Prompt: Could you please write something where during a nightmare, Effie screams something about what they did to her in the Capitol that she's never told aymitch and then he feels awkward about knowing when she clearly didn't want him to? X

The Things You Know

When he wasn't drunk Haymitch wasn't a heavy sleeper and Effie had been tossing and turning so much during the last twenty minutes that he was mostly dozing off and not really asleep by the time her whole body went rigid.

It went rigid.

One moment she was curled up next to him, her fingers having found his arm and coiled around it in her sleep, the next her body was stretched completely straight, the tension so intense he could feel him from his side of the bed.

"Sweetheart…" he whispered, blinking off the remnant of slumber from his eyes.

He was on his stomach, like most of the time when they drifted apart in bed, and he didn't dare sit up or roll to his side, wary that any movement would trigger something worse. He knew the signs of her night terrors by now and he also knew that touching her didn't always help. The fact that they were both naked wasn't a good thing either, he tiredly – if belatedly – realized. She might panic if there was too much skin on skin contact before she was completely aware of who was with her.

"Please…." she breathed out.

The despair in his voice broke his heart.

"Effie." he tried, a little louder. "Sweetheart, you're home."

Would she register Twelve as home though? It was still new. Not her presence in the District – she had been there for three months already, supposedly visiting – but her admission that she had nowhere else to go and wanted to stay. Her moving in into his bedroom with everything it entailed, their decision to give themselves a real shot at being something more than just lovers… That was also still new.

"Don't…" she muttered, straining her neck, struggling against the sheets that had tangled around her during her earlier tossing. Haymitch hadn't noticed. She had a tendency to steal blankets and since she piled too many on the bed anyway he was often warm so he didn't mind when he ended up with only a sheet to himself while she was covered by a mountain of blankets. But he hadn't noticed that she had managed to trap herself in them and he should have. Her voice suddenly rose higher. "Don't touch him! Don't!"

"Effie." he called more firmly, pushing himself in a sitting position slowly so he wouldn't startle her. "Effie, wake up."

He reached for the blankets and started tugging, trying to free her without touching her. If he shook her now, if he startled her awake, it would take hours for her to figure out what was real and what belonged to her nightmares. It was always better when he managed to talk her out of the dreams.

"I'll do anything…" she kept on muttering, the despair still obvious in her voice. Then, suddenly, her whole body relaxed and he froze, not daring to hope she had snapped out of the dream on her own. But the tension was still there, he quickly noticed, just… subdued. Her voice turned sultry if a little shaky. "I'll do anything. I'm very good at it. Anything you want. Anything. Just stop… Stop hurting him…"

His mouth went dry. His heart was in his throat. He forgot everything about how it wasn't wise to startle her awake and brushed her blond hair away from her face, gently petting the curls he loved to tug on so much. "Sweetheart…"

He couldn't bear to think… She had promised him nothing like that had happened. She had promised and…

But she had also confessed there had been threats and hands in places, hadn't she? It was the reason they had waited so long before having sex together again. He hated to think about that. He hated to think about her being hurt at all but thinking about her being hurt like that… He couldn't take it.

"No!" she screamed, straining away from his hand. "No! Peeta! Peeta! I will do anything! Anything you want! Don't! Don't! Peeta!"

She was shouting herself hoarse now, so loud he was a little afraid the children would hear from the other side of the street like they sometimes heard the echoes of Katniss' yelling at night. The pain in her voice, the distress…

He didn't stop to think, he pushed the blankets off her and cradled her in his arms, propping her up against his chest, dragging her on his lap… He wrapped his arms tight around her to stop her from struggling, wary of her hurting herself. It had happened before.

"Shhh.." he whispered against the shell of her ear, again and again. "I've got you. Effie, you're alright. You're safe. I've got you. Come on, Princess. Wake up. Come on." He spaced the encouragements with light kisses to her tear soaked cheeks and her clammy forehead. "Come on, sweetheart. Come back to me…"

It was a very long time before she grew limp against him, her breathing deep and slow, on the edge between awareness and slumber. Now that she was calm, he didn't try to coax her awake again. He knew the exhaustion that came with night terrors. When she would wake up tomorrow, her body would ache and she would feel sluggish, not well rested. She should be left to enjoy the peace while she could get it.

He kept on holding her though, pressing soft kisses against her cheek from time to time, petting her hair… He couldn't let her go.

She had propositioned them.

It wasn't that surprising all things considered. She had always used her body like a weapon and sex had always been a mean to an end to her. No, it wasn't that surprising. But it made him feel sick.

Not that she did it but that she had felt she had to.

Her fingers curled on his shoulder in her sleep, her face burrowed in the crook of his neck, she let out a low humming noise… He carefully rearranged her so he could lean back a little more, find a more comfortable position…

Sleep eluded him and he knew there wouldn't be any more rest to be had that night.

The craving hit him fast and hard. He resisted as long as he could but when his hands started shaking too badly and the nausea became too strong, when his mind was overwhelmed with the urge to have one sip, one glass, one bottle, he gently laid her back down and covered her with the blankets so he could slip out of bed.

There were no more bottles of liquor in the bedroom – that was one of Effie's iron rules, it had been even back when they had been casual – so he had to creep down the dark corridors of the house all the way down to the kitchen.

He couldn't get the images out of his head.

What her words hadn't told him, he could easily imagine. He pictured her on her knees, the boy hurt and covering in a corner, begging those Peacekeepers to let her…

Just to spare the boy.

Of course, to spare the boy.

He bent over the sink just in time to retch.

He wanted to punch someone. He wanted to punch someone so badly. Kill them, really. Kill them all. Not just kill, maybe. Torture. Hurt them like they had hurt her. Humiliate them like they had humiliated her. Tear them apart, limb by limb.

He hated it when those kind of thoughts floated through his head. It reminded him of standing over a dead kid, the iron taste of blood in his mouth, his fingers clenching around the hilt of the hunting knife, his hands sticky with blood, his ears ringing from the thrill… It wasn't a part of him he was proud of. It was a part of him that terrified him.

Eventually, when he was certain he wouldn't be sick again, he rinsed the sink, rinsed his mouth, grabbed a bottle and retreated upstairs.

He didn't want her to be alone.

She hadn't woken up. She was still buried under the pile of blankets, looking a lot more peaceful than earlier. He made sure she was tucked in and flopped on the old frayed armchair in the corner she was trying to convince him they needed to get rid of. He drank and watched in the semi-obscurity, dark ugly thoughts swirling in his head.

He was more drunk than sober when the pale light of dawn started trickling through the window. He passed into the bathroom, splashed water on his face to get his wits back as much as possible, took a good look at himself in the mirror, rubbed his reddish eyes and crept back to the kitchen to discard the evidence of his night drinking.

He started the coffee maker, the light buzzing sound enough to trigger a small headache. He let the geese out into the yard, grabbing a few eggs while he was at it. He wasn't sure he could keep any food but his stomach was churning with hunger and he decided it was worth the risk. He made scrambled eggs for himself and, when he heard the soft footsteps upstairs and the tell-tale sounds she was up and about, made her a soft-boiled egg. He put leftover bread in the toaster too so she would have something toasty to ate it with.

By the time she appeared on the threshold, her hair tousled from sleep, wearing one of his long-sleeved shirts and knee-high socks that also probably belonged to him, he had everything ready on the table. Her cup of coffee, her glass of orange juice, her egg, her toasts and a few jars of jam.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise when she saw the table, her lips stretching into a grin. "You are aware it is not my birthday, aren't you?"

His shirt was too big on her and it was slipping down her shoulder a little. He couldn't resist the temptation of pressing a kiss there when she sauntered closer and then pecked her lips when she stretched her neck for what had become their traditional morning kiss. He really liked that routine.

He snorted. "Don't know how you make wearing my stuff that cute."

"Breakfast and a compliment?" She laughed. "You must truly have enjoyed last night." She meant the sex. He knew that. He did. But he couldn't help but flinch at the memory of her begging her torturers to… "What's wrong?"

She cupped his cheek, a frown on her face.

He shook his head, forcing himself to smile. "Nothing. Eat before it gets cold. And don't get used to it. I ain't your personal cook."

She pursed her lips, clearly not believing his dismissal, but chose to let it go. "You should put some clothes on."

"My own fucking house." he reminded her because this was an old argument.

It was almost a relief to fall back on it. She thought it was unhygienic, not to mention improper, for him to walk around naked. He happened to like being naked. And it was his house. Sure, the kids had gotten an eyeful one time or two but they should just learn to knock.

"You are going to catch a cold and I won't nurse you back to health." she warned. "You are impossible when you are sick."

That was an empty threat. She would take care of him if he got sick. But he didn't like her worrying so he caved in and fetched sweatpants and his woolen dressing-gown from the bedroom. His scrambled eggs were lukewarm when he finally sat down to eat and she was a little too silent for his tastes.

It might have had to do with breakfast itself, although breakfast was the easiest meal for her. She had problems with food since the war. She often had to force herself to eat and she hated the sensation. He could relate. Well… No, he couldn't. Not after going hungry for so long. That had been the only advantage of getting Reaped: never being hungry again. But Effie was having a very different reaction to starvation. She didn't seem to be able to develop an appetite back. It was a concern because the amount she ate was rarely healthy.

So, yeah, she might have been silent because she wasn't feeling hungry at all but she knew that if she didn't make at least a token attempt at eating half the breakfast he had cooked for her there would be a fight. It was for her own good. He didn't keep track of what was on her plate because he enjoyed it.

"Haymitch?" Her voice sounded a little uncertain.

He glanced up at her and back to his scrambled eggs, pushing them around his plate. He shoveled two quick mouthfuls, not to waste it. "Yeah?"

"Do not talk with your mouth full." she chided, wrinkling her nose.

"You're the one who's making me talk." he retorted.

She narrowed her eyes at him but her irritation was fleeting at best. She stared at her soft-boiled egg, toying with the piece of toast in her hand.

"Did I have a nightmare last night?" she asked.

Her voice was anxious and he wondered just how much of the previous night she really remembered. He could tell her. He should tell her. They should probably discuss it. It wasn't right for him to hide what he had learned.

But if she had wanted him to know, she would have told him herself.

She had told him some of what had happened in those cells. Other stuff he had gathered from Peeta and Johanna. But the point was, it was her story to tell and he could tell this wasn't something she wanted him to know. She would feel the need to protect him from it.

He shrugged, shaking his head. "If you did, I didn't hear. Sorry, sweetheart."

"No… No, it is quite alright." She waved away his apology. The tension left her shoulders and he knew he had made the right choice. She might come to tell him in time but it would be her decision. "Did you sleep well?"

"Not really." he admitted with a wince. "Nightmares."

She made a sympathetic face and reached out to cover his hand with hers. "Perhaps you should try to go back to bed for a little while. You look tired."

"Depends." He smirked. "Joining me?"

She laughed a carefree laugh that always made his heart squeeze because it was so genuine that… For a long time after she was rescued, he hadn't been sure he would get to hear her laugh like that again. Or at all.

"That is unlikely to result in any sleep." she remarked.

He shrugged, watching her with a tenderness he rarely allowed himself to show. "So?"

Her smile softened, her blue eyes twinkling with happiness. That was how he liked seeing her. Happy. "What has gotten into you this morning?"

"Just want to make love to my wife. Nothing wrong with that, yeah?" he challenged.

Her eyebrows shot up but she had too good a poker face to let her surprise show for long, her lips twitched with amusement – or maybe it was bemusement. "Wife?"

He looked down at his half-eaten plate, pushing what was left of eggs with his fork. "What am I gonna call you? Girlfriend? Come on."

He scoffed. They weren't sixteen.

"Make love?" she insisted. She placed her chin in her palm, her elbow propped on the table. "That does not sound like you."

"Maybe it should." he snapped and then he licked his lips. "I just… It ain't like before. I want you to know that, that's all."

He had used her before. Maybe not the couple of years before the war but before that… He had used her because she was convenient, he hadn't treated her right. He knew that. She had had her share of wrongs in their relationship but… He hadn't treated her the way a man should treat a woman he cared for. He had taken her for granted, had been callous, often cruel…

He wanted to give her… Something good… He wanted to worship her, kiss her until she couldn't breathe, make her feel like she was the most beautiful woman in Panem because she was, make her feel like she was the most cherished woman in Panem too because she was.

"I know that, Haymitch." she offered, tilting her head to the side a little. "Your nightmare must have been bad. You look shaken."

"The worst." he muttered.

She watched him for a long moment and he had the feeling she wasn't as convinced by his white lie as he had hoped she would be. Most likely, she knew she had had some sort of nightmare herself and had an inkling of what it had been about. Most likely, she knew he was pretending he hadn't heard to spare her feelings. Most likely, she was trying to figure out if it was worth putting it out there or if they would be happier pretending the other wasn't aware. Most likely, they were two idiots trying to protect each other from past trauma.

"Well…" she eventually hummed, a hint of teasing in her voice. "I have nothing against making love."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't expect candles and shit."

She chuckled as she got to her feet, outstretching her hand to him. "If you ever start lighting candles and playing me love songs, I will probably send you straight to a doctor. I would suspect a concussion."

He let her pull him to his feet but tugged her against his chest instead of letting her go. "You think you're so funny, Princess…"

"Because I am." She grinned, rising on tip-toes to press a kiss against his lips. It was a short kiss. Tempting. Teasing. "You, on the other hand, are not."

More tantalizing short kisses that slowly turned deeper and he forgot to even be outraged that she would doubt his sense of humor. It wasn't enough to make him forget what he had learned but, as he brushed her hair back to kiss her some more, he decided he could put that aside for her sake.

If she didn't want him to know, he would pretend he didn't.