AN: For your information, some discussion of torture in this chapter. I feel that it's rather tamer than anything in the book series, so if you read those it shouldn't shock you, but I don't want to be accused of springing it on you all unexpectedly. So now you've been warned. :)

. . . . . .

Day Five

. . . . . .

The sunlight streaming through the windows has been hitting Haymitch in the face for at least twenty minutes when he finally gives in and admits he's not going to be able to get back to sleep with that light in his eyes. So he rises from Peeta's sofa, feeling like he barely slept at all; that thing is comfortable for sitting, but less so for sleeping. But the storm was so bad last night, and he'd felt an unaccountable pull to stay put until they knew Effie would be all right, so he stayed. Peeta had offered him a spare bedroom, but he wanted to be by the phone in case Plutarch called back. He never did.

Katniss appears at the top of the stairs, wearing pajamas that must be Peeta's, based on how baggy they hang on her frame. "Wearing Peeta's pajamas, Miss Everdeen?" He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

She rolls her eyes at him. "I slept in the spare bedroom next to Effie's," she says. "In case she woke up."

"And?"

Katniss shakes her head. Haymitch sighs and runs a hand down his face. "I want to shower," he says. "And get the heck out of these clothes. Call me if anything changes?"

The morning is bright and clear; all signs of the storm that so terrified Effie have vanished. A shower does him a world of good; he never did quite get warm after the rain last night, and the hot water banishes the last vestiges of cold in his hands and feet. Then it's formal clothes again—he really hopes Jo returns with his clean laundry soon—and downstairs to find breakfast.

He's halfway through a chunk of bread left by Peeta when the phone rings. He stares at it a moment, then races across the room to grab it. "Hello?"

"Haymitch," comes Plutarch's booming voice. "I got your message. Is something wrong with Effie?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," Haymitch says. "She had a breakdown last night. Did you know she's terrified of thunderstorms? As in, far more than is normal?"

There is silence on the other end for a long time. "Oh dear," Plutarch says finally.

"Is this about her time in prison? Is this one of the reasons you told Peeta you're worried about her?"

Plutarch sighs. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Look," says Haymitch, "we're trying to help. But we need to know what happened so we don't accidentally do something else that sends her catatonic."

"Yes, of course," says Plutarch. He is quiet a moment, considering. "She'd been doing very well since she left the hospital—she's one of my best employees—but I could tell she's been struggling with some things. It doesn't help that anytime someone brings up the war, most people in the Capitol get uncomfortable and clam up. They mostly support the rebellion, and they understand the reasons for the war and they see now all the terrible things Snow did, but they'd rather not think about any of the particulars—not of the war, not of Snow's crimes, not of the Hunger Games. So she's really had no listening ear except me, and I can't always be there."

"So you thought we could be listening ears," guesses Haymitch.

"Especially with the anniversary of the surrender coming up," Plutarch confirms. "To be reminded of memories of the war but surrounded by people refusing to acknowledge the suffering she went through—it was going to be lonely for her."

"The suffering. That's what I need to know about."

Plutarch gives his heaviest sigh so far. "You know she was taken by Snow's forces the night before the Quarter Quell started," he says. "She was meant to be picked up by Coin's forces, along with the stylists, but she got separated from them in all the rioting and no one could find her. Although given how Coin treated the stylists . . ."

That still disgusts Haymitch, when he thinks about it. "So the Peacekeepers got her instead," he prompts.

"As soon as the Games started, they began rounding up all the escorts, all the stylists, all the prep teams—except of course Katniss's team." He hesitates. "And then, of course, they didn't arrest Cinna; Snow wanted to make his death a special event for Katniss." His voice sounds bitter; Haymitch knows the man always respected Cinna a great deal and was very sorry to hear of his death. "Almost all of them were killed soon after the Quell; you'll remember Portia and her team's execution. But they kept Effie alive. At first they thought she had information about the rebellion—that she was maybe even part of it."

"Which is absurd, if you knew Effie back then," says Haymitch. "She loved the Capitol."

"They were taking no chances," Plutarch said. "They used their usual tactics to get information: starvation, sleep deprivation . . ."

"Electric shocks in water, like Johanna Mason?"

"Hence her fear of the storm," Plutarch confirms, sounding distant and sad. "I've never actually seen her face a thunderstorm, so it's news to me, but it makes a great deal of sense. From what she's told me, they only did it to her twice, and she never developed hydrophobia like Johanna did. But I suppose it would make sense that the combination of water and electricity, like in a storm, would be enough to trigger her."

Haymitch drags his hand down his face, feeling incredibly weary. "Anything else?"

"They realized eventually that she had no information to give them, that she wanted badly to believe in the goodness of the Capitol. So they stopped interrogating her for information. But they needed to keep her alive, and under their thumbs."

"Why?"

"According to my sources inside the Capitol, Snow wanted to keep her around in case she became useful as a public figure to put in his propaganda films. She became very popular in the Capitol after Katniss and Peeta won the Games, and Snow thought she might come in handy. That's why the generalized electrocution, instead of beatings or the like—he couldn't risk damaging her pretty face." He bites the words off, sounding disgusted, and Haymitch can't blame him. In fact he finds himself dropping into the nearest chair as he imagines Snow deciding carefully how to torture Effie in a way that wouldn't show up on camera.

"So they kept her alive but intimidated," he prompts.

"From what she's said, it's a lot of the things Snow did to his other captives. They usually didn't hurt her directly, but they made sure she could hear other people being hurt around her. Not enough to unhinge her, just enough to terrify her. Enough that she always knew that if she disobeyed, she'd be next. Sometimes they'd drag the corpses past her cell when they were done with them, just to make sure she saw them."

"And I guess it worked."

"Too well," Plutarch says. "Apparently they did try to use her to make propaganda films a number of times later in the war—for the Capitol, not the districts—and she couldn't keep it together on camera." Bitterness enters his tone. "They responded about as sympathetically as you'd expect Snow's regime to respond."

Haymitch grimaces. "That's why she's not in front of the camera on your show now," he guesses.

"It brings back too many bad memories," Plutarch confirms.

"Effie," Haymitch says quietly. "It didn't even occur to me to worry much about her. I thought that even if the Peacekeepers got her, she'd be so obviously loyal to the Capitol that they wouldn't do much to her. Or that she'd be dead right off."

"As did I," says Plutarch quietly. "I've known Effie for many years; I was friends with her father before his death. I've spent a great deal of time castigating myself for not pushing harder to find out what happened to her after the Quarter Quell."

"Which is why you've taken her under your wing now," Haymitch guesses.

"Indeed," says Plutarch. "What happened to Effie Trinket was by far not the worst thing to happen to people under Snow's rule. But she was a friend, and I should have been more careful with her. So please look after her, Haymitch."

"We will," he promises, and then he smirks a little. "You did the right thing in giving Peeta responsibility for her. He's looking after her better than anyone else could."

"I know," says Plutarch. "But I also sent her to Peeta because that puts her in closer contact with you. You two had the terrible but close bond of victor and escort for six years. There's almost no one left in her life that she's known for that long. And I'd wager the same is true for you. And you certainly have more experience dealing with traumatic memories than nearly anyone else I know."

"What a nice thing to be known for," says Haymitch flatly.

"Take care of her," Plutarch says, and ends the call.

. . . . . .

Just before lunch time, Peeta calls to say that Effie is awake and would he like to join them for lunch? Haymitch agrees, but he walks over to Peeta's house with a heavy heart. He has enough demons of his own; he's not sure he has the emotional fortitude to take on the demons of Effie Trinket, one of the many Capitol citizens who foolishly trusted a government that turned killing into a sport and made dissenters disappear. It's hard not to think that they have no one to blame but themselves.

But as much as he thinks that about the Capitol at large, he can't keep that anger up at Effie, who he knows personally—Effie who has always had a good heart buried under layers of Capitol indoctrination and Capitol fashion. Effie who loves Katniss and Peeta so dearly and did her best to get them sponsors and support in the Games. Effie who snuck him cakes after parties in the Capitol. Effie who turned to him in her time of need last night, as though trusting him to keep her safe from the outside world.

He doesn't know what to expect when he enters Peeta's house. Will Effie be bedridden and frail? Raving and crying around the house? It turns out that neither of those things are true. It turns out that when he reaches Peeta's house, Effie is dressed and coiffed for the day in a tidy blazer and a silk scarf, and only the bags under eyes hint that anything out of the ordinary has happened to her recently. When she sees him enter, she rises to speak to him, while behind her Peeta and Katniss disappear discretely into the kitchen.

"Haymitch," she says, her theatrical voice betraying nothing, "I wanted to thank you for last night. I know you carried me home safely, and I appreciate your kindness."

He squirms uncomfortably and tries to make light of it. "I didn't make it all the way," he admits. "Peeta had to carry you up the stairs. I'm an old man."

She smiles gently. "Don't say that. I remember your Games. So if you're an old man, that means I'm nearly an old woman."

He shrugs. "Sorry, princess, that's the way it is." And then his eyes catch something—a small cut across her jawline. Quite without meaning to, he reaches out and brushes his thumb across the skin next to it.

She colors. "Apparently last night I cut myself falling against the edge of the dresser. I . . . don't really remember that happening. But then I don't remember much."

He nods distractedly, because suddenly all he can think about is how soft her skin is and how blue her eyes are from up close, and words are failing him. But then a clattering dish from the kitchen snaps him back to reality, and he quickly drops his hand from her face. "Well, maybe it'll scar, and then you'll look like a victor."

She too looks slightly distracted, but at his words she smiles. "Victors don't have scars. The Capitol got rid of them."

"We did after the war," he says, and motions her into the kitchen.

Lunch is delicious and the conversation flows well—Haymitch actually makes an effort to contribute, which is odd for him—except for one thing: the three victors are carefully not mentioning Effie's meltdown last night. And Effie's noticed, too, it's clear, because when Peeta says "I thought this afternoon we could just stay in and have a rest because . . . just because," she finally snaps.

"You can say it," she says, her words becoming clipped as her irritation makes her Capitol accent more prominent. "You can come out and say, 'Effie had a breakdown.'"

"Effie had a breakdown," Haymitch parrots, and Katniss and Peeta shoot him identical glares.

"I know it happened, I was there," she points out, her expression growing more stormy and her voice growing louder with every word. "And I don't mind talking about it. I . . . I need to talk about it. That's why I'm here. Because back home, no one wants to talk about it—no one wants to talk about anything—and every time I do something slightly out of the ordinary everyone falls over themselves to pretend nothing happened, and it's making me crazy. I thought that you three, at least, would be okay with it. That you wouldn't make me feel like such a pariah for not being completely okay all the time."

It's the angriest Effie has been since arriving in 12, and Haymitch is surprised to find that he respects her more at this moment than he ever has. So after a moment of stunned silence, he says, "Well, then, you definitely had a breakdown."

Effie turns her defiant expression on him, but he sees the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Peeta apparently sees it too, because he adds, "Yes, you definitely had a breakdown."

And Katniss looks baffled—she's always been one for keeping things in until they explode from her, so Effie's need to discuss it would definitely confuse her—but she follows their lead. "With my vast experience with breakdowns, I can tell you that was definitely one."

And it's official, Effie's fighting back an embarrassed smile.

"Not the best I've seen," Haymitch is quick to point out. "But respectable. Good volume on the scream. Impressive work."

And Effie laughs and covers her face with her hands. "I'm sorry," she says timidly. "I'm being so silly." Katniss reaches out and pats her hand, looking slightly uncomfortable; physical comfort is not really her thing.

But Haymitch is finding this conversation strangely cathartic, so he continues. "I give it a six out of ten." Katniss gives an unladylike snort at that.

Peeta goes along with it. "With one being Haymitch realizing he's out of alcohol . . ."

"And ten being Peeta trying to strangle Katniss," Haymitch finishes.

Effie looks up at that, eyes wide with shock, and Haymitch wonders if he's gone too far: Peeta looks nearly as shocked as Effie, and Katniss is covering her mouth with her hand. But she's not upset, he quickly sees: she's trying to hold back laughter. Sure, it's the hysterical sort of laughter that sounds like it may turn at any moment to tears, but still, it's laughter.

"That was a definite ten," she gasps between giggles. "Although I actually killed Coin. Why isn't that ten?"

And now Haymitch is laughing; like most victors, he's a sucker for gallows humor.

Effie still looks a bit shocked, but a reluctant smile is pulling at the edges of Peeta's mouth. "Strangling is so much more personal," he says. "It really gives it that extra oomph."

And now all three of them are laughing. "So don't feel bad, Effie," Haymitch says. "A six is pretty tame by comparison."

And finally, Effie joins in their laughter.

. . . . . .

The sound of a door shutting wakes him, and he sits up, realizing that he has dozed off on Peeta's sofa; it's no more comfortable than it was last night, but he feels better than he did before his nap. Effie is sitting in the armchair, and she looks up when he stirs. "Katniss and Peeta have gone to visit Leevy," she says. "That's the girl who works at the trading post, I believe?"

Haymitch stretches his arms and yawns. "So no more sixes while I've been asleep?"

She rolls her eyes at him, but her expression says she appreciates his comfortable teasing. "I truly am sorry for my outburst today," she says. "I know you all meant well in avoiding the topic."

"We've been avoiding the topic with each other too," he admits. "Which probably explains why we all got so hysterical. Sometimes we forget that we could probably all help each other, and we tend to bottle it up instead. So that was very . . . probably very healthy."

She looks curiously at him. "You don't talk about any problems you have? I assumed you all did."

He shrugs. "I guess we do sometimes. I think Katniss and Peeta are better at communicating with each other than I am. I . . ." He hesitates. "Sometimes I feel like I'm the adult here so I shouldn't drag those two down with my troubles."

She looks at him a long time, then crosses the room and sits beside him on the sofa, taking his hand in hers. "They would be all right with it," she assures him. "Those two children adore you."

He scoffs. "Peeta, maybe. Sometimes."

"They both do," she says emphatically. "Katniss is just bad at showing it. She . . . she's still sorting through how she feels about a lot of things right now."

He looks sideways at her. "Thanks," he says. He's a little too distracted right now to say anything else, because he's feeling very conflicted: most of him wishes she'd let go of his hand and get off his sofa—he's spent years avoiding most human contact, so he instinctively rejects her presence—but another part of him finds her warmth strangely comfortable. So he does nothing to either encourage or discourage her.

But as though she read his thoughts, she does drop his hand, and instead looks down at the floor. "Did you . . . did you call Plutarch?"

He raises an eyebrow, although she's not looking at him and doesn't see it. "How did you know?"

"It's what I would have done. If I were you." She hesitates. "He . . . told you? Why I was frightened?"

"He had a guess," Haymitch admits.

She nods slowly. "It's never been quite that bad. Too much water at once, especially when I'm not somewhere I feel entirely comfortable, makes me . . . very tense, but rarely more than that. So I thought I'd mostly escaped the ill effects from that particular torture. But that was the first time I'd been out in a lightning storm. And apparently I did suffer ill effects." She sighs. "I don't much relish the thought of being afraid of storms for the rest of my life."

"Hey," he says, "at least you don't sleep with a knife under your pillow."

She gives him a half smile. "Yes, I remember you doing that before . . . before. I always had to be careful to never wake you from a bad dream."

He waves a dismissive hand. "Just stand in the doorway and throw things at me. I can only reach so far."

She chuckles a little and then falls silent. After a few moments, she admits, "I can't stand the sight or smell of blood. Even if I just cut my leg shaving. Watching myself bleed . . ." She trails off and shudders. "They used to beat people on my cell block, sometimes to death, so I could hear it. And I know it was for my benefit because when they were done they would drag the body past my cell, and if I looked away they'd stand in front of the bars until I looked at them. And sometimes there would be blood and they'd leave it puddled outside my cell for days, so I could see and smell it through the bars . . ."

She winces and seems to curl in on herself, and his hand moves without his permission to rest comfortingly on her back. "I know that seems insignificant by comparison," she says, not looking at him. "I know the things they did to the others are so much worse. But that doesn't make it any easier to deal with."

Sympathy isn't really his strong suit. But his lingering guilt over getting Effie jailed and tortured is mixing up in his head with how surprisingly nice it is to feel the warmth of her next to him, and he finds himself eager to comfort her. "Hey," he says, leaning closer, "you're allowed to feel strongly about what happened. Just because worse things happened to other people doesn't mean that what happened to you wasn't bad."

"It's nothing like what happened to you," she says, finally looking at him. "Being in the arena, the Capitol killing your family . . ."

His jaw tightens. "Yeah, that was pretty awful," he says shortly.

"Haymitch, I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I'm sorry I was never sympathetic. I'm sorry I never realized how horrible mentoring the Games was for you. That I berated you for drinking instead of understanding why you might be drinking."

He winces, and then words that have been at the back of his mind ever since she arrived tumble out. "No, I'm sorry that we dragged you into this. At least Cinna knew he was joining the rebellion. We dragged you into our mess and then left you to the wolves. It's my fault, the storms and the blood—"

She turns to him, looking surprised. "Is that what you think? Haymitch, they arrested all the escorts. All the stylists. They would have gotten me either way." She gives him an unhappy smile. "In fact, you might be the reason I'm alive. Nearly everyone else was executed. They only spared me because of my connection to Katniss and the rebels."

"But if we'd had a better plan to get you evacuated—"

"If I'd stuck with the stylists like I was supposed to," she breaks in. "Plutarch told me all about that. You're not to blame, and neither is Plutarch. No one but Snow and his government is to blame. And I'm fine, see?" She lifts her face to his, to show him how fine she is, but some terrible memory must cross her mind because suddenly her brave facade crumbles and there are tears in her eyes. "I'm fine, you're fine, Katniss and Peeta are fine . . ." And that's as far as she gets before she breaks down into tears, right there on the sofa next to him. He has a moment of panic—dealing with emotional people is not his favorite pastime—but before he can decide what to do, she leans toward him and buries her face against his shoulder, and the next thing he knows he has his arms around her and she's weeping with her head on his shoulder. Some long-dormant instinct kicks in and he rubs her back gently as her tears soak his shirt.

"I'm sorry, Haymitch," she whispers. "I'm sorry about your family."

He never did properly cry over his family—too many eyes from the Capitol watching. So he accepts Effie's tears for them as his own. And he strokes Effie's hair and thinks that he's never had much practice in the role of comforter and friend—the only people who needed his comfort were the tributes, who he wouldn't let himself get too close to—but that this isn't so bad. Being there for someone who needs him . . . it'd be hard for him to explain, but the feeling it gives him puts him in mind of eating a warm, hearty meal after days of only consuming liquor. And they stay that way until they've both dozed off in the late afternoon sunlight.

. . . . . .