Greetings to my favorite writer!(That's you :)) Here's a prompt. Can you do one where Haymitch accidentally calls Effie "my love". Its like Haymitch is in deep thoughts about his feelings for Effie and he didn't realize she's been trying to get his attention. And Effie's like "Hello! Earth to Haymitch!" And then Haymitch goes "Yes, my love?" What happens from there is up to you. (Oh, and may I ask how long is your prompt list by now? I just want to have an idea to where I stand on the queue :D)

Never Boring

Plutarch did love to hear himself talk, Effie uncharitably mused, drumming her broken nails on the edge of the briefing table. Coin was listening to every word, her milky grey eyes riveted on the former Head Gamemaker, her face a blank mask that didn't even reflect a hint of polite interest. She had noticed Thirteen's leader had very little patience for anything that wasn't related to war but she had also noticed a shift lately, as if Coin had finally understood she needed to work on her image if she wanted to upgrade from leading a District to leading a country.

Which was why Plutarch was rambling about approaches, speeches and possible propos that they needed to be careful about because Katniss had to remain the face of the rebellion after all. It wouldn't have done to confuse people now.

It was all a sound plan in Effie's opinion but she would have summed it up in a fifteen minutes briefing instead of the half hour long tirade Plutarch was on.

She was pretty sure Boggs was sleeping. With open eyelids, yes, but he looked asleep.

Beetee was doodling on the little notebook he carried everywhere with him. It might have been a new invention, it might have been a caricature of the Capitol man who was cheerfully talking, apparently unaware everyone around that table was bored.

She chanced a glance to the left, hoping Haymitch might turn out to be a source of distraction – because, let's be honest, it wouldn't have been the first time they would have discreetly (and in a most foolish manner) teased each other under the table, safe from preying eyes, during a boring briefing – but he was staring into the distance, absent-mindedly tugging on the battered golden bangle around his wrist without ever entirely slipping it off.

She let out a small sigh and focused on her drumming fingers. The sight made her cringe. Most of her nails had blackened, some were chipped and painful when she accidentally hit them against the wood.

She didn't like thinking about her first few hours in Thirteen. The rebels had stripped her off everything that made her her. They hadn't hit her, they hadn't raised their voices at her, but the threat had been there all the same. They had taken all her jewelry, they had taken most of what had been in her purse except for the silver lighter she had fearlessly clung too, claiming they could take everything else but that because it was a heirloom – and that had taken some convincing – and then they had asked her to surrender wigs and frills to slip on the grey monstrosity she was now forced to wear.

It had only taken her a few seconds to decide she hated military districts even more than she hated poor ones. She wasn't exactly fond of the dangerous games of appearances in the Capitol either but, at least, she knew how to survive in that particular fish tank.

She hadn't had the first clue how to survive in a place where strangers tore off your lovely fake nails without skills or care on your very first day there.

Most days, she was still trying to figure that out. Relying on Haymitch for protection worked up to a point but she was always anxious of doing the wrong thing, of saying the wrong thing. She tried to fit in, she did, but she stuck out like a sore thumb. The fact that refugees kept tossing her dark looks and spat insults her way wasn't helping her settle in and Haymitch's tacit refusal to take her defense unless there was a physical threat stung.

She understood, of course. It was the very same reason he had always let the other victors make fun of her up to a point. She was an escort, she had done terrible things in the name of the Capitol – and in her own name, for her own glory – she deserved what she got. The fact that he had chosen to see past that, to see beyond the escort's mask, didn't mean he didn't respect other people's reasons for hating her.

Somehow, even knowing that, it still hurt her when he stood by and let someone mutter an insult in her wake.

They were less likely to do it when he was around though, she had noticed, and a few people had actually been more welcoming and nicer than she had expected, thanks to his open friendship and Katniss' family's willingness to include her, but he always told her to ignore it and walk on when someone called her out on her escort's past.

Or present.

She was still the Mockingjay's escort, after all.

Even if her current job felt more like being Plutarch's personal assistant rather than Twelve's escort.

"I will take it under consideration." Coin declared. Effie realized with a startled jolt that Plutarch had finally reached his conclusion. Everyone looked at Thirteen's leader hopefully and the woman rolled her eyes. "We will take a fifteen minutes break."

It seemed that everyone couldn't bolt out of that room early enough.

Even Plutarch left, murmuring something about being parched and needing some water.

Effie stood up and discretely made her shoulders roll, hoping to relieve the tension that had gathered there. Haymitch, she noticed, hadn't moved one inch, his gaze was still lost. Whatever he was thinking about, it must have been fascinating.

Still, she thought he would be sorry he had missed the break.

She gently placed her hand on his shoulder, careful not to been seen as a threat. She had learned long ago that his subconscious didn't react well to that sort of things. "Haymitch?"

His hand shot up to cover hers. "My love?"

His voice was faraway and it was plain to see he was still lost in his thoughts but the word took her breath away all the same. He had hinted at it lately, vague allusions as to why he had had her brought to Thirteen when she complained, claims that he had made sure she wouldn't get a roommate, muttered explanations that he liked sleeping with her at nights better than he liked lying awake in the compartment he shared with Plutarch because she made everything bearable, small touches and soft words he wasn't usually in a habit of offering…

She cleared her throat and squeezed his shoulder hard enough that he jumped a little and blinked out of his daydreaming. He looked up at her, glanced around and made a face. "He's finally done? I spaced out."

"I noticed." she hummed, a pleased smile floating on her lips. It was obvious to her he had no clue what he had called her, which made it all the more precious. "What were you thinking about?"

His mouth twitched into one of his familiar smirks and he wiggled his eyebrows, tilting his head a little to watch her with that impudence she really shouldn't have found so attractive. "Wanna guess?"

She rolled her eyes but didn't call him out on his lie. She could grant him his pretences, he had humored hers often enough.

"I hope it was a particularly fruitful reflection." she teased. "I will expect something imaginative tonight."

His chuckles were immediate and strangely devoid of their usual bitterness. "You're finally bored with me, Princess?"

"Isn't that my line?" she retorted with amusement, taking back her seat.

"It's a stupid question anyway, yeah?" he shrugged, his teasing smirk softening into fondness. "I've got this feeling we're still gonna be right here in forty years. Fighting, fucking and driving each other insane. No place for boring in there." He paused and snorted. "Assuming we survive this shit, that is."

Her heart was beating so hard in her chest it almost hurt.

"Forty?" she repeated. "That's ambitious."

"Probably." he admitted. "My liver's gonna kick the bucket long before that."

She refused to consider the reality of what his alcoholism may have done to his body. The Capitol did miracles with illnesses anyway. The war wouldn't last forever and… They would cross that bridge when and if they came to it.

"I meant the sex." she countered, careful to keep her tone casual. "You think we will still have sex when we are in our eighties?"

"Hell, sweetheart… I'm still gonna want to fuck you if we reach a hundred." he mocked. "That's what those blue pills are for. We're gonna be that kind of old people who have a dirty kinky sex life."

The idea that he had been thinking about what sort of life they could have together was more shocking that hearing him call her his love. She didn't try to make the conversation more serious or to get more than he was willing to give. From him, this was already huge. A lot more than she had ever expected.

"We will break our hips having sex." she promised, fighting a laugh. "Won't that be embarrassing to explain at the hospital…"

"See?" he challenged, reaching out to place his hand on her thigh. "Never boring."

"Never boring." she echoed.