Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Effie Trinket has always been an overachiever. But this is beyond any “success” she has ever dreamed to reach—or ever wanted for that matter.

To say she’s a bit of a reluctant successor to Drusilla Sickle is an understatement. She knows that she should be grateful—her family has never been more proud. But she fears that the very last thing her family needs is this kind of exposure. 

Her father disagrees. He thinks this is just the ticket that will finally get them out of the negative light cast on them from Great Aunt Messalina and Great Uncle Silius’s crimes. He thinks this will save them.

“Leave it up to my perfect Effie girl to finally save us from social ruin!” he’d beamed when Effie had told him about her new job offer.

Gee, no pressure.

So, naturally, she had no choice but to accept Plutarch Heavensbee’s offer and become the permanent escort for District Twelve. And now, every year on July 4th she has to board the train, pull some poor children’s names from a bowl, and escort them to their premature deaths. 

What an achievement.

She’s aboard that very train now, pacing and fretting as they near the end of their journey. She wonders how she will be greeted. Will District Twelve citizens be there lying in wait to attack her and hurl nasty insults at her? Will she be yanked off the train by brutish Peacekeepers under the guise of keeping her safe?

Oh, she’s going to be sick. She grips the clipboard holding her itinerary tighter as the train operator announces that they are five minutes away from District Twelve station. Her eyes turn to the clock above the bar and she anxiously watches the minutes tick down. 

A positive attitude is 97% of the battle, chin up, smile on. A positive attitude is 97% of the battle, chin up, smile on. She recites this mantra over and over until she hears the screech of the train brakes and she knows they have arrived. 

When her car door opens, a curt looking woman with short, light brown hair and bright blue eyes stands before her. The mayor, Effie realizes quickly. 

Effie plasters on her best smile. “Ah Mayor Allister, is it?” She steps down onto the platform and extends her hand for a shake to which the mayor takes courteously. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

A look of annoyance dances across her features. “It’s to whom you owe the pleasure,” she says disdainfully.

Effie’s heart sinks as she realizes that the mayor is referring to Haymitch Abernathy, the boy from Twelve that won the previous year’s Hunger Games. Wasn’t it punishment enough that she has to be an escort every year for the foreseeable future to two scared, helpless children, who she knows will likely die within the first several hours of the Hunger Games? And now she must also look after the boy that’s supposed to be their mentor, too? 

She frowns at this, the reminder that he is, in fact, just a boy. She’s fairly certain she heard Caesar Flickerman say he was only but 16 when he won. At the ripe age of 22, she can definitively say that 16 feels like quite a lifetime ago. She’s sure that 17 has likely been unkind to him as well if it warrants a greeting from the mayor. That poor boy. 

Effie attempts her best smile, both to shake off the sadness for Haymitch that she feels creeping in, and to instill confidence in the mayor that she, Effie Trinket, is up for the job. 

“What do you need me to do?” she asks, making sure to keep her inflection light and bouncy.

“I’m sure you remember Haymitch Abernathy, the victor from last year’s Games?” 

Effie nods. 

“Well he’s landed himself in jail and continues to get himself in trouble so that the Peacekeepers won’t let him go. I was hoping that a request from the Capitol might be a little more convincing.”

Effie frowns again. She has no authority and certainly would never pretend to. It’s bad enough that she’s unwittingly landed herself in this position. Making herself more important and more visible, only opens her up to further disgrace to the Trinket name. 

“Oh I’m not sure my request would mean anything Madam Mayor. I am just a humble servant of the Capitol,” she responds politely, tilting her head with an air of submissiveness.

It’s Mayor Allister’s turn to frown. “Please Miss Trinket,” she implores, “I have a reaping to go prepare for, and I’m sure that your…boss would like for his only living victor from District Twelve to be in attendance.”

Effie dislikes the way Mayor Allister infers that she is at the beck and call of the President. Though, she supposes in some ways she is. But this implication almost feels like a dig at her, as if she is associated with President Snow, like he personally sent her to be the escort for District Twelve. But he didn’t—did he?

Nevermind that she, too, needs to prepare for the reaping, but she supposes that would include ensuring that everything and everyone is in place. Besides, this venture may yet prove to be fruitful. Perhaps if President Snow were to catch wind that she handled District Twelve with poise and efficiency, she may be able to rid herself of this accidental contract she’s in—or, at the very least, be moved to a more affluent district.

Effie sighs in concession. “Take me to him.”

…

While the Peacekeepers grounds are nicer than many of the buildings she’s seen in Twelve, their quarters are still a far cry from even the worst looking places in the Capitol. The jail, however, may actually be worse than any other building she’s ever seen. 

The building is in ruins, clearly absent of any repairs or upkeep. Effie squints as she finds that the lighting is dingy, but that doesn’t stop her from noticing that everything is absolutely filthy. The walls are covered in dirt, grime, and other things she’d rather not guess at. And the smell… dear god. She quickly muffles a gasp behind her hand as the pungent smell of human excrement and sewage fills her nostrils. 

Oh, what has she gotten herself into? If she wasn’t convinced that President Snow hated her family before, she certainly believes it now. 

Effie hesitantly follows the two Peacekeepers that the mayor handed her off to. The guards lead her down a long and disgusting hallway. Most of the cells are empty, but a few near the end of the hall hold a resident or two. It doesn’t slip her notice that they’re all men, despite her certainty that this jail is not exclusive to one gender. They—she and the guards—are mostly ignored by the detainees, but as they near the end of the hall, a few of the men in the cells begin to cat-call them. 

No. No, they’re cat-calling her .

“Hey, pretty girl,” she hears to her left, “come to give a dying man a little company?” 

Another man laughs at this while his cellmate makes kissing noises at her.

The man to their right chimes in, “Mmm, look at those long gorgeous legs. Let us have a feel, darling.” 

The man reaches out to brush her leg and Effie yelps, jumping away from him, which only leads her straight into the waiting hands of the men in the opposite cell. 

Upon her next yelp, one of the Peacekeepers bangs on the cell bars with his baton and barks, “Alright, enough!”

The men stop all at once, just in time for them to reach the very last cells. To her left she sees Haymitch Abernathy face down in a pool of his own vomit. Great.

Peacekeeper One, as she’s named him in her head, unlocks the cell door and looks at her expectantly. Effie stares back just the same.

“Well, I’m not going in there to get him,” he tells her gruffly.

Effie grimaces and turns to face Haymitch. She exhales loudly. A positive attitude is 97% of the battle. A positive attitude is 97% of the battle. A positive—

“Haymitch?” she asks softly, tiptoeing toward him as if he were a beast about to attack.

Haymitch doesn’t move a singular centimeter and for a moment she fears that he may be dead. She can see his back rising and falling rhythmically, proof that he is alive and breathing.

“Haymitch,” she says again, this time more firmly.

When she sees his arm twitch, she knows he’s heard her. She raises her voice a little louder. “Haymitch!”

The boy snorts loudly, wrenching his head up and shouting, “Lenore Dove?!”

Effie recognizes the name. It’s his girlfriend who had died the previous year from a deadly case of appendicitis. She sighs pityingly. 

“Haymitch,” she says once more, trying to ground him to the present. 

She steps toward him to help him up, but he balks at her. He’s realized she isn’t his sweet childhood love. And for a moment, she’s deeply sorry that she isn’t, wishing for his sake that he could be reunited with her rather than in the state he’s in currently. 

He wobbles as he stands, wiping the mixture of vomit and spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand. “What do you want?” he asks her poisonously.

Effie tries to answer in the most chipper tone she can muster. “I’ve come to take you to the reaping ceremony.” 

He laughs bitterly. 

“The people of Panem want to see their victor, the boy who made history. You’re the star of the show, Haymitch!”

“Yeah, until I’m replaced with this year’s star ,” he says the last word with pure disgust. 

“You won’t be so easily replaced,” she tells him assuredly. “Your win was historic in more ways than one. You’re practically legendary at this point.”

“Wow, what an honor,” he slurs.

Effie doesn’t know how to respond, so instead she turns to Peacekeeper One. “Can we use your showers?” she asks, to which he responds by looking at her as if she has three heads and a horn sticking out of each one.

“Please, he is the District Twelve victor!” she pleads with him, "He deserves an immense amount of respect! He can’t go to the reaping ceremony like this .”

She resents the way she wrinkles her nose in revulsion.

Peacekeeper Two steps up and eyes her up and down, making Effie feel incredibly uncomfortable. The dread that pours over her is not unfamiliar as she braces for what she knows will come next out of his mouth.

“We’ll do it for a little kiss,” he smirks. 

Peacekeeper One chimes in, “Or a little… peek under your pretty dress.”

He reaches out to touch the tulle of her skirt and Effie reflexively smacks his hand.

“I beg your pardon!” she exclaims. 

“Oh, don’t be such a prude.” Peacekeeper One rolls his eyes and steps toward her.

He reaches out to grab her, but Haymitch stumbles in front of her, forcing Peacekeeper One to grab him instead. He tries to retract his hand in time, but he’s already gotten some of Haymitch’s vomit on him. Peacekeeper Two lets out a noise of disgust and snorts at his comrade. 

“Back off, Vexley,” Haymitch says almost soberly. 

“Or what, Abernathy?” Peacekeeper One answers, squaring Haymitch up. “You couldn’t brawl your way out of a paper bag right now.”

Effie knows he’s right and the last thing she needs is a beaten and bloodied victor. Careful not to get vomit on herself, she places her hands on either of Haymitch’s arms and swaps herself in front of him. She’s closer to Vexley than she wants to be, but figures she has a better chance at not being hit than Haymitch does at the moment.

“Alright, that’s enough,” she says sternly, channeling some of her more strict teachers from The University. “You will take us to the showers now, or I will have no choice but to make a personal call to President Snow to let him know of the absolute lack of discipline and depraved behavior going on in these barracks. I’m sure he would just love to hear that some of his Peacekeepers are actively derailing Capitol business.”

It’s a gamble, seeing as she has absolutely no way to contact President Snow, or even anyone with enough authority to punish these men. But it pays off nonetheless. The two men take her at her word, straighten almost robotically, and quietly lead her and Haymitch to the showers. 

Once they reach the showers, the two men take their leave, but not before whispering some unkind profanities at her. Peacekeeper Two even manages to pinch her backside as they exit. 

As Haymitch undresses, Effie types in her communicuff to one of the stylist assistants that she needs an outfit for Haymitch, stat. 

“Does that happen a lot?” he asks her as she finishes her message. 

Effie doesn’t look in his direction, knowing he’s naked and hoping to give him at least a modicum of privacy, so she pretends to still be typing in her communicuff.

 “What?” she asks absentmindedly. “With the Peacekeepers?”

“And the prisoners. Does that happen in the Capitol, too?”

It does. 

On more than one occasion Effie has been kissed, groped, and/or touched inappropriately. On some occasions, she’s even offered herself up to spare Proserpina from being victim to these lewd acts. But it’s almost an expectation at her level of social status—not quite hunter, but not quite prey. Girls like her are expected to be pretty, prim, and proper, while pleasing anyone who wants such pleasures from them. If they flirt with her, she is to flirt back. If they kiss her, she is to kiss back. Or at the very least, allow it—any objection would be viewed as treasonous. 

“No,” she lies unconvincingly. 

Haymitch grunts, and she knows without looking that he’s looking at her doubtfully. 

Effie just smiles kindly down at her communicuff and shakes her head. 

“You’re a pretty lady, Effie, but that doesn’t give them a right to your body.” Haymitch says, and she wonders momentarily if he’s been pretending to be drunk this whole time. 

His retching into the shower drain immediately following these words assures her that he is, in fact, definitely intoxicated.

Nevertheless, she’s grateful to Haymitch for his kind words, and she tells him so. “Thank you, Haymitch.” She pauses, and without really thinking, she adds, “I don’t know that I deserve such kindness from you.”

“Maybe not,” he answers, “but I meant what I said—I won’t hurt you—that’s physically or verbally.”

A small, genuine smile creeps up on Effie’s lips. She’s just about to challenge his kindness to a Capitol Doll, when her communicuff dings with a message from Tullia, one of the students that accompanied her here as a part of her assignment from The University. She must have Haymitch’s clothes. 

Effie tells Haymitch that she’s off to fetch his outfit and will return momentarily.

Within twenty minutes, Effie has him dressed and looking presentable enough to stand in front of the crowd. She’s thankful he doesn’t have to speak today. 

“Thank you again,” she says softly, dusting off the shoulder of his shirt. “And for what it’s worth, I won’t hurt you either.”

He screws up his face and she thinks that might have been the wrong thing to say. And of course it is, isn’t it? Her very presence is harmful because, despite the necessity of the Hunger Games, she’s a constant reminder of what he went through in the arena… and perhaps even everything that’s followed.

“I’m sorry,” she says plainly. She’s not sure if it’s an apology for what she just said, or a broader one for everything he’s been through, so she leaves it at that. 

Haymitch shrugs. 

Effie sighs and gives a wry smile. “Well, are you ready? We have a big, big, big day.”

He shrugs again, then nods. 

As they turn to the door to exit the showers, he turns to her. “Effie?”

“Yes?”

“You think we could make a deal to not personally hurt each other as long as we work together?”

She considers this. She would never intentionally hurt Haymitch and she knows he won’t hurt her. Besides, she’d basically agreed to look after him for the foreseeable future—she supposes this includes actively not hurting him.

How hard could it be? They’ll only see each other a few times a year anyway. Seems simple enough. 

“Okay, Haymitch,” she says. “Deal.” 

It isn’t exactly the promise of a lifelong friendship by any means, but a partnership built on trust and respect. She can work with that. Besides, she’s sure they’ll grow on each other—one year at a time.

Chapter Text

He’s startled awake by an incessant rapping on his front door. He knows it isn’t the raven and it certainly isn’t anyone from town because they all have learned to steer clear of him, especially on today of all days. He knows this means it can only be one person—Effie Trinket.

Effie is nice, but fuck can she also be annoying. 

Haymitch groans as he heaves himself out of bed, still wobbly from the effects of the previous evening’s white liquor fueled all-nighter. He’s pretty sure he’s only been asleep for an hour, maybe two. He glances around his room blearily trying to get his bearings, but also in search of some clothes. He finds a few crumpled up together in a heap that he thinks may smell faintly of urine and puts them on slowly. 

The knocking has become more insistent and he wagers a guess that it won’t be long before Effie is having the door beat down. He stumbles to the stairs and carefully takes them downward, hoping against hope that he doesn’t fall down them. The wishful thinking is just that, it seems, because about three quarters of the way down, he trips and tumbles down the last few remaining steps. 

He feels around quickly along his scar to make sure no damage is done. It’s been two whole years, but his doctors warned him that the healing would be long and he should be careful to avoid anything strenuous that could interrupt the healing process. He considers momentarily going back to the top of the stairs and throwing himself all the way down. 

But his promise to Lenore Dove echoes soundly in his mind, so instead he gets up and walks to the door. When he opens it, he’s greeted by a very… pink Effie Trinket—and not just her face, flushed with anger. Her entire ensemble is made of pink iridescent bubbles with her hair and make-up in complementary pink hues.

Seems being the District Twelve escort has had some perks.

“Haymitch,” she says exasperatedly.

“Effie,” he grins, taking a little joy in her irritation. 

“I’m certain you’re aware of what today is?”

“Yeah, it’s my fucking birthday,” he slurs.

Effie rolls her eyes. “God, could you imagine the irony?” she asks, and he knows she isn’t saying it to be cruel, but simply out of ignorance. 

He’s not sure if he elects not to tell her just now of her faux pas to save her from embarrassment, or because it’ll be that much funnier when she finds out. The latter may be a small violation of their agreement last year, but hey, she started it. 

“It’s the crack of dawn, Effie. The reaping isn’t for a few more hours. Why are you here?” he whines.

Effie sighs in annoyance. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that we were late ”—she whispers the word as if it were a curse— “to last year’s reaping ceremony after your shenanigans. So, I took an earlier train this year to make sure we have plenty of time to get you ready.” 

She glances at her communicuff for the time. “And somehow you’re still putting us behind!” she cries and pushes her way into his house.

About two steps in the doorway she stops and covers her nose.. “My god, Haymitch, it smells like something died in here!”

He doesn’t want to talk about the smell or the messiness of his home so he reaches back for the original subject at hand. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I don’t want to go to the reaping ceremony?” he says to her back. “Contrary to what you might think, I don’t do things just to annoy you. Although, it’s kind of a bonus.”

Effie turns around to face him again, nostrils flared, but her features soften almost immediately. Haymitch worries that he’s overshared—or worse that his own facial features betray him, sharing more emotion than he wishes. 

“I’m sorry, Haymitch,” Effie says humbly. “I don’t do this to upset you either, or make this day any harder for you than it already is.”

He resents how truly remorseful and genuine she sounds. He thinks it might be easier if Effie was rude to him and treated him like most Capitol folk treat him. 

“How do you do that?” he asks her.

“Do what?”

“Just… be nice.” 

She shrugs. “Why shouldn’t I be?” She walks further into his home and looks around curiously.

“You’re always so happy, too. Even when you’re pissed off—it’s… aggravating.”

“I didn’t realize I vexed you so,” she says plainly. 

Before he can speak she turns back to face him. “Now will you please go shower and change so we can get today over with?”

“And leave you to roam freely around my home? I don’t think so, princess.”

Effie grimaces. “Do not call me princess.”

Haymitch grins at her teasingly. Effie answers with a look of disapproval. 

Haymitch rests his hands on either of Effie’s shoulders. “Look, go finish getting everything else ready, and I will meet you in front of the Justice Building in a half hour.”

“Absolutely not,” she says defiantly. 

“You don’t trust me?” he asks sweetly.

“I most certainly do not. I just know if I turn my back you’ll likely be passed out drunk somewhere that no one can find you.”

Now that would be ideal.

Haymitch gives Effie’s shoulders a little shake. “I promise. Half hour in front of the Justice Building. I just want a little alone time before I’m not really alone again for the next week or two.”

He watches as she mulls this over in her mind. Finally, she yields. “Okay. But mark my words, Haymitch Abernathy, if I have to send a search party out to find you, I will never let you leave my sight again, understood?”

That threat alone gets him to agree. “Alright, princess.”

As she walks back over the threshold, she yells, “ Don’t call me princess.” behind her.

…

Haymitch shows up to the Justice Building exactly 30 minutes later as promised. He’d hoped to beat Effie there but should have known better than that. She’s standing in front of the Justice Building with her arms crossed over her front. The relief that washes over her face as she spots him is a welcome change in attitude.

Her energy he notices, however, is still frenetic as he approaches. He can tell she’s been chewing anxiously on her bottom lip. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks her without greeting.

“Nothing,” she brushes him off. 

Could it be that the Games are actually getting to her? Could she possibly be feeling actual remorse for the part she plays in this nightmare?

“What’s wrong?” he repeats.

Effie sighs defeatedly. “I’m just nervous. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“That’s my job,” he jokes

Effie fights a smile, training her face back into a frown. 

“You’re nervous to pull some names out of a bowl? You did just fine last year.” Why is he praising her for reaping children to die? He shakes his head as if to reset himself.

“I may have microdosed some morphling that morning,” she confesses. “But I forgot to bring it with me this year because I was so worried about getting here to make sure everything was in order.” 

Haymitch feels like that’s a small dig at him and he’s not sure if he’s more pissed off about her blaming him for her own forgetfulness or because of the hypocrisy of it all.

 “You microdosed morphling,” he parrots back slowly, “but you judge me for drinking alcohol?”

“I do not judge y—”

“Oh please, yes you do,” he bulldozes over her words with indignation. “Despite your smile and your pleasant attitude, your disdain is still plenty obvious, princess.”

“I told you to stop calling me that,” she bites back, nostrils flared.

“Then stop acting like one and I will!” The volume ticks up in his voice and he can see the hurt flicker across Effie’s face. 

But he can’t stop himself from delivering the final blow, “I don’t know what you even need the morphling for in the first place. You’re not the victim here, Effie. We are!”

And there it is, the hard line in the sand that will forever prevent them from truly becoming friends. Capitol. District. Hunter. Prey. Always enemies.

At least Effie has the decency to look affected by his words, almost to the point that he regrets them. But in this moment he feels vindicated, not remorseful. 

Tears swim in Effie’s eyes as she straightens and blinks them away. It takes her only seconds to regain her composure. She’s pin straight and has formulated the most plastic looking smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s terrifying. 

He thinks she’s about to ream him out for all he’s worth when her attention is pulled away from him by someone else approaching them. It’s the new mayor—Corvin Rusk.“Ah Mayor Rusk!” Effie says cheerfully, lending no idea that she and Haymitch were just arguing.

“Miss Trinket,” he greets her warmly, taking both her hands in his. “Welcome back to District Twelve. I hope Mr. Abernathy here hasn’t been giving you any trouble this morning.”

Did he hear their fight after all?

Effie doesn’t even glance at Haymitch as she says, “Not at all, he’s been a perfect gentleman.” Ouch.

“Good,” Mayor Rusk says with a creepy twinkle in his eye. Haymitch doesn’t like it at all.

Effie is unfazed though, looping her arm in Mayor Rusk’s and telling him, “Do you have time to show me around the Justice Building before the ceremony? I just love architecture and I have yet to get a tour.”

Rusk brightens at this. “I most certainly do. Shall we?” He gestures to the building and Effie nods. 

Effie must sense some kind of danger with this man because as they start in the direction of the Justice Building, she glances back and asks Haymitch if he’s coming. He doesn’t hesitate in trailing behind them especially when he catches the scowl that quickly passes across Rusk’s face. 

He’s sure to stay right by Effie’s side even though she doesn’t acknowledge him a single time while they’re inside. In fact, she doesn’t speak to him again for the rest of the day. Every time she speaks it’s always directed at someone else—Mayor Rusk, the tributes, the train attendees. It isn’t until they return to the Capitol that she addresses him again and bids him good-bye while she takes the kids on a tour of the city. At least she doesn’t drag him along on the tour. 

He supposes, though, she probably left him to his own devices to work on an apology until he sees her again. 

…

Naturally, Haymitch’s favorite part of being a mentor are the parties littered with drugs and alcohol. And this year’s opening bash doesn’t disappoint. He’s already pleasantly drunk by the time he sees her again—Effie. Effie who he hurt earlier today. Effie who he probably should apologize to. 

He finds her in the company of a few very brightly colored people. She’s in a puffy pink mini dress covered in what looks like very large pink cotton balls. In District Twelve, she’d stick out like a sore thumb, but she blends in perfectly with the crowd here.

“Effie!” he exclaims drunkenly as he approaches the group. 

Everyone turns their heads toward him with varying shades of contempt. He realizes that one of the people with her is her sister, Proserpina, who has definitely bought into the Capitol couture. It figures since she got placed as a stylist’s assistant in District Five. It isn’t quite the career districts, but close enough.

Effie whispers something to the group and politely excuses herself. She walks over to Haymitch calmly and even greets him kindly. “Good evening, Haymitch. Are you enjoying the party?” 

He doesn’t have to be sober to notice that she’s carefully leading him away from the group and closer to the garden in the backyard. 

“Ah yes, can’t let the drunk district piglet get too close to the decorated socialites,” he slurs a little too loudly.

People they pass look in their direction and Effie just smiles back apologetically. 

When they reach the back of the crowd, she asks him, “Are you ready to go home Haymitch? It seems like you’ve had a lot to drink.”

“On the contrary, I haven’t had nearly enough.”

Effie sighs and can’t even hide her frustration with him at the moment. And he can’t seem to stop himself from pushing her buttons. “Got any of that morphling?” he asks. “That would really take this to a new level.”

She huffs angrily, pauses, then says, “No, if you must know I get one pill delivered daily from the pharmacy, unless I request an extra for… bad days …so I haven’t any left until tomorrow morning.”

Wait. Did she just admit to microdosing the morphling everyday? He’s just about to ask her why she does this when he hears a deeper voice instead of his own. 

“Excuse me, miss? Is this man bothering you?”

Haymitch’s face splits into a grin as he turns around to see his friend Chaff from District Eleven. He leaves Effie behind to greet his friend with laughter and a hug. Effie approaches them as they break their embrace and Chaff carefully places the bag he’d been carrying on the ground. 

“Effie this is—”

“Chaff, the winner of the 45th Games, yes of course. How nice to meet you,” she says brightly and extends her hand for a shake.

Haymitch wishes that he could take a picture of Effie Trinket’s face when Chaff just holds up his stump in reply.

“Oh!” Effie exclaims. “I am so sorry, how foolish of me, I don’t know what I was thinking—”

Both men burst into laughter as the tsunami of apologies pours out of Effie’s mouth. She immediately snaps her mouth closed, her cheeks hot pink with embarrassment. 

“It’s alright, Miss Trinket.” He sticks the stump out to her. “You can still shake it, you know,” he teases her.

Haymitch can’t help but snicker as Effie tries to determine if Chaff is joking or not. Ultimately, she opts to shake it, sending the men into another fit of laughter.

Once they collect themselves, Chaff begins to reach into the bag at his feet. He pulls out a bottle with amber liquid sloshing around inside. God, Haymitch could kiss him.

He hands the bottle to Haymitch. “Happy birthday, my friend.”

Effie whips her head to look at Haymitch and he can almost feel her eyes burning a hole through him. He intentionally avoids her gaze as he lifts the bottle as a thank you to Chaff, and tells him, “We’ll celebrate with this tonight.”

Chaff nods, then collects his bag and tells Haymitch he’ll see him later and bows jokingly at Effie, whose cheeks pinken again.

As soon as Chaff is gone, Effie wastes no time going in on him. She smacks him lightly on the shoulder and demands, “Why didn’t you tell me it was actually your birthday??”

Haymitch gives her a wry smile. “Because I wanted to avoid this exact moment.” He knows that she is already planning an extravagant celebration or gift because that’s exactly who Effie is.

He points to her forehead. “I can see the gears already turning in your head.” Sighing, he pleads with her, “Please don’t, Effie.”

Effie purses her lips to one side, looking as though she’s weighing the consequences of going against his wishes. 

“Remember we agreed to not hurting each other,” he tells her.

He knows that’s really rich coming from him right now, but he supposes now she’s feeling guilty for the day’s ongoings as well. 

Effie pouts pitifully and it makes him crack a small smile. She concedes, but asks, “Well is there anything I can get you, or do for you?”

“You can pretend like you never found out and this day doesn’t even exist.”

Her pout doesn’t let up, but she agrees to let it be. She looks resigned and even a little sad as she plops down onto a stone bench behind them. He takes a seat next to her. They’re quiet for a moment, just staring out into the garden.

“I think I’m going to go,” she tells him softly. “It’s been an exhausting day.”

“Yeah,” he agrees solemnly. 

Their eyes meet. A pause then, “I’m sorry,” they say in unison.

He looks at her quizzically. “What are you sorry for?”

Effie throws up her hands. “The whole day? Everything? I don’t know.”

“Yeah, we didn’t exactly stick to our deal, huh?” 

Effie laughs humorlessly. “No, I suppose we didn’t.” She stands then and offers her hand to help him up. He takes it as she says, “There’s always next year, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, goodnight, Haymitch. Try not to stay out too late. Remember you have two scared kids counting on you tomorrow.”

Haymitch nods and gives Effie’s hand a squeeze. She smiles tightly, turns, then leaves. Haymitch picks up his new bottle of whiskey and goes to find Chaff.

… 

Chaff isn’t hard to track down—Haymitch finds him at the buffet, only one of two places he’s likely to be. 

They collect some food, some more drinks, and find their way back to Haymitch’s apartment. They make a picnic of sorts for themselves on the balcony in Haymitch’s room, passing the bottle back and forth as they watch all the hustle and bustle of the Capitol. 

They talk about their tributes and life back home. And then Chaff takes the conversation in a direction that Haymitch isn’t sure he wants to go.

“Your Capitol friend, she’s quite pretty.”

Haymitch shrugs. He can’t even consider the possibility of finding Effie attractive while his thoughts are still consumed with Lenore Dove. 

He wonders momentarily what she would think of Effie—she would probably dislike her on account of her Capitol citizenship, but much like Effie, Lenore Dove was always graceful and kind. She hated the Capitol and everything it stood for, but she would never have mistreated anyone regardless of who they were or where they came from. They wouldn’t necessarily be friends by any means, but they would at least respect each other so long as one never disrespected the other.

He ponders then if he and Effie would be friends, or even acquaintances, if Lenore Dove was still here. Would he be kinder to Effie? Would he dislike her more in an effort to protect Lenore Dove from anything Capitol? 

Haymitch shrugs. “Trust me, she’s less attractive when she’s waking you up at 6 o’clock in the morning. Plus she’s like five years older than me—way out of my league.”

“I was talking about for me,” Chaff jokes.

Haymitch snorts and passes the bottle back to Chaff for a swig. “Well, then I know you’re out of her league, my friend.”

Chaff laughs and hands the bottle back. He sighs. “I need to be getting back. Gotta get up early to find more sponsors.” 

Haymitch nods and watches as Chaff stands and leaves, nudging him with his arm in a goodbye as he goes. 

Haymitch downs the rest of his bottle and passes out beneath the stars.

…

There’s a rapping at his door again. Has the raven finally come to take him to Lenore Dove? Of course it isn’t. He knows that once again Effie Trinket is waking him from his favorite state of being—drunk and unconscious. Would it kill her just to leave him alone?

Haymitch lazily gets up from the concrete of the balcony and makes his way into his room. A touch of annoyance floods his veins when he glances over at the clock and sees that it’s 11:58 pm. Why could she possibly be waking him at this hour?

He marches angrily to the door, announcing, “This better be good, Eff—”

His sentence falls off when he realizes no one is at the door. Instead, placed neatly on a napkin, as if Effie had transfigured herself, is a cupcake with pink frosting and a pink unlit candle. Beside it is a note written in a neat, nearly perfect, loopy scrawl.

I wasn’t sure what flavor you’d like, so I got you strawberry (it’s my favorite). 

Hope this doesn’t hurt.

Happy birthday, Haymitch.

-E

Chapter Text

They weren’t going to make it past the bloodbath. Haymitch had told her so when they were alone on the train and she had known it, too. Deep down, she had known it, too.

The moment she saw their young, gaunt faces, she could tell they weren’t long for the world. She’d even wondered as the girl and boy walked up to the stage if they hadn’t been reaped would they even have made it past 13 and 14 respectively? Haymitch said they were from the same place he was—The Seam. He’d told her once they died that this was likely a mercy since it wasn’t uncommon for people to starve to death in The Seam.

But somehow this knowledge doesn’t soothe her now. Every time she closes her eyes she sees the blood pouring out of Ash Teller’s neck, the emptiness in Mavis Briar’s eyes as she takes her last breath. The images replay on a loop in her mind, mimicking the way it’s been repeated constantly on the Capitol broadcasts. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” she hears Haymitch’s voice slur behind her.

Effie doesn’t turn, afraid to reveal her tear-streaked face. “I couldn’t sleep,” she mumbles toward her lap.

She can see in her periphery as Haymitch crosses to the drink cart, grabs the bottle and pours two glasses of amber liquid. If she was in a better mood she would’ve jokingly asked if both were for him. Instead, she just watches wordlessly as he ambles over to her and hands her the glass. She thinks he’s going to plop down next to her, but he goes back to the cart again, grabs the crystal decanter, then returns and takes a seat beside her.

They sit there quietly for some time just drinking, then refilling their glasses, and repeating this cycle until they forgo the glasses altogether and just start drinking straight from the decanter.

Effie can feel the edges of her world soften slowly as the time slips by. The room is warm, stuffy with heat and liquor, and she has begun to shed some of her Capitol-ness in favor of comfort. Her stockings are in a heap on the floor from when she kicked off her heels and she’s curled up now on the couch without caring about the way her dress wrinkles.

She settles deeper into the arm of the couch allowing her wig to slip off and her blonde waves to cascade down the side of the couch. Haymitch has slid down to the floor, back against the chair, one leg stretched out, the other bent so his arm can rest lazily across it. His shirt is unbuttoned, she thinks to make her more comfortable in her current state of dress. Or perhaps, it’s just also for comfort. 

This may be the most Effie has ever drunk in her life. She may take the morphling pills to improve her mood, but she otherwise generally tries to avoid substances and keep her wits about her.

But for tonight she just wants to forget and she feels safe with Haymitch. .

She’s feeling uninhibited and she doesn’t want to talk about Ash and Mavis, so she asks something of Haymitch that she’d never dare ask him sober, “Tell me about her.”

Haymitch doesn’t pretend not to know who she means. 

“She was Covey,” he begins. “Music girl. Sang like birds followed her around. Played the strings better than anyone in the district. Her family used to travel many many years ago before they got locked in Twelve like the rest of us.”

Effie listens. She’s heard about the Covey before — not much, just whispers. 

“We were just kids when we met,” Haymitch says. “She used to hum under her breath, all the time. Said silence made her itch. Drove me crazy. Then one day I realized I missed it when she wasn’t there.”

His voice is softer now, almost reverent. “She was a trouble-maker in more ways than one,” he chuckles softly to himself, “but she was perfect in every way.”

Effie’s voice cracks a little as she asks, “How’d you meet?”

“She dropped an apple on my head, and I knew right then that I’d love her for a lifetime.”

Effie smiles sadly. “I’m so sorry she died, Haymitch. It sounds like she was a wonderful person.”

“She didn’t die,” he says plainly and for a moment Effie thinks he’s delusional until he adds, “she was killed by Snow.”

Effie frowns deeply. She tries to reconcile this in her mind but everything is fuzzy and it feels too hard to think. She opens her mouth to argue but nothing comes out.

“He killed my brother and my Ma, too.”

“I think you may have had too much to drink, Haymitch.”

“You don’t believe me?”

She’s not sure if she does. Why would President Snow personally kill Haymitch’s loved ones?
Because he has a vendetta against Haymitch? Why would he have a vendetta against a boy? Because he won the Hunger Games? That makes no sense. President Snow is likely the biggest supporter of the Hunger Games in all of Panem.Why would he want to punish one of his victors?

She’s about to ask any one of these questions when he adds, “I was illegally reaped, too. Drusilla never pulled my name from that bowl.”

Effie is even more surprised by this, and challenges him on this fact. “Why would she have said your name if yours wasn’t the name pulled?”

“They killed the boy who was actually reaped.”

Effie gasps. “What? Why?”

Haymitch snorts mirthlessly. “You’re funny, Effie. Why does it surprise you that they murdered a boy in cold blood that they were going to send to die in the arena anyway?”

She frowns because he has a point.

This is all too much for her, she thinks. Nothing makes sense right now and it hurts to give too much thought to anything. Surely Haymitch is joking or is so drunk that he’s making things up. But why would he make such dangerous accusations?

A wave of nausea crashes down violently in her stomach and she knows she is going to be sick. She bolts upright and the movement is enough to send her over the edge—she vomits into Haymitch’s lap.

…

Of the three years that she’s known Haymitch Abernathy, Effie has cleaned him up or stayed with him while he vomited up everything but his memories more times than should be expected of one person. 

But now, for once, the tables have turned and Haymitch is the one taking care of her. 

He’d sprung up when she puked on him, luckily avoiding the second wave of sick that came out of her. After that he got her up from the couch, led her to the bathroom and held back her hair as she vomited several more times. She’d barely eaten today so by the fourth and fifth waves, it was nothing but stomach acid. 

She appreciates the way that he rubs her back as the waves keep coming, silently consoling her as tears begin to stream down her face. She doesn’t understand how he goes through this exact thing all the time. In fact, she plans to never feel this way ever again. 

The vomiting has finally stopped but her throat feels dry and raw, preventing her from thanking Haymitch for his kindness. He doesn’t seem to mind though. He rises after a couple of minutes and offers his hand to help her up. She takes it and stands—barely. Haymitch holds her steady with one hand and reaches behind her with the other, turning the shower on. 

He tugs lightly at her dress. “Do you need help getting this off?”

Her breath catches. Despite the number of times she’s helped him dress down, she’s never once been even remotely naked in front of anyone—not even Proserpina. She has her undergarments on and absolutely will not be letting him help her out of those, but she worries briefly that even helping her out of her dress will irrevocably alter their relationship. She’s never seemed to mind all the times Haymitch has been forced into vulnerability but this shift in dynamic nearly sends her into another vomiting fit.

But it’s Haymitch. And for all his drunken idiocy and carelessness, she’s never felt unsafe with him. She trusts him, unequivocally, she trusts him. 

So she turns and allows him to undo the clasps and zippers at the back of the dress. When everything is undone, the dress begins to slip off and she bunches it in front of her. 

That’s enough vulnerability for now. 

Her voice is hoarse as she tells him, “Okay, I think I have it from here.”

Haymitch nods and tells her to, “holler if she needs anything.”

She nods in return. As he leaves, she whispers a gravelly, “Thank you, Haymitch.”

He hums in response and closes the door behind him.

There is no sign of Haymitch when she finishes her shower, for which she’s grateful, since now she’s in nothing but a thin towel. 

She feels drained physically, but her mind still whirs endlessly as she tries to reconcile all of Haymitch’s revelations with what she knows. She lies in bed for over an hour before she’s up again, desperate to get her mind right. 

Somehow she finds herself sitting at the table in her room with stationery from the sitting area drafting up letters to Ash and Mavis’s families. She waffles endlessly over platitudes and extensive anecdotes about them before she lands on a short missive to each family thanking them for the opportunity to know their children, apologizing for their loss, and wishing them peace. 

She seals the letters in envelopes and promises herself that she will find some way to get these delivered tomorrow. 

Effie then crawls into bed and cries herself to sleep.

…

In the night, a girl from District Two named Lyme wins the 53rd Hunger Games. The city has been buzzing with delight all day, while Effie finds herself relieved that it’s over. 

Haymitch was still nowhere in sight when she woke up this morning, but she’d found out while shopping for a new dress for President Snow’s Victory Party that several of the mentors—including one Haymitch Abernathy—convened late last night to party by themselves. Effie thinks instead it may have been a celebration that the Games were over.

She’d been hoping to confront Haymitch about the previous night’s ongoings and divulgences before he returned to District Twelve. She worries now that he’s avoiding her on purpose. He has to be here tonight though. He can be reckless at times but surely he wouldn’t be so openly defiant as to not show up to the President’s party. 

Although, perhaps he is because she still cannot find him as she saunters slowly throughout the mansion in her too tightly laced green and gold brocade evening gown and shoes that cut off circulation to her smallest toe. 

Somewhere across the grand ballroom, Effie sees Lyme being paraded through a swarm of Capitol elites with a glazed look in her eyes, like she’s still in the arena.

“I feel like I’d look like that too if my whole life had just changed.” Effie jumps at the sound of Plutarch Heavensbee’s voice behind her.

She turns around to face him. He’s dressed in a purple velvet suit and with red and gold accents and a shiny gold tie. 

“Plutarch,” Effie greets politely.

“Effie,” he responds with a sly smile and a twinkle in his eye. “Enjoying the party?”

“Of course,” she answers, “you?”

“Of course.” 

Plutarch grabs two champagne flutes from the nearest Avox server and passes one to her. She smiles and lifts the glass in thanks. She’s not in the mood for alcohol so she tips the glass and allows the liquid to lightly brush her lips so as to not offend Plutarch. 

“Wherever is Haymitch?” he asks casually, but Effie is smart enough to know that there’s purpose to his inquiry.

“I don’t know,” she says grumpily. “Seems that’s the question of the day.”

Plutarch furrows his eyebrows. “Did something happen?”

“Of course not,” she lies.

“Miss Trinket, do you know why I suggested you for the District Twelve escort position?”

To punish her? To make her suffer for crimes that should never have been her burden to bear? “No.”

“It was your kindness to Haymitch during his Games and Victory Tour,” he tells her. “I knew you’d be just the right person to guide these young tributes… and keep an eye on Haymitch.”

Effie narrows her eyes, but allows Plutarch the opportunity to elaborate. 

“I think that you and I ultimately have the same objective when it comes to Haymitch.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“You want to protect him. And so do I. But I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s going on with him.”

Effie scowls. “So, what? You want me to spy on him for you?”

“Not at all. But I hope that you’ll entrust me with anything you notice that could get Haymitch into trouble.” He peers at her expectantly.

Effie crosses her arms over her chest. “Forgive me, Mr. Heavensbee, if I’m not one to blindly trust someone I barely know.”

At this, Plutarch smirks. “Well, I hope I get the opportunity for you to know me better, then.”

Is he flirting with her right now?

Before she can admonish him, Plutarch sighs. “Look if you see Haymitch around, let him know that I’m looking for him and that it’s urgent.”

He starts to leave but Effie stops him. “Wait, do you really want to prove to me that you’re trustworthy?”

Plutarch turns and tilts his head, raising his eyebrows. 

“I have these,” she pulls the two small cream envelopes out of her dress pocket. She’s had them with her all day for fear that they may fall into the wrong hands. She prays that Plutarch is not included in that lot. But she’s already revealed her hand at this point, no going back now. 

“I need to get these to District Twelve to the parents of Ash Teller and Mavis Briar,” she instructs.

Plutarch squints at them curiously. “Why not just have Haymitch deliver them?”

Effie looks at him as if that question should be rhetorical. But truthfully, it’s not just that she worries Haymitch won’t get around to delivering them. She’s not sure she’s ready to share this with him. Part of her yearns for her own connection to District Twelve, something that doesn’t necessarily have to be bridged by Haymitch. 

Plutarch chuckles. “Fair enough.” He takes the envelopes from her and tucks them inside his jacket. “I’ll see that these get delivered.”

Effie nods appreciatively and Plutarch takes his leave. 

Once he’s gone, Effie exhales harshly, expelling all the air she had been holding in her lungs during that conversation. She hopes that she hasn’t made a mistake. Then again, she could likely feign ignorance, blame her sweet appeal and incessant need to please people. She wishes she could ask Haymitch if it was a mistake but she’ll simply have to rely on the passage of time to let her know.

Effie mingles with friends and acquaintances for another hour or so when she finally sees Haymitch again. He’s clearly very drunk and has his arm slung around some doll looking thing around Prosie’s age. A wave of jealousy washes over her as if he’s betrayed the unspoken rule that she is to be his only Capitol friend. 

She thought after last night that maybe they had bonded some, that they’d perhaps taken a small step towards being friends. But she considers the idea he doesn’t even remember last night. She’s almost convinced herself of it when she catches him looking at her. Their eyes lock and Effie knows that he remembers. 

She makes a small gesture that would suggest she’s coming to him, but he shakes his head and turns his eyes up toward the upper balcony where she sees President Snow is sitting, watching everyone and everything with calculated interest. It makes Effie’s stomach turn, so she returns her gaze to Haymitch once more, whose eyes plead with her to stay where she is.

Effie worries first that Plutarch may have betrayed her and somehow Haymitch knows. But then she recalls that Plutarch was looking for him first, and was trying to carefully pry information out of her about him . Something is wrong and suddenly she fears that Haymitch is in danger.

He must see that she’s working it all out in her head because he shakes his head again and pure terror shines brightly in his eyes. It’s a warning… to her. But she doesn’t understand why. Still, despite everything she trusts Haymitch wholeheartedly. She heeds his warning and returns her attention to the group she’s with. 

She doesn’t even so much as peek over at Haymitch for the remainder of the evening, being sure to act as if they’re complete strangers. She gossips, she laughs, she even flirts with her cohorts until President Snow has retired to his room and the party dies down.

When Plutarch Heavensbee finds her and asks if he can escort her home, she accepts without hesitation. She also doesn’t question him when he takes her to her apartment rather than back to the training center. It’s clear something in the air has changed and she needs protecting—protecting, it seems, from President Snow. But why? 

She’s itching to ask Plutarch but when they reach her apartment, he leans in and gives her a gentle kiss on the cheek and takes her hand, giving it a squeeze. To anyone observing from the outside it might look like a sweet gesture, but she knows it’s meant to convey so much more. He meets her gaze and gives her hand another squeeze. 

If this whole exchange wasn’t nerve-wracking enough, when he looks at her intently and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow?” she can feel fear itself grasp her airway tightly. 

All she can do is nod and unironically hope that she does, in fact, see Plutarch Heavensbee tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

He knows he shouldn’t be here. He’d heard Plutarch’s warning loud and clear last year in the Capitol. President Snow had taken a special interest in Effie—he’d asked Plutarch about Haymitch’s relationship with her and what kind of influence he had on her. Plutarch had told Snow that they seemed no more involved with each other than your typical mentor/escort pair, but he doesn’t think Snow was quite convinced. 

And it didn’t help that Haymitch had made matters infinitely worse by accusing Snow of cold blooded murder when he was drunk with Effie. Plutarch was furious. Haymitch had tried to tell him that she was so drunk that she probably didn’t remember, but Plutarch assured him that after an interaction with Effie at the Victory Party, he was certain she remembered everything clearly.

“You’ve sentenced that girl to death!”  

Haymitch can still hear those words echoing in his mind now as he waits for the train. Maybe this is a mistake. But he doesn’t care. He can’t care. He has to see her. He has to know that she’s okay. 

Haymitch’s heart beats wildly as he hears the wail of a horn announcing the train’s arrival. He holds his breath as he watches the train pull in but none of the car doors open immediately. He starts in the direction of the car he’s sure she’s likely to be in when the door opens by itself and a young man around Plutarch’s age with perfectly coiffed dark brown hair and stunning bright blue eyes steps onto the platform.

Haymitch is just about to sink to his knees in despair when the man turns back to the car and extends his hand inside. The moment he sees a black-gloved hand peek out of the car, Haymitch’s face splits into a wide grin and her name bubbles up out of him. 

“Effie? Effie!” he calls to her as he jogs over.

The man helping Effie off the train has just enough time to move out of the way before Haymitch crashes into her and envelopes her in his embrace. Effie laughs sweetly in surprise. 

“Well, this is new,” she says in his ear.

They’re both smiling as they part. 

“You’re alive,” he breathes a sigh of relief.

Effie tilts her head to one side. “Did you hear something to the contrary?”

“No, I just—”

“—worried about me?” she teases. 

Haymitch doesn’t say anything but locks eyes with her to share the relief that courses through his veins. Then he hugs her again, softer and more tender this time. 

“Careful,” she warns quietly in his ear, “if you keep hugging me like this, people might start thinking we’re friends.”

She’s right and he knows it but he can’t help expressing the joy and pure relief he feels knowing that she’s okay.

They stare at each other when they part until the man that helped Effie off the train clears his throat.

“Ah, yes,” Effie straightens, falling back into her Capitol poise, “where are my manners? Haymitch, this is Seneca Crane. He’s a Gamemaker intern, and was sent here to learn about District Twelve.”

Haymitch knows that’s code for he was sent here by Snow to keep an eye on them. And of course, he’d just given the man a great first impression by essentially running straight into Effie’s arms. He shakes Seneca’s cold hand and welcomes him to District Twelve. 

They stand there awkwardly, then, unsure of how to proceed. If it was just Haymitch and Effie, he’d have asked her to hang out for a little while. She’d probably say no anyway because of her precious damn schedule. 

“Uh, well, I’m sure you two have lots to do so I, uh, I'll see you both at the reaping.”

His eyes linger on Effie’s again for a moment as he just appreciates the fact that he didn’t get her killed. She gives him a gentle smile and a small wave, urging him to go, and perhaps, even assuring him that she is okay. 

… 

Haymitch hardly gets a moment alone with Effie once the reaping ceremony begins. But he’s had a front row seat watching her laugh and joke around with Seneca Crane. He resents the heat he feels crawling its way up his neck when he sees them interact, especially when she touches his shoulder or he wraps his arm around her. 

He doesn’t think he likes Seneca Crane one bit.

He’s not sure why he’s so jealous of this newly discovered figure in Effie’s life. It’s not like he hasn’t seen her interacting with all kinds of people in the Capitol, kissing, hugging, touching. But this—here in District Twelve—feels like an invasion of their space, something that belongs to only them. Then there’s also the possibility that he’s wanted just a moment to talk to Effie, to be alone with her and ensure she’s okay and happy. But Seneca Crane has made that entirely impossible. 

And there’s also the fact that Haymitch is fairly certain he’s a spy for Snow so that’s three strikes. 

They’re eating dinner when Seneca leaves for the restroom and Haymitch finally has a moment alone with her. He doesn’t even care that the children are still there when he takes the opportunity before him.

“You two seem… familiar.” he says petulantly to Effie.

Effie looks at the place where Seneca just stood. “Well, we have known each other for quite awhile. We went to The Academy and The University together. And our families have known each other much longer than that.” 

Effie pauses, chuckles and adds, “My father has been convinced for years that Seneca has a crush on me—he thinks we’ll probably marry someday.” 

Haymitch gets an uncomfortable feeling in his gut at this. Now he’s certain he doesn’t like Seneca Crane.

Haymitch can’t help but be pettish. “So, why don’t you marry him?”

Effie raises her eyebrows at him. “I suppose I don’t really have time to get married right now,” she says with a little indignation. “I don’t suppose Seneca does either.”

“Yeah, I forget you’re both so busy doing the Capitol’s dirty work,” he grumbles.

Effie scowls at him. “That’s rather rude. What is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” he answers shortly.

“Clearly, you do. Just this morning you were happy to see me. Now you’re angry at me because of my job? What happened?”

Haymitch doesn’t answer but his own eyes betray him when he glances at the door that Seneca Crane exited from. 

Effie follows his gaze and sighs. She lowers her voice to barely a whisper and says, “What would you have had me do, Haymitch? I’m not exactly in a position to refuse the President when he asks me to escort one of his promising future Gamemakers to District Twelve.”

“You and I both know he has no interest in District Twelve,” he hisses back. 

He peeks back at the door because if Seneca Crane was spying on them right now, he’d be bordering on saying something that could put Effie further in danger. He figures it might come across as jealousy of their relationship for now though. 

In hopes of driving that home, Haymitch says, “Why don’t you go cozy up to him now, princess? I got some drinking to do.”

Effie glowers at him, but he doesn’t relent. So, she huffs in aggravation and stands. “I guess I’ll come find you later when the bourbon has improved your horrible mood.”

“Don’t bother. It’s probably best we stay away from each other, anyway. Don’t want to give anyone the wrong impression.” He nods his head back in Seneca’s direction. 

If looks could kill, Haymitch Abernathy would be a dead man. But truthfully, he’d rather her be furious and not speak to him than risk her life to stay by his side. So he remains seated and unapologetic when she storms out of the car angrily in the same direction as Seneca Crane.

…

Haymitch is pleasantly drunk when he, Effie, and Seneca reconvene. The kids have finished eating and are watching TV in another car so it’s just the three of them sitting in the room awkwardly again. Despite his intoxicated state, Haymitch can pick up on a nervous tension between Effie and Seneca. He narrows his eyes, but before he can get anything out, Effie’s eyes flash warningly and she gives him a strict shake of her head.

Seneca doesn’t seem to notice. He clears his throat. “So, Haymitch, you looking forward to being back in the Capitol?”

“No,” Haymitch answers tersely.

Effie’s response is so polite you almost miss the venomous undertones. “Oh, Haymitch, don't be so modest. I know you love visiting the Capitol liquor stores. Don’t pretend like you don’t enjoy indulging in Capitol delights.”

Seneca’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as he looks between Haymitch and Effie. 

“Yeah, maybe you can take me to a morphling dispensary during this visit. I hear you're quite familiar with that delight.”

Effie pops up out of her chair, and Haymitch thinks for a moment that she’s coming to slap him. Instead, she yells, “I will not dignify such slander from a—a—”

“—pathetic drunk? Loser? District piglet? What, Effie? Say it!”

“Alright,” Seneca interjects calmly. He grabs Effie’s hand, coaxing her to look back to him and relax. “Let’s all take a break.”

Effie’s shoulders sag and she nods. She turns back to Haymitch with a look of sincerity. “I’m sorry, Haymitch. I don’t know what came over me.”

Haymitch grunts because he’s not in the mood for meaningless apologies, especially not ones that have been catalyzed by Seneca Crane.

When he doesn’t expressly accept Effie’s apology nor apologizes himself, Effie huffs angrily and announces that she’s going to check on the children.

He thinks that Seneca will follow but instead he watches as Seneca studies him curiously. 

“What?” he asks brusquely.

“Nothing… I’m just trying to figure you out…”

“I’m an open book, there’s nothing to ‘figure out.’” 

“What’s your relationship to her?” Seneca asks.

Haymitch looks at Seneca as if he was the stupidest person in all of Panem. “She’s the escort for District Twelve; I’m the mentor. I thought that was obvious.”

Seneca tilts his head sideways. “Well clearly you must feel some kind of affection toward her with the way you greeted her this morning.”

Haymitch knows this is meant to be an accusation. He’s not sure if it’s the liquor or the rising fury in his blood that makes him respond with, “I greeted her that way because Effie is a good person and I was worried your boss had her killed just for being kind to me.”

Seneca blinks, but has enough intelligence or respect for Effie to shut the fuck up. 

So, Haymitch barrels on, “You think I don’t know why you’re here?”

“I’m on assignment to learn more about Distric—”

“Oh cut the shit,” he interrupts. “I know you’re here to spy on us. I know you’re just dying to get back to Snow to tell him about the hug and that Effie and I fight like cats and dogs. But here’s the thing: Effie is a good person. She’s done nothing wrong. She’s a good escort to these kids and she keeps me in line, too. She shouldn’t be punished simply for being nice to us.”

Seneca stays quiet.

“So, here’s what you’re gonna do. When you get back you’re gonna tell Snow that there is nothing between me and Effie—’cause there isn’t. You’ll tell him that we’re cordial to each other at best—Effie’s kind to me but it’s clear she pities me because I’m a pathetic drunk.”

“And what makes you think I’m going to do what you say?” Seneca challenges him.

“Well, for two reasons,” Haymitch begins smugly. “One, I know you like Effie, so if you ever want a shot with her, I strongly advise against doing something that will get her killed.”

“And two?”

“And two, if anything happens to her—I mean anything —I will kill you myself with my own bare hands. That clear?”

“You must care about her a great deal to go to such lengths to protect her,” Seneca says thoughtfully.

Haymitch sighs. He does care for Effie but not in the way Seneca is suggesting. “Like 

I said she’s just a good person and that’s enough for me to protect her.” 

Haymitch rises and starts in the direction of Effie but pauses at Seneca’s side. “I hope it’s enough for you, too.” 

…

Haymitch’s words must have some effect on Seneca because he gives Haymitch a nod as they exit the train upon arriving at the Capitol and he keeps his departure rather short.

“Effie,” he says with admiration, kissing her cheek.

“Haymitch,” he grunts. 

He leaves abruptly then and Haymitch and Effie watch as he makes his way through the train station. 

“What was that about?” Effie demands.

“Nothing,” Haymitch says matter-of-factly, “don’t worry about it.”

Effie has no choice but to drop it because the kids are stepping off the train and they’ve already made one scene in front of them today.

“Right,” she straightens and brushes her dress. “Well, we’re off for a tour of the city. Please don’t forget that we have dinner tonight with the Canvilles for a potential sponsorship.” She beams at the kids. 

“Make sure to be ready by 7 and please wear the nicest thing you own—actually nevermind, I will buy you something new. I’ll have it dropped off this afternoon. Don’t be late!”

With that she ushers the kids further onto the platform and into the train station.

…

It’s obvious the Canvilles come from old money. Their dining room gleams with understated Capitol wealth. Gilded moldings, imported ice-crystal chandeliers, and a white marble table long enough to seat twenty—though only six are present tonight: the Canville parents, their bored adult daughter Cerise, a half-sculpted man Effie introduces as an “arts patron,” and then Haymitch and Effie.

Haymitch is out of place, and he’s acutely aware of it.

He shifts uncomfortably in the velvet chair he now sits in at the Canville’s table. His collar is too tight, and he can’t help but pull on it. Is it hot in here or is it just him? He’s already downed a full glass of whatever neon-blue liquor was offered first—something floral and acidic, like a perfume bottle punched him in the throat.

Effie doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does, but this is one of the nights she’s pretending not to. She sits beside him, radiant in gold silk that dips into a sharp V down her back, smiling so tightly it could be stitched there.

Haymitch has been watching her in awe and reverence all evening as she charms the Canvilles with her small-talk and pleasantries. It’s not just the Capitol accent or the breathy cadence she slips into like a second skin—it’s the way she moves through a room like she owns the air and like every moment is an opportunity for connection.

She flows from one conversation to the next, voice syrupy and bright, lashes fluttering at just the right moments. She tosses out compliments like confetti—subtle, glittering, perfectly timed. She leans in when she laughs, rests a manicured hand lightly on someone’s forearm, and says things like “There’s something beautifully unvarnished about District Twelve. It produces such genuine character—it’s terribly grounding.”

And it works. Of course it works. The Canvilles nod, lean forward, sip slower. They’re listening. They like her. She knows how to make them like her.

Haymitch watches, nursing a drink that smells like flowers and honey, and he wonders—not for the first time—how she does it. Not just the performance, but the belief in it. The hope that it means something. That it will matter when a cannon goes off.

She makes it look easy.

But he knows it isn’t.

He’s seen her backstage during reapings, muttering names to herself like prayers. He’s watched her tear into stylists for making a tribute look weak, or scared, or common. He’s heard the sharp edge in her voice when she thinks he isn’t trying hard enough. She works at this—harder than anyone ever gives her credit for. Harder than she’ll ever admit.

And maybe that’s what gets under his skin. Not the Capitol paint or the manufactured cheer—but the fact that, after all this time, she still believes the game can be played right.

That it can be won.

“Haymitch,” she says sweetly, tapping her wine glass with one lacquered nail to get his attention, “you haven’t told the Canvilles about our latest tributes.” She looks at him expectantly.

Mr. Canville swirls his wine and regards Haymitch. “Yes, Abernathy. Tell us about your strategy with the tributes. We hear you train them with a bit of a... hands-off approach.”

“Hands-off is generous,” Effie mutters deprecatingly into her glass, and Haymitch tries his best not to take it personally. She’s just pretending, right?

“I let ‘em figure out if they want to live,” Haymitch says bluntly. “Then I help.”

It isn’t charming. It isn’t palatable. But it’s true.

There’s a beat of silence.

Effie coughs delicately. “What Haymitch means is that he believes in cultivating resilience. Which is quite in line with your family’s values, isn’t it, sir?”

Mr. Canville tilts his head. “It is,” he says finally. “Resilience. Integrity. It’s our family legacy,” he pauses, then adds “ and I think that’s certainly something worth investing in.”

Effie flashes him a bright smile, triumphant. She remains mostly composed but under the table, her hand shoots out and grips Haymitch’s wrist. Hard. She did it. She actually did it. 

He doesn’t look at her but he wriggles his hand to lace his fingers with hers. He gives her hand a reassuring and grateful squeeze as he feels that unfamiliar hope bloom in his chest.

…

Haymitch and Effie are pink-faced and giddy when they finally leave the Canvilles. He wonders what was in the drinks because he feels warm but weightless at the same time—a far cry from the heavy weightedness of his regular drink of choice.

Haymitch glances over at Effie, who is considerably shorter when she isn’t wearing her obnoxiously high heels. He studies her as they walk back to the street to hail a car to take them back to the training center. 

“Well,” she says finally, still looking straight ahead, “that was horrible.”

He huffs a dry laugh.

“Could’ve fooled me. Thought you were having the time of your life back there.”

“Please.” She adjusts her gloves with more force than necessary. “I may have Capitol manners, but I’m not a masochist.”

Haymitch watches her for a moment—her earrings glinting under the lantern light, her shoulders relaxed, her lipstick a little worn at the corners.

“You really think this’ll make a difference?” he asks as they approach the curb. “A couple of rich Capitol fossils handing out silverware endorsements?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I have to try.”

He nods once. He’s not convinced it’ll make a difference but he wants her to relish in this win.

He grabs her hand—not hard, not soft either—and says, “You were remarkable tonight, Effie.”

Effie glances over at him with a raised brow.

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m always surprised when people sell lies so well they start to sound like hope.”

She doesn’t bristle at that. Instead, she just exhales—long and slow.

“It’s not a lie,” she says, quiet now. “Not all of it.”

Their eyes meet in the pale light. All at once it clicks into place for him. He gives her such a hard time for being another Capitol pawn, but the truth is that she’s just doing a job and she’s trying to do it to the best of her ability. 

As if reading his mind, she says, “I don’t do this for fun, you know.”

“I know.”

“I do it because someone has to.”

He knows this is true, and who better to do it than someone who’s kind and gives a shit like Effie. 

“And you do it better than anyone else. District Twelve is lucky to have you.”

She doesn’t smile, but something flickers across her face—something warm and tired and not meant to be seen—she’s still as modest as the day they met.

“Now I just gotta make sure I don’t screw up my part and get the kids killed.”

He’s joking, but Effie doesn’t laugh. “You may not think so, but I know you can be a good mentor to those kids. I saw how you cared for the tributes during your Games.”

It seems his whole rascal persona worked on everyone except Effie Trinket—figures.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything, so she presses on, “Your friends—they each had their own unique qualities, but you were their leader. That was obvious from the moment I met you all.”

He chuckles softly. “That’s funny, since the way I remember it, you were the one keeping us all in line.”

“Yes, well I suppose being an escort has always come naturally to me,” she says humbly. “But I just made you all look nice. You helped them survive.”

This isn’t true really. Wyatt died protecting Lou Lou, and then she died because Haymitch was careless. Then there was Maysilee and Ampert, both of whom he left alone to die in the most horrific ways. If he led them anywhere, it was straight to certain death. And she has to know this to some degree since he’s standing here in front of her.

He looks wryly at the ground. “Well…until they didn’t,” he says.

Effie’s face reddens. “Right, I guess that was rather ignorant of me to say.”

Haymitch shrugs—it isn’t the first time she’s spoken out of turn and it won’t be the last. Besides, he understands and appreciates the sentiment. 

“Yeah, it’s a good thing I’m not in the arena with them then, huh?” he says, referring to the tributes he has to mentor now.

She huffs in annoyance. “You deserve more credit than you give yourself,” she murmurs to the ground, then raises her gaze to meet his, finishing with, “...and more grace.”

Haymitch looks out into the stretch of street before them, unsure of what to say. 

She grabs his hand tightly, forcing his gaze back to hers. “Their deaths weren’t your fault— none of them.” He realizes she isn’t just referring to his fellow tributes. 

He doesn’t know that this is true, but he takes the words for what they are—hopeful. She believes him. She believes in him. And for now, that’s enough. 

He doesn’t say anything else, just holds onto her hand like a lifeline and allows the hope of it all to linger in the air as their car comes around the bend.