Prompt : I read today's prompt and I would love to prompt another chapter which deals with her weight issues after the rebellion. It can be full of angst if you are in for it. Thank you so much.

Unlike Most Couples

Keeping an eye on her plate had become a habit somewhere down the line.

Effie rarely managed more than half a plate on a good day. It was never mentioned in front of the kids and he didn't think they even noticed something was amiss on that front. She was good at covering her tracks : cutting her food in small pieces, scattering it on the plate to make it look as if she had eaten most of it, chatting all along and waving her fork to illustrate her point so they would forget it never actually reached her mouth, dumping some of it on his plate as soon as the kids' backs were turned…

It wasn't that she wasn't trying or that she was obsessing over her figure as she used to – even though those reflexes of hers when it came down to hiding how little she ate obviously came from somewhere – but she had been left to starve for weeks in those cells and her body which had never been used to such privations was having difficulties recovering. If she ate too much – and too much was generally a full plate those days – she felt sick. She rarely threw up, although that had happened once or twice when she had forced herself too far, but she felt nauseous for hours and she hated the feeling.

It had been six months since the end of Katniss' trial, three since she had showed up in Twelve. She should have recovered by now according to the doctors – and the doctors were always awfully quick to lay the blame on her, arguing she should simply eat more as if it was a simple matter of stuffing herself – but she was still underweight. He was still afraid he would break her every time he touched her. When he hugged her, she felt so frail in his arms he didn't dare hold her too tightly. When they had sex, he never laid his full weight on her because he was scared of crushing her. Her cheeks were hollow, the bags under her eyes ever-present under the heavy layer of foundation she applied every morning, despite all the fancy products her hair remained limp, her hands were bony things with tight white skin and pale blue veins…

She wasn't a pretty sight.

Her make-up, fancy hairdo and bright clothes might hide some of it when she ventured outside but when it was only the two of them facing each other over the kitchen table and she was only wearing white cotton pants and a brown shirt that had once been tight but was now vaguely loose, with no make-up and her blond curls pinned up in a messy bun, there was no hiding the damages.

And there was no hiding the fact that she hadn't eaten more than four forkfuls of stew, even with her habitual tactics, because keeping track of what she actually ate had become a habit down the line.

"You want something else?" he asked. "There's some soup from the other day left. You liked that."

She had been babbling about Peeta's new gardening project and she abruptly fell silent. She toyed with a piece of meat for a few seconds, soaking it in the sauce, before deliberately bringing it to her mouth and when she spoke next all the apparent cheer was gone from her voice. "I like the stew."

"I'm not a great cook, sweetheart." he snorted.

"I think you are good." she countered. "Certainly better than me."

"That's not so hard, you can't even boil water." he taunted but grew serious quickly enough. "I mean it, Effie, I don't care if you don't like it and if you want to eat something else. I don't care about you doing the polite thing. I would like it better if you actually ate something."

He was not a great cook. You didn't live alone for more than twenty-five years without picking up a few things but he knew enough to get by and that was it. More often than not he was too lazy and relied on the kids' goodwill or on Sae's brand new takeaway services. He had never even had his meals at regular times before. He made an effort for her, because she was more likely to sit down and eat if he had cooked something or if he was sharing with her. Her manners wouldn't have allowed her to do otherwise.

She placed the fork down tentatively. "I'm still full from lunch."

"You had salad at lunch." he pointed out.

"With cheese buns." she frowned. "Are you keeping tabs?"

"One of us has to." he grumbled. "You want to end up in the hospital again?"

Sometimes, when he was too drunk or too distracted to properly monitor, she went on for days on just enough food to make the hunger go away and keep the nausea under control. She eventually always ended up hooked up to a drip. He was scared she was starting to consider the drip as a solution to the problem.

"I'm trying." she said defensively.

"I know." he admitted.

She pursed her lips and looked away, blinking quickly to prevent any tears from showing. He pretended he didn't see.

Gaining back weight was much more complicated than he ever thought it would be. It wasn't like she could just stuff herself with fat products and hope she would gain pounds back the easy way. He realized she had to make an effort every day, three times a day, and even the things that caught her fancy like Peeta's strawberry cupcakes, the things she truly wanted to eat, didn't agree with her body.

He was used to feeling like throwing up every two seconds when he was hangovered and he couldn't say he loved the sensation. He couldn't imagine having to feel that every time he found himself face to face with food.

"Just let me heat up the soup, okay?" he insisted. It was tomato soup and she had drunk a whole bowl of it the other day without too much effort.

"I really feel full, Haymitch." she winced. "I will be sick."

"No, you won't." he refuted. "You didn't eat enough to be sick."

"I will feel sick." she corrected herself.

"Feeling sick and being sick aren't the same thing. Your doctor said so." he said, getting up to go heat the soup despite her protests. "You won't get better if you don't train your stomach to keep more food."

She gave a sigh that was as good as a surrender. She knew he was right. And he knew she wanted to get better.

"Just a few spoonfuls, okay?" he bargained. "Just enough that I know you have something in your stomach."

"Fine." she agreed. She emptied the content of her plate back in the pot while he was standing at the stove, making sure the soup wouldn't burn. "Are you done eating? You didn't eat much either…"

"I will have some of the soup." he shrugged. "We'll keep the stew for tomorrow's lunch, yeah?"

She hummed her agreement and tidied up, putting everything back into the pot and the pot on the counter… It was so domestic Haymitch would have panicked if he hadn't grown used to it in the last couple of months. She wrapped her arms around him and rested her cheek against his shoulder blade, always tiny without her heels.

"Almost done." he told her.

"I'm sorry I'm so broken." she whispered.

"Yeah, I think I'm the pot, you're the kettle and we have no room to call the other black." he chuckled. He still drank more than he should, he still sometimes passed out from too much liquor, he still woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat trying to hit imaginary enemies… She wasn't the only broken person in that house. Or in the street for that matter.

"Yes, but… You didn't change." she countered. "I'm different."

"Your point?" he frowned, deciding the soup was hot enough now and turning the stove off.

"My point is I used to be beautiful, sexy, and now…" she sighed. "I am neither sexy nor beautiful and I don't know why you still care about me when I am so hideous."

He forced her to slacken her grip on his torso enough that he could turn around and study her features.

"Okay, first… I think sexy goes out of the window when you start living with someone." he joked.

He didn't have much experience in that area, she was the first woman he had ever shared a house with – aside for his mother but that obviously didn't count – and it had been a shock the first time he had seen her shaving her legs. It might sound stupid because, of course he had known her legs weren't magically smooth, but he had never seen her do it before and there was nothing sexy about her shaking off hair from a razor, twisting herself at odd angles in the bathtub to make sure she hadn't forgotten a spot on her calf.

Then there was seeing her brush her teeth or hearing her in the bathroom while he was in bed… All those things were normal things and he didn't dislike them but it was a long shot from the stuck-up, feisty, sexy Effie Trinket he was used to. And it had nothing to do with the war or her weight issues – living together took the mystery away. She wasn't just Effie Trinket the woman he wanted to bang anymore but Effie Trinket the woman he wanted to bang and who also happened to have the annoying habit of stealing his razor to shave her legs and had special pairs of grandma panties for when she was having her period – that tended to happen out of the blue or not at all given her medical problems. In short, he knew too much about her. And he loved knowing too much about her. However worrying about being sexy in view of that was a bit moot.

"Patently untrue." she denied. "That's what lingerie is for."

He did love her lingerie.

"Look, I won't lie you look like shit." he said. "You're not hideous but I've seen you look better. And I don't care, sweetheart. You're alive, you're breathing, that's all I care about." He pressed a kiss against her forehead. "And you're not sweet talking your way out of eating your soup."

She rolled her eyes but her lips stretched into an easy smile. "You are insufferable."

"And you're a pain." he retorted.

"You know, most couples say I love you." she snorted, tucking her head neatly under his chin.

"Most couples are boring." he scoffed.

He didn't need to tell her. Saying things didn't make them true. But when he took care of her he showed her. And that meant much more in his book.