prompt : effie and haymitch at home and effie hurts herself and starts crying and doesnt stop crying and haymitch tries to do something to make her stop crying because he cant take it when she cries

A Crisis & Redecoration Plans

Haymitch lazily scratched his stubble covered cheek and stared at the coffeemaker brewing his daily dose of caffeine as if it held all the answers to the universe.

He often did that in the morning: watch the old rusty machine work and wonder how his life had taken such a drastic turn that he was now full time responsible for two kids and a woman, all that little world not quite sane. The kids he mostly knew how to deal with. Effie… It was another story.

He was trying, learning, but ever since she had showed up on his doorstep with her proverbial tail between her legs… It had been… difficult.

Effie wasn't dealing and he was surprised she had lasted so long on her own in the city to begin with. He wasn't sure how to help and he wasn't even sure she wanted help. She had been forced to come to him because she had nowhere else to stay and because she was so much in debts she needed money – and admitting that hadn't exactly been smooth sailing on her part. He didn't care about the money. That had been the easy problems to solve.

She had triggers as long as the arm and every time he opened his mouth he was afraid he would put his foot in it.

She never left the house. Some days, she never left the guestroom. Every time the kids were around she was all smiles and pretences, a quick reassurance here and an obvious lie there – because if she was still in pajamas at four in the afternoon it wasn't because she hadn't found the will to get dressed but because Haymitch had fucked up the laundry, of course. She had panic attacks. She suffered from flashbacks. She was full of contradictions he wasn't sure how to navigate – and he didn't think she knew how to navigate them either – like the fact that she wanted the front and back doors locked but hated feeling confined…

He didn't have the best sleeping schedule. He usually spent half the night up and only went to bed when the sun was about to rise only to get up at noon. Effie's sleeping schedule was erratic. On the days she actually managed to get out of bed, she stuck to a strict routine that was bordering of obsessive and that involved a lot of cleaning. Seriously. His house had never been that clean, not even when Hazelle had still worked for him. They could have eaten on the floor. She went to bed at eleven on the dot every night and slept with the lights on. She had nightmares. Very bad ones. Sometimes she let him comfort her, hold her until she fell back asleep… Other times she couldn't bear to be touched and instead she grabbed whatever cleaning product was the closest.

He had gotten used to her cleaning at night and he had kissed his own habits goodbye. He was too scared of leaving her by herself, he was too scared of what she would do although he had never really voiced that worry out loud. He had snooped through her things to make sure she didn't have sleeping pills and he had made sure there was nothing stronger than aspirin in the house. The liquor… He kept his stock in the shed for now. He simply didn't like the self-destructive spark in her eyes.

So he forced himself to go to bed around the same time she did. If his own nightmares didn't wake him up, hers did. Or her roaming the house.

Nevertheless that was how he had gotten in the habit of getting up at ungodly hours – early enough to see Katniss sneak out of her house and to the woods – staring at his coffeemaker and hoping it would somehow magically give him the answers to his very complicated life.

It would be much easier if she actually talked to him. She had come to Twelve, to him, and he wanted to believe it meant something. However he was also acutely aware that he had been her last resort and that she resented her hand being forced. They hadn't parted on the best terms. There had been a lot of things unsaid and unacknowledged about his role in her capture and imprisonment. Things she had thought and hadn't voiced. Things he should have clarified but had been too scared to face. It wasn't all forgiven yet. She still blamed him to some extent. They would get through it in time. Probably. Maybe. They had always hurt each other and they had always moved on. Granted, being captured and tortured by the Capitol took the cake but… Effie always forgave.

He should apologize, he thought and the coffeemaker made that clicking noise that Katniss insisted meant it would explode soon.

"Does that mean yeah or no?" he muttered but the machine, traitor that it was, suddenly fell silent. He sighed and poured himself a mug, filling it to the brim. He was about to add a dash of moonshine when the crash echoed throughout the house.

He was out of the kitchen and in the living-room before he even knew he had moved, worried that Effie had had a flashback or something.

She had been asleep on the couch when he had walked downstairs, having probably sunk there after one of her nightly cleaning sprees.

Now she was crouching in front of the small table next to the couch, fumbling with the broken pieces of the lamp that had been in the house as long as he could remember. The good one, too. The one that he used to read late into the night because it was the brightest.

She looked up at him, a mix of dismay and… fear on her face. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I just wanted to… I thought it might look better over there and… I shouldn't have touched it. I'm sorry, Haymitch. I…"

"Breathe." he ordered, warily crouching in front of her. He didn't dare touch her. Her pupils were blown, her moves were jerky and her breathing was loud. It wouldn't take much to send her over the edge and into a full panic attack.

"I'm sorry." she repeated. "I'm so…"

"It's okay." he cut her off again. "It's just a fucking lamp, sweetheart."

"I shouldn't have tried to move it." She shook her head, still picking up pieces as if she could fix it by simply holding them, as if it would somehow glue them back together. "I… This isn't my house. I shouldn't move things and…"

"You're welcomed to move things." he shrugged. "It's your house too now, okay? You can move stuff. Hell, you're welcome to change the curtains even."

The brown drapes on the living-room windows were eaten by moths and every year they looked worse and worse. He wouldn't have minded taking them down.

And, to be honest, the fact that she wanted to make it a little more to her tastes made him feel relieved. That was more like the Effie Trinket he knew.

"Really?" she asked uncertainly, almost shy.

It might have ended right there, he might have managed to coax her into the kitchen to eat some breakfast, if she hadn't cut herself on a broken piece of faience.

"Shit." he spat immediately, cradling her injured hand between his own, forgetting all about not trying to touch her so he wouldn't spook her. It was a deep gash but hopefully not deep enough that it would need stitches. He could already guess how it would go if he tried to drag her to the hospital anyway so he decided they would wait and see. "It's alright, sweetheart. Come upstairs with me, yeah? I've got a first aid kit in my room."

And he kept it stocked in case Peeta accidentally hurt one of them or himself during an episode.

Effie didn't give any hint that she intended to stand up though. She was staring at her palm and at the blood pooling there, her face blank…

Trigger, he deduced, not quite surprised.

"Effie." he called gently. "Tell me where you are."

She was silent for almost a whole minute. "Twelve. With you. Safe."

"Good." he praised. "Let's get this cleaned up and bandaged, yeah? Out of sight, out of mind." She looked up at him and he was startled to see her eyes full to the brim with tears. He could only watch, struck, as they rolled down her cheek. "What's wrong?" he worried, dropping from his crouching position to his knees so he could get closer to her. "Does it hurt that bad?"

She shook her head and started sobbing.

Full earnest sobs that sounded painful.

If there was one thing he truly hated, it was seeing her cry. He had always hated it. Even in the beginning, when he had still hated her… A crying Effie was a rare thing and all the better for him. It made him mad with helplessness.

"What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong… I'll fix it. I promise, I'll fix it." he pleaded, feeling powerless and hating the feeling. This was all his fault. If he hadn't failed her… If he had…

"I'm so sorry I broke your lamp…" she gasped between two sobs.

He blinked at that. Of all the things…

"I don't care about the fucking lamp." he grumbled, annoyed that she wasn't getting it. "It's just a thing. This house's full of things I don't care about." She cried harder at that and he realized how it sounded so he placed his hand on her shoulder and, when she didn't protest, let it travel to her nape… He squeezed gently like he used to do, like she used to like. Affection, comfort, possessiveness… That small gesture had conveyed so much over the years… "You're the only thing in here I fucking care about. I promise you. I'll prove it. Look."

He stood up and grabbed the closest thing that fell under his hand. It turned out to be the ugly miniature of a cat – something that had come with the house too and that he had never bothered tossing away. He felt a sense of satisfaction when it shattered on the floor. He should have done that years earlier. A lot of things had fallen prey to his drunken rage since he had won his Games but there were still so much shit that the Capitol had considered tasteful decoration back in the day…

She gasped when the miniature exploded, her lips pursing into a sad pout. "I liked it."

He rolled his eyes. Of course she did.

"I'll buy you a new one." he declared, carefully helping her to her feet. She held her hand up but blood trickled to the floor and she blanched. She was still crying but less. "I'll buy you a new lamp too. You can pick, even."

"Can I pick new curtains too?" she sniffed, her interest clearly piqued.

"Sure." he caved, steering her upstairs. "Curtains, lamps, furniture… Whatever. Nothing pink and we're good."

She considered that when he prompted her to sat on his unmade bed and ran to the bathroom to get the first aid kit. She had lost interest by the time he was wrapping the bandage around her hand. She dropped her head against his shoulder when he was done and he remained still, not wanting to spoil the moment. She sought him for comfort sometimes but it was rare. She was too confused, he thought, she didn't know how to accept or request his help.

"I'm too tired now but maybe later." she offered.

"Sure." he repeated, tentatively brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I mean it though. It's your house too now."

A small fragile thing of a smile floated on her lips.

It wasn't much but it was enough to make his day brighter.