fic: out of nowhere (Top Chef RPS, Harold/Stephen, 1/1)
This is for trollprincess, who did it first; and for wtf27, which is the crackiest comm *ever*, and y’all should go join right now.
out of nowhere
by Gale
SUMMARY: "They can go somewhere and make out. I don't care, I'm done, I'm over it."
It strikes Harold, much later, as being extremely funny that he gets through the entire taping process -- with Stephen around him 24/7, sharing a room in the apartment, accidentally hip-checking him by the burners, joking about opening a restaurant together -- and it's only on the morning of the reunion show that he wakes up gay.
Not, like, ha-ha funny, but dude, he's a chef. He knows food, not funny.
*
"They can go somewhere and make out," Dave mutters, half-glaring at the camera, and wipes his hands on his apron before heading back inside.
*
The hell of it is, nothing happens during taping.
There isn't *time*, for starters; the whole thing was done in a matter of days, and pulling all-nighters planning a wedding reception to feed a hundred people and trying not to hate yourself for forgetting the jicama -- jicama, for fuck's sake -- is not exactly the right environment to start *anything*, except maybe an ulcer.
Plus, Stephen's sort of a dick. It's not surprising -- a lot of chefs have an attitude, and Harold knows himself well enough to know that he's no exception -- but as much as Harold likes the guy and wants him to do well, wants him to stay there, there are just as many times when he wants to bang him over the head with a sauce pan and see if that'll knock something loose in his head and make him act like a human being instead of...well. Instead of like Stephen, basically.
He isn't surprised Stephen makes it as far as he does, but he also isn't surprised when Stephen goes home. That Top Sommelier thing really hit home; but only with the judges, not with Stephen. Stephen seems sort of distant from the whole thing, like he's in shock or something, which he probably is.
Stephen might be a dick, Harold thinks, looking at the last three standing, but he'd pay good fucking money to have him there instead of Tiffani.
*
"Spam," Harold says. He sounds dazed. But that's okay, because that's how he feels. "I just. I bought Spam."
Stephen pats his arm. "It could've been worse," he says, sounding sympathetic in a way he's never managed before. But then, they've never had to buy food from a gas station before. "There could have been nacho cheese."
"Oh, God," Harold moans, "don't even joke." He falls over and buries his face in Stephen's arm.
*
Harold has never been around more drunk people in his entire life, up to and including being in a bar.
But the producers "thoughtfully" left out a couple of bottles of wine, and Stephen makes a beeline for them before he even says hi to anyone. Everyone else is still hugging and clapping hands on each other's backs; Stephen's on his second glass.
And then Lee Anne spotted what Stephen was doing, and Dave, and it all went to hell after that. Most of them, like Harold, went and got glasses; Stephen and Lee Anne were just drinking directly out of the bottle, and more than once Harold sees the two of them passing it up to the top row so Lisa and Cynthia could top their glasses off.
The questions start pretty early. It's all good-natured enough -- Tiffani, do you know where's a conspiracy theory; Ken, do you feel you should have been sent home first -- but Harold still shrugs at the relationship question. It really isn't anyone's business but his own. "I'm--"
"--gay," Ken almost sings out, leaning back in his chair and smirking.
Harold doesn't even blink, just leans his head back and says, "What are you doing later, Ken?"
Everyone laughs it off, which is fine; kind of the point, actually. But Harold isn't so drunk that he misses the way Stephen glances over at him and narrows his eyes just a little, almost thoughtfully.
*
He can't be certain, but he's pretty sure Stephen was about to take a swing at Ken.
"Dude, no," he mutters, putting a hand on his arm. "It isn't even worth it. Just -- no, just sit down, okay?"
"Fucking asshole isn't even worth it," Stephen mutters, and carefully steps back out of Harold's reach. Whether it's just Stephen doing the whole drunken don't-touch-me thing, or he just doesn't want anyone to talk him down, it doesn't matter: it still hurts.
*
"You -- no," Stephen says, sounding a little lost.
Harold nods.
"You. They gave you a bottle of Shafer."
Harold nods again.
"Shafer," Stephen says again, and just sort of collapses on the sofa in Harold's hotel suite. "Oh my God. You're not fucking -- you're serious?"
"Unopened," Harold says. He's trying very hard not to be gleeful, but it's tough. He leans against the table and finishes off a glass of the bottle Stephen brought with him. He's pretty sure it's one of the bottles from the reunion show, but he's not sure. And it's four in the morning, so he kind of doesn't care. "It's still a little dusty." He grins. "I was thinking about having a couple of people over, serving it with burgers."
"I hate you so much," Stephen howls, and falls over on the sofa. He curls up half-fetal and pretends -- well. Harold *thinks* it's pretend weeping, anyway. It's a bottle of Shafer, and Stephen. It might actually be real.
"Or Steakums, maybe--"
"Fuck off!" Stephen yells, and Harold can't help it. He bursts out laughing, falling forward to land on his hands and knees. He's been primed for a laughing jag since the montages, and Stephen on the sofa in his hotel room, wailing and gnashing his teeth, is just what sets him off. "You don't -- that is not funny, asshole."
"It's a little funny," Harold says, giggling. He half-scoots, half-crawls over to Stephen and pats his ankle. "It's fine, okay? It's in a safe place, complete with temperature control."
"Jesus," Stephen says, "I was gonna say." He slides down the sofa and sits next to Harold. "Shafer," he says again, even more reverently than the first time, and shakes his head sadly.
And that's when Harold leans over to kiss him.
Stephen lets him, for all of two seconds. His mouth tastes like the white wine Bravo provided, and a little like toothpaste, but mostly like someone a few years younger than him who's too startled to do anything but kiss him back.
Then he sits back, wide-eyed and completely startled. "So, what," Stephen says. Harold didn't think anyone could actually sound *that* incredulous until this moment. "You just -- what, woke up gay? That's not how it works, dude."
"Who says?" Harold asks. God only knows how he must look, red-mouthed and half-awake; he can see the stubble burn on Stephen's cheeks even now. "Who *says* you can't just wake up gay one morning?"
"Well, for starters," Stephen says, "the gay guy." He starts ticking things off on his fingers. "Also, let's see: you never flirted with me, you never tried anything, you never so much as *looked* at another guy--"
"I flirt with you all the time," Harold shoots back, ticking his own fingers off. "Do you see me up here with anyone else? Do you see Lee Anne coming out of the bathroom, wanting to know what all the fucking yelling is about? No. Two: of course I didn't try anything, because we were working 20-hour days and getting drunk afterwards. And also, not gay then. Three--"
"You don't just wake up gay!" Stephen yells, like it's a personal affront. Harold can see why he thinks that, but that doesn't mean he's not wrong.
"Yes you do," Harold says. "Some people do. *I* did. Three: who else would I have looked at? Dave? Brian? Miguel?" He shakes his head. "Face it, you broke me. You're one step closer to the toaster oven."
"There is no toaster--" Stephen shuts himself down and takes a deep breath to compose himself. "I didn't vote for you," he says, like it's a challenge. "I said Dave would win. I said he appeals more to the regular person, where you and Tiffani are more oriented towards fine dining."
"So?" Harold shrugs. "You're not wrong about that. About Dave winning, maybe, but not about how popular he is. Fuck, if it came down to Dave or Tiffani, *I'd* want Dave to win." He cocks his head. "Also," he says, "this isn't really about who you want to see win. Is it."
"That's not the p--"
"Stephen. Stephen." Harold looks at him. "I'm smart, I'm funny, I have a bottle of Shafer. This is not the kind of thing that happens every day."
Stephen looks at him for a long time, eyes narrowed. Harold holds his breath and waits.
"Fuck," Stephen finally mutters, "fine, you woke up gay." He kisses Harold again.
"I'm telling you," Harold says, "one step closer to that toaster oven."
"Fuck you," Stephen says, "I'm a chef." He kisses Harold one more time, then pulls back and strips his shirt off. "I'm getting a convection oven."
out of nowhere
by Gale
SUMMARY: "They can go somewhere and make out. I don't care, I'm done, I'm over it."
It strikes Harold, much later, as being extremely funny that he gets through the entire taping process -- with Stephen around him 24/7, sharing a room in the apartment, accidentally hip-checking him by the burners, joking about opening a restaurant together -- and it's only on the morning of the reunion show that he wakes up gay.
Not, like, ha-ha funny, but dude, he's a chef. He knows food, not funny.
*
"They can go somewhere and make out," Dave mutters, half-glaring at the camera, and wipes his hands on his apron before heading back inside.
*
The hell of it is, nothing happens during taping.
There isn't *time*, for starters; the whole thing was done in a matter of days, and pulling all-nighters planning a wedding reception to feed a hundred people and trying not to hate yourself for forgetting the jicama -- jicama, for fuck's sake -- is not exactly the right environment to start *anything*, except maybe an ulcer.
Plus, Stephen's sort of a dick. It's not surprising -- a lot of chefs have an attitude, and Harold knows himself well enough to know that he's no exception -- but as much as Harold likes the guy and wants him to do well, wants him to stay there, there are just as many times when he wants to bang him over the head with a sauce pan and see if that'll knock something loose in his head and make him act like a human being instead of...well. Instead of like Stephen, basically.
He isn't surprised Stephen makes it as far as he does, but he also isn't surprised when Stephen goes home. That Top Sommelier thing really hit home; but only with the judges, not with Stephen. Stephen seems sort of distant from the whole thing, like he's in shock or something, which he probably is.
Stephen might be a dick, Harold thinks, looking at the last three standing, but he'd pay good fucking money to have him there instead of Tiffani.
*
"Spam," Harold says. He sounds dazed. But that's okay, because that's how he feels. "I just. I bought Spam."
Stephen pats his arm. "It could've been worse," he says, sounding sympathetic in a way he's never managed before. But then, they've never had to buy food from a gas station before. "There could have been nacho cheese."
"Oh, God," Harold moans, "don't even joke." He falls over and buries his face in Stephen's arm.
*
Harold has never been around more drunk people in his entire life, up to and including being in a bar.
But the producers "thoughtfully" left out a couple of bottles of wine, and Stephen makes a beeline for them before he even says hi to anyone. Everyone else is still hugging and clapping hands on each other's backs; Stephen's on his second glass.
And then Lee Anne spotted what Stephen was doing, and Dave, and it all went to hell after that. Most of them, like Harold, went and got glasses; Stephen and Lee Anne were just drinking directly out of the bottle, and more than once Harold sees the two of them passing it up to the top row so Lisa and Cynthia could top their glasses off.
The questions start pretty early. It's all good-natured enough -- Tiffani, do you know where's a conspiracy theory; Ken, do you feel you should have been sent home first -- but Harold still shrugs at the relationship question. It really isn't anyone's business but his own. "I'm--"
"--gay," Ken almost sings out, leaning back in his chair and smirking.
Harold doesn't even blink, just leans his head back and says, "What are you doing later, Ken?"
Everyone laughs it off, which is fine; kind of the point, actually. But Harold isn't so drunk that he misses the way Stephen glances over at him and narrows his eyes just a little, almost thoughtfully.
*
He can't be certain, but he's pretty sure Stephen was about to take a swing at Ken.
"Dude, no," he mutters, putting a hand on his arm. "It isn't even worth it. Just -- no, just sit down, okay?"
"Fucking asshole isn't even worth it," Stephen mutters, and carefully steps back out of Harold's reach. Whether it's just Stephen doing the whole drunken don't-touch-me thing, or he just doesn't want anyone to talk him down, it doesn't matter: it still hurts.
*
"You -- no," Stephen says, sounding a little lost.
Harold nods.
"You. They gave you a bottle of Shafer."
Harold nods again.
"Shafer," Stephen says again, and just sort of collapses on the sofa in Harold's hotel suite. "Oh my God. You're not fucking -- you're serious?"
"Unopened," Harold says. He's trying very hard not to be gleeful, but it's tough. He leans against the table and finishes off a glass of the bottle Stephen brought with him. He's pretty sure it's one of the bottles from the reunion show, but he's not sure. And it's four in the morning, so he kind of doesn't care. "It's still a little dusty." He grins. "I was thinking about having a couple of people over, serving it with burgers."
"I hate you so much," Stephen howls, and falls over on the sofa. He curls up half-fetal and pretends -- well. Harold *thinks* it's pretend weeping, anyway. It's a bottle of Shafer, and Stephen. It might actually be real.
"Or Steakums, maybe--"
"Fuck off!" Stephen yells, and Harold can't help it. He bursts out laughing, falling forward to land on his hands and knees. He's been primed for a laughing jag since the montages, and Stephen on the sofa in his hotel room, wailing and gnashing his teeth, is just what sets him off. "You don't -- that is not funny, asshole."
"It's a little funny," Harold says, giggling. He half-scoots, half-crawls over to Stephen and pats his ankle. "It's fine, okay? It's in a safe place, complete with temperature control."
"Jesus," Stephen says, "I was gonna say." He slides down the sofa and sits next to Harold. "Shafer," he says again, even more reverently than the first time, and shakes his head sadly.
And that's when Harold leans over to kiss him.
Stephen lets him, for all of two seconds. His mouth tastes like the white wine Bravo provided, and a little like toothpaste, but mostly like someone a few years younger than him who's too startled to do anything but kiss him back.
Then he sits back, wide-eyed and completely startled. "So, what," Stephen says. Harold didn't think anyone could actually sound *that* incredulous until this moment. "You just -- what, woke up gay? That's not how it works, dude."
"Who says?" Harold asks. God only knows how he must look, red-mouthed and half-awake; he can see the stubble burn on Stephen's cheeks even now. "Who *says* you can't just wake up gay one morning?"
"Well, for starters," Stephen says, "the gay guy." He starts ticking things off on his fingers. "Also, let's see: you never flirted with me, you never tried anything, you never so much as *looked* at another guy--"
"I flirt with you all the time," Harold shoots back, ticking his own fingers off. "Do you see me up here with anyone else? Do you see Lee Anne coming out of the bathroom, wanting to know what all the fucking yelling is about? No. Two: of course I didn't try anything, because we were working 20-hour days and getting drunk afterwards. And also, not gay then. Three--"
"You don't just wake up gay!" Stephen yells, like it's a personal affront. Harold can see why he thinks that, but that doesn't mean he's not wrong.
"Yes you do," Harold says. "Some people do. *I* did. Three: who else would I have looked at? Dave? Brian? Miguel?" He shakes his head. "Face it, you broke me. You're one step closer to the toaster oven."
"There is no toaster--" Stephen shuts himself down and takes a deep breath to compose himself. "I didn't vote for you," he says, like it's a challenge. "I said Dave would win. I said he appeals more to the regular person, where you and Tiffani are more oriented towards fine dining."
"So?" Harold shrugs. "You're not wrong about that. About Dave winning, maybe, but not about how popular he is. Fuck, if it came down to Dave or Tiffani, *I'd* want Dave to win." He cocks his head. "Also," he says, "this isn't really about who you want to see win. Is it."
"That's not the p--"
"Stephen. Stephen." Harold looks at him. "I'm smart, I'm funny, I have a bottle of Shafer. This is not the kind of thing that happens every day."
Stephen looks at him for a long time, eyes narrowed. Harold holds his breath and waits.
"Fuck," Stephen finally mutters, "fine, you woke up gay." He kisses Harold again.
"I'm telling you," Harold says, "one step closer to that toaster oven."
"Fuck you," Stephen says, "I'm a chef." He kisses Harold one more time, then pulls back and strips his shirt off. "I'm getting a convection oven."