So... apparently I'm a little bit addicted to writing HG fic. No complaints here. I'm really enjoying exploring this brave new world. Please let me know if I'm hitting the mark or not! There is some *ahem* grown up content in this chapter, but I've been as tasteful as possible when writing it (because sometimes smut can just be icky, and I'm not keen on writing that at all).

At this stage, I don't make explicit reference to my head canon regarding how Effie became an Escort, but I may in the future... If you're interested, check out Casting Lots on my profile.

I got gold polish for my Christmas pedicure out of solidarity with District 12 and I've perfected my 74th Reaping manicure... do you think I own the Hunger Games?

Haymitch was slowly working himself into a drunken stupor. Just when he'd believed that Snow could stoop no lower and value human life less, he'd gone ahead and announced the twist in the Third Quarter Quell. He stood a fifty/fifty chance of returning to the arena and Katniss was likely doomed to her death.

He'd made so many promises… He'd sworn to Katniss that he wouldn't let Peeta die. Haymitch liked the baker's kid. He was a genuinely good example of humanity and the promise he'd managed to extract from Haymitch a second time for Katniss's safety weighed heavily on his mind.

He was most concerned about the promises he'd made to Plutarch about protecting the Mockingjay. Heavensbee was insistent that Katniss was the linchpin of the entire revolution… the District kid who flipped the bird to the big, bad Capitol.

All Haymitch had to do was deliver her in one piece.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. He wanted to throw something, but he'd already wasted a bottle of his strictly rationed and highly contraband white liquor. He wouldn't be making that mistake again.

There was a knock at the door.

It was well and truly after nightfall. Thread's curfew was still firmly in place, so a knock at the door so close to midnight could hardly be a neighbour popping by for a spot of tea.

The well-worn handle of his knife in his palm was a familiar companion and it filled him with a quiet confidence as he slunk towards the door, his bare feet almost silent against the hardwood floor.

"Effie?" he grunted when he swung the door open. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

She could only stare at him, blue eyes wide; the proverbial deer in the headlights. "I don't know what came over me," she gasped. "I should leave."

He managed to snag her arm before she stepped off the balcony of his house, the drunken haze he was in making it difficult for him to process exactly why District Twelve's Escort was on his doorstep, noticeably devoid of the Capitol fripperies she usually adorned herself in. "Are you fucking crazy?" He demanded, dragging her into the house. "Peacekeepers are shooting down anything and anyone that moves after dark. Your address in the Capitol's chicest location won't count for shit with them."

He expected her to hiss at him about manners as he hustled her though the house. She didn't say a word about the broken glass on the floor near his television, nor did she mention the empty bottles that served as the only decoration in the house. The only reaction he got from her was a slight wrinkle of her nose at the lingering smell of vomit in the air.

He slumped down on the couch, removing the cork from a half drunk bottle with his teeth. "Talk, Princess," he demanded. "What the hell are you doing here?"

She gave a strangled little sigh. "I saw the Quarter Quell announcement," she murmured. "I have no idea what came over me. But once the shock subsided and I could think beyond the utter unfairness of it all, one thing remained clear to me. I needed to be here." She hesitated for a moment, but gathered her courage and reached for his hand. "I am so sorry, Haymitch," she murmured.

He took a long swig of his drink, but didn't shrug her hand away. "There's only one person responsible for this, and it's not you, Sweetheart," he rumbled.

A strange sense of warmth thrilled through Effie's chest at the use of his endearment, noticeably devoid of his usual malice. "I'm the one who chooses who lives and dies," she tugged her hair free of the sloppy bun she'd twisted it into on the train. "This is wrong, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry that they've taken your control over your life away, again and I'm sorry for the part I'm going to play in it."

The pain in Haymitch's eyes was agonising and Effie had to look away.

"We didn't have a Mentor," Haymitch recalled, swirling the liquor in the bottom of his glass. "The year of my Games, it was just the four of us and we had no idea what the fuck to do," he smirked, staring at a shard of glass wedged in the floor across the room. "The last piece of advice my Pa gave me was to 'stay alive.'" He shrugged. "My old man was a hard ass bastard, but he was my father and he did what he could to provide for us. I don't think I've ever seen him look so petrified as he did when he said goodbye to me."

His fingers tightened around her hand as he cleared his throat after draining the bottle. "Our Escort was a right old bitch," he recalled. "She wasn't anything like you."

"Like me?" Effie asked.

"Stop pretending," he grumbled. "You know the kids are starving so you make sure they get extra servings of dessert and shoes on their feet for the first time in their lives. You care, Trinket. You care more than you should."

It felt like his gaze was piercing into her soul. "How can I not?" she asked. "I come to town, like the Angel of Death and swoop in for more prey each year. The least I can do is make sure the poor things are comfortable before they get torn apart."

"I've spent the last twenty-five years cursing those damn Games," Haymitch groaned. "I've let forty eight children march to their death because I was so fucking consumed by my own pain that I couldn't help them." He paused and placed the bottle on the floor. "I really tried, the first few years. Told them anything and everything I could think of. But no matter what I did, my Tributes ended up dead. So what was the difference? I could throw my heart and soul into helping them and fail, or I could just embrace the probability of their imminent death," his mirthless chuckle crackled harshly in the silent room. "I thought managing to get two of them out alive was my act of penance for my negligence. Maybe it's this instead."

"Haymitch, it might not even be you that goes into the Games," Effie pointed out hesitantly.

"If I'm not in the Arena, I'm going to get to watch the kids get destroyed instead. They're the closest thing I have to family and I'll get to watch them die," he confessed, his voice barely discernable, he spoke so softly.

"You're wrong," Effie whispered. She twisted her body so that she was facing him on the couch. "You have me." She cleared her throat. "I know you don't like me very much because of what the Capitol forces me to do, but if you wanted, I could be your family too."

Effie had expected him to scorn her. As soon as the words had left her mouth, she'd steeled herself for Haymitch to attack her with alcohol-fuelled barbs. She'd been so ready for his vitriol, that she'd been completely shocked when he kissed her instead. His lips slammed against hers in a desperate search for some kind of connection to another human.

The taste of liquor was heavy on his breath, but under the overwhelming taste of District Twelve's unique brew, Effie could taste his loneliness. She finally realised how harshly he'd been punishing himself with his self-imposed isolation and with the realisation that it was her that he'd chosen to break free from the prison of his own building with, she silenced the part of her brain that dealt with consequences and schedules and propriety and abandoned herself to the heat of the moment.

His kisses were relentless, his stubble burning the soft skin of her throat as his lips marked her skin. Her fingers fumbled for the buttons of his shirt, seeking the warmth of his skin against hers as she straddled his waist. She traced the scars that adorned his abdomen, her hips rolling against his.

He pulled away from her skin long enough to pull off the dress she was wearing, tossing it across the room. "You really do look much better without all that crap smeared all over you, Sweetheart," he sighed, his roughened hands tracing her slim waist. "I can actually see your face," he added, lips pressing against the curve of her jaw as he struggled with the clasp of her bra.

Effie batted his hands away, unclasping the garment and tossing it away. "If you promise to be very nice to me, I might let you see me like this more often," she teased as she pushed the open shirt off his shoulders, the lightness in her tone belying the solemnity of the reason for her visit.

"I can be very nice," Haymitch agreed, flipping them so that Effie lay sprawled on the couch, her legs hooked around his hips.

"Really?" she asked, smiling at him with kiss-swollen lips, her golden hair spread out over the pillow of the couch like a halo. "Prove it."

He leaned down to kiss her again. The urgency left his movements, no longer fuelled by the desperation to be close to another person. Now he touched her as if she were special, a priceless vase that would shatter at the slightest caress.

She reached for his belt buckle, nimble fingers making quick work of undoing the leather. His hand on her wrist stilled her movements. "Are you sure, Princess?" He asked her, searching her face for any sign of hesitation as his thumb brushed against the waistband of her lace panties

She gave him a shy smile as she lifted her hips. "I've never been more certain," she promised, reaching up to cup his cheek with her palm.

Her skin was tingling like a livewire when she felt his thumbs hook around her panties. His roughened fingertips tracing down her legs sent thrills shooting through her body, and a tiny sigh escaped her lips. She didn't know what she'd been expecting when she'd gotten on the train to District Twelve, but lying naked on Haymitch's liquor stained couch was somewhere near "the Games being cancelled" and "new found sobriety on Haymitch's behalf" on her list of theoretical outcomes.

There it was again. That gentle, delicate way he touched her. The caress that was so in opposition to everything that she knew of Haymitch Abernathy. "I'm not made of glass," she whispered.

He kissed her hungrily, nipping at her lower lip as he positioned himself at her entrance.

She grazed her teeth against his earlobe. "Manners, Haymitch," she growled, her voice low and wanton. "It's rude to tease."

A chuckle rumbled through his chest, "Predictable as always, Trinket," he responded, his voice raspy.

Her sure to be witty response was cut off with a gasp of pleasure when he finally, finally entered her.

She brushed her lips against a scar that lined his collarbone, a moan of delight escaping her when he began to move. She'd had a tiny moment of panic, terrified that the whole experience would be horrifically awkward and unsatisfying and then they'd have to work together afterwards, but they found their rhythm as naturally as they slung innuendo-laden insults at each other.

She thrust her pelvis up to meet his, her fingers digging into his shoulder blades. "Harder," she sighed, a tiny note of challenge in her voice, daring him to keep up with her. She half expected him to snort and do the stark opposite and she was overtaken with pleasure when he responded in kind, his pace immediately increasing, his lips brushing against her décolletage as he whispered against her skin. She could barely hear the words escaping his lips, but she was certain she'd caught the word "beautiful" more than once.

His hand trailed down her thigh, pulling away slightly to hitch her ankle over his shoulder, pistoning his hips against hers. The change of angle was all Effie needed. She tossed her head back in silent ecstasy, her orgasm hitting her like a freight train, the tightening of her walls sending Haymitch over the edge.

He collapsed against her sweaty skin, energy spent. Her shaky fingers ran through his hair. She didn't want to break the silence of the moment, so she simply continued the gentle rhythm of her fingers weaving in and out of his surprisingly soft hair as his breathing returned to normal. "Is this usually the part of the evening where you'd pass out on the couch in a stupor?" she asked him; cautious to not sound like she was making an accusation.

"I think I might be in a stupor of a different kind, Princess," he replied, his eyes hazy when he managed to lift his head off her chest to look her in the eye. He snagged the blanket that Hazelle had left folded over the arm of the couch.

"Good, because I don't plan on moving," Effie replied, smiling at the way Haymitch wrapped them both in the comforter.

Haymitch collapsed back into his previous position, sleep drunk and vulnerable. "I sometimes wake up screaming," he warned her, eyes slipping shut at the ministrations of her nails against his scalp, his breathing becoming deep and regular.

"I'm tougher than I look," Effie assured him.

It was a rare night that he slept without nightmares. Drinking until he passed out helped, but at least twice a week he woke up to horrific nightmares that left him shaking for hours after sleep abandoned him. It was an unusual moment indeed where wakefulness crept up on him and let him slowly adjust to being conscious.

It was more rare still that he woke up wrapped around a woman like ivy.

"Good morning," Effie murmured.

Haymitch sat up, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Morning," he replied. It had been a hell of a long time since he'd been in a position like this. He'd certainly never dealt with the morning after with a person he had any sort of working relationship with and he wasn't sure of the appropriate protocol that she would probably be a stickler for.

"Did you sleep well?" He asked. That seemed safe. It seemed like a question she wouldn't twist his ear for.

Effie shrugged. "Some," she replied. "Then I heard screaming from next door."

Haymitch nodded his understanding. For such a stoic little thing when she was awake, Katniss had a scream that could wake the dead when she was in the grip of her own nightmares. Truth be told, the noise that came from her bedroom window each night didn't help Haymitch any. "Pretty standard feature around here, Princess," he mentioned. "At least one of us wakes up having lost our shit."

Effie fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, chewing on her lip in a very not Effie-like way. She took a deep breath. "I'm not doing it," she whispered.

"Not doing what?"

She looked up at him, jaw set in determination. "The Reaping. I'm not sending any of you to your deaths, again."

Haymitch stood up abruptly, reaching for the pants he'd left strewn across the living room floor. Unable to locate Effie's dress, he tossed his shirt at her. "Get dressed," he ordered.

Effie frowned. "Is there a problem?" she asked.

"It's stuffy in here," he muttered. "And you've never seen a District Twelve sunrise. Hurry."

Effie wasn't sure why he was so insistent that they head outside, but she slipped on his shirt regardless and followed him as he rushed out the door.

The sun was just beginning to creep over the tree line, the world beginning to cast off shades of grey in order to be bathed in the pale light of day. It was certainly a sight to behold. "It's beautiful," Effie sighed. "But I don't know why you were in such a hurry to get outside."

He stepped behind her, his torso pressed against her back, one arm coming to wrap around her shoulders. "Capitol bugs," he muttered. To anybody, it looked like a lover's embrace as they watched the sun creep into the sky. "Shit is going to go down, Effie," he whispered into her ear.

"I don't care. They can find another Escort. I can't do it, Haymitch. I won't."

He cursed under his breath. "You don't get it, Trinket. I'm not just talking about you. You remember the upheaval we saw on the Victory Tour? The new Peacekeeper in Twelve?"

She nodded, a shiver wracking through her that had nothing to do with the crisp dawn air.

"All symptoms of a larger beast, Sweetheart. People are mad at the Capitol. They're sick of sending their kids off to die and starving, while a select few live in the lap of luxury. Things are going to change, whether Snow likes it or not."

Her breath hitched in her chest. The words that Haymitch whispered into her ear were treason, no question about it. And here he was, trusting a Capitol citizen with those words. She could practically taste his conviction. He was right. Panem was a festering wound, covered by a glittering bandage. The infection needed to be purged. "What can I do?" she whispered.

He gave her a soft smile, not unlike the one that crept across his lips when he saw Katniss or Peeta succeed in the arena. "I need you to head home and pretend like nothing is wrong," he told her, his tone urgent. "You're the darling Escort of District Twelve and you're confident that one of your Victors can shock Panem and win a second year running."

Effie drew a shuddering breath. "Are we still selling the Star Crossed Lovers of District Twelve?" She asked. She smirked at his raised eyebrow. "Honestly, Haymitch, do you think I'm an idiot?" She paused. "Don't answer that," she cautioned him, gently poking his ribs. "Katniss never had any romantic feelings towards Peeta. At least, none that she was aware of. I assume she's still completely ignorant to the fact that she's madly in love with him?"

Haymitch sighed. "She came to see me, about an hour before you showed up, begging me to keep him alive."

"That girl redefines naivety," Effie sighed, turning so that she could face Haymitch.

"I swore that I'd volunteer if he was Reaped," Haymitch confessed.

Effie felt like she'd been kicked in the chest. It was hard enough watching two strange children in the Games this year, and she was sure that watching any of her Victors go through the Arena again would damn near destroy her, but the thought that Haymitch would volunteer to go to hell a second time? Unthinkable.

"He made me promise to keep her safe," Haymitch confessed. "I can do that, inside the arena or as a Mentor. And her safety matters the most. She's the Mockingjay."

Effie nodded. She'd never forget the Victory Tour's stop at District Eleven, the whistle of the old man from the crowd, the salute and the crack of a gunshot over the sound of rioting. Katniss had become a symbol to those people, and Effie of all people knew the power of a symbol. "I did my best to keep them safe in whatever way I could," Effie confessed. "I know those speeches were repulsive, but I thought they might at least stop the pair of them from arousing any more suspicion. Especially after what happened to poor Seneca." The look Effie shot him suggested that Seneca's mysterious disappearance was not unusual, and that she was well aware she'd probably never see him again.

"You did good, Trinket," he assured her, resting his forehead against hers. Effie's hands snuck up to rest on the nape of his neck, her eyes slipping closed. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "But we've got to get you back to the Capitol," he insisted.

"I wish I could stay," Effie offered meekly.

He almost confessed that he wished she could too. He'd managed a solid few hours rest, completely free of nightmares and the only anomaly he could attribute to the situation was the evening spent with her. By rights, the prospect of going back into the Arena should have thrown him into a spiral of flashbacks and alcoholic suppression, but he felt shockingly peaceful. There was a steady fire of hatred burning deep within his psyche, but he was at peace with the rage and felt no fear. He couldn't find a way to express that though, so he kissed her again, hoping that she could find a way to understand.

She shot him a tiny smile when he pulled away. "Honestly Haymitch, where are your manners?" She attempted to tease, bolstering her tone with a false bravado she didn't really feel. "You should at least offer me a cup of coffee before I leave."

She'd crept away to the bathroom and made an attempt to tame her hair and washed her face, walking to the kitchen fully dressed, her face schooled into the cool disinterest of a Capitol woman.

Haymitch nodded to the cup sitting on the table, pouring a hefty serving of whiskey into his own cup. Effie took a sip, mildly surprised that Haymitch had memorised the way she took her coffee.

"Can't believe you came here without so much as packing a bag," he said gruffly.

"I thought you'd be impressed," Effie retorted. "I loosened my corset and threw caution in the wind. Next thing you know I'll be sporting a devil may care attitude and a hip flask," she gave him a wink.

"That's not how this works," he replied. "If you did that, I'd have to be responsible, and we both know how much trouble we'd be in if I was in charge."

"The train would run off the tracks," Effie agreed.

He smirked. "Drink up, Sweetheart," he urged. "First train is due to leave soon and the fewer people see you, the safer."

She nodded, draining her cup. She really hadn't thought about the logistics of this trip at all. She hadn't even brought a change of clothes with her, for goodness sake. She placed the cup in the sink, where she assumed it would most probably stay until she arrived again for the Reaping. "I'm ready."

She hadn't expected him to accompany her to the train station. His stare was intent, scanning the horizon for any kind of threat that might emerge. He'd silently taken her hand, weaving his fingers with hers, his grip tight and reassuring as they made the short walk from the Victors Village to the train station.

She turned to face him once they stood on the platform, the early morning sun making her squint. "Any last advice?" she asked him.

He smirked. "Stay alive." With a rough kiss pressed against her mouth, he gave her a push towards the train door, before turning and walking away.

He shattered her expectations yet again when she saw him from the train window, watching her depart with his flask in hand.

She settled back on the seat. She'd known Haymitch for years, but the man was certainly an enigma.

So... I made Effie a rebel, or at least, aware that the rebellion was going to take place. Personally, I don't think she's a ditz at all. I think the persona she presents to the Capitol is exactly that, and she's far more intelligent than she appears. With that in mind, I can't stand the idea of her being tortured by the Capitol during Mockingjay if she knows nothing. That's a very short justification of why I made that little choice ;)

Let's play! I'm very new to the world of tumblr (but I am enjoying the pretty pictures), so check me out at brookemopolitan and feel free to throw me a prompt, if you're so inclined, or send me a follow request on twitter (brookemopolitan is the handle)

I would love to hear your thoughts.