You must understand
That the touch of your hand
Makes my pulse react
That it's only the thrill
Of boy meeting girl
You must try to ignore
That it means more than that
"Alma," her name is singularly brutal on his lips. The way he breathes it, catches it, plays with it. She feels exposed.
"Heavensbee," she clips, not returning the gesture with kindness but with a backhand. We're professionals, sir, we use surnames. "That propos you filmed yesterday with the girl was only 10 seconds long after editing."
She doesn't call Katniss by her name, either, or by the title - the title that she, Coin, gave her - because she doesn't like the power. She doesn't like the irony that calling her "the girl" gives her more power, makes her more archetypal, but where Katniss is the girl, Coin is the woman, and it evens out.
"Yes, yes, but there's only so much I can do with her when she's crying, and even less when she's sedated." He purses his lips. "Are we eating in, or going out? You know I loooove the cafeteria as much as the next but the other options are so much more entertaining."
She scowls, not wanting to acknowledge the implication. "You know we need to be there," Shit, she said 'we.' "You need to be there, and I," she clarifies, "As leaders and members of the committee, to set an example that we abide by the rules."
They're not on the normal watch, they can eat whenever they damn well please and not when an internal monitor goes off. Of course, she's Alma Coin, soon to be leader of the known unfree world (though they don't know that). She eats on a regimented schedule because that is when she pleases.
"You know Alma," he drawls, that arrogant Capitol accent driving her mad. He walks a little closer to where she's sitting, and leans over the short bookshelf, so he's almost looking down the opening of her shirt. She blinks, long and steady, her expression incredulous, but he only smiles. "I like you."
Oh, fuck you too.
"I don't see what it has to do with anything," she retorts a bit too brightly, still meeting his eyes. They're purple, the kind of purple that you have to kill mollusks for. Bullshit Capitol vanity contacts, that's what it has to be. Although she's never heard him complain of contacts.
"And I asked you to call me Coin." She bites her tongue at the mistake, and her cheeks flush; she should have said 'told.' Alma Coin doesn't 'ask' anyone to do shit.
"And I asked if you want to have dinner in a cabin tonight, and you haven't given me a straight answer." His voice is dead serious, and that pisses her off even more.
"Unlike you, some of us work around here," she starts, almost spitting.
"So, my cabin it is," he chirps, and bats his eyelashes. She opens her mouth to say something, but she's too startled by his impudence. He holds up a finger, touches her nose. "We'll edit some film. It'll be productive, I swear."
She knows she should say something to stop him, she really really does, but she's following along now to the kitchen. Someone has to make sure he stays out of trouble, right? "You better have some good footage to work with," she bitches, and she can feel his laughter rumble down her spine.