Fic: Kitchen Consequential (2/18)
Jan. 10th, 2010 01:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
withthepilotTitle: Kitchen Consequential (2/18)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,130
Pairings/Characters: Kirk, Pike
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 2: Pike went to Iowa for a dismal convention, nothing more or less; he certainly never expected to find the wayward son of a culinary legend.
For a comprehensive list of series pairings, links to prior chapters and author notes, please visit the master post.
Eleven o'clock at night and Pike was lost. In Iowa, of all places. He made another U-turn, cringing at the squeak and grind of the rusty car he'd rented for the trip, all for some terrible culinary convention that hadn't even been worth his while, not to mention the airfare. Sure, the academy was paying for the majority of his expenses, but it still didn't seem worth the effort. His hotel room was cramped and no one ever seemed to be around at the front desk when he needed something; Pike hated places that claimed to offer "fine accommodations" and then failed to be anything like accommodating.
He stepped on the gas and made the first right that came up. He couldn't see for shit, as the road only seemed to have one light for every other mile marker. Might as well keep driving, he figured; maybe if he kept going, he'd eventually end up back in New York, back in civilization as he knew it.
There was a light in the distance and Pike steered toward it, blinking past the dashboard at the rusted-out tin can of a diner as it came into view. The idea of food had his stomach rumbling and he parked quickly in the lot, deserted save for a single motorcycle chained to a post by the side of the building. Pike turned off the engine and made his way up the diner's wobbly wooden stairs. The door opened with the jingle of an old-fashioned chime above it. The place was about the length and width of a school bus at best, and there wasn't a soul in sight—not in any of the booths or behind the counter.
"Hello?" he called, hands on his hips as he peered around. He could smell something cooking in the kitchen. Smelled pretty damn good, actually. "You open?"
"Hell, no," a voice shouted back, and then a young man emerged from the kitchen, smacking on a piece of gum. His white T-shirt was stained with grease, as was the ratty apron tied around his waist; other than that, there was no hairnet or any other article of clothing donned for the sake of cleanliness. He looked Pike up and down, lifting his brow. "Sorry, man. We close at ten."
"Then what's that smell?" Pike asked, motioning to the kitchen.
"My dinner." The boy wiped his hands on his apron and blew a bright pink bubble. He looked out the window and saw Pike's car, the only one in the lot. "You hungry?"
"Starved." Pike moved to the counter and took a seat on one of the torn, wobbly stools, pulling out his wallet. He placed a fifty on the counter and slid it in the boy's direction. "Whatever you're making, I'll have a plate," he said. He almost smiled when the guy picked up the bill with a low whistle and held it up to the light. After he determined the money was real, he quickly pocketed it.
"Where're you from?" he asked, fixing Pike with a wary glance.
"New York."
"Oh."
Pike blinked as a momentary look of revulsion swept over the kid's face, but then he nodded and said nothing more about it. He reached into a small fridge and pulled out a beer, opening it with a cool hiss sound and placing it before Pike.
"It'll just be a minute," he said. Then he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Pike to wonder what it was about the boy that was so familiar.
Turned out, it was the eyes that did it; those were George Kirk's eyes. Pike pulled out his iPhone while he waited for his meal and with a few points and clicks, brought up some information on one of New York's contemporary culinary heroes—sadly, now deceased. George Kirk had been the executive chef of the Kelvin, one of downtown Manhattan's shining stars in the early '80s, just as the area was coming into its own. A rebel behind a stove, Kirk had brought the place to dizzying heights just as the downtown arts scene started booming, only to perish in a tragic fire that consumed the restaurant. He'd saved the majority of the staff and kitchen crew before getting caught in the flaming wreckage, going down with the ship, as it were; nothing less than a tragic end to a brilliant career, snuffed out before it truly began. The police had suspected arson but no one was ever caught and the Kelvin never reopened its doors.
Pike remembered George Kirk. And when the plate of duck confit and roasted sage potatoes was set before him on the counter, he looked up at what appeared to be the man's spitting image.
"You make yourself duck confit for dinner," he drawled, more of an observation than a question. The kid arched his brow.
"I deserve something nice for slinging hash all day, don't I?"
Pike gave him a dubious look, holding up his canned beverage. "With beer?"
"I like beer."
He tucked a napkin under his chin and bent over the counter to eat, and Pike had no other recourse but to follow his lead.
Pike couldn't remember the name of George Kirk's son until the kid introduced himself between bites, and then it all clicked into place. Jim, or more formally, James Tiberius Kirk, had been born on the day of the Kelvin inferno; his mother escaped the blaze herself by conveniently going into labor just as the evacuation started. Pike remembered the story vividly now, just as Winona had told the rest of her then-fellow instructors at Starfleet Culinary Academy, and just as he'd read in his own research: born in the backseat of a yellow cab, Jim came into the world just as the Kelvin collapsed into a fiery pile of rubble. Winona never really got over the loss of her husband; she eventually quit her position at the Academy, claiming she was taking Jim out of the city, back home to her family—home being somewhere in East Bumfuck, Iowa.
"How's Winona then?" Pike asked, as he finished the last of his potatoes. Jim looked at him, warily again, as if he didn't know what to make of this strange city slicker.
"And you know my mom...how?"
"She was an instructor of mine at Starfleet Culinary Academy, long time ago. The place has never been quite the same without her."
"You're kidding me, man." Jim laughed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his rolled-up shirt sleeve, placing one between his lips and lighting it. "That's beautiful. You just happen to be from New York and you just happen to know my mom and tonight, you just happened to roll up on my little shithouse of a diner."
"I'm in town for a conference. Until about ten minutes ago, I thought the whole thing was a complete waste of time." Pike leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully watching Jim smoke, even though the kid wouldn't meet his eyes. It made him want to push harder. "You know, your dad was—"
"Ugh. My dad?" Jim tilted his head back and laughed ruefully. "Come on, why're you even talking to me, man?"
"Because I see some of your dad in you. I studied your dad's techniques." Pike squinted as Jim blew smoke in his direction but didn't avert his eyes. "Because I'm going to be fantasizing about that fucking duck confit for months."
Jim shook his head and flicked ashes into a nearby plastic tray. "Just 'cause I make sloppy joes and fried eggs all day doesn't mean I'm some dumb redneck who doesn't know how to cook. I know how to cook."
"Well, that's what I'm saying. You're raw talent, kid. You don't belong out here, serving truckers and meth heads in the middle of nowhere."
"That's my esteemed clientele you're ragging on, man," Jim said. Pike quirked a smile, undeterred by the snide commentary.
"If you came to New York, we could get you some formal training, perfect your techniques, and in four years, you could be working as a chef in one of the best restaurants in the city. Maybe even my restaurant."
"Bullshit." Then, a small pause. "What's it called?"
"It's not open yet, still in the works. Got a few years of planning to go, yet. But I'm not bullshitting you, Jim." Pike exhaled, leaning further across the counter, closer to Jim's personal space. The kid finally looked up at him, then, and he took it as a good sign. "Enroll at Starfleet. You're a Kirk; cooking's in your blood. You were meant for more than this rickety tuna can."
Jim didn't answer, just stood there for a few moments and then stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, beginning to collect the dirty plates. Pike frowned to himself and pulled an old receipt from his jacket pocket, scribbling the name of his hotel on the back and holding it out to Jim.
"Think about it." He cocked his head. "Your dad's a legend where I'm from, and it's got nothing to do with the fact that his restaurant burned down. I dare you to do better."
"We done here?" Jim interjected, his gaze officially devoid of interest. Pike hesitated and then nodded.
"I'm done."
Jim tipped his chin up, a smarmy little gesture, as he took the paper and shoved it into his pocket, the same one that held the fifty-dollar bill from earlier. "Have a good one, man," he said, his tone fairly dismissive as he turned and carried the empty plates back into the kitchen. Pike could tell he'd hit a nerve. He sighed and stood from the squeaky stool, heading back to his car. The kid was a piece of work but obviously no idiot; maybe he'd think about it and actually make the right call. And if all else failed, he figured, he got a one-hundred dollar plate of duck confit for a mere fifty bucks; in Pike's world, that alone was worth the trip.
He was already in the driver's seat when he realized he'd never asked Jim for directions back to his hotel. He ended up finding a gas station down the road, where some grease monkey helped him out, in exchange for a fiver.
The next morning, Pike awoke at the correct hour to make his flight, despite the lack of a wake-up call that he'd specifically requested the night before. Miraculously, he managed to find someone at the lobby's front desk to help him check out; he'd never been happier to leave a place behind. He signed on the dotted line, picked up his suitcase and put on his sunglasses, heading outside. As soon as he handed his car keys to the hotel valet, all noise in the immediate area was overpowered by the loud roar of a motorcycle pulling up in front of him. Pike looked up and appraised the smug grin of one James T. Kirk.
"Four years?" he asked, hopping off his bike. "I'll do it in three."
"That would require night classes," Pike replied, smirking.
"Well, what else do I have to do? Not like I'll have any friends. Though I hear the women in New York are hot." Jim nodded to the valet as he left to fetch Pike's rental car, then lit up a cigarette. Pike was willing to bet that Jim wouldn't exactly like that new restaurant and bar anti-smoking bill they'd passed the year before in New York. The kid kept on talking, much chattier than he'd been the night before. "We're flying first class, right? Since you're a classy guy and all. And, oh, hey—can you pay to have my bike shipped up there? I'm afraid of the subway; the map looks all fucked up and scary."
Pike pursed his lips and tried to suppress a resigned smile as he saw his car coming around. He walked to the driver's side when it came to a stop.
"Just follow the car for now, okay?"
"You got it, Cap'n," Jim said, saluting Pike and gesturing to the valet. "And give that nice young man one of those big bills you're packing."
Pike sighed and put back the dollar he'd retrieved from his wallet, pulling out a five for the valet instead. Obviously pleased with himself, Jim hopped back on his bike and revved the engine loudly.
Three years later, the kid made good on his promise, and as Enterprise was officially close to opening its pristine doors, Pike did as well; at least, he did after he got himself another plate of that divine duck confit. After three long years spent recalling its memory, Jim's dish was still just as good—or possibly better—than Pike remembered it.
Previous: Chapter 1 || Next: Chapter 3
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,130
Pairings/Characters: Kirk, Pike
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 2: Pike went to Iowa for a dismal convention, nothing more or less; he certainly never expected to find the wayward son of a culinary legend.
For a comprehensive list of series pairings, links to prior chapters and author notes, please visit the master post.
Eleven o'clock at night and Pike was lost. In Iowa, of all places. He made another U-turn, cringing at the squeak and grind of the rusty car he'd rented for the trip, all for some terrible culinary convention that hadn't even been worth his while, not to mention the airfare. Sure, the academy was paying for the majority of his expenses, but it still didn't seem worth the effort. His hotel room was cramped and no one ever seemed to be around at the front desk when he needed something; Pike hated places that claimed to offer "fine accommodations" and then failed to be anything like accommodating.
He stepped on the gas and made the first right that came up. He couldn't see for shit, as the road only seemed to have one light for every other mile marker. Might as well keep driving, he figured; maybe if he kept going, he'd eventually end up back in New York, back in civilization as he knew it.
There was a light in the distance and Pike steered toward it, blinking past the dashboard at the rusted-out tin can of a diner as it came into view. The idea of food had his stomach rumbling and he parked quickly in the lot, deserted save for a single motorcycle chained to a post by the side of the building. Pike turned off the engine and made his way up the diner's wobbly wooden stairs. The door opened with the jingle of an old-fashioned chime above it. The place was about the length and width of a school bus at best, and there wasn't a soul in sight—not in any of the booths or behind the counter.
"Hello?" he called, hands on his hips as he peered around. He could smell something cooking in the kitchen. Smelled pretty damn good, actually. "You open?"
"Hell, no," a voice shouted back, and then a young man emerged from the kitchen, smacking on a piece of gum. His white T-shirt was stained with grease, as was the ratty apron tied around his waist; other than that, there was no hairnet or any other article of clothing donned for the sake of cleanliness. He looked Pike up and down, lifting his brow. "Sorry, man. We close at ten."
"Then what's that smell?" Pike asked, motioning to the kitchen.
"My dinner." The boy wiped his hands on his apron and blew a bright pink bubble. He looked out the window and saw Pike's car, the only one in the lot. "You hungry?"
"Starved." Pike moved to the counter and took a seat on one of the torn, wobbly stools, pulling out his wallet. He placed a fifty on the counter and slid it in the boy's direction. "Whatever you're making, I'll have a plate," he said. He almost smiled when the guy picked up the bill with a low whistle and held it up to the light. After he determined the money was real, he quickly pocketed it.
"Where're you from?" he asked, fixing Pike with a wary glance.
"New York."
"Oh."
Pike blinked as a momentary look of revulsion swept over the kid's face, but then he nodded and said nothing more about it. He reached into a small fridge and pulled out a beer, opening it with a cool hiss sound and placing it before Pike.
"It'll just be a minute," he said. Then he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Pike to wonder what it was about the boy that was so familiar.
Turned out, it was the eyes that did it; those were George Kirk's eyes. Pike pulled out his iPhone while he waited for his meal and with a few points and clicks, brought up some information on one of New York's contemporary culinary heroes—sadly, now deceased. George Kirk had been the executive chef of the Kelvin, one of downtown Manhattan's shining stars in the early '80s, just as the area was coming into its own. A rebel behind a stove, Kirk had brought the place to dizzying heights just as the downtown arts scene started booming, only to perish in a tragic fire that consumed the restaurant. He'd saved the majority of the staff and kitchen crew before getting caught in the flaming wreckage, going down with the ship, as it were; nothing less than a tragic end to a brilliant career, snuffed out before it truly began. The police had suspected arson but no one was ever caught and the Kelvin never reopened its doors.
Pike remembered George Kirk. And when the plate of duck confit and roasted sage potatoes was set before him on the counter, he looked up at what appeared to be the man's spitting image.
"You make yourself duck confit for dinner," he drawled, more of an observation than a question. The kid arched his brow.
"I deserve something nice for slinging hash all day, don't I?"
Pike gave him a dubious look, holding up his canned beverage. "With beer?"
"I like beer."
He tucked a napkin under his chin and bent over the counter to eat, and Pike had no other recourse but to follow his lead.
Pike couldn't remember the name of George Kirk's son until the kid introduced himself between bites, and then it all clicked into place. Jim, or more formally, James Tiberius Kirk, had been born on the day of the Kelvin inferno; his mother escaped the blaze herself by conveniently going into labor just as the evacuation started. Pike remembered the story vividly now, just as Winona had told the rest of her then-fellow instructors at Starfleet Culinary Academy, and just as he'd read in his own research: born in the backseat of a yellow cab, Jim came into the world just as the Kelvin collapsed into a fiery pile of rubble. Winona never really got over the loss of her husband; she eventually quit her position at the Academy, claiming she was taking Jim out of the city, back home to her family—home being somewhere in East Bumfuck, Iowa.
"How's Winona then?" Pike asked, as he finished the last of his potatoes. Jim looked at him, warily again, as if he didn't know what to make of this strange city slicker.
"And you know my mom...how?"
"She was an instructor of mine at Starfleet Culinary Academy, long time ago. The place has never been quite the same without her."
"You're kidding me, man." Jim laughed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his rolled-up shirt sleeve, placing one between his lips and lighting it. "That's beautiful. You just happen to be from New York and you just happen to know my mom and tonight, you just happened to roll up on my little shithouse of a diner."
"I'm in town for a conference. Until about ten minutes ago, I thought the whole thing was a complete waste of time." Pike leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully watching Jim smoke, even though the kid wouldn't meet his eyes. It made him want to push harder. "You know, your dad was—"
"Ugh. My dad?" Jim tilted his head back and laughed ruefully. "Come on, why're you even talking to me, man?"
"Because I see some of your dad in you. I studied your dad's techniques." Pike squinted as Jim blew smoke in his direction but didn't avert his eyes. "Because I'm going to be fantasizing about that fucking duck confit for months."
Jim shook his head and flicked ashes into a nearby plastic tray. "Just 'cause I make sloppy joes and fried eggs all day doesn't mean I'm some dumb redneck who doesn't know how to cook. I know how to cook."
"Well, that's what I'm saying. You're raw talent, kid. You don't belong out here, serving truckers and meth heads in the middle of nowhere."
"That's my esteemed clientele you're ragging on, man," Jim said. Pike quirked a smile, undeterred by the snide commentary.
"If you came to New York, we could get you some formal training, perfect your techniques, and in four years, you could be working as a chef in one of the best restaurants in the city. Maybe even my restaurant."
"Bullshit." Then, a small pause. "What's it called?"
"It's not open yet, still in the works. Got a few years of planning to go, yet. But I'm not bullshitting you, Jim." Pike exhaled, leaning further across the counter, closer to Jim's personal space. The kid finally looked up at him, then, and he took it as a good sign. "Enroll at Starfleet. You're a Kirk; cooking's in your blood. You were meant for more than this rickety tuna can."
Jim didn't answer, just stood there for a few moments and then stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, beginning to collect the dirty plates. Pike frowned to himself and pulled an old receipt from his jacket pocket, scribbling the name of his hotel on the back and holding it out to Jim.
"Think about it." He cocked his head. "Your dad's a legend where I'm from, and it's got nothing to do with the fact that his restaurant burned down. I dare you to do better."
"We done here?" Jim interjected, his gaze officially devoid of interest. Pike hesitated and then nodded.
"I'm done."
Jim tipped his chin up, a smarmy little gesture, as he took the paper and shoved it into his pocket, the same one that held the fifty-dollar bill from earlier. "Have a good one, man," he said, his tone fairly dismissive as he turned and carried the empty plates back into the kitchen. Pike could tell he'd hit a nerve. He sighed and stood from the squeaky stool, heading back to his car. The kid was a piece of work but obviously no idiot; maybe he'd think about it and actually make the right call. And if all else failed, he figured, he got a one-hundred dollar plate of duck confit for a mere fifty bucks; in Pike's world, that alone was worth the trip.
He was already in the driver's seat when he realized he'd never asked Jim for directions back to his hotel. He ended up finding a gas station down the road, where some grease monkey helped him out, in exchange for a fiver.
The next morning, Pike awoke at the correct hour to make his flight, despite the lack of a wake-up call that he'd specifically requested the night before. Miraculously, he managed to find someone at the lobby's front desk to help him check out; he'd never been happier to leave a place behind. He signed on the dotted line, picked up his suitcase and put on his sunglasses, heading outside. As soon as he handed his car keys to the hotel valet, all noise in the immediate area was overpowered by the loud roar of a motorcycle pulling up in front of him. Pike looked up and appraised the smug grin of one James T. Kirk.
"Four years?" he asked, hopping off his bike. "I'll do it in three."
"That would require night classes," Pike replied, smirking.
"Well, what else do I have to do? Not like I'll have any friends. Though I hear the women in New York are hot." Jim nodded to the valet as he left to fetch Pike's rental car, then lit up a cigarette. Pike was willing to bet that Jim wouldn't exactly like that new restaurant and bar anti-smoking bill they'd passed the year before in New York. The kid kept on talking, much chattier than he'd been the night before. "We're flying first class, right? Since you're a classy guy and all. And, oh, hey—can you pay to have my bike shipped up there? I'm afraid of the subway; the map looks all fucked up and scary."
Pike pursed his lips and tried to suppress a resigned smile as he saw his car coming around. He walked to the driver's side when it came to a stop.
"Just follow the car for now, okay?"
"You got it, Cap'n," Jim said, saluting Pike and gesturing to the valet. "And give that nice young man one of those big bills you're packing."
Pike sighed and put back the dollar he'd retrieved from his wallet, pulling out a five for the valet instead. Obviously pleased with himself, Jim hopped back on his bike and revved the engine loudly.
Three years later, the kid made good on his promise, and as Enterprise was officially close to opening its pristine doors, Pike did as well; at least, he did after he got himself another plate of that divine duck confit. After three long years spent recalling its memory, Jim's dish was still just as good—or possibly better—than Pike remembered it.
Previous: Chapter 1 || Next: Chapter 3
