Prompt: very very angst one but could you do one in which some of the rebels prefer suicide instead of getting caught and tortured and effie gets really touched by this events? (you may also include the stylists, the prep team or even some victors)

Obviously there's TG warning for anything related to suicide. I don't think it's really worse than book canon because nothing's graphic but… It's discussed so… Read at your own discretion.

War And Loaded Conversations

The image on the screen went still as the soldier wearing the camera collapsed under the squad's commander's order of 'nightlock, nightlock' and Haymitch let out a small pained sigh that echoed too loudly in the silent briefing room. A heavily armed Peacekeeper came into view, his gloved hand reached for the camera and the screen faded to black, lost signal blinking across it in white letters.

Beside him, Effie shifted uneasily.

After a few seconds of shocked grief, Coin said something and slowly, painfully, people started talking again, suggesting new angles of attacks to take Four, hoping that it wouldn't end with the same results. Clearly an infiltration squad hadn't been the way to go.

"What just happened?" Effie whispered, a touch of anxiety in her voice. "Did they get captured?"

"You heard the order." Haymitch retorted, a little too harshly. But he hated this. Watching younger people die on screens while he was stuck safe underground… Sometimes, it was because of his tactical advices that the troops died. Because he had failed to anticipate something or… "Nightlock."

She shook her head, clutching her notepad to her chest. "What… What does that mean?"

He opened his mouth to snap at her again and then realized she wouldn't be versed in that side of things. Plutarch had her taking notes for him and, generally speaking, trailing after him like an assistant but her main job was to take care of Katniss. And, to be fair, Haymitch had been sparing her the ugly sight of war as much as he could.

"They're dead." he said.

"But the Peacekeepers didn't shoot." she argued with a frown. "I do not…"

"They've got pills. Nightlock." He shrugged. "To avoid capture."

It took a few seconds before she finally made the connection, which was odd because she was usually much quicker on the uptake. When she did realize what he meant, though, she gasped, turning pale. "You mean… You mean they committed suicide?"

"To avoid capture, yeah." he confirmed with a grim nod.

To avoid torture, more likely. It wasn't like the captured rebel soldiers were being parked somewhere to await the end of the war. The Capitol systematically put them down after interrogation.

Her eyes filled with tears and she swallowed hard. "Please, excuse me."

She strode out of the room before he could try to stop her. She was upset, that was plain to see, but he couldn't exactly drop everything to rush after her and offer comfort. It was natural to be upset when you watched good people die because of the Capitol – some people might say she didn't care at all about anything but herself but Haymitch knew the truth: she cared too much.

It was a difficult afternoon in Command.

Four was a conundrum to take and they needed it if they wanted to get to Two, which was the real pivotal District that would change the game…

It was late by the time Coin finally sent them all to rest and Haymitch, through habits, waved Plutarch goodbye instead of walking with him to the compartment they were supposedly sharing. Supposedly because he hadn't spent a single night there. Sharing a compartment with Effie was far easier – not only because it meant sex but because they knew each other and could cope with each other in such tight spaces better.

He had thought she would be asleep and thus he was very careful about not making a noise when he slid the door open and closed but he gave up all efforts when he realized the lights were still on and she was sitting at the square table in the living area they hardly ever used. She was wearing one of his shirts under his woolen sweater though and was cradling a cup of Thirteen's bland tea in her hands – the only luxury Thirteen's citizens were allowed in their compartments: water and a small stock of plants that tasted like dirty socks. She hardly touched the stuff usually so he figured she had needed the comfort of holding a hot beverage more than she wanted the drink.

"Can't sleep?"

She shook her head but didn't give him a vocal answer. It was more than nightmares or one of her regular bouts of insomnia, he decided. She still looked upset.

And she was wearing his clothes.

He had discovered she was a clothes thief since coming to Thirteen. She would pilfer from his stash of shirts without a second thought but when she wrapped herself in his stuff like that… Well, it usually meant she needed comfort – what comfort she found in his dirty laundry was beyond him but…

He sat on the opposite side of the table, watching her even though she was avoiding his gaze. "You're still upset about this afternoon? About the squad?"

She licked her lips. "I did not think we were condoning suicide."

"We ain't…" He made a face. "It's more complicated than that."

"It does not seem complicated at all to me." she snapped. "They…"

"They'd have gotten captured, tortured and then executed." he told her.

"You do not know that." she insisted. "Perhaps…"

"Sweetheart, I do know that 'cause it's been the Peacekeepers' MO since this rebellion started." he cut her off, trying to keep his voice soft. "They don't take prisoners. They torture for information or for fun and they kill. It's never pretty. That's why we started giving out nightlock pills."

"It is wrong." she insisted. "Everything about this is wrong."

He lifted his hands, palms up, in a half-shrug. "Ain't gonna say I'm happy with it. But between agony and a swift peaceful…"

"Death is death." she hissed.

"There are better ways to go than others." he argued. "Trust me." He frowned a little, surprised by how close to heart she was taking this. "Hey… What's really going on?"

She took a few deep breaths and finally dragged her eyes off the scratched metal of the table and to his. Her blue eyes were shiny but she had her blank face on so he knew the tears wouldn't slip.

"I just… Suicide, I…" She clamped her mouth shut and swallowed hard. "I hate the thought."

Well, he didn't think anyone particularly liked the thought…

But then he realized. "Is this about Crane?"

Crane hadn't committed suicide and they both knew it, no matter how the Capitol had tried to frame his death. He hadn't hanged himself, that was for sure.

"In part." she admitted reluctantly.

His frown deepened. "What's the other part?"

He hoped she wasn't about to reveal some dark secret of hers. They both had their demons. He complained about her smocking but, truth be told, he liked her smocking better than he liked her popping sleeping pills like they were candies. They were no strangers to addiction, she was simply better at not giving in than he was, she was better at controlling her urges, always had been. But if she was about to tell him she had thought about going a little too far with sleeping pills on purpose…

She took a deep breath. "For years, I was scared you… Sometimes, I was scared I would send you home on that train and I would never…" She licked her lips and dropped her gaze back to her hands, cradling the tin cup close once more. "There were times your mental health was very bad. You were depressed. You drank too much. You… The alcohol poisoning…"

"You thought I'd off myself?" he asked, so taken aback he forgot to be angry about it. It really wasn't what he had thought she was about to say.

Though now that he thought about it…

Stupid of him to have thought she was upset about herself. If she had been, she wouldn't have let it showed, he would have figured it out in time but he also would have had to dig for it because she didn't like admitting weaknesses any more than he did and she certainly didn't like people she loved worrying about her.

"Can you honestly tell me it never crossed your mind?" she huffed. Her gaze darted to his chest, stopped on the front pocket on the grey jumpsuit, and then up, meeting his eyes point blank. "Do you have some of those pills? I looked around but I did not find any."

This time, the anger rose up. "Those pills are for front line squads. And even if I had them, you seriously think I'd take one on a whim?"

She pursed her lips, eyes flashing in irritation, but then all fight seemed to desert her. Her shoulders slumped a little. "I do not know."

He wanted to stay angry but it was hard when she looked so sad, worried and defeated.

"Look…" He let the word drag a little, not quite sure how he was going to finish the sentence. "Did I ever think about… ending it… I guess, yeah. Yeah, I did." Particularly in the early years after his Games. He had toyed with his hunting knife and his wrists more than a few times. But it had never been more than that. He had never crossed the line into actually drawing blood. Had he had the dark thoughts since then? Very regularly. But he had never acted on them and he would never act on them. Death by liquor was one thing. Death by his own hand… "But… I'd never do it, Effie. I'm too much of a survivor."

And it had always felt too much like it would be spitting on everyone's grave. His family's, his girl's, all the kids he had killed in the Quell, all the other ones who hadn't died by his hand but he had failed somehow…

He wasn't that much of a coward, that much of an asshole to make their lives mean nothing just because it would finally bring him the oblivion he craved.

Staying alive was as much a punishment as an imperative.

He was too much of a survivor.

You couldn't go against that kind of animal instinct.

"The numerous times I had to call the Games Clinic because you had drunk yourself into a coma say otherwise." she countered in a low whisper. She let go of the cup, touched her face and then hugged herself, her gaze darting everywhere but on him. "I kept thinking if that happened in Twelve, they would not be able to pump your stomach."

"If that had happened in Twelve, nobody'd have found me for weeks." He snorted. "Maybe months. The rats'd have had their fill before they found my corpse."

"Please, don't." She shut her eyes tight. "Please."

It was a thought she had had before, he realized.

He laid his hand on the table, palm up. "Princess…" She was slow in sliding her hand in his but she did it. He entwined their fingers, letting out a slow sigh. "I was more careful in Twelve. Had to, anyway. Moonshine was pretty easy to find but shortage could come quick and without warning."

She huffed. "Oh, how great! So you did not mind almost dying only when it was me finding you half-dead. Lovely, Haymitch."

He shrugged. "Maybe I knew you'd never let me die." She huffed again and he squeezed her fingers. "You don't need to worry about me doing that, sweetheart."

If she had talked to him about this before…

Well, he would probably have shut her out anyway because he didn't like discussing serious stuff with her but…

"Do you swear?" she asked, squeezing his fingers back. "Do you swear on the children's heads?"

He opened his mouth, closed it and then opened it again, hoping it wouldn't come back to haunt him because he didn't like making promises and he didn't like doing them on the kids' heads either. "Yeah. I swear." She significantly relaxed. "You're good now?"

"Hardly." She sighed. "I do not think I will be good until this war ends. But I suppose I can contemplate going to bed."

He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it lightly. "Good, cause I'm fucking exhausted."

War and loaded conversations would do that to a guy…

What did you think? I do lowkey hc Haymitch had very dark thoughts, particularly in the few years following his Games, before he really gives in to the drinking but I also strongly believe he would never cross the line because he's too much of a survivor at the core and it would really feel like killing everybody twice. He's alive because they're dead and while that's heavy enough to bear, I think he would feel like if he kills himself he will be killing them twice and that's even more selfish. I think the drinking is a slow death in itself but one he can reconcile with because there's no active action on his part, if that makes sense...

Anyway, poor Effie needs a hug.

I would love to hear your thoughts! Let me know!