Masterchef Fic: Courtship
***
Title: Courtship
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Masterchef UK
Pairing: John/Gregg
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 900
Disclaimer: This is not a real story about real people. This is a fictional story about fictional representations of real people. Note the difference. None of the events described herein are true. No disrespect is meant and no financial profit made.
Summary: John doesn’t know what else to do so he does what he does best. He cooks.
Author notes: Fandom lesson #58: Never say ‘never again’ because then one morning you will wake up with a small but viciously insistent plot bunny who won’t even let you eat or get out of bed until it gets written. This is for pushkin666 who deserves some cheering up and I’m pretty sure seeing me write more Masterchef fic (Jesus wept) will do it.
John doesn’t know what else to do so he does what he does best. He cooks.
He cooks Singapore chilli crab and chicken liver pâté with Melba toast and onions Madagascan and Sunday roast so traditional and proper it almost Morris dances itself out of the oven.
John knows it’s a cliché and is disgusted with himself for it, but every single dish is from his heart, and more than that, is his heart, right there on the platter; the ones he has to make up on the spot for the Masterchef innovation test, the ones he spends hours planning in his head before asking if Gregg is free for dinner (“Just a spur of the moment thing, you know, no worries if you have plans...”), down to the bloody pastries he gets up to do early just so he can nonchalantly throw a bag of still warm croissants at Gregg across the BBC meeting room.
And Gregg says “Oh my god, that’s amazing,” with genuine awe, and “Sorry mate, I wish I could but...” with what sounds like genuine regret, and “Thanks, that’s just what I needed,” with a smile that makes John duck his head and want to hide before he does something stupid like tells Gregg how he could give him everything he needed, if he only had the chance.
It goes on and it’s ridiculous and everyone probably notices, everyone but Gregg. Probably the whole god damn nation knows what’s going on because John’s stupid, hopeless courtship is broadcast on primetime TV. Not that it matters because Gregg remains cheerfully oblivious, eating John’s food and leaning in close to talk and putting a fucking hand on the small of John’s back to lead him through the door like you would for a date, and driving him insane in the process. And it’s all the worse because Gregg clearly doesn’t mean any of it.
Except maybe he does.
John comes to this realisation late one evening in the Masterchef kitchens when the contestants and the film crew have gone home and he thinks he’s alone, taking advantage of the quiet and the space to experiment with cookie dough. He’s definitely a chef rather than a baker, but there’s something about the careful weighing and balancing of ingredients, the science of it, that calms him.
So when there’s a hand on his shoulder and Gregg’s voice asking “Are those for me?” in his ear, John almost jumps out of his skin, bag of sugar spilling everywhere.
“Fuck,” he says, spinning around. “I thought you left.”
“I did,” Gregg says. He’s smiling but it’s not his usual wide and carefree one, but softer, more private. “Then I came back.”
John blinks, knows his forehead is probably creased in confusion. “Why? Did you forget something?”
Gregg laughs, a short bark of a sound muffled by his hand as he rubs it across his face, getting his glasses all crooked in the process. John’s fingers itch to reach out and straighten them.
“Yeah, yeah, you could say that. Forgot my brain. Or maybe my ability to do primary school math.”
“What? I have no idea what you’re on about.” John is acutely aware of how close Gregg is standing, body brushing against John’s chef whites, more or less bracketing him against the counter.
“Two plus two,” Gregg says like that’s supposed to make sense. “Remembered how to put them together, didn’t I? Now tell me, those cookies... They’re for me, aren’t they?”
John looks behind him as if he doesn’t already know what he’ll see: a tray full of neat little balls of dough, spotted with orange peel and Macadamia nuts and just waiting for the oven. “I...” He swallows, gaze somewhere at the level of Gregg’s shirt buttons.
“And the Thai noodle salad yesterday that you just happened to have with you,” Gregg continues. “And the chocolate tart, the jungle curry, the... the freaking stuffed courgette flowers! I mean, who does that?”
John can feel his heart hammering in his chest, almost painfully loud, and there’s a knot of anxiety in his belly that makes him want to wrap his arms around his middle protectively. It’s an effort to shrug, like it’s no big deal. “Me,” he says, “I am a chef, you know.”
Gregg sighs and John can feel it on his face, they’re that close. “You’re something, alright,” Gregg says finally, all quiet and careful like he almost never is. “You... Your eyes...” he continues and there are fingers on John’s face, ghosting over his cheekbones and the fragile skin under his eyes and he startles, jumping, but there’s nowhere to go because Gregg has him trapped in more ways than the obvious. “The way you look at me sometimes, John. Like you want me to...”
John’s nodding before Gregg has finished his question. It doesn’t even matter because whatever it is John knows that he wants it. “Yeah,” he says and the word comes out brittle, all hope and hesitation, and his hand are tangling in Gregg’s jacket, unsure and asking, asking, asking, like he’s been asking for months now with every dessert and treat and dinner.
“John,” Gregg says, and it’s an answer and a promise all rolled in one.
And then there is no room for anything else because Gregg is kissing him, and every doubt and fear melts like spun sugar between their mouths.
***
Title: Courtship
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Masterchef UK
Pairing: John/Gregg
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 900
Disclaimer: This is not a real story about real people. This is a fictional story about fictional representations of real people. Note the difference. None of the events described herein are true. No disrespect is meant and no financial profit made.
Summary: John doesn’t know what else to do so he does what he does best. He cooks.
Author notes: Fandom lesson #58: Never say ‘never again’ because then one morning you will wake up with a small but viciously insistent plot bunny who won’t even let you eat or get out of bed until it gets written. This is for pushkin666 who deserves some cheering up and I’m pretty sure seeing me write more Masterchef fic (Jesus wept) will do it.
John doesn’t know what else to do so he does what he does best. He cooks.
He cooks Singapore chilli crab and chicken liver pâté with Melba toast and onions Madagascan and Sunday roast so traditional and proper it almost Morris dances itself out of the oven.
John knows it’s a cliché and is disgusted with himself for it, but every single dish is from his heart, and more than that, is his heart, right there on the platter; the ones he has to make up on the spot for the Masterchef innovation test, the ones he spends hours planning in his head before asking if Gregg is free for dinner (“Just a spur of the moment thing, you know, no worries if you have plans...”), down to the bloody pastries he gets up to do early just so he can nonchalantly throw a bag of still warm croissants at Gregg across the BBC meeting room.
And Gregg says “Oh my god, that’s amazing,” with genuine awe, and “Sorry mate, I wish I could but...” with what sounds like genuine regret, and “Thanks, that’s just what I needed,” with a smile that makes John duck his head and want to hide before he does something stupid like tells Gregg how he could give him everything he needed, if he only had the chance.
It goes on and it’s ridiculous and everyone probably notices, everyone but Gregg. Probably the whole god damn nation knows what’s going on because John’s stupid, hopeless courtship is broadcast on primetime TV. Not that it matters because Gregg remains cheerfully oblivious, eating John’s food and leaning in close to talk and putting a fucking hand on the small of John’s back to lead him through the door like you would for a date, and driving him insane in the process. And it’s all the worse because Gregg clearly doesn’t mean any of it.
Except maybe he does.
John comes to this realisation late one evening in the Masterchef kitchens when the contestants and the film crew have gone home and he thinks he’s alone, taking advantage of the quiet and the space to experiment with cookie dough. He’s definitely a chef rather than a baker, but there’s something about the careful weighing and balancing of ingredients, the science of it, that calms him.
So when there’s a hand on his shoulder and Gregg’s voice asking “Are those for me?” in his ear, John almost jumps out of his skin, bag of sugar spilling everywhere.
“Fuck,” he says, spinning around. “I thought you left.”
“I did,” Gregg says. He’s smiling but it’s not his usual wide and carefree one, but softer, more private. “Then I came back.”
John blinks, knows his forehead is probably creased in confusion. “Why? Did you forget something?”
Gregg laughs, a short bark of a sound muffled by his hand as he rubs it across his face, getting his glasses all crooked in the process. John’s fingers itch to reach out and straighten them.
“Yeah, yeah, you could say that. Forgot my brain. Or maybe my ability to do primary school math.”
“What? I have no idea what you’re on about.” John is acutely aware of how close Gregg is standing, body brushing against John’s chef whites, more or less bracketing him against the counter.
“Two plus two,” Gregg says like that’s supposed to make sense. “Remembered how to put them together, didn’t I? Now tell me, those cookies... They’re for me, aren’t they?”
John looks behind him as if he doesn’t already know what he’ll see: a tray full of neat little balls of dough, spotted with orange peel and Macadamia nuts and just waiting for the oven. “I...” He swallows, gaze somewhere at the level of Gregg’s shirt buttons.
“And the Thai noodle salad yesterday that you just happened to have with you,” Gregg continues. “And the chocolate tart, the jungle curry, the... the freaking stuffed courgette flowers! I mean, who does that?”
John can feel his heart hammering in his chest, almost painfully loud, and there’s a knot of anxiety in his belly that makes him want to wrap his arms around his middle protectively. It’s an effort to shrug, like it’s no big deal. “Me,” he says, “I am a chef, you know.”
Gregg sighs and John can feel it on his face, they’re that close. “You’re something, alright,” Gregg says finally, all quiet and careful like he almost never is. “You... Your eyes...” he continues and there are fingers on John’s face, ghosting over his cheekbones and the fragile skin under his eyes and he startles, jumping, but there’s nowhere to go because Gregg has him trapped in more ways than the obvious. “The way you look at me sometimes, John. Like you want me to...”
John’s nodding before Gregg has finished his question. It doesn’t even matter because whatever it is John knows that he wants it. “Yeah,” he says and the word comes out brittle, all hope and hesitation, and his hand are tangling in Gregg’s jacket, unsure and asking, asking, asking, like he’s been asking for months now with every dessert and treat and dinner.
“John,” Gregg says, and it’s an answer and a promise all rolled in one.
And then there is no room for anything else because Gregg is kissing him, and every doubt and fear melts like spun sugar between their mouths.
***