Prompt: Could you please do a post-mj fic of Effie having panic attacks in public? (I'm not sure if I'm asking for angst or fluff here to be honest)
This has been sitting on the prompt list forever (well, if October is forever) because I had no inspiration for it but suddenly it struck! So I'm not sure how good it is… But… I did my best!
I'm testing posting on Saturdays too, to be honest I'm not it's something I will do regularly or not because there are less people reading on Saturdays which mean less reviews/notes and it's always sad not to get returns on stories but there are sooo many prompts and I have a good stock right now… I'm testing waters. We'll see how it goes =)
Her Safe Place
The air felt stale.
She knew it was in her head but it still felt stale. And hot.
She automatically answered the woman's goodbyes and smiled as the next customer stepped forward, one of her bright fake smile on her red painted lips. "What can I get you?"
She usually loved helping Peeta at the bakery. It gave her something to do, something to fill her empty afternoons with. She loved talking to people, chatting for hours as Peeta called it, and it was also a good way for to become a part of the local community, for people to start seeing her as Effie and not the escort. It hadn't been easy, it was still not easy… But it was starting to be better.
The bakery was full to the brim.
The two years anniversary of Snow's surrender was looming – Freedom Day, as they had coined it – and everyone wanted sweets or cakes or something to celebrate. The front of the shop was packed with people and Peeta had been locked in the kitchen since dawn, doing his best to stock the display window. For every cake he put there, someone bought two.
She carefully packed the customer's order and took the money, answering their good wishes with some of her own. She pulled on her collar a little as an old woman came forth.
"Are you alright, dear?" the woman frowned. "You look a little flushed."
"I am perfectly fine, thank you, Mrs Doyle." she smiled. "What can I get you today? Some cupcakes for your granddaughter? She loves raspberry, doesn't she?"
Haymitch and the kids were always making fun of her for knowing everyone's tastes in sweets in the District but, as she had lectured times and times again, knowing the customer was a way to make sure they would come back. It was a bit like sponsors chasing. Or hunting modeling jobs. Know your enemy had always been her mother's first rule of business and she had imparted her wisdom on her daughters very early.
Thinking about Elindra was a mistake.
Effie licked her lips, nodding to Mrs Doyle's chatter without hearing any of it. Her mother… She missed her mother. She even missed Sunday brunches at her parents'. She missed the cold uncomfortable silence. She missed the oppressive paintings on the walls. She missed the light tinge of oranges that always perfumed the air. She missed her mother pursing her lips and looking at her as if she was six and oh so lacking. She missed her sister's sweet smiles and the sound of her nephews' laughter. She missed the noise of his father's turning a page of his book, trying his best not to get pulled into whatever rant her mother had launched herself in. She missed it all.
Her hands were shaking as she cashed the money. She had the feeling her heart was pumping directly in her ears. Two more men entered the bakery and the door slowly closed behind them. The hum of conversations, the occasional laughter…
She could hear the guards talking from her cell. She could hear them laughing. They had laughed when they had torn her wig from her head and had tossed prisoner garbs at her. They had laughed when they had found her after the victors had been rescued. Not good enough to save, one of them had chortled. Not good enough to save. Barely good enough to feed when they remembered it.
The sweet smell of the cakes made her nauseated.
"Hey!" The man hit the counter with the flat of his hand to get her attention. It wasn't particularly loud or brutal but she flinched all the same and hurriedly stepped back. "You're going to stare at nothing or you're going to take my order? Capitols. Not good for anything, I swear."
Not good.
Not good enough.
Not good enough.
The words were ringing in her ears and Effie couldn't breathe.
She was vaguely aware of the voices increasing, of someone calling for Peeta… Or it could have been her. She was used to calling Peeta's name in terror – for him though, never for herself.
Suddenly there was a hand at her elbow and gentle fingers brushing her hair back from her face, concerned blue eyes peering at her.
"Breathe." the boy – man now but forever a boy to her – requested.
"I… I can't." she stammered, trying and failing to do as he said. "I… I apologize, it is simply too hot in here. I need… I need…"
"Can someone take my order?" the man insisted, hitting the counter again. She flinched away from Peeta and stumbled back, taking off her apron with the pretty Mellark's Bakery design Peeta had created and neatly folding it. She was aware of the boy hovering at her side, tossing glares at the man.
"I will be back in a minute." she promised despite the fact that her head kept spinning and spinning. "I just need some air. A minute."
"You shouldn't be alone." Peeta argued. "I'll take you home and come back…"
"No. No, no, no…" she refused, clumsily lifting the counter to get to the other side. "It is your busiest day. I am fine, I promise. I will be back to help."
"Delly should be by soon." he countered. "You can take the rest of the day, it's fine. Just… You're sure you're okay? I can call Haymitch…"
"No." she hissed, too aware everyone was listening, too aware she was flaunting her weakness for everyone to see. You didn't do that. You didn't do that or you could expect to be stabbed exactly where it hurt.
How many times had her mother said so?
She stumbled out of the bakery and into the street. The contrast was almost painful. It was cold outside, snow was still covering the ground, too cold for her to be in simple black slacks and a pink sweater. She should have remembered to take her coat.
Snow scrunched under her brown knee-high boots but she kept walking anyway. She was still nauseous, dizzy. The tip of her fingers were prickling and she knew what it meant, she knew she needed a safe place because she was about to fall apart.
There was no safe place.
Nowhere was safe.
She longed for her home. Her lovely apartment in the most fashionable district of the Capitol, the loft with its colorful walls and her belongings everywhere… If she closed her eyes, she could picture it perfectly: the pink carpet in the living-room, the cherry red curtains in her bedroom, her bright yellow kitchen, the shelves full of trophies, framed pictures and mementoes, paintings and black and white pictures of her best photoshoots on every wall… It had been ransacked, destroyed by Peacekeepers and looters alike and then, later on, after the war, the government had taken it from her as compensation for her war crimes. She had escaped execution but she hadn't escaped punishment. All she had managed to save were a few photo albums, the violin that thieves had overlooked for her jewels and furs, and some of her clothes. She had no home left.
Her thoughts turned to her parents' house but that, too, was gone. All that had been left was a huge hole in the ground. The street was no more.
Her sister's house still stood but unbearably empty of familiar faces. It had been turned into a shelter as soon as it had been confirmed the owners were dead. Her nephews died during the City Circle bombings. Her sister… It was unclear when she had died. As for her brother-in-law, he had been executed with the other Games officials.
She had no one left. Nowhere left.
Not good enough to save.
Not brave enough to die.
She was like a cockroach. The guards had loved to taunt her with that too. No matter how little they fed her, no matter what they said or did, she refused to die. They hadn't hurt her so much after the victors' rescue. They had other games. Taunting her was one. Pretending she didn't exist when she was dying for someone to talk to was another. She couldn't stand being alone anymore. Silence was banned from her life now, she turned on TVs, radios or put on some music in every room she settled in. But she couldn't stand crowds either. What a curious paradox, she was.
Her heartbeat started to quicken and she forced herself to regulate it, to take deep breaths. In and out. She focused on that. In and out. Again and again.
She left the town behind and could have wept in joy when she spotted the Victors' Village looming ahead, behind the loopy slope.
She could make it.
A cockroach would have made it and she was like a cockroach. The guards had always said so.
There were a few people going about their business. Some asked if she needed help, others gave her the stink eyes they always kept for the escort. She didn't mind. She rather understood.
She had almost reached the slope when dark spots started to dance in front of her eyes and she gave up. She simply gave up. She sat down on a boulder, sparing a thought for her black pants that would be damp with melted snow, and buried her face in her hands, grateful there was no one on this particular stretch of road. Her breathing caught up impossibly fast, she could hear herself pant like an overheated dog… She hated that. She hated the feeling she would never be able to take another breath of air again. She shut her eyes tight and she curled up on herself.
She didn't hear the approaching footsteps and thus she startled and screamed when someone touched her shoulder – or she tried to scream, it wasn't so easy when you were panting and unable to catch your breath.
"Easy." Haymitch said, crouching in front of her so they could be more or less at the same level. "It's only me." His voice sounded strangely distorted. "The boy called."
"I told him…" she managed to get out between two heaving breaths.
"Not to, yeah." he grumbled, unbuttoning his coat and draping it over her shoulders. "But he knew I'd find out and he knew I'd be mad. See… Between you and me, I'm still the scary one to the kids."
He helped her slip her arms in the sleeves and then buttoned it for her. He did it wrong and she wanted to sigh because how could you still miss a button at forty-three? She undid everything and did it again with numb shaky fingers. It helped her focus on something and her breathing slowly started to regular itself. Maybe it had been his plan all along.
"You're good now?" he asked. "'Cause my ass is freezing, sweetheart."
"Language." she chided him, cautiously getting on her feet.
She felt weak. As always after a panic attack. Her legs were like jelly and she was unsteady. She welcomed the arm he wrapped around her waist even though she would have rather not leaned against him. She didn't want to be weak. She wanted to be normal.
"Share your body heat." he grumbled when he glimpsed the reluctance on her face. "You've got my coat. Who fucking goes out without a coat in winter? It's not your regular Capitol weather, here. Ever heard of frostbite? Just like you to be so stupid."
She suppressed a fond smile at his rough rambling that was more worried than annoyed and snuggled against his side. Their progress was slow going but he was good enough to pretend they were just having a casual stroll and not act as if she was physically unable to go faster. She was worried he would get cold and get sick so she tried to push herself but her strength was what it was.
"Thank you for coming for me." she whispered as they reached the huge iron gates.
"Don't be dumb." he mumbled.
She supposed he meant he would always come and she also supposed he had proved that. When he could, he came. When he could.
Not good enough to save.
She closed her eyes and forced the echoes of the hated voices back down, at the very bottom of her mind, where it couldn't hurt.
"Peeta might need help. At the bakery." she continued. "It was packed."
"He said there was an aggressive guy." Haymitch growled, tightening his hold on her waist. "That's what set you off? Who was it?"
She was torn between rolling her eyes and smiling at his protectiveness.
"He wasn't truly aggressive, he was just impatient to get his order." she explained. "And it wasn't him, it was… I don't know. There were too many people. I felt trapped. It triggered… Bad memories."
"You want to talk about it or…" he asked awkwardly.
"No." she answered. "I just want to go home." Her own words made her smile but it was sad. "Except I have no more home, do I?"
She sighed and touched her face and he stopped walking. They weren't far from the house now. She could hear the geese honking.
"Now you're being real stupid." he frowned. "What do you mean you've got no home?"
"I mean…" she hesitated. They had never really talked about what they were doing. She had showed up on his doorstep one day with whatever possessions she had left after trying and failing to get her life back together in the city and he had stepped aside without question. She had moved in his guestroom and then, after a while, the guestroom had simply become storage for her boxes because everything she used daily had slowly migrated to his bedroom. But they had never talked about it. Most of her stuff was still in the boxes. "It is your house…"
"Yeah, and, last time I checked, you lived in it." he scoffed.
His nose and ears were red from the cold and she resisted the urge to rub them. "But it is still your house."
It was cleaner and tidier because she couldn't stand to live in a pigsty. She kept it pristine. But at the core of it… Everything was the same as it had been for years. She hadn't touched anything aside for reorganizing the cupboards in the kitchen.
"You live in it." he argued. "Makes it ours."
She bit down on her bottom lip, knowing it must have cost him to offer that much because he was still constipated when it came to dealing with feelings and relationships. They had fallen in domesticity without truly discussing it aside for a vague – half-joked – mutual assurance that there were now strings attached to their no strings attached affair.
"It doesn't feel like ours." she admitted.
"Then make it ours." he shrugged. "We can… repaint or something."
"Are you suggesting we redecorate?" she asked, slightly incredulous. Haymitch hated change in its every form.
He shrugged again, obviously ill-at-ease. "As long as there's no pink… It was just a house before you came. You make it home…" He scowled and kicked at a small heap of snow. "So… you can do whatever to make it home to you too. Not like I care. But no pink."
She wanted to acknowledge this but she knew it would make him want to bolt so instead she found herself grinning. "No pink."
"Good." he grumbled. "Now let's get inside before I lose a finger."
It was warm inside the house, the fire was roaring in the living-room, but it wasn't suffocating like the bakery had been. It was an instant relief. She shed his coat and hung it on the rack next to the door he had never used before she came around. She settled on the couch, automatically reaching for the remote and set the TV on low, then she grabbed the magazine she had been reading that morning from the coffee table.
There was an open book and a half-full glass of whiskey next to it. She figured that was what Haymitch had been doing before coming to her rescue.
He came back from the kitchen with a steaming mug for her. She thanked him with a soft smile, breathing in the comforting smell of her favorite strawberry flavored tea. She curled up against his side and placed her magazine on his lap so she could read and drink at the same time. He propped his book on the armrest, his other arm around her shoulder, the glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers pressed against her elbow.
She missed her family and she missed her life from before but this… This was something she could never have had before and this… This she really liked. Quiet cuddling moments with Haymitch weren't so rare nowadays, they were rather the norm in-between two bickering matches.
This, she mused, was her safe place.