This is all due to Akachankami who I won't accuse of being clumsy in the kitchen (cough cough) and who, upon burning a brioche, declared she would take it straight to her local Peeta, burned dish and all, to get an explication…

And since you didn't get a present on your birthday, Cami, well… It will count as a belated one ;)

Brioche Baking

"Thank you again for doing this." It was the third time the boy thanked him in the five minutes Haymitch had spent in the bakery. Before he could tell him – again – that it was no trouble, Peeta handed him a makeshift badge. "Dolly has the flu and you know it's crazy with all the tourists so Katniss couldn't miss her shift…" Park rangers always had more to do at this time of year and Haymitch found himself nodding along while he pinned the badge on his shirt – a shirt he had made sure was clean, he hoped the boy appreciated that. "And, normally, I would handle the front myself but I have to finish this cake for Finnick's wedding and…"

"It's all good, boy." Haymitch finally cut him off. "No problem. What's family for?"

Well… Their little family wasn't the blood related type but it still counted as family in his book. After all, he had more or less adopted Katniss when she was sixteen and Peeta was a welcome addition.

"Great." Peeta beamed, taking a vivid pink apron from under the counter that matched the one he was wearing and handing it to him. "The badge goes on that, by the way."

Haymitch eyed the apron warily. Now, he wasn't the kind of guy whose virility was so easily shaken by a little bit of pink – not that he ever wore pink – but it was an aesthetic choice he had never understood. It was apparently a private joke between Peeta and Katniss.

He let out a long suffering sigh. "Do I have to put that on?"

"Trust me, you'll be happier for it when you've got floor all over yourself." Peeta joked. "Alright… Prices are all on the display cards… You know how to work the cash register… I'm leaving the door to the kitchen open so just shout if you need me. And, really, thank you again for…"

"Stop thanking me, kid." he grumbled, slipping the pink apron over his head and relocating the badge. "It's getting embarrassing."

If Peeta had really wanted to thank him, he would have dispensed him from wearing the apron.

That apron caused quite a bit of stir to the boy's usual customers. Of course, it didn't help that the regulars were mostly old ladies who had known Haymitch since he was in diapers and felt no qualms about teasing him mercilessly. Aside for the monstrously pink fabric, the morning was uneventful. He sold cakes, pastries and loaves of bread. Peeta periodically popped his head out of the kitchen to check everything was going well – and that he hadn't ruined his business' reputation yet, he was ready to bet. The crowd picked up a little around noon, mostly tourists looking for sandwiches or cold quiches.

Haymitch, not unlike most of the Seam's inhabitants, hated tourists and strangers alike despite the fact they were essential to their little town's economy. The crowd during the rush hour didn't help change his mind, they were rude, always complaining and he was fairly certain the paper he wrapped their food in would end up balled up somewhere in the woods for Katniss to bitch at later.

He was in a foul mood by the time Peeta declared a late lunch break and treated him to a nice steak at Sae's, a few streets over.

"They're not all that terrible." Peeta laughed when he shared his renewed hatred for tourists.

But they were.

And, worse, the Seam had seen a lot of newcomers settling down lately. It was good for business and the local shops badly needed it in the off-season but Haymitch was too old to change and his instinctive mistrust of anyone who wasn't born and raised in town was deep.

Going back to work after such a good meal wasn't enticing but, fortunately, the bakery didn't see many customers in the afternoon. Haymitch busied himself by carrying new goods from the kitchen to the display window for a while, so it wouldn't look too empty from that morning rush, but soon, he found himself idle.

There was no seat and nothing to do but stare at the cherry wood counter or at the empty cobbled street through the window. He could hear Peeta in the back of the bakery, slaving away to bake Finnick a masterpiece… At least it was cool enough in the front, in the kitchen the heat was suffocating.

He was seriously considering snatching a coffee éclair when the little bell chimed and he automatically straightened up to welcome the new customer, expecting a familiar face.

The face was not familiar.

Nothing about the woman was familiar.

And he had to do a double take because, at first, all he noticed was the blue flouncy summer dress – or, rather, the modest but pleasant cleavage and the endless legs with the shaped calves and the pink toenails poking out of towering matching blue heels – but more glaring than that were the two bubblegum pink oven gloves on her hands and the steaming plate she was holding. Then, of course, there was the blond hair pinned up in a fancy bun – and the few strands that had escaped and were curling on her neck – and the blue eyes. Very, very blue eyes.

"Oh." She stopped dead in her tracks. "You are not Peeta."

"Nope." he answered, making the p pop. He jerked his thumb toward his badge. "Name's Haymitch."

She blinked a few times as if it was truly incomprehensible to her that Peeta, who she clearly expected, wasn't behind the counter. Then she seemed to decide it didn't matter because she… Well, she didn't quite shrug it off but she made a small move with her shoulders as if she wanted to.

"No matter." she declared. "You will do."

Which wasn't insulting at all…

Next thing he knew, she marching toward the counter as if she was about to meet a foreign army for battle and dropped the still steaming plate right in front of Haymitch. There was a burned… thing inside. He wasn't sure what it was supposed to be. Some sort of cake maybe?

He lifted his eyebrows. "Yeah, see… I think you've got the whole bakery concept backward, sweetheart… You come here to buy things, not to sell… What the fuck is this, even?"

She had been in the process of peeling off the oven gloves when the sweetheart made her head jerk up to glare at him. "Excuse me. What did you call me?"

Prissy.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, that's how most people talk around here." he snorted. "Don't go thinking you're special."

Strangers, seriously…

She narrowed her eyes at him, lips pursed and head tilted a little to the side. It wasn't quite a glare but it was clearly not fond either. She reminded him of his geese when they were about to attack.

"Funny." She sniffed disdainfully. "I moved here three months ago and, so far, you are the only one who ever thought it necessary to use a pet name on me. Never mind on our first meeting."

He shrugged. "Maybe that's how I talk, then."

"Maybe you need to start talking differently, then." she deadpanned with a big bright smile that was very clearly fake. "Because I am sure you do not mean to sound like a condescending misogynist."

"Do you mean to sound like you've got a pole stuck in your ass?" he retorted.

"Most people call it manners." she snapped. "I am curious though, how long have you been working here? I have never been unlucky enough to see you before."

"I've been around since it opened." he informed her with a smirk. Not quite a lie. He had been there when Peeta had bought the place and first opened the bakery. And it wasn't his first time helping out.

"With such exceptional customer loyalty management as yours I am surprised this place is still open." she remarked. "I am surprise there isn't a line in the street with people eager to sample your delightful manners."

He laughed.

He wasn't sure when was the last time someone had actually surprised a laugh out of him. A round of chuckles, yeah, maybe, but a laugh?

Then again, it was a long time since someone had bothered to match him wit for wit.

"Good one." he granted.

She was unimpressed. "Are you mocking me now?"

"No." He shook his head, his laughter turning into small chuckles. "I'm impressed. It's been a while since someone called me out on my shit." She had a point though. This wasn't for fun. This wasn't a Saturday night at the bar. This was Peeta's place of business. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, you're right. Customer's always right."

She eyed him suspiciously, tapping her huge pink oven gloves in the palm of her hand. "I cannot tell if you are sassing me."

"I ain't." he promised.

And he wasn't.

Mostly because he was kind of hoping he could somehow convince her the local bar wasn't a terrible place on Saturday nights.

"And yet you are still calling me sweetheart." she huffed.

"That's cause I don't know your name…" he pointed out – rather smoothly in his opinion.

Except she didn't take the bait. Her pursed lips turned into something of a pout. "Do you ask all your customers their names?"

"Only the pretty ones." he shot back before he could think twice about it. The pout twitched as if it was threatening to turn into a grin. He hadn't realized just how close he had been to take that steaming plate of her on the head until her body actually lost its tension. Still, she didn't say anything or offer a name. He snorted. "Let me guess… Flattery's not gonna get me anywhere with you."

This time, the grin slipped past her guard. "On the contrary, it will get you everywhere with me."

Her voice was almost a purr and that did things to him.

She held his gaze for a beat too long to be perfectly innocent.

Oh, yeah. He wanted to meet her at the bar, buy her a drink and convince her to become his latest one-night-stand.

"Good thing I can be charming when I bother, then." he teased, his voice dropping a little.

She seemed to find it more funny than endearing. She looked down and startled a little when she saw her plate, as if remembering why she was there in the first place.

"How can I help you?" he asked, suddenly recalling that he was there to mind the counter and not flirt or otherwise annoy people.

"Oh, now you remember how to talk to customers?" she mocked but her smile was fleeting. She nudged the plate closer to him so he could inspect it better. "This is a brioche."

She said brioche with a perfect French accent that he found absolutely too sexy.

Fuck, but who was she? How come nobody had warned him a woman like her had moved in town?

The supposed brioche didn't look at all like a brioche though. He was no expert. His area of expertise in a kitchen revolved more around cooking and even that was a limited skill – he was an okay cook, nothing exceptional but he could handle himself behind a stove. Baking was out of his abilities. And yet he had been around the boy enough to know brioche were supposed to be airy and light with a soft fluffy texture. This looked like a burned rock.

He shook his head. "Yeah, no… It clearly ain't."

He checked the display and pulled out a little round brioche. "This is a brioche."

The word was clumsy in his mouth, not at all sexy like she had made it sound.

"Yes, thank you." she huffed. "I am aware this is a disaster. What I want to know is why. I have followed the recipe Peeta gave me to the letter. This is my third batch and it is getting worse instead of getting better."

First thing, Peeta shouldn't go around handing out recipes to strangers if he wanted to keep a running business and he would need to have a word with the boy about that.

Second thing… "You're sure you did everything right?"

She nodded vigorously. "It does not swell… Do you think it might be the yeast?"

"Maybe…" he hesitated. "Looks like you've left it in the oven too long though…"

It was completely burned.

"I left it the exact time Peeta said to." she argued. "I think the problem comes from the dough. And yet I did follow the instructions…"

He winced, not quite sure what to tell her. "Look, there's only the small brioche kinds here but I can go see if there's any bigger ones in the kitchen…"

"No, I do not want to buy one, I want to bake one." she snapped, curt. She immediately made a face. "My apologies. This is… This is not about the brioche, this is about my mother nagging me again about how I cannot do anything right and I am trying to prove a point here, how ridiculous as it might seem, so… I would really appreciate it if you could help me out."

"Sure. I'll help you out." he easily agreed. "Your mother sounds like a bitch and I'm sure you can do plenty of stuff right. Maybe not baking, though."

For a second, she looked like she was going to hit him again. Then she pursed her lips tight. To prevent a laugh, this time.

"Your language is atrocious." she commented.

He shrugged. "Part of my charm."

"Ah yes, the infamous charm I have yet to see proof of." she teased. Her amusement was short and she bit her bottom lip a little hesitantly. "Seriously, though… I know it sounds stupid but I really want to make one batch that is not terrible. Do you think… Do you think you might teach me? Like a cooking class? I would pay, naturally."

A cooking class.

For a brioche.

That he had no clue how to bake.

He suddenly realized she was mistaking him for another baker.

The right thing to do at that point was probably to call Peeta out of the kitchen and let him give the professional advices.

But her blue eyes were striking and pleading and he didn't want her to spend the next half hour locked in the kitchen with Peeta when she could spend that time with him.

"How about I teach you for an hour or two and you let me buy you a drink after?" he suggested.

Her eyebrows shot up and she smiled. "Will I get to see the charm in action, then?"

He smirked. "If you're lucky."

She hesitated a moment, not too long though. "Do you have a piece of paper?" He snatched a ragged piece of receipt and handed it to her. She scribbled something and handed it back. "My address and my number. I am free tomorrow, I will expect you to call."

"Sure." His smirk turned into something that wasn't quite a grin. "Effie."

Her name was right there in a flourish script that suited her perfectly.

"Don't wear that shade of pink." she teased. "It is really not your color…"

She grabbed her plate and, with a last blinding smile, departed. The chime hadn't even died yet that he felt Peeta's presence behind him. He shot the boy a glare, too aware that the kid had heard everything. The way he was now leaning against the kitchen's threshold with his arms crossed was telling.

"Don't say a fucking word." Haymitch warned.

Peeta looked like he wanted to laugh but he mimed his lips being zipped shut. He paused before going back to the kitchen. "I'm not saying a word but are you planning to tell her you don't know how to bake before or after you teach her how to make the dough properly?"

"Ha. Bloody. Ha." he scoffed. "Obvious solution. You're gonna teach me so I can teach her. How difficult can it be?"

As it turned out, it was quite difficult.

But he was extremely motivated by the perspective of seeing those blue eyes again…