fundamentally

She doesn't remember getting home. Doesn't remember most of what's happened since they sedated her for surgery, really. There isn't any pain, though she expects that will change soon, but the numbness is more than just the side effect of the drugs they've given her. She knows what that kind of numbness feels like. She's had a lifetime chasing that particular escape. This is something else, something deeper and maybe even a touch frightening. She feels so disconnected from herself, from everything that's going on, that it's all just...empty. Not even a trace of any emotion. Just a bone deep tiredness and an intense desire to wash the smell of the hospital off of her skin.

"John? Did the doctor say whether or not I could take a bath?" Effie remembers that there were directions given to them after the surgery but she can't recall what they were. She can't even be entirely sure she was awake.

"You can't get your face wet, love, and if you want a bath I think I should join you. I don't want you to fall asleep and go under. Would that be alright? A bath together?" he asks softly, treating her with kid gloves. She's not normally fragile but he can sense her emptiness and a certain brittleness to her and without thinking too hard on it he steps up, as he did at the hospital, to take care of her so she needn't think or worry.

She's reluctant to leave the sofa, the cat's fur is so soft under her hand and the purring is almost hypnotic when combined with John brushing her hair. But she can't ignore the way it feels like there's a layer of grime over her entire body and she can't get the antiseptic scent of bandages and plastic tubing out of her nose.

"Yes." The tone of her response is as flat as her emotions and she makes no effort to move but she does want to bathe. Wants it badly enough that she's willing to at least try to motivate herself into action. "I think that we should do that now. Then we can be clean and we can sleep."

John's bloody sore as he moves to get up and help her up. He's been all right so long as he's moving, and the painkillers from the hospital helped, but now that he's sat and had tea and such he's stiffening up.

"Come on then, Effie darling," he says, helping her up and guiding her along to the bathroom. "Let me just undress you..."

She's not in her right clothes and she looks so odd. Hospital hand-me-downs, a pair of sweats and a banal t-shirt. Pretty bird, plumage gone. And so he peels it off her carefully because at least naked she looks like herself and not some twisted reflection of the woman he knows.

And then he turns to run the taps and as the tub fills with clean hot water he undresses himself. Shirt off and head down looking at his fly- his trousers are half off when he looks up to see the mottled bruises on his body and the swelling around his eye where the shiner is a black mouse beneath it.

"Oh, god," he gasps, touching himself and for a moment forgetting all about her. John's never so self absorbed, he always thinks of Effie, but for the moment he's lost in the map of brutality that is his skin.

It's easy to be numb when John is doing all of the work. She doesn't have to choose to get up, doesn't have to choose to undress, it's all just something that she is allowing to happen. Slow and safe and simple. No need to think, no need to concern herself with anything but the deafening quiet in her own head.

She stands naked and still as she waits for him to run the bath, one breath after another, one heartbeat after another, but nothing else. Just the void. The sense of John being near her, sharing space with her, though she has barely looked at him. She doesn't need to look when she can feel him.

Until he gasps and then he's all she can see.

"John. You didn't tell me." Effie reaches a hand out, fingertips barely brushing the skin over a livid dark bruise that runs down his back and disappears across his hip. "You didn't tell me."

He twists a bit to see his back and his eyes sting with tears at the horror of it. He'd been stabbed once and it had been ugly- he still bore the scar- but that had been nothing like this. This is evidence that he nearly lost her, that Andy had had the upper hand and would have likely beaten him to death if Effie hadn't shot him.

For the first time tonight the adrenaline rushes and fades and he pales. John has to steady shaking hands on the vanity's edge. He hasn't even stepped out of his pants yet.

"I didn't realize," he says, quiet and weak. "It hurt but...but I've been so worried about you. Your beautiful face..."

He's started to shake hard and he can't control it and it makes him feel weak and useless in front of her. He's never wanted her to see him like this, like he truly is. He's never wanted her to see a coward.

She should feel something. She knows that. Anger or fear or sadness or regret. Guilt, perhaps, for letting this happen, for not listening to John's warnings, for being blind to this potential outcome. Guilt for having taken a life. Or maybe regret that it took her so long to do it.

Something.

But she can't thaw herself enough to respond in the ways she should. She can't pull herself out of the place she's gone to. She knows -- she knows -- that in any other moment she would do everything possible to comfort him. To take his pain away. She knows without question that she wishes she could do that now. She'll hold him and she'll try to soothe him and she'll keep him safe because she can. She knows that she can now.

Only there aren't any tears that she can share with him. Not in this moment. "You don't need to worry about me now, John. You've done everything you needed to do. So now we can worry about you, ok? It's your turn."

He's shaking and he can't stop and he hates it. Mortified is the word for what he feels. He's fundamentally mortified to show this crack, fearing he may shatter entirely.

"No. No, it's just bruises. I'm all right," he insists, lying to himself more than to her. "But...But I think I'd like something for the pain. We both should, it's about time and I don't want your pills wearing off. You stay here, don't get in the tub yet, I'll be right back."

Then he does step out of his trousers and he darts out to get his pills. He takes two with a swallow of cold tea, then he brings her two of her own with the same mug.

"Here, darling. We'll have a good soak and forget the night."

It isn't right and she knows it. Bone deep she knows it. This isn't who he is and it shouldn't ever be. John feels things, he allows himself to feel things, he never learned to pretend, he never lived in that kind of fear. It's one of the things she loves the most about him, that he never had to learn how to wear masks. But he's lying to them both right now and she isn't sure how to make him stop. She doesn't know if she has it in her to even try.

She lets him leave her and doesn't move. Takes the pills he offers her and swallows them down. Maybe for tonight it isn't such a bad thing to let him lie to her. To himself. Just for this one night.

Raising a hand to his cheek she cups his face as gently as she's able but doesn't force him to meet her eyes. She doesn't think he'd view it as a kindness. Instead she leans into him and kisses his lips as gently as she touched him. Just that and nothing more. "Ok, sweetie. We can do that. Just...we're safe here. It's ok to be scared here where no one else can see."

He knows the truth of that. He hardly ever sees her frightened, and when he does it's really only at home. At the studio when the gifts would come she'd airily brush them off, whenever she was unnerved outside the studio door she'd laugh and pose for selfies. But here, at home, with her wigs off and her make up gone he's seen her tremble and he's seen her cry.

So in here, in this most sacred space that is just for the two of them, in here it's okay.

"Let's get in the bath, love," he says. "Before the water goes cold."

He strips off his pants and the livid bruise continues down to his ass, the cheek deeply coloured from when he was knocked down on his backside. The imprints of fists pattern his ribs and his eye hurts more now that he's wept a little. And yet as the pil begins to effect him he sinks into the water and makes room for her to join him.

It's worse the more of him she can see. She's spent her life around horrific injuries of all kinds, the ones inflicted on the children in the arenas, some by choice during the other kind of games they play in the Capitol. But they were always temporary. Fleeting harms that were erased so that not a single bruise or scar remained. It wasn't until she'd come here that she'd ever seen a bruise naturally fade into a rainbow of lurid colors. It wasn't until John that she'd ever seen a scar. There have been moments when she thinks it's better this way, real physical consequences of violence that can't just be forgotten. Moments when she wonders how different the games would be if the Victors couldn't be fixed up and polished up. If they were allowed to hold onto the truth of what they'd suffered so that everyone could see it.

This is not one of those times. She looks at the evidence of violence on John's body and she would give anything for a prep team. For the ability to erase every trace of what's happened and make him beautiful and whole with a wave of her hand. She watches him move like every muscle hurts and she finally feels something break through the numbness.

Usually she would climb in front so she could lay back against him but this time she chooses the other position. She wants to be able to wrap her arms around him and let him lean on her. So she pushes gently at his shoulder to get him to move closer to the tap before stepping into the warm bath.

"Come here," she whispers as she pulls him back against her and strokes his hair softly. "Like that. Just like that."

The heat of the water soaks into him and for a minute or two every bruise hurts even worse. But then his veins open with the heat and the pain ebbs. It doesn't hurt that the narcotics kick in really well just about the time she begins to pet his hair. John closes his eyes and enjoys the heat of the water and the comfort of her body. Normally he ministers to her and so this is odd and rare and very, very welcome.

"I love you," he says after a long bit of silence with only the buzz of the bathroom heater and the quiet lapping of water against their skin. "I don't know what I would have done if I had lost you, Effie. Without you I don't think I'd have cared if he killed me, too."

It's a bit dramatic and yet so soft and honest. He's never been in love like this. Oh, he's been in love, or he thought he was, but it was never like this. Effie never makes him feel stupid or useless like he had, or weak and ashamed as she had, and certainly never like an imbecile waste like dad did. No, Effie was the best of him, the brightest of him. She was like...like a muse. If he were an artist she would be a muse and he would gladly give everything for her to remain his forever. Forever inspiring him to do better. Be better.

The drugs and the warmth of the water, the feeling of him pressed against her, the inhale and exhale of his breath, the softness of his hair through her fingers. For a few minutes there isn't anything else and she's utterly calm. Not frozen, not empty, just calm. The difference manages to be somehow both subtle and immense at the same time. She's always safe when they are alone in their home. Nothing touches them here. No one watches them here. And this moment is no different even with his bruises and the long, neat row of stitches down the side of her face. Nothing else can touch them here.

She wasn't expecting him to speak and it makes her heart pound. Just once. That kind of kick that feels like it should be loud enough for someone else to hear. She thinks at any other time his words would make her cry or kiss him hard enough to make them both forget everything but each other. Right now they only make her hold him tighter. They only make her tired.

"You didn't lose me, John. You didn't." Her fingers scrape gently against his scalp the way she knows he likes. The way she knows can sometimes lull him to sleep. "I love you and we didn't lose."

Her nails do lull him, blissfully so. He's high and not hurting, he can't see himself from this angle in the mirror. They're safe and home and the world is all soft around the edges. He's comfortable and if he's very, very still he can feel her heartbeat.

Ba-bum.

BUM-BUM-BUM...he realizes a moment too late that their peace is shattered by a god awful knocking on the door to the flat. He's a little too stoned to move quickly, but he gets up and grabs a towel.

"Don't get your face wet," he cautions, then wraps a towel around his waist, pulls on a robe from the back of the door, and he goes to answer the door.

The voices from the main room are muffled, John's voice soft, a deeper voice coupled with a woman's voice. Once again, John's the one who's calm and level headed. The police ask their questions at the door and then John invites them in to chat.

He wonders if they can tell he's high as a kite.

They shouldn't be here.

She knows without having to look that it's peacekeepers. Police. She just knows it. She can also tell that John isn't scared or angry and she doesn't understand why. How can he be calm with strangers in their home. With being questioned. With any of this.

She's not numb anymore.

Out of the bath and wrapped in a towel she's careful not to touch her face. He'd gone to the door in nothing but a robe but she can't bring herself to be that vulnerable right now and so she heads into the bedroom first, quickly as she can under the circumstances, and dresses in her softest, most comfortable night clothes before wrapping herself up in the robe for one more layer of protection. Her hands are shaking and her skin feels hot with how fast her pulse is racing.

"You shouldn't be here!" The words are harsh and frantically pitched, she doesn't even wait for a break in their conversation before she says them. She wants these strangers out of their apartment. She can't stand them invading their one safe space. Her eyes dart from John to the uniformed officers and back again as she stands in the doorway looking out into the living room. As far away from them as she can be and still be visible. "Please. Not here!"

Edited 2016-01-08 06:08 (UTC)

"Effie, darling," John says, turning to look at her.

"Ma'am, we just have a few questions..." says the officer. "If you could tell us when all this began?"

John's looking at Effie and he can see it on her face, in her posture. They can't be here. They can't be here.

"Could I come talk to you tomorrow, please?" he asks. "It's just that we haven't even slept and it's been such a long night and day..."

He's perfectly calm, perfectly reasonable. A level head as Effie comes apart and the police look from one to another to decide what to do. On one hand they are trained a certain way to deal with domestic situations, but these people are victims. Yes, she killed Andy and no one denies that. Yes, they found plenty of evidence in his apartment to prove he had an obsession with her. Really, John's request isn't much.

The female officer pulls out a business card to hand to John. "Call us when you wake up," she says.

John takes it and says a silent prayer of thanks. But they don't leave. They stand there as if waiting to be escorted to the door, both of them looking at Effie in her pajamas and robe with her stringy wet hair hanging down for them to see. As if they have the right to violate her like that.

...long night and day...

It occurs to her in the tiny bit of her brain that isn't going off like alarm bells that she has no idea what time it is right now. She tries to remember whether it was light out when they were riding home from the hospital but even that is a blur. She and John had been safe in the quiet, in the warm bath, behind their locked door and now everything is loud again. Too loud and out of her control and she doesn't even know if the sun is shining.

Her breathing is uneven and she can feel herself coming apart beat by beat. She feels hot and nauseous and horribly, painfully angry. She doesn't want them talking to her and she doesn't want them talking to John and if they don't go away she isn't sure what is going to happen. What she'll do. So she stays frozen in place except for how her eyes are stinging and her body is beginning to vibrate from this painful overload of emotion all rushing in to fill all the empty spaces.

She opens her mouth to say...something. Anything. But the words get caught in her throat and she chokes on them.

"You have to go now," John says to the officers, pointing to the door. "You're upsetting her. Go, please. I'll come by. Tomorrow."

They exchange one more glance and then turn to go, seeing themselves out. Once they're gone John locks the door- all the locks. He'd insisted on more in lieu of telling the police. He needed to at least keep her safe in here. And so he locks them out, locks them inside, locks away the world. The curtains are drawn and the television is still on, giving the flat a soft glow.

He moves to her then, hands gentling her as he takes hold of her face in one soft hand.

"It's all right, Effie, darling. They're gone and they won't come back. I'll see to them tomorrow. It's all right now," he promises her and seals the promise with a kiss on the forehead. "As you said, we'e safe here. Nothing can happen here. We're safe."

She's shaking so hard that her muscles are beginning to hurt from the effort of keeping herself still and standing. There is a small amount of relief when the strangers leave but it's not enough to counter the flood of panic and adrenaline that's pulling her under.

John is touching her, doing what he can to calm her but it's not enough. Not now. Not when she can barely breathe around the scream that's trapped in her throat.

So she pushes past him and rushes to the door, checking the locks. All of them. Once and then again before her knees threaten to give out and a wounded, broken sound finally escapes.

John lets her until it seems more than sensible. THen he goes to her and gently puts his arms around her, pulling her back from the edge of madness.

"They're gone. It's locked," he says. "You're safe. I'm safe. Come, darling, let's go in the bedroom and hide away. Yes? Everything will be better. We'll hide away, safe in our bed."

There is nowhere more sacred than their bed. The things they get up to with strangers and acquaintances never comes back here. Their bedroom is for them alone, and the place they can retreat to on the worst of days. And today is the worst of days.

Except it's Christmas Eve, John remembers, and he steps around her to face her.

"Before bed, I have something for you. Would you like it, love?"

There are bruises all over him, but she can't keep her hands off of his face. She's as gentle as she can but she has to touch him, she has to make sure he's real. Fingertips smoothing over his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth. She tries to remember how to breathe as she strokes his skin.

She knows that every mark is her fault, everything that's happened to him is down to her choices, but she kept him alive. At least she did that much right. It just all feels too fragile now.

It takes a moment to register that he's asked her a question, she's so caught up in her own head. In her attempts to reassure herself. It takes another moment before she understands and nods her head. "Please."

John leaves her to go to the beautiful Christmas tree Effie has bought and decorated. It's white shot with silver and it has hot pink bead garland and hot pinks balls and silver stars. Little white lights make it shimmer and sparkle and it hasn't been turned off since they set it up.

John pulls out a long, slender box wrapped in silver paper with a white bow on it. He hands it to her and waits expectantly for her to open it.

"It's just a little something," he says. He was going to save it for last tomorrow but the moment calls for something special. Something to make her forget the police.

She'd forgotten about the tree. Forgotten what it was there for until John goes to it and even then it's distant. Abstract. There is no meaning behind it that connects to her life, no memories, just the vague sense of other people's traditions. She thinks she enjoyed it the first year, all the decorations and parties, and twinkling lights. But now she doesn't feel anything about it at all except vague confusion.

"What is this for, John?" The box is light in her hand and beautifully presented but she can't quite remember from one moment to the next. Had he explained what the gift is for? Had she been expecting it? Nothing since that alley seems to fit together in any kind of coherent, narrative way and it's making her feel disconnected again.

"It's for Christmas, Effie. Christmas eve gift. And tomorrow is Christmas proper and we have reservations and Lis d'Or for dinner...if you'd like to go. If you'd rather stay home I can go get the food and come home and we can celebrate together," he says gently. He's not sure if it's the trauma or drugs or a bit of both, but like always he is gentle and patient with her as he explains things.

She blinks slowly, looking at the gift in her hands and then back up at John's face. It's almost like moving through water except it's her brain, not her body that feels sluggish. She nods her head, keeps nodding as she moves away from him and toward the sofa.

It's a special holiday, she can remember that now. She's even got a gift for him all wrapped and waiting under the tree. They had plans, there was something else...it doesn't matter now. Effie takes a seat and places the box on her lap and begins to unwrap it.

The lights from the tree shine off of the necklace and make it sparkle like there are trapped stars inside of it and it makes her breath catch in her throat for how beautiful it is. She's never seen anything like it in Darrow and she certainly never expected John to buy her anything so unbelievably precious.

"John." She looks at him with wide, slightly unfocused eyes. "It's stunning."

"I saw it and knew you needed it," he replies, sitting beside her so he can kiss her lightly. "And now that you've opened something half as beautiful as you are, let's retire, hmm? Come along. Bed for us both."

He's not sure she'll even remember this in the morning, which is fine. The necklace can be a gift all over again. He wishes he could have afforded more but the necklace took all his savings and the rest of her gifts had put quite the dent on his credit card. Every penny absolutely worth it.

She can barely pull her eyes away from it the way it's glittering, but she finally manages when he kisses her and she puts a hand on his cheek to kiss him again. Softly, softly.

"Thank you. It's so perfect, John." She runs her fingertip across the jewels and as intoxicating as the idea of sleep is, she can't just leave the necklace there. It's too precious and it's something of John's and she wants him to see it on her. She wants to feel the weight of it. "Can you put it on me first? Can I wear it now?"

"Of course, Effie, darling," he replies and takes up the pearls and diamonds to put them on her. They fit her slender neck beautifully.

"Lovely," he said, admiring her. Even in pajamas with her hair hanging stringy and damp she is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "Truly lovely. You're beautiful, Effie. Always and forever."

It's heavy and cold against her skin but she can feel the metal beginning to warm almost immediately. She knows she must look a sight and even though there isn't any pain, the bandages and stitches on her cheek are impossible to ignore. But somehow she still feels desirable when he looks at her and that's what matters. Only him and no one else.

"Now we can sleep." His gifts can wait until tomorrow, until they both feel more like themselves. All she wants is to close her eyes and hear him breathing next to her and feel his skin against hers and shut out the rest of the world. Anything else she's meant to feel, any consequences of what she's done, all of it can wait.

"To bed. Come along," he says and takes her by the hand to take her to bed. The room is dark, the heavy blackout curtain liners covered with decorative velvet curtains. No light gets in without them opening them to let the light in. And right now John doesn't want sunlight. It's early afternoon but time means nothing right now.

He tucks her in and then goes round to his side and pulls the covers up over them. Then he moves in close, ignoring his aches, and puts his arms around her.

"Sleep, love. Everything will be better in the morning."

Effie

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