Prompt : please may you write some fluffy crap where haymitch sees that effie is working psychotically hard during the games and he makes sure she sleeps and eats and stuff

Just Another Night On The Tour

Staggering around the train at three in the morning wasn't Haymitch's favorite thing to do. He must have muttered that aloud because Portia huffed behind him, clutching her dressing gown closer to her body. His own woolen dressing gown hung open over the stripped cotton sweatpants he wore to bed – and she was lucky he had been wearing that much.

"I tried to get her to go to bed." the stylist insisted. "She claims she still has work to do. Have you seen her, Haymitch? She's working herself to death."

This Victory Tour would be the end of them all.

"I'll take care of it." he grumbled. "Go to bed. You don't look much better yourself."

"Why, thank you." Portia rolled her eyes. "I see why she likes you so much."

"She hates me." he corrected impatiently. "I hate her. We're both very clear on that, sweetheart."

"I don't know who you're trying to fool." she snorted. "But, for the record, I'm not. Force her to get some rest."

She stopped shadowing him and that was a relief.

The living-room car was in complete disarray. One of the windows had been forced open – which was, if not forbidden, at least unadvised because the train was going too fast most of the time and the draft it caused was comparable to a small hurricane – papers were flapping around, kept in place with a shoe, a half empty glass of wine and a silver lighter respectively. Pens, highlighters and pencils in every color of the rainbow were scattered on the coffee table. An untouched plate with delicate pastries had been pushed to the far end of the table – Portia's attempt at making sure his escort didn't go to bed with an empty stomach, no doubt, because the two forkfuls of salad she had swallowed at dinner wouldn't go a long way in sustaining her.

As for Effie, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, barefoot, the long fabric of her red dress gathered in a ball on her lap, her wig had been carelessly removed and tossed on the armchair, she was bent over one of the schedules, and the reason for the open window became clear when he spotted the glass ashtray on the floor and the cigarette in her left hand. He didn't know how she could smoke and write at the same time but she was furiously scribbling while bringing the cigarette to her lips, taking a drag and flicking off ash. Given how full the ashtray was, he would say she had been steadily chain-smoking for a while.

"You're going to catch your death." he scowled, immediately heading to the window to snap it shut.

"Oh, don't!" she screeched – and the high-pitched noise made him wince. "I will trigger the smoke alarm!"

"Good." he declared, walking over to her and snatching the cigarette from her hand. He crushed it in the ashtray. "No more of that either. It's three am. What the fuck are you doing? You told me you were going to bed hours ago."

"I told you I would go to bed after reviewing the children's speeches for tomorrow." she argued, running her fingers in her blond hair, tousling her curls a little. "But then it occurred to me that I might as well go over the schedule once more. And since I was at it, I started doing the one for Seven too and…"

"Seven is in five days." he cut her off. "You're fucking crazy."

"Language." she growled. She reached for the pack of cigarettes but he was quicker and he was treated to a glare. "Give them back."

"No more smoking." he sneered, pocketing the offending item. "It's bad for you."

"Pot, kettle. A lot of black." she accused.

"Yeah, probably." he shrugged, not bothered at all. "Guess what? Life's unfair. Come on, grab your stuff. You're going to bed if I have to carry you myself." She lifted an eyebrow, an amused smile stretching her lips and he rolled his eyes. "Don't get any ideas. I just don't like waking up to a frantic stylist hammering on my door."

It was her turn to roll her eyes. "I told Portia I was fine. And I am. I really want to finish this… The speeches should be perfect and the schedules have to go without a hitch. I need it to be perfect. It will be easier on the children if…"

She bent back over her papers, chatting all the while, and he dropped to a crouch next to her, gripping her chin and forcing her to turn her head his way without any gentleness.

"You've taken something?" he asked, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.

She was always a whirlwind but right then, she was hyper. Her eyes were bright, she looked pale, her brow was a little clammy and her fingers were shaking.

"No." she frowned, pursing her lips as if the question was offending. As if there hadn't been precedents.

He studied her, trying to detect the lie even though she was all smudged make-up and fake cheerfulness. Eventually, he released her chin, willing to believe her. There was something else behind her eyes. Something that wasn't due to whatever drug she might have gotten her hands on.

"You're exhausted." he commented.

"I am beyond exhausted." She laughed her fake escort laugh. "But I truly need to make sure everything is perfect. So if you would leave me to work…"

"Like hell." he scorned, grabbing a random pastry from the plate and pressing it against her lips. When she tried to recoil, he only followed with the pastry. "Open up. Come on. It's chocolate. You like it."

"What are you playing at, Hay…" that question ended in a humph when he forced the pastry in her mouth.

"Chew." he ordered. "Don't need you choking."

He tossed the shoe she was using as a paperweight on the armchair with her wig, located its twin and did the same with it before pocketing her lighter and downing her glass of wine. He started piling her papers but she batted his hands away, claiming that he would disrupt her whole system. He decided her notes could stay in the living-room for the night.

He hauled her up to her feet without leaving her much of a choice. "Bed. Now."

"Are you ordering me to bed, Haymitch?" She tried to make it sound seductive. And it might have worked. If she hadn't yawned right in the middle of her sentence.

He grabbed her shoes and her wig and nudged her toward the corridor. She must have been as exhausted as Portia had claimed because she wasn't really protesting anymore, she just walked like a zombie and went straight to her room, not even really noticing when he followed her inside and closed the door behind them.

He tossed his dressing gown at the foot of the bed when she sat at her dressing table, already grabbing bottles and wipes and what not to clean her face of the make-up. He sat on the bed behind her and pulled the zipper of her dress down. She mechanically shrugged out of the sleeves before going back to wiping powder off her face and he clumsily started the irritating task of unlacing her corset. He hated those things.

She was done well before he was and she blinked at him in the mirror, not lifting a finger to help, letting him undress her like a doll. It was him who finished slipping the dress off her and got rid of her underwear. He didn't bother trying to locate her nightgown, he opened the bed, lifting the covers for her, whacking her ass once when she took too long to comply.

It warranted him a glare and he was glad to see she still had some fire left in her, after all.

It was only when she was settled on her back and looked ready to drop asleep that he crawled over her and to the free space on the bed.

"Are you sleeping here?" she hummed.

He lied down on his side, wrapped an arm around her chest, hooked his legs around her left one and propped his head on her pillow.

"I don't trust you not to sneak out." he muttered. As a rule, he didn't sleep with people. But he had fallen asleep in her bed before and they had never had any problem. The knife wasn't there and… "If I have a nightmare…"

"I get out of bed and I do not try to touch you." she drawled out. "Yes, thank you. I do know how to handle you, you know."

"Sweetheart, you can never handle me." he taunted, pressing a quick kiss on her shoulder. He immediately regretted that. It wouldn't do to let her think she counted or whatever. "You really should take better care of yourself."

He sounded harsh and that was just as well.

"Do I detect concern?" she chuckled. She seemed almost pleased.

"Just don't want to have to break in a new escort, that's all." he snapped. "You were a pain to train."

She turned her head, nuzzling his neck a little, her hands coming to rest on the arm he had draped around her waist. "It is cute you think you trained me."

"Ain't cute." he scoffed. "It's the truth. You had a stick up your ass the size of the Training Center when we met. Don't get me wrong, Princess, you've still got a stick up your ass but I like to think I did my part to knock it out… Certainly tried to fuck it away…"

"Charming." she deadpanned. "All the more so coming from a man who barely knew what a clitoris was before I showed him."

"Oh, please…" he scowled. "You like to think you taught me everything but…"

"I did teach you everything, thank you very much." she retorted. "You did teach me some tricks too, I will grant you that. Let's agree we helped each other grow as people and not argue. I am too tired to argue."

"Weren't always complaining, that's all I'm saying." he grumbled, tightening his hold on her. "Don't you fucking dare get up before me, Effie. We won't be in Six until two pm. You're sleeping in."

"We cannot afford…" she protested, her eyelids already dropping.

"When was the last time you slept more than two hours at a time?" he cut her off. "We're affording. Sleep. If you're a good girl, maybe I'll even fuck you tomorrow morning."

She rolled on her side, burrowing into his warmth. "Is that supposed to be an inducement?"

"Depends. Is it working?" he snorted.

"Quite well." she grinned.

Ten minutes later she was dead to the world and Haymitch closed his eyes, clinging to her as if she was a shield. Nights were never easy for him but there were things that made them easier and she was one of those.

Not that he would ever admit it.