Ew. This took a ridonkulously long time to write out. Was at a fork in the fic road where it could've gone super dark and angsty…like, in the AU of this fic, shit went DOWN. Instead, I kinda went the fluffy route. Eh. I'm good with this. R/R, if you please.

All characters created and owned by Suzanne Collins. She's cool.

With her impeccable sense of timing, list-following diligence, and overall organisational skills, there isn't really a difficult task that Effie Trinket hasn't been able to accomplish.

So one day when she found her pantry stocked with the ingredients needed for her absolute ever favourite dish (chicken fricassee), it was without hesitation that she popped on an apron and started busying herself around the kitchen.

After politely persuading Peeta to pluck a bird for her, the rest of it all calmly fell into place together. It might not have been chicken, but the duck went well with the sauce. Haymitch was just as pleased as she was with the outcome, singing her praises and even taking her on a silent waltz that eventually lead to their bedroom.

From then on, she would routinely team up with Peeta, and learn new sweets recipes from him-the Trinket-Abernathy household constantly stocked with breads and occasionally, the odd tart or two.

It was nice. Effie discovered a new Effie after her first foray into the kitchen, one that fit well in this new world of theirs. It was the one place in the house where she condoned mess and flour on her clothes or in her hair, and well- who knew Haymitch got such a rise out of seeing the normally pristine former-escort covered in edible products?

She grinned, kneading the dough on the floured surface, shaking her head. He was a mess the rest of the time, go figure he'd prefer her looking harried.

Her smile grew when she saw him entering the kitchen.

"Hello, Haymitch." She greeted, leaning her cheek out for a kiss.

"Hey yourself." he said, giving her a chaste kiss and wrapping his arms around her. "You nearly done?" he asked, nodding to the dough. She tested its pliability, and nodded. "Good, because there's a bath upstairs with your name on it."

"Who, me?"

He nodded, eyes dancing a little. "Uh huh- and when you're all pruned and wrinkled, you'll come back down here for the best dinner you've ever had."

Her nose crinkled at the thought.

"Prune away!" she sighed happily, sinking into the steaming bath of pink bubbles and the smell of freshly cut grass, nodded her head back and closed her eyes. She hadn't had a luxury like this in quite a while, and by the time the water turns tepid, her fingers and toes are thoroughly, as Haymitch would say, pruned.

Carefully, she lifts herself out of the tub, drains it, and greedily starts towards her special set of moisturisers- they're rarely used, but on a night like tonight she feels the need to indulge.

"Haymitch!" she sings out, contentment settled deep in her bones. Really, it's only this promised meal that is forcing her not to just collapse into the bed and fall into a sound sleep.

There's no noises coming from downstairs, and no delicious smells…

Creeping down the stairs, curling iron in tow, Effie looks into the kitchen with caution. "Sweetlet….?" It's empty, save for the mess on the counter, and it is positively sweltering in there, the coals having been stoked recently.

The downstairs toilet suddenly flushes, and she turns, only to see a pale, stumbling, smelly Haymitch giving her a pleading look. Effie gasps, and helps him sit down, her hand going to his feverish forehead. This isn't a (albeit, incredibly fast) hangover, that much is certain.

"You know I hate that name, sweetheart…"

"Haymitch, what happened?"

He opens his mouth, but looks green at the thought, changes his mind and clamps his lips shut again.

Suddenly it all clicks together.

"Haymitch, sweetlet…" he groans, head between his knees, "did you forget to buy the milk this morning?"

He barely responds in the affirmative. Effie carries on, gently rubbing her hand on his back in comfort.

"So you used the milk in the fridge? Which I had purposefully left in there because it was off and you never throw out off milk, even though you know I don't drink the stuff?"

Groan.

"Which leads me to guess that whatever you were making needed milk, and so you used your scientific method of taste testing two week old milk and promptly began, ah, vomiting?"

"That's the gist of it, yeah." He gasps out, hands holding his stomach as if in an attempt to keep it all down.

She's close to it, but knows that even though they are a couple and living together, that tutting at him is unwise. She doesn't even attempt to roll her eyes, not even a little bit.

"Come then, let's get you up to bed." She stands and he leans heavily on her, swaying and dizzy. It takes a while, Haymitch being so much bigger than her- not to mention a dead weight, but she finally gets him tucked into bed, make shift bed pan next to him, a cool towel on his forehead.

She sits with him for a minute, stroking his hands.

"Haymitch…sweetlet…"

He mumbles a response she can just about hear, but ignores.

"I'm going to go and make you some broth, ok?"

"Effie…" he all but whines, and Effie steels herself back into her finishing school days, when they had to practice their bedside manner for future husbands. "Don't leave me here alone, Eff…"

She looks into his eyes ready to melt, stands to leave.

"Just close your eyes, sweetlet. You'll be alright, the milk can't hurt you now."

As she leaves, an exaggerated moan follows her out.

"Oh, you'll be alright, sweetlet. Just remember to leave a note, next time." She calls out over her shoulder, finally allowing herself a small grin.