I've seen this done in a few fanfictions so I wanted to give it my own twist with Hayffie. I hope you enjoy, I'm not one to usually write one shots-or a series of one shots for that matter, but I wanted to try my hand at it. I will post one each day, ending on Sunday! Please, if there is a certain dish you'd like me to do, please say so in a review! I am in need of food ideas for any meal of the day! -Jen
Monday: Eggs Benedict
It is more upsetting than it perhaps should be. After all, there are far more important things of value than some measly attempt at a breakfast cuisine that wouldn't matter within a few hours when lunch came. However, Effie Trinket is unable to stop the corners of her mouth twitching into a frown when the underdone, raw egg spills carelessly over the two English muffin halves with an almost comical splash. It looks far from luxurious. In fact, it looks far from anything at all.
"I don't even want to hear it," her voice is edged with hysteria as she slaps the plate in front of the still half asleep man who merely raises his eyebrows the unexpected bang. "I am in no mood for your poorly developed manners today!"
Haymitch Abernathy eyes the plate wearily; lifting up his fork only to poke at the orange slime that now seeps slowly from the bread. "Went from escorting to abstract art, have we, Princess," he mumbles, voice still groggy from sleep. "Perhaps you should consult Peeta before attempting such forms of…self expression."
"Oh hush," she scolds, taking a seat across the table from him. "I woke up extra early to make breakfast for you! The least you could do is be grateful."
"I didn't ask you to," Haymitch replies, jabbing at the side of the muffin absentmindedly.
"I thought that it would be a nice gesture," Effie frowns. "But I see that I was wrong," and she sniffs, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin.
Now it's his turn to frown. Haymitch looks over at the frazzled woman across the table. At the faded pink wig she still insists on wearing after all of these years. It's funny how some things never change. Not that he would want them to anyways.
"You're crying," it's not a question, but a statement.
"No," she continues to sniff. "I have something in my eye."
It is the oldest lie in the book and he knows they both know it is. Yet, he does not point it out. Instead, he holds the folk with more focus now, eyeing the dish he knows will probably be shooting out of his system with ungodly rage in the next hour.
"What is it?" He asks dryly.
"Honestly, Haymitch," Effie says, dabbing at her eyes before setting down the napkin in her lap. "You don't have to eat it if you don't want—Eggs Benedict. It's Eggs Benedict."
And he lifts his fork, digging it into the raw sludge slowly. Lips pressed firmly, he shovels it into his mouth and swallows, the bitter taste of raw egg souring his tastes buds. But he repeats this motion again and again. Eating it for her and shoving all other matters aside. It's the least he can do, after all.