Prompt: In their early years Haymitch has Katniss-like nightmare about his past and wakes up in the middle of the night screaming and Effie runs to him - that's the first time he sees her without her hair&makeup? Maybe he thinks for a second it's his dead girlfriend soothing him, because he never thought Effie would look so human beneath all this capitol facade?
The Night That Never Happened
Effie bolts awake, heart racing in her chest, fingers prickling, her body already sitting, the sense of fight or flight completely surreal…
For a second, she doesn't know how to explain this brutal awakening. She blames the unfamiliar room in the penthouse, the excitement of her first few days on the job, the disaster that was the Parade and the stress she feels for the two tributes who are so far from being what she dreamed…
Then the screaming starts again and she realizes it wasn't a nightmare after all.
The yells are terror, panic and pain all rolled into one and she's out of bed and at her door before she can think it through, thinking it must be one of the children… She's not sure how she's supposed to deal with screaming children in the middle of the night, it wasn't in the leaflet they have given her to read and Livia, who gave her the crash course in an escort's duties, didn't specify what to do in this sort of situations. She is responsible for the tributes, that much has been established, but exactly how much?
She doesn't really pause to think before rushing into the corridor because the screams are the sort that triggers an immediate instinctive response. She half-hopes Haymitch Abernathy – for how useless and disappointing her victor is proving to be – will be up and will reach the child before her so she doesn't have to get involved in what would no doubt be a mess of tears and snot.
She realizes her mistake when she comes face to face with a thirteen year-old girl and a fifteen year-old boy, both wide eyes and alarmed, respectively clutching a shoe and a lamp as makeshift weapons.
Not the tributes, then.
And now that she is up and more awake, now that the children are right in front of her, she notices the screaming is too raw, the voice too deep, too masculine to have ever belonged to tributes so young…
She and the children stare at each other for a startled moment until she remembers she's in charge and plasters a fake reassuring smile on her lips. They are still staring. Belatedly, she thinks she should have wrapped her hair in a scarf if there was no time to get a wig, add some powder on her face, maybe even just grab a dressing-gown…
She hoards them back to bed, walking them to their respective bedroom, hoping that by the time she makes sure they're both settled Haymitch will have woken up.
No such luck.
The tributes' quarters are in another hallway, at the other end of the penthouse and yet she can still hear the muffled pleas, the whimpers and the raw shouts. She isn't sure she didn't prefer the plain screaming.
Haymitch's bedroom is down the corridor from hers so she makes her way back, feeling a bit ill-at-ease. Certainly she doesn't like the idea of him – or anyone – suffering this sort of terrible nightmares but it is also a tiny bit awkward. They do not know each other. They met only the day before and it went as bad as it could have.
Haymitch seems determined to undermine her at every turn and she has already decided she will shape him into the victor he is supposed to be if it kills her.
Still, she cannot leave him to suffer if…
His voice breaks in the middle of a shout and that makes up her mind. Awkward or not, they will just have to compose. This is just a nightmare after all. Is it embarrassing? Certainly. For him more than for her.
She knocks on his door just in case that will be enough to wake him up but she's not surprised to hear the continued whimpers and hard breathing behind the wood. She pushes the door open without a second thought only to freeze two steps in.
She's had nightmares before. Who hasn't? And she's occasionally seen a lover or two in the throes of a bad dream, naturally. But this? This she cannot comprehend.
Haymitch is thrashing like he is possessed, his limbs flailing around without care, his body so tense he sometimes arches his back to the point she's scared he will hurt himself… The sheets are all tangled around his legs and his waist, he's bared chest and covered in sweat, so much sweat that even in the semi-darkness – the curtains are still open and the city night lights spill in, far too bright for her to ever imagine sleeping like this – she can see it the sheets and the pillow are damp with it.
The feeling the sight triggers in her is weird.
She's never felt this way before.
It's…
It's scary. The sight is scary. And it makes her want to soothe him and run in the opposite direction all at once. She doesn't have the words for that level of distress. She doesn't have the experience. She doesn't understand what could have prompted such a powerful terror.
"No…" he mumbles in his sleep, his head is swinging from left to right as if he's trying to shake it… "No, please… Please… PLEASE!"
She reaches the bed before he finishes the next plea, not thinking twice about it before sitting down, propriety be damned. She grabs his shoulders and gives them a shake. He doesn't seem to feel it. And no wonder. There are definite muscles under her hands, a lot of strength in his body, much more than she expected at first glance – she needs to get him better clothes, she notes, because the ones he has aren't flattering at all if he hides that much firmness underneath the fabric. She spots the huge scar on his side and it's so ugly it turns her stomach. She can't imagine the pain the wound has caused, it looked bad on TV but in real life?
She gives him another shake, putting all her strength into it.
"Mr Abernathy." she calls, louder than his muttered senseless pleas. "Mr Abernathy, wake up."
She gives him another shake and something changes.
She feels it.
He goes entirely rigid.
Next thing she knows, something is flying at her head and she throws herself back by pure reflex. She feels the draft of air as whatever it is flings a millimeter away from her nose. The blade glints in the semi-darkness and she jumps away from the bed with a shriek of fright.
It's clear he is struggling to try and attack again but is impeded by the sheets around his legs – her salvation – but he pauses at her shriek. He just sits there, panting, the hand holding the knife slowly drops on the bed…
It occurs to her she should run.
Possibly call security.
Certainly call Head Gamemaker Torello to report Twelve's victor is unfortunately unhinged…
She cannot seem to make her legs work. She feels extremely clear-headed, as if everything is in sharper focus than usual, a bit like before a particularly important fashion show – adrenaline, she supposes – but her heart is racing and her feet are stuck where they are.
She watches him bring a shaking hand to his face. His breath is ragged and comes out in wheezy irregular fits that badly hide the panic he must be experiencing. He blindly feels around the nightstand until his fingers close around the neck of an abandoned bottle and he took a few steady gulps.
She doubts whatever is in that bottle is water.
Then again, she has yet to see him sober.
He was buzzed when Mayor Undersee introduced them, drunk when they had dinner on the train and wasted by the time Effie called it a night. The same pattern had held that very day. He was buzzed by noon, drunk throughout the Parade and… She isn't sure how wasted he was when he went to bed because she has been so irritated with him she went out for a drink with her fellow escorts after dinner.
Head Gamemaker Torello warned her he has drinking issues.
Everyone knows he has drinking issues.
Somehow, she didn't realize it is this bad.
No doubt, it explains the nightmares.
Well, he is awake now.
She edges toward the door but freezes when his gaze snaps toward her, attracted by the movement. She can only guess at the color in the dark and she wishes his eyes weren't so expressive because… Well, the stormy grey took her breath away the previous day. That was before he started insulting her naturally. Now she doesn't find them striking at all. Not one bit.
"Mabel?" he asks, his voice rough and raw from all the screaming.
He sounds unsure.
And utterly wasted.
She supposes it answers that particular question.
She clears her throat, ready to justify her intrusion and annoyed to have to do so. "You had a nightmare. I…"
"Mabel." He sounds so relieved all of a sudden that when he outstretches his hand, she crosses the room and takes it without thinking twice about it. His palm is clammy but warm, slightly calloused too, which surprises her – and she does not wonder how that palm would feel on other parts of her skin because there is nothing appealing about him at all.
"Haymitch…" she hesitates, unsure on how to break the news to him that he is still very much under the effect of the drink and that she is not whoever he mistakes her for.
Who is Mabel? They gave her a file on him before she made the journey to Twelve. Granted, it's a thin file and there isn't anything of real interest in there: a recap of his Games – Games she's embarrassed to admit she knows far too well from having watched them several times in her youth – important information she's expected to know like his marital status, family members, closest friends amongst the victors, his blood type, allergies, the drinking problem… Everything she needs to manage him and his PR on a day to day basis.
He's not married and there was no mention of a steady girlfriend in the file.
"Mabel…" he repeats, the relief turning into despair.
He tugs on her hand and she's so shocked by the utter pain in his voice that she doesn't have the presence of mind to resist. Before she realizes what's going on, she's sitting on the bed again, except she's wrapped in his arms and his hand is in her hair – her hair, nobody has touched her hair since Lyssa used to brush it for her when they were children – and she's trapped against his chest.
A part of her is relieved he likely won't remember any of this because there is her bare face and her plain hair to consider. Another part…
He's smelly.
It's not just the sweat, there is a rancid tang under the smell of fresh cold sweat that tells her he hasn't seen the inside of a shower stall in a few days. She wonders, also, if he smells so much of liquor because he drinks so much of the stuff that the sweat is actually half alcohol.
It should put her off because it is so far from the wooden notes of sandalwood in fashion for men at the moment but instead…
He has flung a knife at her less than five minutes ago so she can't explain to herself why she relaxes in his embrace, why it feels so…safe.
Perhaps it is the way he holds her. One arm around her waist, the other sneaked under her armpit so he can cradle the back of her head in his big hand, so he can regularly pet her hair…
It feels so… intimate.
He doesn't hold her like she's fragile or precious.
He holds her like she's his lifeline, like he will die if he lets her go.
She feels a flash of hot jealousy for that Mabel woman. She hopes she knows how much she's loved. How precious a gift it is.
Effie… Effie can tell immediately that nobody has ever loved her like that.
"Mabel…" he whispers against her neck, against the shell of her ear. "Mabel…"
She places her hands on his shoulder blades with hesitation, not quite sure how to break it to him that she is not in fact the mysterious Mabel. The skin under her palms is slightly puckered in some spots, not smooth at all… More scars, she figures. Why would he keep them? Erasing them is an easy cosmetic procedure and he can get it at the Games Clinic for free… Perhaps he doesn't know. Should she mention it to him once he sobers up? Perhaps a casual hint would be best…
She feels the warm puffs of his breath on her cheek, down her jaw but she doesn't understand the intent until his lips brush against hers, hot enough to send a jolt down to her toes. She jerks back and he whimpers, tightening his hold on her…
"Don't hate me…" he begs. "I love you… I love you… Don't hate me…"
He seeks her mouth again but she avoids it – and she firmly denies to herself a part of her is tempted.
She clears her throat. "You need to let me go."
The answer is immediate, definitive and delivered with a stubborn scowl. "No. Never." He clutches her back to his chest, hauling her up on his lap for convenience and it isn't until she blindly feels around to steady herself that she accidentally feels skin where she expected fabric.
She has the terrible realization that he isn't wearing much – if anything at all – under that sheet.
Can this night get any worse?
"Mr Abernathy." she insists, putting as much authority in her voice as she can muster. He is very good at petting hair. She wants to melt a little.
"Why you're calling me that?" he mumbles. "Mabel… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…" His warm mouth presses a soft kiss against her neck and… The sound that escapes her throat is neither proper nor decent given the mistaken identity thing. "I love you…"
She has never heard those words directed at her with that much… feelings.
Boyfriends and girlfriends have told her that before, fans too… But the way Haymitch say those words… It's so raw, so true…
She doesn't resist when he drops another kiss on her shoulder.
"I love you." he whispers again. "Don't leave me… Don't leave me…"
He isn't going to let her go.
Whoever this Mabel is, he is clearly in love with her and he's too drunk to listen to reason.
She needs another way out of this and with a reluctant sigh she decides to play along. "I am not going anywhere but you need to go back to sleep."
He groans. "Already sleeping. You're here. Fucking good dream for a change. Love you." Another kiss, this time on her pulse point. Her fingers dig in his shoulder blades as her breath catches in her throat.
She is not getting aroused, she tells herself firmly. He doesn't know it's her he's kissing. It's wrong. It's taking advantage. She doesn't want to be that sort of person.
"And here I will stay." she lies. "As soon as you go back to sleep. Come on. Lie back down."
"Sweetheart…" he protests but obediently lies back down when she pushes on his chest. His arms slacken a little around her but she doesn't try to slip off his lap because she doesn't think he will allow it just yet.
"Close your eyes." she orders. "And no more nightmares. Try to dream of pleasant things, Haymitch. Try to dream about me."
She means Mabel, of course. Not her. She doesn't want him dreaming about her. That would turn out to be a messy complicated thing she does not need.
He looks at her a little funny right then, he reaches for her face, his fingers brush her cheek… He blinks once, twice, and then frowns. "Who are you?"
The words are slurred.
She gently relocates his hand back on the bed and carefully grabs the abandoned knife.
"That's mine." he growls, wrapping his hand around her wrist before she can do anything with it.
"You will hurt yourself with it. You should not play with knives before bed, Haymitch." she chides him, passing the knife to her other hand and placing it down on the nightstand. She still can't believe he tried to attack her with it in his sleep. How barbaric. Do District people regularly fall asleep playing with blades? "There. You will find it when you wake up but no more knife playing for now."
"Bossy." he grumbles, squeezing her wrist once before letting go.
She takes the opportunity to get off him, a little afraid he will try to hold her back. She doesn't seem to interest him much now that he doesn't think she's Mabel, though. He rolls on his side, taking most of the sheets with him, showing her his back. And his backside. No boxers or shorts, then. Nice backside too. She truly needs to get him better tailored clothes. First order of the morning, she promises herself.
Twelve will be much easier to sell once its victor looks as attractive as he can be.
"Pretty." he adds in a yawn. "But bossy."
Her heart misses a beat. "You think I am pretty?"
He cannot mean that.
Of course, the visibility is poor in the room but she doesn't have any make-up on and her plain awful hair… It's…
His only answer is a deafening snore and she huffs.
He is drunk.
Drunken musings do not count.
She slips out of his room and carefully closes the door behind her.
None of this ever happened.
He wouldn't remember.
And she will do her best to forget.
And we aaaaaall know how well that will work out XD I hope you liked it! Please do let me know your thoughts!