AN: Thanks for reading, everyone.

. . . . . .

Day Nineteen

. . . . . .

Considering how much Panem has gone through in the last year or two, Haymitch is surprised at how little the Capitol skyline has changed. He watches it grow larger out the train window, all lit up against the night sky, and it brings an unpleasant twinge to his stomach. For far too long a time, nothing good ever came of seeing the Capitol appear on the horizon.

But this is important—important enough to bring him out of his self-imposed exile in 12. Important enough to bring him back to a city he never wanted to see again. There's something that must be done.

The train station is less crowded than he remembers, and there are fewer taxis on the streets, but he manages to catch one. The car drops him off in front of a sleek apartment building, and he pays the driver and slides out with his bag before he can talk himself out of it. Still, he stands on the sidewalk for several minutes, steeling himself to go inside. But he's come this far; it's a waste of a long train ride if he doesn't go through with it. And besides, he tells himself again, this is important.

Inside, he takes the elevator to the penthouse suite on the 15th floor and knocks on the door.

The door opens, and he's greeted with a surprised but pleased "Haymitch."

Haymitch smiles. "Hey, Plutarch."

. . . . . .

Day Twenty

. . . . . .

Haymitch hates the building as soon as he sees it. It's nothing to do with the building itself, just what he knows goes on inside it. But Plutarch is smiling encouragingly beside him so he tries not to look too displeased.

It's an old converted mansion at the edge of the city, built in a style Haymitch hasn't seen much. Most of the buildings in the Capitol are either marble arches and columns or sleek glass and steel, but this one is old-fashioned red brick, with white shutters and trim and a slate-gray roof. Inside they're greeted by a smiling woman with perfectly coiffed hair who shows them to Haymitch's room and leaves them to say their goodbyes.

"I'm proud of you," says Plutarch.

"I'm regretting this already," says Haymitch.

Plutarch, sympathetic friend that he is, just laughs.

An hour later, Plutarch is gone and Haymitch is sitting in a comfortable office in a comfortable chair, facing a comfortable-looking middle-aged man with a fringe of black hair around his bald head. "I sort of expected this place to be a little . . . slicker," Haymitch says conversationally. "Since you're the most famous one in the Capitol and all that."

Dr. Galen smiles. "Not quite the Tribute Center or the presidential mansion, is it, Mr. Abernathy? You can't beat the location, though. I find that many of our clients find it useful to be out of the heart of the city—away from old temptations, if you will."

"Well, this is about as far from my old temptations as you can get."

There's a rustling of paper as Dr. Galen consults a file in front of him—old-fashioned guy, apparently, to go with paper instead of digital. "Now, my friend Mr. Heavensbee tells me you approached him about checking into our facility. I find that very encouraging; we always see better results with clients who seek counseling willingly, instead of being pressured by family and friends. What made you choose this particular facility?"

Effie's face swims in front of his eyes; that's been happening a lot lately. "I heard good things from a friend."

"And what made you decide to seek rehabilitation for your alcohol abuse?"

Haymitch shifts uncomfortably in his chair. The doc has a way about him that makes it easy to talk openly, but still, this isn't really his style; his conversations with Effie and the kids over the last few weeks were the most he'd talked about his feelings . . . ever. He's not good at it and he's not comfortable with it. But he's here and he's going to try to see this through, so he answers. "There's these two kids—well, they're basically grown up now. But they're . . . family. Or at least the closest to family I've got. I should be there for them, but I'm not when I'm plastered." He hesitates. "And there's a woman. The last time I got really drunk, I . . . hurt her. Not physically," he adds quickly. "But I said a lot of things she might never forgive me for."

Oh, he hates this sharing stuff already. But when he looks up at Dr. Galen, the man is smiling at him. "Mr. Abernathy," he says, "I think this is going to go very well."

. . . . . .

Day Twenty-six

. . . . . .

Haymitch very quickly starts to wonder if he's made a terrible mistake, coming here.

Part of the problem is that he's so bored, which comes from the unique client status he has at the facility. Dr. Galen accepts clients (a word that they use rather than "patient," because the doctors claim it's more empowering) on both an in-patient and an out-patient basis. When Plutarch contacted him at Haymitch's request, the good doctor explained that he tended not to admit people into his residential program unless they had tried and failed the live-at-home daily counseling option. Haymitch doesn't mind not being in the residential program—he's walked by their group sessions a time or two, and he's very glad not to have to sit around with a bunch of wealthy middle-aged alcoholics and talk about his feelings—but the daily counseling program was a problematic option because he doesn't have a home in the Capitol to live at and he refuses to inconvenience Plutarch by living with him for a month. So they reached an arrangement: Haymitch is not technically part of the residential program, but he's paying to live in the facility, and he still has access to their game room and their gym and their home theater room. But he doesn't really use any of them, and he doesn't talk to any of the residential clients during mealtimes, and he only spends an hour or two a day in counseling. So he's bored a lot, and has a lot of time to think about how much he'd like a drink and how much he'd like to be back home in 12.

Often patients go through an intense detox period, Dr. Galen told him on the first day, where they're given medication to help wean them off alcohol, but since Haymitch hasn't had a drink since the party (which now feels like it happened a lifetime ago), he only receives mild drugs to help with lingering withdrawal symptoms. They definitely help with his body's cravings, but they don't do anything to still his mind and help him cope with his demons, which is what he really wants to drink for. That's where Dr. Galen's sessions come in. So far they haven't talked about any of the heavy stuff Haymitch was expecting—just things like methods for coping with nightmares and flashbacks—but he suspects that the doctor is working up to asking him the hard-hitting questions.

He doesn't mind these sessions; he likes Dr. Galen, which is more than he can say about the residential clients. So far they've mostly sensed that he wants to be left alone and have done so, but tonight there's a small group of people eying him from across the dining room. He does his best to look unapproachable, but they're apparently very brave or very stupid and they cross the room to stand next to him. "Do you mind if we sit here?" one of them asks brightly. She's a middle-aged woman with dark hair pulled up into a braided updo; the style reminds him of Effie and he has to look away.

"Well—"

"Good." She smiles and sits next to him, and the others follow suit. "I'm Hortense, by the way." He has no intention of introducing himself, but it turns out he's never even given the option. "And I know you, of course. Haymitch Abernathy. You won the Quarter Quell when I was 19."

"Mmm hmm." He doesn't really want to talk to these people, but he also doesn't want to be overtly rude, so he just ignores them and focuses on his potatoes.

But Hortense doesn't notice his lack of enthusiasm. "I knew this was a classy place, but I didn't know we'd be rubbing elbows with actual celebrities. This is very exciting."

"Mmm hmm."

"Of course, your company excluded, I haven't exactly loved it here. I suppose it's necessary, though. I crashed my car into the lake last month. Had to be pulled out by a passerby—girl from District 4 who swam like a fish, fortunately for me. Oh dear, it was a bit of a pickle. Got fired from my job, although really it's my boss's fault I started drinking in the first place—so much pressure to bring our sales numbers up, you know."

"I do sympathize," says one of the men. His hair is plain dirt brown, but Haymitch is willing to bet it used to be dyed orange, to match the pattern of tattooed dots radiating out from his temple. The fashions for hair and clothes have changed since the war, but tattoos and surgical alterations are harder to cast aside, clearly. He has a moment's useless thought that Effie's lucky she never did any—but best not to think of that just now. The man addresses himself to Haymitch. "I haven't seen you in any of our group sessions, so I don't feel bad boring you with a story you've already heard. My wife had an affair—with our son's teacher, of all people. So humiliating; all our friends knew. So we split up and I started . . . you know . . ." He pantomimes drinking. "But you know how that goes."

And Haymitch has had more than enough of this conversation. "Well, I started drinking to help me cope with the fact that President Snow murdered my family," he says sharply. "And then I realized that if I always showed up to TV appearances drunk and vomiting, no one would ever try to buy my company and Snow would stop trying to coerce me into a life of high-class prostitution."

There is silence, and one of the women shifts uncomfortably and won't meet his eyes. In that silence, he stands from the table and walks out of the room. His hands are clenched into fists, but once he's out in the hall, he finds himself smiling. The looks on their faces were priceless. And he has a feeling that's the last time anyone will bother him at dinner.

. . . . . .

Day Twenty-nine

. . . . . .

He was wrong: his outburst at dinner just made him more popular, and he's taken to eating as quickly as possible so he can get away from Hortense and her friends. To get away from everyone.

It's been weird, really, being a famous rebel at a Capitol rehab center. Effie was right (of course Effie was right; she's always had surprisingly keen instincts) when she told him that a lot of people in the Capitol ended up sympathetic and understanding toward the rebellion, at least after it was all over and they finally understood just how awful things were for the districts, but they all try to avoid talking about it. So everyone knows him and tries at one time or other to talk to him, but most people won't talk about why they know him or what he's been up to recently. And there are a few patients who seem to resent the rebellion, since it mostly made them all a lot poorer (as in they can now only afford one car instead of three); these people won't talk to him or make eye contact with him, which he doesn't mind a bit. He doesn't want to talk to them anyway.

So he can't help thinking it's a bad idea when Dr. Galen suggests they walk outside for their session today; what if he runs into someone who either loves or hates him? His bedroom window looks over the extensive grounds and gardens behind the house, and he sees how often the winding paths there are occupied by other clients. But the doc seems so excited about the prospect, and Haymitch supposes it could be nice to get some fresh air, so he bundles up and they head outside.

The plants are mostly all dead or dying, and the air is quite brisk, but it's still pleasant to be outside. Dr. Galen makes casual small talk for a few minutes, and he carefully steers them away from other groups of people out in the garden, so it's not as bad as Haymitch feared . . . until Hortense intercepts them.

"Sorry," Dr. Galen smiles at her, "but this is a private—"

"I just have to say something to Haymitch," she says determinedly.

Dr. Galen seems to consider, then relent. "Would that be all right, Haymitch?" he asks. "Since we've been talking about good communication skills?"

Haymitch rolls his eyes, but Dr. Galen catches his eye and meaningfully taps his shirt pocket. That's one of his little tricks; he had Katniss and Peeta write Haymitch a letter, and Haymitch is meant to keep that letter in his pocket at all times, to remind him why he's doing this. It's painfully sappy, but it has the desired effect: he imagines Peeta telling him to give the woman a chance to speak, and he smiles and sighs at the same time and says, "Yes, Hortense?"

She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry the people in the Capitol made you drink. And I'm sorry about your family."

He stares at her a long time, and then a smile ghosts over his face. "Thank you, Hortense." And she beams and walks away.

Dr. Galen chuckles once she's out of earshot. "Bit of a celebrity crush there?"

He shrugs. "Apparently."

Dr. Galen is silent a long moment. "You know," he says finally, "I've been meaning to ask you about your family. Is that something you'd be willing to talk about today?"

A month ago, a request that like would have been met with a knee-jerk refusal, but adding to Katniss and Peeta's book a few weeks ago weakened the wall he usually builds around the memories of his mother and brother. So he thinks for a moment, and then he sighs. "Yeah, we can do that."

Dr. Galen smiles. "I'm glad."

. . . . . .

Day Thirty-eight

. . . . . .

"I saw you eating dinner last night with your biggest fan," Dr. Galen says with a laugh.

"That woman," Haymitch sighs. "She's dragged her friends over to sit by me every night this week. Can't you tell her that's harassment? Or just help her see that old Orange Spots is obviously crazy about her so she'll stop wasting her time on me?"

"His name is Cassian," Dr. Galen says mildly. "It'd be polite to remember his name. He's very fond of you too, you know."

"Oh, I know," says Haymitch. "I'm the most popular alcoholic here."

Dr. Galen gives him a gently disapproving look; he doesn't like the clients to call themselves alcoholics. After two and a half weeks of daily counseling sessions, Haymitch has heard all of his little sayings and platitudes a dozen times: "This is a struggle you have; it's not who you are." "Anyone can change if they have the will to do so." "Just because someone dyed their skin green doesn't make them creepy, Haymitch."

Actually, it hasn't been a terrible two and a half weeks, not like he expected it to be. For all he complains, he tolerates the clients who sit by him at dinner fairly well. He's come to enjoy the time he spends walking outside and thinking and watching Plutarch's programming in the theater room (but not Stories Across Panem—never Stories Across Panem). They've taken him off all meds, but in the past week he hasn't had a single craving for alcohol that he couldn't deal with calmly and easily. And he's actually enjoyed his counseling sessions. Since that day they finally talked about his family, they've delved into more serious things, things he's rarely or never discussed out loud—his Games, watching Maysilee die, the disgust he felt when he realized what being a victor usually entailed, when he started drinking, when he realized he couldn't stop drinking, the difficulty of mentoring and watching children who depended on him die, losing so many friends in the rebellion. And to his surprise, it's good to talk about them. He's kept them inside for thirty years because talking was a good way to get yourself or others in trouble, but it feels great to get them off his chest—like he's suddenly lighter and younger.

But there's one thing they've never talked about.

Dr. Galen taps his pencil on his desk; he does this when he's working up to a big question. "Speaking of women," he says, and Haymitch tenses, "we've never discussed the woman you mentioned when you joined us here."

Haymitch's mouth tightens into a thin line. "No, we haven't."

"We don't have to talk about all of it just yet," Dr. Galen assures him. "But could you tell me how you two met?"

Haymitch is taken back nearly ten years, to a party at the Capitol after the Hunger Games, when 12's old escort introduced to him a young woman in the most absurd sky blue wig and told him she'd be taking over next year. Effie had been so excited, so eager, and she'd clasped his hand in both of hers and told him in the heaviest Capitol accent he'd ever heard that she was absolutely certain that thy were going to be the very best of friends. He'd dismissed her at the time as insincere, but remembering what she said to him at the Unity Day celebration, about how excited she'd been to be assigned to work with a victor she'd had such a crush on, he supposes that she probably meant what she'd said.

The doctor is still waiting for an answer, so Haymitch says simply, "She worked for the Hunger Games."

Dr. Galen seems intrigued by that, but Haymitch can't explain exactly what part she played in the Games because then it'd be clear who she is, and even though he's been assured that everything said in these sessions is private, he can't bear the thought of being that open and vulnerable. So, desperate to change the subject of who she is, he finds himself jumping forward in the story, to the day she appeared on his doorstep. The doctor listens intently, nodding often, as Haymitch talks about how they slowly became friends, and then confidantes of a sort, and how many times they comforted each other over the course of the week. He talks about how good it had been to have someone there he could share with without burdening the kids. And then he talks about how he'd panicked at the party, how kissing her had felt like a betrayal of everyone hurt by the Hunger Games, how he'd gotten falling-down drunk and berated her and made her cry, how she left without saying goodbye, how they haven't talked since. When he finishes his story he realizes that he has talked without stopping for twenty whole minutes. But he supposes he's not surprised he had so much to say on the subject; after all, he's thought of little else since he arrived in the Capitol.

Dr. Galen listens to it all with that face he usually makes during sessions, the don't-worry-I'm-not-judging-you face, and then he thinks for a moment. "And how do you feel about her now? Are you still angry with her?"

Haymitch gives a humorless laugh and looks down at his knees. "No." The truth is, the anger and disgust he felt that night have long vanished; he can't even find the place in his mind where they used to live.

"Do you . . . still have romantic feelings for her?"

When Katniss suggested he had romantic feelings for Effie, he instinctively recoiled. But now, one month sober, with lots of time for introspection, here among all these Capitolites who he's realized are really not terrible folks, he doesn't even fight it. He just drops his head into his hands and sighs. "It was messed up, what she did in the Hunger Games. But everything's messed up these days. Why shouldn't I fall for someone who's messed up too?"

Dr. Galen taps his pencil on his desk a moment, then opens a drawer. "Here," he says, and pushes a pad of paper and pen toward Haymitch. "This is something I haven't had you do yet, but an important part of the recovery process can be making amends with people you've hurt. I want you to write a letter to this woman, and we'll send it out."

Haymitch stares at the paper a long time. He doesn't want to write her; the things he needs to say to her are the sorts of things that should be said to her face. But also, at present he has no plans of seeing her face-to-face any time soon. Plutarch asked him, when he arrived in the Capitol, if he wanted to visit Effie, and he'd emphatically said no; surely she doesn't want to see him, and he doesn't want to force her into a situation where she's uncomfortable. (Also, he doesn't want to look in her eyes and see the fondness that was once there turned into hatred. Because surely she hates him now.) So if he's not going to tell her these things in person, maybe he owes it to her to write this letter.

So he takes the pad of paper, and he stares at it for the rest of the session, unsure of what to write. Finally, with time nearly up, Dr. Galen asks gently, "Would you like to take this back to your room to finish it?"

But Haymitch shakes his head. There's only one thing he can think to say, and it's doesn't feel like enough but it's something so he scribbles down the following:

Effie,

I'm sorry. You don't know how sorry I am.

Haymitch

Then he takes the envelope Dr. Galen hands him, stuffs the letter inside, and seals it. Across the front he scrawls Effie Trinket. There, now the doctor knows. But Dr. Galen doesn't react to the name on the envelope; maybe he'd expected it to be her. After all, during the Hunger Games, the beautiful and long-suffering escort and her drunk and disorderly victor were popular fixtures in the media.

"Plutarch gave me her address when you arrived," says the doctor. "He thought you might eventually want to write her such a letter. I'll get this addressed and sent out today."

And Haymitch is surprised at how pleased he feels to know that something he wrote is going to be close to Effie.

. . . . . .

Day Forty-one

. . . . . .

There's a letter waiting for Haymitch at the front desk. Surprised, he picks it up and turns it over. It's the letter he sent to Effie, returned, and scrawled above the address in a hand he doesn't recognize are the words "No longer at this address." He looks at it a long time, and then he scowls and shoves it into his pocket.

. . . . . .

Day Fifty

. . . . . .

Haymitch's month with Dr. Galen is up before he knows it—and yet, at the same time, he sometimes feels like he's been here forever, like he can't remember a time before he came to the Capitol. He's glad to be going home, back to his own bed, back to Katniss and Peeta, and yet some part of him is a little sorry to be going. Things are simpler here; choices are easy, and the real world is kept at bay.

"You'll remember to be home when I call," says Dr. Galen at their last session—half question, half command.

"Thursdays at 3," Haymitch agrees. That's part of the program: after the initial month of intensive counseling is over, the clients continue meeting with him weekly—usually at his office here, but in Haymitch's case, over the phone. He's not sure how well that will work, as he hates talking on the phone, but it's part of the program and he's seeing it through, for Katniss and Peeta.

Dr. Galen sits back and looks at him in that pleased, affectionate way he has. "I'm proud of you," he says. "You've made huge strides. Do you think you're going to be able to stay sober?"

And who can say? Back in 12 with all his ghosts, with alcohol readily available again . . . but on the other hand, with Peeta and Katniss close by, encouraging him to stay sober . . . "I'm going to try," Haymitch says, and means it.

Dr. Galen smiles. "And have you . . . gotten a response to your letter?"

Haymitch's expression falls a little. "Not yet," he lies. He hasn't told Dr. Galen that the letter bounced back, though he's not entirely sure why he's being so secretive. He supposes he's embarrassed, in a way, although it's ridiculous because it's not like Effie sent the letter back unopened. She simply moved. But still, somehow it feels like rejection, like it's a sign that she would have rejected the letter if she'd received it. So he's said nothing and he hasn't tried again.

"Give it time," says Dr. Galen. "And no matter what happens, remember that you've done something incredible. And I know that Katniss and Peeta are proud and grateful for what you've done."

Katniss and Peeta . . . suddenly Haymitch is very eager to get out of here and back to 12, so he reaches out and shakes Dr. Galen's hand. "Thank you for everything."

On his way back to his room, he passes the dining room, where Hortense and Cassian are having a late lunch. They don't notice him as he walks past, and he smiles triumphantly . . . and then he hesitates, and then he stops and thinks, and then reluctantly he turns back to the dining room. "Just came to say goodbye," he tells them. "I'm leaving today."

They look up at him, surprised, and then Hortense is hurrying across the room to envelop him in a hug. Ugh. If he'd known this would be her response, he wouldn't have said goodbye. But still, he feels like he's done the right thing. "You're a good man, Haymitch Abernathy," Hortense says. "I wish you all the luck in the world."

Cassian looks ever so slightly jealous, so Haymitch extracts himself from the hug quickly. "Thank you," he says. "And I hope you two . . . you know." And he winks at them, while Cassian looks embarrassed and Hortense looks confused, and then he makes his escape.

His things are already packed, so he grabs his bag and goes down to the lobby. Plutarch's assistant is there, a neatly attired young woman who always looks like she's thinking about a million other things when she talks to you, and she nods at Haymitch and leads him out to her car. Plutarch told Haymitch a few days ago that he would be unable to pick him up, as government business had him out in District 9 for a while, and Haymitch has decided that he's glad of it. He spent the week after getting Effie's letter back wondering if he should ask Plutarch where she'd moved to—surely the man would know, given their close friendship—but now the decision is taken out of his hands. The assistant probably doesn't know where she is, and even if she did, Haymitch doesn't want to ask this bored-looking kid anything.

So instead he leaves the Capitol without seeing her. He'll go back to 12, spend some time acclimating to life there without alcohol, enjoy his time with Katniss and Peeta, and when Plutarch gets back from 9, maybe he'll call him. Maybe he'll ask where Effie is, and maybe he'll write her a letter or call her or even visit, someday. Because he owes her an apology. He doesn't dare think of anything beyond that, because why get his hopes up? She might have wanted to kiss him that night, but he can't imagine she feels the same way now, and it's best to accept that any chance he had with her is gone. And really, this is the only way things could have gone. He's not the relationship type, or at least he hasn't been since his Games, and any thoughts he might have had over the last two months that he might be willing to try to be the relationship type, for Effie, are thoroughly ridiculous. The best he can hope for—and he reminds himself that even this might be a stretch—is that she forgives him.

So he refuses to look back as the Capitol disappears behind the train. He only lets himself look forward, to 12 and to the kids.

When dinner is served he doesn't find it difficult to decline the offered wine. One day of the new, sober Haymitch down, ten thousand to go.

. . . . . .

Day Fifty-one

. . . . . .

The train pulls into the District 12 station just after lunch; Haymitch is the only person who gets off. No one's there to meet him; he didn't tell Katniss and Peeta that he's getting back today, because he wants to surprise them. As far as they know, he's in the Capitol for a few more weeks. He shoulders his bag and stands looking at the two roads that lead away from the station: the smooth, wide one that leads into the heart of town, and the smaller, damaged one that takes the long way back to the Victors' Village. For speed's sake he ought to take the one through town, but he doesn't want to see anyone just yet, so he trudges off down the road to the Village.

It's a cold day—not as cold as the Capitol was yesterday, but still, it's early December and he really should have worn his coat. But he doesn't mind the cold; it's familiar District 12 cold, and even the chilly breeze just . . . smells right.

He finds himself smiling as he comes in sight of the Village. Suddenly excited to see Katniss and Peeta, he doesn't even stop at his house, instead dropping his bag on Peeta's porch as he knocks on the door. Peeta opens it, and his polite expression quickly turns into surprise that quickly turns into a smile. "Welcome back," he grins, and hugs him. He and Peeta don't hug often, and he feels a little awkward as he pats the kid's back, but he can't deny that it's nice to feel welcome.

"Haymitch!" comes Katniss's voice from inside, and as Peeta moves away she slips into his place and hugs him (much more briefly than Peeta did; girl's not much of a hugger either). "How did it go? Are you sober now?"

Haymitch laughs. "You don't beat around the bush, do you? Yeah, I'm sober. And I'm going to try to keep it that way."

"Good," says Peeta. "Come eat."

They lead him into the house, Katniss carrying his bag, and sit around watching him as he eats their lunch leftovers. Something odd is happening; they're both watching him a little too closely and a little too eagerly to just be excited to have him back in 12.

Finally he puts down his spoon. "You two going to tell me why you're both looking at me like that?"

Peeta laughs, and Katniss's expression warms into a smile. "Are you done eating?" Peeta asks.

Haymitch nods.

"Good," says Peeta. "We've got something to show you in town."

He's intrigued but, being him, doesn't want to admit it, so he feigns casualness as he takes his dishes to the sink and then pulls his coat from his bag. Peeta and Katniss are pulling on their own coats, and they keep shooting looks at each other, and the curiosity is just killing him. But they refuse to say a word about it all the way to the town square; instead Peeta tells him all about life in 12 for the past month: that Leevy's having a baby and that some couple or other is engaged and that Katniss brought down a huge buck last week. All the while Haymitch looks around, trying to catch sight of whatever it is they want him to see—a new building, maybe? A giant statue of Plutarch Heavensbee?

But he sees nothing different at all, not at the edge of town, not in the town square, and not in the administrative building, which they drag him into with no explanation. It's warm in there, but low-ceilinged and a bit rough-hewn, and he looks around himself, at the chairs and the empty front desk and then at Katniss and Peeta waiting just behind him, still unable to see what it is they were so excited to show him.

Just then the door to the other room in the building opens and Rowan steps out, only to stop dead in the doorway. A warm smile brightens his face when he sees Haymitch there, and without a word he slips back into the other room. "There's someone to see you," they hear him say to someone inside, and a moment later, into the room steps Effie Trinket.

She's dressed in her District 12 best, with her hair up in one of those complicated braids she's apparently grown so fond of, and her face is the very picture of surprise when she sees Haymitch. Behind her Rowan discreetly closes the door to the other room, and at the same moment Peeta says "We should let you two talk" as he and Katniss slip outside. The door closes and he and Effie are left alone.

Her surprised expression morphs into a polite smile. "Hello, Haymitch," she says in her thick Capitol accent. "Lovely to see you again."

He's not nearly so eloquent. "What are you doing here?" he demands, and then winces as soon as it's out of his mouth because he didn't mean to sound so harsh.

She doesn't seem offended, though. "I work here," she smiles.

He blinks in surprise. "You mean, here? In this building?"

"Mostly." She looks around herself. "It's a bit dingy, I know, but I have big plans to brighten the place up a bit." She turns and gestures to the other room—her office, maybe? "I'm the new district representative for 12."

Haymitch is still struggling to wrap his head around this. "That's that thing Rowan was telling us about."

"Yes, he couldn't find anyone in 12 who'd take the job, so he asked me at the party, and I—" Here she looks flustered— "well, you'll remember that I left town after that, but a few weeks later I decided to accept the job. I've been living in 12 for . . . nearly three weeks now, I suppose. Staying in Peeta's guest bedroom at the moment."

Effie. Living in 12. That is . . . not the worst idea in the world. In fact it's not a bad idea at all. Still . . . "Why?" he finds himself asking, not sure which part he's asking why about.

She apparently chooses to take it to mean "Why take the job?" because she answers, "It's a wonderful opportunity for me. I'd been wanting a change of scenery, and this way I spend one week a month in the Capitol, and I can see my friends and shop and go to the theater, but the rest of the time I can be here, with the beautiful landscape and with Katniss and Peeta."

She's speaking smoothly and calmly, as though completely unaffected by the same sorts of emotions that are currently threatening to choke Haymitch, and he finds himself feeling surprisingly hurt. He's thought of nothing but their fight since it happened, so while he's certainly not saying he wants her to be unhappy, he definitely would have thought this conversation wouldn't go so easily. Maybe she's not bothered by what happened that night at all. Maybe he's been beating himself up for a month and a half and wondering what could have happened if he'd just kept kissing her, while she genuinely doesn't care about him or anything that happened that night. Maybe she kissed him not out of genuine feeling for him, but out of boredom, on a whim, because he happened to be her dance partner. The possibility feels like a lead weight in his stomach, and he realizes that as much as he knows he screwed everything up, some deep, secret part of him was hoping that the next time he saw Effie, he'd apologize profusely and she'd just fall into his arms. But now that's looking less likely by the second.

"And I find I'm very interested in government—in good government. And," and here she smiles, "not to brag, but I do have something of a knack for dealing with people. Government service might be my true calling after all." And then she hesitates. "And I thought, taking this position, in 12, might be a good way to try to make up for . . ."

"No," he says harshly, before he's even realized he's going to speak. Then he winces at her surprised expression. "I mean, if this is what you want to do, that's great. But don't feel like you owe us anything because of what I said. You should ignore everything that I said."

Her face softens into a smile. "I usually do," she jokes gently. "But don't worry. I'm doing this for me. I mean, I'm doing this for 12. But I'm doing it because it's what feels right to me."

Haymitch doesn't know what to do. If she'd seemed at all upset at him, he would have apologized—he would have fallen on his knees and grovelled. But this politeness he doesn't know what to do with.

Then a shadow crosses Effie's face, and for the first time she looks uncertain. "Haymitch, about what happened at the party—

There it is; looks like she's finally acknowledging that he was horrible that night. "I'm sorry," he bursts out fervently. "I'm so, so sorry. I was awful, everything I said about you."

"Oh," she says, sounding surprised at his outburst. "I—thank you for saying that, Haymitch." She smiles. "You were a bit awful, yes; you often are when you're drunk. Although Katniss and Peeta tell me you've been with Dr. Galen. Haymitch Abernathy in rehab! Never thought I'd live to see the day."

Haymitch smiles a little. "Me neither. But, uh, Katniss and Peeta convinced me. Reminded me . . . that we're a family, and that I should be there for them."

She gives him a small smile. "I'm very proud of you, Haymitch. And I know you can stay sober, if you put your mind to it."

"I'm going to try," he says. "So . . . no more me getting drunk and yelling at you." Good grief, he wonders, has he always been this awkward around her? He clears his throat. "I can be less of a jerk, I really can."

She laughs at that. "Oh, I know. I was your escort for years, remember? I know exactly what you're like when you're drunk and when you're sober. I wouldn't have dared come back to 12 if I hadn't known . . . that you're not always like that."

So maybe getting her forgiveness is not as impossible a quest as he'd thought. "Doesn't excuse the way I acted, though."

"No, it doesn't."

"So . . . I'm sorry. That's all I can say. I'm sorry and I was a jerk and the things I said about you weren't true."

Her whole expression warms. "I forgive you, Haymitch." She reaches a hand out to him. He's about to take it—never been so ready to do anything in his whole life—when she speaks again. "So can we be . . . friends again?"

And he freezes. He's told himself time and again that if he could just get her forgiveness, he'd be satisfied. But now that he has it, and apparently her friendship too, it feels . . . just a bit hollow. Slowly, uncertainly, he reaches out and takes her hand.

She smiles warmly at him and squeezes his hand, but then her face grows serious again. "What I was trying to say earlier, about what happened at the party . . . I'm sorry too. For assuming so much. I assure you, you don't have to worry about anything of the sort happening again. I am more than happy to . . . be your friend."

Wait, what is she saying? He has to try a few times to get his voice to work again. "What do you mean?"

Her whole face flushes, and he finds it incredibly endearing. "I mean, while we were dancing. I . . . threw myself at you, a bit, and if we're going to neighbors and friends I don't want that making things uncomfortable between us. So I wanted to let you know, it won't happen again. We can just be friends."

He stares at her for what feels like ages, his mind running through all the possible meanings of what she's just said. Does she mean, if she thought Haymitch was open to it, she'd—could he really still have—

His mouth opens of its own accord and he finds himself saying abruptly, "I'm in love with you."

She blinks a few times, and then repeats politely, as though she maybe just misheard, "You what?"

Okay, the rush of courage is gone and he's now very uncomfortable. But he knows he'll regret it for the rest of his life if he doesn't at least try, right now. "I'm in love with you," he repeats. "I panicked that night. I've got a lot of baggage; we both do. So I panicked and I got drunk and I said things I really regret now, and I was sorry as soon as you were gone."

The shocked look on her face is ever so slowly warming to the loveliest smile he's ever seen.

"And I wanted to tell you, but I didn't think you'd ever talk to me again. So if you really just want to be friends, I can try to be okay with that, but I am in love with you—"

He abruptly runs out of steam and falls silent. But he appears to have said enough for Effie, who is giving him a blinding smile and he thinks there might be tears in her eyes. "Haymitch," she says softly, "I am in love with you too."

That's enough for him. He steps forward and kisses her. She throws her arms around him and most enthusiastically kisses him back.

. . . . . .

What feels like days later, Effie tugs Haymitch into the next room so she can ask Rowan about taking the rest of the day off. Rowan gives them an energetic yes, beaming down at their joined hands, and it occurs to Haymitch that Rowan's been rooting for this to happen; it makes him a bit embarrassed to remember that he used to be jealous of the man's attentions to Effie.

Effie gathers her things and puts on her jacket, and they walk outside into the town square to see Peeta and Katniss talking to Delly and Leevy. Peeta and Katniss notice their joined hands first—no surprise there, they knew to be looking for it—and Peeta grins so wide it almost splits his face, while Katniss huffs, "Took you two long enough." But she can't hide her pleased expression.

Delly and Leevy seem to notice what they're looking at then, because Delly claps her hands delightedly."Are you two together now?" she asks. "That is the sweetest thing I've ever seen."

Leevy, in the meantime, is nonplussed. "I kind of thought you already were together," she says. "Given the way you were sort of all over each other on that hike." Effie and Haymitch both blush.

"We're going to go take a walk," Haymitch tells Peeta and Katniss.

"Good," smiles Peeta. "You probably have a lot to talk about. See you back at home?"

They all wave goodbye to each other, and Haymitch tugs at Effie's hand, leading her out of the square, out of town, and into the fields and forests surrounding District 12. It's early December and most of the plants are dead or dying, but there's a strange beauty in the muted colors and the severity of the dark pines. Still, it's not exactly the most romantic setting, and he looks around ruefully. "It would have been nice if it were prettier out here."

But Effie just smiles at him and releases his hand in order to wind her arm though his. "I think it's beautiful," she says. And then she pauses, then says carefully, every word fraught with meaning, "I think I could happily spend the rest of my life is District 12."

He swallows hard, but finds himself smiling. And arm in arm, they walk into the afternoon sunlight. They talk about everything—about Haymitch's counseling, about Effie's decision to move to 12, about how delighted Plutarch was that she'd found a job she was passionate about and how she'd forbidden him from telling Haymitch about it. "Peeta had already called me to tell me you were with Dr. Galen, and that's when everything fell into place. You were trying to get your life in order and it was time for me to do the same, and I'd felt for a long time that the right thing to do was to get out of the Capitol for a while. That's why I came down to visit you three, after all. But I wanted to get settled and established before you came back—before you even knew. I wanted it to be clear that I made this decision because it was a good idea, not because I was . . . chasing you or something."

"I wouldn't have minded if you'd been chasing me."

"Yes, well, I know that now," she smiles. "But I wasn't, and even if I were . . . Katniss told me what you said to her, that you were okay with being my friend but less okay with kissing me. So I knew that if I moved here, I'd have to make sure you knew I was only trying to be your friend."

"I was an idiot when I said that," he says. "I am totally okay with kissing you."

She gives him that smile he loves, the small, sweet, sincere, affectionate one. "Good, because I'm okay with kissing you."

"Glad we're on the same page here," he says, and leans down to prove just how okay with it he is.

. . . . . .

It's only later, when they've returned to Peeta's house and sat down to eat the incredible supper that that Katniss and Peeta have made, that it occurs to Haymitch exactly what Peeta said to them: "See you at home," he'd said, not "See you at my house." And he thinks it makes perfect sense. Because as he sits in that familiar kitchen and looks at the people around that familiar table—Katniss and Peeta smiling at each other, Effie with her hand in Haymitch's—he knows that this is the first time in a long time that he's felt at home.

. . . . . .

fin