Inception Kink Fill: Eames/Arthur
For the prompt: Eames/Arthur, Restaurant!AU
Eames is a wonderful cook, yes, but he is horrible at spelling things correctly on his menus, let alone describing them. (His latest culinary masterpiece is called "taste's realy goood.") So he hires a proofreader, who turns out to be the infamously-uptight and critical Arthur.
As they argue back and forth, Eames slowly starts to fall for him. In an attempt to get Arthur to stay, his spelling becomes more atrocious. But as it turns out, the way to Arthur's heart really is through his stomach. ♥
Title: Tell Me You Didn't Put the Veal Down Your Pants
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Warning: This probably needs a beta. There are no actual veals going down into anyone's pants in this fic, unfortunately.
“We need to talk, Mr. Eames.”
There were a few things every aspiring chef needed to know about the restaurant industry. The number one, most important thing was, but of course, knowing who not to piss off. Critics were always high up on that list, and so were the big-name, celebrity chefs. However, if faced with the heart-stopping decision to either kick, insult, and drag a well-known critic through the mud or glance at a big name restauranteur the wrong way, the obvious decision would be to go with the former. The critic wouldn’t even blame the chef afterward, especially if the restauranteur mentioned in the latter part was Saito.
“Do we really? I think I smell Yusuf setting the meringue on fire again,” Eames mumbled, his head bowed in resignation.
“Sit,” Saito insisted, with no added emphasis or edge, but Eames could tell from Saito’s stern expression and the cut of his suit that he was in for the worst. “Now, Mr. Eames, no one doubts your cooking abilities. I have very often enjoyed meals here.”
“But…” Eames hedged, wringing his ridiculous (and therefore, absolutely necessary) chef’s hat into a wrinkled scrap.
“But it has become quite obvious that your food, as amazing as it is, does not make up for your poor management skills. It is a Saturday night, Mr. Eames, and yet how many reservations do we have?” Saito asked, his imposing eyebrow raised at just the right height to intimidate but not scare off.
“… Maybe five?” Eames guessed. “Look, I know I’m head chef, but it’s not really my job to be running the joint, is it? I just cook and make the menu.”
“Yes, about the menu…” Maybe the most impressive thing about restauranteurs was their almost magical abilities. Like finding the prime spot for a tapas place in the middle of the country, picking out the best wine to go with Calgary in the fall, and conjuring badly planned menus out of thin air. “Putting aside your truly appalling spelling, I do not think it very professional to name a dish… ‘taste’s realy goood.’ Do you, Mr. Eames?”
“Well, I did it, didn’t I?” he replied automatically, and then quickly bit down on his tongue due to sheer survival instinct. “Wrongly, of course,” he added.
“Indeed,” Saito agreed, although his eyebrow was still obviously distrustful. “Now, Mr. Eames, you promised me a great restaurant. Of course, I am not so stupid as to buy out appalling amounts of prime real estate in the heart of Los Angeles on a lowly chef’s promises,” not to mention what he had to do to make said prime real estate available, Eames was sure, “and I always prefer to make my own success.”
“Which means?” Eames questioned, fear already blossoming on his face.
“Which means you are getting a floor manager,” Saito stated simply.
Letting out a breath in relief, Eames threw his hand over his heart to try to calm its racing rhythm. “Well, that’s not so bad. When are we going to start interviewing them?” If he had some time, he could get things in a bit of order. Warn the kitchen staff, the wait staff, and the dishwashers about the news and have some time left over to influence the hiring process.
“We, Mr. Eames? No, no. I think this is one decision you are unqualified to make. Besides, I have already hired one.”
“Who?”
Another thing that aspiring chefs should know, but that generally get cut by disbelieving editors before they make it into important guidebooks, is that quiet entrances are always more dangerous than loud ones. This advice doubles in importance when the people who make said quiet entrances appear completely respectable (another overpriced three piece suit), calm (perfectly gelled hair), and carefree (although that could have just been the hyper confidence), because that’s never fucking worked out well before.
“Mr. Eames, meet Arthur, your new floor manager,” Saito introduced, standing up to place a slightly threatening, slightly welcoming hand on the newly arrived Arthur’s shoulder.
“Charmed,” Eames greeted, because Arthur looked lovely, all long legs and flawless skin. So disarming, Arthur raised Eames’ hopes for a brief, fluttering moment.
Luckily for the chef, all it took were the words, “Don’t try it, Mr. Eames” and a pretentious smirk to bring those hopes down. “You were right, Saito. This place is a mess. I have my work cut out for me.”
This was going to be a disaster.
--
“Is it true? Did we really get a floor manager?” Robert asked, eyes wide and nervous like they had been for the last five months they had worked together. To this day, Eames still wasn’t sure what had convinced him to hire on the rookie chef. Robert had never worked a day in his life before his first hour in the kitchen, and it had taken too long to train him on how to do the prep work. Then again, Eames had always had a soft spot for rebels, and any man who threw away a multi-billion dollar empire to become a chef was definitely a rebel. Also certifiably insane, Eames thought, but a rebel nonetheless.
“Yes, and he is evil incarnate,” Eames warned, rapping Robert’s nose with his index finger. “Stay away from him, Robbie, or he might steal your soul.”
“He’s exaggerating. I just met Arthur, and he’s really nice. Besides, we do need a floor manager. No offense, Eames, but your management skills suck.” Ariadne always did have to be the voice of reason, Eames lamented. If she weren’t such a top notch chef in her own right and also never willing to take his shit, he would fire her. Then again, as she was definitely both those things, it was quite likely he had already tried a few times and she had simply never listened. When the gifted knew they were good, it was really impossible to prove otherwise.
“Think of it this way, Eames. Now, you can devote all your time to cooking instead of making sure the curtains match the carpets,” Yusuf agreed, and if he realized the oddity of his phrasing, his expression didn’t show it. “You’ve always been bad at color coordinating.”
“That’s because I don’t have to color coordinate! Chefs wear white! White goes with everything.” Eames whined.
“Actually, I’m pretty sure nothing goes with that neckerchief you have on. Honestly, was Chef Boyardee your main inspiration for getting into this industry?” Ariadne taunted, gesturing widely with the knife she was using to shuck oysters for that night’s service.
“None of you respect me,” Eames bit back.
“Further proof of your bad management skills,” Ariadne agreed.
“I respect you,” Robert murmured.
“A bad idea,” Arthur advised, and Eames jumped, having not heard the door opening. “No man who paints his restaurant mulberry and ecru deserves respect.”
Eames pulled off his neckerchief, throwing it down on the counter in a flurry of dramatic cloth. “Nobody asked you, darling,” he gritted out, one step away from walking up to the very attractive current pain in his ass and pushing him out.
However, Arthur beat him to it, appearing so quickly under Eames’ nose that he jumped back and jarred himself painfully against the counter. “Saito did, and I think we both know that we need to do this job well if we want to live to see another career. So, I advise you, Mr. Eames, to work with me.”
Well, Eames was nothing if not totally focused on his own survival. “What do you need me to do?” he asked, and as far as surrenders went, it didn’t taste half as bad as any of the ones he could remember.
“We need to close down service tonight and a few of the following nights. I’m going to bring in some new staff, and we’re going to redo the whole place,” Arthur stated simply, his tone suggesting that only one response would be met with anything better than brutal force of action.
Yusuf modeled brilliantly, throwing down his piping bag of buttercream icing with joy. “Vacation!” he exclaimed, throwing both arms up.
“Hardly,” Arthur corrected. “You’ll all be helping me redo the store.”
--
The renovations were extensive, strenuous, and revelatory. The new, contemporary look of Inception, a hopeful name Ariadne had plucked out of a week long, drag out fight between Eames and Arthur, was shockingly beautiful in its simplicity. Trendy, chic, but with just enough classic ‘50s elements to also be warm and inviting, the restaurant practically cried out from its bay windows to be filled, and for those who could not read interior design so thoroughly, Arthur’s new wait staff was infinitely more alluring than the furniture.
Mal, the classic and classy French woman who took the prominent front door spot, was especially charming and likable even before Eames had heard her melodic chuckle. The chase down and full body tackle of a dine-and-dasher while Mal had been in a fetching sheath dress and Jimmy Choo’s had simply been a lovely cherry on top of an adoring sundae. Eames had rewarded her with a sinfully savory rillette in thanks.
“C’est trés delicieuse,” she exclaimed in pleasure before spotting a lurking floor manager over Eames’ shoulder. “Arthur, would you like to try some? He’s quite a Francophile, you see,” she whispered to Eames, an intimate smile on her face as if she were sharing a greatly personal detail.
Of course, Arthur barely blinked at the taste of the rillette. “It’s good,” he affirmed, before turning sharply on his heels and heading off to tidy up some already, anally neat part of the restaurant. Eames contemplated stomping his foot repeatedly, throwing his arms up and shouting, maybe even wrecking the beautiful steel centerpiece of the restaurant that could spin like a top all throughout dinner service. Instead, he prompted for pouting miserably at Mal.
“I don’t get it,” he whined in his most heartfelt and pathetic tone. Of course, Mal was too smart to have any of it. She laughed a little, gave the air next to his cheek a kiss, and patted him quickly on the head.
“Do not worry too much, mon petit chou. It is simply his way,” she consoled him before sweeping off to dazzle someone else with her charm.
Eames should have taken her words to heart. While he had no idea what their exact history was, Mal and Arthur had definitely known each other for a long time. She was constantly mothering him, turning down the sex appeal and ramping up the maternal instinct around the sharp dressed man. Still, Eames couldn’t help but feel unsettled. He had never before found someone who could resist his food. Even Saito, who seemed capable of existing off of his sheer awesomeness and power and wealth alone, enjoyed Eames’ culinary skills. What was Arthur even doing in the food industry if he didn’t take some secret pleasure in the gastronomical arts?
“I’m not so sure. He’s really thin,” Yusuf commented after Eames had repeated his thoughts to the kitchen at large.
“So? Just because you’re thin, doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy food! I’m thin!”
“For a bear,” Ariadne agreed.
“You would squash Arthur,” Yusuf seconded.
“Well, in weight only. I’m pretty sure Arthur could take you in a fight, Chef,” Robert added on, a breeze of stale, realistic air.
Eames clenched his teeth and thought. “No, I refuse to accept this. People don’t say that a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach for no reason!” he exclaimed, stabbing his butcher’s knife into his cutting board. “I’ll just have to try harder.”
The effort was noticeable throughout the restaurant. The kitchen was overtaken with fresher, odder ingredients every day, prep work becoming less repetitive and more educational as they learned how to cook with wild game, exotic flowers, and more offal than the average farm could throw out. Critics who had snuck in the first few days of Inception’s opening had written rave reviews, all of which Eames had strangely chosen to ignore, which meant the restaurant was packed every night. Mal had her hands full with the crowds at the entrance, and the rest of the wait staff had become professionals at kindly deflecting the guests’ many requests to give personal props to the chef. Arthur looked oddly at the continuous stream of innovative dishes Eames seemed to constantly churn out, and had outright declined the chef’s request to sample each and every one for himself.
“I’m not here to eat the restaurant out of business, Mr. Eames,” Arthur reminded him, eyes sweeping over the generous offering the other had laid out. “I am supposed to be helping you name your dishes and set up the special every night which, going by the list of suggestions you gave me, is an incredibly necessary exercise.”
Eames’ shoulders had drooped temporarily before the mischievous glint had suddenly turned on in his eyes. “And what better way to help you name them to try the dishes, right? Much better than a list of suggestions.”
“Only because your spelling is truly the stuff English teachers’ nightmares are made of, Mr. Eames,” Arthur sniped back good-naturedly, but he carefully withdrew a chair from the table before seating himself. “I guess it can’t hurt to take a few bites of each.”
“Of course not, darling,” Eames agreed, trying to hide his anticipation as Arthur reached for the eel. However, Arthur’s face once again stayed bland and professional throughout, never showing a sign of enjoyment during the taste test. He hardly even touched most of the food, only taking repeat bites if he needed to take more notes on the dish for the specials menu later. It was, all in all, a complete waste of effort and a terrible downer. Eames felt his shoulders slump as he retreated to the back with all of the plates still laden with food.
“Didn’t work, huh?” Ariadne asked with concern as Eames began to viciously scoop off all of the food from the plates into the bin.
“I don’t understand it, Ari. Resistant to my charms, sure! People resist my charms all the time, but my cooking?” Eames moaned, deciding to save the last dish-Yusuf’s magical take on a rhubarb crumble-for himself.
“Why does it even matter so much, Eames? Isn’t it enough that we’re on the top of the restaurant rankings and that Arthur has been a damn good floor manager? I mean, you guys aren’t even fighting that much anymore,” Ariadne enthused. “Or, well, you wouldn’t be if you would just stop calling him names, messing with his espresso machine, removing the wheels from his rolling chair, purposefully misspelling every word in every note you leave for him, and-Oh. My. GOD.”
“What?”
“You have a crush on him!”
“You know, love, for a beautiful, intelligent young woman, you’re awful slow on the uptake. Is this how Robbie feels?” Eames asked, lips already in full pout mode.
“Shut up, this is a big deal and-what was that about Robert?” Ariadne interrupted, flabbergasted expression pasted on her face.
“Shush, Ari, we’re about to flashback into my love story,” Eames hushed her, perfecting his sulk with his chin in his hands. She scowled, but settled back onto a stool to listen to him wax poetic about the other man. Arthur’s finely tailored suits and impeccable taste, his long limbs and subtly expressive face, and his perfect professionalism and competency-all of which were well and good, and not really why Eames had fallen for him.
After all, none of that compared to how Arthur had surprised him with a sly, mischievous glance rather than an infuriated, uptight glare when Eames had accidentally splattered red paint all over them both during the renovation period. Watching Arthur roll up his shirt sleeves and throw himself into hard, manual labor was arousing, but staring at his self-assured, warm smile as Yusuf tried to decorate the walls like he was icing a cake warmed the untouched depths of Eames’ heart. Eames had listened in as Arthur traded quick-witted barbs with Ariadne with confidence and comfort, and the man’s quiet handling of his wait staff allowed them to approach him without fear of judgment. In short, Arthur had quickly found his place in the family, and while Eames would have otherwise felt threatened and jealous, Arthur actions didn’t invite that. He was always respectful of Eames’ talent and deferred to him in all the right places.
Even at the beginning, when they had argued constantly about the dumbest, most spontaneous issues Eames could drag out-from the smell of the new tiles to the color of the new art pieces’ frames-Arthur had yelled and given back as well as he got. However, he never insulted Eames personally.
“Balut is a food item; Baloo is a character from The Jungle Book.” Yes.
“If you don’t stop tie-dyeing your chef’s whites, I will lock you inside the walk in fridge.” More times than he could count.
“If you don’t stop calling me pet, I will take a muzzle to you,” was really more of an invitation than a threat, and everything was always said with an amused quirk to his lips.
By the end of the second day of redecorating, Arthur had sounded almost fond, and Eames had been eager to see more sides to the mysteriously private man. Particularly, he wanted to see the happier side of Arthur. Not just the lip quirks and the quick insults that they shot at each other but Arthur with a wide grin, laughing, enjoying a good meal, and having an actual conversation with him.
However, it was beginning to look like that wasn’t ever going to happen.
“What should I do, Ari?” Eames asked, wringing the hideously checkered neckerchief he had been wearing that day.
“Well…” she began, but stood with a start as the doors banged open. Standing in the doorway was a shell-shocked Robert accompanied by an Arthur whose brows were furrowed so deeply, Eames feared they might never smooth out.
“What happened?” he asked, glancing between the two.
“Mal was out for a bit, and Robert happened to pick up the phone for her,” Arthur began, pushing the terrified boy to a nearby stool. “He made a reservation for a Mr. Charles.”
“No,” Eames gasped, hand covering his mouth. “Tonight?”
“I think this is Saito’s final test,” Arthur confirmed, lips pressed tightly together.
“Well, shit,” Ariadne summed up brilliantly.
--
Critics weren’t as dastardly sneaky as some people might have thought. While they could escape notice if they really wanted to, the desire for topnotch service and food was usually enough to limit their attempts at concealment, so there were always a few names to watch out for. Mr. Charles was the biggest one.
Dominic Cobb was one of the kindest, most genteel men Eames had ever met, and that all meant shit when he was writing a review. Perfectly tuned palette, picky to a fault and with the writing skills to slice and serve up any restaurant not up to his skyscraper high standards, Cobb was a force to be reckoned with. He had destroyed his first booming business with a scathing, multiple column critique after dining in as Mr. Charles, and since then, the name had become his favorite moniker. It was what he used when he wanted to send a message, an “I can break you into a thousand, pretty shards or build you up into Mount Olympus” kind of message.
The news came, at first, like a shock to the Inception staff, but they recovered like the amazing people Eames knew they were. Throwing themselves into the menu he had artfully prepared to hopefully knock Arthur off his feet, the staff had never before seemed so breathtakingly flawless. While Eames felt a bit nervous, Arthur’s constant non-response chipping away at his usual confidence more than he wanted to admit, he felt enthusiastic again once dinner service started.
The restaurant was, of course, packed. Everything had been shined shortly before opening, and the wait staff had never looked so professional and on their game. They were alert, polite, and moving through the tables like they were gliding. Eames moved away from the door dividing the back and front of the house with the happy knowledge that no one out there seemed to be tripping up. Now, he just had to make sure he didn’t either.
Luckily, he seemed to be on fire and didn’t even blink when Arthur stepped into the kitchen. “He’s here. I have Mal working on him.”
“A fine choice, darling,” Eames approved, putting the finishing touches on some plates, and if he seemed dismissive, Arthur appeared to realize it was more out of faith in the floor manager’s abilities than apathy.
Mal handled everything from there. She delivered Cobb’s order and snatched a bottle of very good wine to offer him on the house. Eames personally prepared the man’s appetizer and main course, and he kept a careful eye on Yusuf’s dessert preparations.
“This isn’t your average clafouti, I assure you,” Yusuf told him, delicately mixing his ingredients. “If this doesn’t have him dreaming that he can taste the French Riviera, I will never make another dessert again.”
“Something tells me that the Riviera isn’t the French thing he’d like to taste,” spoke Arthur’s dry tone, and everyone turned to see a pleased floor manager. “I’m pretty sure you’ll be making a wedding cake in six to twelve months, Yusuf.”
“No,” gasped Eames, shuffling over to look through the porthole of the kitchen doors. “Did Mal really get him that good?”
“More like they got each other,” Ariadne commented, her tone sounding impressed despite herself.
Seated at the center table was a besotted Cobb, eyes soft and warm hands wrapped around one of Mal’s. They were both giggling like little schoolchildren, and it would have been embarrassing if it wasn’t so sweet. “Well, I guess we won’t have to worry about the review after all,” Eames declared. The cheers the kitchen staff raised was, Eames discovered later, a bit premature.
A few hours later, as the restaurant was finally closing, Arthur came into the kitchen again. The festivities had started up a little early, the staff already sitting with shots in hand. He made his way straight to Eames. “He wants to talk to you,” Arthur said, and Eames knew that while he had a very strict policy against meeting the guests, he didn’t really have a choice in this case.
He left the kitchen with Arthur right beside him, making a beeline for the table where Cobb was still grinning and flirting with a highly receptive Mal. Despite the obvious fun the man was having, he made sure to look up when Eames stopped next to his chair. “Compliments to the chef,” he toasted, raising his glass.
“Thank you, sir,” Eames replied, as humble as possible. As much as he enjoyed watching people light up when they ate his food, the delicious cuisine making everything else about the evening that much brighter, he hated actually listening to compliments.
“Tonight has been wonderful, full of the loveliest,” and here Cobb paused to give Mal another besotted smile, “people I’ve ever met and food I’ve ever tasted. I have to say, though, I worry about my ability to stay neutral in my review.”
“Sir?” Arthur asked, exchanging a meaningful glance that Eames didn’t even really have to notice to read.
“I know critics are rarely ever completely neutral, but I don’t want to spend my entire review praising the wait staff,” another look at a pleasantly flushed Mal, “and not the food.”
“Didn’t you enjoy it?” Eames asked, confused. Good food was good food, and a man with a palette like Cobb could recognize culinary mastery from a mile away. Eames could just about taste the rat at this point.
“Of course, but I was a little under the influence,” Cobb replied. “To make sure I can write the best article possible, I thought I’d defer to my favorite part of the evening.”
His expectant gaze was clear enough, and Arthur straightened his back as if he were a soldier awaiting inspection. “Mr. Cobb, this is clearly-”
“I’ve been to enough of your restaurants for you to call me Dom, Arthur, and I trust you. Tell me what you think of Chef Eames’ food?” Cobb pushed, gently but strongly insistent. Eames felt his stomach begin coiling itself into knots as Arthur took in a deep breath.
“I think we both know that I don’t have to tell you how good it is. The food isn’t just delicious-it’s innovative with the right amount of odd, and the simple presentation belies the complex flavors. The fresh ingredients were obviously picked out with care and a personal knowledge of the area. Chef Eames has been performing consistently, and I can assure you that if you come in next week, you will have your mind blown again,” Arthur droned out, and for all it sounded like the most boring marketing report to ever grace a conference room, Eames noted with glee the light in Arthur’s eyes and the playful twist of words as he ended. He wasn’t sure his heart would stay in his chest if it kept beating that hard.
“Excellent,” Cobb approved. “Although you left out a very important part of the critique. That’s not like you, Arthur.”
“Did I?” The words came out too stiffly for Arthur to truly be ignorant of his mistake, although Eames could honestly confess to his cluelessness.
“Oh Arthur, you must embrace your love a little more, and not just your love of food,” Mal teased, smiling with something akin to pride.
“There’s no doubt that you’re a wonderful floor manager-the best in the business, in fact. This begs the question of why you are constantly unemployed,” Cobb drawled, his grin friendly and amused and all of his attention on Eames. “You are a notoriously picky eater, Arthur. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’d make a better critic than me, if it weren’t almost guaranteed that you would make everyone in the industry cry.”
“That-” Arthur tried to cut in, and Eames noticed with joy that the tips of the man’s ears were turning a delightful pink.
“Yet,” Cobb overruled him, “there was not a disdainful word for Chef Eames’ cooking, not a single flinch at the smell, or a condescending look as you brought out my meal. In fact, Arthur, you looked awfully proud.”
“Yes, well,” Arthur bit out, every line of his body tense. “Working with a chef of Eames’ talent has been a pleasure.”
“Something Saito will be glad to hear,” Cobb replied before rising from his seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me and Mal. I think a quick walk in the park would be a wonderful way to end the night. Chef Eames, if every chef cooked with the amount of love you did, I would be out of a job.”
The weight of that last statement did not escape Eames, and he stared at the couple as they left in a wonderfully intimate embrace, something that spoke of years of flirtation and comfort. Eames looked after them longingly before glancing back at Arthur, who still seemed so tense, Eames was afraid he might explode.
“Arthur, darling,” he began, because he had always leapt before looking.
“It’s just food.”
“Not to me. Not to you either,” Eames insisted, and he could tell by the way Arthur’s stare wavered the smallest amount that he was right. “That whole menu was for you,” he confessed.
“What?” Arthur’s brows were furrowing again.
“I always thought-you never reacted to my food. I thought that meant you didn’t like it. I wanted to impress you. To prove myself, I guess, because I know my spelling isn’t very impressive, and goodness knows my scarves are hideous, but-I can cook well,” Eames explained, shrugging.
Arthur’s stare was unnerving and lasted an age. Eames fidgeted, wondering if he had made a mistake, been too forward. He was still worrying when Arthur moved, lightening fast like the first day in the kitchen, and suddenly he had warm, dry lips pressed against his own. Arthur still tasted a little like the crème caramel that Eames had wrangled Yusuf into teaching him to make, after Mal let it slip that it was Arthur’s favorite dessert.
“You’re a little bit of an idiot,” Arthur told him after he finally moved away, eyes warm even as his hands quickly removed Eames’ ugly neckerchief of the day.
“Well, darling, I hear it’s a common symptom of infatuation,” Eames replied, reveling in Arthur’s quick grin and glance away, as if he were suddenly embarrassed.
“Next time you want to win me over, though,” Arthur instructed, pulling away completely as he cast a wary glance over at the rustle of sound behind the kitchen doors. “You should know I like my food spicier than that.”
Eames growled flirtatiously, bearing just enough teeth to draw a laugh out of Arthur. He could do spicy.
Eames is a wonderful cook, yes, but he is horrible at spelling things correctly on his menus, let alone describing them. (His latest culinary masterpiece is called "taste's realy goood.") So he hires a proofreader, who turns out to be the infamously-uptight and critical Arthur.
As they argue back and forth, Eames slowly starts to fall for him. In an attempt to get Arthur to stay, his spelling becomes more atrocious. But as it turns out, the way to Arthur's heart really is through his stomach. ♥
Title: Tell Me You Didn't Put the Veal Down Your Pants
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Warning: This probably needs a beta. There are no actual veals going down into anyone's pants in this fic, unfortunately.
“We need to talk, Mr. Eames.”
There were a few things every aspiring chef needed to know about the restaurant industry. The number one, most important thing was, but of course, knowing who not to piss off. Critics were always high up on that list, and so were the big-name, celebrity chefs. However, if faced with the heart-stopping decision to either kick, insult, and drag a well-known critic through the mud or glance at a big name restauranteur the wrong way, the obvious decision would be to go with the former. The critic wouldn’t even blame the chef afterward, especially if the restauranteur mentioned in the latter part was Saito.
“Do we really? I think I smell Yusuf setting the meringue on fire again,” Eames mumbled, his head bowed in resignation.
“Sit,” Saito insisted, with no added emphasis or edge, but Eames could tell from Saito’s stern expression and the cut of his suit that he was in for the worst. “Now, Mr. Eames, no one doubts your cooking abilities. I have very often enjoyed meals here.”
“But…” Eames hedged, wringing his ridiculous (and therefore, absolutely necessary) chef’s hat into a wrinkled scrap.
“But it has become quite obvious that your food, as amazing as it is, does not make up for your poor management skills. It is a Saturday night, Mr. Eames, and yet how many reservations do we have?” Saito asked, his imposing eyebrow raised at just the right height to intimidate but not scare off.
“… Maybe five?” Eames guessed. “Look, I know I’m head chef, but it’s not really my job to be running the joint, is it? I just cook and make the menu.”
“Yes, about the menu…” Maybe the most impressive thing about restauranteurs was their almost magical abilities. Like finding the prime spot for a tapas place in the middle of the country, picking out the best wine to go with Calgary in the fall, and conjuring badly planned menus out of thin air. “Putting aside your truly appalling spelling, I do not think it very professional to name a dish… ‘taste’s realy goood.’ Do you, Mr. Eames?”
“Well, I did it, didn’t I?” he replied automatically, and then quickly bit down on his tongue due to sheer survival instinct. “Wrongly, of course,” he added.
“Indeed,” Saito agreed, although his eyebrow was still obviously distrustful. “Now, Mr. Eames, you promised me a great restaurant. Of course, I am not so stupid as to buy out appalling amounts of prime real estate in the heart of Los Angeles on a lowly chef’s promises,” not to mention what he had to do to make said prime real estate available, Eames was sure, “and I always prefer to make my own success.”
“Which means?” Eames questioned, fear already blossoming on his face.
“Which means you are getting a floor manager,” Saito stated simply.
Letting out a breath in relief, Eames threw his hand over his heart to try to calm its racing rhythm. “Well, that’s not so bad. When are we going to start interviewing them?” If he had some time, he could get things in a bit of order. Warn the kitchen staff, the wait staff, and the dishwashers about the news and have some time left over to influence the hiring process.
“We, Mr. Eames? No, no. I think this is one decision you are unqualified to make. Besides, I have already hired one.”
“Who?”
Another thing that aspiring chefs should know, but that generally get cut by disbelieving editors before they make it into important guidebooks, is that quiet entrances are always more dangerous than loud ones. This advice doubles in importance when the people who make said quiet entrances appear completely respectable (another overpriced three piece suit), calm (perfectly gelled hair), and carefree (although that could have just been the hyper confidence), because that’s never fucking worked out well before.
“Mr. Eames, meet Arthur, your new floor manager,” Saito introduced, standing up to place a slightly threatening, slightly welcoming hand on the newly arrived Arthur’s shoulder.
“Charmed,” Eames greeted, because Arthur looked lovely, all long legs and flawless skin. So disarming, Arthur raised Eames’ hopes for a brief, fluttering moment.
Luckily for the chef, all it took were the words, “Don’t try it, Mr. Eames” and a pretentious smirk to bring those hopes down. “You were right, Saito. This place is a mess. I have my work cut out for me.”
This was going to be a disaster.
--
“Is it true? Did we really get a floor manager?” Robert asked, eyes wide and nervous like they had been for the last five months they had worked together. To this day, Eames still wasn’t sure what had convinced him to hire on the rookie chef. Robert had never worked a day in his life before his first hour in the kitchen, and it had taken too long to train him on how to do the prep work. Then again, Eames had always had a soft spot for rebels, and any man who threw away a multi-billion dollar empire to become a chef was definitely a rebel. Also certifiably insane, Eames thought, but a rebel nonetheless.
“Yes, and he is evil incarnate,” Eames warned, rapping Robert’s nose with his index finger. “Stay away from him, Robbie, or he might steal your soul.”
“He’s exaggerating. I just met Arthur, and he’s really nice. Besides, we do need a floor manager. No offense, Eames, but your management skills suck.” Ariadne always did have to be the voice of reason, Eames lamented. If she weren’t such a top notch chef in her own right and also never willing to take his shit, he would fire her. Then again, as she was definitely both those things, it was quite likely he had already tried a few times and she had simply never listened. When the gifted knew they were good, it was really impossible to prove otherwise.
“Think of it this way, Eames. Now, you can devote all your time to cooking instead of making sure the curtains match the carpets,” Yusuf agreed, and if he realized the oddity of his phrasing, his expression didn’t show it. “You’ve always been bad at color coordinating.”
“That’s because I don’t have to color coordinate! Chefs wear white! White goes with everything.” Eames whined.
“Actually, I’m pretty sure nothing goes with that neckerchief you have on. Honestly, was Chef Boyardee your main inspiration for getting into this industry?” Ariadne taunted, gesturing widely with the knife she was using to shuck oysters for that night’s service.
“None of you respect me,” Eames bit back.
“Further proof of your bad management skills,” Ariadne agreed.
“I respect you,” Robert murmured.
“A bad idea,” Arthur advised, and Eames jumped, having not heard the door opening. “No man who paints his restaurant mulberry and ecru deserves respect.”
Eames pulled off his neckerchief, throwing it down on the counter in a flurry of dramatic cloth. “Nobody asked you, darling,” he gritted out, one step away from walking up to the very attractive current pain in his ass and pushing him out.
However, Arthur beat him to it, appearing so quickly under Eames’ nose that he jumped back and jarred himself painfully against the counter. “Saito did, and I think we both know that we need to do this job well if we want to live to see another career. So, I advise you, Mr. Eames, to work with me.”
Well, Eames was nothing if not totally focused on his own survival. “What do you need me to do?” he asked, and as far as surrenders went, it didn’t taste half as bad as any of the ones he could remember.
“We need to close down service tonight and a few of the following nights. I’m going to bring in some new staff, and we’re going to redo the whole place,” Arthur stated simply, his tone suggesting that only one response would be met with anything better than brutal force of action.
Yusuf modeled brilliantly, throwing down his piping bag of buttercream icing with joy. “Vacation!” he exclaimed, throwing both arms up.
“Hardly,” Arthur corrected. “You’ll all be helping me redo the store.”
--
The renovations were extensive, strenuous, and revelatory. The new, contemporary look of Inception, a hopeful name Ariadne had plucked out of a week long, drag out fight between Eames and Arthur, was shockingly beautiful in its simplicity. Trendy, chic, but with just enough classic ‘50s elements to also be warm and inviting, the restaurant practically cried out from its bay windows to be filled, and for those who could not read interior design so thoroughly, Arthur’s new wait staff was infinitely more alluring than the furniture.
Mal, the classic and classy French woman who took the prominent front door spot, was especially charming and likable even before Eames had heard her melodic chuckle. The chase down and full body tackle of a dine-and-dasher while Mal had been in a fetching sheath dress and Jimmy Choo’s had simply been a lovely cherry on top of an adoring sundae. Eames had rewarded her with a sinfully savory rillette in thanks.
“C’est trés delicieuse,” she exclaimed in pleasure before spotting a lurking floor manager over Eames’ shoulder. “Arthur, would you like to try some? He’s quite a Francophile, you see,” she whispered to Eames, an intimate smile on her face as if she were sharing a greatly personal detail.
Of course, Arthur barely blinked at the taste of the rillette. “It’s good,” he affirmed, before turning sharply on his heels and heading off to tidy up some already, anally neat part of the restaurant. Eames contemplated stomping his foot repeatedly, throwing his arms up and shouting, maybe even wrecking the beautiful steel centerpiece of the restaurant that could spin like a top all throughout dinner service. Instead, he prompted for pouting miserably at Mal.
“I don’t get it,” he whined in his most heartfelt and pathetic tone. Of course, Mal was too smart to have any of it. She laughed a little, gave the air next to his cheek a kiss, and patted him quickly on the head.
“Do not worry too much, mon petit chou. It is simply his way,” she consoled him before sweeping off to dazzle someone else with her charm.
Eames should have taken her words to heart. While he had no idea what their exact history was, Mal and Arthur had definitely known each other for a long time. She was constantly mothering him, turning down the sex appeal and ramping up the maternal instinct around the sharp dressed man. Still, Eames couldn’t help but feel unsettled. He had never before found someone who could resist his food. Even Saito, who seemed capable of existing off of his sheer awesomeness and power and wealth alone, enjoyed Eames’ culinary skills. What was Arthur even doing in the food industry if he didn’t take some secret pleasure in the gastronomical arts?
“I’m not so sure. He’s really thin,” Yusuf commented after Eames had repeated his thoughts to the kitchen at large.
“So? Just because you’re thin, doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy food! I’m thin!”
“For a bear,” Ariadne agreed.
“You would squash Arthur,” Yusuf seconded.
“Well, in weight only. I’m pretty sure Arthur could take you in a fight, Chef,” Robert added on, a breeze of stale, realistic air.
Eames clenched his teeth and thought. “No, I refuse to accept this. People don’t say that a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach for no reason!” he exclaimed, stabbing his butcher’s knife into his cutting board. “I’ll just have to try harder.”
The effort was noticeable throughout the restaurant. The kitchen was overtaken with fresher, odder ingredients every day, prep work becoming less repetitive and more educational as they learned how to cook with wild game, exotic flowers, and more offal than the average farm could throw out. Critics who had snuck in the first few days of Inception’s opening had written rave reviews, all of which Eames had strangely chosen to ignore, which meant the restaurant was packed every night. Mal had her hands full with the crowds at the entrance, and the rest of the wait staff had become professionals at kindly deflecting the guests’ many requests to give personal props to the chef. Arthur looked oddly at the continuous stream of innovative dishes Eames seemed to constantly churn out, and had outright declined the chef’s request to sample each and every one for himself.
“I’m not here to eat the restaurant out of business, Mr. Eames,” Arthur reminded him, eyes sweeping over the generous offering the other had laid out. “I am supposed to be helping you name your dishes and set up the special every night which, going by the list of suggestions you gave me, is an incredibly necessary exercise.”
Eames’ shoulders had drooped temporarily before the mischievous glint had suddenly turned on in his eyes. “And what better way to help you name them to try the dishes, right? Much better than a list of suggestions.”
“Only because your spelling is truly the stuff English teachers’ nightmares are made of, Mr. Eames,” Arthur sniped back good-naturedly, but he carefully withdrew a chair from the table before seating himself. “I guess it can’t hurt to take a few bites of each.”
“Of course not, darling,” Eames agreed, trying to hide his anticipation as Arthur reached for the eel. However, Arthur’s face once again stayed bland and professional throughout, never showing a sign of enjoyment during the taste test. He hardly even touched most of the food, only taking repeat bites if he needed to take more notes on the dish for the specials menu later. It was, all in all, a complete waste of effort and a terrible downer. Eames felt his shoulders slump as he retreated to the back with all of the plates still laden with food.
“Didn’t work, huh?” Ariadne asked with concern as Eames began to viciously scoop off all of the food from the plates into the bin.
“I don’t understand it, Ari. Resistant to my charms, sure! People resist my charms all the time, but my cooking?” Eames moaned, deciding to save the last dish-Yusuf’s magical take on a rhubarb crumble-for himself.
“Why does it even matter so much, Eames? Isn’t it enough that we’re on the top of the restaurant rankings and that Arthur has been a damn good floor manager? I mean, you guys aren’t even fighting that much anymore,” Ariadne enthused. “Or, well, you wouldn’t be if you would just stop calling him names, messing with his espresso machine, removing the wheels from his rolling chair, purposefully misspelling every word in every note you leave for him, and-Oh. My. GOD.”
“What?”
“You have a crush on him!”
“You know, love, for a beautiful, intelligent young woman, you’re awful slow on the uptake. Is this how Robbie feels?” Eames asked, lips already in full pout mode.
“Shut up, this is a big deal and-what was that about Robert?” Ariadne interrupted, flabbergasted expression pasted on her face.
“Shush, Ari, we’re about to flashback into my love story,” Eames hushed her, perfecting his sulk with his chin in his hands. She scowled, but settled back onto a stool to listen to him wax poetic about the other man. Arthur’s finely tailored suits and impeccable taste, his long limbs and subtly expressive face, and his perfect professionalism and competency-all of which were well and good, and not really why Eames had fallen for him.
After all, none of that compared to how Arthur had surprised him with a sly, mischievous glance rather than an infuriated, uptight glare when Eames had accidentally splattered red paint all over them both during the renovation period. Watching Arthur roll up his shirt sleeves and throw himself into hard, manual labor was arousing, but staring at his self-assured, warm smile as Yusuf tried to decorate the walls like he was icing a cake warmed the untouched depths of Eames’ heart. Eames had listened in as Arthur traded quick-witted barbs with Ariadne with confidence and comfort, and the man’s quiet handling of his wait staff allowed them to approach him without fear of judgment. In short, Arthur had quickly found his place in the family, and while Eames would have otherwise felt threatened and jealous, Arthur actions didn’t invite that. He was always respectful of Eames’ talent and deferred to him in all the right places.
Even at the beginning, when they had argued constantly about the dumbest, most spontaneous issues Eames could drag out-from the smell of the new tiles to the color of the new art pieces’ frames-Arthur had yelled and given back as well as he got. However, he never insulted Eames personally.
“Balut is a food item; Baloo is a character from The Jungle Book.” Yes.
“If you don’t stop tie-dyeing your chef’s whites, I will lock you inside the walk in fridge.” More times than he could count.
“If you don’t stop calling me pet, I will take a muzzle to you,” was really more of an invitation than a threat, and everything was always said with an amused quirk to his lips.
By the end of the second day of redecorating, Arthur had sounded almost fond, and Eames had been eager to see more sides to the mysteriously private man. Particularly, he wanted to see the happier side of Arthur. Not just the lip quirks and the quick insults that they shot at each other but Arthur with a wide grin, laughing, enjoying a good meal, and having an actual conversation with him.
However, it was beginning to look like that wasn’t ever going to happen.
“What should I do, Ari?” Eames asked, wringing the hideously checkered neckerchief he had been wearing that day.
“Well…” she began, but stood with a start as the doors banged open. Standing in the doorway was a shell-shocked Robert accompanied by an Arthur whose brows were furrowed so deeply, Eames feared they might never smooth out.
“What happened?” he asked, glancing between the two.
“Mal was out for a bit, and Robert happened to pick up the phone for her,” Arthur began, pushing the terrified boy to a nearby stool. “He made a reservation for a Mr. Charles.”
“No,” Eames gasped, hand covering his mouth. “Tonight?”
“I think this is Saito’s final test,” Arthur confirmed, lips pressed tightly together.
“Well, shit,” Ariadne summed up brilliantly.
--
Critics weren’t as dastardly sneaky as some people might have thought. While they could escape notice if they really wanted to, the desire for topnotch service and food was usually enough to limit their attempts at concealment, so there were always a few names to watch out for. Mr. Charles was the biggest one.
Dominic Cobb was one of the kindest, most genteel men Eames had ever met, and that all meant shit when he was writing a review. Perfectly tuned palette, picky to a fault and with the writing skills to slice and serve up any restaurant not up to his skyscraper high standards, Cobb was a force to be reckoned with. He had destroyed his first booming business with a scathing, multiple column critique after dining in as Mr. Charles, and since then, the name had become his favorite moniker. It was what he used when he wanted to send a message, an “I can break you into a thousand, pretty shards or build you up into Mount Olympus” kind of message.
The news came, at first, like a shock to the Inception staff, but they recovered like the amazing people Eames knew they were. Throwing themselves into the menu he had artfully prepared to hopefully knock Arthur off his feet, the staff had never before seemed so breathtakingly flawless. While Eames felt a bit nervous, Arthur’s constant non-response chipping away at his usual confidence more than he wanted to admit, he felt enthusiastic again once dinner service started.
The restaurant was, of course, packed. Everything had been shined shortly before opening, and the wait staff had never looked so professional and on their game. They were alert, polite, and moving through the tables like they were gliding. Eames moved away from the door dividing the back and front of the house with the happy knowledge that no one out there seemed to be tripping up. Now, he just had to make sure he didn’t either.
Luckily, he seemed to be on fire and didn’t even blink when Arthur stepped into the kitchen. “He’s here. I have Mal working on him.”
“A fine choice, darling,” Eames approved, putting the finishing touches on some plates, and if he seemed dismissive, Arthur appeared to realize it was more out of faith in the floor manager’s abilities than apathy.
Mal handled everything from there. She delivered Cobb’s order and snatched a bottle of very good wine to offer him on the house. Eames personally prepared the man’s appetizer and main course, and he kept a careful eye on Yusuf’s dessert preparations.
“This isn’t your average clafouti, I assure you,” Yusuf told him, delicately mixing his ingredients. “If this doesn’t have him dreaming that he can taste the French Riviera, I will never make another dessert again.”
“Something tells me that the Riviera isn’t the French thing he’d like to taste,” spoke Arthur’s dry tone, and everyone turned to see a pleased floor manager. “I’m pretty sure you’ll be making a wedding cake in six to twelve months, Yusuf.”
“No,” gasped Eames, shuffling over to look through the porthole of the kitchen doors. “Did Mal really get him that good?”
“More like they got each other,” Ariadne commented, her tone sounding impressed despite herself.
Seated at the center table was a besotted Cobb, eyes soft and warm hands wrapped around one of Mal’s. They were both giggling like little schoolchildren, and it would have been embarrassing if it wasn’t so sweet. “Well, I guess we won’t have to worry about the review after all,” Eames declared. The cheers the kitchen staff raised was, Eames discovered later, a bit premature.
A few hours later, as the restaurant was finally closing, Arthur came into the kitchen again. The festivities had started up a little early, the staff already sitting with shots in hand. He made his way straight to Eames. “He wants to talk to you,” Arthur said, and Eames knew that while he had a very strict policy against meeting the guests, he didn’t really have a choice in this case.
He left the kitchen with Arthur right beside him, making a beeline for the table where Cobb was still grinning and flirting with a highly receptive Mal. Despite the obvious fun the man was having, he made sure to look up when Eames stopped next to his chair. “Compliments to the chef,” he toasted, raising his glass.
“Thank you, sir,” Eames replied, as humble as possible. As much as he enjoyed watching people light up when they ate his food, the delicious cuisine making everything else about the evening that much brighter, he hated actually listening to compliments.
“Tonight has been wonderful, full of the loveliest,” and here Cobb paused to give Mal another besotted smile, “people I’ve ever met and food I’ve ever tasted. I have to say, though, I worry about my ability to stay neutral in my review.”
“Sir?” Arthur asked, exchanging a meaningful glance that Eames didn’t even really have to notice to read.
“I know critics are rarely ever completely neutral, but I don’t want to spend my entire review praising the wait staff,” another look at a pleasantly flushed Mal, “and not the food.”
“Didn’t you enjoy it?” Eames asked, confused. Good food was good food, and a man with a palette like Cobb could recognize culinary mastery from a mile away. Eames could just about taste the rat at this point.
“Of course, but I was a little under the influence,” Cobb replied. “To make sure I can write the best article possible, I thought I’d defer to my favorite part of the evening.”
His expectant gaze was clear enough, and Arthur straightened his back as if he were a soldier awaiting inspection. “Mr. Cobb, this is clearly-”
“I’ve been to enough of your restaurants for you to call me Dom, Arthur, and I trust you. Tell me what you think of Chef Eames’ food?” Cobb pushed, gently but strongly insistent. Eames felt his stomach begin coiling itself into knots as Arthur took in a deep breath.
“I think we both know that I don’t have to tell you how good it is. The food isn’t just delicious-it’s innovative with the right amount of odd, and the simple presentation belies the complex flavors. The fresh ingredients were obviously picked out with care and a personal knowledge of the area. Chef Eames has been performing consistently, and I can assure you that if you come in next week, you will have your mind blown again,” Arthur droned out, and for all it sounded like the most boring marketing report to ever grace a conference room, Eames noted with glee the light in Arthur’s eyes and the playful twist of words as he ended. He wasn’t sure his heart would stay in his chest if it kept beating that hard.
“Excellent,” Cobb approved. “Although you left out a very important part of the critique. That’s not like you, Arthur.”
“Did I?” The words came out too stiffly for Arthur to truly be ignorant of his mistake, although Eames could honestly confess to his cluelessness.
“Oh Arthur, you must embrace your love a little more, and not just your love of food,” Mal teased, smiling with something akin to pride.
“There’s no doubt that you’re a wonderful floor manager-the best in the business, in fact. This begs the question of why you are constantly unemployed,” Cobb drawled, his grin friendly and amused and all of his attention on Eames. “You are a notoriously picky eater, Arthur. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’d make a better critic than me, if it weren’t almost guaranteed that you would make everyone in the industry cry.”
“That-” Arthur tried to cut in, and Eames noticed with joy that the tips of the man’s ears were turning a delightful pink.
“Yet,” Cobb overruled him, “there was not a disdainful word for Chef Eames’ cooking, not a single flinch at the smell, or a condescending look as you brought out my meal. In fact, Arthur, you looked awfully proud.”
“Yes, well,” Arthur bit out, every line of his body tense. “Working with a chef of Eames’ talent has been a pleasure.”
“Something Saito will be glad to hear,” Cobb replied before rising from his seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me and Mal. I think a quick walk in the park would be a wonderful way to end the night. Chef Eames, if every chef cooked with the amount of love you did, I would be out of a job.”
The weight of that last statement did not escape Eames, and he stared at the couple as they left in a wonderfully intimate embrace, something that spoke of years of flirtation and comfort. Eames looked after them longingly before glancing back at Arthur, who still seemed so tense, Eames was afraid he might explode.
“Arthur, darling,” he began, because he had always leapt before looking.
“It’s just food.”
“Not to me. Not to you either,” Eames insisted, and he could tell by the way Arthur’s stare wavered the smallest amount that he was right. “That whole menu was for you,” he confessed.
“What?” Arthur’s brows were furrowing again.
“I always thought-you never reacted to my food. I thought that meant you didn’t like it. I wanted to impress you. To prove myself, I guess, because I know my spelling isn’t very impressive, and goodness knows my scarves are hideous, but-I can cook well,” Eames explained, shrugging.
Arthur’s stare was unnerving and lasted an age. Eames fidgeted, wondering if he had made a mistake, been too forward. He was still worrying when Arthur moved, lightening fast like the first day in the kitchen, and suddenly he had warm, dry lips pressed against his own. Arthur still tasted a little like the crème caramel that Eames had wrangled Yusuf into teaching him to make, after Mal let it slip that it was Arthur’s favorite dessert.
“You’re a little bit of an idiot,” Arthur told him after he finally moved away, eyes warm even as his hands quickly removed Eames’ ugly neckerchief of the day.
“Well, darling, I hear it’s a common symptom of infatuation,” Eames replied, reveling in Arthur’s quick grin and glance away, as if he were suddenly embarrassed.
“Next time you want to win me over, though,” Arthur instructed, pulling away completely as he cast a wary glance over at the rustle of sound behind the kitchen doors. “You should know I like my food spicier than that.”
Eames growled flirtatiously, bearing just enough teeth to draw a laugh out of Arthur. He could do spicy.