Archive of Our Own ^beta

Saturday Night: 6:42pm

            “I need two ducks and a lobster. Wolsey, that’s five ducks on fire.” The order cut clear through the noise of metal pots on burners, the hiss of steam as the combi oven was briefly opened, and the high-pitched clatter of quality ceramic plates hitting against one another.

            “Five ducks working! There are eight more ducks all day, Chef,” Wolsey called back, reaching into the refrigerated drawer below the range to grab two more seasoned portions of duck, throwing them with some butter, oil and herbs into two more cast iron pans, flames on high, so the tender meat sizzled immediately upon contact with the iron.

            “Heard.” Wriothesley turned to the twig of a man standing next to him on the expo station, watching as Lyney placed a black towel over his arm to protect it from the heat of the plates coming hot off the line. “You catch that, pipsqueak?”

            “What?” The immediate offense was clear in the fiery gaze that shot up to meet Wriothesley’s stern countenance.

            “Eight count on duck for the night. Pass it on.”

            “Uhh…make that six. I need to put in two more for table ten.” The blonde grabbed two plates, wincing briefly at the heat of the ceramic before the large square plate settled comfortably on the towel.

            Wriothesley drew a hand down his face, rubbing at the stubble on his jaw that he really should have shaved off this morning.

            “And how long ago did you take that order from table ten?” His dark eyebrow rose in accusation, preparing for what he knew was likely going to be a rush order.

            “I know, I know! I haven’t had time to put it in, and I was waiting for them to make a final decision on dessert, but they wouldn’t stop talking –"

            As if summoned by their conversation, the ticket machine came to life, spitting out a ticket a mile long with all five courses and dessert accounted for, wrung out under the front of house manager’s name. Wriothesley whistled as he glanced over it, seeing just how much had been sold to a table of only four individuals.

            “Is that table ten?” Lyney leaned closer, eyeing the ticket with a baffled expression, arms loaded with plates, his departure stalled.

            “Sure is, pipsqueak. Monsieur Neuvillette just saved your ass out there. Make sure you express your thanks thoroughly later. Now get out of my kitchen with those plates before they get cold.” He didn’t wait to witness the young server’s exit, turning back to the pass and the line beyond it where his team broke a god-damn sweat on this Saturday night.

            “Alright, four-top walkin’ in hot. Navia, I need two octopus and a soft-shell crab. Roussimoff, three smoked goat cheese canapes, a charred peach salad, and one bisque. Wolsey, two more ducks and one filet mignon on the back. I’ll let you know when to fire that. That leaves us with a six count on duck.” He added the ticket to the rail at the back, staring at the thirteen or so that currently hung before him.

            “Yes, Chef!” Came the chorus of replies from the line.

            Everything was operating as it should. Two plates were put through the pass. He took both of them, paying no mind to the sting in his hands at their scalding temperature as he placed them under the warming lights on his side. With careful precision, he finished the steak with microgreens and a smear of the house-made herbed butter artfully to the side. The soup received an edible flower and chili oil before he smacked the bell next to his left elbow.

            “Hands! I have a steak dying over here.”

            The doors swung open behind him; the telltale clack of sharp heels against the floor told him exactly who had entered the kitchen to be his next runner. Wriothesley’s spine unconsciously straightened, his previously hunched posture corrected instantly. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Navia and Wolsey share a look and dutifully ignored it.

            Monsieur Neuvillette cut an attractive figure in his pressed navy suit, his long hair secured in a braid down the middle of his back. His sharp gaze surveyed the kitchen; to any that didn’t know him, the lack of expression upon his face might have been misinterpreted as annoyed or displeased. It couldn’t have been further from the truth, the stern set of his brow merely a product of his intense focus and diligence in his responsibilities for the evening.

            Wriothesley was staring. Stars help him.

            “Hot plate on the pass!” Wolsey shoved a dish across the upper metal platform, likely pushing it too hard and putting it at a risk of sliding off the other side and crashing to the floor. Wriothesley snapped to attention, reaching up to stop the plate centimeters from the edge with a single finger, uncaring of the scalding temperature.

            “You trying to waste a perfectly good filet mignon, Wolsey?” Wriothesley steadied the plate, narrowing his gaze at his chef de partie. It was too early in the evening for this to already be starting.

            “Sorry, chef! Won’t happen again. I’m glad you were paying attention.” His sly grin said all that Wriothesley needed to know.

            “Chef Wriothesley, you’ve no doubt seen the ticket for table ten already?”  Neuvillette’s polite countenance and polished appearance immediately threw all of Wriothesley’s sharp and rough edges into stark contrast. The head chef’s heavily tattooed arms, with his black coat sleeves rolled up just past the thickness of his forearms at the elbows, burn lines and scars crisscrossing over skin in a patchwork history of strife from life in kitchens and prison alike, seemed harsh in comparison to grace and beauty manifested.

            Neuvillette was elegant curves and polished gems, Wriothesley was sharpened steel and rough calloused fingers. He’d never forgive his heart for setting its sights on the sun when he was destined to live at night under the moon.

            Then there was the issue of his entire staff, and their not-so-subtle hazing about his not-so-subtle crush.

            It was an open secret to more-or-less everyone that their head chef had the hots for the front of house manager. Open, at least, to everyone in the kitchen, and a select few members of the front of house team. Monsieur Neuvillette, despite the blunt and frankly obvious torment Wriothesley endured daily from his cooks, remained blissfully unaware of his head chef’s smitten state of being. It was truly for the best this way, or so Wriothesley told himself at the end of every shift.

            “I have. Thank you for ringing in the whole order so promptly. You have my eternal appreciation and gratitude.” Wriothesley’s lips twitched upwards in a warm smile, the edges of his eyes crinkling with it.

            “It was the least I could do to help Mr. Lyney get back on track with his tables. They are currently set up with a bottle of wine and are celebrating the end of a large project for their team at work. You do not need to rush their dishes; they are quite content at the moment.” He grasped the hot plates with his slender, gloved fingers and effortlessly balanced four plates between his two hands and arms.

            Wriothesley was so pleased to hear that, he could kiss Neuvillette. He wouldn’t, but he’d be thinking about it for the rest of the night.

            “You’re a miracle worker, you know that?” Wriothesley grinned wide at him, crossing his arms over his chest as he willingly gave all his attention to the other man.

            “Hardly. I am merely doing my job. The miracle workers are the line cooks, servers, and bussers.” The corners of Neuvillette’s lips lifted in a faint and dazzling smile. As the manager turned to leave the kitchen, he glanced over at the pastry station where Sigewinne stood with a notable smirk, obviously listening in as she plated a slice of raspberry dark chocolate cheesecake. She gracefully applied a quenelle of dark chocolate mousse and a warm raspberry caramel that was drizzled artfully over the dish. Wriothesley’s mouth watered as he thought about that stupidly delicious cheesecake and the love that went into it. There was the lightest hint of red chili in the chocolate crust that gave the whole dish an unexpected and delightful kick, one that was promptly smoothed over by the rich creamy cheesecake and the dark and decadent mousse.  

            “I will be back for those desserts shortly, Chef Sigewinne,” Neuvillette called over to her, and she shot him a beaming smile.

            “Sure thing, Monsieur! They’ll be ready to walk in three minutes.” She opened up the container of meticulously picked Romaritime flower petals and began placing them around the dish.

            As Neuvillette headed to the doorway, Wriothesley’s gaze wandered, to his dismay and shame. If asked, he’d merely say that he was admiring the new suit the front of house manger was wearing, but in all honesty, he couldn’t help but notice how well those navy pants hugged the curve of Neuvillette’s ass.

            “HOT BEHIND!” A chorus of voices suddenly rang out from the line. Neuvillette glanced over his shoulder, his expression vaguely puzzled before he left through the swinging doors without so much as a fluster. Meanwhile, the head chef behind him was tempted to crawl into the frier for an impromptu baptism by scalding oil.

            Wriothesley whipped around, quickly busying himself with the ticket rail as he felt his cheeks flame hot enough to brûleé sugar. He snatched up the ticket for the food that was actively walking out the door and aggressively dragged a mark through it with black marker from his apron pocket. He glared at his cooks as he did so.

            “Table 8 walked. Where’s my soft-shell crab, Navia?” He cleared his throat.

            “It’s already on the pass, chef,” she said with a smile that rivaled the sun as she brought her vegetable cleaver down onto a bunch of scallions in a display that was both skilled and threatening.

            “Ah –” He looked up and sure enough, it was sitting there. Flustered once more, he cleared his throat again. “Alright, we have a full house out there, stop screwing around and let’s make some damn good food.”

            The chorus of “Yes, Chef!” that echoed around the kitchen was not without accompanied snickering.

Archons, it was going to be a very long Saturday night.

Saturday Night: 11:28pm

            “Goodnight, chef! Don’t stay too late.” Wolsey called, as he and Roussimoff stripped off their aprons and threw them into the dirty hamper on their way out of the kitchen. Wriothesley looked up from the small pot that simmered with some of the fresh clarified chicken stock they’d strained out earlier that afternoon.

            “You’re not grabbing a shift drink, you two? I know Navia and Estienne are already at the bar.” He looked back down at his pot as he skimmed the remaining fat from the top meticulously.

            “Nah, I have to visit my mom tomorrow morning, and I’d hate to show up hungover.” Roussimoff waved his hand and Wolsey hooked his thumb at the other man. “I’m his ride. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

            “Drive safe. See you tomorrow.” Wriothesley looked up long enough to wave them out, catching sight of Clorinde just on the other side of the kitchen door window as the two men left. The kitchen had long since closed, the counters and floors meticulously cleaned to nearly sparkling and all the lights dimmed until it was just the hood lights and a single warming lamp illuminating his work over the range.

            “Miss Clorinde.”

            “Chef,” she acknowledged with an incline of her head as she slid a rocks glass with a large sphere of ice submerged in amber liquid over to him, a single orange peel garnishing the edge.

            “Cheers.” Wriothesley toasted his glass in her direction as she sauntered closer, her eggplant-colored hair secured neatly in a low ponytail at the base of her neck. Despite the busy Saturday, her white blouse and vest were still immaculately clean and hardly rumpled. To this day, Wriothesley did not understand how the other side of the restaurant staff managed to thrive, or at least survive willingly, in such an environment. Any day, he’d rather slave away over a hot grill than have to sweet-talk his way around rude customers, their pockets lined with gold. He’d already had to do his fair share of ass-kissing to climb his way up in kitchens, not to mention prison.

            “Making something for Monsieur Neuvillette?” Clorinde asked unprompted, folding her arms across her chest as she leaned her hip into the stainless-steel prep table. Wriothesley took a sip of the whiskey, enjoying the warm caramel notes that coated his tongue and the slight burn of it down his throat. It was wickedly smooth, and he wondered which bourbon she’d deemed worthwhile to give him tonight.

            “Yes.” The glass clinked against the counter as he set it back down, attending once again to the oyster mushrooms and leeks next to his cutting board. “He never remembers to eat family meal on Saturdays because he’s too busy going over the menu changes and specials with the servers.” Wriothesley worked quickly, removing the stems from the mushrooms, slicing them artfully without missing a beat.

            The mushrooms and leaks were leftovers from one of the pasta dishes, and they quickly joined the clear broth simmering in the pot. His knife made quick work of some fresh chives, parsley, and scallions before they too joined the small pot.

            “And did you eat family meal?” Clorinde raised an eyebrow at him.

            “Of course I did. I made family meal today, had to make sure it tasted good.” He smirked as he grabbed a lid and turned down the heat of the burner, settling the metal lid precariously over it so that steam could still escape as he left it to simmer. With that mostly done, he turned his full attention to Clorinde, joining her against the prep table with his whiskey in hand.

            Wriothesley had long since ditched his chef coat, preferring the plain black T-shirt and pants to cook in when given the choice. There was only one table left in the restaurant, and that was only because they’d wanted tea and coffee after dessert, thus extending their reservation well past the closing time. Officially, Wriothesley’s job was done for the night – at least the physical aspects of it.

            “Does he know you’re cooking specifically for him?” Her smarmy grin pulled at insecurities, Clorinde’s clever brain all too good at piecing together his intentions.

            “No. Honestly, I was going to plate it for him and leave a note like a coward.”

            “That is rather cowardly of you. At least hand it to him yourself after you put in all that effort.” Her suggestion was well-intentioned, but still, Wriothesley grimaced at the idea.

            “I don’t want to bother him; he still needs to inventory the wine and reset for tomorrow before he goes. He’s a very busy man, Clorinde.” The excuses felt flimsy, even for him.

            “What are you, scared? I didn’t know the big ex-convict turned fine dining head chef of one of Fontaine’s most renowned restaurants was such a scaredy cat.”

            The corners of his mouth turned down, pride on the line as she shot holes in his meager defenses. Women were fucking terrifyingly perceptive, Clorinde especially so. Rather than make excuses, he opted for turning the question back on her.

            “Oh? And what of your raging crush on my sous-chef? Let me guess –” He held his hand up before she could interrupt, intent upon dishing out as much as he was taking, “Are you secretly back here in my kitchen because Navia is sitting at the bar for her shift drink, and you got too flustered and ran away?”

            When there was no immediate reply, Wriothesley toasted his glass in Clorinde’s direction and took a hearty sip of the whiskey, victorious. The peeved sigh the bartender let out through her nose was answer enough in his books.

            “Fine then, let’s make a bet. I know how you love to gamble.” She assessed him out of the corner of her eye as they leaned shoulder to shoulder in the quiet, empty kitchen. Wriothesley knew better than to bet against Clorinde, but he was admittedly intrigued by wherever this might be headed, and sometimes, losing a bet was actually more fun than winning.

            Unless it involved Sigewinne’s experimental milkshakes. Those were a punishment in every conceivable way.

            “You have my attention. What’s your wager, Madame?”

            “Whoever can successfully ask their crush on a date first gets to pick out the loser’s next tattoo and where it goes.” Confidence radiated from her while Wriothesley grimaced fully and took another hearty drink of his whiskey.

            “Only if there are ground rules. No face, armpit, hand, or genital tattoos. Arms, torso and legs only. And nothing bigger than three inches.”

            “No neck?”

            “Fuck no, I already have a neck tattoo picked out and it’s not going to be whatever the hell you would make me get.”

            “That’s fair. I agree to your terms.” She stuck her hand out, and Wriothesley stared at it for a long moment before he sighed and clasped it with his own.

            “I’m going to make Sigewinne draw yours,” he said as he shook their hands, and that at least had Clorinde breaking into a more carefree smile that was contagious.

            “Not if I make her draw yours first.” Clorinde dropped his hand and turned back towards the door. It swung open as if anticipating her departure and Neuvillette stood in the doorway, pausing as he quickly assessed the air of the room and the sudden way that Clorinde and Wriothesley both momentarily froze.

            “Am I…interrupting something?” he asked, with the hint of a perturbed scowl creasing his brow.

            Shit. Wriothesley’s stomach did summersaults as the object of all his desires threatened to retreat out of sight once more.

            “Not at all, Monsieur. I was just about to head back to my post. Did you want a shift drink? Perhaps a fine glass of water, or a wine?” Clorinde covered for Wriothesley’s sudden lack of vocabulary, breezing her way out the other side of the double kitchen doors while Neuvillette pondered her query.

            “I will indulge in a glass of white wine. Something light, surprise me. Nothing new world please. A Côte du Rhône or something similar will do.”

            Wriothesley’s eyebrows went up as he heard that, wondering exactly what had driven Neuvillette to seek out alcohol over water this evening. It had been a rough Saturday, but nothing particularly grueling, at least on the kitchen side. Then again, Neuvillette was still in the process of training Lyney and Lynette from bussers to full servers, and perhaps that was taking more of a toll than previously anticipated.

            Wriothesley turned to the prepared soup and snagged the empty white bowl he’d set under the one still-glowing heat lamp to keep it warm. In one fluid motion, he transferred the liquid from pot to bowl and added a few of the necessary garnishes he’d set aside.

            “Is it fair to ask to be surprised and then be as granular as requesting a wine from a specific region?” Wriothesley couldn’t hold his tongue as he made sure the stovetop was off and walked the bowl of soup around to the other side of the pass. He grabbed his whiskey glass on the way and set the bowl down beside himself, leaning back against the counter as casually as he could muster. Neuvillette had gone towards the dish room, and from here, Wriothesley could see him grabbing several small plates and matching utensils from the clean rack.

            “There is variety enough in-house from that particular region that Clorinde might still be able to surprise me. I think it a fair enough request.” Neuvillette examined a fork, ultimately deciding it was clean enough before he brought it and its companions over to the prep station Wriothesley was leaning against.

            The head chef didn’t dare miss the way the manager’s gaze drifted towards the bowl of soup for a fleeting second. Ah, so he was hungry after all.

            “Touché. Have you eaten anything yet this evening?” Wriothesley cut to the quick, unwilling to tenderize the conversation with useless small talk any longer when they’d known each other for the better part of a year now.

            Skilled and well-manicured fingers paused as they passed a clean polishing rag over the silverware.  

            “I have not. The dining room was a bit more hands-on than normal this evening,” He admitted with a sigh.

            “I can tell by the glass of wine.” Wriothesley canted his head towards the doors Clorinde had disappeared through. “You’re not normally one for imbibing, even after a hard shift.”

            “Yes, well.” Neuvillette tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear and Wriothesley ached with the desire to replace those fingers with his own. “Some of us aren’t capable of drinking three glasses of whiskey neat and still finding our way home safely at the end of the evening.”  

            “I’d make sure you got home safely, Monsieur, but your point stands.” The smirk he wore paired nicely with the warm burn of caramel down his throat as he took another sip of his poison of choice for the evening. Neuvillette shot him a look that was two parts fond and one part exasperated, and Wriothesley took it for the compliment he hoped it was.

            “I will eat once everything is suitably handled this evening.”

            “Meaning more than an hour from now?” Wriothesley challenged gently, an undeniable protectiveness simmering just under his skin.

            “That… depends, but there is a possibility that might be the case.”

            “Or –” Here Wriothesley hesitated, plucking up the courage he so desperately needed to push the envelope holding the tension he hoped wasn’t entirely one-sided between them. “You could take ten, and let me polish those for you while you eat something.”

            Neuvillette’s gaze cast towards the offered bowl, in a way that made his long eyelashes sweep towards his high cheek bones. Perhaps Wriothesley shouldn’t have stared quite so intensely, but it was hard not to when it was only the two of them. Neuvillette was a star amidst a cosmos of asteroids. And Wriothesley? He was helpless against that gravitational pull, nothing more than a planet set to orbit in proximity, suspended in awe, never close enough to touch, but left with more than enough time within eternity to admire the force with which Neuvillette shined.

            “– that specifically for me?”

            Wriothesley blinked, pulled from the depths of his tired brain and back to the very real present, where Neuvillette was staring back at him, unblinking, brows creased like he might launch into a stern but commendably kind lecture at any moment.

            “Huh?” Wriothesley said intelligently as he scrambled to replay their conversation in his tired mind.  

            “Did you go to the effort of making this soup specifically for me?” Neuvillette asked again, and Wriothesley, admittedly, panicked.

            “That? No! It was just some leftover stock that was, you know, hanging out in the walk-in.” There was very little rationality to be applied as to why he’d decided to lie, especially when honesty, while vulnerable, would have painted a much more flattering picture. The worst part was that it didn’t even appear that Neuvillette believed him.

            Wriothesley was the first to look away, clearing his throat awkwardly as he nudged the bowl one more time in the other man’s direction.

            “Eat it before it gets cold. Or don’t. Whatever.” His shrug felt forced. The head chef swirled the whiskey around in his glass, staring into it like the alcohol might dissolve his Archons-awful attempts at being nice and remove them from his, and everyone else’s, memory.

            “I see. Then I will accept it graciously. Thank you, Chef.”

            Wriothesley watched from the corner of his eyes, feigning a frankly ridiculously obvious amount of interest in his glass, as Neuvillette pulled the bowl closer and plucked one of the newly polished spoons from the cluster of utensils he’d been working on.

            Like an angel sent to save him from himself, Clorinde returned to the kitchen with a glass of wine in hand. She took one look at the two of them and shot Wriothesley a truly scathing look. His rebuttal was an obscenely rude gesture hidden carefully from view on the other side of his body.

            Perhaps he ought not to have counted his blessings so soon.

            “Here you are, Monsieur.” She smiled, in a tight way Wriothesley well knew to associate with pain and suffering, of which he was most often the intended target. “Is that the soup chef was making specifically for you?”

            Well chop him up, throw him in a cryovac bag, and pickle him for at least a decade.  Wriothesley slapped a hand over his mouth, pointedly looking away as a heat that rivalled the broiler descended upon the nape of his neck and, most unfortunate of all, his cheeks. It was undoubtedly visible to all in the room. Oh, if only the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

            “It appears so. I have yet to try it, but I’m preemptively convinced it will be magnificent.” Neuvillette’s tone was light, and while not directed at him, Wriothesley couldn’t help but feel like those words weren’t exactly meant for Clorinde, either.

            “He is rather good at his craft,” the bartender agreed, seemingly indifferent.

            “I’m right here, you two,” Wriothesley grumbled petulantly, embarrassment seeping from every molecule that composed his body. His commentary drew their eye, so he cleared his throat roughly and turned to make himself busy clearing the pan and cutting board he’d used towards the sink. Maybe if his hands were busy, he’d be less likely to say something embarrassing.

            “My apologies, chef. I was planning to compliment you directly after I’d tasted what you’ve prepared for me.” Wriothesley didn’t turn around, rinsing both dishes in the sink with the overhead sprayer before he tossed them into the partially-filled dishwasher. He schooled his blush into something more reasonable and dug deep for the witty charm he was known for.

            “Oh? You’re too kind, Monsieur. Save your flattery for the customers; they need it more than me.” Wriothesley turned just in time to catch the scathing look Clorinde shot his way, and he realized all too late the effect his callous attitude had on the other man. Tonight, it appeared he was severely lacking in any kind of charm.

            “I see. Then, I suppose I shall keep it to myself,” Neuvillette muttered quietly. A blind man could have seen the way his chin tipped downwards ever so slightly, the wind taken wholeheartedly out of his sails.

Way to fuck that one up Wriothesley. Nice job.

            Clorinde raised one accusatory eyebrow at him as she saw herself out of the swinging doors, and he felt the ferocity of her stare all the way from the bar. Right, shit, he needed to fix this and pronto, or he would be getting the worst tattoo known to man and destroy any chances he had at taking Neuvillette on a date, ever.

            Wriothesley made his way over to Sigewinne’s dessert station, preemptively begging for her forgiveness as he opened the fridge below her station and fished out the romaritime sorbet that was always stocked there.

            “Now, if you wanted to pay your compliments, you are free to do so at the end of your meal, which would, of course, not be complete without some kind of dessert. Isn’t that right, Monsieur?” He looked over the edge of the fridge door he was crouched behind, ensuring that his smile was seen before he stood and made his way back to the other man.

            “Is that so?” Neuvillette raised an eyebrow, eyeing the container of sorbet as Wriothesley approached. “Is Miss Sigewinne going to approve of you going through her prep without asking her, Chef?” he asked between bites of soup, the silverware he’d been polishing entirely forgotten as he dug into the meal he’d been provided. The sight warmed Wriothesley from head to toe.

            “Absolutely not. She’s going to be extremely pissed at me, but that’s for me to deal with. You worked hard tonight. I think you deserve a treat.” Wriothesley pulled a spoon from his container and with a swish of his wrist, he placed a delicate scoop of sorbet into a small, multifaceted dish. It wasn’t fancy, but Sigewinne’s specialty sorbet spoke for itself on flavor alone, and Wriothesley knew that Neuvillette had an appreciation for crisp flavors that weren’t overly complex or too greasy.

            “You’d risk the ire of your pastry chef for me?” The man’s lavender eyes brightened, and Wriothesley was lost to their depths, his smile easy as he leaned closer to set the dessert down next to the soup.

            “I would, and Clorinde’s too, because I can guarantee you that neither that soup nor this dessert will pair well with your wine.” His eyes crinkled with teasing delight, the satisfaction of watching Neuvillette enjoy the soup, savoring each bite around a small smile, was more than enough of a reward.

            “I will save the wine for after, then. How was your evening, Chef?”

            The question caught him off guard, as he settled with his arms crossed over his chest, perhaps with the intended goal of showing off exactly how well his efforts at the gym had been paying off this month. Wriothesley knew he had assets, and he had no qualms about using them when he could. Life had given him very few starting advantages; only a fool would continue to play with a shitty hand when the opportunity to trade in for better cards arose.

            “It was decent. Nobody dropped anything and nobody got burned, so I’d consider it a good night. I’m finding the latter half of it to be rather enjoyable as well, despite the stack of paperwork I know is sitting on my desk.” The chuckle he released wasn’t bitter, but it did carry with it an edge of tiredness that was echoed in Neuvillette’s accompanying sigh.

            “I understand your pain. I have quite a bit of inventorying to do for the end of the month, and after that, payroll, and the list goes on and on.” He shrugged, hardly seeming even marginally bothered by the mountain high list as he finished off the rest of the soup in the bowl. “This, however, has certainly made the prospect of the remainder of the evening much more agreeable.”

            “Hmn. Happy to be of service,” Wriothesley murmured, fixated upon the wetness that clung to the other man’s bottom lip. How he wanted to dive in and sample the five-course meal that would undoubtably keep him satisfied for more than just a single evening.

            An agreeable silence settled around them as Neuvillette moved on to the sorbet. It was a miracle they hadn’t been bothered yet, and Wriothesley suspected he might actually owe Clorinde something for that later. It was an opportunity he really shouldn’t miss, as the likelihood of so many factors aligning all at once again was extremely unlikely. Clorinde was nice, but she could only watch him shoot himself in the foot so many times before she decided he was better put out of his misery.

            “Monsiuer Neuvillette…” Wriothesley started abruptly, his heart immediately climbing up his throat only to stifle his words.

            “Yes?”

            Well, here went nothing. Now or never. Now, or a hideous tattoo, probably of something vulgar, likely drawn by Sigewinne, somewhere obvious on his arms. He had a lot to lose by keeping his mouth shut.

            “When is your next day off?”

            “My next day off? I believe I’m taking Monday and Tuesday off this week. Why do you ask?” His head tilted, the swish of his braid briefly catching Wriothesley’s eye, driving him to distraction as he thought about winding those strands around his hand. Archons above, he was a goner. Wriothesley threw back the rest of his whiskey and set the glass down, using the time it took to swallow to try and come up with an order of words that didn’t sound completely idiotic.

            “What do you say I treat you to a dinner? At my place… say Monday night?” The burn of the whiskey still hadn’t left his throat as he finally plucked up the courage to appraise Neuvillette’s expression. The front of house manager appeared surprised, but it was the worried way his brows creased more by the second that speared directly through the head chef’s heart and left it to bleed out on the nearest cutting board.

            “Ah, unfortunately I have agreed to spend some time with Furina on Monday evening, so I am not available. I apologize.” Neuvillette’s frown cut deep between the ribs, sharper than Navia’s filet knife and twice as mean.

            And just like that, all his courage fled him, leaving Wriothesley to ache. He swallowed the defeat through a dry throat, desperately eyeing his empty glass of whiskey, and giving a small nod as he kept the hurt from his face.

            “I see. Understood. I hope you two have a lovely time.”

            “I’m certain that we will have an experience; whether good or bad remains to be seen. But I fear you mistake my words, Chef.” Neuvillette cleared his throat and took a half step closer, enough that Wriothesley was forced to draw his gaze up from the floor. Slouched against the counter as he was, they were the same height, which made it rather alarming that Neuvillette had stepped close enough that their eyes could lock over what was easily only a handful of inches. His unwavering gaze trapped Wriothesley’s like a bird in a cage, and he couldn’t have looked away even if he’d tried.

            “I am not available this Monday, but if you have another day in mind, I would be happy to join you for dinner at your place.”

            Oh.

            Oh!

            Wriothesley’s eyes widened, and it took his tongue a few seconds too long to catch up to his heart, which had gone from digging its own grave to setting off fireworks in his chest.

            “Does the following Sunday or Monday night work for you?” Wriothesley rushed to ask, embarrassed when a pleased smile grew on the other man’s face.

            “I think the following Sunday would do quite nicely. Thank you for the invitation.”

            “G-great! I’ll, uh, yeah, that will work. Good.” He fumbled his words, distracted as Neuvillette’s hand slid past him, the sound of ceramic hitting the counter explaining why he’d leaned in so close. Wriothesley was frozen, his hands awkwardly hovering inches from Neuvillette’s hips, the older gentleman’s legs between his own where they sat slightly spread.

            “Excellent. Thank you for the delicious meal. Please give my compliments to Miss Sigewinne as well. I unfortunately must go help Mister Lyney usher our lingering guests home from the dining room, but in case I don’t see you before you leave, have a most pleasurable evening, Wriothesley.” With his concise words, Neuvillette leaned in, and Wriothesley felt lips brush his cheek. It was so fleeting a moment that, for a heartbeat, he wondered if it had happened at all, and found himself literally frozen in place.

            With a flip of a white braid, the man collected his polished utensils and his glass of wine, departing from the kitchen with a sweep of the doors. Wriothesley was left too stunned to speak for some time, slack-jawed and red in the face as he tried to fight the way heat clawed at his groin and hundreds of scenarios played through his mind all at once.

            “Sonovabitch… That absolute tease,” he muttered quietly, rubbing at his own stubbled jaw as a laugh, one that was far lighter than he’d felt in a while, bubbled out of him.

            There was no way in hell he would make it through the next week in one piece if anyone on the line found out. And yet, he couldn’t find the prospect of the full hazing enough of a deterrent to curb his excitement.

            Neuvillette had agreed to dinner at his house.

            Oh, Archons above, what the hell was he going to cook?