(no subject)
Epicurious
Supernatural RPF AU
Jared/Jensen; R
4,628 words
A/N: Based loosely (VERY loosely) on the Friends episode "The One with the Stoned Guy," with Jensen as the neurotic chef and Jared as the stoned restaurateur. Thanks to mcee for encouragement all along the way, and for the kickass (and ass-kicking) beta.
It's 8:03 and Jared Padalecki is late. Thirty-three minutes late, to be exact, and Jensen's carefully constructed spinach and orange salad is starting to wilt. The toasted almond dressing has separated twice already.
The oven's been on all day and the kitchen is stuffy and hot despite the open window, propped up with a rolling pin. What little counter space he has is jammed with a tray of onion tartlets waiting to go into the oven, five bottles of carefully-chosen wine, little glass bowls of finely minced garlic, onion, celery. They should be halfway through the salad course by now. He's sweating like some kind of goddamn farm animal.
He had the entire preparation of the five-course meal planned with damn-near military precision, knew the exact choreography of which ingredients at what time, when to stir which pot or pull which pan from the oven. But now he's a half hour behind, and he suddenly can't remember if the soup needs to be pureed before or after the tartlets go into the oven. It's putting him on edge.
Too much time to think and re-think and over-think is making him nervous, but he won't let himself fuck this up. He can do this. He will. He'll get this job and make a name for himself, for his food. Build a reputation, a following. Save up the cash to open his own place someday.
He's already scoped out the space where Jared's restaurant will be. The location's prime and the space is huge, spanning two floors. There's already a good buzz about it. It's as good a place to start as any.
The buzzer trills. He clears his throat as he jabs at the intercom.
"Come on up," he says, thumbing the button to open the lobby door downstairs. He cracks his neck, his knuckles, rolls his shoulders. Takes a deep breath and counts to ten before letting it out, just as the old elevator pings in the hallway. It's 8:12. Forty-two minutes late.
Jensen yanks the door open--it sticks--and to say that the actual Jared Padalecki is nothing at all like the one Jensen pictured is something of an understatement. He expected someone older, less... smiley. Someone not wearing an American Eagle shirt and flip-flops, for god's sake. And shorter. Jesus, the guy's a mountain.
"Sorry I'm late." Jared grin widens as he extends his hand; it dwarfs Jensen's when he takes it. "Had to make a stop on the way over."
"It's fine," Jensen says tightly, stepping back to let Jared in. He's not sure if this whole shaggy-haired, jeans-and-t-shirt thing makes him more or less nervous. He makes himself smile, but that feels tight, too. More nervous it is, then. And, okay, a little annoyed. "As long as you're hungry."
This whole thing feels sort of like a blind date. If it was, Jensen would've been on the phone a half hour ago reaming out whoever set them up. Probably still would be, but at least Jared's cute. It softens the blow somewhat.
"Starving." Jared pats his belly, like a kid who's been promised a lollipop. "And it smells amazing in here."
"Thanks." Jensen fumbles with the locks on the door and smoothes his sweaty palms down the front of his chef's jacket, tsking at a greasy stain near the cuff. "Um, have a seat." He walks Jared in and gestures to the table, perfectly and painstakingly set. "I'll bring out the salad course."
"Awesome, thanks."
Jared slumps into a chair, legs splayed, his smile broad. Jensen feels his own smile loosen, settle into something easier and more comfortable. It tamps down the aggravation a little, but he can't resist one more glance at the clock on his way into the kitchen. 8:19. Almost an hour late, without so much as a phone call.
The dressing's separated again. Jensen huffs as he whisks it.
*
Once he's in the kitchen, Jensen's auto-pilot kicks in and he's just fine, too busy to think about his nerves or even being angry. The tartlets are in the oven, the croutons have just come out, and the soup's in the blender. His timing is perfect.
"This is amazing!" Jared yells. He sounds like his mouth is full, and somehow, Jensen's not surprised. He'd bet Jared holds his spoon like a caveman. Maybe he shouldn't watch the soup course.
Jensen dries his hands on a dish towel and throws it over his shoulder, wipes his face on his sleeve before walking into the dining room. Jared's still chewing, still grinning, his plate so clean Jensen wonders if he actually licked it. He picks it up gingerly.
"Thanks, I'm glad you liked it."
Jared reaches for his wine, emptying his glass in two swallows. He smacks his lips, and Jensen winces. "What's next?"
"Apple and celery root soup with gruyere croutons and prosciutto chips."
Jared groans and closes his eyes, his hand on his stomach. Jensen's heart pulses up against the back of his throat and he almost drops the plate, thinking he just accidentally screwed himself somewhere in all those ingredients, or maybe the combination of them. But then Jared breaks into that grin again and slaps the edge of the table with the heel of his hand, rattling the dishes.
"Holy shit, that sounds like... like food porn. Bring it out, man!"
It's not exactly the kind of ringing endorsement Jensen was hoping for.
*
Of course he stays to watch the soup course. As if he could walk back into the kitchen without seeing if he was right about Jared and the spoon. And to gauge Jared's reaction to the food. Of course.
He hovers at the head of the table, fingers twisting behind his back. Thank god, Jared holds his spoon like a human. He even tips it away from him instead of towards, and doesn't lick the back of it. He's got some manners, then.
"Oh my god." Jared makes a happy humming sound and stuffs two prosciutto chips into his mouth, crunching away happily. Jensen fidgets, twitchy and annoyed.
This is miles away from the quiet, sophisticated meal Jensen had been envisioning all week while he planned the menu. And had he known he'd been feeding Sasquatch, he would've made bigger portions.
He's thrilled that Jared likes the food and that he's so vocal about it, but this whole fast-and-loose, casual kind of pseudo-interview isn't what Jensen prepared for. Jared hasn't asked him a single question about where he went to school, who he studied with, or where he's worked, and there's no way to bring that kind of stuff up in casual conversation without sounding like a douche.
"You gotta put this on the menu, man. It's fucking incredible."
The timer buzzes, and Jensen doesn't have time to ask if he was just offered the job. His hands curl into fists as he excuses himself to the kitchen and bangs his head against the cupboard a few times before pulling the tartlets from the oven. He hears Jared's spoon rattle against the bowl, the scrape of porcelain on porcelain, and then the unmistakable sound of slurping.
The image of Jared eating the last of the soup right from the bowl pops into Jensen's head, and he waits until he hears Jared set the bowl back down, then counts to ten again (just to be safe) before he goes back out there. Some things, he really doesn't need to see for himself.
*
Jared inhales two onion tartlets and another full glass of wine in less than a minute, while Jensen tries not to let his absolute horror show on his face. At least he didn't have to worry that Jared would notice that the bottoms of the tartlets were a little too brown.
"Is there..." Jared pauses to lick his fingers. God, he's appalling. "Was that goat cheese in there?"
Jensen nods, pleased. Finally, he can talk a little more about the food, and his culinary background. "And a fig-infused balsamic glaze. I got the idea from-"
"Are there more?"
Then again, maybe not. Jensen crosses his arms over his chest. "Yeah, I made a full dozen. But there's still two more courses..."
Jared waves him off. "I'll bring 'em home with me. The onion-goat-cheese thingies."
"Tartlets," Jensen says sharply.
"Yeah, those."
"Sure." Jensen walks back into the kitchen without another word. He has to turn the shrimp anyway.
*
He's checking on the fennel risotto when Jared's voice booms out from the living room.
"Hey, have you read this?"
Jensen sighs. Great, now the guy's snooping around his apartment. "Read what?"
He walks into the living room to find Jared at his bookshelf, holding up The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. Heat creeps into Jensen's cheeks.
"Oh. Yeah."
"Is it any good?"
"Yeah." He wants to ask what any of this has to do with the meal, or the job. Just in case Jared forgot why he was here in the first place. It certainly seems like he has.
"Can I borrow it?" Jared asks.
"Uh, sure. I guess."
"Cool, thanks." Jared slumps down on the sofa, bends the cover back when he opens to the first page. Jensen grits his teeth.
Now that his jitters have worn off and Jared's not shoveling food into his face, Jensen's weirdly unsettled by the permanent grin stamped across Jared's mouth. Maybe the reason he's been so enthusiastic about the food isn't entirely due to the food itself. And wouldn't that just be Jensen's stupid luck, to end up cooking a five-course dinner to try and impress a stoner. But it would explain a lot. Maybe.
"The main course'll be out in just a minute," he says, all fake-bright cheer, trying to get Jared to look up, so he can see if he's right. Jared just grunts and turns the page. Jensen throws his hands up at the ceiling and goes to plate the food.
*
Jared eats the shrimp--six of them, tails and all--with his fingers. He hums through the whole course, and Jensen half expects him to start kicking his feet.
"Dude, seriously, this food is unbelievable."
That's not the only thing that's unbelievable. Jensen can't believe he got all the way to the main course without noticing how glassy Jared's eyes are.
But he just says an abrupt, "Thanks," and leaves it at that.
Jared forks the last of the risotto into his mouth, oblivious to Jensen's irritation, and pushes back from the table with a heavy, sated sigh. For a horrifying half-second Jensen thinks Jared's going to unbutton his jeans or shove his hand into the waistband, but all he does is wipe his mouth and toss his napkin onto his empty plate.
It's just as uncivilized and unprofessional and juvenile as everything else Jared's done since he walked through the door--and before, come to think of it, which is probably why Jared was late--but he tries to keep his pissiness in check. He's still insulted, but Jared doesn't seem like a bad person, overall. Just completely uncouth.
Jensen goes back into the kitchen to plate the cooling lava cake and pour the Zinfandel. He pours a glass for himself, too. Drains it and pours another. If you can't beat 'em, and all that.
*
He serves the lava cake with crème anglaise and halved fresh strawberries. Jared's eyes go a little wide when Jensen sets the plate in front of him; Jensen tries not to roll his, but the night's almost over. Just this one last course to get through and he can shuttle Jared out the door.
"Did you want coffee?" he asks, praying Jared will say no. But he couldn't not offer. "Or just the wine?"
Jared tilts his head, considering. "Mmm, coffee. Wine makes me kinda tired, you know? Does it do that to you? Sort of knock you on your ass?"
"Sure." Jensen's already backing towards the kitchen, grateful for any excuse to get him out of the room, before he wrings Jared's neck, or worse. "How do you take your coffee?"
"Just sugar. But only if you've got the real stuff."
"I have the real stuff," Jensen says, incredulous. What kind of chef didn't have real sugar?
"Then yeah, coffee. Two sugars. Please."
Jensen pulls the French press from the cupboard, grabs the coffee beans and the grinder. It's almost ten o'clock and it's going to take him at least an hour to wash all the dishes and pots; just thinking about it makes him tired. But he can't go to bed with a dirty kitchen. He'd never be able to sleep.
"Dude! Sour gummy worms!"
Shit, Jared must've found his movie-candy stash in the sideboard. What the hell he was doing in the sideboard in the first place, of course, is an entirely different question.
Jensen rushes out to the dining table, but it's too late, Jared's already tugging the bag open, sour sugar spilling all over the tablecloth, the plate, his shirt. A few of the worms land on the cake. Jensen's blood pressure skyrockets.
Jared starts to laugh, soundless, his shoulders shaking. But then he wheezes in a breath and throws his head back, lets out a loud, echoing belly laugh.
"It looks like they're drowning in the mud!" he giggles, pointing to his plate. His eyes are all squinched up into slits, wet at the corners. "Look!" He picks up his fork and stabs at a gummy worm, mashing it into the cake. "Doesn't it?"
You've got to be kidding.
"I'll just get the coffee," Jensen says, struggling to keep his voice even. "Enjoy your dessert."
*
He fills the sink with hot water and a generous squirt of dish soap while he finishes setting up the coffee. When he shuts off the water, it's silent in the living room, not even the clink or scrape of a spoon against a plate.
The coffee's done, dark bubbles popping around the edges when he pours it. But he doesn't want to go back out there. It's too mortifying, and he's too pissed off.
Jared saves him the trouble by appearing in the narrow doorway, blocking out the light from the living room. He holds out his empty plate like an olive branch. The spoon clatters to the floor when Jensen snatches it away.
"I've got it," he snaps, stooping to retrieve it. Jared's watching him with an amused smile, sucking a smear of chocolate from his thumb. He doesn't want to drag this thing out, but he needs to know: "How was the lava cake?"
"Fucking amazing. The whole meal was great."
Jensen drops the plate and spoon into the sink, making the water splash up over the counter, onto the floor. "Yeah, thanks. I'm really glad you thought so."
There's an edge of sarcasm in his voice that he can't bite back, and part of him doesn't even care anymore that he's about to blow this. He reaches for the sponge and the nearest dirty dish, dips them both in the sink and starts scrubbing.
"Whoa, okay..." Jared crosses the kitchen to wedge himself against the corner of the counter. He presses his finger into the ramekin Jensen used for the lava cake, collecting crumbs, and sticks his finger in his mouth. "Why are you so mad?" he mumbles around it.
"You're kidding, right?" Jared just stares at him, all furrowed brow and confusion, and shakes his head. Jensen's jaw clenches. He throws his hands up, soapy water arcing across the backsplash. "I prepare a five-course gourmet meal and you show up here stoned!"
"...and?"
"And nothing!" Jensen grabs the ramekin from under Jared's hand. Jared makes a small noise of protest. "It's insulting. To me and the food."
"Are you seriously telling me you've never smoked up?" Jared sounds kind of, well, dismayed. Jensen just blinks, narrows his eyes.
"Sure, in college," he scoffs. "But not since I got into culinary school."
"Dude, why not?"
"It changes the way things taste!" This whole night was a damn waste--of time and energy and two hundred dollars' worth of food and wine. And a cute guy. Jensen's patience is worn through. " I mean, Combos taste like gourmet cooking when you're stoned. You can't exactly trust your palate."
Jared opens his mouth to say something, stops. Wrinkles his nose. "Oh god, you're that guy."
"What guy?"
"That guy who talks about like, preserving the integrity of the ingredients, and says things like, 'awaken the tastebuds.'"
Jensen feels his face getting hot. He plunges his hands back into the sink and finds a wooden spoon, slick with soap. "I take food very seriously."
"Yeah, I can see that." Jared laughs, but it's not mean. He leans in, touches his fingers to Jensen's arm. Too close, and Jensen almost retreats, feels the muscles tighten in his arms and shoulders. "You need to lighten up."
Jared smiles like a toothpaste ad, and Jensen's begrudging Yeah, maybe gets crushed against Jared's mouth, forgotten for a second. Jared's tongue slicks over his, and Jensen has to admit, pairing that Zinfandel with the lava cake was kind of an inspired choice.
"Um. Wait." Jensen pulls back, blushing to the roots of his hair, only manages half a breath before Jared's licking at his mouth again. He realizes he's still up to his elbows in dirty dishwater. It's almost too absurd. "This is..." Crazy. Stupid. And annoying, most of all, that he doesn't actually want to push Jared away, even if he has to. He pulls his hands from the sink, shakes them off and shoves at Jared's chest, leaving damp prints on his shirt. "This is totally unprofessional. We can't."
"Oh yeah? Says who?"
Jensen laughs despite himself. Maybe he shouldn't have downed two whole glasses of wine when he hasn't eaten all day. Yeah, and maybe he shouldn't be making out with his potential employer in his kitchen. "Come on, I'm serious."
"So am I." Jared goes for his mouth again, and this time Jensen yields to it a little, curls his fingers in Jared's shirt. "C'mon, Jensen," he drawls, ducking into another kiss, and Jensen's dick twitches. "Live a little."
Jared crowds him back against the fridge, braces his palms on either side of Jensen's head, trapping him in. Up close like this, Jensen can smell the pot on Jared's clothes, clinging to his hair. Sharp and peppery.
He starts to say I'm going to regret this, aren't I?, but then Jared palms him through his jeans, and Jensen's breath stops right in the center of his chest. Jared smiles, chuckles warmly against Jensen's mouth. His knuckles bump Jensen's stomach as he unzips Jensen's slacks, shoves them and his boxers down over his hips.
Jared's hand on his cock is huge, hot, and Jensen hitches into it, moaning helplessly. He bangs the back of his head against the fridge, shaking one of the magnets loose and sending his cable bill fluttering to the floor. But it doesn't clear his head any, just makes him dizzier.
Then Jared's sinking to his knees, his hands at Jensen's waist, pulling him closer to nuzzle Jensen's hip with his scratchy chin. Jensen's vision slides out of focus, snaps back into it when he blinks.
"Wait, fuck, wait." He grabs for a fistful of Jared's hair, twists until Jared's head bows back into the tug. His mouth is red and spit-shiny, still quirked up at the corner. "Seriously, we can't-"
Jared pushes his fingers into Jensen's mouth, cutting of the rest, and Jensen bites down reflexively, drags his tongue over the whorls in the rough skin. It's sour and salty-sweet: chocolate and sweat and the hard little sugar crystals from the candy, dissolving. Jared pumps Jensen slowly with his free hand, and Jensen can feel Jared's breath along the crown, thick and damp.
"Seriously," Jared says, and Jensen can hear the grin in his voice. "We can."
Jensen just nods--sure, fine, okay--gasps out a curse when Jared sinks down on him, tonguing under the crown and up the slit. His cheeks hollow when he backs off a little, teeth grazing the head, and Jensen forgets about the dinner, the job, everything but Jared's tongue and teeth and fingers. Jared might not be the most well-bred guy, but he liked Jensen's food and he gives killer head. It seems like a pretty even trade right now.
He clutches Jared's hair at the roots, his cock sliding along Jared's palate. Jared's throat constricts around him, slick and tight, and Jensen comes with a grunt, a stuttered shove of his hips. Jared's fingers smear out Jensen's mouth, fisting Jensen's shirt as he swallows, and Jensen's too dazed to be surprised, even when Jared wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.
*
Jensen wakes up muzzy-headed and cotton-mouthed, sprawled naked on top of the sheets with someone's heavy arm thrown over his back. He turns, groaning when he sees Jared's sleeping face, his slack mouth and the little furrow between his eyebrows. The guy takes up easily two-thirds of Jensen's bed, leaving Jensen balanced precariously along the edge. They're both naked.
"Oh, fuck." Jensen mashes his face into his pillow, breathes in the soft, soapy smell of it, a little sweat-musty. Jared mumbles in his sleep, his fingers flexing against Jensen's back. Jensen holds his breath, lets out a relieved sigh when Jared shifts onto his side, away from him. There's a constellation of tiny red marks on Jared's shoulder.
Jensen rolls carefully onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling. Everything that happened after dinner last night is sort of a wine-soaked blur, all hands and teeth and sweat. He thinks he remembers them finishing the Zinfandel and the Shiraz. Wine always did make him kind of stupid.
He lays there for exactly twenty-six minutes, chewing his lip and listening to Jared's quiet snoring, before he gets up and does the only thing he can do: make breakfast.
*
Jared shuffles out in his boxers a half hour later, yawning and scratching himself indulgently, his hair tangled and cowlicking up in the back. He mumbles something that sounds sort of like g'morning without any vowels, his voice gravelly.
Jensen hmms noncommittally and grabs a steaming crepe from the stack next to him, spoons some of the brandied-apple filling into it and folds the whole thing up. The bacon sizzles and pops in the pan and he grabs a fork, flips the pieces absently.
"God, that smells good."
Jared slumps against the counter, tears a corner off one of the crepes and pops it in his mouth. A tiny spark of annoyance flares up in Jensen's belly, but he just sets the crepe on the edge of the cutting board, a wordless invitation for Jared to finish it. He does, in one bite, humming approvingly.
"Good stuff, man. Is there coffee?"
"It just finished brewing. Hang on."
Jensen manages a weak smile, shifts his gaze away from Jared's easy grin. He hasn't had a one-night stand in years; he's bad at this, at pretending it's not weird to have a stranger in his kitchen--his sanctuary--at eight-thirty in the morning. He reaches up to grab two mugs from the cupboard, the hand-painted ones he got at the street fair.
He fills them and hands one off to Jared, points to the little covered bowl behind him when he asks for sugar. Busies himself getting the bacon from the pan and setting up the plates. His presentation's a little clumsy, but somehow he doesn't think Jared's going to notice, or much care even if he does. He hands Jared a plate and a fork, and Jared spears one of the crepes, drags it through the sour cream and stuffs the whole thing in his mouth. Jensen tries not to grimace.
There's that awkward morning-after silence, right on schedule.
Jared settles back against the counter, munching on a piece of bacon. He chews with his mouth open. Jensen has to look down at his own plate before he loses his appetite, but not before Jared's eyes flicker up to the clock above the fridge. He sputters into his coffee, drops his fork.
"What's the matter?" Jensen asks.
"Fuck, I'm late." Jared swipes his napkin across his mouth, then shovels another crepe and the last piece of his bacon into it. "I gotta meet the designer in an hour." He licks the grease from his fingertips, his cheek dimpling when he grins. "And I should probably shower and change first." He swats Jensen's ass as he passes, then slips into the hall.
Jensen's chewing a piece of bacon thoughtfully, eyes fixed on Jared's half-empty plate, when Jared walks past the doorway, buttoning his jeans. He reappears a second later, shrugging into his jacket.
"So," he says, shaking out the collar.
Jensen sets his fork on his plate. The food's gone cold anyway. He can't stand cold bacon. He takes a sip of coffee, clears his throat. "Yeah."
"I gotta go." Jared jerks his thumb towards the door, and Jensen follows him out into the hallway. "But uh, thanks for breakfast. And last night."
"Hey, any time," Jensen says, without thinking. Jared's eyebrow shoots up. A simple you're welcome would've been a much better choice.
He unlocks the door and the deadbolt, unhooks the chain and jerks the door open an inch. There's no tactful way to ask about the job, not now. But he'll probably never hear from Jared again, anyway. Unless Jared's sleeping with all the candidates for the job, but there's no tactful way to ask that, either.
"So, listen..." Jared sounds serious all of a sudden, no trace of a smile now. Jensen scratches a hand over the back of his neck, shifts his weight to his other foot. Here it comes, the I had a great time or you're a nice guy, but...
Jensen steels himself for it, but Jared just pushes his hair out of his eyes, zips his jacket.
"We open in six weeks," he says. "I want to see a menu in two, and then we'll tweak before you cook for the other investors. But don't worry about them, they don't know a chanterelle from a shitake." All Jensen can do is stare, heart skipping, as Jared steps into the hall and jabs at the elevator button. The door rattles open. "I'm sorry, I really gotta run, but I'll call. I've got your number."
Jensen nods, watching the doors close. Tries to figure out, through the creeping giddiness, if he just slept his way into a job or got sexually harassed by his boss. He barks out a bewildered laugh, decides that he doesn't really care either way.
*
He calls his Mom first (but leaves out the sordid details), then his sister (and leaves them in), who both promise to come up for a visit once the restaurant's open. He cleans up the kitchen and living room, finds not two but three empty wine bottles.
In the bedroom, he tugs the sheets off the bed and balls them up, dumping them on the floor; they're pretty gross after last night, and it's laundry day anyway.
He's pulling off the pillowcases when he sees the note on his nightstand, tucked under a tiny plastic baggie with two fat green buds inside. Jensen opens the baggie, and the smell hits him before he can even lift it to his nose. It's been a while, but Jensen still knows good weed when he smells it.
He holds the note up to the light. Jared's handwriting is small and precise, just three words scratched into the paper: Your mission: brownies.
Supernatural RPF AU
Jared/Jensen; R
4,628 words
A/N: Based loosely (VERY loosely) on the Friends episode "The One with the Stoned Guy," with Jensen as the neurotic chef and Jared as the stoned restaurateur. Thanks to mcee for encouragement all along the way, and for the kickass (and ass-kicking) beta.
It's 8:03 and Jared Padalecki is late. Thirty-three minutes late, to be exact, and Jensen's carefully constructed spinach and orange salad is starting to wilt. The toasted almond dressing has separated twice already.
The oven's been on all day and the kitchen is stuffy and hot despite the open window, propped up with a rolling pin. What little counter space he has is jammed with a tray of onion tartlets waiting to go into the oven, five bottles of carefully-chosen wine, little glass bowls of finely minced garlic, onion, celery. They should be halfway through the salad course by now. He's sweating like some kind of goddamn farm animal.
He had the entire preparation of the five-course meal planned with damn-near military precision, knew the exact choreography of which ingredients at what time, when to stir which pot or pull which pan from the oven. But now he's a half hour behind, and he suddenly can't remember if the soup needs to be pureed before or after the tartlets go into the oven. It's putting him on edge.
Too much time to think and re-think and over-think is making him nervous, but he won't let himself fuck this up. He can do this. He will. He'll get this job and make a name for himself, for his food. Build a reputation, a following. Save up the cash to open his own place someday.
He's already scoped out the space where Jared's restaurant will be. The location's prime and the space is huge, spanning two floors. There's already a good buzz about it. It's as good a place to start as any.
The buzzer trills. He clears his throat as he jabs at the intercom.
"Come on up," he says, thumbing the button to open the lobby door downstairs. He cracks his neck, his knuckles, rolls his shoulders. Takes a deep breath and counts to ten before letting it out, just as the old elevator pings in the hallway. It's 8:12. Forty-two minutes late.
Jensen yanks the door open--it sticks--and to say that the actual Jared Padalecki is nothing at all like the one Jensen pictured is something of an understatement. He expected someone older, less... smiley. Someone not wearing an American Eagle shirt and flip-flops, for god's sake. And shorter. Jesus, the guy's a mountain.
"Sorry I'm late." Jared grin widens as he extends his hand; it dwarfs Jensen's when he takes it. "Had to make a stop on the way over."
"It's fine," Jensen says tightly, stepping back to let Jared in. He's not sure if this whole shaggy-haired, jeans-and-t-shirt thing makes him more or less nervous. He makes himself smile, but that feels tight, too. More nervous it is, then. And, okay, a little annoyed. "As long as you're hungry."
This whole thing feels sort of like a blind date. If it was, Jensen would've been on the phone a half hour ago reaming out whoever set them up. Probably still would be, but at least Jared's cute. It softens the blow somewhat.
"Starving." Jared pats his belly, like a kid who's been promised a lollipop. "And it smells amazing in here."
"Thanks." Jensen fumbles with the locks on the door and smoothes his sweaty palms down the front of his chef's jacket, tsking at a greasy stain near the cuff. "Um, have a seat." He walks Jared in and gestures to the table, perfectly and painstakingly set. "I'll bring out the salad course."
"Awesome, thanks."
Jared slumps into a chair, legs splayed, his smile broad. Jensen feels his own smile loosen, settle into something easier and more comfortable. It tamps down the aggravation a little, but he can't resist one more glance at the clock on his way into the kitchen. 8:19. Almost an hour late, without so much as a phone call.
The dressing's separated again. Jensen huffs as he whisks it.
*
Once he's in the kitchen, Jensen's auto-pilot kicks in and he's just fine, too busy to think about his nerves or even being angry. The tartlets are in the oven, the croutons have just come out, and the soup's in the blender. His timing is perfect.
"This is amazing!" Jared yells. He sounds like his mouth is full, and somehow, Jensen's not surprised. He'd bet Jared holds his spoon like a caveman. Maybe he shouldn't watch the soup course.
Jensen dries his hands on a dish towel and throws it over his shoulder, wipes his face on his sleeve before walking into the dining room. Jared's still chewing, still grinning, his plate so clean Jensen wonders if he actually licked it. He picks it up gingerly.
"Thanks, I'm glad you liked it."
Jared reaches for his wine, emptying his glass in two swallows. He smacks his lips, and Jensen winces. "What's next?"
"Apple and celery root soup with gruyere croutons and prosciutto chips."
Jared groans and closes his eyes, his hand on his stomach. Jensen's heart pulses up against the back of his throat and he almost drops the plate, thinking he just accidentally screwed himself somewhere in all those ingredients, or maybe the combination of them. But then Jared breaks into that grin again and slaps the edge of the table with the heel of his hand, rattling the dishes.
"Holy shit, that sounds like... like food porn. Bring it out, man!"
It's not exactly the kind of ringing endorsement Jensen was hoping for.
*
Of course he stays to watch the soup course. As if he could walk back into the kitchen without seeing if he was right about Jared and the spoon. And to gauge Jared's reaction to the food. Of course.
He hovers at the head of the table, fingers twisting behind his back. Thank god, Jared holds his spoon like a human. He even tips it away from him instead of towards, and doesn't lick the back of it. He's got some manners, then.
"Oh my god." Jared makes a happy humming sound and stuffs two prosciutto chips into his mouth, crunching away happily. Jensen fidgets, twitchy and annoyed.
This is miles away from the quiet, sophisticated meal Jensen had been envisioning all week while he planned the menu. And had he known he'd been feeding Sasquatch, he would've made bigger portions.
He's thrilled that Jared likes the food and that he's so vocal about it, but this whole fast-and-loose, casual kind of pseudo-interview isn't what Jensen prepared for. Jared hasn't asked him a single question about where he went to school, who he studied with, or where he's worked, and there's no way to bring that kind of stuff up in casual conversation without sounding like a douche.
"You gotta put this on the menu, man. It's fucking incredible."
The timer buzzes, and Jensen doesn't have time to ask if he was just offered the job. His hands curl into fists as he excuses himself to the kitchen and bangs his head against the cupboard a few times before pulling the tartlets from the oven. He hears Jared's spoon rattle against the bowl, the scrape of porcelain on porcelain, and then the unmistakable sound of slurping.
The image of Jared eating the last of the soup right from the bowl pops into Jensen's head, and he waits until he hears Jared set the bowl back down, then counts to ten again (just to be safe) before he goes back out there. Some things, he really doesn't need to see for himself.
*
Jared inhales two onion tartlets and another full glass of wine in less than a minute, while Jensen tries not to let his absolute horror show on his face. At least he didn't have to worry that Jared would notice that the bottoms of the tartlets were a little too brown.
"Is there..." Jared pauses to lick his fingers. God, he's appalling. "Was that goat cheese in there?"
Jensen nods, pleased. Finally, he can talk a little more about the food, and his culinary background. "And a fig-infused balsamic glaze. I got the idea from-"
"Are there more?"
Then again, maybe not. Jensen crosses his arms over his chest. "Yeah, I made a full dozen. But there's still two more courses..."
Jared waves him off. "I'll bring 'em home with me. The onion-goat-cheese thingies."
"Tartlets," Jensen says sharply.
"Yeah, those."
"Sure." Jensen walks back into the kitchen without another word. He has to turn the shrimp anyway.
*
He's checking on the fennel risotto when Jared's voice booms out from the living room.
"Hey, have you read this?"
Jensen sighs. Great, now the guy's snooping around his apartment. "Read what?"
He walks into the living room to find Jared at his bookshelf, holding up The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. Heat creeps into Jensen's cheeks.
"Oh. Yeah."
"Is it any good?"
"Yeah." He wants to ask what any of this has to do with the meal, or the job. Just in case Jared forgot why he was here in the first place. It certainly seems like he has.
"Can I borrow it?" Jared asks.
"Uh, sure. I guess."
"Cool, thanks." Jared slumps down on the sofa, bends the cover back when he opens to the first page. Jensen grits his teeth.
Now that his jitters have worn off and Jared's not shoveling food into his face, Jensen's weirdly unsettled by the permanent grin stamped across Jared's mouth. Maybe the reason he's been so enthusiastic about the food isn't entirely due to the food itself. And wouldn't that just be Jensen's stupid luck, to end up cooking a five-course dinner to try and impress a stoner. But it would explain a lot. Maybe.
"The main course'll be out in just a minute," he says, all fake-bright cheer, trying to get Jared to look up, so he can see if he's right. Jared just grunts and turns the page. Jensen throws his hands up at the ceiling and goes to plate the food.
*
Jared eats the shrimp--six of them, tails and all--with his fingers. He hums through the whole course, and Jensen half expects him to start kicking his feet.
"Dude, seriously, this food is unbelievable."
That's not the only thing that's unbelievable. Jensen can't believe he got all the way to the main course without noticing how glassy Jared's eyes are.
But he just says an abrupt, "Thanks," and leaves it at that.
Jared forks the last of the risotto into his mouth, oblivious to Jensen's irritation, and pushes back from the table with a heavy, sated sigh. For a horrifying half-second Jensen thinks Jared's going to unbutton his jeans or shove his hand into the waistband, but all he does is wipe his mouth and toss his napkin onto his empty plate.
It's just as uncivilized and unprofessional and juvenile as everything else Jared's done since he walked through the door--and before, come to think of it, which is probably why Jared was late--but he tries to keep his pissiness in check. He's still insulted, but Jared doesn't seem like a bad person, overall. Just completely uncouth.
Jensen goes back into the kitchen to plate the cooling lava cake and pour the Zinfandel. He pours a glass for himself, too. Drains it and pours another. If you can't beat 'em, and all that.
*
He serves the lava cake with crème anglaise and halved fresh strawberries. Jared's eyes go a little wide when Jensen sets the plate in front of him; Jensen tries not to roll his, but the night's almost over. Just this one last course to get through and he can shuttle Jared out the door.
"Did you want coffee?" he asks, praying Jared will say no. But he couldn't not offer. "Or just the wine?"
Jared tilts his head, considering. "Mmm, coffee. Wine makes me kinda tired, you know? Does it do that to you? Sort of knock you on your ass?"
"Sure." Jensen's already backing towards the kitchen, grateful for any excuse to get him out of the room, before he wrings Jared's neck, or worse. "How do you take your coffee?"
"Just sugar. But only if you've got the real stuff."
"I have the real stuff," Jensen says, incredulous. What kind of chef didn't have real sugar?
"Then yeah, coffee. Two sugars. Please."
Jensen pulls the French press from the cupboard, grabs the coffee beans and the grinder. It's almost ten o'clock and it's going to take him at least an hour to wash all the dishes and pots; just thinking about it makes him tired. But he can't go to bed with a dirty kitchen. He'd never be able to sleep.
"Dude! Sour gummy worms!"
Shit, Jared must've found his movie-candy stash in the sideboard. What the hell he was doing in the sideboard in the first place, of course, is an entirely different question.
Jensen rushes out to the dining table, but it's too late, Jared's already tugging the bag open, sour sugar spilling all over the tablecloth, the plate, his shirt. A few of the worms land on the cake. Jensen's blood pressure skyrockets.
Jared starts to laugh, soundless, his shoulders shaking. But then he wheezes in a breath and throws his head back, lets out a loud, echoing belly laugh.
"It looks like they're drowning in the mud!" he giggles, pointing to his plate. His eyes are all squinched up into slits, wet at the corners. "Look!" He picks up his fork and stabs at a gummy worm, mashing it into the cake. "Doesn't it?"
You've got to be kidding.
"I'll just get the coffee," Jensen says, struggling to keep his voice even. "Enjoy your dessert."
*
He fills the sink with hot water and a generous squirt of dish soap while he finishes setting up the coffee. When he shuts off the water, it's silent in the living room, not even the clink or scrape of a spoon against a plate.
The coffee's done, dark bubbles popping around the edges when he pours it. But he doesn't want to go back out there. It's too mortifying, and he's too pissed off.
Jared saves him the trouble by appearing in the narrow doorway, blocking out the light from the living room. He holds out his empty plate like an olive branch. The spoon clatters to the floor when Jensen snatches it away.
"I've got it," he snaps, stooping to retrieve it. Jared's watching him with an amused smile, sucking a smear of chocolate from his thumb. He doesn't want to drag this thing out, but he needs to know: "How was the lava cake?"
"Fucking amazing. The whole meal was great."
Jensen drops the plate and spoon into the sink, making the water splash up over the counter, onto the floor. "Yeah, thanks. I'm really glad you thought so."
There's an edge of sarcasm in his voice that he can't bite back, and part of him doesn't even care anymore that he's about to blow this. He reaches for the sponge and the nearest dirty dish, dips them both in the sink and starts scrubbing.
"Whoa, okay..." Jared crosses the kitchen to wedge himself against the corner of the counter. He presses his finger into the ramekin Jensen used for the lava cake, collecting crumbs, and sticks his finger in his mouth. "Why are you so mad?" he mumbles around it.
"You're kidding, right?" Jared just stares at him, all furrowed brow and confusion, and shakes his head. Jensen's jaw clenches. He throws his hands up, soapy water arcing across the backsplash. "I prepare a five-course gourmet meal and you show up here stoned!"
"...and?"
"And nothing!" Jensen grabs the ramekin from under Jared's hand. Jared makes a small noise of protest. "It's insulting. To me and the food."
"Are you seriously telling me you've never smoked up?" Jared sounds kind of, well, dismayed. Jensen just blinks, narrows his eyes.
"Sure, in college," he scoffs. "But not since I got into culinary school."
"Dude, why not?"
"It changes the way things taste!" This whole night was a damn waste--of time and energy and two hundred dollars' worth of food and wine. And a cute guy. Jensen's patience is worn through. " I mean, Combos taste like gourmet cooking when you're stoned. You can't exactly trust your palate."
Jared opens his mouth to say something, stops. Wrinkles his nose. "Oh god, you're that guy."
"What guy?"
"That guy who talks about like, preserving the integrity of the ingredients, and says things like, 'awaken the tastebuds.'"
Jensen feels his face getting hot. He plunges his hands back into the sink and finds a wooden spoon, slick with soap. "I take food very seriously."
"Yeah, I can see that." Jared laughs, but it's not mean. He leans in, touches his fingers to Jensen's arm. Too close, and Jensen almost retreats, feels the muscles tighten in his arms and shoulders. "You need to lighten up."
Jared smiles like a toothpaste ad, and Jensen's begrudging Yeah, maybe gets crushed against Jared's mouth, forgotten for a second. Jared's tongue slicks over his, and Jensen has to admit, pairing that Zinfandel with the lava cake was kind of an inspired choice.
"Um. Wait." Jensen pulls back, blushing to the roots of his hair, only manages half a breath before Jared's licking at his mouth again. He realizes he's still up to his elbows in dirty dishwater. It's almost too absurd. "This is..." Crazy. Stupid. And annoying, most of all, that he doesn't actually want to push Jared away, even if he has to. He pulls his hands from the sink, shakes them off and shoves at Jared's chest, leaving damp prints on his shirt. "This is totally unprofessional. We can't."
"Oh yeah? Says who?"
Jensen laughs despite himself. Maybe he shouldn't have downed two whole glasses of wine when he hasn't eaten all day. Yeah, and maybe he shouldn't be making out with his potential employer in his kitchen. "Come on, I'm serious."
"So am I." Jared goes for his mouth again, and this time Jensen yields to it a little, curls his fingers in Jared's shirt. "C'mon, Jensen," he drawls, ducking into another kiss, and Jensen's dick twitches. "Live a little."
Jared crowds him back against the fridge, braces his palms on either side of Jensen's head, trapping him in. Up close like this, Jensen can smell the pot on Jared's clothes, clinging to his hair. Sharp and peppery.
He starts to say I'm going to regret this, aren't I?, but then Jared palms him through his jeans, and Jensen's breath stops right in the center of his chest. Jared smiles, chuckles warmly against Jensen's mouth. His knuckles bump Jensen's stomach as he unzips Jensen's slacks, shoves them and his boxers down over his hips.
Jared's hand on his cock is huge, hot, and Jensen hitches into it, moaning helplessly. He bangs the back of his head against the fridge, shaking one of the magnets loose and sending his cable bill fluttering to the floor. But it doesn't clear his head any, just makes him dizzier.
Then Jared's sinking to his knees, his hands at Jensen's waist, pulling him closer to nuzzle Jensen's hip with his scratchy chin. Jensen's vision slides out of focus, snaps back into it when he blinks.
"Wait, fuck, wait." He grabs for a fistful of Jared's hair, twists until Jared's head bows back into the tug. His mouth is red and spit-shiny, still quirked up at the corner. "Seriously, we can't-"
Jared pushes his fingers into Jensen's mouth, cutting of the rest, and Jensen bites down reflexively, drags his tongue over the whorls in the rough skin. It's sour and salty-sweet: chocolate and sweat and the hard little sugar crystals from the candy, dissolving. Jared pumps Jensen slowly with his free hand, and Jensen can feel Jared's breath along the crown, thick and damp.
"Seriously," Jared says, and Jensen can hear the grin in his voice. "We can."
Jensen just nods--sure, fine, okay--gasps out a curse when Jared sinks down on him, tonguing under the crown and up the slit. His cheeks hollow when he backs off a little, teeth grazing the head, and Jensen forgets about the dinner, the job, everything but Jared's tongue and teeth and fingers. Jared might not be the most well-bred guy, but he liked Jensen's food and he gives killer head. It seems like a pretty even trade right now.
He clutches Jared's hair at the roots, his cock sliding along Jared's palate. Jared's throat constricts around him, slick and tight, and Jensen comes with a grunt, a stuttered shove of his hips. Jared's fingers smear out Jensen's mouth, fisting Jensen's shirt as he swallows, and Jensen's too dazed to be surprised, even when Jared wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.
*
Jensen wakes up muzzy-headed and cotton-mouthed, sprawled naked on top of the sheets with someone's heavy arm thrown over his back. He turns, groaning when he sees Jared's sleeping face, his slack mouth and the little furrow between his eyebrows. The guy takes up easily two-thirds of Jensen's bed, leaving Jensen balanced precariously along the edge. They're both naked.
"Oh, fuck." Jensen mashes his face into his pillow, breathes in the soft, soapy smell of it, a little sweat-musty. Jared mumbles in his sleep, his fingers flexing against Jensen's back. Jensen holds his breath, lets out a relieved sigh when Jared shifts onto his side, away from him. There's a constellation of tiny red marks on Jared's shoulder.
Jensen rolls carefully onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling. Everything that happened after dinner last night is sort of a wine-soaked blur, all hands and teeth and sweat. He thinks he remembers them finishing the Zinfandel and the Shiraz. Wine always did make him kind of stupid.
He lays there for exactly twenty-six minutes, chewing his lip and listening to Jared's quiet snoring, before he gets up and does the only thing he can do: make breakfast.
*
Jared shuffles out in his boxers a half hour later, yawning and scratching himself indulgently, his hair tangled and cowlicking up in the back. He mumbles something that sounds sort of like g'morning without any vowels, his voice gravelly.
Jensen hmms noncommittally and grabs a steaming crepe from the stack next to him, spoons some of the brandied-apple filling into it and folds the whole thing up. The bacon sizzles and pops in the pan and he grabs a fork, flips the pieces absently.
"God, that smells good."
Jared slumps against the counter, tears a corner off one of the crepes and pops it in his mouth. A tiny spark of annoyance flares up in Jensen's belly, but he just sets the crepe on the edge of the cutting board, a wordless invitation for Jared to finish it. He does, in one bite, humming approvingly.
"Good stuff, man. Is there coffee?"
"It just finished brewing. Hang on."
Jensen manages a weak smile, shifts his gaze away from Jared's easy grin. He hasn't had a one-night stand in years; he's bad at this, at pretending it's not weird to have a stranger in his kitchen--his sanctuary--at eight-thirty in the morning. He reaches up to grab two mugs from the cupboard, the hand-painted ones he got at the street fair.
He fills them and hands one off to Jared, points to the little covered bowl behind him when he asks for sugar. Busies himself getting the bacon from the pan and setting up the plates. His presentation's a little clumsy, but somehow he doesn't think Jared's going to notice, or much care even if he does. He hands Jared a plate and a fork, and Jared spears one of the crepes, drags it through the sour cream and stuffs the whole thing in his mouth. Jensen tries not to grimace.
There's that awkward morning-after silence, right on schedule.
Jared settles back against the counter, munching on a piece of bacon. He chews with his mouth open. Jensen has to look down at his own plate before he loses his appetite, but not before Jared's eyes flicker up to the clock above the fridge. He sputters into his coffee, drops his fork.
"What's the matter?" Jensen asks.
"Fuck, I'm late." Jared swipes his napkin across his mouth, then shovels another crepe and the last piece of his bacon into it. "I gotta meet the designer in an hour." He licks the grease from his fingertips, his cheek dimpling when he grins. "And I should probably shower and change first." He swats Jensen's ass as he passes, then slips into the hall.
Jensen's chewing a piece of bacon thoughtfully, eyes fixed on Jared's half-empty plate, when Jared walks past the doorway, buttoning his jeans. He reappears a second later, shrugging into his jacket.
"So," he says, shaking out the collar.
Jensen sets his fork on his plate. The food's gone cold anyway. He can't stand cold bacon. He takes a sip of coffee, clears his throat. "Yeah."
"I gotta go." Jared jerks his thumb towards the door, and Jensen follows him out into the hallway. "But uh, thanks for breakfast. And last night."
"Hey, any time," Jensen says, without thinking. Jared's eyebrow shoots up. A simple you're welcome would've been a much better choice.
He unlocks the door and the deadbolt, unhooks the chain and jerks the door open an inch. There's no tactful way to ask about the job, not now. But he'll probably never hear from Jared again, anyway. Unless Jared's sleeping with all the candidates for the job, but there's no tactful way to ask that, either.
"So, listen..." Jared sounds serious all of a sudden, no trace of a smile now. Jensen scratches a hand over the back of his neck, shifts his weight to his other foot. Here it comes, the I had a great time or you're a nice guy, but...
Jensen steels himself for it, but Jared just pushes his hair out of his eyes, zips his jacket.
"We open in six weeks," he says. "I want to see a menu in two, and then we'll tweak before you cook for the other investors. But don't worry about them, they don't know a chanterelle from a shitake." All Jensen can do is stare, heart skipping, as Jared steps into the hall and jabs at the elevator button. The door rattles open. "I'm sorry, I really gotta run, but I'll call. I've got your number."
Jensen nods, watching the doors close. Tries to figure out, through the creeping giddiness, if he just slept his way into a job or got sexually harassed by his boss. He barks out a bewildered laugh, decides that he doesn't really care either way.
*
He calls his Mom first (but leaves out the sordid details), then his sister (and leaves them in), who both promise to come up for a visit once the restaurant's open. He cleans up the kitchen and living room, finds not two but three empty wine bottles.
In the bedroom, he tugs the sheets off the bed and balls them up, dumping them on the floor; they're pretty gross after last night, and it's laundry day anyway.
He's pulling off the pillowcases when he sees the note on his nightstand, tucked under a tiny plastic baggie with two fat green buds inside. Jensen opens the baggie, and the smell hits him before he can even lift it to his nose. It's been a while, but Jensen still knows good weed when he smells it.
He holds the note up to the light. Jared's handwriting is small and precise, just three words scratched into the paper: Your mission: brownies.