Prompt: I know most of the time Effie is pretty good at holding her own but could you write something during games time where haymitch goes in a bit too hard on mocking her for 'probably being in love with him when he'll never love her back' thing and he eventually makes her cry? Maybe it's the first time he's ever seen her fully letting her guard down and he feels bad afterwards? Thank you!

The Only Exception

She shouldn't have slept with Haymitch that night.

It hadn't been a good day or a good week or a good month or even a good year. She had reached thirty and her mother had been harassing her with blind dates and suitable marriage prospects, reminding her incessantly that she was getting too old to be appealing to most… It had been disparaging comment after disparaging comment for months on ends and Effie was reaching the end of her tether. Turning thirty hadn't been fun. She felt old, as if a whole part of her life was over. She felt…

She shouldn't have slept with Haymitch.

He was drunk, drunker than she usually tolerated for their secret bouts of sex, drunk enough that she was certain he barely knew it was her he was screwing… It hadn't been good. His kisses had been hard and impatient, his hands too clumsy to get her clothes out of the way so he had simply tugged everything aside so he could reach between her legs… She didn't even know how they had gotten to his bed. A few sloppy thrusts in her and he had spilled, too quickly for to even feel a spark of arousal.

She shouldn't have slept with him.

She shouldn't have but she had crossed paths with her mother at that party and… She had just needed to feel wanted. Haymitch was good at that usually. He was good at making her body feel good, at making her feel desirable, gorgeous.

When he said she was beautiful, she believed him because he never shied of telling her when he thought she was ugly.

She had needed that that night, the quiet worshipping of her body…

But by the time she had located him in the crowd, Chaff had been working his influence and Haymitch had been well into his drinks.

She just wanted a break so when he had started groping her in the elevator…

She shouldn't have slept with him.

He rolled off her with a groan that turned into a hiccup and remained lying there on his back, his shirt crumpled, his pants gaping open under his butt, his softening penis on his thigh… Not quite the appealing sight she had wanted.

She slowly fixed her clothes – not much work there, all she had to do was adjust her thong and pull down her dress – and fought the frustrated tears in her eyes.

One glance told her he would fall asleep any second now, sex and alcohol conspiring to tire his body. She took her chance and slowly crept closer to his side, resting her head on his shoulder.

They didn't always bolt after the deed was done anymore. Sometimes they talked for a little while. Sometimes he even allowed her to…

"The fuck you're doing?" he spat, his whole body jerking away from her. "We ain't cuddling. You want cuddles find yourself a fucking Capitol boyfriend."

She clenched her jaw but nodded, her cheeks flushing crimson in humiliation. Her only comfort was that he probably wouldn't remember the next morning. She doubted he would even remember they had had sex.

She was going to slip out of bed with all the remnants of her dignity and trek back to her own bedroom but he was on a rant now, his glassy bloodshot eyes staring at her without seeing her. "You're all the same… Fucking Capitol women… Always thinking it's gonna be a great love story… You think I love you, sweetheart? You think I love you? You think I ever can love someone like you?"

"Please, stop." she asked.

She didn't need that particular speech tonight. She had heard enough variants over the years. Sometimes they were subtle, sometimes they were awkward because he wasn't trying to hurt her, sometimes they were just plain cruel. The reminder was always there: their arrangement was just sex, nothing more. It would never be anything more. He might not hate her anymore but it was very clear he would never – could never – love a Capitol, particularly an escort.

"You're fake…" he scowled. "You're all fake…" His eyes roamed from her blue wig to the red heels still strapped to her ankles and his features cringed in disgust. "You're ugly. You think I could ever love someone this ugly…"

The sob escaped her before she could control it and she pressed a hand against her mouth but it was too late. The tears spilled.

Her mother had spent months warning her if she waited longer she would never find a husband because she was too plain and too old. And all those months she had clung to the thought Haymitch would still want her, Haymitch would find her beautiful, Haymitch would tell her age didn't matter… A lie in any Capitol man's mouth but a truth coming from his lips and…

He was too drunk.

If only she had waited until he had sobered up, he would have offered some awkward comfort the only way he knew how: with sex – good sex too, not the disaster that had just occurred.

"Effie?" He was blinking hard, sounding almost surprised.

She never let him see her cry. Never.

She fled the bed before it could get worse, ran away from his bedroom and into hers, slamming the door shut behind her. It took her a few minutes to control the sobs that wanted to escape, to remind herself she shouldn't let her mother get to her, that despite all Elindra had to say she was Effie Trinket, she was one of the twelve most popular women in the country and she was beloved by the public. As far as everyone was concerned, she had it all. And if it wasn't enough for her mother… Or for Haymitch… Well… Their loss, wasn't it?

She dragged herself to the bathroom, forcing a smile on her lips for her reflection's sake.

"Chin up." she told herself in the mirror.

She started removing her war paint, as Haymitch sometimes joked, her smile faltering when her bare plain self poked through under the makeup. Her cheekbones were less sharp, her eyes less bright, her skin paler… Once she had her wig off and her blond reddish hair was loose, she looked…

She turned away from the mirror, undressed quickly and slipped her nightgown over her head, retreating to the bedroom where she wouldn't have to look at herself.

She sat cross-legged on her bed and started brushing her hair, counting out of a never lost reflex. One hundred brushes were supposed to make it glossy and shiny.

The door opened without a knock and she looked up with a frown, having expected Haymitch to be long asleep by then. He stood there uncertainly for a moment, watching her…

His hair and the upper portion of his shirt was wet. His eyes looked a little sharper even if his movements were still lacking in coordination.

"What did you do?" she scoffed. "Stuck your head in the shower?" He licked his lips, looking awkward and defensive, and she knew he had done just that in hope of sobering himself up a little. He was still very drunk though. "Go to bed, Haymitch."

Instead of doing as she instructed – when did he ever do as she instructed? – he crossed the distance to her bed and crawled on top of it until he was lying behind her, wrapped around her, his thighs pressed against her left leg and his stomach against her back.

"Is it better or worse if I say I didn't know it was you?" he slurred tentatively.

The words hurt but made her feel a little lighter at the same time.

"Does it matter when it is still true?" she challenged, staring at the silver hairbrush forgotten on her lap.

He hesitated, his big hand cradling her elbow. "You ain't ugly… And you ain't fake. Mostly. I…" He sighed. "Sweetheart…"

"It is perfectly alright." she said cheerfully. "Apology accepted. Now I would like to finish getting ready for bed, if you do not mind."

Anyone else would have taken the hint but Haymitch was either too drunk or too stubborn to care. When she started running the brush through her hair again he sat up, bracketing her legs with his and took the hairbrush from her. She let him and held her breath when he clumsily ran it in her curls.

He had done that for her a few times already. Not that they talked about it. He was fascinated with her hair for some reason. He liked brushing it for her. It was an odd kink she was happy to let him enjoy on occasion.

"I'm very drunk." he mumbled behind her, brushing her hair off her shoulder to drop a kiss next to the strap of her nightgown.

"I noticed." she sighed.

"You don't wanna sleep with me when I'm very drunk…" he continued, chasing his confused thought.

"I shouldn't have." she acknowledged even though he was the one who had started it. "I am sorry."

He snorted. "Never say sorry for fucking me. You can fuck me anytime you want. Drunk or asleep or whatever…" He had found a steady rhythm with the hairbrush and she found herself relaxing, even smiling a little because of what he was saying. When he nuzzled her neck, she tilted her head to the side. "Don't mind you touching me… Never mind you touching me…"

"Still…" she whispered. "You are drunk and I should have known better. I just wanted…"

She let her voice trail off.

"You wanted cuddles…" he muttered. "Got confused. You can cuddle me. Only you though. Not the others."

"And how many others are there?" she asked, the sudden jealousy making her tone vicious.

"Not many anymore…" he said. "But you don't fuck me when I'm wasted… Got confused…" She relaxed even more, slouching a little until her back was resting against his chest. It impeded his efforts with the hairbrush and after a few clumsy attempts he just dropped it next to him on the bed to wrap his arms around her. "Got confused." he repeated, lower. "You can cuddle." He nuzzled her neck again. "Only you."

It was something of a comfort to know that even though all they had was a friendship with benefits, at least, whatever other women he was sleeping with weren't allowed the same liberties she was.

She pressed her forehead against his cheek. The familiar scratchy feeling of his stubble made her smile.

"This is all my fault, truly." she admitted. "I just wanted to feel better and I used you for that."

It took him a long time to answer, probably because he might have sobered up some but he was still pretty drunk.

"Didn't make it good for you." he finally mumbled. He placed one of his hands on her thigh, ran it up under her nightgown… "Make it good now…"

It was tempting but she wasn't in the mood anymore. She gently relocated his hand so he was holding her again.

"This is enough, darling." she whispered. "Thank you."

"Don't call me names…" he grumbled against her neck, dropping a sloppy kiss there.

"You call me names all the time." she pointed out.

"Yeah, but…" Whatever objections he had, he shrugged them off, unable to voice them and pressed another kiss against her neck. "Don't like it when you're upset…"

"You could have fooled me." she mocked.

"Not like that." he insisted, sounding too serious for a drunk man. "When you're hurt, it ain't fun."

She sighed and turned around in his arms until she was straddling his lap, her arms locked around his neck, her face buried in the crook of his shoulder… He held her tight, frowning a little.

"Do you truly think I am ugly?" she asked, her voice shaking a little.

"Not when you look like you…" he hesitated, burying one of his hands in her hair before coiling it around her nape. He gave a light squeeze and she melted against him.

She mouthed three words against his shoulder before she could think better of it. It was foolish this habit of hers of silently professing her love against his skin when he was too drunk or too asleep to realize.

Except he was always sharper than she gave him credit for and he tensed. "I can't."

It was an answer to what she had just mouthed, she knew it, and it broke her heart a little more because… Well, she had been foolish, hadn't she? Haymitch didn't lie to her, never. He did find her beautiful but he did not share the ridiculous feelings she had developed and he never would. He had never led her on about that. He had always been very clear.

"I know." she whispered.

He was distressed, she could tell, unsure if he had upset her further…

"Can cuddle you until you're better?" he offered, squeezing her nape again as if it was an appropriate alternative to a reciprocation of feelings.

"Thank you." she said and he seemed pleased so she let him hold her tight, smiling a little when he started humming some weird song that must have come from his District…

It lulled her to sleep, that song.

And when she woke up, she was tucked under the blankets and he was long gone…