Hello all!
So this will be the start of the second collection of "Have A Drink, Sweetheart". It will work exactly as the old one, except I'm giving myself more liberties to take up prompts or just pick them up on lists if they tickle my fancy. I am planning on updating every Wednesday as usual. Don't forget to follow the story if you don't want to miss an update as the old collection will be marked complete. The one shots will all be cross-posted on AO3 if you want to follow the collection over there instead my penname is EllanaSan (at least that's the plan) ;)
And to start this year 2021 that we hope will be better than 2020, I say we start with a bang! Or, more accurately, some modern au crack. I am hereby declaring this year should be cracky – in a good way this time.
The prompt comes from a list reblogged on the hayffiepenthouse blog.
Prompt: You're the president, you were giving your New Year speech and I, a member of your staff, accidentally crashed it on live TV, can I kill myself now?
Happy New Year, Mr President!
How that man had ever gotten elected to anything, never mind the highest position in the country, was beyond Effie Trinket. Haymitch Abernathy was a lot things – amongst them, she was forced to grant, a brilliant mind – but a public personality, he was not.
Although, she had to admit he had undeniable charisma. A certain roguish charm, if you would…
Still, you expected more from the President of a country such as Panem, she mused as she watched him read from the monitor in front of him, sounding and looking as bored as possible despite the fact she had made sure to add little parenthesis to the speech with reminders to be cheerful. New Year's speeches should always been cheerful, hopeful…
But why would that man listen to his press secretary and main speech writer? She was only the PR expert in the room, after all.
The more he talked, slouched in the comfy chair behind his messy desk like none of his predecessors would have ever dared to, the more furious she became. She had ordered the desk to be cleaned of the clutter and files. She had ordered him to put on a bowtie. She had ordered him to shave.
And yet, there he was, looking like a hooligan who had just come back from a stroll in the gardens, in a slightly creased grey shirt gaping at the collar, his suit jacket carelessly open, leaning back in the chair like he wasn't addressing the nation live and like he wasn't supposed to attend the New Year's ball right after that – where the dress code was black ties…
When Plutarch had hired her, she had been intrigued – and maybe a bit fascinated with the unconventional President who had been born in Twelve and had managed to rise through the ranks with an uncompromising policy of equality and fairness. He was progressive and she had jumped at the chance to work for him – to her conservative parents' utter shame. However, the reason he didn't seem to be able to keep a press secretary for more than a couple of months had soon become obvious. Three months in and she was threatening to quit on a daily basis.
He was impossible.
"And despite this year's unpredictable circumstances, it is my sincere hope that we will be able to circumvent…" he droned out, eyes glued to the monitor only to abruptly stop, give the camera on top of the screen a dreadful look and do the thing she had told him to stop doing if he didn't want to have to hire yet another press secretary: he went off-script. "I swear I ain't the one making those speeches so boring, folks."
The heads of all the staff members in the room turned toward at her as one, probably wary of her reaction.
He may have been the President of Panem but she had never been shy about letting him know just how displeased she was with his spontaneous decisions. In fact, she had heard the rumors. Their rows had become legendary in the Presidential Mansion. People gossiped about them, they betted about their arguments – they also betted about how long he would last before firing her but, weirdly, he didn't seem to mind the fights as much as someone in his position should. He relished the challenge, she knew, and she was certain he did it to provoke her half the time.
As it was, she closed her eyes, counted to three while he went back to reading and forced a polite placid smile on her lips as she recited the words in her mind alongside him. She had worked hard on that speech, very hard. Plutarch was always trying to add his own spin but, thanks goodness Haymitch had more sense than that and had stated early on she could have last word on official declarations – well, last word before his, that was.
"Our unemployment levels…" he continued only to stop again and roll his eyes. "Seems like I'm supposed to sound cheerful while I tell you it's still too high but we're working on it… Better luck next year and whatever…"
Effie gritted her teeth and moved from the shadows at the back of the room to next to the monitor so he wouldn't miss her looming presence – and the threat in her eyes. His grey gaze – far too amused – darted off the monitor to her and back to the camera.
"Do you know how much it pisses them off when I go off-script like this?" he asked the camera with some actual cheer – as if that warranted amusement.
Never before had any of her client been such a pain.
She moved even closer, waving her hand in front of her throat to signal him his best interest was to cut it off and stick to the speech. She could have sworn it was like he didn't even care about his reelection chances at this point. Sure, people loved him for his natural and down-to-earth attitude but politics were politics and…
"So let me sum this next part for you 'cause I can barely make sense of it myself… I swear my lovely press secretary writes her speeches with a thesaurus open right next to her and chooses only the complicated words… She likes to confuse me, see… Can't even say them right…" he mocked, glancing at her again, only to make a face – a fake one – and place a hand over his heart. "Wait, I'm supposed to pretend I write this myself… Shit, well… Busted."
Shit.
He had said shit on national TV.
She was going to kill him.
Kill him.
In her fury, she took another step closer to the monitor.
What she didn't see was the cable on the floor.
One second she was glaring at the bane of her existence who also happened to be her head-of-state, the next she was flying.
Well… It was a short flight.
A sharp pain in her ankle as her high heel twisted beneath her foot and an equally painful landing on a hard surface that turned out to be the Presidential desk. Haymitch rolled his chair back out of reflex to avoid her while several special force Peacekeepers suddenly moved to attention at every corner of the room, ready to pull him out and… Well, assassinate her for assault on the President probably.
Good thing for her Haymitch lifted his hand in a preventive measure to tell them to stand down.
Unfortunately, it was also the moment Effie realized that the camera was probably getting a close shot of her butt and not much else. At least, she mused, she had had the good idea of wearing her pastel pink ballgown instead of the shorter designer dress Portia had tried to force on her. It floated down to the ground, so there was no chance of accidentally flashing the whole country with her lovely lace thong. Just…
She scrambled off the desk, barely aware Haymitch had stood up and walked around it to help her – and yet excessively aware once his hand slid down her forearm to steady her – his grey eyes dancing with mirth, his lips stretched into that infuriating smirk of his…
She flushed crimson and she wasn't even sure if it was because of the incident that would probably be reran in every gag reel for the rest of humanity or because his hand was lingering and…
"I hate you." she spat, cameras be damned.
"I'm pretty sure you ain't supposed to admit that much aloud. Must be in your contract or something." he retorted with a snort, turning back to face the camera. His hand left her forearm but he sat on the edge of the desk – which was a good idea because it meant he would be in the camera's frame again but imagine that: the President sitting down on the edge of the desk like a ruffian… "Well, folks, I think that concludes the speech 'cause I'm pretty sure I'm about to get my ass handed to me on a plate…"
She blamed what blurt out of her mouth next on his terrible influence. Actually, she blamed everything that had happened that night on his terrible influence. "For fuck's sake, Haymitch, mind your language on national TV!"
She clapped her mouth shut immediately and pressed her hand on her lips for good measure but it was done. She had said that. She had cursed in front of a camera. On New Year's Eve. In front of all Panem citizens – and her mother amongst them. And she had called him Haymitch. She never slipped and called him Haymitch. Never.
And the ass that he was looked mighty pleased because he had been trying to get her to call him by his first name ever since she had showed up on her first day – something about not standing on ceremony that she refused on principle because there were proper ways to do things and…
She tried to sneak out, humiliated beyond measure, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back in the frame with him.
"Well…" He said cheerfully, half-choking on his laughter. "Don't think we can quite top that, sweetheart, so… Happy New Year, people! Don't drink and drive and don't set neighbors' houses on fire with fireworks! Wish people a happy new year, Effie."
"Happy New Year." she wished in a flat tone but with a bright fake smile.
He waited for several seconds until he was sure the red dot had gone off on the camera and they were safe. When the room erupted in exclamations and chatter, he stopped pretending he wasn't laughing like an idiot and bent in two to catch his breath.
She huffed, planted her hands on her hips, tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him. "I am thrilled that my personal demise amuses you so, Mr President. You realize you have no other choice but to demand my resignation now?"
"Why? Cause the country got an accidental close up of your ass?" he mocked, gasping for breath. "It's a nice ass, don't think they're gonna mind that much."
"How improper!" she snapped. "I could have you brought up for sexual harassment, you do know that, don't you?"
"If you ever seriously told me to cut it off, you know I would." he retorted, lowering his voice a little, his amusement fading. "Don't go tossing that kind of comments around unless you mean them, princess, 'cause that can actually do damages."
"Thank you, sir, I am your PR here, I do know what could damage your image." she muttered, through clenched teeth. "And it is improper."
He frowned, looking a bit disappointed but not hostile. And far too serious suddenly. "So you want me to stop?"
That would have been the wise choice, she knew. The whole fighting thing, shouting at the top of their lungs and being at each other's throat... It hardly a good disguise for the bantering and flirting it was quickly but surely dissolving into and getting involved with someone at work was never a good idea. Never mind your boss. Never mind when your boss was the President of the country you lived in.
And yet…
She tossed him a covert look and then glanced away. "No." She left it at that, spotting her assistant in the crowd of people and making a beeline for the boy. Peeta handed her her phone without her having to ask for it. She opened her social medial app and winced as she saw that #TrinketCrash #Fuckgate and #AbernathysNewYearSpeech were trending. In that respective order.
She also could faintly hear Plutarch's displeased voice in the background as he lectured Haymitch. Good luck with that. He might have been the most dedicated Chief of Staff but not even him could control their president.
"Can I have the room?" Haymitch suddenly asked, raising his voice in that tone that he rarely used but that meant business.
Everyone immediately hurried in scrambling off.
"We need you to open the New Year Ball in the ballroom in fifteen minutes." Plutarch reminded him as a parting shot.
Effie was doing her best to walk out with her chin up and what was left of her dignity intact, her eyes glued to her phone. People seemed more amused than anything. The opposition had already mocked the administration and had taxed them of unprofessionalism and incompetence but that was to be expected… Mostly it was endless gifts of her fall and her F bomb with some side videos of Haymitch going off-script… More concerning were the few entries about his lingering hand on her forearm and the quickly rising hashtag "hayffie". People were speculating on…
"Effie, stay." he called out over the sound of people leaving and she automatically stopped to shoot him a glare over her shoulder. He rolled his eyes but amended that command with a please.
Plutarch was the last to leave and he closed the door behind him after reminded her she needed to get him to the ballroom on time.
To say she felt trapped once they were alone in that room was a bit of an understatement.
He might joke a lot and look like he didn't take anything seriously but he was a dedicated president and he was good man. He could do a lot of good things for the country, she knew that, and her little display would trigger some scorn for his administration and…
"I apologize." she felt forced to say even though, really, it was his fault. "And you will have my resignation letter on your desk first thing in the morning."
"Don't bother." he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "It's gonna end in the trashcan."
"Mr President…" she sighed, determined to advise him to the best of her abilities – and the best of her abilities told her he should fire the incompetent press secretary who had just crashed and abruptly ended his New Year's speech.
"Haymitch." he corrected for what must have been the thousandth time since Plutarch had introduced them. That man could move like a panther when he wanted to. One second he was still next to the desk, the next he was right in front of her, a bit too much in her space for it to be entirely proper. He winced a little. "Look… About the sexual harassment thing…"
"I was joking." she cut him off.
"Are you sure?" He winced harder as if it truly pained him to even touch the subject of whatever was going on between them. "Cause if I misread the situation…"
"You did not." She sighed again, reaching up to rub her forehead only to stop when she remembered the make-up. He wasn't that kind of guy. She had worked for a lot of that kind of guy before, the ones who thought because she was young and gorgeous they were allowed to grope her or make salacious comments… He had only allowed himself to flirt when she had answered in kind and he had never tried to put his hands on her. And she didn't think he would until she clearly invited him to because he was very aware he had all the authority in the room and he didn't want to take advantage of that. "Still. Sir…"
"You're giving me weird kinks calling me that…" he grumbled, taking another step forward. "Sweetheart…"
She had forgotten about that. No wonder the country was now speculating on the state of them. "You called me by a pet name on national TV!"
She glared daggers at him but it was about as effective as it ever was: he chuckled. "I call everyone pet names, don't go thinking you're special…"
"And I have told you several times it is not good for optics." she snapped. "You need to learn how to control what comes out of your mouth. Sir."
She added the honorific a touch too late but he was standing too close to her and it was seriously making her feel… Not quite dizzy. But it was a rush. It was always a rush when he got into her space like that.
"Never been good at that." he granted. "Like, right now, I wanna tell you you look good enough to fuck senseless but that'd be really inappropriate…"
"Really much so." she agreed, refusing to acknowledge the tingles his words had triggered. She was the one who stepped forward next, eyes riveted to his mouth.
He snorted. "Maybe you should resign after all… Wouldn't be too inappropriate then."
"On the other hand, I was sprawled on your desk in front of the whole country. I do not think we should worry about inappropriate too much anymore." she remarked. "We are passed that." When had his hands landed on her waist and when had his eyes darkened so much with lust? She licked her mouth and then bit down on her bottom lip. He let out a strangled sound that was half a groan… "Haymitch…"
The sound of his name was his undoing it seemed.
The kiss took her by surprise and it also took her breath away for a second. Then she gave back exactly how much as she got, not remotely surprised when it turned dirty extremely fast. She wasn't sure how he maneuvered them across the room without tripping on one of those damn cables but soon she felt the wall at her back… His hands became bolder, exploring her body, so she tangled her fingers in his too long hair – he would not escape a haircut for much longer if she had to bribe a special force Peacekeeper into tying him down for her – and tugged his head further to the side so she could kiss him exactly like she wanted…
She wasn't aware he had lifted her up until the door suddenly opened and they stopped kissing with matching startled expressions to glare at whoever had strolled in without knocking. You simply didn't walk into the President's office without knocking. Plutarch froze exactly one step past the threshold to stare at them with wide eyes.
Effie was suddenly overly aware that her legs were wrapped around Haymitch's waist, that her crimson lipstick was all over his mouth and that his hands were supporting her by clenching her butt.
"This is… really not what it looks like." she declared after clearing her throat.
Haymitch shot her an astounded look and then lifted his eyebrows. "Ain't it?"
"Hush." she ordered. "You are not helping." She tried to unwrap her legs from around him but he didn't seem ready to let go so she tapped his shoulder. "Put me down."
"No." he refused and then glared at Plutarch. "Go away."
"You have to open the Presidential Ball." his Chief-of-Staff bravely reminded him, his eyes politely averted.
He shrugged. "Tell them I got sick."
"Put me down." she insisted, slapping his shoulder harder. He sighed but relented. She immediately smoothed her dress and then worked on brushing the creases off his shirt and jacket. "We will be there in a minute, Plutarch."
"But I hate balls." Haymitch complained right as Plutarch left again, the Chief of Staff wisely closing the door behind him. "And I want you."
The words shot directly south and if it had been up to her they would have missed the ball and… However, it wasn't up to her. And the ball was important. Lots of potential sponsors. Lots of influent people. Lots of deal to be made over flutes of Don Perignon.
So she pursed her lips and schooled her features in the severe expression that always had him rolling his eyes. "Duty first. Pleasure later."
He immediately perked up. "Later?"
"Possibly." she hummed. "Assuming you do not cause us any more embarrassment tonight."
He did roll his eyes, his trademark smirk on his lips. "Ain't the one who crashed the New Year's speech, sweetheart."
"I would not have tripped if you had followed my speech." she retorted, nudging him in the direction of the door.
"Wouldn't have had to go off-script if it had been less boring." he shot back, opening the door and gesturing at her to go first. Plutarch and half of the senior staff were waiting in the office outside, apparently relieved they had decided to come out at all.
Haymitch and Effie tacitly decided to ignore the looks and walked on as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
"If you are not happy with my speeches, sir, find yourself another press secretary." she huffed. "There must be at least one or two in the Capitol you haven't frightened away yet."
"So what you're saying is you got the job 'cause nobody else wanted it?" he taunted.
She took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out, relieved to see the ballroom's doors appear in the distance. "You could have worn a bowtie. I specifically told you to wear a bowtie."
"Yeah, but then what the fuck would you have complained to me about?" he asked sweetly with a fake innocent look.
She wanted to kill him.
Or kiss him.
Or possibly fuck him.
And given the look he was shooting her, he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Behind them, Plutarch cleared his throat. "Mr President? We are late."
Haymitch looked at him, then back at her and made a face. "Save me a dance, sweetheart?"
Obviously, she would save him a dance.
Didn't she always?
I hope you enjoyed this one shot! Happy New Year! As always I would love to hear what you have to say about it!