Prompt: There's a trigger word that sends Effie right back to her torture.
Trigger
Haymitch could get used to this life : Effie taking a shower in the en-suite bathroom and him reading a book while he waited for her, already in bed, so they could go to sleep. No Games, no war, no immediate threat. The only thing missing to make the picture perfect was a glass of liquor but alcohol was banned from the bedroom when she visited from the Capitol. That was one of her rules.
Eventually, the door opened and she stepped out in a cloud of steam, clad in a green towel. He dropped the book, not even pretending to be interested in it when she was sauntering around his bedroom half naked. He let his eyes roam all over her, wondering if he could convince her to just drop the towel…
"See something you like?" she teased, heading to the dresser for one of the nightgowns she kept there.
"A nice piece." he smirked.
Her back was turned to him now that she was ruffling through her things and he waited for her to cut him a new one for talking about her like she was a piece of meat but nothing came. Silence. And not the good sort.
"Effie?" he frowned, already pushing the covers away from him.
She grabbed the edge of the dresser and let out a long shaky breath.
"Talk to me." she begged.
"You're fine." he said at once, crossing the short distance between her and the bed and wrapping his arms around her. "You're in Twelve. You're safe. The war's over." She bundled the fabric of his shirt in her fists and buried her face in his shoulder. He petted her hair and continued on repeating she was safe until she stopped shaking. "Was it…"
"Never say that again." she hissed, stepping away from him.
She made a beeline for the dressing table that, until a short while ago, used to be cluttered with empty bottles of liquor, now it was covered with her beauty products. She grabbed her perfume and sprayed a generous amount on her wrist before bringing it to her nose and breathing it in. It was her trick, her way to ground herself during or after a flashback. Smell. Her perfume had no place in the memories of prison.
"I'm sorry." he declared even though he had had no way of knowing that would be a trigger. He added it to the list.
"No, I'm sorry…" she sighed, spraying perfume on herself. "I shouldn't have snapped at you. You couldn't know."
The scent of her perfume was heavy, fruity and she used so much of it that it made his stomach churn. He said nothing about it though. He approached her cautiously, unwilling to trigger another bad memory.
"You want to talk about it?" he offered.
She shook her head and reached for him. "No. Just hold me."
He complied with her wishes, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close, wishing he could take all those bad memories away.