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"You're late."
"Don't be rude, Haymitch."
"I call 'em like I see 'em, sweetheart."
Her mouth on his, his hands on hers.
The same dysfunctional cycle, repeating like clockwork.
----
Her emotions are constantly at battle with her mother's admonitions.
"Euphemia, darling, you know better. You are better. What are you doing with a man like him?"
What had her mother ever known about life beyond brightly-colored cocktails, pretty dresses, and corrupt government officials?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
If only she had been so lucky.
----
He promised he wouldn't become attached, he promised he would keep her at a distance. No repeats.
Thankfully, the Capitol took care of that for him.
"And what about Effie Trinket?"
Shifting uncomfortably, he ran a hand through his dark hair. He was desperate for information.
"Dead, probably. Why do you care?" Plutarch had asked, curious.
"I don't."
----
"What do you know about the rebellion?"
"Nothing. I don't know anything. Please, leave me—" her desperate pleas are interrupted by a hand striking her heavily across the face.
"That is no way to speak to the President," says an irate voice over a speaker.
"Yes, Miss Trinket, they would be correct. I think that you will find you can quickly end all of this of this. After all, it only requires a little bit of honesty on your part. "
His hands are now cupping her face and the overpowering smell of roses that emits off of him is almost enough to cause her to gag.
"What do you know?" he says sternly as he tightens the grip on her face.
"Nothing," she cried out in pain before everything went back to black.
----
"You were late."
"Don't be rude to the person who just saved your life, sweetheart."
Never has she been more grateful to see that smug look creep across his unkempt face.