Chapter Text
Success tastes like lavender, floral and sweet and just a little bit earthy. You imagine you can taste every drop of rain, every golden sunlit morning that these silk-soft petals have seen when you pop one into your mouth.
“Three bunches please.” The young woman behind the wooden table in the stall wraps three perfectly sized bunches of lavender in butcher paper before handing them to you.
You know what failure tastes like too—not sour, like everyone thinks. It’s more… bitter. Like overcooked caramel, left just a minute too long on the burner.
The farmer’s market is crowded, but it’s Saturday in Prospect Park, so you know not to expect otherwise. You can smell everything, citrus, flowers, fresh baked bread—you’re not sure where to go next. You’re celebrating—in your own way, of course. The email you'd received this morning was the cause of your good mood, why you didn’t mind forking over forty of your hard earned dollars for the fresh herbs now tucked safely away into your tote bag.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Availability
You’d practically hyperventilated your way through babbling the good news to your roommate—who was distinctly not pleased with being woken up at 7am by your excited scream. And now, you were treating yourself before it was time to pin your wild curls into order on your head, strap your knives into the sleek carrying case your mom had gifted you for graduation, and throw yourself into the lion’s den.
Good morning, just reaching out to see what your availability looks like for Sunday night? It’s a relatively low-pressure night, only 35 reservations on the books, and we’d love to see how you do. Service starts at 6, so if you can be here at 3, that would be amazing.
S. Rogers
You couldn’t be more excited.
“Which should we try first, Kara? The sourdough strawberry donuts, or should we go over to that stall with the eggplant parmesan pizza?” Your roommate was currently lagging tiredly behind you, her bloodshot eyes hidden by the prada sunglasses perched on the edge of her nose.
“Ugh, I don’t care,” She groans petulantly, and you giggle. “I was promised a bloody mary after this, and that’s all I’m here for.” She runs a heavily manicured hand through her thick blonde hair irritatedly. “I don’t know why you always make me—”
“I told your parents I wasn’t going to let you drink and sleep your weekends away,” You reminded her. “Doesn’t the sun feel nice? It’s so gorgeous out, and you were just going to sleep until four and get up and go partying all over again.”
“I’m still going to do that.”
“Which is why I dragged you to the farmer’s market with me.” You say snippily, turning on your heel. Your pale yellow sundress swishes around your legs, and you can’t help but bask a little in the warm summer sun. You know you’ll go home laden with far too many things for the six block hike back to the apartment, and you know half of the vegetables you buy will probably go bad in the fridge before you have enough time to make your lofty ideas for recipes into a reality, but that’s okay. Because right now, it feels good to buy two bunches of fresh asparagus, and put them in your bag next to your treasured lavender.
It’s joined by a dozen sourdough donuts with fresh strawberries and a sickly sweet glaze on top, and then by a half pound of fiddleheads because you just can’t help yourself, and a litre of strawberry cider because why the hell not?
“Okay, time out,” Kara says, wiping at her forehead, frowning. “I”m sweating off my foundation. Can we please go get drinks now? It’s after 12, so technically it’s drinking hours.” Even though she’s whining, you laugh anyway.
“Fine. But first, I’m going to grab some corn from over there. We can grill it in the yard later.”
“And by ‘we’ I assume you mean you, alone.”
“I did mean that, yes.”
Your bag is practically overflowing, but you’ve got room for a couple more things. And those golden yellow corn ears are just calling your name. You reached for them—your hand bumping into someone else’s.
Huge fucking hands.
The thought makes you swallow a little thickly as your eyes move over the offending appendage. There’s a simple knife tattoo on his left index finger, and on his knuckles, the word YES is printed in slanted, gothic text, and CHEF in the same sprawling script on his right. God, you could have looked at his hands all day, flecked with silvery scars made of clean, straight lines from years of quick knifework, and smooth, too-shiny scars from touching a too-hot flat-top, or grabbing the searing handle of a pan. Your gaze moves up the thickly corded, veiny muscles in his forearm, to the maroon shirt bunched at his elbow. A broad chest—jesus, you could land a plane on that—with just a couple of thick chest hairs poking tantalizingly out of his collar.
And then there’s his face.
Sculpted, angular cheekbones and a scruffy jawline that looks like goddamn Davinci pounded it out of marble himself. Steely gray-blue eyes that made you both want to look nowhere else, and everywhere else all at once. Deep, chocolaty brown hair that’s cropped close by his ears, and longer at the top. You kind of want to run your hands through it, see if it feels as soft as it looks.
It’s too bad he has to ruin it all by opening that perfect looking mouth. He runs his tongue across lips you just know are pillow soft, dragging his teeth across them irritatedly before sighing. “You’re in the way.”
“W-what?” You sputter dumbly, and suddenly the angels singing on your shoulder turn into shrieking devils.
“You’re in my way,” He repeats, pushing past you to pore over the corn like you were just doing, turning them over in those fucking hands. The spell was broken now, though, and you scowled at the back of his head.
“Nobody else seemed to have a problem navigating around me.” You fired back. Kara grabs your arm, laughing nervously as she tries to pull you away from the inevitable confrontation.
“Come on, let’s just go—”
“Everyone else seems to know how to wait their turn.” You watch the muscles in his back tense and release deliciously—who the hell wears shirts this tight?!—before he peers coldly at you over his shoulder.
“What did you say?” He shouldn’t have looked so threatening, brandishing an ear of corn in his left hand, but you swallowed thickly at the weight of his ire anyway. Your mouth was always getting you into trouble, and it continued firing off without your brain’s express permission.
“I said you need to learn to wait your turn. I know they probably don’t value civilized interactions in the cave you were clearly raised in, but you could still at least make an effort.” The biting retort was past your lips and in his ears before you could will your trap shut, and you saw him flex angrily.
“God, can we please just go?” Kara pleads, her big green eyes darting nervously from you to the beefy man holding the ear of corn you were going to buy for yourself.
“Christ, you’re a bratty bitch, aren’t you?” He smirks at you, and you hate the way it makes your stomach do a needy little flip, even as you feel hot anger creeping up the back of your neck. “Your friend’s right, you should go. Try to get some dick to scratch that itch.”
You sputtered angrily at the insult, and you hear Kara calling your name, but it sounds like she’s a million miles away, underwater, and all you can see is that god-forsaken smirk on his stupid face—
Time slows as the tomato splatters wildly against his chest, and you feel momentary satisfaction as the smile drops off, replaced by shock, and then rage. You hadn’t even realized you were reaching for it until your hand closed around the beautiful heirloom in your bag. It was a little overripe to be sure, but you were planning on grilling it anyway, and the extra juices would only make it that much better. Instead, your perfect tomato was now a cruel looking exit wound on this asshole’s chest.
Godspeed, tomato.
Someone laughs behind you, and Kara’s hand loops around your wrist as she drags you forcefully backwards into the crowd of onlookers. You watch as King Asshole tries to wipe the juice and seeds from his sinfully tight shirt, glaring at you as you beat a hasty, forced retreat.
“He looked like he was going to punch you,” She says over her bloody mary when the two of you are finally settled at her favorite little brunch spot. She didn’t help you put the groceries away, and though you’d threatened not to let her eat a single one of the spoils of your battle at the farmer’s market, you knew you would cave the very instant she asked sheepishly if she could try some.
“If he did, he’d have gotten a whole lot more than a tomato.” You growl darkly, sipping your mojito with a scowl.
“He was pretty hot though…” She smirked, elbowing you. Your cheeks flush with heat, and you pat them while glaring defiantly at her. “What? A girl’s got eyes.”
“Yeah, and low standards, apparently.”
“I don’t need standards, I need a hard dick and a stiff drink.” She quips, and you can’t help but laugh. “And, well, you know. He was a total dick, don’t get me wrong, but I mean…”
“What?” You snap, pursing your lips.
“Well, maybe he’s right. I mean it’s been a while since Chuck.”
“Kara! You swore to me we would never speak his name again,” You spat dramatically. That was certainly something you didn’t much want to dwell on, especially considering that during the course of your six month relationship, you hadn’t cum. Not once. Not a single, solitary time—excepting the pitiful completions you brought yourself after he’d rolled off of you. “May he burn in hell.”
“May he burn in hell,” Kara echoed, draining her glass. “I’m just saying. Maybe you should come out with me sometimes, instead of staying at home in that t-shirt and ratty ass bandanna.” Your face heated again—you couldn’t help it. Wearing one of the t-shirts you’d pilfered from one unnamed ex or another, your kinky curls pulled back securely out of your face as you danced, pantless around the kitchen was your you time.
“I like my ratty ass bandanna.”
“Clearly.”
Though delivered in a sarcastic, biting tone, you had to admit Kara might be right. After all, if just the thought of King Asshole’s hands was enough to make you a little sticky between the thighs, maybe it had been too long since you’d last had a good roll in the sheets. You finished your drinks—and a second round insisted upon by Kara—and by the time you returned home, alcohol warm in your belly, you were feeling far better than you had about the encounter at the farmer’s market. Hopefully Javi would still let you buy his tomatoes at a discount, even if you were busy smashing them against the fine, sculpted chests of random, badly behaved strangers.
And at the end of the night, when you sat in front of your laptop as you twist your hair down for the night, you lean forward to inhale the sweet scent of the lavender you’d put on your desk. Two bunches were to experiment with, but this one… was just for you to enjoy. You grin widely to yourself and take another deep breath.
Yeah, success definitely smelled like lavender.
🔪
You’re thirty minutes early to your trial-run shift, and as you got out of the taxi, dusting your hands off on the loose-fitted cotton pants you wore. Your chef’s jacket was slung over your shoulder, and clutched under your arm was your knife bag.
As much as you’d read about Black Adder Brewery, this was the first time you’d ever been inside. The brew equipment is all on display by the massive bar, being tended to by the bartenders and brewers alike. Everything looks somehow both incredibly simple, but also expensive, like it costs money just to stand here breathing the air. Probably does. This is the big leagues.
“Can I help you?” The rich, smooth voice makes you jump, grabbing at your chest. The man to your left is tall, and as he smiles at you, it’s like fuckin’ God himself has pulled back the curtain on the overcast day outside—and a single beam of sunlight falls across his dreamy brown eyes, turning them molten amber. You swallow the stupid stuttering—and ultimately meaningless—apology that threatens to spill from your lips. You’re not a child, and you don’t need to apologize for your presence.
“Yeah, I’m staging* today,” You say brightly. You offer your hand and he takes it, unable to hide the surprise on his features. “Nice to meet you.”
“Sam,” He says, shaking it even as a look of uncertainty crosses his features. “In...the back?” He asks quickly, and you raise an eyebrow, cocking your head. “Not waitstaff? Sorry, I just didn’t realize we were, um, hiring back there.” A spark of panic blooms in your chest. Unless getting the email was just some strange fever dream. No. Impossible. I read it eighty thousand fucking times.
“Yeah,” You reply slowly, unsure of what to make of the curious glance he shoots in the direction of what you assume is the kitchen. “Mr. Rogers emailed me yesterday about coming in.” His eyebrows fly up, and a knowing smirk spreads over his mouth.
“You’re the fresh blood in the kitchen Steve’s been raving about?” He asks, a booming laugh bursting from his chest. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting someone so young. How old are you, kid?” He asks, snapping shut the menu he’s cleaning behind the host stand. He steps out from behind it, and jerks his head toward the back of the restaurant. “I’ll show you back.”
You snort. “Twenty four. And I’ve been in enough restaraunts, I think I can find my way.” He laughs at this.
“Oh, don’t I know it,” And when you glance over at him, he winks. “But I don’t mind.” You almost don’t catch his quickly exhaled mutter—“And I want to see this.” Your stomach quickly turns to acid, and the coffee you’d hurriedly gulped down before heading out of the apartment is now a sour regret. You want to pause before you push through the shiny, swinging metal doors into the clean, bright kitchen. You want to steel yourself, take a deep breath, and walk in like you fucking own it. Instead, you take a rushed step just inside—
—and duck as someone carrying a tray skirts just out of your way. You narrowly avoid having who-knows-what spilled over your head as you jump back, colliding with Sam with a soft oof. “Watch yourself,” He says quietly, and his voice is so close to your ear that you jump again.
“How many fuckin’ times do I have to tell you to say door when you swing that shit open?” A gruff voice yells from the back. “I just made that goddamn pasta, Sam!”
“Sorry chef!” Sam shouts back, raising his voice to be heard over the cacophony of dishes, pans, and knives on cutting boards. “Just showing the newbie in.” He leans against the doorframe, that sinful smirk still on his lips. “Go” he mouths at you, making a shooing motion with his hands. You’re torn between laughing and being irritated, so you choose the former, a small smile worming its way onto your lips.
The kitchen is pure chaos in the way that you’re most familiar with. It’s hot back here, but then again, it always is. “Behind!” You call as you begin to move down the prep line, unable to stop yourself from peering over every couple of shoulders, eager to see what’s being worked on.
“Ah, there you are.” Your head snaps up, and immediately your cheeks heat. You know this man—but only because you googled the hell out of him. Steve Rogers, investor turned restaurateur, owner of the so-called jewel of Park Slope—Black Adder Brewery. He smiles at you warmly, and you can’t help but return it. “Early, I like that.” He motions for you to follow him, and you do, clutching your knife bag with trembling fingers.
It’s okay if your hands shake, You tell yourself. He can’t see your hands.
He leads you to an office, sliding back a rustic looking barn door to reveal the hidden room. It’s just as well decorated as the rest of the restaurant, the same raw wood and dark wrought iron carrying through into his desk, and the shelves lining the walls. You peered around curiously counting—is that a James Beard award?!—as many awards and accolades as you had fingers and toes.
“Sit, please. Did you find us okay?” He asks, and he sounds genuinely concerned, which makes you feel dizzy and warm. Did I find it? The most famous restaurant in Brooklyn? Arguably all of New York? Oh fuck yeah I found it.
“Oh, yeah, of course. I don’t live that far, actually.”
“A Brooklyn girl?” He asks, smiling charmingly at you. Your tummy flutters.
“Y-yeah. I left to study—”
“I saw that on your resume.” He isn’t sharp when he cuts you off, but it makes you stop abruptly anyway as he leans forward with his fingers steepled, elbows resting on the desk. “Germany?” Steve’s voice is interested, though you know he already knows the broad strokes.
You had fantastic references. A three star michelin restaurant in Berlin for six months, an up and coming fusion spot in the lower east side—and those were just the places. You were as greedy for experiences as other people were for food; you dipped your fingers into as many proverbial pies as you could. Pastry, saussier, french, italian, morroccan, ethiopian—you sopped up recipes and techniques like a sponge. For someone who’d never been good at studying, your patchwork knowledge made you a formidable asset.
One you hoped Steve Rogers would want on his team.
“Yeah, West Berlin.” You nod. “My German was pretty shit, though.” He laughs at this, and it puts you at ease. His mirth seems to let some of the tension out of the room, and your shoulders sag comfortably, just a little.
“Kalvin said to tell you hello.” You’re caught off guard by the name-drop, but you try not to let it show on your face. His expression remains kind, but you see it now—the calculating look in his eye—and suddenly you’re not at all sure of your acting skills. You know the purpose of this tiny barb; it’s to let you know that he’s checked you out, that he’s thoroughly researched you.
You just hope he likes what he’s found.
“O-oh. Yeah, he’s like my weird German father that… makes me eat duck tongues.”
“Did you like them?”
“Pretty good, can’t cap.”
He laughs again.
A knock sounds, and you stiffen right back up. A young man—probably the person closest to your age you’ve seen—pokes his head inside. He’s cute, in a boyish kind of way, with a sweet smile, and impetuous eyes that sweep appreciatively over your face before he addresses Steve. “Peter.”
“Hey, boss. Chef’s, well… hear for yourself.” Is it just like… a requirement to be hot as goddamn sin to work here? You think wryly to yourself, watching the exchange with interest. You listen, and you hear—
“Hired someone? The fuck you mean he hired someone?” You’re not sure if he’s yelling on purpose, or if his voice just naturally carries on the same decibel as an ambulance wail. Wait, now that you think about it…
That voice sounds kind of… familiar.
“Do I keep stalling?”
“No, Pete, it’s alright. I mean, he was going to find out in ten minutes anyway.” Steve sighs, and looks back at you. “James—Bucky—means well, but he’s… passionate.” You grit your teeth. You’ve heard nothing but good things about Chef Barnes, but that’s only to be expected—you don’t bite the hand that feeds. You’ve worked some shit-shows, with old-school chefs that yelled and threw things, shattering dishes above your head when you fucked up—so you’d learned quickly not to fuck up.
You hoped to God his bark was worse than his bite.
Peter scoots out of the way just in time for angry footsteps to come down the line. “Behind.” Someone says gruffly, and you hear murmurs of “yes chef” and “heard” in response. Another face appears in the doorway before it’s shoved roughly open, the wheels squealing loudly. “Steve, we agreed you don’t make hiring and firing decisions in my kitchen.” He speaks without preamble, barely sparing you a glance.
Which is a good thing, because you are fucking shitting yourself. Even with the gray bandanna folded and tied longways around his head, and his white sleeves stained and rolled up, you would recognize him. Well, that, and the dead giveaway YES CHEF tatted loudly across his knuckles.
King Asshole is Chef Barnes?
“We agreed that you would have final say on hiring decisions,” Steve agrees, glancing at you apologetically. “But not on interns.”
“Interns.” Bucky says incredulously, rolling his eyes as he slams the door shut behind him, marching past you to lean hard against the desk. “Steve, I don’t need anyone new in the kitchen.” He looks at you. “Sorry kid.” He looks back at Steve like he’s going to start talking, and then the lightbulb flashes behind his eyes and his head swings purposefully back in your direction. “You’re fucking kidding me. Tomato girl?”
Silence reigns between you, and Steve is the first to break it with a surprised laugh. “She’s tomato girl?” He looks at you. “If I could hire you twice, I would.”
“No fucking way,” Bucky snarls, jabbing his finger in your direction, “is she working in my kitchen.” His eyes flick down to the knife bag in your lap, and a derisive sneer appears on his handsome face. “Cute toys. Mommy buy you those?”
“Buck.” Steve’s voice is authoritative, and a note of warning hangs in the air. You can see Bucky doesn’t like being heeled, doesn’t like being made to cow in front of you—it smarts.
“Not in my goddamn kitchen. You hire her, I—”
“You’re not gonna walk, Buck, so don’t even try it. Adder’s your baby too.” Steve sighs, rolling his eyes. “Besides, she’s an intern.” He winks at you, and you hope that that wink translates into pay for you, because you can’t eat experience, as much as you’d like to. “She’s here to learn.” You stop yourself from rolling your eyes at that—you’ve learned more than enough to stand on your own, but you know the additive is for Bucky’s sake, not yours.
Bucky grimaces, and jerks a quick nod. “Fine.” He looks down at you coldly. “You got a jacket?”
“Yes.” The irritating smile you remember ghosts across his face as the correction comes whip-fast.
“Yes Chef.” He juts his chin out, daring you to say a word—anything. You know if you complain now, you’ll never be in, not the way you want to be.
“Yes Chef.”
“Good girl.” You want to scream at the way your pussy clenches hungrily, and the way his grin widens just a little, you think somehow, impossibly, he knows. “Let’s go.” He strides out of the office without waiting to see if you follow. You look at Steve questioningly.
“Am I… hired, sir?”
“Oh, of course. Let’s just say it’s unofficial.” He winks again. “I’ll pay you cash under the table if you stick it out.” Your mouth drops open, but you don’t have any time to process it as an angry shout echoes out behind you.
“Let’s go, short-stack!” He yells, and you clench your fists.
You’ve been hazed by worse—hell, in Berlin, they stole your shoes. You had to go home without them—Though you’d gotten Johann back for that by filling his pockets with toothpaste—you could deal with his royal assholeness. You shrugged quickly into your chef’s jacket as you slid quickly down the line behind the prep-cooks. Bucky was tapping his foot impatiently, waiting for you with a frown.
“You can put those in the lockers,” He spits, gesturing first at your knife bag, and then toward the gray lockers in the far corner. Maybe they have knives here they want me to use instead. You walk quickly over to the lockers, selecting an empty one before carefully placing your bag inside. You stuff your street clothes in there too, before you button up your jacket and check that your hair is still contained before you go back to stand expectantly in front of Bucky.
“Where do you want me, Chef?” You ask, and a sinfully sweet smile turns the corners of his pretty mouth upward.
“Dish, with Parker.” He points to the opposite end of the kitchen, where the sweet looking boy you’d seen earlier is straining to keep up with the constant flow of dishes. “I’ll call you when I’ve got a job for you, kid.” He sees the distressed look on your face, and the smirk grows larger. “What, too good for dish? In my kitchen, we all do every job. Including scrubbing the sludge off the pans.”
“No, Chef.” You say tightly, ashamed of the angry tears that grow hot behind your eyes. You hold them back as you march over to Peter, grab the other clear plastic apron and begin spraying the grease off of a sheet pan.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. He’s always hard on new meat,” Peter says encouragingly on your break, handing you his cigarette when you ask for a puff. “You’ll be holding a knife in no time.” He lets you finish the cigarette and goes back inside to finish up, which you’re glad for, because it means he doesn’t see you cry. And when you walk back inside, your eyes red and watery, he doesn’t say anything either.
As you’re leaving, sore and sweaty and still angry, you pass by a gang of your new coworkers out front. Bucky is there, enthralling everyone with some amazing story or other, and you try to scoot past without him noticing you. You think you’re successful, when halfway down the block, his voice rings out.
“See you tomorrow, short-stack.”