Prompt: If you still take prompts could you do something where during the games, when haymitch and effie are kind of like an unestablished 'thing', haymitch gets hit on and he automatically says that he's in a relationship and afterwards he's just like what the fuck are we in a relationship?

Not Single

The two women were annoying for so many reasons Haymitch couldn't even bother to list them.

Chaff was having a blast though. He was chatting the pink wig one, clearly interested by the generous amount of cleavage on display and the tanned shaped legs the short dress wasn't hiding. The one who was trying and failing to catch Haymitch's attention was just as pretty if one ignored the ridiculous clothes and the clownish make-up – as long as there was no eccentric surgical enhancements like whiskers it was nothing he and Chaff couldn't get over – but he simply wasn't interested.

Her name was Felicia, she had a blue wig, wore purple contacts and unlike her friends who had been flirting with Chaff for a good half hour, she wasn't a chatter. He had lost count of the number of times he had been forced to relocate one of her hands and his apparent clueless inability to understand her not so subtle invitations to relocate their conversation to her apartment, the toilets or even the alley next to the bar wouldn't convince her for much longer. Chaff kept glancing with reproach as it was, clearly wondering why he didn't leave with the Capitol and left him to do his own picking up. Haymitch was ignoring him just as much as he was ignoring Felicia.

He just wanted a drink.

He hadn't gone to that bar for a fuck but for a bloody drink.

The woman's hand accidentally fell on his lap for the third time and, for the third time, he pushed it away.

"Look, I'm not single." he spat.

The words left his mouth without his permission. Chaff stopped talking long enough to lift an eyebrow at him but he shrugged the unspoken question away, not even sure what he meant by that. Maybe he had been at a loss for what to do to make Felicia leave him alone. Maybe he meant he hadn't picked up any woman in a bar in almost three years.

He downed his glass and instead of gesturing the barman for a refill, he stood up, grabbed his jacket and left without looking back. Chaff would deal with the Capitols. He couldn't be bothered.

The Training Center was mostly deserted when he reached it. It was too late for the usual crowd of fans to sit outside and too early for the usual ballet of stylists, sponsors and prep teams in the main halls. Everything was silent aside for the hum of the fountain in the main lobby. It was almost eerie, like a haunted house.

The penthouse was equally silent but he didn't let that fool him. He made his way to the dining room, not surprised to find his escort still up, sitting at the head of the mahogany table, numerous sheets of paper spread in front of her. She glanced up when he came in but didn't stop taking notes.

"You missed dinner." she declared. "The children are asleep. Nothing interesting enough to report happened during Training."

He leaned against the doorframe and watched her for a while, registering her words without really hearing them. The kids, that year, were just as doomed as they always were. She could study the notes on sponsors she religiously updated all year long all she wanted, nobody would give them money and even if someone did that wouldn't save the kids. Too young, too frail and too scared to fight. He would do what he could provided they passed the Cornucopia but his hopes weren't high.

"Get up." he ordered.

"I beg your pardon?" she huffed with obvious irritation. She didn't even look up this time though, too used to his brisk manners to even act shocked.

"Get up." he repeated.

"What ever for, Haymitch?" she sighed. "I don't have time to play games. I have those notes to review and then…"

"If you don't get up, I'm going to take you right on that table, that will mess up your notes and you're going to yell at me for two hours after." he stated calmly.

He didn't miss the shiver that ran down her spine or the way she licked her lips. Her blue eyes remained glued to her notepad though.

"You had too much to drink." she accused.

"I'm sober. Mostly." he retorted. "I'm also serious. Get up and come here or don't come complaining to me when we've made a mess of your stuff."

"I don't like your tone." she commented, dropping her pen on the notepad and leaning back in her chair to stare at him. "Do you think you can just order me to lift up my skirt for you because you have an itch to scratch?"

That was the thing though, wasn't it? If it had been about scratching an itch, he would have taken up Felicia's offer and he would be happily getting drunk at that second. But he didn't want Felicia, he wanted her. He wanted the familiar taste of her skin, the sharp kiss of her teeth sinking in his flesh… He wanted to lose himself in her until she was all he could think about. That was bad, he realized that, he had lost control somewhere down the line, but he couldn't even bother to care. He wanted her and where she was concerned lust took precedence over everything.

"I don't know, sweetheart…" he smirked. "Do you want me to order you around? Could be fun."

"Don't even think about it." she scoffed. Her body language was in total contrast with her dismissive tone though. She crossed her legs slowly, making the pink skirt she was wearing ride dangerously high on her thighs. "What has gotten into you anyway? Why are you suddenly so horny?"

He folded his arms in front of his chest, leaning more heavily against the doorframe. The whole dance was something they were too familiar with, whoever would yield first and go to the other would lose and probably be taunted until the end of the night. That was how they worked, the power struggle was permanent. He was good at it but so was she, that was how he had grown addicted to her in the first place : she gave as good as she got.

"What do you do when a guy tries to pick you up in a bar?" he asked.

"Oh, are we role playing now?" she mocked.

"Serious question." he shrugged.

She studied him with eyes that were by far too perceptive but, instead of giving the straight answer he was looking for, she flashed him one of her grins. "Is he handsome?"

"Is that important?" he scowled.

Although it was answer enough, wasn't it? He was a fool if he thought she didn't fool around the rest of the year while he was in Twelve. And why wouldn't she? Why would he want her not to? She meant nothing more than easy sex, didn't she? She was his personal fuck you to the Capitol and nothing more, wasn't she?

"Well, terribly. I don't sleep with ugly people, you see." she joked.

He was annoyed for exactly no good reason – or not one he was willing to acknowledge at least – and torn between the urge to storm out to get wasted and the need to pin her to that table to show her why exactly she shouldn't let any other guy touch her.

He remained silent too long, he figured, because her smile started to falter.

"Is he the last remaining Quell victor?" she insisted playfully. "I heard he has abysmal manners and an awful temper but he does have those grey eyes, you know. Women could kill each other over those eyes."

"Is that what you like, sweetheart?" he grumbled. "The Quell victor?"

The mood was quickly shifting and he shook his head and left her there, heading to the living-room and the liquor cart he was sure to find there. He was aware of the clicking of heels following him but he didn't pay it any mind, not even once he was pouring himself a glass of whiskey and she placed her hands on his sides in a fashion that was by far too intimate. When had they stopped simply fucking on the nearest flat surface to become intimate? When had he started noticing the fruity smell of her shower gel or the convoluted spirals painted on her nails? When had he started to lean into her touch instead of flinching away from it? When had he stopped looking at other women? When had he stopped thinking about himself as free on that front?

"What is going on?" she asked, the playfulness completely gone and leaving only a grim seriousness.

"Nothing." he spat. "You fuck the victor. I fuck the escort."

He downed the glass and would have refilled it immediately if her hands hadn't reached for his arms, preventing him with a simple nudge from doing it. When she spoke, he could hear the frown in her voice. "I was only joking, Haymitch."

"Yeah?" he sneered. "So you don't let guys fuck you when I'm not around then?"

"Language." she rebuked immediately without real heat. Her voice was soft, just as soft as the hands that left his arms to embrace him from behind. She pressed her cheek between his shoulder blades and he pretended really hard the hug wasn't working on him. "As a matter of fact, no I don't. I don't feel the appeal. They're not you and don't ask me why but lately you are all I want."

That was a dangerous confession and more than he had been wanting to hear. It made his blood sing though. She wasn't expecting to be grabbed and pinned against the wall, he could tell at her small gasp, but she didn't try to fight it or even escape it, on the contrary, she was the one who coiled a hand at the back of his neck and pulled him to her. Their mouths crashed against each other without finesse or technique.

"Good." he growled against her lips. "'Cause you're mine."

She didn't answer that at once but when she did it was almost tentative. "Are you mine?"

There was no verbal reply to that question he was willing or ready to give. He rocked his hips against hers, showing her what he wasn't quite able to voice out.

He was hers.

He hated it but he was.