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“I need plates!”
“Is the sauce ready?”
“One soupe à l’oignon, one salade niçoise!”
Not quite used to the organized chaos around you, it’s with a slight wince that you drag your focus back to skinning the tomatoes. Kiki’s cheerful humming reaches you as she comes near your station, grabbing the bottle of wine Willow had left on the counter.
You’re confident enough when it comes to cooking, but admittedly far from perfect—which just won’t do. Sure enough, you’re wincing again as your hair suffers for your wandering mind.
“Too thick. Stop daydreaming, you’ll ruin the dish. Thinner.” There’s a slight pause, filled with the soft, rhythmic sounds of your knife hitting the chopping board. “Yes, good.”
A small, unbidden smile curls along your mouth at the praise.
“The zucchini.”
You reach for the mandoline, slicing the yellow zucchini, then the green. Once the eggplant is done, the low-pitched voice of your mentor drifts down once more.
“The saucier should be nearly done with the sauce. If he’s messed with my recipe…” The warning is clear.
Unable to help it, you tilt your head to the side, catching your reflection in the glass window, and that of your helper. Eyes reminiscent of stormy skies glower at nothing in particular, and then over at Lucien’s station, where he is indeed working on the sauce.
You would be afraid—you should be afraid, for he has the wrath of Zeus and his pettiness too—if it weren’t for the physical signs of his ire. Because a pissed off Victor means: little whiskers, quivering with vexation, his tiny nose twitching with constant feedback from the rich scents in the room, and his beady eyes narrowed suspiciously.
It doesn’t exactly make you scream with terror. Even so, you know to keep your thoughts to yourself, because the last time you had mocked him, you were stuck cleaning your bedroom for a while.
You will never forget waking up to the sight of him perched on your chin, staring down at you with a menacing gleam in his beady eyes.
He tugs at your hair, impatient, and you make your way over to Lucien’s station, passing by Willow arguing with Minor, who had just come back with a new order.
“No, Willow, I didn’t mishear! He really did order coke and pepsi. Mixed.”
Victor’s ears twitch at the words, followed by a quiet mutter of something terribly uncharitable.
He can be a bit high-strung. Thankfully, a trip to the supermarket is usually enough to appease any bristling; you avoid angering him anyway, because those trips are terrible for your wallet.
According to the rodent himself, Victor grew up in the sewers and whatever kitchens he could find. You’re not sure how that experience turned him into one of the biggest food snobs you’ve ever met—and you work in the food industry—but it’s probably for the best, since it contributes to his brilliance with cooking.
Still, him turning his bulbous nose up at the cheese you’d been eating for years did sting. He also forced you to clean out half of the ingredients in your refrigerator and bullied you into buying fancy cheeses you’d never even tasted before.
“Well, well,” he says now, peering down from your head at the bowl Lucien presents to you. “That doesn’t look half-bad.”
“I wouldn’t dare mess around with y/n’s dish,” Lucien responds evenly, offering you a quick wink as you take the bowl.
“Thank you, Lucien.” If your tone is a tad warmer than usual, it’s between the two of you. Well, three, you amend hastily as Victor digs his feet into your scalp lightly.
“I told you, you can’t give him the time of day until he passes the test,” Victor hisses at you, glaring back when Lucien waves.
“No one is ever going to match your standards for cooking,” you mutter, spooning some of the sauce into the pan.
“Certainly not him,” he sniffs, watching over you as you arrange the sliced vegetables in the pan. He’s careful to not tug on your hair when you slide the dish into the oven.
“But he’s cute,” you whisper plaintively, watching Lucien chop some very lucky carrots. Not that you want to be chopped up, but he does handle his ingredients well.
“Is that why you’re staring at his hands?”
“They’re beautiful hands.”
“I suppose his chopping skills are up to par,” Victor muses, whiskers twitching as he thinks. “Better than yours, at least.”
“Maybe you should sit on his head,” you suggest cheerfully.
“I’m pretty sure he’d cook me,” he says flatly, and you both have to wince at that. He may be a tiny jerk, but Victor is a dear friend. You’ve developed some very protective tendencies over the course of your friendship, what with every other cat looking to take a bite out of him.
The neighbour’s cat, Hades, has been something of a nightmare. As a result, you’ve also developed fantastic reflexes and a strained relationship with Helios, the cat’s owner.
“What do you want for dinner tonight? I was thinking quiche,” Victor thinks aloud, examining his claws critically. His coat, as always, is dark and glossy. People are skeptical enough due to what he is, there’s no need to give them more reason to doubt him, he says.
Somehow, though, throughout all of this, you’ve also been spoiled to bits.
“Y/n?”
Getting to eat such wonderful food everyday? It’s a blessing.
“Y/n.”
If only things could stay this way forever.
“Wake up, you dummy.”
With a choked gasp, you sit bolt upright, looking around wildly. It takes a moment for you to reorient; you’re in the kitchen, you place of work. You had been in the middle of cleaning up and then—
The back of a hand touches your forehead, and your panicked eyes follow the length of a long arm before coming to rest on a familiar face.
“A fever,” he murmurs, kneeling next to where you seemed to have collapsed on the floor. “Why did you not inform me?”
The Chef de Cuisine, Victor Li, whose kitchen you had joined about a month ago, frowns down at you. Victor, who had just made a frankly bizarre appearance in your dream.
You study him carefully, your hazy mind imagining whiskers wiggling over his perfect cheekbones. He raises a single, sculpted brow in response.
“I was supposed to be cleaning up…” you recall, looking around nervously. You had managed to clean up most of the kitchen before you had apparently blacked out, but there are a few dishes left next to the sink.
“Yes, I know,” he says, patient, before standing up and offering you a hand. You take it with a little trepidation, expecting meticulously groomed claws instead of blunt fingernails. “Go wait outside, I’ll finish up in here and give you a ride home.”
Left to gape as he turns to the sink, you flail your arms and sputter in protest. Your throbbing head offers its own protest. “No! I mean—I can do it, I’m so sorry—”
He presses one, slender index finger to his lips, and the words die in your throat. He points the same finger at the doors, where the moonlight peers in through the two circular windows.
“I...okay,” you grab your bag and head for the exit, shoulders slumped. Still, you can’t accept a ride home, knowing it’ll be way out of his way.
“If you leave, you’ll be on scrubbing duty for a whole week.” The borderline peremptory words are eerily reminiscent of the ones from your dream.
They’re oddly comforting.
“Yes, chef,” you call back, trying not to smile.