#bottomless fics

Saturday mornings were for joyous music outpouring through the old CD player, blueberry pancakes, and the robust smell of dark roast coffee percolating over the stove. Family dinners were sacraments taken in stolen sips of broth simmering over the stove for hours and hours. Holidays spent surrounded by generations of your family kneading, pulling, twisting, and shaping intricate dough pieces. 

The kitchen a holy place, you it’s steadfast student. Truths diced into bite sized understanding. Secrets seared into place. There was nothing that couldn’t be understood with enough practice, no recipe too out of reach with the right tweaks. Everything was within reach with a little salt, fat, acid, and heat.

No one was surprised when you announced that you were going to culinary school after high school. No one questioned you, especially when you were selected to join a prestigious program out in New York City. Nouvelle Gagnaire.

It almost guaranteed a spot in a Michelin kitchen after graduation. It became clear, if you could last through the rigorous training, it could ensure a chef’s success. So, for the first time, you were just a breath away from the life you’d always wanted. 

You had everything just nearly figured out.

Sparkling stainless steel tools sliced through the space around you, reflecting crisp white hopefuls all heads held high. It was an honor to stand in the kitchen where so many greats had studied. Significance came in droves in a place like Nouvelle Gagnaire.

Except the money you had saved was dwindling fast. The classmates surrounding you seemed to excel with ease, while you were slowly but surely slipping behind. The snide remarks of your peers meant very little to you. It was the lead instructor, Chef Robby, who seemed to take a dislike to your near constant shortcomings. 

Every class was a testament to your inner strength. He would spend minutes, although it felt like hours, lecturing you on your cuts. He took particular glee in using your work as the backdrop for every mistake, his mood somehow improving once he’d taken a bite from your pride. His ego was stroked by the sight of your discomfort. 

It had been manageable at first, you would stay late into the night, practicing the lesson twice over. You had actually begun to improve, albeit slowly, but then your bank account drifted into a concerning margin. It was a difficult choice, but you needed the money to stay in the program, so extra shifts at a local restaurant, some babysitting gigs, and even occasional dog-walking were the only way to stay afloat. 

Then suddenly the oasis of stainless steel had become more of a prison. Nothing was ever enough. No dish came out quite right. No sauce left perfectly balanced. Desserts were dense and underwhelming, main courses over salted or under cooked. You felt disastrously useless every session, and Robby made a point to delight in it outwardly. 

Every class was a new humiliation until nights were completely sleepless. Your hair had taken to falling out in chunks. Your nail beds were bloody and threadbare from anxious biting. You hardly recognized the person staring back at you. You couldn’t even remember why you were here, what you had wanted this for. Who would put themselves through all this for what? A nicotine addiction and middling praise? 

It came to a head during a demonstration one morning. Robby had instructed the class on the perfectly whipped Souffle, one delicate enough to stay perfectly moist while structured enough to rise above itself. It had been a long night of tossing and turning, your back ached from the uncomfortable mattress you bought off facebook marketplace, your hands itched for the relief only a cigarette could give you anymore, and your eyes were throbbing from overuse. 

Reaching into the oven you couldn’t remember if your shift at the diner tomorrow started at 10 or 10:30. Your landlord had promised to come fix a leaky pipe if he could come at 9:45. Your mom called twice about some cousin’s sister coming to visit. Your roommate’s boyfriend’s dishes piled up in the sink- 

A searing pain shot up your arm, it had taken you far too long to realize you had forgotten your oven mit. Your hand flying back, the souffle tumbling back with it coating your thin black pants. It doesn’t take long for you to double over in pain, the students around you crowding your space in concern. 

It’s not until Robby’s voice looms over you that you realize that any time has passed at all. 

“Jesus fucking christ,” he’s more exacerbated than he is genuinely concerned. For some reason that made the damn in your chest burst, tears overflowing, “What the fuck were you thinking?” 

“I wasn’t-” you blubber he’s pulling you into a side office where they keep the more extensive first aid. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking-” 

His eyes catch yours, wild, angry, and dark all at once. The hard lines in his face seem to twitch at the sight of your cries. 

“That’s exactly the problem.” His tone is cold while he administers first aid to your hand. “This isn’t easy-bake oven shit. You don’t think. You’re lucky you haven’t been seriously injured.” 

“I’m sorry Chef.” You hang your head in shame. 

“Don’t apologize.” He steps back, his hands clasped behind his neck while he takes a deep breath. “Do not step foot back in my kitchen unless you’re ready to put your big girl pants on, wipe your tears, and do some real fucking work. Do you hear me?” 

You nod silently, tears still streaming down your face. 

“No, I asked you a question, Chef.” The way he spit the word Chef was insulting enough. “Do you hear me?” 

A chill ran down your spine. Your eyes peaking up to meet him. “Yes, Chef.” Your voice sounds childish and small. 

“Fucking useless.” is the last thing you hear before he’s turned and walking back into the kitchen.

In the end you can’t bring yourself to go back in. You can’t bring yourself to face the mess you’d made. It was the cowardly choice, but you simply didn’t have enough in your soul to stand in shoes you no longer felt like were yours to fill. 

And just as quickly as everything fell into place, you had fallen apart. Quickly your spot in the intensive training program was filled by some bright-eyed nepo baby. One who, you imagine, quickly rose to the occasion in every way you never could. 

You found yourself, for the first time in your life, utterly directionless. It irked you, how easy it was to succumb to the inky pool of darkness that seemed to well inside you. Laying in your childhood bed for days at a time, hardly moving enough to use the restroom and nibble on whatever plate your mom left at your bedside. Robby’s words echo inside your head until they crescendo into a dull roaring headache. 

Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless.

It was about a month of complete despair before your parents insisted you couldn’t live with them forever.

That was how you found yourself in Pittsburgh. Crashing on a friend’s couch in some half-finished basement. 

Trinity was an old friend from culinary camp a summer or three ago. She was always good, but now she’d devoted her knife skills to her career as a budding surgeon. Or, she would be soon, once she finishes Med School you had no doubt she’d be heavenly with a scalpel. 

“Working in a kitchen is not that far from working in a Hospital when you think about it,” She comforted when you had relayed your sob story over the phone, “It’s not too late to become a doctor.” You laughed, maybe for the first time in weeks. 

“Trin,” your voice was nasal and shuttery, “I don’t even think they’d let me near the dead ones, that’s how bad it was.”

“I seriously doubt it,” You hear shuffling in the background, “But I think it might be good for you to get away for a while. Live a little, Y’know?

Your words are stuck in your throat for a long time. 

“Mhm. Maybe” The thought of leaving your bed leaves your stomach churning. The thought of leaving your house makes your skin itch. The thought of leaving your hometown to live somewhere else for a while makes your eyes start to twitch. 

“I’ve still got a free couch in my basement,” She mentions too casually to actually be casual. “Wouldn’t need to pay rent.” She threw it offhand. 

“What,” you scoff, “I freeload off you while I have a crisis of faith?” 

“Oh, no, you’d earn your keep. I want you to make dinners. Actually, I want you to make me lasagna.” 

Your throat tightens around the lump that has been forming. Your eyes squeezed tight. Hands shaking around the phone. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless.

“I’m not…” You can’t seem to find anything else to say. 

“Babe, I can’t cook for shit, and I can’t eat anymore ramen. My sodium intake is at its maximum. I need you more than you need me.” 

You roll your shoulders back. Eyes still shut, even though she couldn’t see you. Neither of you say anything for a long time. His words echo again. 

Fucking useless.

Fucking useless.

Fucking useless.

Fucking useless.

“Maybe,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I can help you meal prep some stuff?” Your voice is more of a mumble than a statement. 

“Thank god!” She nearly screams. “Okay, so depending on when you come down-”

She launches into a long story of some class presentation she finished. Then, almost as suddenly as everything fell into place, but not as suddenly as it fell apart. You were living with Trinity. 

It only took two weeks before you were bored. It helped that Trinity had an endless supply of people who knew people. Not ‘friends’ but people she’d done this and that for, people who owed her one. 

It was all at once, one night at a bar taking shots, lamenting on how much you hate men, dancing, meeting new people, new people meeting even newer people. Then it’s giving you numbers, and then it’s blurry, but somehow you wake up the next morning half stuck to the floor with a new contact reaching out. 

Hi, this is Dana with Obscura. Parker passed your number along for the server gig. We have availability to interview tomorrow at 10 AM sharp. 

You read the text maybe four times before the words unblur themselves and the symbols mean something to you. 

Obscura was the most nouveau restaurant in Pittsburgh, hell, probably even Pennsylvania. It was reminiscent of a New York that didn’t even exist anymore. A farm-to-table rotating menu that was equal parts nostalgic and nuanced. It was a kitchen where food wasn’t picked apart and rebuilt like other masochistic gastro-pub types. The ingredients in Obscura sang. 

Helmed by Chef Jack Abbot, a world-renown Chef who’d trained under the greats of the last generation. A Chef responsible for the incubation of some of the best minds in the culinary world today. He’s the only Michelin holder in the state, his third restaurant in a row to be ranked in the top fifty restaurants in the world. Chef Abbot was a paragon. 

There was absolutely no way you could actually work for him in any capacity. Even as wait staff, especially as wait staff. Twinges of conflict stirred in your stomach. Being so close to the kitchen without being in the kitchen was a solar flare of jealousy. Yet, being back in any setting remotely culinary sets your body shivering in anxious waves. 

And yet, it was an absolute once in a lifetime opportunity in front of you. 

Before you can stop yourself you’re responding. 

I’ll be there. Thank you so much.

You drop the phone and scream into the pillow half-shoved between you and the corner of the old couch you plopped over last night. This was a terrible mistake. 

Fucking useless.

Fucking useless.

Fucking useless.

It was only a matter of time before you fucked this up too.

Dana was a force to be reckoned with. You had to be to manage a restaurant like Obscura. Especially, under the watchful gaze of the media, the way she explained they were. Every single table is a Michelin guest. Every single dish served is for the next greatest culinary critic. Every move needed the closest attention. You were sure she hated you by the end of her speech; she just sat back and watched you. 

“Have you got any experience in the kitchen, Hon?” She asked, watching your eyes linger over the tools when she was walking you through the back of house. The team was only just starting to trickle in. For now, it was just a shorter, mousy looking, line cook sharpening his knives in the back corner. 

“A little,” you clear your throat nervously, “I was enrolled at Nouvelle Gagnaire until last spring.”

She tilted her head at you, a small strand of bleached blonde hair falling from her clipped back hair. She watches you, your finger tracing the edge of the steel tabletop. 

“Hmm,” She chuckles, sprouting a smirk, “Sounds like more than a little experience then. What happened, why aren’t you itching to get in my kitchen?” 

You shrug noncommittally, not sure what to say. Well, you know exactly what to say, but you hardly think it’s appropriate. Fucking useless. 

“Ran out of money?” You finally say, eyes glassy with unshed emotion. “Never got to finish my courses.”

“Ain’t that a bitch.” She sighs before pulling you into a maternal squeeze. “Okay, let’s have you come in tonight to shadow Mateo, and we’ll go from there, huh?” 

Your throat is too full to say anything, so you just nod in agreement. Absently, you hear the back door swing open, and blinding light pours into the kitchen. You peek your head and see the outline of a man, the sun bursting behind him in ethereal beams. 

“Jack,” your blood runs cold as the door swings shut behind him, “Come meet the new server. Shadowing us for the night.” 

He throws his bag down before coming to size you up himself. You can’t seem to figure out where to look. He’s wearing a borderline sinful black shirt that is spread like butter against his chest. His grey curls coiffed perfectly, effortlessly. You wondered if it lay like that or if he spent meticulous time twisting it back into the perfect tease of curl. His eyes squint, the predatory hazel eyes roam across your frame. 

“Fresh meat?” He murmured sarcastically, “Welcome to the dark side, Kid.” 

Dana let out a disapproving sound. You opened your mouth to say something, but promptly closed it at his self-amused smirk. 

“Don’t listen to him,” She turned you both away and made your way up to the front, “His name may be behind this place, but he’s not your boss, I am.” Dana continued to say things about the space, things you’d surely need to know later, but the nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach drowned all focus away from you. 

You can’t help but turn and look over your shoulder to glimpse another peek at the man himself. A mixture of horror and delight bubbles up when you catch him watching you. He shoots you an arrogant wink before you snap your head away from him. 

“Alright, make sure you’re here in all black at 4:30. Family is at 4:45, don’t be late.” 

As you grab your purse, for the first time in weeks, you think your life might not be over. It actually might have just begun. 

There were plenty of differences between being a server and being in the thick of the kitchen. For one, you had to look pristine. Presentation at Obscura didn’t end at plating, the entire experience was in your hands. Another was your pace, while neither of the jobs ensured lots of downtime for anything more than the singular savior of a drag from your cigarette, a server had the luxury of disappearing. 

“A good server serves food,” Mateo had explained with casual confidence, “A great server knows where to hide when you need a break and shit is already hitting the fan.” He waits for you to react, but your brows furrow. Everything you knew about serving was from the back of house, where food died in the window and dishes were sent back for outrageous complaints.

“What about your tables?” You fidget with your apron. A standard issue charcoal canvas fabric that Dana handed you the minute you walked through the door. One that wonderfully blended with the dark, moody atmosphere set in the dining room. Only pockets of amber lamplight ever so particularly broke up the ambiance of existentialism. 

“Top priority, of course,” Mateo looks at his apron around his waist, “But when you’re three hours deep in a rush, and some asshole thinks he knows the pre-fixe better than you, it’s better you take a sec to get that shit out, or it’ll end up killing you.” He shrugs like it’s common knowledge. 

“What about the food?” Your eyes wander to the kitchen tucked behind the bend in the long back hallway. If you lean your body just a foot farther, you’d see them neck deep in prep. As much as you itched to give in to the temptation, you held back. Seeing that would only sour your mood, and besides, you were sure you’d see enough of it during service tonight. 

“If you need a minute, we have a code word.” He stretches his arms side to side, like he is getting ready for some sort of intense workout. “If you say Hula-Hoop, we’ve got you.” 

“Hula Hoop?” You nod. “Hula-hoop. Okay, thanks.” 

“I usually hide out in the back alley. Kim likes the POS station. Bridget would go to the bathroom. You could go to the walk-in if you wanted.” He puts his hands on your shoulders. “It’s inevitable, it’s going to happen, don’t abuse it, but we’re a team here. If you need a minute, you need a minute.” 

He stares down at you intensely. His brown eyes trying to imbue some great knowledge you hadn’t quite figured out yet. 

“Thanks.” 

“No problem,” He pats your shoulder and backs off, “We’ve always got one floater, which is where you’ll be for a while until you get a sense of the sections. If you need anything, Dana is always on the floor or in the kitchen. She’s here to help, so don’t be scared to ask for what you need.” 

“Got it.” 

And just like that, a bell is rung and the family is called to eat. 

Your first shift goes surprisingly well. You recount the whole thing excitedly to Trinity when you get home. She eats the leftover Pomegranate Osso Buco you’d taken at the end of service. She moans contentedly at the new flavors that bloom across your tongue. 

You hadn’t spent as much time in the kitchen as you had thought you might. The usually chaotic pit of dishes infinitely emerging was surprisingly methodical. Floating meant most of your time was spent explaining specials, pouring wine, and fetching more spoons. The rare moment you were sent to run food was like a glimpse behind the Wizard of Oz’s curtain. 

Everyone moves with balanced intensity. Each station is a perfected ballet performed with precision. John Shen, Abbot's mentee with his own Michelin star accomplishment under his belt, oversaw the saute with calm precision, staying cool under the intense heat. Parker Ellis, whom you’d met through Trinity’s latest hook-up, bobbed to unheard music playing in her head, assembling dishes quietly. Occasionally, she’d shift her gaze upwards, and if you caught her eyes, she’d throw you a reassuring smile. 

At the center of it all was Abbot. Who called out dishes with militant ease. No room for error, no need to waiver. Plates were examined under him with scrutiny; nothing passed through him unless the team was confident in its quality. 

“Ellis, pull back the heat,” he corrected. “Any more heat and the Bisque will emulsify.” His words aren’t shouted. He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t punish either. Parker, in turn, dutifully adjusted the large pot of bisque. Pulling it from the end of its own life. 

“Yes, Chef.” 

It hits you square in your chest that this is exactly what you had wanted for yourself. It was particularly hard to swallow the building upward heave of emotions when Abbot catches your eye between garnishing a small plate and saucing another. 

“Need anything?” He’s not being condescending or rude when he asks. He genuinely wants to know. It only serves to tighten your chest. You nod silently. He narrows in on you, ready to ask again, you’re sure. But a ticket sprouts from the machine, and his focus is pulled away. 

“Alright, table 13 is a go, let's get two plate greens and a fresh grain bowl going.” And you slip away like you’d never been there at all. Wandering through the rest of your shift with all the focus you could muster. 

It itches at you, the urge to make something again, an itch you thought maybe had finally lost the good fight. You chalk it up to seeing the greats in action, who wouldn’t be inspired by their professionalism, their talent, their joie de verve. With Abbot at the helm, they made the art form look like just that. 

A far cry from the sterile, suffocating perfection expected on exam day at Nouvelle Gagnaire. This warmth had shocked you into something hopeful for the first time in months. 

For the first time in days the gravelled voice of Robby’s voice quiets in your head, in favor of Abbot’s steady praise.

It wasn’t long before your trial period had devolved into something more permanent. The steady rhythm was calming, even if the work was fast-paced and intense. The more shifts you worked, the more time you found to linger in the kitchen. Peaking around the corner. Pretending to be looking at something on the POS. Your eyes watched with wistful longing. 

It was the only real love you’d ever felt. The bursting passion is barely restrained by the confines of expected perfection. Each night, a new rotation of the most inventive and succulent combinations. You had a habit of writing each night’s specials in a notebook, commenting on the ways Abbot reached and where he pulled from homegrown nostalgia. You were determined to find the throughline he’d been constructing for some weeks now, expecting one menu to be some sort of epic climax of wonderful dishes. Yet, the tension of expectation only grew. 

That hadn’t been the only tension that had begun to grow. You had somehow caught the curious eye of the Chef himself. Your presence could only sneak for so long before his interest was piqued. 

The first couple of shifts, you’d thought yourself subtle. You thought, surely, they were all so absorbed in their own work they hardly had time to notice your meticulous gaze. It became all too clear that there was no hiding from Chef Abbot. 

His eyes seemed to follow you through a room, pinning you down to your spot with an intensity you’d only ever felt in malice. 

He looked at you like a whole butchered cow. Like he was separating all the parts that needed to be shaved back to reveal something far more succulent behind it. Or gracefully dissecting each cut until he had every useful morsel of information. Perhaps he was deciding how he’d prepare you. Braised over a cheesy polenta? Flash-fried and encased in freeze-dried mushroom paste? 

You wondered the flavor he’d invoke from your flesh often. You enjoyed the fantasy of trying to understand what you never would. A game you played with yourself to pass the time and ease the growing pit of unfulfilled destiny. All things swirled between you desperately. Yet, he hardly ever approached you. 

Preferring to watch you, well, preferring to watch you watch them. At least once every shift, he would find himself between plates, usually when guests were teetering off, and the dense empirical pressure of never-ending chaos ebbed, he’d place his hands on his hips and watch you shamelessly. 

For your part, you’re usually waiting on some final dessert plate or waiting to run a card at the system. You can’t help but relish in the carnage of the shift well-cooked. It was mid-disection, one of you is pulled away, never able to act on some sort of unspoken dance. 

Until one night in late July. The kitchen had been hotter than you’d ever experienced, both in temperature and in attitude. There was a stomach bug sweeping through, and most of the team was off kilter. Capable and steady, but where there was usual ease, everyone’s brow seemed to furrow in focus. 

The front of house team was no better. Kim was out, and Dana was already stepping in to ensure they had enough hands to cover the fully booked service. With all its trouble, you hadn’t let the sense of dread seep into your shift. You’d worked short-staffed before, and you were sure you’d get through it.

Pre-service is quick, team spreads until everything is hazy and translucent. You barely have time to write the specials for the night out before Dana calls you into her small office. She’s got her readers on, and she looks at you down her nose over the top rim like you’re in the principal’s office. 

“You called?” You lean against the doorframe, looking at the chaos that has suddenly exploded through the room. 

“I’m putting you in Kim’s section tonight.” She shuffled some papers in front of her, “So you’ve got our VIP.” 

VIP’s weren’t rare here, per se; the classification seemed to send a wave of anxiety through you. Your palms start to itch with expectation. Celebrities you’d only ever seen on glossy gossip magazines had come and gone from these doors without so much as a whisper from Dana. Only once were they acknowledged, and that was only between you and Mateo when his favorite actor came in last month. 

“Oh?” You played coy, taking a deep breath trying to calm your nerves. “Who is it?” 

Dana gave you a tight-lipped smile. There was a crash behind you, and suddenly, the day is moving at a breakneck speed again. 

“Sorry, Hun, Jack made the reservation at the last minute,” she brushes past you and into the chaos swirling. “What the hell happened?” you hear distantly. 

You contemplate peeking at the guest sheet on her computer, but you too are pulled away at the sound of family bell. 

Squeezed between Parker and Olive, you nudge Ellis with your elbow. “D’you know who the VIP is tonight?” Her eyebrows pull together. 

She shakes her head and scoops more pasta into her mouth, preferring to eat family as quickly as possible so she can call her girlfriend in the back before service. 

“Think it’s one of Abbot’s old buddies from Culinary.” Olive pipes in from the other side. 

“Makes sense,” Parker supplies, “He’s changed tonight's menu twice. He hates when restaurant buddies come in.” 

“Why?” you pick around the salad on your plate. Both of them just shrug in nonchalance. 

“Who knows why Abbot does anything?” Parker replies. Suddenly, there’s a presence behind you. 

“Talking about me?” Abbot inquiries. Your spine straightens. You peek over your shoulder, where Abbot is leaning against the wall casually. A soft white tee tight against his torso. A blue dish towel thrown over his shoulder, and a hearty bowl of pasta in his hand. His eyebrow is quirked down at you specifically, like he’d caught you in a secret. You’d be more nervous if it wasn’t for the playful smirk plastered to his lips. 

“Always Boss,” Parker responds lazily, like being caught talking about your boss was an everyday occurrence. “We have to let the newbie in on all your quirks.” She made sure to drag the sentence out melodically. 

Abbot only chuckles before nodding slowly. “If you wanted to get to know me better, all you had to do was ask.” He winks before taking a bite of his dinner. 

You feel your face heat, your spine still ramrod straight. You can’t seem to respond with anything other than stuttered sounds. 

“Gross.” Parker pushes her chair out and walks off before you can say anything else. Several others follow suit, breaking the tension between the two of you. 

“I mean it, Kid.” He called out as he sauntered away. “I’m an open book.” 

-

Service is a shitshow. Or it’s as much as Obscura would ever become a shit show. Tickets are running 2-3 minutes behind continuously. Guests are picking apart your spirit by questioning recommended wine pairings, insisting they know the menu better than you, or asking for wildly off-menu accommodations. 

The kitchen is just as tense, with every complaint and question reported to Abbot only raising his hackles. If he’d been short when service began, he was positively snappy now. You’d already asked him twice for odd requests and pairings that had set his ticket time back, and Dana had already reminded the team not to take any of Abbot’s shortcomings personally. 

You had made a silent prayer to anyone listening that the rest of the shift would be nice and smooth.

“Kiddo, VIP being seated at table 22.” Dana barked from the mouth of the kitchen, “Look alive.”

Turning the corner, you’d expected to see someone you recognized. You’d maybe thought Gordan Ramsey or some sort of Iron Chef adjacent someone. At worst, maybe it’d be some snobby French chef who looked down your shirt and commented on how ‘they’d have approached the branzino a little differently.’

The last thing you’d expected was to be face-to-face with the man who’d effectively crushed every dream you’d ever had. Okay, that was slightly harsh; you were burning out for many reasons. Chef Michael Robinavitch just happened to be the biggest, gloomiest, and most impending of all the reasons. 

Sitting comfortably in the corner table, the prime table for someone looking for a long, luxurious meal to enjoy privately, was your former instructor. He wasn’t alone either; the back of the other man’s head was obscured, not that it mattered when you suddenly couldn’t move. Stopped plainly in your tracks, in the middle of the dining room, staring him down with wide eyes. 

Mateo glides past you with an odd look, patting your arm quickly in a reminder, keep it moving. Then you’re moving, approaching the table, your throat suddenly bone dry, hands shaking so bad you have to clasp them behind your back to steady them. 

He still hadn’t looked up at you when you began your spiel. You get about halfway through before he peeks up from the menu and locks in on you with the same intensity that had haunted you in your nightmares for months. You stumble over your words when his eyes narrow, placing you in his mind. 

You can see the moment he realizes you’re in front of him. The same way he left, crying in his small office. The same you’d watch go from promising prospect to absolutely hopeless under his watchful and steadfastly critical watch. He sits back arrogantly, no longer listening to you describe the specials, preferring to let himself pick the small parts of you that you knew were slightly out of place. 

“Can I recommend any wine pairings for you tonight?” You finish. 

“Can you?” He inquires, dripping with condescension. “You don’t have a Maitre D? 

You shake your head quickly before you remember you’re no longer standing in his kitchen watching him dissect your kitchen skills. 

“No, sir,” You kick yourself for the formality, “Chef Abbot prefers to pick the wine selection himself.” 

Robby lets out a self indulgent chuckle, shaking his head before turning him away from you completely. Your heart picks up until you hear the blood rushing through your head completely. Until you feel the ache in your knees locked under yourself. 

“Classic Jack,” He rolls his eyes, “Still a control freak.” 

“Can I get you started with any drinks?” You ask again, peeking at the other man at the table for guidance. 

“We’ll take the red blend, whatever Jack recommends.” Robby interrupts with so much contempt it’s almost a sneer. You nod and scurry away before he can say anything else. 

You keep your head down until you’re in the back, placing the order and inputting their ticket. You hear Abbot yelling about something in the kitchen, and it winds your anxiety tighter in your chest. This was Chef Abbot’s friend, Dana, who gave them to me specifically.

You take three deep breaths before you make a round to check your tables. You hardly make it around the corner before you’re pulled back into service. 

Thankfully, you have little time to spend with the man of the hour. They receive their wine with little complaint, and Mateo delivers their appetizers while you’re busy ringing up another table. It’s not until well into their meal that you have a moment to go check on them. 

“How are these plates for you?” Robby grunts in response, while his guest waxes his praise for the flavors. You smile politely. 

“And how are you, sir?” You direct towards the looming presence. 

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment; he just sighs. “How long have you been working here?” 

“Just about 3 months, Chef.” The title slips before you can stop yourself. He relishes the power he still has over you. “Since mid-April.” 

He shakes his head, disappointed. “It’s odd to see you in some place like this.” He remarks passively, shooting you a sarcastic smile. “I always had the impression places like this were too intense for you.” 

The man across the table interjects with something, but you can’t hear it over the rush of blood coursing through your ears. You can feel the lump in your throat building and building until your eyes go glassy over. You nod at whatever his guest is talking about. 

He watches you until he catches sight of your eyes glazed over, and he huffs at your display of vulnerability. 

You don’t remember how you ended back in the kitchen, but you knew there was food dying on the pass that needed to go out and a full house aside from the looming paragon of lost dreams. Somewhere between placing specialized entrees down and refilling glasses, you peeked up at Dana, who was standing talking to Robby. 

He’s a VIP she has to talk to him. This is her job. But suddenly, that voice– his voice is back. You place a plate. Fucking useless. You ring up another dessert. Fucking useless. You pretend to laugh with an older couple celebrating an anniversary. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless.  

You can’t help but peak up at him between tasks, as if he might suddenly decide that you do deserve the respect you so desperately crave. All you're met with is cold haughty amusement. He seems to delight in your squirming.

Under his watch you can’t do anything quite right anymore. You ring in the wrong wine for table 26. You almost run head on into Dana at the Pass, which earns you a stern warning from Abbot to ‘get your head in the game.’ Your head spins, your hands shake, you feel like you’re an ant under a magnifying glass, ready to combust at any moment. 

It’s not until the end of their meal when you finally place the face across the table from Robby. Through the limited friends you had made in class, you recognized the face that had stared back at you in official group photos, unofficial hang outs, late night coffee runs, and even class bonding opportunities. 

The man sitting across from Robby was the chef who took your place when you dropped the program. Frank something? He was a point of contention for you, and you’d spent nights lamenting pitifully to Trinity about how much better he probably was. How much faster, how much cleaner, how level-headed he must be to thrive in that sort of environment. 

It was surprising you hadn’t immediately recognized him with the amount of time you spent obsessing over him in the month after your swift departure. Yet, it wasn’t until three quarters into the meal when Robby requested Chef Abbot come meet his star Pupil. 

That’s when you hit your wall. You nod absently and pass the message along to Dana before you make your way to the walk in, only hoping to take a calming breath before heading back out. 

This was it. Robby was going to introduce Frank to Abbot, and maybe Abbot would offer him a job. Maybe Robby would tell Abbot what a failure you really were. Maybe he’d break it to him how utterly useless you are in the kitchen. It would only be a matter of time before everyone knew you’d failed out of Culinary. Not only that, the only reason Frank was here was because you were fucking useless. 

It’s just that, by the time you make it in there, your deep breaths don’t fill your lungs. Your head spins from the lack of oxygen and sheer ironic terror coursing through you. Your legs shake underneath you until you grip on one of the shelves for support. You don’t realize you’re crying until someone else is in front of you. 

Shen doesn’t really say anything, he just grabs the bundle of Chard from the side shelf before slipping back out into the kitchen. 

You hear voices outside the thick metal door, but you can’t bring yourself to care. All you can hear is

Fucking useless.

Fucking useless.

Fucking useless.

Fucking useless.

Fucking useless.

Fucking useless.

Circling the drain until you’re curled in on yourself against the cold metallic shelving.

The door opens, and it’s Chef Abbot. You scramble to stand, frantically wiping at your face, trying to conceal your breakdown. His eyes sharply assess you not as Jack, but as Chef Abbot. He sighs impatiently, looking over his shoulder. 

“Someone grab Dana.” He says, no mirth, no joy, just cold calculation. You can’t seem to register any discernible emotion, just tense stress radiating off of him. 

“I’m so sorry Chef,” you start, your voice wobbly and strained, not unlike a child who’d been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. You tremble under his uninterested gaze, no longer were you a fascination under him, you were a festering colony of Mold rotting his well run machine. A bad egg. You felt completely fucking useless. “I’m sorry, I just needed a moment. I can get back out there-” 

He holds up a hand quietly, opening the door and ushering you out into the perpetually moving beast that is his kitchen. “You’re cut, kid.”

Your veins turn to ice at his words. You had expected more. Yelling. Berating. Apologizing. Perhaps even grovelling on your part. You can’t comprehend that he’d be asking you to leave. You were hardly the first person to cry during service. It was the first time you’d let yourself crack, and now it’s the last. 

“Chef, I’m… I-” You stutter out. 

“Not tonight Kid, go home.” 

From behind him you see Dana. Who quickly ushers you from the inside of the walk in, through the back of the kitchen and into the alleyway where the damn bursts. 

Ugly hiccupping sobs. Heavy heaving gasps for relief wrack you; you can barely speak. You can barely suck in enough air to expel in unexpectedly jagged repetition. Dana rubs your back and asks about a million questions before she relents and calls into the kitchen for a phone. 

“D’you have anyone we can call, Hon?” She murmurs, keeping her voice soothing and low. Somewhere deep inside you, you thank god for Dana. She keeps you steady while you dial Trinity’s number. 

She sits you on an old palette brushing the hair from your face with a maternal fervor that only she could muster. The phone’s dial tone echos against the sounds of service behind you. You take a shuddered breath to steady yourself. 

You just about have a handle on breathing when Trinity answers, a benign greeting for any cautious young woman getting an unknown number call on a random Thursday Night. 

“Trin?” You whine out, the feeling of relief crashes into you until the waterworks start up again, “I think I’m dying.” 

You don’t hear anything from anyone for at least twenty-four hours. You’re stuck now, in a limbo of whether or not you were officially let go. When Dana piled you into the passenger seat of Trinity’s half-beaten to death Honda, she murmured placations that she’d see me on Monday. To get some rest, and call her. 

Trinity insisted that you were certainly not fired. You, however, have the distinct memory of Jack Abbot’s cold disapproval piercing into your chest in the frigid walk in. You weren’t sure which sensation caused the chill up your spine, the memory of sharp stainless steel pressing into your overheated flesh or the lifeless way Chef Abbot ushered you into Dana’s hands.

You’d recounted the whole shift twice over the next morning over leftover pancakes with mixed results. Trinity was both wildly supportive, threatening death to all parties if needed, but insisting that Jack was far too infatuated with you to fire you for crying in a walk-in. 

“I think Parker cried in that walk in like 4 times.” She remarked off hand. “And Abbot doesn’t even want to fuck her.” 

“Abbot doesn’t want me.” You pick around a large blueberry on your plate. The two of you went in circles before Trinity announced she was needed at the hospital for her shift. 

Somewhere in the second day haze of self-pity there’s someone at the door. 

The last person you’d expected was Chef Abbot on the other side. In a classic pair of Blue Jeans and white henley t-shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the impressive pair of arms he sported. He didn’t have his usual backpack, nor did he seem to know what to do with his hands. 

“Chef,” you say, voice tired with underuse. You look down at your clothes, an oversize t-shirt from your dad’s closet growing up and ratty bright colored sweats. Your cheeks ache with embarrassment. How pathetic could you look? “Hi, I’m sorry I wasn’t expecting you.

“Hi,” he said simply. “Can I come in?” he crossed his arms uncomfortably before almost immediately releasing it in favor of shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Um,” you hesitate, scanning behind you for anything embarrassing. “Sure, sure. Sorry, I really wasn’t expecting company so I haven’t cleaned up.” 

The kitchen is strewn with half finished baking projects. Steaming cookies sit on the counter, some stress relief for you that doubles as a thank you to your roommate who would be sure to hear all about your self-pity spiral for the upcoming millenia. 

“Don’t worry about that, I’m no stranger to a lived in kitchen.” He remarks casually. 

“Right. Of course,” You offer him a seat on the couch. “So, how can I help you?” 

You have to physically sit on your hands to stop them from shaking. 

“I wanted to see how you were doing.” he clears his throat, watching you squirm against the plush couch. 

“I'm fine, I didn't mean to make you feel like you needed to come check on me. Especially now.” You don’t elaborate, but you also can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. 

"Especially now, what?" He pushes, brow furrowed.

"Especially since I'm dismissed?" You sound like a petulant child, but it feels satisfying enough. You don't bother reigning it in.

"Who the hell dismissed you? Dana?"

"You did! in the walk-in!" You grunt, exhausted. You flop back against the couch. "You said I was cut."

"Cut, yeah-" He compulsively cracks his knuckles down against each other, "for the night. You were having a panic attack in my walk-in." He says matter-of-factly and simply.

You suddenly feel small and stupid. Sitting in front of him like a child pouting over a misunderstanding. "Oh. I thought you were letting me go."

He shakes his head solemnly, "Not at all."

You take a deep breath. Squeeze your eyes shut. Then, finally, look up at him. "So, then what are you doing here? I thought you were going to ask for the apron back."

“Right,” He murmurs, running his hand down his face in exacerbation. “Well, I talked with Ellis, and she told me some stuff.” Your heart beat begins to speed up, and the perpetual vice in your throat seems to squeeze impossibly tight. 

“What sort of things?” You can barely squeeze the words out through the anxious tugging.

“Things like- she told me you used to go to Nouvelle Gagnaire. That you were Robby’s student for a while. She told me you dropped out suddenly.” You buried your head into your hands, half out of shame. Half to process that not only did the one person you didn’t want to know you’d failed out of culinary school know now, but you also had a giant fucking mouth when you were drunk. 

“Jesus Christ.” you mutter darkly. 

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Dana said you couldn’t afford to take more classes, if you needed money-” 

Anger and indignation rises in your chest like bile. How easy for the golden boy chef to talk about Money when he’s only ever had critical success and commercial success wrapped in one beautiful bow. He’d known nothing of what it meant to be anything but a savant with a knife and a visionary with a culinary mind. 

“I didn’t drop out because I couldn’t afford the classes, Abbot.” your teeth grind against each other in painful scrapes, it dulls the rage only slightly. “I dropped out because I couldn’t do it. Robby made it abundantly clear that I wasn’t cut out for his kitchen. He went particularly out of his way to inform me how fucking useless I was.” You stand, leaving him to process your admission on the couch. 

“Wait- Kid, what are you talking about?” He follows like a lost puppy. 

“I wasn’t good. I had a dream, but I wasn’t good enough. Robby made sure that I knew that, and when it came down to it, I just couldn’t cut it.” you shrug, flipping the sink on to let the dirty pots soak. 

“I’m sorry.” He says after a long time. 

“Why are you sorry?” You sniffle, hot shameful tears slip out again. You curse yourself silently for letting him see you cry again so close together. You wish you could just hold it together. “You’re not the one whose life is a mess. Last I checked, you were still a successful award-winning chef.”

He leaned against your counter, leaning over to turn the water off.

“Don’t do that, you’re not a mess.” 

You sigh, letting your head drop back and your eyes shut. You try desperately to collect your thoughts. “I want more than anything to have what you do. To run a kitchen like yours, and have the talent you have. But some dreams work out and some don’t-” 

“Please, Kid, everything I have comes from years of training. It’s not some predisposition, it's an obsession.”

“Okay, well then I’m not obsessed enough-” 

Jack laughs, hearty and dark, turning until his hand is resting against your spine. It’s more comforting than you’d ever imagined. His heavy palm pressed until it was squeezing the tense muscles at the base of your neck. 

It sends a euphoric sort of pain down your spine, it sends you spiraling off course until you can’t focus on your own self-deprecation. He hums contentedly at your sudden redirection, and takes the opportunity to step closer to you. 

“You are enough. You have enough. The way I see you watching the kitchen, it’s the best part of my day.” He admits. “Watching the way you take it all in, it’s like for a moment you’re bigger than all of us. You see everything in one complete motion. You get this awestruck look like you can’t believe you’re here.” 

He moves your hair to one side, and lets his fingertips dance across your skin. Not pressuring or directing, just as if he’d imagined what it might feel like a thousand times before and he can’t believe he’s being given this chance. He’s positively reverent. 

“I thought at first, it was me.” You don’t need to turn your head to see the blush that dances across his features. The silly giggle that tumbles from your lips shocks you. “I thought you had a crush on me, but then once I got past my own ego, I saw it for what it was.” His forehead pressed against your shoulder, nuzzling into the crook. “You’re just meant to be on the other side of the pass.” 

You don’t want to interrupt, he’s completely splayed you across the counter, pulling you apart until your most vulnerable parts of you are bare for him. You had never considered yourself mysterious but you realize Jack had seen right through you, right from the beginning. 

“It was maybe a bit of both.” You admit, nothing to lose from full transparency, “Two things can be true at once.” You tilt your head until your lips brush the grey coiffed curls. You smell the sandalwood and cedar shampoo he used this morning, it sends butterflies coursing through your stomach. 

“Was?” He clarified, peaking up at you, his hands coming to rest against your hips. His lips are only millimeters away from yours. 

“Only one way to find out.” You quip, and his lips are against yours before you can finish. His hands are twisting your body until you’re flush against each other. The sound he lets out is sinful and greedy. 

Your hands roam freely against his torso, tracing from his hair down across his broad shoulders, past the lower dip of his back and one settles teasingly against the delicious curve of his ass. He, in kind, tangles his hand into your hair, keeping your head steady while the other arm wrapped around you for control. 

“Jack,” you murmured against his lips, “I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to ruin everything.” You admit against him, breathing the admission into his mouth. He shutters with the intensity of the confession. 

“You’re not going anywhere.” He promises, “I want you so bad.” 

Suddenly you’re being positioned again, he pats the countertop, which you happily hop onto. Once settled he tugs your legs far enough apart to press himself against your completely. 

Jack moves to kiss you again and it’s a delicious balance of fervid desperation with languished delight. He presses deep kisses, slipping his tongue into your mouth with practiced ease. He uses his leverage to guide you exactly where he wants you. You give him complete access to explore you as he wishes. The same intensity in observation seemed to translate into curious fumbling exploration. 

His hips roll against yours, the seam of his jeans giving delightful friction against the thin cotton sweatpants you were sporting. Both of you give into the ebbs and flows of pleasure, chasing after something illusive and dangerous in each other’s mouths. 

“Fuck, baby,” He groans after a particularly heady drag of his now burgeoning bulge against the damp gusset of your pants. “I need you-” 

“Please!” you don’t wait, scrambling to tug the waistband of your pants down until you’re bare against the cold countertop. Jack wastes no time following suit. Pulling the hem of his shirt up until he’s bare.

Your fingertips explore the contours of his chest with aggressive focus. Mesmerized by the sculpted perfection you had access to. Jack in turn slips his hands up the large shirt until it’s slipped over your head. 

Once bare he takes no time at all to palm at your tits, tweaking one of your nipples, watching your body respond in kind back to him. He plants hot open mouth kisses down your neck, stopping to leave attention over both tits thoroughly. 

Your hand securely situated against his scalp, you writhe under his attention. His tongue hot over the peaking buds, sending shockwaves of pleasure before pulling away and blowing cool air against the same skin. He plucks and pulls sin from your mouth until you’re jolting with pleasure. His mouth only barely makes its way between his thighs before your thighs start to shake. 

Jack considers himself a lucky man, but he could’ve never considered himself lucky enough to have you like this before him. Generally he was pretty reserved, he preferred work and everything else in his life to stay that way. You had come in with an awestruck sledgehammer to all his rules. One bat of your eyelashes and he was sure he was a goner. 

Kneeling before you, between your thighs, watching you fall apart? He would burn his restaurant to the ground if it meant keeping you forever. 

His lips wrapped around your clit, a finger pumping in slowly, slowly, slowly. The sounds coming out of your mouth were absolutely dumb. 

“Like that?” he asks. “That feel good, baby?” He watches as you nod frantically. “Give me words. C’mon, tell me what you’re feeling.” 

You open your mouth to respond, but he returns back to his ministrations. Lips suckling against the most sensitive parts of you. A slick sheet collecting against his lips. 

“Can’t let you cum until you tell me how it feels.” He asserts before slipping a second finger in and scissoring you open. 

You’re practically panting like a dog when you finally manage a response, “So fucking good, Jack.” You admit. “Don’t stop, please let me cum. Please!” You’re not above begging as your hips twitch and writhe against his face. 

“Cum for me, let me see it.” He pulls back to watch you, rubbing his other hand harshly over your clit. Your body comes alive under him. A burst of wonderful life played out under his delicate touch. Your orgasm burst like the sun peaking out over the horizon, vibrant and beaming radiance. 

He barely makes it upright before you’re tugging at the waistband of his jeans. He doesn’t hesitate to unzip them, pulling the denim and the tight fitted underwear underneath with it. 

“Want you to fuck me.” you mumble mindless from your orgasm. 

“I’ll fuck you,” He promises, “I’ve got you baby.” You nod and wrap yourself around him like a koala. The head of his cock rubs lightly against you before notching against your entrance. “Open up for me, Open up baby.” He ruts forward stretching you sinfully full. 

Your head drops back before rolling to the side mindfully. Jack takes the opportunity to leave testy love bites along the column of your neck. The bitter bites soothed by his skillful tongue, until you can feel the heat of his pelvis against your pussy. Mindlessly full and properly blissed out, your nails dig into his shoulders. 

Jack’s tongue drags against the space of your neck, leaving a sticky trail behind. His hips grind impossibly deep, dragging your clit against the sliver wiry hairs at the base of his cock. 

“Jack-” His hips retreat before slamming into you with exquisite power, his fingers plucking your nerve endings. “Jack. Y’so good.” You babble praises into his skin. 

“So pretty, baby. Feels so good being on my cock, huh?” He keeps rhythm, tilting your head until you’re both looking into each other’s eyes. He tilts his hips up until the head of his cock is perfectly notched against your G-spot. 

You press your lips to his, breathing empty headed moans into his mouth. Jack happily swallows your babbles, offering praises in return. The feeling of completion builds and builds and builds. The ache is a full body experience, a capsaicin burn tearing pleasure from your insides out until you’re bursting through. 

Jack’s thrust seems perfectly time to make you completely desperate for more. He brings you just to the precipice of wholeness with him. His eyes locked onto yours, intense, wanting, and observant as always. Hazel blown out by pleasure, the cocky smirk left far behind in favor of blind vulnerable pleasure. 

“Cum with me?” You hardly have time to say yes before his hips stutter, shooting his spend deep inside of you. 

You, in turn, bloom like a ripened fruit, sweet and tart against his tongue, bursting with fresh juice. He thrusts deeper and deeper until both of you twitch and writhe with overstimulation. 

“S’good for me baby.” he kisses along your jaw, up your cheek, over your closed eyes, across the bridge of your nose, until he finds a home against your lips again. “So good at everything.”

You scrunch your nose, still fuzzy from the intensity. “Thank you.” 

His hands smooth out your hair, before pulling back to look him in the eye. 

“Want to help me make family meal tonight?” You freeze against him, a wave of anxiety shoots through you. You hesitate to say anything for a long time. 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” your shoulders curl in on yourself. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t, baby.” He promises, “ I want to cook with my baby.” he brushes his nose against yours in a sickly sweet butterfly kiss. “Just want to know what you can do.” 

“Mmmm, not a lot.” You grumble. He chuckles at your attitude. 

“That’s okay.” He wraps his arms around you. “By the time I’m done with you you’ll be better than me and Robby combined.” He affirms. You peek up at him with wide eyes, and a sad pout on your lips. 

“You don’t have to Jack-”

“I want to.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, “You belong in the kitchen, baby.”