I have been meaning to write this one for sooooo long… I think I even made a post in the tag a long while ago about this… Well I don't want to say what it is not to spoil anything. I hope you enjoy it.
Day 2 of hayffie week is quote so… Here you have a quote from one of my favorite childhood movie.
"Do you know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you. That's where I'll be waiting." – Hook
Best Case Scenario
His skin was on fire.
His blood was boiling.
He was suffocating.
He tried to escape the feeling, tried to escape the pain in his stomach and chest, the heaviness in his bones, but his wrists were bound to the bed by soft retrains and all he could do was wriggle this way and that. Tears and snot were rolling down his face without him caring about it.
He wanted it to end.
This was torture.
Hell.
"It will be over soon."
He clung to her voice like to a beacon in the night. The pain was everywhere, overwhelming, debilitating. He felt as if he was on the brink of dying, had been there for weeks. Not quite aware of what was going on around him, too aware of what his body was going through.
"Effie." he mumbled.
His throat hurt when he talked. He had screamed himself hoarse a few days ago, had raged and begged for booze, had yelled while his hallucinations played tricks on his mind, had cried pitifully like a newborn when it had all become too much…
There was a reason he had forbidden the doctors from allowing anyone inside his withdrawal cell.
"I am right here, my darling." she promised, her voice laced with pain and sorrow.
The pet name was rare, usually used to tease or mock him rather than as an endearment, but there were circumstances, he figured, and he turned his head in the direction of her voice, seeking her touch. His fever was so high he couldn't even feel her properly.
She shouldn't have been there. He had left instructions. He was dangerous and he knew the whole experience would be humiliating. He didn't want anyone he cared about to see him too weak or too far gone to the point of peeing himself. All days weren't bad but the reality of withdrawals wasn't pretty. He soiled himself, he threw up on himself, he cried like a child, and if anyone had left him any opportunity, he thought he would have killed himself.
He wasn't surprised Effie was right there despite it all though. She was the most stubborn woman he knew. And truth be told, he needed her.
She was his last shield against the ghosts that wanted to tear him to shreds.
"It will be over soon." she repeated. "I am right here. I won't leave you. You know I won't."
He knew.
Even in the worst of his delirium when he wasn't sure of anything else, he knew this.
She talked to him throughout the fever, sitting at the edge of the mattress, close enough that he could have felt her warmth against his thigh if his whole body hadn't been on fire, and she talked. She said stupid things about fashion and clothes and people he didn't know. It didn't make a lot of sense to him but hearing her voice was enough.
When the fever left, he was freezing.
The shivers were awful, his teeth were chattering.
His eyes rolled inward and before he knew what was happening, he was having a seizure.
"Hang on, Haymitch." she urged. "You have to hang on. Katniss needs you. We all need you."
There was a frenzy of activity around him but Effie's words rang clear above the rest.
There was a sharp pain in his chest though.
And then nothing but a blinding light that quickly receded.
"He's back." a male voice said. "Mr Abernathy, can you hear me? Your heart stopped."
Shouldn't have started it again, he wanted to say but he was too weak to open his mouth, too weak to do anything but stare at the woman standing right behind the doctor's shoulder, her hands clasped tight against her mouth.
She looked ridiculous with her customized uniform and that headscarf. Her face was so pale though… So pale…
He tried to mumble her name but they injected something into his drip and he immediately fell asleep.
When he woke up, the fever was gone but not the sharp cold. There were a respectable amount of blankets covering him though. He knew who he owed that to.
"Idiot." Effie immediately huffed from where she was perched at the foot of his bed. She was glaring at him, her legs hugged close to her chest, her face still devoid of color, her blue eyes shiny with tears. "Don't ever do this to me again, do you hear me? You are not allowed to die."
"Why?" he snorted and it hurt to speak, it did, but it had always been like that with them. They could never let the other have the last word.
"Why?" she hissed and he was sure that it took a considerable amount of restrain on her part not to hit him. "Because you still have things to do here, Haymitch."
"The rebellion." he spat with bitterness. He hadn't spent a lot of time in Thirteen before they ushered him to a cell but he had seen enough to know it wouldn't be what he had hoped for. There would be no freedom to be found with Coin.
"Yes but it is not the important part." she countered. "You have a duty to Katniss and Peeta. To Finnick, Johanna and Annie. You need to be there for them, guide them, save them. You are the only mentor they have left." She shook her head. "You have a duty to me. You can't leave me alone. I need you. You can't fail me. You can't fail us. It is not who you are."
"Isn't it?" he deadpanned. "Failed a lot of people lately. Should hear the girl."
"Katniss is angry, lost and frustrated." she dismissed, waving her hand. "She will get over it in time, you know she will."
"Maybe." he granted, turning his head away to stare at the nice blank grey wall. "Are you okay?"
"I am always alright." She laughed her fake escort laughed, flashing him her most dazzling smile. "Don't you know it yet?"
Not always, he almost objected but he rolled his eyes at her instead. "You look ridiculous."
"You can put me in garbs but you cannot take the fabulous out of me." she grinned.
He found himself smirking.
He fell asleep not long after that, safe in the knowledge she was watching over him.
Time was a relative thing in this cell.
He couldn't tell how many days had passed since the beginning of his withdrawal. Eventually they took off his restrains. He didn't know if that was because he felt too tired to have the strength to hurt himself or if that meant he was better now.
Visitors started to come by and he made an effort to look collected and human for their sakes – and for his pride. Finnick, Plutarch, Hazelle, Coin once…
Effie never left.
She remained in a corner, listening but not intruding, working on whatever it was she was scribbling on her notepad, a small frown on her face. She used to have the same crease on her brow when she was working on sponsors files. He liked to tease her about getting wrinkles.
When there was no one there to talk to him about the war or Twelve or whatever they wanted his opinion on, he curled up on his side and watched her work. He was allowed more things in his room now. A chair for visitors, a small plastic cabinet with books… A nurse had offered to shave him but the prospect of a stranger holding a blade so close to his throat wasn't one he could face. He would rather keep his beard.
Effie had looked disapproving at that but Haymitch had ignored her. She liked the stubble even though she was always asking him to shave but she didn't like beards. He knew that. Later, maybe.
He liked watching her.
He spent hours doing nothing but that – not that there was anything else to do in that place, the books were little more than anti-Capitol propaganda and pamphlet praising the glory of military life.
She sat on the chair, her legs crossed, the notepad balanced on one knee… Sometimes she would wear her ridiculous pink sunglasses. He suspected she did it only to amuse him because there was no one else to impress with her fashion sense.
She was beautiful, so very beautiful.
He had never really understood how she could sometimes doubt her own beauty, why she felt it necessary to cake her face up with shit or hide her hair under synthetic wigs. He never found her more gorgeous than when she was naked, blond hair loose, blue eyes sparkling in mischief and pink lips pursed in amusement. She was powerful in those moments. He would have denied it, he would have lied, he would have taunted her about it if she had ever dared say it… But he was under her thumb. Utterly and completely. She had woven her way past his defenses, had seduced him into surrender, and she had wrapped herself around what was left of his heart, had slowly nursed it back to life. And proof that he was too far gone for her, he trusted her with it.
"I used to dream about Mabel." he said one afternon, while they were like that: him curled up on his side on the bed and her scribbling down without pause. "After she died."
The words were foreign in his mouth. He could only remember a couple of times when he had mentioned his dead girl to her. There had been others, he knew, but he had been too drunk for him to know what had been said. Sappy stories probably. He was often sappy when he was wasted, eager to cuddle with her and starved for affection.
"It is a common thing, I believe." she hummed, not looking up. "A way to keep deceased people with us."
"I dreamt normal things." he kept going. "Like going to the woods. Kissing in the old Gregson's barn. Laughing in the Hob…" He closed his eyes, trying to recall, but the memories were too old. They were only imprints now. He had lost the smell of wet earth after rain that always clung to her clothes, he had lost the taste of her lips, he had lost the sound of her laugh… It had been more than half his lifetime ago. Mabel was nothing more than a succession of faint images now, a sublimed collection of half remembered anecdotes. "It hurt more after. 'Cause it felt real." He opened his eyelids and studied her. "I swore on her grave she's the only one I would ever love."
She closed the notepad and tapped the pencil a few times against the closed cover before looking up.
"Do you want me to go?" she asked.
"Not yet." he replied immediately. The perspective of being left alone was daunting.
Her lips stretched into a small sad smile. "You shouldn't be afraid of her memory. You shouldn't be afraid of dreaming about her."
"When I dream of her now, it's always nightmares." he sighed, outstretching his hand. She looked at it but didn't move to take it and after a while he drew it back. "Can't help but wonder…"
"If she would hate you now because you betrayed your oath?" she prompted when his sentence trailed off.
"Never said I didn't keep that oath." he grumbled.
"You don't need to. I know." she retorted, looking far too pleased and a little smug. It didn't last though. "Do you want my opinion?"
"When did I ever manage to stop you from giving it whether I wanted it or not, Princess?" he chuckled.
She chuckled too but she soon turned serious. "I think you feel guilty."
"Wow." he mocked. "I'm blown away by your perceptiveness, sweetheart."
She pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side, not quite glaring but letting him know she was annoyed by his sass. He rolled his eyes.
"You were sixteen when you made that promise." she declared. "You are forty-one now. I don't think any girl you could ever fall in love with would have been cruel enough to want you to remain alone and unhappy all your life. I certainly would not. That promise you made… It was a very long time ago."
"Doesn't make it okay to break it." he scowled.
"Would she want this?" Effie hummed. "You having nightmares about her because you fell in love with another woman and you feel guilty about moving on?"
"You're throwing that word around an awful lot." he complained. "Never said anything about that."
"Would she?" she insisted, ignoring him.
It was his turn to purse his lips. He averted his eyes, pondering the question.
"No." he said eventually. "She wouldn't."
"There you have it then." she beamed. "Problem solved. What is stopping you from admitting your feelings?"
"People I love die." he scoffed. "That's a rule. You know that."
"I am resilient." she stated firmly. "You know that."
"Sure hope so…" he whispered.
"I suspect you love me." she hummed. "I suspect but I do not know for certain. It would be nice to know. You wouldn't have to say the words, I would understand. I have a knack for understanding you. It is a gift of mine. I will need to know, I think. You will have to let me know. One day."
"Yeah." he said flatly. "One day."
She looked sad and wistful. He didn't like that look on her. He had seen it too often of late. He liked her lively and vibrant. She was one of those people made for laughtr and happiness. It didn't matter how irritating he found it when she was buzzing around him with relentless energy, he liked the whirlwind she was. He liked how alive she made him feel.
"They will release you soon." she observed. "You are better now." Her face softened. "I am so proud of you. Sober at last. I wish…"
"Yeah." he cut her off, not wanting to hear the words she was about to say. "Sober. Delirium free. Feel like I'm going to keel over any second but who cares, only obvious consequences are the fucking shakes and the two minutes it takes me to remember the smallest fucking thing."
"The doctors said it would get better." she tempered. "Give yourself some credits and a little time."
Easier said than done.
He was terrified of his brain being damaged. He had known the risks, known the dangers he was facing by drowning himself in liquor and by cutting it off. He was ready to face his liver being destroyed, he could face the pain but his brain? That was terrifying. Words eluded him sometimes and it always sent an icy wave of panic down his spine, it bubbled in his stomach every time he took too long to do a simple task. It might have been exhaustion, it might have been consequences of his alcoholism.
He chose not to linger on that line of thought.
Wasted time anyway.
"Do you remember my red dress?" she asked, as if she knew he needed to be distracted. "The strapless one, almost entirely made of lace?"
"Hard to forget." he smirked.
She had been stunning in that dress. He had a picture somewhere in his house, a clip from a magazine he had torn away before she could see. It was a stolen moment, of course. Her head thrown back in a laugh, her throat bared to his hungry gaze, forgotten flutes of champagne in their hands… They hadn't last to the penthouse. They had done it in the elevator.
It felt like it had been a lifetime ago.
They had been almost a decade younger then.
Sometimes he thought about how long they had been together – or almost together, whatever they could call it – and it made him dizzy.
"That is how you should always remember me." she said, mysterious.
He opened his mouth to ask her what she meant – although he knew what she meant – when the door opened abruptly and Plutarch greeted him with an enthusiastic smile.
"Katniss finally said yes. She's all ready, we're about to film the first propo." the Head Gamemaker declared, dropping a bundle of grey clothes on the bed. "You can't miss this, Haymitch. I cleared it with your doctors. You're free. Now get dressed, I will wait outside."
Plutarch was gone in a flash without leaving him time to answer. Haymitch sat up slowly, reaching out for the clothes automatically.
"Take good care of my girl." Effie requested suddenly. "She probably doesn't realize but I do love her so dearly..."
"I know." he said, getting rid of the white hospital pajamas.
He was still not quite as strong as he would have liked. His legs felt like jelly and his hands were shaking so badly it took him almost five minutes to up the fly and buckle his belt. He gave up on the idea of buttoning the shirt and left it open over his white undershirt, slipping on a black woolen sweater over it.
"You look untidy." she clicked her tongue with unmistakable fondness.
"That's my style. Be grateful I'm leaving fabulous to you." he teased, taking a step toward the door. He stopped when he realized she wasn't following. "You're not coming?"
Somehow, he had known she wouldn't but he couldn't bear the idea of parting from her.
"You don't need me anymore." she told him, slowly standing up.
"I always need you." he answered and, for once, it was the naked truth.
She smiled but it was sad. "I belong in this room. You need to let me go, get better. Be sane. Insanity is a luxury we cannot afford at the moment. Focus on Katniss and Finnick, find the other children. Remember what is important, Haymitch, remember what is our priority. The children. Always the children. Be selfish if you must. The war comes second to them."
He lowered his eyes, his jaw clenched, trying and failing to swallow the lump in his throat. "I miss you."
She walked closer and stopped an inch in front of him. He wanted to reach out but the idea of his hand going right through her was unbearable.
"You will find me." she promised.
"You don't know that." he scoffed.
"Of course, I do." she protested. "Because I am you. You will find me and you won't ever let me go again. You will do it right this time around. No matter what happens, you won't ever let me go again. You love me."
"I love you." he repeated in a murmur. It didn't cost him much.
She wasn't real.
The real Effie had never made it to Thirteen. She had been arrested before Plutarch's men could get to her.
The real Effie…
"And I love you." she offered, her eyes bright with tears she wouldn't shed.
He shook his head. "I don't know that."
She gave him this smile that meant he was being an absolute idiot.
"Yes, you do." she grinned. "Go now. You are making this difficult."
He watched her a moment longer, starved for her. He was too afraid he would never see her again. He knew too well how time swallowed the dearest of memory, how cherished faces faded to blurred features…
"I'll save you." he promised. Maybe it was an empty wish but he needed to say it out loud.
She didn't answer, she just smiled.
He wanted to kiss her. He wanted her warm lips against his, the faint cherry taste of her lipstick, the musky scent of her perfume, the soft skin under his fingertips…
It took all he had to turn away and exit that room. He only managed to do it because Katniss was waiting somewhere in that District.
The kids came first.
Always.
Plutarch was leaning against the wall, a small bag in his hand. He handed it to him as soon as Haymitch stepped out.
"Personal effects." the Gamemaker said. "I'm afraid the knife was confiscated. Only guards are allowed weapons. And the flask is empty, of course."
Haymitch rummaged in the bag for a few seconds. He hadn't taken anything with him when he had left the penthouse, only what he could carry on himself. Things that he would never have risked leaving behind in Twelve knowing what was in store: his knife – gone now as Plutarch had said – his hip flask – a gift from his escort he made sure to not touch right now – a small rare book, his wallet, a frayed pink ribbon that had once upon a time been his token, a half burned yellow picture of his family, and a battered ring that had belonged to his mother. A flash of gold caught his eyes at the very bottom and he took out a scratched golden bangle that wasn't round anymore.
"I put it there." Plutarch told him. "Finnick wanted to give it back but you weren't allowed anything. I'm afraid it suffered in the arena." Haymitch didn't reply, just slipped it on. It was so battered he had to struggle to get it past his thumb but he didn't relent until it was safely around his wrist. The Gamemaker was watching him with open curiosity. "Finnick said something about a token… Does it have sentimental value?"
"Any news on the captured victors?" he asked.
Plutarch's face became grim. "We know they are being kept in the Training Center but any attempt at getting them back would be too costly in human lives. The President is against it and I must say… I quite agree. For now, our best bet is to wait."
"Wait until they've been tortured out of their minds?" he scowled.
"There are no other option for now, Haymitch." Plutarch sighed. "I don't like it any more than you do."
He accepted that answer reluctantly.
He waited until they were in the elevator to ask his next question. "And Effie?"
The Gamemaker shot him a glance of sympathy that almost left him seething. He didn't need sympathy, he needed intel.
"We have no confirmation but it is assumed she had been transferred to the Training Center as well." Plutarch offered after clearing his throat. "We know for a fact Portia is being detained there. It seems logical for Effie to be with them."
"Detained." he snorted. "Is that how we're calling it?"
Anyone in the Training Center would be tortured for answers. Snow wouldn't have bothered with them otherwise. They would have been tossed in another prison or killed right away. Nobody knew what laid beneath the Center exactly but Haymitch had heard enough rumors to know the purposes of the hidden levels.
"If she was dead, we would know." Plutarch winced. "He would have let us know to hurt Katniss. In a sense, being left in the dark is the best case scenario."
"Sure." he deadpanned. "Best case scenario."
He oriented the discussion back on the war but his mind never wandered too far from the captives.
He kept brushing the golden bangle with his thumb like a repeated promise.
I'll find you.