13Fische:damn, Haymitch's inability to get to the point when it comes to feelings can be frustrating. good thing Effie's so good with reading between the lines (at least when she's not self-doubting so much).
"And, lately, stolen ones, in the dead of night, they hadn't mentioned either." and now i'd like to read about those if you're willing.
The Important Things
Haymitch hated how much he liked Effie sneaking into his bed in the middle of the night.
He hated it because it wasn't like it used to be. She didn't sneak in his bed to get frisky. She didn't sneak in his bed to surprise him with a blow job. She didn't sneak in his bed because she wanted him.
She sneaked in his bed because she couldn't bear to face the darkness of the night alone, because her sleep was plagued with nightmares she had learned not to wake up screaming from, because she needed someone to anchor her to the present… And they never discussed it.
He hated all of that.
But fuck did he like being allowed to hold her close.
More often than not, he pretended to sleep. To spare her pride. To give himself the pretence she was seeking him out because she needed him and not just a warm body to remind her she wasn't alone…
Usually, she snuggled against his back or against his side, manhandled him until he was holding her safe and tight… She must have known he wasn't really asleep or she wouldn't have risked it. Then again… His knife had been tossed in the drawer after the first night she had done that. He wouldn't chance hurting her, not even by accident. He wouldn't permit anything to hurt her ever again, not even his own demons.
When Effie sneaked into his bed that particular night, he wasn't surprised or alarmed. He had been waiting for it because she had been distant during dinner and she had barely said a word when they had shared their nightly mug of tea afterwards. Her eyes had been slightly dazed and that was a sure sign of nightmares to come. He wished he could help her better, that his twenty six years of trauma could at least have that use, but he had no magic words for her, no real tricks to help her escape the night terrors…
So when he heard the telltale sounds of her hurried footsteps coming down the corridor and into his room, he simply closed his eyes and tried not to feel too guilty about actually feeling relieved to not have to sleep alone that night. The ugly truth was that he slept better when she was in his bed. The ugliest truth was that he was too much of a coward to ask her to just move in with him properly.
He was pretty sure she would say no and it was too early still, she hadn't been there long enough for him to feel he had the right to ask for more. Intimacy was clearly an issue now. It had never been before but now… Now she flinched when he touched her and she didn't expect it. Now she fled from casual touches she had always sought. Now…
She barely lifted the blankets when she slipped in behind him. He was on his stomach, one of his legs bent so his body was slightly angled to the right… She plastered herself to his back, rested her head between his shoulder blades, wrapped her arm around his torso, wedged her hand under his stomach…
He could feel the uneven puffs of her breath through the thin cotton of his shirt.
She was shaking.
She was always shaking.
Safe in the knowledge that he was facing away from her, he opened his eyes and stared at the vague shape of the dresser in the dark. He started to count in his head. Usually, by the time he reached fifty, she had calmed herself down and had started to fall back asleep.
When he reached one hundred, she was still trying to get her breathing back under control.
Tossing caution to the wind, he slowly turned around, trying not to hurt her as she slid off his back, and wrapped his arms around her so she was trapped against his chest. It gave away the game, of course. She wouldn't be able to leave at dawn before he woke up and they wouldn't be able to pretend none of that had happened in the morning.
Her fingers fisted his shirt and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, her tears were hot against his skin. He hated it when she cried. He hated that she always cried in silence.
He wanted to tell her it was alright, to invent pretty lies to make her feel better, but he didn't have the words so he simply held her even tighter.
It was a reflex born from years of holding her in a bed that made him drop a kiss on the top of her head. Her breath caught and she looked up. He could barely see her face in the semi-darkness, he could barely glimpse the tears slowly rolling down her cheeks… Tentatively, he leaned in and pressed another kiss on her forehead. When she didn't protest, he kissed her cheek, tasted the salty trail on her skin…
He would have stopped there.
Of course, he would have. He was an asshole but he wasn't the asshole who would take advantage of a woman he cared about deeply.
He would have stopped there if she hadn't hesitantly cupped his cheek, if her fingertips hadn't stroke the stubble covering his jaw… It was her who leaned in, her who brushed her lips against his, her who turned that tentative touch into a kiss so fragile Haymitch almost wanted to scream…
It was precious, that kiss.
A question he answered with a promise…
Even if his instinct was shouting at him to deepen it, he kept the kiss soft, sweet… He could wait. Let her make the move. Let her set the pace. Let her heal.
When she drew back, they stared at each other for a very long time.
They had never really needed to talk to understand each other, that was the prerogative of people who had known each other so well for so long, and it wasn't any different that night. He understood implicitly that the kiss wasn't an opening to anything, that it wasn't time for that yet…
When she settled back against his chest, he closed his eyes and forced himself to relax and try to sleep.
When he woke up the next morning, she was gone.
He found her in the kitchen, trying to fix them breakfast with a forced cheerfulness that prompted him to rescue the eggs before she could burn them – and the house with it.
They didn't discuss the fact she had come to sleep with him because they never did.
They didn't discuss the kiss either.
They had never been good about talking about the important things.