Prompt : Hi! :) I don't know if you've ever written anything like this (pls let me know if you have) but could you write something about the first time Haymitch realizes how much he really knows about Effie (silly details and stuff people normally wouldn't remember) and he starts to freak out cause he shouldn't know that much if she truly means nothing to him? Thank you! Love your writing!
Since this prompt is from Archervale I will take the opportunity to sing her praises and say go check her art right now (on devianart or tumblr) (but DON'T steal it) because she is awesome and I also owe her a toddler AU that will come soon I promise (missing only 2chapters).
The Things We Know
It started as a normal day – as normal as it could be on this Victory Tour from hell anyway. They were sitting around the table in the dining car for breakfast, Haymitch was nursing a hangover, Effie was prattling nonstop about District Seven, the schedules and the behavior the children should adopt, Cinna and Portia were flirting very not discreetly over the jar of jam, Katniss was rolling her eyes every five minutes and Peeta was the only one paying their escort any attention. It was a morning like every other morning so far.
Until Haymitch realized Portia was staring at him with a knowing look and a teasing smile. He didn't understand what was going on with her at first but, then again, Portia was always something of a mystery to him. He liked her well enough but she was always either teasing him or making inappropriate comments if she could get away with it without the kids hearing. She was funny and she was kind but she often left him feeling uncertain.
It wasn't until he had handed Effie the jam that he understood. He had been passing things to his escort without her having to ask for the past fifteen minutes. It was an automatic response really. They had known each other for almost thirteen years. It was normal to pick up some things along the way.
She took her coffee black not because she liked it but because she felt that it would be less calories to burn later on. She always ate two toasts with a thin layer of butter (she added jam if there was any strawberry one on the table and she would switch to chocolate if she was on her period, in which case he better keep his gibes for himself) and a soft-boiled egg that she hardly ever finished. If there were blueberry muffins, she would split one in two and place half of it on his plate so she was certain he would actually eat something. She liked to conclude the meal with a tall glass of freshly pressed orange juice.
He had been having breakfast with her for thirteen years. That was the kind of things you picked up with time. So what if he had been pouring her coffee, buttering two more toasts alongside his and handing them over to her, what if he had grabbed a muffin and what if he had signaled the Avox to make her an orange juice? And what if he was now passing along the jam?
There was nothing odd in noticing these sort of things when you had known someone for thirteen years.
It wasn't odd.
It wasn't odd either to know it would take her precisely twenty minutes to get changed, to fix her make-up and her wig, to deem herself presentable before they reached Seven. It was always twenty minutes – less and she would have felt guilty about not taking enough time for herself, more and she wouldn't have had time to fuss over everyone and him in particular.
Nothing odd about that, he was just used to her quirks.
And later, when they were standing inside Seven's Justice Building, watching the kids give their speech on the screens, and she was absentmindedly playing with something inside her clutch bag, out of sight, it wasn't odd to know she was toying with her lighter because she was nervous and being nervous made her crave a cigarette. It wasn't odd to know either that she would resist that craving because she kept her smoking for the really stressful or sad days.
She started shooting him weird glances and he supposed he was staring a little too insistently.
Was it odd to know her nail polish was chirped and she would freak out when she would notice and she would hurry to take out the small bottle she kept in her purse exactly for this sort of emergency? Was it odd to know there was also make-up, a sample of perfume, a condom, a handkerchief, hair pins, safety pins, a battered packet of cigarettes, a silver lighter engraved with her initials (a gift from Finnick for a birthday or whatever,) a nail file, occasionally some tampons and always a couple of mint pastilles (either to hide the whiskey on his breath or the tobacco on hers). How odd was it that he could enumerate the content of her purse when he couldn't remember what he had packed in his own suitcase?
Was it odd to know the way she cut her meat and spread everything around her plate to make it look like she had enjoyed the dish during the dinner with Seven's Mayor was simply not to hurt anyone's feelings or to look rude when, in fact, she had barely eaten three forkfuls (either because she didn't like it or because she was forcing herself through another of her diets).
Was it odd to know the way her index was tapping against the armrest of the couch once they were all back on the train meant she was eager to escape despite her acting like the perfect hostess, smiling and laughing when she ought, and being otherwise lively?
Was it odd, he wondered, creeping in her room later on, to know she would start getting ready for the night by removing her dress, that after that she would take off her wig and unpin her hair, tousle it once before starting to erase the make-up from her face? Was it odd to know she used three different sorts of creams on her skin before going to bed? Two before her shower and one afterward? Was it odd to know she would slip on whatever she planned on sleeping in that night (either shorts with a matching top or a nightgown but never pants and never long sleeves), sit at her dressing table and give her hair a hundred brushes that she would actually count?
Was it?
Because he wasn't supposed to notice those things, was he? Not if it wasn't… important. He was naturally observant but not to that extent. He had been having dinner with Peeta regularly for the past six months and he had no idea how the boy held his cutlery. He knew how Effie held her cutlery. He knew how Effie held her pen. He knew how Effie held her toothbrush for that matter…
He knew a lot of completely useless random things.
"You have been staring at me all day, Haymitch." she sighed, from her seat at her dressing table, the hairbrush forgotten in her hand. She was wearing a yellow nightgown that night, with a small flower right between her breasts. Yellow wasn't her best color but it was vibrant and he liked how alive it made her look.
He didn't move from where he was slumped on the bed, leaning against her pillows, the speeches she had handed for him to review forgotten next to him. He hadn't come to review speeches and she knew it anyway. It was all pretense. It was important to keep the pretense, he thought, he couldn't be coming into her room simply because he wanted to talk or to sleep in her bed. That would never do.
"How do I take my coffee?" he asked.
It was so random she frowned and abandoned the hairbrush on the table to come take a seat on the bed next to him.
"Spiked?" she joked eventually and when he simply stared, she gave him a tiny shrug – she never used to shrug before. "Black with one sugar. But spiked most of the time. You will prefer green tea if you have a headache. What…"
"When do I take my shower?" he cut her off. She blinked at him, her frown deepening and he drew out a sigh of relief. "You don't know."
"No, I am sorry, I was simply shocked by the idea that you could take showers without me prompting you in the right direction." she deadpanned. " You prefer to shower in the morning. You can't be bothered at nights and you are often too drunk to do so. Showering actually helps with your hangovers although you won't admit it. What is this game of yours, Haymitch?"
"How do I sleep?" he insisted.
"On your stomach and in the middle of the bed." She rolled her eyes. "If you mean in terms of nightwear, you don't have preferences. You would rather sleep naked given the choice but you sometimes use sweatpants and tee-shirts. You also snore if you are interested to know and you hog the blankets."
"No, I don't." he grumbled. "That's you."
"What is this about?" she pressed, snatching the papers and ordering them before placing them in safety on her nightstand. "You are being very strange today."
"It doesn't mean anything that we know so many things about each other." he snapped almost defensively.
"Of course not." she answered without missing a beat.
"It doesn't mean we care about each other or some shit." he mumbled.
"It absolutely doesn't." she agreed. He had the distinct feeling she was humoring him, a feeling that increased when she crawled closer and straddled his hips. "This is just about sex." she whispered. "Let me remind you…" Something must have flashed on his face because she sat back with a small frown. "You do not want to."
"I'm… kind of tired, sweetheart." he admitted, almost ashamed of himself. You just didn't say no when a woman like her offered sex. But the day had been long and stressful and all he wanted to do was sleep.
"Oh, thank God!" she sighed, relief flooding her voice. "I'm exhausted. Let's go to sleep." She rolled off him and climbed under the covers, holding the sheets up and huffing with impatience when he failed to move. "What is it now?"
"Can't fall asleep in your bed without sex." he muttered. "That's not how it works."
"You just said you didn't want to have sex." she pointed out, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Do you want to sleep alone tonight?"
"No." he granted, rolling his eyes. "But…"
"We will have sex tomorrow." she countered. "At dawn. Does that make you feel better?"
Did it? It was all smoke and screens. But smoke and screens would keep them on the right side of the line.
"Yeah." he accepted, lifting his legs so he could wriggle under the covers. He waited until she was settled with her head on his shoulder to switch off the lamp. She drew out a long breath (which usually meant she was about to go to sleep) when he winced. "Scheduled sex is a couple thing."
"Don't think of it as scheduled sex." she growled. "Think of it as I am going to be murdered if I prevent Effie from getting her eight hours of beauty sleep so I am wisely going to wait until morning sex."
"How do you talk so fast and so long without taking a breath?" he snorted.
"Sleep. Now." she retorted.
"Don't boss me around." he ordered, wrapping his arms around her – not to cuddle, of course, it was just practical. She hogged the blankets. He needed to take preventive measures.
"You love it when I boss you around." she scoffed. "I will boss you around tomorrow morning."
"Like hell you are." he chuckled. There were images into his head now and he shifted a little, waiting to see if his arousal would pass or not. In the end, he shrugged. "You did it now. You made me horny."
"How is it my problem?" she mumbled, half asleep. It turned into a very awake shriek when he rolled on her, crushing her in the process.
The shriek soon turned into giggles though.