Gilmore Girls: Food is Good (Sookie, Luke)
Title: Food is Good.
Author: minerva_fan
Fandom: Gilmore Girls
Rating: G
Spoilers: Food!porn, UST
Characters: Sookie, Luke
A/N: Not a pairing I'd ever have thought of myself; written as a gifty for fey_spirit.
Food is good, she tells herself as she plays with the admixture on her sauce. She's been going a little heavy on the garlic since she had her second child. Post-natal hormones and lack of real sleep make her heavy-handed. She tries to ignore him at the station next to her.
Food is good. Food is an equalizer. Food is an ice-breaker.
She's known him for years. It's a love/hate, respect/despise kind of relationship.
He's Lorelai's fiancé, and most of the time, he's a really nice guy.
Food is good, she reminds herself as he bangs through her kitchen like a longshoreman. It's only for one day.
It's not his fault half her crew called in with the flu, it's not his fault they had a banquet and needed his help.
It's not his fault she's a snob.
Yes, I'm a food snob. I admit it. Take me away, Officer Krupke. I'm depraved on account of I'm deprived.
It's only the little things that get to her. Like the look she got when she asked him to make the salad dressing.
Like "where's the bottle?" or something!
He's got his own way of doing things, and that's great for Sookie. She's okay with doing things your own way, and Luke's way is as good as anyway she tells herself as she watches him dice the vegetables like a Samurai on steroids.
Technique, Sookie, technique is everything. How many years has that been drilled into her head? He's a diner owner. He makes real food for real people in a hurry. Technique for Luke is whatever gets things out quickly.
She is killing herself, forcing herself to stay away, because he's her friend, because he's Lorelai's fiancé, and because he's helping her out in a jam. Sookie's not good at confrontation, but food is food and technique is technique and he's driving her crazy.
"Will you please keep the tip of the knife on the board when you dice? PLEASE!" She doesn't realize until too late that her voice would carry so loudly. She doesn't realize she's so worked up. The look on Luke's face is inscrutable, in that oh-so-Luke-ish, "I'm not mad, really, I just want to tell you off" way he has.
Food is good, she repeats to herself, over and over, as a mantra.
"I'm sorry, Luke." She sounds so foolish. She wants to tell him how grateful she is that he's helping out, that she loves his food, even if it's a different style from hers, that she respects him as a fellow cook, that he's kind and decent and responsible and handsome and funny and she doesn't really mean to snap at him for having the worst knife skills she's ever seen in her entire life.
Instead she spoons up a bit of her rosemary sauce and offers him a taste.
He smiles and nods. For a moment, she sees it in him, that look all real chefs get when tasting, that subtle, amazing, spine-tingling moment of yeah! It's a moment she can't share with Jackson, or with Lorelai, or with anybody else really.
But Luke gets it. Luke, for all his grease and surliness and affectations of "Regular Joe-ness," knows where she's coming from. He's got the mojo, she thinks as his face loses, for just a moment, that mask of cool indifference, melting for just a second into the blissfully decadent realm of sensualism where all good cooks like to play.
Their eyes meet for a moment in an electrical connection of complete synchronicity. He gets it. He gets me, Sookie thinks, and swallows the momentary sadness she feels. He gets it, sure. He gets me.
Lorelai gets him.
It's a stupid thought, a hateful thought, and she pushes it out of her head the second it appears. Food is good. Food is good. Food is good. She smiles, too fiercely and too energetically. "Well? Whaddaya think?"
He looks uncomfortable, and for a split-second she thinks that maybe he's thinking "she gets me," too. Maybe he feels that electricity, that stupid, irrational connection between them. Maybe he's embarrassed, too.
"Good stuff," he says in that dark monotone, and resumes his dicing. Then he smiles at her, a real smile, a sweet smile that just seems a little too comfortable for both of them.
Food is good, she thinks as she returns to her sauces.
They don't say much for the rest of the afternoon.
The End
Author: minerva_fan
Fandom: Gilmore Girls
Rating: G
Spoilers: Food!porn, UST
Characters: Sookie, Luke
A/N: Not a pairing I'd ever have thought of myself; written as a gifty for fey_spirit.
Food is good, she tells herself as she plays with the admixture on her sauce. She's been going a little heavy on the garlic since she had her second child. Post-natal hormones and lack of real sleep make her heavy-handed. She tries to ignore him at the station next to her.
Food is good. Food is an equalizer. Food is an ice-breaker.
She's known him for years. It's a love/hate, respect/despise kind of relationship.
He's Lorelai's fiancé, and most of the time, he's a really nice guy.
Food is good, she reminds herself as he bangs through her kitchen like a longshoreman. It's only for one day.
It's not his fault half her crew called in with the flu, it's not his fault they had a banquet and needed his help.
It's not his fault she's a snob.
Yes, I'm a food snob. I admit it. Take me away, Officer Krupke. I'm depraved on account of I'm deprived.
It's only the little things that get to her. Like the look she got when she asked him to make the salad dressing.
Like "where's the bottle?" or something!
He's got his own way of doing things, and that's great for Sookie. She's okay with doing things your own way, and Luke's way is as good as anyway she tells herself as she watches him dice the vegetables like a Samurai on steroids.
Technique, Sookie, technique is everything. How many years has that been drilled into her head? He's a diner owner. He makes real food for real people in a hurry. Technique for Luke is whatever gets things out quickly.
She is killing herself, forcing herself to stay away, because he's her friend, because he's Lorelai's fiancé, and because he's helping her out in a jam. Sookie's not good at confrontation, but food is food and technique is technique and he's driving her crazy.
"Will you please keep the tip of the knife on the board when you dice? PLEASE!" She doesn't realize until too late that her voice would carry so loudly. She doesn't realize she's so worked up. The look on Luke's face is inscrutable, in that oh-so-Luke-ish, "I'm not mad, really, I just want to tell you off" way he has.
Food is good, she repeats to herself, over and over, as a mantra.
"I'm sorry, Luke." She sounds so foolish. She wants to tell him how grateful she is that he's helping out, that she loves his food, even if it's a different style from hers, that she respects him as a fellow cook, that he's kind and decent and responsible and handsome and funny and she doesn't really mean to snap at him for having the worst knife skills she's ever seen in her entire life.
Instead she spoons up a bit of her rosemary sauce and offers him a taste.
He smiles and nods. For a moment, she sees it in him, that look all real chefs get when tasting, that subtle, amazing, spine-tingling moment of yeah! It's a moment she can't share with Jackson, or with Lorelai, or with anybody else really.
But Luke gets it. Luke, for all his grease and surliness and affectations of "Regular Joe-ness," knows where she's coming from. He's got the mojo, she thinks as his face loses, for just a moment, that mask of cool indifference, melting for just a second into the blissfully decadent realm of sensualism where all good cooks like to play.
Their eyes meet for a moment in an electrical connection of complete synchronicity. He gets it. He gets me, Sookie thinks, and swallows the momentary sadness she feels. He gets it, sure. He gets me.
Lorelai gets him.
It's a stupid thought, a hateful thought, and she pushes it out of her head the second it appears. Food is good. Food is good. Food is good. She smiles, too fiercely and too energetically. "Well? Whaddaya think?"
He looks uncomfortable, and for a split-second she thinks that maybe he's thinking "she gets me," too. Maybe he feels that electricity, that stupid, irrational connection between them. Maybe he's embarrassed, too.
"Good stuff," he says in that dark monotone, and resumes his dicing. Then he smiles at her, a real smile, a sweet smile that just seems a little too comfortable for both of them.
Food is good, she thinks as she returns to her sauces.
They don't say much for the rest of the afternoon.
The End