta's old house first even though her luggage remained unpacked because she hoped she wouldn't stay with the boy but rather with Haymitch if he would have her. Eventually, they both went out to brave the world.
She didn't know if Peeta went straight to Katniss or not.
She went straight to Haymitch.
She didn't knock which was rude but she knew knocking would most likely be ignored anyway. She stepped in the house, blinking because of the dust floating in the afternoon light, and silently made her way to the living-room.
He was sitting on an armchair, a bottle in his hand, staring at the empty fireplace and occasionally bringing the liquor to his mouth. His eyes darted to her and then back to the consumed logs.
"I'm not in the mood for hallucinations." he grumbled.
She slowly made her way to him, trying to estimate just how drunk he was and how dangerous it would be to approach him. It could be dangerous if he had his knife on him. She did it anyway, grabbing the bottle and taking it away. He let it go without a fight, watching her with a more focused glint in his eyes. His lips parted in an unvoiced word as he realized she was real.
She placed the bottle on the coffee table amongst its empty sisters and sat on his lap. His arms immediately wrapped around her and she let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. She slumped against him.
"You came." he said, almost in awe. "You came." He pressed his mouth against her neck, against her cheek, buried his nose in her hair and repeated it again and again. "You came, sweetheart, you came."
She didn't know how he always managed to let her know he loved her without saying it. She didn't have that gift. So, she settled for cupping his cheek and brushing her lips against his once in something that wasn't exactly a kiss.
"I love you." she murmured.
For a second, there was only silence and then he smirked.
"About damn time you say it, too." he snorted.