Beetee being as judgmental as a Capitolite when it comes to Cashmere's image is absolutely canon in my mind. An excerpt, if you will:
“You’ve got me there. I don’t enjoy her proclivities.” I let my brow raise, daring him to accuse me of the things the Capitol sees in me. The promiscuity, the loose morals, the willingness to please. “We need tighter lips than what she can offer. I’m sure you understand exactly what I mean.” I dig my nails into my palms, bile rising in my throat. That was a dig. He thinks just how the Capitol does. Buys into this image Haymitch and I have curated without question. He thinks we’re lovers with some sort of taboo relationship open to whoever wants to partake. The hand on my back gets tighter as if Haymitch can sense my disgust even though my face has not changed.
“Only loose lips here are yours. Gettin’ kids killed each and every year ‘cause you don’t ever have a plan before you waste their lives. Fuck you, Beetee Latier.” He takes his hand off my waste to grab my hand. I know he wants to pull me away but he stands, glares. “Alright, we’re done talkin’ now. You can scurry back to your hypocrites and sycophants now.”
“I’m shocked you know that word, Haymitch.”
“I learned it from you,” he bites back just as quickly as the insult was spewed.