Prompt: If you still take promos could you please write something post mj where haymitch gets effie a rescue cat when she's still recovering and won't leave the house. I can totally see her being a cat person and it would be super sweet x
Vopiscus
There was a window seat in Haymitch's guest room and that was where Effie spent most of her time.
It wasn't planned and she hadn't meant to.
She had come to Haymitch's house out of a lack of good options and because she had never been good at being alone. She had been tired of the negative public opinion even a PR magician like her couldn't turn around this time, she had been tired of the nightmares, tired of the panic attacks that simple banal things triggered, tired of having to live in a rat hole, tired of going to job interviews that never amounted to anything because the moment they saw who she was the doors closed in her face, tired of living out of Plutarch's charity, tired of… When he had brought Katniss back to Twelve, Haymitch had said come with me and she had laughed in his face. And, in the end, she had come because, as she had soon realized, it was the only home she had left. Because he was there and because the children were there.
She had thought it would be enough but somehow it had turned out to be worse.
In the year that had followed the war, she had been good at keeping up the pretence that she was alright. After her rescue, there had still been the urgency of war times, the Purge, the danger… The need to be the Effie Trinket of old for her own safety and for Katniss' benefit. Then, as insults and loathing had started to rain on her – traitor or monster, one thing was for sure: escorts weren't fashionable anymore – it had become a matter of pride. Don't let them see. A composed mask every time she left her apartment, a battle armor of silk, powder and wigs that weren't in fashion either anymore. Then, Haymitch had left and they had taken her apartment, her money, her silk dresses and her wigs and what was left of her dignity. It was harder to hide behind cheap clothes and bad quality lipstick but she had managed for a time.
She had still been pretending when she had finally borrowed enough money from Plutarch for a train ticket – pretending she didn't see Fulvia's irritated pursed lips behind him at the new loan of money, pretending she didn't know Haymitch paid him back every time she asked him for some. She had arrived in Twelve with a scratched pink suitcase, scrapped shoes, a frayed pink coat that was too thin and a bright smile on her face. She had knocked on Haymitch's door, with a plan to spin a simple tale about visiting her victors for a little while and quite a few imagined stories about how wonderful her life was – Haymitch would have known better, of course, but she had thought he would allow her the lie.
She had been pretending right up until she had knocked and the door had opened and Haymitch had stood there in worn flannel pajama pants and an old blue tee-shirt with a hole on his shoulder. The smell was what had done her in. The smell was too familiar. The slight tang of sweat, the cheap soap and the liquor… The smell equaled safety to her like nothing else on this earth.
He hadn't even had time to say anything before her mask had shattered and she had started crying.
He had embraced her without question, had coaxed her inside the house, had fixed her some tea to drink while he carried her suitcase upstairs and had nodded at her ridiculous story about how she had thought she might visit them.
Then, she had gone to lie down in his guest room because she was tired and she had never stepped out of it again.
It had been three weeks.
She hadn't meant to.
At first, getting out of bed again had been near impossible. She hadn't had the will. She hadn't had the strength. Every time she tried, she ended up crying and trembling. After a few attempts at convincing her to come downstairs, Haymitch had awkwardly patted her shoulder and told her it would get better in a few days, that she obviously was exhausted and that she should rest. She had curled up under the blankets and mostly ignored the rest of the world.
When the children had knocked on the door, she had told them to come in and had composed herself a mask that looked a little less desperate but that didn't do a good job at hiding just how tired she was. She wasn't sure what they knew. She didn't want them to know.
It was easier to face them in the confines of the small bedroom, where she could pretend she was simply suffering from headaches and they played along, than it was to leave the room, go downstairs and actually confront the elephant dancing in their lives. There was no way they didn't know about the nightmares. When Effie screamed, she was certain she could be heard in a two miles radius.
It was better than when she had been alone in the Capitol because every time she had a nightmare or a panic attack, Haymitch was always there waiting for her on the other side, the bags under his eyes growing darker with every new episode. Sometimes he coaxed her back to reality with soft whispers, sometimes he just held her… She wasn't alone and that made it all better.
She had gotten up eventually, at some point after the second week. Haymitch had been drunk and he had ripped the sheets and the blankets off the bed, had told her she needed to get a grip before they both went completely crazy…
She had bolted and curled up in the old wardrobe full of dead moths. The tight dark place reminded her of her cell. In an odd twisted way hiding there was almost a comfort.
Later, she had taken a shower and he had remade the bed – badly – in an awkward unvoiced apology.
She hadn't stuck to the bed afterwards. She took baths sometimes, when he drew them for her. Mostly, she hid in the wardrobe and pretended she was dead. She had done that a lot in her cell. It helped make the long minutes that tickled by more bearable.
Haymitch had humored that behavior for a week now. Every time he had found her there, he had picked her up without a word and carried her to the window seat and repeated her that she was free now. She was sorry to cause him distress because she knew he was just as exhausted as she felt, she knew he was worried, she knew he was at the end of his tether…
She knew she was a burden.
She knew she should never have come to Twelve because he felt responsible for her now and he would have been better off without her. There were geese in the backyard – she hadn't seen them but she could hear them and he told her about them sometimes, silly stories to fill the void of silence. She knew what the geese meant, an old promise to his brother. She knew he had finally let go of the ghosts and had started rebuilding a life. At least until she had come around to become a ghost made flesh haunting his guest room.
He would be better off without her.
But he had seen her eyeing the portable razor she hadn't used to shave her legs in far too long and she couldn't find it anymore. Even the glass that used to hold her toothbrush had been replaced by a plastic cup.
She didn't leave the room. The room was safe in the same way her cell had been safe: it was a controlled environment. She knew what to expect. She knew what would happen. It was small but not too small that it was suffocating, there was light so it was never dark and she could take a shower when the smell of her own unwashed skin became impossible to ignore.
Improvements.
The cell had been dark, not a single light out there. Her mind left to drift on an endless sea of thoughts, guilt and terror… There had been no spare space in her cell. No room. Just three walls, a ceiling and a door that she could all touch without moving an inch. Muscles cramping, her body decaying in its own filth, head bent at an odd angle, shoulder aching from that time they had pulled too hard on it… The snap, she could still hear the snap…
Pain raced up her collarbone, phantom like, and she focused on the comings and goings of people below in the streets. Haymitch lived at the very end of the Village and even if refugees had occupied most of the houses during rebuilding, a lot of them had chosen to leave and build something new in town – she knew because the children had told her, they had to talk about something that wasn't her own insanity. There had been children playing with a ball at the end of the lane but they were running away now, called by their mothers.
It must have been close to noon, she supposed with complete indifference.
The sky was grey and maybe it would rain. She hoped not. Or at least she hoped it wouldn't turn into a storm. Thunder reminded her of the sound of guns, lightning was too similar to the flashes and sparks when they had interrogated Johanna. Her screams…
She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against the borrowed woolen sweater she was wearing. It was red and felt brand new, too bold a color for Haymitch. She remember ordering it for him, she didn't remember why she had thought it would be a good idea. It was so big on her it might have passed as a dress and she liked wrapping herself in it… The fabric was soft and warm.
She heard the heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and she knew he was making some noise on purpose, not to startle her. Startling her always ended up badly. He had learned that the hard way. He had been forced to pull her from under the bed once and he had told her never again because he was too old for that.
The door opened without any round of knocking but she hadn't expected any. Haymitch never knocked and it was still his house anyway. Even if she had locked herself in his guest room.
His grey eyes immediately darted to the untouched tray he had left on the foot of the bed earlier that morning, when he had carried her out of the wardrobe and to the window seat. She was still exactly where he had left her. His face hardened and she knew she had disappointed him again.
She wasn't eating enough. She knew that. She couldn't force herself to. Every time she ate more than one toast or three forkfuls, she felt full and wanted to throw up. He had adjusted by bringing her up lighter meals but it was still too much. He had threatened to use a funnel to force-feed her once but the flash of terror on her face had been enough that he had never joked about that again.
He was carrying a small white dishtowel between his cupped hands and that wasn't part of the routine. She tracked his progress inside the bedroom with her eyes, not quite able to connect with the present, to be interested in what it was… Maybe some fresh fruits. He had brought her some fresh berries Katniss had found in the woods once.
"You didn't eat." he sighed.
"Sorry." She forced the word out because the disappointment on his face hurt her and she knew he would be glad if she spoke. She didn't talk a lot aside from screams and panicked shouts of his name. They hadn't had a real conversation since she had arrived. Mostly she forced herself to utter monosyllabic words sometimes, if the children were there she even tried to put some cheer into them.
"It can't go on like this, sweetheart." he told her. "It ain't good for you."
It wasn't the first time he had told her that but it was the third time in as many day and she curled up tighter against the glass panel of the window, wondering if today was the day he would kick her out.
"Sit up." he demanded. She frowned at the towel and whatever was hiding in it because she was pretty sure it had let out a tiny noise but she didn't move. "Effie, sit up. Please."
It was less a command and more a request now and he asked so little of her when she took so much of him that she forced herself to uncurl. It was difficult. Her body had grown stiff in the last few hours and it was painful. He waited until her back was resting against the window and her feet were on the floor to carefully place the dishtowel on her lap. Then he unwrapped the corners and revealed the tiniest grey cat she had ever seen. It almost looked like a rat.
"Found him on my way back from the store." he explained. "The mother and the rest of the litter are dead. A fox got them, I think. He was the only one left."
It was small to be all alone in this world… Its eyes weren't even really open yet. She bundled her hands into fists at her sides to stop herself from touching it. It was too small and too fragile and she would hurt it.
"He needs to be fed once every few hours." Haymitch said, fishing a small bottle full of milk out of his pocket. It was the tiniest bottle ever, like a doll's and she wondered where he had found it. At least until he placed the bottle on the seat next to her and his intentions became clear.
"I can't." she croaked, her voice breaking in her panic.
"He's gonna die, then." He shrugged. "Cause I sure as hell ain't taking care of it."
"Haymitch…" she insisted. Her vision started tunneling in and her heart sped so much it felt like it was going to explode. A second later, she felt the prickling in her fingers.
He must have gotten the cat out of the way because next thing she knew, they were on the floor, she was on his lap, he was rocking her gently and she was gasping for air.
"I'm sorry." His voice sounded rough and he pressed a kiss against her forehead. She wanted to tell him that it was alright, that he should just take care of the cat himself or find someone who could do it better than either of them could – when had either of them be good at taking care of fragile things anyway? – but she didn't have time to force herself to form the words. "I'm sorry but I can't watch you let yourself die anymore. You don't want to feed that cat, he's gonna die. You don't wanna feed yourself, you're gonna die too and that kitty with you. You want him to survive, you're gonna have to start wanting to survive too."
"I can't." she whispered and she wasn't exactly sure what it was she couldn't do: take care of the kitten or try to remember why she wanted to stay alive.
"You can." he countered. "You just don't want to."
He placed her down on the floor and extricated himself from under her. He left without looking back, closing the door quietly behind him. She almost wished he had slammed it.
She didn't move.
She heard the kitten's pathetic cries from somewhere on the bed but she didn't move.
She was still on the floor when he came back she wasn't sure how long later – an hour, maybe two. He clenched his jaw, switched the bottle of milk for another one, grabbed the tray and left.
The kitten's recurrent whimpers were loud in the silence of the room and she pressed her hands on her ears so she wouldn't hear them anymore. The room didn't feel safe. Her sanctuary was broken.
She was rocking on herself when Haymitch came back – sooner than the last time, half an hour, maybe? He checked on the bundle on the bed and she could tell it was taking everything he had not to intervene because he probably hated watching fragile things die just as much as she did. He still left. Without a word.
She crawled to the wardrobe on all four and tucked herself in the darkness, played at being dead. That was safe.
But her mind couldn't help but go back to the kitten on the bed and worry that he wasn't safe. After knocking her head against the wooden wall for ten minutes, she gave in to the impulse and crawled back out. The kitten was lying on its side on the dishtowel and only started mewling pitiful cries again when she carefully picked it up. She could feel its heart racing under her thumb.
She knew how he felt. Alone in a strange place. So tiny and breakable in a giant monster's hand… Not knowing if she was going to crush him now or later. She knew exactly how he felt.
She found the bottle where Haymitch had left it. It was so small it didn't really fit in her hand and she felt silly trying to coax the kitten to suck on the teat. It was too big for his tiny mouth and it was a messy process. Once the kitten stopped feeding, there was more milk on the floor and on her sweater than in his belly.
She took him with her when she hid back in her wardrobe, let him nestle between her bent legs and her stomach to keep him safe and warm in the wool of her sweater. The little thing purred. She thought it was more because it was afraid than out of pleasure. Her hand found its back. She was afraid too.
When the wardrobe door was eased open – slowly, not to startle her, never to startle her – Haymitch was smiling for the first time in weeks. A smile that reached his eyes and made him look younger.
"Good job, sweetheart." he praised. "Now, come out of here. It's time for his next one." She shook her head no and he crouched to be at her level. "You're safe here, sweetheart. You know you're safe here. You don't need to hide. Give me the kitten."
She did get out of the wardrobe but she refused to hand the cat over. She kept him cradled in the crook of her left elbow and eyed Haymitch warily when he helped her to the bed. She sat against the pillow and accepted the bottle he handed her, pretending not to notice the tray with a glass of orange juice and a sandwich on it.
"It isn't working well." she whispered once the kitten had started sucking on the teat.
He watched the cat struggle and the drops of milk flying around and he winced. "I'm gonna think of something else."
"He's too small." she whispered. He fitted in the palm of her hand.
"He'll grow." Haymitch promised. "He's a survivor that one. Like you. Like us."
He grabbed the sandwich and pointedly waved it in front of her face. She took a few bites but couldn't finish it. He leaned against the headboard and ate what was left. They watched the kitten that had curled up on her lap and they didn't say anything. Eventually, she rested her head on his shoulder and fell asleep.
When she woke up, she was alone in the room, under a blanket, and the kitten was sniffing the pillow next to her. He let out a small cry and she petted it until it started purring again.
She didn't realize she was smiling until there was a knock at the door. Knocks meant the children, always. And the smile turned forced.
Peeta looked happy and that was good. Katniss looked sullen and that was normal. Haymitch spent the whole time leaning against the doorframe, watching the three of them.
The children had apparently come up with another plan to feed the kitten. Instead of a bottle, they had found a big plastic syringe. It wasn't any less messy and it felt barbarian to her to force the milk into the cat's mouth but the kitten took more milk that way and seemed eager to suck more. It was so exhausting to watch him struggle to feed himself that she accepted the bowl of soup Peeta placed in her hands.
She asked them to watch the kitten while she took a shower, strangely reluctant to leave the little animal alone. It wasn't interested in doing much more than sleeping after being fed though.
"It's a bad idea, Haymitch." Katniss said once the bathroom door was closed. "You don't know it's going to live and if it dies, it's going to crush her."
Effie's heart started racing in her chest.
"He's gonna live." Haymitch's voice answered, quiet in his certainty. "He has to. They both have to."
When she woke up screaming her head off that night and Haymitch rushed into her room, into her bed to hold her, there was only one thought in her head. "Don't crush Vopiscus."
She was still in the throes of her nightmares and she didn't understand why Haymitch was laughing so loud there were tears rolling down his cheeks. He tugged her against his chest, still chuckling. "We ain't calling our cat by one of your Capitol names, Princess."
Our.
The word was as tiny as the kitten, maybe just as fragile. But it made her feel as safe as Haymitch's arms.
The next few days seemed to prove Haymitch's right, the kitten was a survivor. When she hid in the wardrobe, she took him with her and when Haymitch brought food for her when it was time to feed him, she ate a little in solidarity. It was awful to see how unnatural it was for the kitten to feed with a big syringe and yet how eager he was for the milk. It made it a little easier to stomach her own meals.
It remained like that for a week. She watched the kitten all day. He had started to wander and explore a little but she was wary of him getting lost under the dresser or hurt. Still, he was growing stronger and she wasn't feeling as sluggish as she had before.
At least until the day Haymitch didn't show up.
She waited.
All morning she waited.
She grew worried. It wasn't like him to forget her. Even when he drank too much, he always showed up, always brought her something to eat, always made sure she was alright… At long last, because she was scared he had passed out somewhere, she forced herself to open the bedroom door.
There were noises coming from downstairs. Normal noises. As if he was moving around, touching pots in the kitchen.
She called out to him but he never answered so she sat down next to the threshold, on the right side of the doorframe and waited some more. It soon became obvious he wasn't going to come no matter how many times she called.
She was a little hungry but hunger was nothing she couldn't ignore.
The problem was the cat.
Haymitch hadn't brought the milk and they had missed two feeding times already. The kitten was growing restless, wailing those high-pitched mewls and restlessly roaming around her… How long before it was one missed meal too many? He was so little, so fragile…
At that moment, she hated Haymitch more than she had ever hated him.
She wasn't stupid, she knew she had been played.
He had given her a kitten to care for and he had let her get attached and now he had denied the kitten the milk he needed to survive so if she wanted him to live, she needed to go downstairs and fetch food.
Leave the room.
Leave the room she hadn't left in over a month. Stop hiding and brave the relative outside world of his house.
She waited until the kitten stopped crying out. She told herself she didn't care. She told herself people and animals died and that was just what happened. She told herself it was better that way anyway… And yet when the kitten gave up and stop crying, she scooped it up and crawled out of the bedroom, tears running down her cheeks, trembling just as much as the cat was.
She didn't want him to die.
She couldn't bear anyone else dying.
Not because of her.
The house was clean. She noticed because it hadn't been when she had arrived. It had been dusty and there had been a stench in the air but now it was clean. And a part of her knew that it was because Haymitch was aware bad smells triggered flashbacks. He had cleaned for her, so she would be comfortable and that made it a little easier to shuffle over to the kitchen, the kitten safe in her cupped hands.
Haymitch didn't react when he saw her. As if it was entirely normal for her to enter the kitchen. As if she had been doing so every day for the last month.
Vopiscus' meal was on the table and so was a plate full of toasts for her. He poured her a glass of milk when she sat down to feed the cat and she slowly sipped from it.
His hand ended up on the back of her neck, just like hers often ended up on the kitten's back. Protective and possessive all at once. She leaned into it.
He had been right after all.
The kitten was a survivor.
And so was she.