withthepilot (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
withthepilot) wrote2010-01-09 01:46 pm
withthepilot) wrote2010-01-09 01:46 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Kitchen Consequential (1/18)
Title: Kitchen Consequential (1/18)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,554
Pairings/Characters: Chekov, Kirk, Pike, Spock, Scotty
Disclaimer: Do not own or claim to own.
Warnings: AU set in New York City, 2009, with flashbacks to five years prior. Many references to the ST: XI canon.
Summary: All paths lead to the kitchen for the staff members of Enterprise, the newest critical darling on the New York restaurant scene. It's here that they come together as a team and find out just where they belong. Chapter 1: Young chef Pavel Chekov gets put through the interview wringer at the hands of Enterprise Executive Chef James T. Kirk.
For a comprehensive list of series pairings and author notes, please visit the master post.
It's not so much an interview as it is an obstacle course. And it's immediately off to a bad start because Pavel's running late and racing down the streets of Manhattan's Hell's Kitchen neighborhood in an attempt to make it before the clock strikes 2:01. The front doors of Enterprise, New York's hottest and chicest five-star restaurant, are impressively large, made of glass and wiped down so spotlessly that Pavel almost smacks right into them. He clutches his messenger bag and walks to the reception area, where a pale, somewhat robotic man greets him. Pavel almost startles when the man lifts his head; he's never seen such strange eyebrows before.
"May I help you, sir?" the man says. He's monotone but offhandedly regal. Pavel can't detect an outright foreign accent, but something about his inflection doesn't sound quite American. He should know; he's been paying close attention to the speech patterns of Americans for years, having had to learn their language from scratch.
"Da—yes. I have an appointment with Mr. Christopher Pike and, ah..." He looks at his planner, mentally cursing himself for blanking on the executive chef's name. "Chef James T. Kirk."
"Mr. Chekov, I presume. I'm happy to escort you to the main office."
The man nods his head slowly and steps out from behind the desk. He's impeccably dressed in a charcoal-gray suit and eggplant-colored silk tie. The eyebrows are still peculiar, though. Not to mention the odd bowl-cut hairdo. He gestures for Pavel to follow him and Pavel keeps his hands on the strap of his bag, falling into step behind him. They avoid the interior dining room, making their way through the back hallway, which is as pristine as the front doors that nearly broke his nose.
"Please excuse the mess," the man says. Pavel lifts his brows in surprise, looking around at the immaculate surroundings. He decides not to say anything for fear of sounding like an idiot.
When they get to the office, there's an older gentleman leaning back in a chair, his feet propped up on the wooden, possibly antique table as he flicks through a magazine. Like the other man, he's sharply dressed, but obviously much more casual.
"Sir, Mr. Chekov is here to see you," Pavel hears. Out of nerves, he steps forward and extends a hand to the man behind the table.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kirk," he says. The gentleman laughs, creases forming at the corners of his warm eyes, and he takes Pavel's hand in a firm shake.
"I would be Mr. Pike, actually. Mr. Kirk is tardy today, as usual."
"Oh, I am sorry, sir." Pavel returns the shake and feels his face go hot, wondering why he even assumed this was Kirk. And what a stupid mistake; Pike is quite famous in culinary circles and it isn't as if Pavel hasn't seen the man's photo in magazines before. "Please forgive me. I...I did not—"
"Forget about it, son." Pike waves a hand and nods to the man in the gray suit who isn't smiling at the exchange but still somehow manages to look amused. "Thank you, Mr. Spock," Pike says, which prompts the strange fellow—Mr. Spock, presumably—to bow his head and take his leave. Pavel watches him go and wonders if he isn't of Asian descent. He takes a seat across from Pike when he's told to, resting his bag on his lap.
"So, Mr. Chekov," Pike starts. He drops his feet to the floor and sits upright, looking over a paper scrawled with handwritten notes. "Pavel, is it?"
"Pavel Andreievich Chekov, yes." He nods quickly and has to remind himself not to tap his fingers on his bag, a nervous habit. "I am very grateful to you for this meeting."
"Well, you come highly recommended by the higher-ups at Starfleet Culinary Academy, with whom I'm firmly acquainted. Best in your class, I'm told. We don't usually hire straight out of the academy, but—"
Just then, a man rushes into the room, his chest heaving. Pavel startles and looks up at him, taking in expressive blue eyes and a full, cherubic mouth, his dirty blond hair thick and tousled. Unlike the other men, he's dressed like a teenager, sporting an over washed, faded T-shirt, frayed blue jeans and tattered sneakers. Pavel stares in confusion; surely this man can't be older than 25, 26 years? He couldn't be—
"Sorry I'm late," he says, sucking in a breath. He smiles disarmingly and pats Pavel on the shoulder, then offers him his hand. "Hey, buddy. Jim Kirk." Pavel blinks in bewilderment and shakes the man's hand. He's about to introduce himself when Pike speaks up again.
"Jim, this is Pavel Andreievich Chekov. Which you would have known by now, if you could ever get your lazy ass to a meeting on time."
"Chekov?" Kirk repeats, ignoring the skewering from Pike. He sits down in the remaining empty chair and crosses his legs, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. "Like the playwright?"
"Yes, but is spelled different," he replies, a bit too timidly for his own liking. He wants to hide under Pike's table when Kirk grins at him, likely because of his accent.
"Wow, that's some accent you got there, Chekov. Checkers." He looks between Pavel and Pike and nods thoughtfully. "I like 'Checkers.' What do you guys think?"
"Please excuse Mr. Kirk's boyish charm, Mr. Chekov," Pike says, rolling his eyes. Pavel smiles a bit at that, though his head is swimming. He still can't work out how someone as painfully young as James T. Kirk has already managed to become executive chef of the best restaurant in all of New York City. It seems impossible, even to a nineteen-year-old prodigy who's already graduated from culinary school at the top of his class.
"I prefer Chekov, but thank you for the nickname, Mr. Kirk," he says, hoping he's doing a good job of keeping up with the repartee. Pavel exhales when the remark earns him a big smile from Kirk, and sets about digging into his bag for his paperwork. He pulls out a file folder and starts spreading documents over the table. "I have brought my CV and references and—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Kirk holds up his hands and pushes a leaf of paper away from him as if it's poisonous. "We're not interested in that."
"Maybe you're not, but I am," Pike says. He pulls the papers closer and looks them over, nodding with a serious expression. Beside him, Kirk tilts his head back and pretends to snore. Pike doesn't lift his eyes from the pages before him. "Are we boring you, Jim? Do you need to run to the kitchen and set fire to a salmon fillet?"
"Who cares about all this stuff? Starfleet Culinary Academy, top honors, teacher's pet, blah blah blah."
Kirk flaps his hand in a chatterbox gesture and Pavel squirms in his seat, disliking the idea of all his hard work being brushed off. If he was a teacher's pet, it was only due to his thirst for learning and unparalleled ability; he would think the most renowned chef in New York would care about qualifications, at least a little. He doesn't say as much, though, just squirms some more.
"Maybe I care?" Pike says, though he doesn't sound very annoyed. He lifts his eyes and nods to Pavel, looking vaguely impressed. "It seems as though Mr. Chekov was a superstar back at Starfleet. He specialized in Eastern-European and Mediterranean cuisines, yet 'displayed a skillful range.' That doesn't hold any cache for you, Jim?"
"All I care about is whether or not the kid can cook." Kirk pins him with that clear blue gaze and cocks his head. "Can you cook, Checkers?"
"Yes, of course," Pavel says, feeling more indignant by the second.
"Well, I'm starving." Kirk pats his stomach and leans back, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "So, why don't you head back to the kitchen and make us...oh, how 'bout a cassoulet. You in the mood for cassoulet, Pike?"
Pike smirks and shakes his head, keeping his gaze down. "I said his specialty is Mediterranean, Jim."
"Well, I'm in the mood for some fine, French bean lovin' today." He smacks his hand on the table and Pavel gapes slightly at him, which Kirk takes as an invitation to continue. He gestures in the direction of the kitchen and nods. "You'll find everything you need back there. So, hop to it, kid."
Pavel blinks, searching for some kind of reply. After a few seconds, he simply stands up and sheds his coat and bag, leaving them behind and rolling up his sleeves as he heads to the kitchen. When he's gone, Pike picks up his magazine again and exhales heavily.
"That's gonna take forever, Jim."
"I can amuse myself." Kirk moves to prop his feet on the table and Pike smacks his leg with the magazine. He shrugs and puts them down again, playing with his fingers.
Forty-five minutes later, Pavel pulls the earthenware pots from the massive oven and wipes the sweat from his brow. The kitchen is magnificent, unlike any he's seen before, with multiple accoutrements that show Pike is a man who knows how to keep his chefs happy. Pavel knows that, despite the dismissive treatment from Chef Kirk, he'd be extremely lucky to land a position here. He places his dirty pots and pans into the large basin sink and then returns to the cassoulets, stirring to test their thickness, taking a small spoonful to sample. He blows on the hot beans before he tastes, then twists his mouth slightly, murmuring to himself.
"You are the most important cassoulets of my career," he says.
Just then, a man pops his head into the doorway of the next room, looking confused. "You talkin' to me, laddie?" he asks, eyebrows screwed up. The unexpected voice nearly makes Pavel jump out of his skin and he stammers out his response.
"Ahh...n-no! Sorry."
The man looks him over and nods, shrugging. "Smells brilliant," he says. "Save some for me." Then he quickly disappears again. Pavel takes a deep breath and smoothes his apron down, trying to compose himself.
When he reenters Pike's office, carrying the two pots in oven mitt-clad hands, he notes that Kirk appears to be toying with his cuticles. He thinks of the review he read in the New Yorker, the one that waxed poetic about Kirk's raspberry and lemon curd ricotta torte, and tries not to boggle visibly. Both men look up with interested smiles and Pavel presents them each with a small pot, as well as a spoon and napkin. Pike folds the napkin over his lap and Kirk tucks his into the collar of his T-shirt. He looks like a cartoon character, ready to dig into a five-course meal.
"Be careful, please, is very hot," Pavel says, taking off the mitts and clasping his hands behind his back.
Pike nods his thanks and immediately dips into the cassoulet. Pavel chooses to watch Kirk as he eats, more interested in his reaction, given his earlier apathy. He looks on with rapt fascination as Kirk takes time to inhale the scent of the dish and look over the presentation and texture, prodding the surface with his spoon. He takes a bite then, and chews with deliberate slowness, nodding to himself as he assesses the flavors. After that, however, he goes all out, eating the rest with a bowed head, as if someone will take it away from him. Kirk likes it; that much is obvious. Pavel's fingers twitch behind his back and he tries not to smile—if he lets his mouth muscles get away from him, he knows he'll be grinning like a loon.
He ends up standing there for at least five minutes, until Kirk drops his spoon into the emptied pot with a clatter and licks his lips. Pavel nearly coughs when he realizes he's been holding his breath, waiting for Kirk's assessment, whatever it may be.
"That was awesome, Checkers," Kirk finally says. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and points a finger at Pavel definitively. "You're hired."
"Excuse me, I'm the one who decides that," Pike interjects. He throws Kirk an annoyed glance and then turns back to Pavel, hesitating before quirking a smile. "He's right; you're hired."
"I..." Pavel lets out a rush of air and fights the urge to sink to his knees and praise god. He also has to stop himself from running over and giving Pike and Kirk sloppy kisses on their cheeks. He knows he should be incredulous over how casual the two men are acting about the entire thing, but he can think about that later. "I am...I do not know what to say. This is a dream come to life," he enthuses, laughing faintly.
"That's what you say now, until Bones has a go at you." Kirk grins and shrugs, taking off the napkin. Pavel has no idea what he's talking about, but Kirk doesn't take the time to explain. "You earned it, kid. That was the best damn cassoulet I've ever had. And you don't even specialize in French."
"The subtle examination techniques of James T. Kirk," Pike murmurs, smiling. He nods to Pavel. "You'll start tomorrow night. We need the extra hands right away. You'll be Chef Uhura's commis." Kirk nods and grins, almost wolfishly.
"Uhura could use some extra hands, all right. My hands, on her hot body."
Pike groans and rolls his eyes for what seems like the tenth time since Pavel arrived. "Jim, don't you have some prep to do?"
"Yep." Kirk jumps to his feet and comes around the table, smacking Pavel's arm, a little too hard. He does his best not to wince. "Thanks for the grub, Checkers. Get here at three; I'll introduce you to everyone and show you the rounds."
Kirk takes his leave then, whistling as he exits the room, and Pavel watches him go, turning back to a friendly-as-ever Pike. "Ah...excuse me for asking, Mr. Pike. But Chef Kirk is quite young, is he not? I have never heard of such a young executive chef."
"Yeah, he's young. But he'll amaze you. He amazes everyone. And, problem is, the cocky bastard knows it." He gives Pavel a half-smile and rises from his chair. "It's a good story, how I met Jim. Maybe I'll tell you one day. In the mean time, have a seat; I've got some paperwork to give you before you go."
Pike disappears to another room and Pavel sits heavily, gazing at the two empty cassoulet pots before him. He nearly trembles as he finally gets a moment to reflect on what just happened, until his reverie is interrupted by that loud and strongly accented voice again.
"Any left?" the man says, once again making his presence known just by popping his head into the doorway. When he spots the empty pots, his figure appears in full and he stomps a foot in frustration. "Bugger it all! I'm bloody famished!" The man pouts and shoots a warning glare in Pavel's direction, wagging his finger. "You owe me another one of those, lad."
Pavel opens his mouth to respond but the Scotsman is already gone.
Next: Chapter 2
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,554
Pairings/Characters: Chekov, Kirk, Pike, Spock, Scotty
Disclaimer: Do not own or claim to own.
Warnings: AU set in New York City, 2009, with flashbacks to five years prior. Many references to the ST: XI canon.
Summary: All paths lead to the kitchen for the staff members of Enterprise, the newest critical darling on the New York restaurant scene. It's here that they come together as a team and find out just where they belong. Chapter 1: Young chef Pavel Chekov gets put through the interview wringer at the hands of Enterprise Executive Chef James T. Kirk.
For a comprehensive list of series pairings and author notes, please visit the master post.
It's not so much an interview as it is an obstacle course. And it's immediately off to a bad start because Pavel's running late and racing down the streets of Manhattan's Hell's Kitchen neighborhood in an attempt to make it before the clock strikes 2:01. The front doors of Enterprise, New York's hottest and chicest five-star restaurant, are impressively large, made of glass and wiped down so spotlessly that Pavel almost smacks right into them. He clutches his messenger bag and walks to the reception area, where a pale, somewhat robotic man greets him. Pavel almost startles when the man lifts his head; he's never seen such strange eyebrows before.
"May I help you, sir?" the man says. He's monotone but offhandedly regal. Pavel can't detect an outright foreign accent, but something about his inflection doesn't sound quite American. He should know; he's been paying close attention to the speech patterns of Americans for years, having had to learn their language from scratch.
"Da—yes. I have an appointment with Mr. Christopher Pike and, ah..." He looks at his planner, mentally cursing himself for blanking on the executive chef's name. "Chef James T. Kirk."
"Mr. Chekov, I presume. I'm happy to escort you to the main office."
The man nods his head slowly and steps out from behind the desk. He's impeccably dressed in a charcoal-gray suit and eggplant-colored silk tie. The eyebrows are still peculiar, though. Not to mention the odd bowl-cut hairdo. He gestures for Pavel to follow him and Pavel keeps his hands on the strap of his bag, falling into step behind him. They avoid the interior dining room, making their way through the back hallway, which is as pristine as the front doors that nearly broke his nose.
"Please excuse the mess," the man says. Pavel lifts his brows in surprise, looking around at the immaculate surroundings. He decides not to say anything for fear of sounding like an idiot.
When they get to the office, there's an older gentleman leaning back in a chair, his feet propped up on the wooden, possibly antique table as he flicks through a magazine. Like the other man, he's sharply dressed, but obviously much more casual.
"Sir, Mr. Chekov is here to see you," Pavel hears. Out of nerves, he steps forward and extends a hand to the man behind the table.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kirk," he says. The gentleman laughs, creases forming at the corners of his warm eyes, and he takes Pavel's hand in a firm shake.
"I would be Mr. Pike, actually. Mr. Kirk is tardy today, as usual."
"Oh, I am sorry, sir." Pavel returns the shake and feels his face go hot, wondering why he even assumed this was Kirk. And what a stupid mistake; Pike is quite famous in culinary circles and it isn't as if Pavel hasn't seen the man's photo in magazines before. "Please forgive me. I...I did not—"
"Forget about it, son." Pike waves a hand and nods to the man in the gray suit who isn't smiling at the exchange but still somehow manages to look amused. "Thank you, Mr. Spock," Pike says, which prompts the strange fellow—Mr. Spock, presumably—to bow his head and take his leave. Pavel watches him go and wonders if he isn't of Asian descent. He takes a seat across from Pike when he's told to, resting his bag on his lap.
"So, Mr. Chekov," Pike starts. He drops his feet to the floor and sits upright, looking over a paper scrawled with handwritten notes. "Pavel, is it?"
"Pavel Andreievich Chekov, yes." He nods quickly and has to remind himself not to tap his fingers on his bag, a nervous habit. "I am very grateful to you for this meeting."
"Well, you come highly recommended by the higher-ups at Starfleet Culinary Academy, with whom I'm firmly acquainted. Best in your class, I'm told. We don't usually hire straight out of the academy, but—"
Just then, a man rushes into the room, his chest heaving. Pavel startles and looks up at him, taking in expressive blue eyes and a full, cherubic mouth, his dirty blond hair thick and tousled. Unlike the other men, he's dressed like a teenager, sporting an over washed, faded T-shirt, frayed blue jeans and tattered sneakers. Pavel stares in confusion; surely this man can't be older than 25, 26 years? He couldn't be—
"Sorry I'm late," he says, sucking in a breath. He smiles disarmingly and pats Pavel on the shoulder, then offers him his hand. "Hey, buddy. Jim Kirk." Pavel blinks in bewilderment and shakes the man's hand. He's about to introduce himself when Pike speaks up again.
"Jim, this is Pavel Andreievich Chekov. Which you would have known by now, if you could ever get your lazy ass to a meeting on time."
"Chekov?" Kirk repeats, ignoring the skewering from Pike. He sits down in the remaining empty chair and crosses his legs, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. "Like the playwright?"
"Yes, but is spelled different," he replies, a bit too timidly for his own liking. He wants to hide under Pike's table when Kirk grins at him, likely because of his accent.
"Wow, that's some accent you got there, Chekov. Checkers." He looks between Pavel and Pike and nods thoughtfully. "I like 'Checkers.' What do you guys think?"
"Please excuse Mr. Kirk's boyish charm, Mr. Chekov," Pike says, rolling his eyes. Pavel smiles a bit at that, though his head is swimming. He still can't work out how someone as painfully young as James T. Kirk has already managed to become executive chef of the best restaurant in all of New York City. It seems impossible, even to a nineteen-year-old prodigy who's already graduated from culinary school at the top of his class.
"I prefer Chekov, but thank you for the nickname, Mr. Kirk," he says, hoping he's doing a good job of keeping up with the repartee. Pavel exhales when the remark earns him a big smile from Kirk, and sets about digging into his bag for his paperwork. He pulls out a file folder and starts spreading documents over the table. "I have brought my CV and references and—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Kirk holds up his hands and pushes a leaf of paper away from him as if it's poisonous. "We're not interested in that."
"Maybe you're not, but I am," Pike says. He pulls the papers closer and looks them over, nodding with a serious expression. Beside him, Kirk tilts his head back and pretends to snore. Pike doesn't lift his eyes from the pages before him. "Are we boring you, Jim? Do you need to run to the kitchen and set fire to a salmon fillet?"
"Who cares about all this stuff? Starfleet Culinary Academy, top honors, teacher's pet, blah blah blah."
Kirk flaps his hand in a chatterbox gesture and Pavel squirms in his seat, disliking the idea of all his hard work being brushed off. If he was a teacher's pet, it was only due to his thirst for learning and unparalleled ability; he would think the most renowned chef in New York would care about qualifications, at least a little. He doesn't say as much, though, just squirms some more.
"Maybe I care?" Pike says, though he doesn't sound very annoyed. He lifts his eyes and nods to Pavel, looking vaguely impressed. "It seems as though Mr. Chekov was a superstar back at Starfleet. He specialized in Eastern-European and Mediterranean cuisines, yet 'displayed a skillful range.' That doesn't hold any cache for you, Jim?"
"All I care about is whether or not the kid can cook." Kirk pins him with that clear blue gaze and cocks his head. "Can you cook, Checkers?"
"Yes, of course," Pavel says, feeling more indignant by the second.
"Well, I'm starving." Kirk pats his stomach and leans back, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "So, why don't you head back to the kitchen and make us...oh, how 'bout a cassoulet. You in the mood for cassoulet, Pike?"
Pike smirks and shakes his head, keeping his gaze down. "I said his specialty is Mediterranean, Jim."
"Well, I'm in the mood for some fine, French bean lovin' today." He smacks his hand on the table and Pavel gapes slightly at him, which Kirk takes as an invitation to continue. He gestures in the direction of the kitchen and nods. "You'll find everything you need back there. So, hop to it, kid."
Pavel blinks, searching for some kind of reply. After a few seconds, he simply stands up and sheds his coat and bag, leaving them behind and rolling up his sleeves as he heads to the kitchen. When he's gone, Pike picks up his magazine again and exhales heavily.
"That's gonna take forever, Jim."
"I can amuse myself." Kirk moves to prop his feet on the table and Pike smacks his leg with the magazine. He shrugs and puts them down again, playing with his fingers.
Forty-five minutes later, Pavel pulls the earthenware pots from the massive oven and wipes the sweat from his brow. The kitchen is magnificent, unlike any he's seen before, with multiple accoutrements that show Pike is a man who knows how to keep his chefs happy. Pavel knows that, despite the dismissive treatment from Chef Kirk, he'd be extremely lucky to land a position here. He places his dirty pots and pans into the large basin sink and then returns to the cassoulets, stirring to test their thickness, taking a small spoonful to sample. He blows on the hot beans before he tastes, then twists his mouth slightly, murmuring to himself.
"You are the most important cassoulets of my career," he says.
Just then, a man pops his head into the doorway of the next room, looking confused. "You talkin' to me, laddie?" he asks, eyebrows screwed up. The unexpected voice nearly makes Pavel jump out of his skin and he stammers out his response.
"Ahh...n-no! Sorry."
The man looks him over and nods, shrugging. "Smells brilliant," he says. "Save some for me." Then he quickly disappears again. Pavel takes a deep breath and smoothes his apron down, trying to compose himself.
When he reenters Pike's office, carrying the two pots in oven mitt-clad hands, he notes that Kirk appears to be toying with his cuticles. He thinks of the review he read in the New Yorker, the one that waxed poetic about Kirk's raspberry and lemon curd ricotta torte, and tries not to boggle visibly. Both men look up with interested smiles and Pavel presents them each with a small pot, as well as a spoon and napkin. Pike folds the napkin over his lap and Kirk tucks his into the collar of his T-shirt. He looks like a cartoon character, ready to dig into a five-course meal.
"Be careful, please, is very hot," Pavel says, taking off the mitts and clasping his hands behind his back.
Pike nods his thanks and immediately dips into the cassoulet. Pavel chooses to watch Kirk as he eats, more interested in his reaction, given his earlier apathy. He looks on with rapt fascination as Kirk takes time to inhale the scent of the dish and look over the presentation and texture, prodding the surface with his spoon. He takes a bite then, and chews with deliberate slowness, nodding to himself as he assesses the flavors. After that, however, he goes all out, eating the rest with a bowed head, as if someone will take it away from him. Kirk likes it; that much is obvious. Pavel's fingers twitch behind his back and he tries not to smile—if he lets his mouth muscles get away from him, he knows he'll be grinning like a loon.
He ends up standing there for at least five minutes, until Kirk drops his spoon into the emptied pot with a clatter and licks his lips. Pavel nearly coughs when he realizes he's been holding his breath, waiting for Kirk's assessment, whatever it may be.
"That was awesome, Checkers," Kirk finally says. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and points a finger at Pavel definitively. "You're hired."
"Excuse me, I'm the one who decides that," Pike interjects. He throws Kirk an annoyed glance and then turns back to Pavel, hesitating before quirking a smile. "He's right; you're hired."
"I..." Pavel lets out a rush of air and fights the urge to sink to his knees and praise god. He also has to stop himself from running over and giving Pike and Kirk sloppy kisses on their cheeks. He knows he should be incredulous over how casual the two men are acting about the entire thing, but he can think about that later. "I am...I do not know what to say. This is a dream come to life," he enthuses, laughing faintly.
"That's what you say now, until Bones has a go at you." Kirk grins and shrugs, taking off the napkin. Pavel has no idea what he's talking about, but Kirk doesn't take the time to explain. "You earned it, kid. That was the best damn cassoulet I've ever had. And you don't even specialize in French."
"The subtle examination techniques of James T. Kirk," Pike murmurs, smiling. He nods to Pavel. "You'll start tomorrow night. We need the extra hands right away. You'll be Chef Uhura's commis." Kirk nods and grins, almost wolfishly.
"Uhura could use some extra hands, all right. My hands, on her hot body."
Pike groans and rolls his eyes for what seems like the tenth time since Pavel arrived. "Jim, don't you have some prep to do?"
"Yep." Kirk jumps to his feet and comes around the table, smacking Pavel's arm, a little too hard. He does his best not to wince. "Thanks for the grub, Checkers. Get here at three; I'll introduce you to everyone and show you the rounds."
Kirk takes his leave then, whistling as he exits the room, and Pavel watches him go, turning back to a friendly-as-ever Pike. "Ah...excuse me for asking, Mr. Pike. But Chef Kirk is quite young, is he not? I have never heard of such a young executive chef."
"Yeah, he's young. But he'll amaze you. He amazes everyone. And, problem is, the cocky bastard knows it." He gives Pavel a half-smile and rises from his chair. "It's a good story, how I met Jim. Maybe I'll tell you one day. In the mean time, have a seat; I've got some paperwork to give you before you go."
Pike disappears to another room and Pavel sits heavily, gazing at the two empty cassoulet pots before him. He nearly trembles as he finally gets a moment to reflect on what just happened, until his reverie is interrupted by that loud and strongly accented voice again.
"Any left?" the man says, once again making his presence known just by popping his head into the doorway. When he spots the empty pots, his figure appears in full and he stomps a foot in frustration. "Bugger it all! I'm bloody famished!" The man pouts and shoots a warning glare in Pavel's direction, wagging his finger. "You owe me another one of those, lad."
Pavel opens his mouth to respond but the Scotsman is already gone.
Next: Chapter 2