The moment Effie starts to reevaluate her desire to be promoted to a “better” district...
“‘Hey, Effie, watch this!’ says Peeta. He tosses his fork over his shoulder and literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making loud, satisfied sounds. Then he blows a kiss out to her in general and calls, ‘We miss you, Effie!’”
Effie huffs a moment at the pairing of her name with an intentional display of bad manners. Her embarrassment eases though, the longer the words echo in her mind... We miss you, Effie. No tribute has ever said that to her before. She wouldn’t have expected it. She tries to recall the last time ANYONE told her she’s missed. She can’t remember.
“That boy has picked up YOUR sarcasm along with your manners!” she chastises Haymitch.
“I doubt that. Even in that arena, he’s not playing games. If he says he misses you, then he probably does.”
Effie locks eyes with Haymitch. Hers are wider and softer than usual. Tears well up. “That dear boy. Of course he does.”
Haymitch has thought the same words, about missing Effie, more often than he’d admit. In fact, he wouldn’t admit to thinking the words at all. Effie has a way of taking up space inside him. It happens whether he likes it or not. Fortunately he usually likes it. He’d never admit that either.
Missing her sometimes is like breathing. It just happens — even when he’d rather it stop. Even in the dark hours back at home when the power’s out and the candles burn low and the liquor isn’t doing its job. He misses her especially then.
In the darkness of that cave, it makes sense that those kids miss her too. Maybe even the girl, if she thinks about it. Haymitch says none of this to Effie. With those wigs and all, her head is already swollen enough. The last thing he needs is his regard for her to be adding to her opinion of herself.
He watches her smile at the screen. Those kids are changing her, for better or worse. Which it is remains to be seen.
The long stretch of track between Districts 11 and 10 was in need of maintenance, making their ride much less smooth than usual. Effie’s side ached where the Peacekeeper had jabbed her with a gun, and the motion of the train only added to her discomfort.
“Poked” was the euphemism Effie had used to describe her encounter in the Justice Building. The steel had dug into a tender spot along her ribs. During the past several months she’d certainly weathered extreme ups and downs at her job. The stop in 11 had been full of downs.
“I do NOT approve of the actions of those Peacekeepers.”
She sat on a couch across from Haymitch. He slouched in a chair with his feet up on a coffee table, and he nursed a glass of liquor as he listened to her. When he wanted to block out her chatter without having to leave her, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. But his eyes were open now, watching her closely.
He wasn’t drunk enough yet to avoid seeing the toll that the day had taken on her. She propped an elbow on the armrest of the sofa and leaned her head on her palm. The pumpkin that she called a wig was mussed and a bit off-center. The ostrich feathers covering her sleeves slumped with her shoulders. Her clipboard detailing the next day’s itinerary was tossed on the seat beside her, and her cup of herbal tea sat on the table untouched.
“Perhaps in 11, the Peacekeepers have been overly conditioned to monitoring the handling of livestock,” Effie continued, “Because that’s what I felt like today. When we return to the Capitol, I MUST speak with the head of the department. My victors deserve better! Especially after Katniss and Peeta gave those beautiful speeches about Thresh and Little Rue.”
“Yeah. They deserve a hell of a lot better,” Haymitch spoke over the rim of his glass, “But those kids already have a lot to deal with, Effie. Let this lie for now.”
“I know there were shots fired in that square — three of them. Peeta said a truck backfired, but I’m not a fool.”
“The kids just want to protect your... innocence.” Haymitch chuckled a bit at his own use of the word. It was nervous laughter more than anything else. “I’m sure that’s how they see it.”
“Oh, those dears. This victory tour is supposed to be their CELEBRATION. Yet there they were being treated like cattle while trying to honor the families of the fallen tributes... even trying to protect me. Their faces have been as white as sheets. ...Well, not the yellowed atrocities that hang in YOUR windows, but white as normal sheets. The prep teams have had to add more color to their cheeks with each touch up. Something just... well, something is not right.”
“A lot of things aren’t right, sweetheart. But they happen anyway.”
The train jostled them. Some tea splashed from Effie’s cup onto the table, and Haymitch brought his other hand up to steady his drink. She flinched just then, holding her rib cage.
“What’s the matter?”
“That Peacekeeper jabbed me pretty hard.”
“Did she?” His mind began spinning the image he’d blocked out earlier of a gun pointed at Effie.
“The poor condition of these train tracks is doing nothing to alleviate my discomfort. One would think the operators would have had the entire system in perfect condition for an event as important as the Victory Tour. There’s another department head I must file a complaint with!”
Haymitch put his glass down on the table and moved to the sofa, initially squashing Effie’s clipboard then sliding it out from under him and setting it apart from their drinks. He knew she must be uncomfortable when she didn’t complain about his assprint on her itinerary. Come to think of it, she hadn’t even complained about him propping his feet up near her tea.
He reached across the waist of her shiny blue dress and gently brushed the affected spot with his fingertips. All he could feel beneath the fabric was more fabric. Unfortunately her corset was only armor against his hands, not other weapons.
He reached so quickly that she didn’t have a chance to object. Though objection was far from her mind. He rarely touched her unless he was holding her elbow in front of potential sponsors or leaning on her elsewhere to avoid falling down drunk. Any touch he offered when he wasn’t playing a part and when he wasn’t wasted was something she tucked inside her as a treasure.
As his arm rested lightly on her stomach, her gaze followed his sleeve up to the collar of the shirt she’d picked out for him that morning. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he tried to swallow whatever he was feeling. His eyes were grey ghosts of the man she’d fallen for long ago, even before she’d seen how much there was inside him. He looked tired in a way that made her feel the passage of time. He was still young to be so tired.
“Are you bruised?” he asked.
“I...” She released the breath she’d been holding. “I’m not sure. The barrel of the gun must have pressed between the stays of my corset.”
Rage flushed Haymitch’s cheeks. He could hardly stand the thought of the barrel of a gun being that close to Effie — close enough to hurt her. He hated knowing it had happened. All at once his hands were shaking, and he let go.
“With that plaster on, how are you gonna know if you’re really hurt! You could have a hematoma under there and not know it!”
“There’s no need to yell. The children are sleeping.” Why can’t you just touch me like a moment ago and let that be enough?
“Like hell there isn’t! I’m yelling because I’m pissed off. Go get out of that thing, and I’ll go to the bar car and bring you a sack of ice for your side. ...I need to refill my drink anyway.”
“I’ve been herded enough today! The last thing I need is YOU telling me where to go and what to do! And my corsets are NOT plaster!”
He’d seen and felt enough of them to know what they were — all satin and lace and ribbons and shit that made him forget himself. Just thinking about it made him want to take that ridiculous pumpkin off her head and bury his hands in her hair which he hadn’t felt in months. He wanted to do insane things like suck the vanilla perfume from her neck and fuck her for as long as his body would let him.
He felt the intensities swelling between them and shifted uncomfortably as his pants tightened in front. People in 11 resisting and getting shot... a gun pointed at Effie... her hurting... him yelling... her yelling back... and this is how his body was responding. Fuck. He didn’t try to hide it, but he was determined not to go to that insane place, especially now.
He pulled far enough away that no part of him was touching her. “You’re hurt, and I’m trying to help. I’m just trying to help you.”
She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. Something bigger than the way they’d been treated in 11. Bigger than the fear she felt when his hand trembled and his face flushed and his voice pierced the space between them and bled right into her. She shivered and wanted him close. She needed him — so she could do this job, and at other times when he was too far away for her to even pretend that she had him.
Her tone was subdued, “I would appreciate you getting me that ice. Thank you. I’m going to my sleeping compartment to change. Will you bring it to me there?”
“Sure.” He picked up his glass and finished the liquor in one gulp as he walked away.
Effie scooped up her clipboard and left the cup of tea behind. She used her free hand to boost herself up from the sofa. Haymitch was right. She shouldn’t be in this corset. The stays were pressing painfully with each movement of her body and the train.
She glanced out the window. This stretch of track took them near the ocean. There wasn’t enough of a moon to see anything except a large swath of black beneath a starry sky. Such a pity to miss a beautiful view. The night drew a veil over the earth, and it pulled others from her thoughts. She could feel the veils slipping, even though she didn’t know what was underneath.
Her detailed schedule said she should be asleep then, but her mind was flopping all over the place like a fish washed up out there on the darkened shore. In that state, there was something undeniably comforting about being with Haymitch, before he became too drunk to forget her presence.
In the bar car he requested ice in a plastic bag and a small towel to wrap around it. He sat awhile at a table, giving Effie time to change and allowing himself a chance to calm down. He opted to not refill his glass, not yet. Nights on the train were always long, and there would be plenty time later to swim in liquor. Drinking any more now would just mean swallowing the dregs of his inhibitions. And he needed those. He needed those more than he wanted Effie.
“I’ve got your ice,” he announced outside her door.
“Come in. I’m as decent as I’m going to get under the circumstances.”
He opened the door. “I don’t care about decent, sweetheart. I’m just bringing...”
He stopped short when he saw her. She sat on the edge of the bed wearing pink silk pajamas. The orange wig was on its stand on the dresser, and her hair fell above her shoulders. Her real hair, golden like grasses in the Meadow just before the rains come. He’d spent months remembering the feeling of it, trying to forget, and remembering anyway.
She held out her hand, and he was almost drunk enough to take it, until he realized she was reaching for the sack of ice.
“The bartender wrapped it in a towel for you. He’s fixed ice packs for me plenty of times when I’ve knocked my head, usually on the floor.”
“Yes, I’m often the one to request those for you.”
Of course she was. Shit. He didn’t like this in-between feeling — sharp enough to recognize that he was being stupid, but not sharp enough to stop himself. At least he remembered what he’d come there for, and he placed the ice pack in her hands.
“I should go.” But his feet wouldn’t move.
“Can you stay awhile? Today’s been... unexpected. And I feel better with you here.”
Against his judgment, he sat down beside her. The neckline of her pajamas dipped far enough for him to notice that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath, but not deep enough to see the fullness of her breasts.
The one time he’d seen them she was drunk. It took iron will to not touch her then. The following summer they’d shared a bottle of gin, and he felt her through her dress without a corset in the way. It was brief, just long enough for her nipples to respond to his touch. Maybe it would have gone further if they hadn’t been interrupted. But sanity had prevailed.
Now here she was lifting the hem of her top to the tender spot on her rib cage. If she hadn’t been hurting, then he’d be sorely tempted to tell her to keep going... to take off her shirt... to take off everything... or let him do it... to let his hands know more of this soft Effie that he never got enough of... never, damn it... and he wouldn’t get enough of her that night either... or any night... because nothing was safe... nothing had ever been safe.
He was close enough for her to hear his breathing turn ragged, but she misunderstood. “It’s not that bad,” she said, “It’s just a regular bruise.”
“Shaped like the barrel of a Peacekeeper’s gun,” he seethed, lifting his hand and brushing his thumb across the bruise as gently as he’d ever touched anything in his life. Her body was slight and her skin so soft. In that moment, he flashed back to kissing the top of his baby brother’s head the day he was born.
He leaned as close as possible to Effie’s ear and whispered, “These walls can hear us... Do you understand?”
She nodded.
He whispered again, “If they hurt you again... I’ll kill them.”
“It’s.. it’s just a bruise.”
More whispers raised goosebumps on her arms, “Effie, I swear... I’ll kill them.”
She whispered back, and he shivered too in the feeling of her breath warming his temple. “Kill who?”
He hesitated before answering. “...Everyone.”
She didn’t know what was happening, but she could tell his intensity wasn’t an exaggeration. This feeling between them, whatever it may be, was real.
During each stretch of time they spent together, it kept getting harder for her to hold back. His drinking usually helped in that regard because it was easy to point out that the fragrance of a distillery is not a cologne and simply shove him away. But he’d been drinking that night same as usual, and she wasn’t shoving.
His thumb circled a wide perimeter around the bruise, and she took shallow breaths. She tilted her head up slightly, and his mouth was inches from hers. It would be so easy to lean forward and let it happen. “Haymitch...” she murmured, stroking the back of his hand.
“Don’t...” He held a moment in the feeling. Then he jerked away as if she was fire searing his flesh. The sack of ice fell to the floor. She reached for it and winced. He retrieved it and set it once again in her open hands.
He returned to whispering, “I don’t want the barrel of a gun pointing at you. If you kiss me... if I kiss you... then any shred of power I may have to protect you is gone. Do you understand?”
She shook her head ‘no,’ not because she didn’t understand but because she was starting to, and these were truths she wasn’t ready to accept. She whispered back, “What if I want to take the risk?”
He turned his head toward her, and their foreheads were touching. “Honey, if you want that kind of risk, then you’re a fool after all.”
He ran his hands through her hair. False lashes pressed to her cheeks. He had to take away at least that much of her. He needed it to keep going.
It might have been enough if she hadn’t moaned and slid her fingers through his hair too. He shuddered in the sensations, and he knew. There’s no way in hell this would be enough. Even though it had to be.
(Hayffie ❤️. — I wrote this fic in the spirit of shared little headcanons and with gratitude for that sweet @hayffiebird who motivates me to continue writing. — Ellie, your remarkable creations and compassionate presence keep helping me feel that maybe... “It'll be spring soon. And the orchards will be in blossom. And the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket. And they'll be sowing the summer barley in the lower fields... and eating the first of the strawberries with cream.” — I don’t know if hope can transcend the depths of extreme trauma. That transcendence has not yet been my experience, but you’ve been inspiring me lately to not lose sight of the possibility. Thank you, dearie.)
***
Through a whiskey fog, he felt her eyes on him.
Again.
All day she’d been hovering, dictating “musts” and “must nots.” And not just to the tributes.
“...Wear the navy blue coat. No, not THAT one. The one with pinstripes. It makes you look taller. And wear the silver tie that shimmers when it catches the light. It draws attention down from that chin you refuse to have manicured. Just two millimeters shorter is all I’m asking, and you balk as if I’m suggesting you cut off your head. Scuffed shoes?? Absolutely not! After all my efforts to make you presentable, you want to wear THOSE old things?! The black leather wingtips will be perfect. And, for goodness sake, comb your hair. It appears as if some sort of rodent nested in it last night...”
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 71st Hunger Games.
Haymitch sank into the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. The black shoes, the pinstriped coat, and the silver tie were all off now. The kids were in bed, and he was no longer on the clock. He could ignore her.
He took a swallow of whiskey and tried to ignore her.
She smelled faintly like cherry lollipops from the sweet shop back home. She drew her feet up beside her, and her knees shifted toward him. They brushed his thigh for an instant before she inched them away.
She was impossible to ignore.
He took another drink, closed his eyes, and awaited an additional onslaught of directives.
Effie’s clipboard lay abandoned on her lap as she examined the contours of his face. He was probably too drunk to notice her attention. If he noticed, she could say she was planning his attire for the following day. Her truth was that memories of those contours had haunted her the past year. Now he was here again in person, and she was taking in that reality.
Had she ever been turned on before by the spot where a man’s earlobe curves into his jaw? It sounded ridiculous. Nonetheless it was happening inside her. Her perusal shifted to his hairline, and her fingertips followed. What am I doing?
He shivered as her nails touched his scalp. He’d expected nagging — not this. This was the kind of sensation he experienced in dreams that made him wake up ready to fuck somebody. But he always woke up alone. He made sure of that.
Now he wasn’t asleep, and he wasn’t alone, and he was feeling this. He opened his eyes and rolled his head to face her. “What are you doing?”
“I’m thinking about washing your hair.”
Of course. “Always looking for something to fix.”
She continued the caress. “I’m just wondering how it would feel — to do it. Don’t you ever just wonder?”
Yeah, he wondered how it would feel to do it with her. When he woke up ready to fuck someone, lately he always thought about her.
“Will you let me?” she asked.
Hell, yes. ...Wait... “What?”
“Will you let me wash your hair?”
He didn’t need to look away from her eyes to know the details of her body. He’d been glancing at her all day. Peacock blue eyelashes matched her dress with feathers stitched in strategic places. Her wig was platinum like the rings on Capitol fingers. It was late, and her makeup was worn out. He pictured pink seeping through it if he could make her blush. Her lipstick coated the rim of her teacup. Her lips were almost raw. And kissable. Too kissable.
“Nobody washes my hair but me, sweetheart.” It was the safe answer. But he didn’t tell her to stop touching him, because the longer she kept at it, the better it felt.
Abruptly, she stopped and folded her hands over her clipboard. “It was just a thought.” A fool’s thought. Of course he’d say ‘no.’
He didn’t want her to stop. Shit. He took a swig so long the liquor burned his throat. “You can wash my hair, but I have two conditions. One, I don’t want to smell like perfume or fruit when you’re done. And, two, while you’re washing MY hair, I get to see YOURS. Not *that* thing.” He scrutinized her wig.
He’d seen her hair before, a decade ago, when it was teased and curled and sprayed to perfection. She didn’t have the tools for that here since wigs were the fashion now. So if she agreed, he’d be seeing her plain and wispy and nothing special. The voice of insecurity berated her.
“I don’t know...”
“Then forget it. I’m comfortable right here on the couch.”
He drank, and she watched his throat. She focused on the three open buttons of his shirt, counting them down and back up again. His skin was weathered just the right amount to make her want to crawl out of herself and slip inside with him. She wanted to touch more than the stiff bend of his elbow, which she curled her fingers through when courting potential sponsors.
She wanted more with him than artifice. For the past year, she’d been irritated, embarrassed by her desire. Yet the want itself was more overwhelming than any irritation or embarrassment she felt about it.
Effie set her clipboard on the coffee table and dropped the first hairpin onto it. “I don’t want to ‘forget it’.”
He gaped as she slid the pins out and lifted her wig off. She shook out her hair, bending forward and quickly back up. The maneuver thrust the feathers adorning her chest into prominence, and he wanted to see all of her at once.
She fluffed her hair like a preening bird. The color was deeper than he remembered from that long-ago summer when she was 18 and barely old enough for him to be looking at her the way he did. Her hair was golden now, like late afternoon sun reflecting off the endless fields of wheat they passed as the train traveled alongside District 9... and like the honey he’d spread on a slice of fresh bread that morning.
“I don’t want to forget it either,” he said.
She reached for his whiskey. Their fingers brushed as she took it from him. She gulped a mouthful and choked down the cough that threatened to follow. She capped the bottle and set it on the table beside her clipboard. “If you stop drinking, just for tonight, then you might remember this.”
If he wasn’t drunk on the look of her hair alone, then he would have protested. In that moment, he’d do almost anything she’d ask. That recognition made him nervous.
“Follow me.” She stood up and moved through the dining room on stocking-clad feet.
He followed in socks. The walls had ears, but this act was quiet. Suddenly he wanted to keep it that way. “One more condition,” he said, “No talking.”
“But—“
“You don’t need to use your mouth to wash my hair.”
She pursed her lips. Her silence reflected her acquiescence. In the kitchen, she found a wooden chair used by the avoxes, and she held it out for him to carry. He took it, and she lead him back through the common rooms and down the hallway to her bedroom.
The layout was nearly identical to the room next door where he’d slept every July for 20 years. In all that time, he’d never been in the escort’s room. The space was Effie’s now, filled with delicate things he would have looked at more closely if she hadn’t ushered him straight through to her bathroom. Colorful robes and fluffy white towels hung on the wall. Dozens of shiny, fragrant bottles were lined up on the granite countertop. Haymitch stood there out of his element, holding the chair, unsure about what to do.
Mercifully she took it from him and positioned it with the back against the sink. She folded a towel in half and draped it from the edge of the counter over the back of the chair. As he sat down, he wondered when she’d done this before and with whom. He didn’t know why that mattered to him, but it did.
“You’re going to have to slouch,” she whispered, putting gentle pressure on his shoulder, “That shouldn’t be a problem for YOU.”
Smart-ass. He slunk down until the nape of his neck rested on the folded towel. She reached across him and cradled his head. Her forearm pressed against his cheek, and the scent of cherry candy hit him again. Her skin was soft. Beneath all those peacock feathers and that corset, she was surely the softest thing in this forsaken place.
She turned on the faucet and let it run. Then she let go of him.
“Where are you going?” He should have kept his mouth shut because he sounded like he cared too much about this. Like SHE was doing HIM a favor, rather than the other way around.
“Not far.” Stifling a chuckle, she opened a cabinet and pulled out a plastic tumbler.
Then she was back, even closer than before, and he recognized how much he wanted her there. He was sober enough to know this whole thing was probably a mistake but not sober enough to call it off.
When the water poured over his scalp, it was the dream world again. Warm shivers, ease, pleasure... Oh, god... Effie. He tucked his hands in between the chair and his ass so he wouldn’t do something insane — like touch her.
She threaded her fingers into his hair. Goodness. He is actually letting me do this. She was scarcely breathing, fearing that air alone could burst the bubble, and he would leave.
“Peppermint?” she asked gently.
“Hmmm?”
She reached for a bottle of shampoo and pumped a dollop into her palm.
“If you don’t like something, tell me, and I’ll change it.”
Don’t change anything.
She watched sensations play over his face as she massaged his scalp, mindful of her nails. She wanted this to feel good for him; plus, breaking a nail during the Games would be an extreme inconvenience.
Right now she SHOULD be getting ready for bed. Puffy eyelids would be another inconvenience. She could justify this time with Haymitch as more than frivolity by telling herself that sponsors would be more inclined to make deals with a more polished version of him.
She slid her fingertips along the base of his skull. His lips parted, and a sound between a sigh and a moan escaped his throat. She repeated the motion, curious if he was even aware of his response.
Her pubic bone brushed against his shoulder, and she wanted more. She wanted more of all of this. This wasn’t frivolous for her. It was intense and deliberate, and if she was being honest, impressing sponsors had nothing to do with her intentions.
She filled the large glass again with warm water. When she poured it over his hair, his eyes opened to find her staring.
Please don’t stop doing this.
Please don’t make me stop.
Effie didn’t glance away or prattle. She kept her eyes fixed on his as she pumped more shampoo and repeated everything that she’d done the first time. If he blinked, she didn’t notice.
If she blushed, he didn’t notice. Maybe the worn out makeup was too thick, after all, for him to see through it. Or maybe this was just business for her. Her body might be pressed against him simply because the space was small. She could be washing his hair a second time just because he was a mess.
His gaze dropped to her lips. He remembered the way they caught the corner of his mouth the summer before. He recalled his decision to not kiss her and how cold she’d turned afterward.
His reasoning still made sense. He still liked her too much. He liked her now even more. She was aggravating and often preposterous... and she felt like the goddamn sun. The warmth of her was all consuming, especially when she was like this — quiet and close and wrapped up in fragrances of peppermint and cherry candy and whiskey fog.
Damn, this is dangerous.
She poured water over his hair once more, and he closed his eyes again. In a moment she’d be gone. If I’m going to touch her, it has to be now. He untucked his hands—
“Stay still,” she whispered, moving away to get a towel from the cabinet, and then returning. As she patted his hair dry, she felt him trace the feathers stitched along the sides of her dress. The warm water she’d been pouring ran through the core of her. His hands came to rest on her hips.
“Not tonight... Not like this,” he’d said the last time his hands were there. The words frustrated her then but didn’t make her want him any less. “Sit up,” she directed.
He did so without letting go of her. As she dried his hair some more, he leaned his forehead against her stomach. The stays of her corset dug into him, but he didn’t care. Weeks of misery stretched out before him, and whatever this was with her, he needed it.
She set the towel down and held the back of his head. “You’re drunk.”
‘No,’ he shook his head against her. The haze of liquor was clearing. It was HER now in his veins.
“Do you want me to blow-dry your hair?”
“Hell, no,” he mumbled, “I’d probably come out of that thing looking like a poodle.”
“Hmm. No trust!”
When he finally looked up, her eyes were on the mirror.
“I’m a mess,” she murmured with her hands still in his hair.
He laughed. “Finally. Something we agree on.”
“Haymitch! Don’t spoil this.” With the back of a knuckle, she stroked his forehead, tracing the imprints of her corset stays. “Please don’t spoil this tonight.”
“I’ll spoil it tomorrow then.” He smirked.
The corners of her mouth turned up as she sighed.
She’d washed his hair. Twice. Their reason for being together in that space was done, but he kept holding her hips as she strummed a forgotten melody in his hair.
