Fic: With Abandon or Not At All - 4/4
Fandom: J2
Parings: Jared/Jensen, very brief Jared/Misha
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 24,150
Warnings: chef!AU, angst, schmoop, barebacking, punk!Jared, serious!Jensen, horrible!Danneel
Notes: written for the 2011 spn_j2_bigbang with thanks to voxmyriad for her fabulous art as well as candygramme and gedry for being my betas and cheering me on when I thought this thing would kill me. (See masterpost for more author's notes and links to the art post!)
Summary: Jensen's life was complicated enough when his biggest worry was what crazy color his best friend/roommate/ex-boyfriend/co-executive chef, Jared, was going to dye his hair this week. Then his dreams came true and, somehow, his life started falling apart. Now he's got an insane client to please, a career-making meal to cook, a hodge-podge kitchen staff to corral, embarrassing, half-naked pictures plastered all over the internet and maybe, somewhere in there, a love of his life to win back.
Back to Part Three
The first time Jensen realizes that maybe sometimes love isn't enough, but sometimes it fucking well is, he's twenty-eight years old, checking the temp on his roast in the magnificent kitchen of the hall Danneel Harris has rented out for her party. He realizes it because the back door swings open to reveal Jared in plain black pants, clogs and whites, floppy hair falling over his slightly flushed face.
Floppy brown hair. That's it, just brown. Not brown plus something, just plain old ordinary brown like Jensen hasn't seen it since he was a senior in high school, waiting on his best friend to get out of afternoon detention so they could get to work on time.
Normal.
"What happened?" is what sputters out of his mouth, completely of its own volition. It’s a valid question though, so he goes with it, ignoring the annoyed looks he’s getting form some of the servers as they scurry around him to pick up their amuse-bouche.
Jared ducks his head and doesn’t meet Jensen’s eyes when he grumbles, "Don't even start, man. It's just one night, right?"
He starts unpacking his knives with a single-minded dedication, drawing Jensen attention to his hands. No bracelets, no rings, no crazy colors slapped haphazardly on his nails. The collar on his chef’s coat is tugged up too, sitting high enough to mostly cover the Super Mario power-ups tattoo there, only a red and white speckled mushroom showing and even that is covered largely by curls of silky hair. Brown hair. Yeah, he’s not going to be getting over that anytime soon.
If Jensen didn't know any better he'd think Jared was just some ordinary guy. But Jared's not; not even in the same neighborhood as ordinary because he's a hundred thousand times better than that. He’s the guy who’s never let anybody tell him who to be, even the people he loves. He’s the guy who’ll give every last ounce of himself every day and twice on Sundays for something he believes in. He’s the guy who never falters, never wavers, has absolute faith that somehow, it’s all going to be ok, no matter how bleak it seems. He’s the guy who’s probably kept Jensen from going insane long before now. The guy Jensen loves. The guy who came back. And yeah, Jensen's thought a lot over the years about how much easier it would be if Jared just fit in, just went along and compromised a little. Now that it's right in front of him, nothing has ever pissed him off more.
"Jensen?" he hears Jared question as Jensen hoists the roasting pan off of his prep table and makes for the door.
"Jensen?!" more urgently, more than one voice now and Jensen seriously does not even give a fuck.
The way people stare as he bursts into the dining room - everyone still standing around, sipping cocktails and picking at hors d’oeuvres and throwing off his fucking service schedule - is almost as good as how they part before him like the Red Sea. Not nearly as impressive, though, as how they all gasp and fall silent in the wake of the pan hitting the floor at Danneel fucking Harris' pedicured feet, spatter-painting her champagne-satin gown with dark jus all the way up her legs.
"What the-" she starts out a snarl, pretty, done-up face a mask of shocked fury.
"If you have a problem with my partner, you have a problem with me, understand?” he booms out loud over her, “You hired us to do a job, a hard job, made more so by constantly having to put up with your shit, but we did that. We did everything you asked of us except for this one little thing, and you have the audacity to call my friend a freak because he won't change who he is to fit your idea of what the world ought to be? You had no right. But since we’re so accommodating, we won't sully you with our unacceptable presence any longer. Food's in the oven, princess, hope it treats you well. The freak and I are leaving."
He turns to see the entire kitchen staff standing at the service door along with a handful of servers who look like they’re about to faint. Jensen kind of knows the feeling, but he’s too high on adrenaline for his body to collapse yet, so for the moment he’s just shaking.
Chris, Sandy and Misha all probably have expressions, but right now Jensen’s only got eyes for Jared, who looks caught somewhere between delighted and throwing a shit-fit as Jensen pushes through them into the kitchen. Dimly he can hear the sounds of people all starting to gossip at once and the incredulous shouts of Danneel ordering him back to her. Jensen blithely ignores it. About time he got the last word.
***
Sitting in the back of the van they rented out to haul their supplies, sucking on a bottle of Grand Marnier that was supposed to be part of the mini-soufflés - because they’ve already burned through the bourbon from Chris' flask - might not be a new low for Jensen. Add in the fact that he just essentially wrecked his life's ambition, probably gave grounds for a lawsuit, made himself nigh unhireable in front of a couple dozen members of the industry, and the media, and - cherry on top - took the rest of the crew down with him over - essentially - Jared's hair color and that is definitely a new low. Possibly for humanity at large.
It’s not really gridlock, but it is Manhattan on a Friday night, so they aren’t exactly breaking the sound barrier either. The van lurches as they hit another stop light, and Chris curses something about the city timing the lights just to screw with him.
Sandy’s up front in the passenger seat, Jensen, Jared and Misha crammed in the back with what’s left of their supplies. Misha’s looking out the rear window even though there can’t be much to see; Jensen really hopes it’s not because he can’t stand to set eyes on Jensen, not that he’d really be able to blame Misha for it. Jared’s sitting next to Jensen on their cooler, pressed flush together from hip to knee. Jensen’s fingers are sort of numb from the strength he’s using to hold onto Jared’s hand but his partner - his friend - isn’t complaining.
"I'll understand if you resign, no hard feelings,” bubbles out of Jensen, because apparently he’s lost the ability to filter anything he says, “There's no reason for the rest of you to go down with the ship. It was my action; no one can blame you for that. If you quit now, it won't even be a blot on your resume."
The kind of silence that only comes with New York traffic follows that; the road rushing away beneath them, the sound of horns, and the music of bars they pass filtering in on the heavy weight of no one speaking.
At last, Chris breaks through it, laying on the horn at a cyclist as he speaks. "Well, I'm convinced. Where's my severance package?"
Jensen’s not sure what he was expecting - he knew they’d all just been waiting for him to let them off the hook, so naturally they were going to say yes - but that takes his already surprise-numb brain for a loop.
"Uh, I-"
"Are a tool, and didn't mean it? Yeah, I know,” Chris jumps in, glancing over his shoulder to lock Jensen with a look before focusing back on the sea of cars in front of him, “Not quitting, man, we'll figure something out."
"I'm with you guys, no matter what,” Sandy chimes in.
Misha grins and kicks at Jensen’s shoe. "Hey, I'm always down for an adventure. Besides, where else is a freak supposed to go?"
Jensen feels the sharp prick of guilt in his chest like a physical thing. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Sure you did. It's true,” Misha shrugs back easily, at last fixing his intense blue gaze on Jensen, “We work insane hours on our feet in kitchens that make hell look like a moderate climate. We end up cut and burned with body temperatures that never regulate right and resign ourselves to spending the rest of forever smelling like food. We sweat, and we bleed, and we bust our asses for a business where breaking even is a miracle, just so we can drag out of bed after - on a good night - five hours of sleep and do it all over again. All for the sake of braised ramps and croquembouche. We're crazy, we're freaks, and you're one of us, buddy,” he reaches across the small space between them and smacks Jensen on the leg, “Fly the freak flag."
Jared is the first to start laughing, a quiet rumble that works its way up out of his throat louder and louder as the rest of the crew joins in. Jensen’s not even sure it’s actually funny, but once his diaphragm is shaking with it, he can’t seem to make himself stop either. Jared just squeezes his hand and laughs along.
***
It will never fail to amaze Jensen how much bigger the kitchen seems when there's no one else in it. It's never felt empty before though, like the very building knows what Jensen's done to them.
"It'll be ok," Jared murmurs reassuringly from the doorway. He actually sounds like he means it. Jensen wants so very badly to believe him. "The regulars know us, they'll stick around. And hey, no press is bad press, right?"
The smile that trembles on Jensen's face seems to pull at something in his throat, tightening it up around a thin stream of air. Absently he pats the counter, so many of his best memories wrapped up in steam and stainless steel. What are they going to do if they can't make the rent? More than the restaurant, they'll lose their home, their own little place in the world. His lungs burn like an overworked muscle.
Jared's arms come around him unexpectedly; strong and warm, practically goading the tears out of Jensen's eyes. He fights them anyway, rigid in the circle of Jared's embrace until it stops feeling so overwhelming. Jared holds on through it.
"We'll start a new place if we have to," he promises softly against the top of Jensen's head. "Just you and me and the crew, we can make it. We've done it with less."
True, the last time - the first time - it had just been them, the two of them ripping out molded dry wall and trying not to electrocute themselves with the rewiring - making this place livable. They'd done it with barely enough in the bank to make ends meet; survived on ramen noodles and day olds from the bakery down the street where a few years later they'd pick up Misha. They'd lived for nothing but to make this happen, somehow miraculously attracting their hodge-podge crew along the way; their wanna-be rock star grill-master and the pint-sized ballerina with knife skills of doom. Their crazy little family, built out of dedication and their own two - four - hands. And maybe that's enough.
"Yeah," he breathes at last, still a little tight in the throat, but feeling better, or at least less like he's going to fall to pieces at any moment. The hold on him loosens just enough for Jared to turn him around so that he's looking up into soft hazel eyes. Jared, with his ridiculously normal hair and insanely blank shirt, all for Jensen. And suddenly that fall-apart feeling comes flooding back, but in a whole new, inexplicable way. He needs to get away from it.
"Better get some sleep," Jensen says, not sure whether he's talking to himself or the man looking down at him, "Lots to deal with in the morning." Jensen takes a moment to be grateful that he decided before the event not to open for service tomorrow as he smacks Jared lightly on the shoulder and pulls away.
“Pussy.”
Jensen almost trips over his own feet. He takes a moment, waiting for reality to reassert itself because clearly Jared could not have possibly just said that.
“What?”
Jared lifts an eyebrow at him, leaning to rest the small of his back on the edge of the counter. “You go and defend my honor and now you’re just gonna waste all your prince charming points and not make a move?”
Jensen quirks a brow right back. “Wrecking our business, and the careers and lives of practically everyone we know, qualifies for prince charming points?”
“I have a complex, multi-layered system of tabulation,” Jared’s broad shoulders rise on a shrug.
“You’ve never had a system in your life,” Jensen accuses in return.
“Not true, I had a Super Nintendo Entertainment System as a kid.”
“Those were the shit.”
“Yeah they were,” Jared grins his agreement, “Also, you’re stalling. Thus, I reiterate, pussy.”
“Shut up,” Jensen’s unable to meet those piercing eyes as he mumbles, “maybe I’m nervous, ok?”
Jared laughs, “Because we’ve never gotten it on before?”
“I…” He hasn’t got anything to say to that, not anything coherent anyway. There are a lot of somethings; bits and pieces of ideas and wants and reasons that this is a terrible idea, but nothing he can work out the right words for. Then Jared’s there, always there, his hands ever so gently sliding up the side of Jensen’s face.
“Hey, I get it,” Jared whispers, “But man, you just pulled off the epic romantic gesture, you can’t not back it up now.”
“It doesn’t…” he starts, but it fits all wrong, beginning again with, “You’re my friend. I’m supposed to stand up for you.”
“You really gonna tell me that’s why you did it?” Jared’s thumb makes a soft arc back and forth across Jensen’s cheekbone. “The whole reason, nothing else?” The way he looks is so open, like Jensen’s already lost this fight and Jared’s just waiting on him to realize it. Like maybe Jared’s been waiting a while.
“All of the reasons we broke up are still there,” is what comes out of Jensen next, so quiet it’s barely a sound, even in the silence of the kitchen. It doesn’t seem like the most important point with everything else that happened today. It doesn’t even feel like a day, more like a year of days shoved into one not-so-neat package. But that’s the reason he gives and it’s the one that makes Jared smile a little brighter at him.
“Yeah, and they’re probably always gonna be,” Jared leans in close, lips not quite brushing Jensen’s, and Jensen is very starkly aware of how much he’s not pulling back from it the way he intends to. “We haven’t been able to shake each other yet, might as well make peace with our addictions."
Jared kisses him slow and sweet, the way Jensen knows his friend likes it best. It’s always good, any which way, even when it’s messy with teeth, and tongue and need, but this - he knows Jared would happily kiss like this for the rest of his life, and right now Jensen’s having a hard time coming up with a reason to stop him.
The pressure of Jared’s thumb against the hinge of his jaw prompts Jensen to open for him, breathing in around the push of Jared’s tongue. He cups Jensen’s head, one hand sliding down between his shoulder blades to the small of his back, pulling them tight together. A lock of baby-fine hair brushes against Jensen’s cheek, bringing with it the sharp smell of chemicals that’s so right on Jared and so very not right at the same time.
He pulls back slightly, despite the low whine of disapproval from his friend, to murmur, “One caveat. We have got to do something with your hair, it’s freaking me out.”
***
The sound of his cell phone ringing nearly jolts Jensen's heart out his chest as he startles awake. Jared groans and mumbles something to the effect of, 'turn it off,' before hiding in the crook of Jensen's neck.
He manages to catch the phone before it jitters off the nightstand, glaring at the letters on the screen until they finally resolve into a name.
“There had better be a damn good reason for this, Sandy,” he snaps, searching by touch for his glasses before he remembers they're either somewhere down in the kitchen or on the stairs - the specifics of getting undressed last night had fuzzed out around the much more imperative functions of stumbling up the stairs while kissing Jared.
“Well good morning to you too, sunshine," she replies, good mood seemingly unfazed, "Just thought you might want to know that we’re the talk of the New York food blog scene.”
“I threw dinner at our client and walked out on the Times, of c-" He loses the rest of the word on a gasp when Jared protests the early morning conversation with his teeth. "-Course we’re the talk.”
There's a pause on the line and when Sandy's voice comes back, there's a dark brand of enthusiasm in it. “Are you having sex right now?”
“Was there something else?” Jensen sighs in lieu of an answer. Jared's slowly starting to rub his morning wood against Jensen's hip, and unless this conversation has some specific point, he'd prefer to get back to drowning his sorrows in the boundless sexual appetite of his re-boyfriend.
“Oh my god! Are you and Jared having sex right now? Are you getting back together? Why did you pick up the phone in the middle of having sex with Jared?”
“We’re not having sex!” Jensen barks back. It probably would have been more convincing if Jared hadn't thrown off his voice by choosing that moment to get a firm grip around Jensen's interested cock.
Jared, of course, helpfully chimes in with, “Yet”
“Oh my god, it is Jared!" Sandy crows delightedly, "I get to plan the menu for your commitment ceremony!”
“Sandy!” he snaps, batting Jared's hand away at the same time, even though his dick lodges a very strenuous protest over it. “No, Sandy, not Sadie,” he whispers at the dog as she happily licks his elbow good morning. Jared chuckles and reaches out to scratch behind her ears.
“Spoil sport. Anyway, I thought that the fact that our Opentable has us booked up of three weeks straight might peak your interest.”
“I don- … what?”
“They loved it, Jen," she breathes, awed, ecstatic, other words Jensen can't think of right now because, really? They're booked? "I mean, not the clients, and I don’t know about the Times, but the bloggers love it. Somebody had a camera phone or something, and they posted the video with this diatribe about hypocrisy in the food movement or something. Anyway, it’s becoming this whole big thing, picked up on Eater and Grub Street and the whole deal. Everybody’s showing their support for the kitchen ‘freaks’. You’re like a hero.”
“I… what?”
“You struck a chord, Jensen," Sandy insists, "Don’t question the blessing. Oh, and, um… there’s one other thing.”
The hesitant way she says it snaps Jensen to nervous attention. “What?”
“Well, you remember that picture from Jared’s 21st?”
“Yeah.” Of course he remembers the picture, it’s the one and only non-sexual one he’s ever banned Jared from showing around. It had been taken on Jared’s birthday, true, but the celebration had been as much about having finally made it over that magic threshold of a year in business as it had been about Jared finally being legal. It had been just the four of them then; him, Jared, Chris and Sandy and they’d pretty much spent the night getting sloppy drunk and fixing up whatever crazy, impossible concoctions they could think of in the kitchen - they still owe the bourbon-bacon éclair to that evening.
“Well, um," she hedges, "I don’t know how it got out there, I swear, but a bunch of the blogs are posting it along with the story.”
The picture had been taken late into that night, well after they all should have packed it in. It prominently features Jensen in nothing but a pair of charcoal grey boxer briefs and motorcycle boots with his whites hanging open around his sides. Birthday-boy Jared’s hanging all over him in it, stripped down to a pair of low slung jeans with duct tape on the knee and a cowboy hat he’d plucked off a Chris’ head; his stomach decorated with the remnants of neon pink frosting - evidence of an incident Jensen had sworn all of them to secrecy about. Chris is hanging out to his other side, looking loose and a little dazed, while Sandy is barely visible in the back, trying to simultaneously give all three of them bunny ears. They’re all sloppy and smiling, high on cheap booze and the realization that this crazy thing they had going just might work. It ranked right up there in the top 10 nights of Jensen’s life, but that doesn’t mean he wants the evidence of it plastered all over the world wide web.
“Shit.”
“It’s not that bad,” Sandy assures him.
“Yeah, great, I… thanks, thanks for letting me know - about everything I mean, it’s… stunning.”
“You got that right! Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, boss! You boys have fun, now!”
The phone shuts itself off with a cli-click, and Jensen turns his eyes on Jared who's watching him curiously.
"So, hey," Jensen leads in casually, setting the phone aside, "remember that picture from your 21st birthday?"
"Yeah," Jared answers. It was probably supposed to be casual too, but Jensen saw the hesitation in his eyes. So that's how it is, huh?
“Boy, I’m gonna kill you.”
EPILOGUE
“Where are my soft-shells?”
“Fifty seconds!” Colin calls out, sounding only moderately overwhelmed as he checks the crabs. At least his voice seems to have stopped breaking every time he has to speak to Jensen directly.
“Kid’s got that specificity thing down pat,” Chris winks at him, bent over his own station.
“He’s learning from the best,” Jensen deadpans back, trying not to react when Colin plates the damn thing upside down, gets halfway through before realizing what he’s doing and fixes it. It’s important to let him learn it on his own, Jensen knows, but it still drives him up the wall when he could just do it.
The scrabble-scrabble-huff of running canines momentarily precedes the sight of Jared jogging the dogs - yes, plural, Jensen’s a giant sap who let Jared’s fine, fine ass blackmail him into getting another dog - in the back door and up the stairs. Technically that violates quite a few health codes, but it’s either that or leave them locked upstairs for the whole service and Jensen would rather take the risk of letting Jared run them around than the guarantee of dog crap on their floor.
Plus, taking Jared off the line for a few minutes gives their Kitchen Bitch a chance to actually get his hands dirty. And that’s a good thing, Jensen reminds himself, even if it does mean the soft-shells get plated upside down.
“Any year,” he yell-sighs over the sound of Jared clomping down the stairs like a drunken Clydesdale.
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’, bossy,” Jared grumbles. He jumps the last couple of steps and starts scrubbing down in the sink.
The slap of broad hands on his ass makes Jensen jump.
“Just dryin’ my hands,” Jared grins, giving Jensen’s ass an extra-long squeeze before releasing him and wiping the wet backs of his hands on Jensen’s pants.
“Delightful,” he snarks back, “And sanitary. When the DOH shuts us down you’re the one dealing with the red tape.”
“Ah, prissy little whiners,” Jared taps Colin on the shoulder as he jokes, seamlessly taking over the station, “Everything tastes better with a little dog hair.”
The new server, a girl named Katie with an ‘I will cut you’ attitude Jensen can appreciate, hustles in to pick up the orders for table six, dropping off a ticket for table eight while she’s at it. Jensen calls down the list, making a mental note about moving the duck to the tasting menu - that thing’s selling like hot cakes.
A year and a half after the blogs first came out with their names spattered all over the place and Jensen still keeps expecting wake up and find he dreamt the whole thing. They never did make the Times, but they caught one hell of a review from New York Magazine and got a nod from Food and Wine. Jared was featured in a group thing for Bon Appetit a couple of months ago - their mothers probably single handedly doubled the sales of that issue - and they’ve even gotten calls about being on Iron Chef America which Jay is dying to do and Jensen has a panic attack just considering. Their reservations are full most nights, but there’s still room for locals and walk-ins which has always been a priority for them and while sometimes Jensen sort of wishes he could sit back and hit the pause button, it’s a good kind of problem to have. Besides, he’s got Jared and the crew if it ever really gets to be too much.
He smiles and calls out the next round of orders as they come in, catching a quick wink from Jared in confirmation that he heard. The little print off that Jared taped over his station so long ago catches Jensen’s eye as it almost inevitably does, positioned perfectly in his line of sight. It’s a copy of that first blog that made Jensen out to be the messiah of the ‘freak chef’ with that fucking picture - hadn’t that been a delight to explain to his parents? - decorated all around the edges with pictures of flowers and candles and burnt offerings. Jared calls it his shrine. Jensen resists the urge to smack him. At least most of the time.
That’s not the only picture in the kitchen, but the rest are tucked away on the bulletin board, safe from where anything might spatter or light them on fire - one of the many dangers of training a teenager on the line. Old and new pictures, ones from the very beginning when it was just the two of them trying to scoop the water out of their sinking ship before they drowned and later ones as they picked up members of the team. A couple are questionably appropriate to put up in a semi-public forum but they were all taken in or around this kitchen with this crew - plus the pups - and that’s just a part of who they are.
“Thinky thoughts!” Jared cries out in warning, echoed all around the kitchen in varying degrees of dramaticism. He hauls Jensen in by the front of his pants for a fast, messy kiss, wet with entirely too much sweat to be completely appealing, but Jensen can’t find it in himself to mind.
“Head in the game, JR,” Jared gives him the doggy-training nose tap, which is both annoying and annoyingly effective.
He scrubs at the end of his nose with the back of his hand and mutters, “Right back at you, JT.”
“If you two get any cuter you’re going to start shitting flowers and talking bunny-rabbits,” Chris gripes, rolling his eyes and smiling all at once. Sandy laughs and reaches over to tip the back of his hat forward with her knife, covering his eyes. He menaces at her with his tongs, but it loses some of the force when a macerated blueberry splats into the side of his face. Misha dives for cover behind his station. It really is like working with a bunch of kindergarteners.
“Settle down, children,” he scolds, calling out another ticket as Brock hands it off. There are smiles all around under heat-red faces and half-whispered threats about ‘later’. Jared stick out his tongue at Jensen and laughs, flipping traffic-cone-orange streaked hair back to focus on his proteins.
Yeah, Jensen thinks, it’s a good kind of problem to have.
The End
Parings: Jared/Jensen, very brief Jared/Misha
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 24,150
Warnings: chef!AU, angst, schmoop, barebacking, punk!Jared, serious!Jensen, horrible!Danneel
Notes: written for the 2011 spn_j2_bigbang with thanks to voxmyriad for her fabulous art as well as candygramme and gedry for being my betas and cheering me on when I thought this thing would kill me. (See masterpost for more author's notes and links to the art post!)
Summary: Jensen's life was complicated enough when his biggest worry was what crazy color his best friend/roommate/ex-boyfriend/co-executive chef, Jared, was going to dye his hair this week. Then his dreams came true and, somehow, his life started falling apart. Now he's got an insane client to please, a career-making meal to cook, a hodge-podge kitchen staff to corral, embarrassing, half-naked pictures plastered all over the internet and maybe, somewhere in there, a love of his life to win back.
Back to Part Three
The first time Jensen realizes that maybe sometimes love isn't enough, but sometimes it fucking well is, he's twenty-eight years old, checking the temp on his roast in the magnificent kitchen of the hall Danneel Harris has rented out for her party. He realizes it because the back door swings open to reveal Jared in plain black pants, clogs and whites, floppy hair falling over his slightly flushed face.
Floppy brown hair. That's it, just brown. Not brown plus something, just plain old ordinary brown like Jensen hasn't seen it since he was a senior in high school, waiting on his best friend to get out of afternoon detention so they could get to work on time.
Normal.
"What happened?" is what sputters out of his mouth, completely of its own volition. It’s a valid question though, so he goes with it, ignoring the annoyed looks he’s getting form some of the servers as they scurry around him to pick up their amuse-bouche.
Jared ducks his head and doesn’t meet Jensen’s eyes when he grumbles, "Don't even start, man. It's just one night, right?"
He starts unpacking his knives with a single-minded dedication, drawing Jensen attention to his hands. No bracelets, no rings, no crazy colors slapped haphazardly on his nails. The collar on his chef’s coat is tugged up too, sitting high enough to mostly cover the Super Mario power-ups tattoo there, only a red and white speckled mushroom showing and even that is covered largely by curls of silky hair. Brown hair. Yeah, he’s not going to be getting over that anytime soon.
If Jensen didn't know any better he'd think Jared was just some ordinary guy. But Jared's not; not even in the same neighborhood as ordinary because he's a hundred thousand times better than that. He’s the guy who’s never let anybody tell him who to be, even the people he loves. He’s the guy who’ll give every last ounce of himself every day and twice on Sundays for something he believes in. He’s the guy who never falters, never wavers, has absolute faith that somehow, it’s all going to be ok, no matter how bleak it seems. He’s the guy who’s probably kept Jensen from going insane long before now. The guy Jensen loves. The guy who came back. And yeah, Jensen's thought a lot over the years about how much easier it would be if Jared just fit in, just went along and compromised a little. Now that it's right in front of him, nothing has ever pissed him off more.
"Jensen?" he hears Jared question as Jensen hoists the roasting pan off of his prep table and makes for the door.
"Jensen?!" more urgently, more than one voice now and Jensen seriously does not even give a fuck.
The way people stare as he bursts into the dining room - everyone still standing around, sipping cocktails and picking at hors d’oeuvres and throwing off his fucking service schedule - is almost as good as how they part before him like the Red Sea. Not nearly as impressive, though, as how they all gasp and fall silent in the wake of the pan hitting the floor at Danneel fucking Harris' pedicured feet, spatter-painting her champagne-satin gown with dark jus all the way up her legs.
"What the-" she starts out a snarl, pretty, done-up face a mask of shocked fury.
"If you have a problem with my partner, you have a problem with me, understand?” he booms out loud over her, “You hired us to do a job, a hard job, made more so by constantly having to put up with your shit, but we did that. We did everything you asked of us except for this one little thing, and you have the audacity to call my friend a freak because he won't change who he is to fit your idea of what the world ought to be? You had no right. But since we’re so accommodating, we won't sully you with our unacceptable presence any longer. Food's in the oven, princess, hope it treats you well. The freak and I are leaving."
He turns to see the entire kitchen staff standing at the service door along with a handful of servers who look like they’re about to faint. Jensen kind of knows the feeling, but he’s too high on adrenaline for his body to collapse yet, so for the moment he’s just shaking.
Chris, Sandy and Misha all probably have expressions, but right now Jensen’s only got eyes for Jared, who looks caught somewhere between delighted and throwing a shit-fit as Jensen pushes through them into the kitchen. Dimly he can hear the sounds of people all starting to gossip at once and the incredulous shouts of Danneel ordering him back to her. Jensen blithely ignores it. About time he got the last word.
***
Sitting in the back of the van they rented out to haul their supplies, sucking on a bottle of Grand Marnier that was supposed to be part of the mini-soufflés - because they’ve already burned through the bourbon from Chris' flask - might not be a new low for Jensen. Add in the fact that he just essentially wrecked his life's ambition, probably gave grounds for a lawsuit, made himself nigh unhireable in front of a couple dozen members of the industry, and the media, and - cherry on top - took the rest of the crew down with him over - essentially - Jared's hair color and that is definitely a new low. Possibly for humanity at large.
It’s not really gridlock, but it is Manhattan on a Friday night, so they aren’t exactly breaking the sound barrier either. The van lurches as they hit another stop light, and Chris curses something about the city timing the lights just to screw with him.
Sandy’s up front in the passenger seat, Jensen, Jared and Misha crammed in the back with what’s left of their supplies. Misha’s looking out the rear window even though there can’t be much to see; Jensen really hopes it’s not because he can’t stand to set eyes on Jensen, not that he’d really be able to blame Misha for it. Jared’s sitting next to Jensen on their cooler, pressed flush together from hip to knee. Jensen’s fingers are sort of numb from the strength he’s using to hold onto Jared’s hand but his partner - his friend - isn’t complaining.
"I'll understand if you resign, no hard feelings,” bubbles out of Jensen, because apparently he’s lost the ability to filter anything he says, “There's no reason for the rest of you to go down with the ship. It was my action; no one can blame you for that. If you quit now, it won't even be a blot on your resume."
The kind of silence that only comes with New York traffic follows that; the road rushing away beneath them, the sound of horns, and the music of bars they pass filtering in on the heavy weight of no one speaking.
At last, Chris breaks through it, laying on the horn at a cyclist as he speaks. "Well, I'm convinced. Where's my severance package?"
Jensen’s not sure what he was expecting - he knew they’d all just been waiting for him to let them off the hook, so naturally they were going to say yes - but that takes his already surprise-numb brain for a loop.
"Uh, I-"
"Are a tool, and didn't mean it? Yeah, I know,” Chris jumps in, glancing over his shoulder to lock Jensen with a look before focusing back on the sea of cars in front of him, “Not quitting, man, we'll figure something out."
"I'm with you guys, no matter what,” Sandy chimes in.
Misha grins and kicks at Jensen’s shoe. "Hey, I'm always down for an adventure. Besides, where else is a freak supposed to go?"
Jensen feels the sharp prick of guilt in his chest like a physical thing. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Sure you did. It's true,” Misha shrugs back easily, at last fixing his intense blue gaze on Jensen, “We work insane hours on our feet in kitchens that make hell look like a moderate climate. We end up cut and burned with body temperatures that never regulate right and resign ourselves to spending the rest of forever smelling like food. We sweat, and we bleed, and we bust our asses for a business where breaking even is a miracle, just so we can drag out of bed after - on a good night - five hours of sleep and do it all over again. All for the sake of braised ramps and croquembouche. We're crazy, we're freaks, and you're one of us, buddy,” he reaches across the small space between them and smacks Jensen on the leg, “Fly the freak flag."
Jared is the first to start laughing, a quiet rumble that works its way up out of his throat louder and louder as the rest of the crew joins in. Jensen’s not even sure it’s actually funny, but once his diaphragm is shaking with it, he can’t seem to make himself stop either. Jared just squeezes his hand and laughs along.
***
It will never fail to amaze Jensen how much bigger the kitchen seems when there's no one else in it. It's never felt empty before though, like the very building knows what Jensen's done to them.
"It'll be ok," Jared murmurs reassuringly from the doorway. He actually sounds like he means it. Jensen wants so very badly to believe him. "The regulars know us, they'll stick around. And hey, no press is bad press, right?"
The smile that trembles on Jensen's face seems to pull at something in his throat, tightening it up around a thin stream of air. Absently he pats the counter, so many of his best memories wrapped up in steam and stainless steel. What are they going to do if they can't make the rent? More than the restaurant, they'll lose their home, their own little place in the world. His lungs burn like an overworked muscle.
Jared's arms come around him unexpectedly; strong and warm, practically goading the tears out of Jensen's eyes. He fights them anyway, rigid in the circle of Jared's embrace until it stops feeling so overwhelming. Jared holds on through it.
"We'll start a new place if we have to," he promises softly against the top of Jensen's head. "Just you and me and the crew, we can make it. We've done it with less."
True, the last time - the first time - it had just been them, the two of them ripping out molded dry wall and trying not to electrocute themselves with the rewiring - making this place livable. They'd done it with barely enough in the bank to make ends meet; survived on ramen noodles and day olds from the bakery down the street where a few years later they'd pick up Misha. They'd lived for nothing but to make this happen, somehow miraculously attracting their hodge-podge crew along the way; their wanna-be rock star grill-master and the pint-sized ballerina with knife skills of doom. Their crazy little family, built out of dedication and their own two - four - hands. And maybe that's enough.
"Yeah," he breathes at last, still a little tight in the throat, but feeling better, or at least less like he's going to fall to pieces at any moment. The hold on him loosens just enough for Jared to turn him around so that he's looking up into soft hazel eyes. Jared, with his ridiculously normal hair and insanely blank shirt, all for Jensen. And suddenly that fall-apart feeling comes flooding back, but in a whole new, inexplicable way. He needs to get away from it.
"Better get some sleep," Jensen says, not sure whether he's talking to himself or the man looking down at him, "Lots to deal with in the morning." Jensen takes a moment to be grateful that he decided before the event not to open for service tomorrow as he smacks Jared lightly on the shoulder and pulls away.
“Pussy.”
Jensen almost trips over his own feet. He takes a moment, waiting for reality to reassert itself because clearly Jared could not have possibly just said that.
“What?”
Jared lifts an eyebrow at him, leaning to rest the small of his back on the edge of the counter. “You go and defend my honor and now you’re just gonna waste all your prince charming points and not make a move?”
Jensen quirks a brow right back. “Wrecking our business, and the careers and lives of practically everyone we know, qualifies for prince charming points?”
“I have a complex, multi-layered system of tabulation,” Jared’s broad shoulders rise on a shrug.
“You’ve never had a system in your life,” Jensen accuses in return.
“Not true, I had a Super Nintendo Entertainment System as a kid.”
“Those were the shit.”
“Yeah they were,” Jared grins his agreement, “Also, you’re stalling. Thus, I reiterate, pussy.”
“Shut up,” Jensen’s unable to meet those piercing eyes as he mumbles, “maybe I’m nervous, ok?”
Jared laughs, “Because we’ve never gotten it on before?”
“I…” He hasn’t got anything to say to that, not anything coherent anyway. There are a lot of somethings; bits and pieces of ideas and wants and reasons that this is a terrible idea, but nothing he can work out the right words for. Then Jared’s there, always there, his hands ever so gently sliding up the side of Jensen’s face.
“Hey, I get it,” Jared whispers, “But man, you just pulled off the epic romantic gesture, you can’t not back it up now.”
“It doesn’t…” he starts, but it fits all wrong, beginning again with, “You’re my friend. I’m supposed to stand up for you.”
“You really gonna tell me that’s why you did it?” Jared’s thumb makes a soft arc back and forth across Jensen’s cheekbone. “The whole reason, nothing else?” The way he looks is so open, like Jensen’s already lost this fight and Jared’s just waiting on him to realize it. Like maybe Jared’s been waiting a while.
“All of the reasons we broke up are still there,” is what comes out of Jensen next, so quiet it’s barely a sound, even in the silence of the kitchen. It doesn’t seem like the most important point with everything else that happened today. It doesn’t even feel like a day, more like a year of days shoved into one not-so-neat package. But that’s the reason he gives and it’s the one that makes Jared smile a little brighter at him.
“Yeah, and they’re probably always gonna be,” Jared leans in close, lips not quite brushing Jensen’s, and Jensen is very starkly aware of how much he’s not pulling back from it the way he intends to. “We haven’t been able to shake each other yet, might as well make peace with our addictions."
Jared kisses him slow and sweet, the way Jensen knows his friend likes it best. It’s always good, any which way, even when it’s messy with teeth, and tongue and need, but this - he knows Jared would happily kiss like this for the rest of his life, and right now Jensen’s having a hard time coming up with a reason to stop him.
The pressure of Jared’s thumb against the hinge of his jaw prompts Jensen to open for him, breathing in around the push of Jared’s tongue. He cups Jensen’s head, one hand sliding down between his shoulder blades to the small of his back, pulling them tight together. A lock of baby-fine hair brushes against Jensen’s cheek, bringing with it the sharp smell of chemicals that’s so right on Jared and so very not right at the same time.
He pulls back slightly, despite the low whine of disapproval from his friend, to murmur, “One caveat. We have got to do something with your hair, it’s freaking me out.”
***
The sound of his cell phone ringing nearly jolts Jensen's heart out his chest as he startles awake. Jared groans and mumbles something to the effect of, 'turn it off,' before hiding in the crook of Jensen's neck.
He manages to catch the phone before it jitters off the nightstand, glaring at the letters on the screen until they finally resolve into a name.
“There had better be a damn good reason for this, Sandy,” he snaps, searching by touch for his glasses before he remembers they're either somewhere down in the kitchen or on the stairs - the specifics of getting undressed last night had fuzzed out around the much more imperative functions of stumbling up the stairs while kissing Jared.
“Well good morning to you too, sunshine," she replies, good mood seemingly unfazed, "Just thought you might want to know that we’re the talk of the New York food blog scene.”
“I threw dinner at our client and walked out on the Times, of c-" He loses the rest of the word on a gasp when Jared protests the early morning conversation with his teeth. "-Course we’re the talk.”
There's a pause on the line and when Sandy's voice comes back, there's a dark brand of enthusiasm in it. “Are you having sex right now?”
“Was there something else?” Jensen sighs in lieu of an answer. Jared's slowly starting to rub his morning wood against Jensen's hip, and unless this conversation has some specific point, he'd prefer to get back to drowning his sorrows in the boundless sexual appetite of his re-boyfriend.
“Oh my god! Are you and Jared having sex right now? Are you getting back together? Why did you pick up the phone in the middle of having sex with Jared?”
“We’re not having sex!” Jensen barks back. It probably would have been more convincing if Jared hadn't thrown off his voice by choosing that moment to get a firm grip around Jensen's interested cock.
Jared, of course, helpfully chimes in with, “Yet”
“Oh my god, it is Jared!" Sandy crows delightedly, "I get to plan the menu for your commitment ceremony!”
“Sandy!” he snaps, batting Jared's hand away at the same time, even though his dick lodges a very strenuous protest over it. “No, Sandy, not Sadie,” he whispers at the dog as she happily licks his elbow good morning. Jared chuckles and reaches out to scratch behind her ears.
“Spoil sport. Anyway, I thought that the fact that our Opentable has us booked up of three weeks straight might peak your interest.”
“I don- … what?”
“They loved it, Jen," she breathes, awed, ecstatic, other words Jensen can't think of right now because, really? They're booked? "I mean, not the clients, and I don’t know about the Times, but the bloggers love it. Somebody had a camera phone or something, and they posted the video with this diatribe about hypocrisy in the food movement or something. Anyway, it’s becoming this whole big thing, picked up on Eater and Grub Street and the whole deal. Everybody’s showing their support for the kitchen ‘freaks’. You’re like a hero.”
“I… what?”
“You struck a chord, Jensen," Sandy insists, "Don’t question the blessing. Oh, and, um… there’s one other thing.”
The hesitant way she says it snaps Jensen to nervous attention. “What?”
“Well, you remember that picture from Jared’s 21st?”
“Yeah.” Of course he remembers the picture, it’s the one and only non-sexual one he’s ever banned Jared from showing around. It had been taken on Jared’s birthday, true, but the celebration had been as much about having finally made it over that magic threshold of a year in business as it had been about Jared finally being legal. It had been just the four of them then; him, Jared, Chris and Sandy and they’d pretty much spent the night getting sloppy drunk and fixing up whatever crazy, impossible concoctions they could think of in the kitchen - they still owe the bourbon-bacon éclair to that evening.
“Well, um," she hedges, "I don’t know how it got out there, I swear, but a bunch of the blogs are posting it along with the story.”
The picture had been taken late into that night, well after they all should have packed it in. It prominently features Jensen in nothing but a pair of charcoal grey boxer briefs and motorcycle boots with his whites hanging open around his sides. Birthday-boy Jared’s hanging all over him in it, stripped down to a pair of low slung jeans with duct tape on the knee and a cowboy hat he’d plucked off a Chris’ head; his stomach decorated with the remnants of neon pink frosting - evidence of an incident Jensen had sworn all of them to secrecy about. Chris is hanging out to his other side, looking loose and a little dazed, while Sandy is barely visible in the back, trying to simultaneously give all three of them bunny ears. They’re all sloppy and smiling, high on cheap booze and the realization that this crazy thing they had going just might work. It ranked right up there in the top 10 nights of Jensen’s life, but that doesn’t mean he wants the evidence of it plastered all over the world wide web.
“Shit.”
“It’s not that bad,” Sandy assures him.
“Yeah, great, I… thanks, thanks for letting me know - about everything I mean, it’s… stunning.”
“You got that right! Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, boss! You boys have fun, now!”
The phone shuts itself off with a cli-click, and Jensen turns his eyes on Jared who's watching him curiously.
"So, hey," Jensen leads in casually, setting the phone aside, "remember that picture from your 21st birthday?"
"Yeah," Jared answers. It was probably supposed to be casual too, but Jensen saw the hesitation in his eyes. So that's how it is, huh?
“Boy, I’m gonna kill you.”
EPILOGUE
“Where are my soft-shells?”
“Fifty seconds!” Colin calls out, sounding only moderately overwhelmed as he checks the crabs. At least his voice seems to have stopped breaking every time he has to speak to Jensen directly.
“Kid’s got that specificity thing down pat,” Chris winks at him, bent over his own station.
“He’s learning from the best,” Jensen deadpans back, trying not to react when Colin plates the damn thing upside down, gets halfway through before realizing what he’s doing and fixes it. It’s important to let him learn it on his own, Jensen knows, but it still drives him up the wall when he could just do it.
The scrabble-scrabble-huff of running canines momentarily precedes the sight of Jared jogging the dogs - yes, plural, Jensen’s a giant sap who let Jared’s fine, fine ass blackmail him into getting another dog - in the back door and up the stairs. Technically that violates quite a few health codes, but it’s either that or leave them locked upstairs for the whole service and Jensen would rather take the risk of letting Jared run them around than the guarantee of dog crap on their floor.
Plus, taking Jared off the line for a few minutes gives their Kitchen Bitch a chance to actually get his hands dirty. And that’s a good thing, Jensen reminds himself, even if it does mean the soft-shells get plated upside down.
“Any year,” he yell-sighs over the sound of Jared clomping down the stairs like a drunken Clydesdale.
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’, bossy,” Jared grumbles. He jumps the last couple of steps and starts scrubbing down in the sink.
The slap of broad hands on his ass makes Jensen jump.
“Just dryin’ my hands,” Jared grins, giving Jensen’s ass an extra-long squeeze before releasing him and wiping the wet backs of his hands on Jensen’s pants.
“Delightful,” he snarks back, “And sanitary. When the DOH shuts us down you’re the one dealing with the red tape.”
“Ah, prissy little whiners,” Jared taps Colin on the shoulder as he jokes, seamlessly taking over the station, “Everything tastes better with a little dog hair.”
The new server, a girl named Katie with an ‘I will cut you’ attitude Jensen can appreciate, hustles in to pick up the orders for table six, dropping off a ticket for table eight while she’s at it. Jensen calls down the list, making a mental note about moving the duck to the tasting menu - that thing’s selling like hot cakes.
A year and a half after the blogs first came out with their names spattered all over the place and Jensen still keeps expecting wake up and find he dreamt the whole thing. They never did make the Times, but they caught one hell of a review from New York Magazine and got a nod from Food and Wine. Jared was featured in a group thing for Bon Appetit a couple of months ago - their mothers probably single handedly doubled the sales of that issue - and they’ve even gotten calls about being on Iron Chef America which Jay is dying to do and Jensen has a panic attack just considering. Their reservations are full most nights, but there’s still room for locals and walk-ins which has always been a priority for them and while sometimes Jensen sort of wishes he could sit back and hit the pause button, it’s a good kind of problem to have. Besides, he’s got Jared and the crew if it ever really gets to be too much.
He smiles and calls out the next round of orders as they come in, catching a quick wink from Jared in confirmation that he heard. The little print off that Jared taped over his station so long ago catches Jensen’s eye as it almost inevitably does, positioned perfectly in his line of sight. It’s a copy of that first blog that made Jensen out to be the messiah of the ‘freak chef’ with that fucking picture - hadn’t that been a delight to explain to his parents? - decorated all around the edges with pictures of flowers and candles and burnt offerings. Jared calls it his shrine. Jensen resists the urge to smack him. At least most of the time.
That’s not the only picture in the kitchen, but the rest are tucked away on the bulletin board, safe from where anything might spatter or light them on fire - one of the many dangers of training a teenager on the line. Old and new pictures, ones from the very beginning when it was just the two of them trying to scoop the water out of their sinking ship before they drowned and later ones as they picked up members of the team. A couple are questionably appropriate to put up in a semi-public forum but they were all taken in or around this kitchen with this crew - plus the pups - and that’s just a part of who they are.
“Thinky thoughts!” Jared cries out in warning, echoed all around the kitchen in varying degrees of dramaticism. He hauls Jensen in by the front of his pants for a fast, messy kiss, wet with entirely too much sweat to be completely appealing, but Jensen can’t find it in himself to mind.
“Head in the game, JR,” Jared gives him the doggy-training nose tap, which is both annoying and annoyingly effective.
He scrubs at the end of his nose with the back of his hand and mutters, “Right back at you, JT.”
“If you two get any cuter you’re going to start shitting flowers and talking bunny-rabbits,” Chris gripes, rolling his eyes and smiling all at once. Sandy laughs and reaches over to tip the back of his hat forward with her knife, covering his eyes. He menaces at her with his tongs, but it loses some of the force when a macerated blueberry splats into the side of his face. Misha dives for cover behind his station. It really is like working with a bunch of kindergarteners.
“Settle down, children,” he scolds, calling out another ticket as Brock hands it off. There are smiles all around under heat-red faces and half-whispered threats about ‘later’. Jared stick out his tongue at Jensen and laughs, flipping traffic-cone-orange streaked hair back to focus on his proteins.
Yeah, Jensen thinks, it’s a good kind of problem to have.
The End