"If You Can't Stand the Heat"

[plinkin.livejournal.com]

Title: If You Can't Stand the Heat
Part(s): 1/?
Pairings: Monaboyd
Rating: PG in this chapter to NC-17 for later chapters
Warnings: AU
Disclaimers: I don't know them and I'm not affiliated with them.
Feedback: I love feedback of all kinds.


So, I’m Dominic. That’s me over there in the black and whites. This is my home, or my home away from home, rather. These people here, I like to think of them as my surrogate family; they’ve always been there for me when I needed them. We’re like that. Always pulling together when the going gets rough. We’re a clan, a tribe. We work in a kitchen, see? Come on then and let me show you around.

This is my Bessie, this beautiful hunk of cool, stainless steel and warm, cast iron. Half the day I spend preparing myself for her: chopping and dicing, pounding and mincing, sweating and laboring. All of this is done for my Bessie, so that when we come together, it’s magic. For three or four manic hours a night, I’m a bloody God; fire and steam and smoke and everything crashing together in a swirling storm of motion and it’s just perfect. You see, I’m a cook and without my Bessie, I’d be nothing.

That little guy working across from me is our new prep-cook, Elijah. He’s just getting started and he’s little hesitant about this whole thing. He’s all big, scared eyes and jumpy nerves. Never knows if he’s going or coming. He’ll be fine. He just needs to settle down a bit and feel the rhythm of the kitchen. Every kitchen has a heart and once the beating of yours falls in time with that of the kitchen, everything flows.

The rather large gent, in the back there, is Sean; he butchers our meat. He’s all brawn and sinew, sharp knives, wit and flashing white teeth. Spends most of the day up to his elbows in blood and muscle, patiently trimming and cutting and saying very little. In fact, I’m a bit afraid of him. One time, just as a joke, mind you, I locked him in the meat cooler. He’s never quite been the same, since. How was I to know that the big Nellie was claustrophobic?

Oh. Let’s move quickly past this door, here. Viggo, the owner, is in there and I’m trying to stay out of his way for a few days. We don’t need to go into any details about that right now. Right? Of course, right. Trust me. Moving along.

That dour looking fellow by the mixer is Sean. Not the same Sean we saw a minute ago, but that should be obvious to you. Sean is our baker and he’s a little off his nut, if you get my drift. It’s my opinion that he’s spent far too long breathing in the fumes of fermenting yeast; it’s just made him a bit wonky. Wonderful bread he makes, though. Oh, so lovely and light. Melts in your mouth. Lovely.

And here comes the produce. A wink and a nod from Karl means the produce is looking mighty fine. Always nice to see that. Karl does seem to disappear into the depths of the kitchen for long periods of time. If you ask me, he’s got his eye on our Sean. No silly, not baker Sean. I think it’s our butcher that he fancies. Catching that one is not going to be an easy task.

Well, we’re just about done in the back here. Oh. Yes. I missed one. The cool, frosty one over in the corner is Cate, our pastry chef. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Actually, that’s a rather good quality for a pastry chef to have. Cold hands and a cold heart make for happy chocolate, I always say. Bit of a stickler for detail, Cate is. But then, that’s another fine quality for a pastry chef. I’ve never been cut out for that sort of work. Too many straight lines and rigid recipes. Too many rules, you know?

Ah, and here’s Orlando. And there goes Orlando. He’s simply maddening in his elegance and poise. Ever in motion, always smiling for the customer and doing his little dance, he’s the darling of the dining room. I sound catty, don’t I? I don’t mean to; he’s very good at what he does. Being a server is not glamorous work and still Orlando manages to make it seem like poetry in motion.

Surpassed only by Orlando in elegance, is Ian, our Maitre’d. Cool and confident and always ready to handle any given situation, Ian is the man you want on the job when things get a bit sticky and you’re in the weeds. The man is a general in formal attire, always starched, pressed, creased and perennially fresh. I don’t know how he does it. Me, I’m always a mess at the end of the night, wilted and worn out but usually supremely happy.

Well, we’re almost at the end of our little tour and we’ve only got one more stop to make. This one is my favorite. You see, this one is Billy. We’ll just watch him from over here, eh? Of late, I seem to lose my composure around Bills. Since when am I a flustered, 15 year old boy? Well, I can tell you since when. My life has been topsy-turvy from the first moment I looked into those clear, green eyes and heard that melodious, lilting voice. Bill is our bartender and I could spend hours, sitting in a corner and nursing a beer, just to watch him. He’s all clever fingers, cheeky smiles and a compact little frame that I’d love to get my hands on. That little grin of his does something to me; pulls my heart into my throat, my tum down into my shoes and my eyes from my head. Maybe we should go see him, yeah? Yeah.

“Ah Dominic! Always a pleasure to see you.”

If only he knew.

“Ach, but you reek! What have you been up to back there? Busy night, was it?”

Spit it out, Monaghan. Say something. Anything. You’re dying here. “Umm yeah. We were a bit slammed at the end there but our new boy, Elijah, jumped online and helped pull me out of the weeds.”

“So, you’re all done with work for the night, then? How about you sit down and have a drink with me?”

Oh, I am so screwed.