Piment de la Vie - (24 Parts) - COMPLETE

[starpollen]

Part 1

She ducked as the plate smashed against the wall behind her.

"Tu veux dire quoi?!, non comestibles?? Cette recette a gagné cinq prix!!" Chef Aimon instantly forgot all English when one of his dishes was insulted. "Dis à ce cochon insupportable de s'en aller par mon restaurant!!"

The poor waiter bowed his way out of the kitchen, not knowing exactly what his boss had said... but clearly getting the idea. He snatched up a rag to wipe the sauce from his cheek, mumbling about getting a new job for about the five hundredth time this week.

From her vantage point crouched behind the Entremettier station, Claire watched Chef Aimon's chest heave with fury, the buttons of his pristine coat straining with each breath. An impressive specimen of a man - broad shouldered, with a strong jawline and lean waist - Chef Aimon was intimidating on the best of days, let alone when he was incensed. Which happened often: Chef Aimon had a wicked temper.

At first glance, he didn't look much like a chef at all, to tell the truth. To anyone who didn't know better, he looked like a football quarterback dressed up for Halloween: he was younger than most head chefs in restaurants of this caliber - not yet thirty-three - with a lean, hard body that didn't look like it spent hours bent over a stove perfecting recipes a la Julia Child. But one look in his hard, angular face with those quick, precise eyes that glinted like broken green glass and straight, Aquiline nose... and you knew he had to be a chef. Or an assassin.

As both professions required ruthless efficiency and a certain flare for inventiveness, it was strangely appropriate.

If Claire were honest with herself, she would admit she found Chef Aimon incredibly attractive. And forbidding.

As if perceiving her attention, his cutting stare found hers with military precision, and it seemed to startle him back to the present. Whipping his head around to include the entire kitchen, he barked through clenched teeth: "Retourner au travail!... Get back to work... All of you!" Claire hopped up immediately, snatching her knife and finishing the julienne she had started before the violent interruption, but several of the other staff members weren't nearly as fast.

"Immédiatement!!" Chef Aimon roared, slamming his fist down on the stainless steel counter for emphasis. Dishes rattled, bodies shook with fear, and flames rippled as they licked the edges of pans suddenly and furiously flicked by expert wrists, lights glinting on their caramelized contents.

Claire was used to it. Having grown up in a raucous Italian family she'd ducked more flying dishware and spinning cutlery than she could count, the constant slamming of doors and bellowed orders almost like a percussive lullaby. Within moments, the entire incident was forgotten as she immersed herself in the sweet symphony of a well-run kitchen: the thud of chopping, hissing of steam, and clank of pans and dishes as orders were called and turned out. It was soothing, exactly the environment she wanted. If you wanted to be a real chef, you worked a French kitchen. Stereotypically Frenchmen liked to work with their own, so she'd listed her middle name as her first and mother's maiden name as her last on her application to culinary school: Claire Rousseau sounded much better than Gina deLuca any day. She wasn't ashamed of her Italian heritage, but she really didn't want to work at an Italian restaurant, and it was hard enough to rise through the culinary ranks as a woman without having to also fight the stigma of ethnicity. Looking around, it certainly seemed like the stereotype was accurate: Emile the Sous Chef, Armand as Pâtissier, Phillipe was Aboyeur, Michel the Garde-Manger... all of them French.

Pursing her lips, she pulled some artichoke hearts from the oven and arranged them on a plate, handing it over to the tuxedoed Phillipe who sprinkled some parsley artfully around the perimeter of the plate before taking it to the dining room. Raising a wrist, she wiped a bead of sweat from her brow before checking on the asparagus she was steaming.

Suddenly, there was a warm presence at her back.

"Bien fait, Ms. Rousseau," Chef Aimon's dark voice rumbled over her shoulder. His low tone was clipped with a noticeable but not overwhelming accent, and heat that had nothing to do with the surrounding ovens roiled up her back to lick her shoulder blades. "Did you flavor the water?"

"Oui Chef, with onion and rosemary," she replied dutifully, thankful that her voice didn't betray her. His sudden, close presence made her breath catch, heart hammering even as sweat broke out on her palms. Every time he came near she found it hard to concentrate.

"Bien," he murmured, then he was gone, stalking off to the Saucier station to snatch a clean spoon and test the flavor of something dark and syrupy. She couldn't help but stare as his lush lips closed around it, the way his lean throat worked as he swallowed, dark brows narrowing in concentration...

Chef nodded to the Saucier, dropping the spoon in the sink. Then, unerringly, his eyes cut back to her.

She blinked, feeling heat flood her cheeks.

Damn. It wasn't the first time he'd caught her staring at him, but most of the other times there had been some rational excuse. Usually one of his spectacular fits of temper, or when the staff was gathered for a menu update or tasting. This time, she had no out.

Ducking her head, she went back to work without a word.

Thankfully, he didn't come to her station again and the rest of the shift managed to pass without incident. When the kitchen closed she scrubbed her counter to immaculate perfection, arranging her knives in the tray for the escuelerie to wash. Her neck ached, hair limp with sweat, and all she wanted was a hot shower and a cool, soft bed. The rest of the men were gathered around sipping wine, but she'd never been included in the evening camaraderie. Which was just as well. She wasn't here to make friends: she was here to cook her ass off and build her résumé. Maybe someday she would be running her own kitchen, indulging in tantrums and making everyone jump to her commands.

She picked her wool peacoat out of the collection on the hooks outside Chef's office, hearing the click of computer keys from the shadows within. Only a soft desk lamp illuminated the interior, and she resisted the urge to peek through the crack in the door.

About a second later, she deeply regretted her cowardice.

Just as she'd shrugged her shoulders into the coat and was buttoning up against the crisp November night, a soft gasp from the office made every tiny hair on her body stand on end. Almost immediately on its heels came a tightly bottled sneeze:

"Hc'gNXtz!-ah..."

Her eyes froze, wide and unseeing, as a shiver rippled her skin from head to toe. The sound crashed over her eardrums like a crested wave, echoing in her head with cavernous resonance. When she could blink again, she heard movement from behind the nearly-closed door, and ducked out the door in a flash, all but running to her car.

x x x

Translations:

"Tu veux dire quoi?!, non comestibles?? Cette recette a gagné cinq prix!!" = What do you mean, inedible? That recipe has won five awards!

"Dis à ce cochon insupportable de s'en aller par mon restaurant!!" = Tell that insufferable pig to get the hell out of my restaurant!

"Immédiatement!!" = Now!

"Bien fait" = nice work

"Bien" = good

Edited January 1, 2010 by starpollen

[Vetinari]

Oh wow, a lovely start! Food and sneezing. What a deliciously tempting combination. I hope there will be more.

[starpollen]

Thanks, Vet! And - for anybody out there worried - I PROMISE not to cross the line with contagion and food. *crosses heart* I swear to be uber conscious of those with squeamish sensibilities!

[a red nine]

Your writing style is awesome! So descriptive, a treat to read, and your characters are so likeable and real. Which shows promise for the future, where hopefully there will be plenty of sneezing. I'll keep checking back for updates!

[doggo]

Starpollen-generated ficcy naughtiness! Awesome! :)

... and you knew he had to be a chef. Or an assassin.

Or just hot hot stuff. Love this story already. Can't wait for him to be reduced into a sneezy mess more.

[starpollen]

Part 2

She didn't sleep well - that tightly stifled sneeze echoing in her dreams. Chef Aimon was always so focused - so impenetrable - that he barely seemed human. And that one sneeze... so rigidly contained and yet not completely defied... was a tantalizing crack in the solid surface of the man. Claire's imagination filled in what her eyes hadn't seen: Aimon's normally fierce green eyes going glassy and vague, his mauve lips parting in that helpless gasp, long fingers coming to crush the nostrils of his Aquiline nose cruelly as his hard body contracted...

"Hc'gNXtz!-ah..."

It played over and again, like a movie reel set in a loop...

The flinching shudder of broad shoulders.

The stubborn clench of that square jaw.

And - worse - that warm, relieved exhalation of breath there at the very very tail end ...

When her alarm went off the next morning, her whole body ached, her brain fuzzy and irritable. Instead of her usual mocha she opted for a double espresso, hoping the extra caffeine would get her through the day. Thankfully her shift didn't start until 3:30, but she had several errands to run, had promised to meet some friends for lunch, then needed to get the oil changed in her car.

As it was, everything that could go wrong... did.

She couldn't find the receipt for her dry-cleaning despite ripping her house apart and would be forced to wear a not-so-pristine kitchen coat tonight. Her friends were late, and couldn't make up their minds about what to order, so lunch ran 45 minutes longer than she'd planned. There was a line at the gas station that she stupidly sat in for another twenty minutes, watching the numbers tick away on the radio clock. Finally she had to abandon it, pushing the speed limit and cursing every red light on her way across town to the restaurant.

Despite her best efforts, she was almost ten minutes late.

Clocking in, she went immediately to her station and began to prep, hoping no one had noticed. Everyone was doing exactly what she was doing: sharpening knives and laying out supplies to get ready for the evening shift... After seven or eight minutes she began to calm down, heart finally slowing as it seemed she'd escaped detection.

"Ms. Rousseau."

Her hand froze, hovering over the cutting board she had been reaching for. He was behind her again, that close, carnal heat singeing her back.

"So good of you to join us," Chef Aimon's voice was black ice in her ear, deep and resonant, and carried across the kitchen with ruthless ease. Though he sounded deceptively bored, as if she were someone mentally simple he was reminding about something trivial for the hundredth time, she knew it was merely the calm before the storm. "Our apologies for disrupting your busy schedule. Perhaps we should send our patrons home until it is more convenient for you be bothered to show up to DO YOUR JOB." He finished with a roar, hot breath blowing across her neck even as she curled her shoulders inward, away from him.

Every eye in the kitchen was on her, a couple of them sympathetic but most unabashedly glad that it was her and not them bearing the brunt of his ire. Humiliation. That's what this was. And it was illegal in most civilized countries. Too bad a French kitchen was far from civilized.

"Did you hear me, Ms. Rousseau?" he demanded, low and hard and dangerous.

"Yes," she whispered, refusing to let her eyes tear up, refusing to be that much of a girl.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, Chef."

He hovered there for a long moment, that torrid heat curling the hairs at the base of her neck and causing sweat to break out between her shoulder blades. Then, mercifully, he stalked away, heavy footsteps echoing in the stunned silence as she gripped the counter and struggled to pull it together. She'd never been late for a shift before - couldn't remember having been late for anything important in her LIFE... not to mention now, at the worst possible time in her career. All it would take would be one word from Chef Aimon and no other decent kitchen would have her. This was a business where one depended on a reputation built from position to position, and she'd worked too damned hard to get this one - the first rung on what hopefully would be a long and successful ladder - to throw it away on something so stupid as being ten minutes late.

Halfway across the room, the footsteps slowed to a stop. Thinking she was about to get a second wave of fury, she raised her head stubbornly to face him, blinking the moisture away and gritting her teeth, bracing herself to take-it-like-a-man.

Like a chef.

A minute later, she was unbelievably grateful for her bravery.

Chef Aimon's back was still to her, his shoulders hunched just the slightest bit, elegant head turning just marginally to the side. She could see the barest hint of his facial features... the tip of his nose, the curve of his ear...

He raised a fist.

"hgk'NXt!" he sneezed, hard and tight, viciously pinching his nostrils closed to contain it.

A shocked silence hung for the briefest of seconds, the whole of the kitchen gaping at their Executive Chef. If they were anything like Claire, they'd never seen him sneeze before. Never seen him display any kind of weakness or infirmity, let alone illness.

After all, illness and food service most definitely did NOT mix.

A muted chorus of "bless you, chef"s and "à vos souhaits"s echoed faintly, adding to the awkwardness of the moment and pushing Chef from mere anger into utter and irreconcilable rage. He growled menacingly - low and primal in the back of his throat - and stalked to the office. He slammed the door, the adjoining wall rattling with the fury of it.

The rest of them continued to prep for the upcoming shift in silence, barely murmuring requests for ingredients or warnings when they passed near each other with hot pans. It wouldn't be the first time the kitchen was so subdued, nearly always inspired by Chef's blow-ups, but this was the first time in the six months Claire had been here that Chef had locked himself in his office. It made her cheeks burn even more with shame, even as a niggling thought in the back of her mind wondered why something so minor would set him off so much.

He stayed in there for a solid hour.

Emerging just in time for the dinner rush, Chef Aimon immediately began barking orders and plating his creations as if nothing had happened. Something unseen shifted, and the kitchen clicked into place, the final gear in the machine setting it to spinning with smooth efficiency. Claire's keen eyes couldn't seem to stray far from him, watching his well-shaped back as it bent time and again over another plate, hearing his supple voice calling for ingredients and pans with great presence of command and confidence. She had always admired that in him, how - regardless of his youth - he had such natural leadership, such charisma. When he wasn't indulging in an outburst of temper, he was quite magnetic, easily making people want to work for him.

Once, she saw his hands slow, his head turning to one side and shoulders flinching hard. But over the din of the kitchen she heard nothing. Nor did his hands ever rise to his face, not even to wipe the sweat away. She could see the heat of the kitchen was getting to him, a subtle darkening of his chef's coat between his shoulder blades.

Claire managed to finish and clean her counter first, slipping into her coat while the rest of the staff was sipping their customary bottle of wine. As was usual for this time of night, Chef was in his office, catching up on paperwork and typing away at his computer.

She'd just buttoned up and was reaching for the doorknob when his voice stopped her.

"Ms. Rousseau."

It was lighter, more relaxed than she'd heard before. Almost human.

Still, she couldn't help the stab of anxiety that accompanied his summons, shoving her suddenly-sweaty hands into her coat pocket as she turned and stepped into the doorway to his office. Inside, that same soft lamp illuminated a desk strewn with papers, the computer screen glowing. Chef Aimon sat with his elbows on the desktop, hands folded into fists at his mouth. His eyes were cast down, not looking at her, his hair a little disheveled.

His hair...

It was so seldom that she'd seen him without his crisp Chef's hat that she'd almost forgotten he had hair. If he'd looked young as an Executive Chef before, he looked even more so now. The boyish cut was almost a direct contrast to the hard, angular features of his face - floppy brown hair parted down the middle and nearly brushing his ears.

"Chef," she murmured softly, waiting for him to speak.

"Please," he nodded, gesturing to the wood-and-leather chair opposite his. She sat precariously on its edge, ready to bolt at the first opportunity. Was he going to dismiss her? For being ten minutes late? That didn't seem likely - for all Chef had a hair-trigger temper, he'd never done anything permanently irrational. He didn't speak immediately, simply sitting there, still as a statue.

She studied him while she waited, gaze lingering on the long curl of his fingers, the finely-boned structure of his wrists. She'd always appreciated a man with fine hands, and his were definitely worth appreciating. His square jaw and high cheekbones warred with each other, the former lending a rugged air and the latter hedging the border between handsome and pretty. He was not a huge man, but rather lean and powerful, his body carved and precise like a fine filet mignon. Claire fought not to roll her eyes at that ridiculously cliché analogy, blinking at him for a few moments more before finally decided to get it over with.

"I'm sorry for being late, Chef. It won't happen again."

He flicked those hypnotic green eyes to her for the briefest of moments, "I know," before lowering them to continue his intense study of some spot on the desk's cluttered surface.

More silence. The low chatter of the rest of the staff carried through the walls, the loud ticking of a clock somewhere behind her... If she didn't know better, she might have believed he was trying to find a way to apologize. Something about the weight of his shoulders, the crease of his mouth...

But after many long moments, he straightened, turning his head dismissively away to regard the computer screen with a detached finality. "Get some rest, Ms. Rousseau. Tomorrow is Friday and with the upcoming holiday we will have quite the weekend rush."

She blinked in astonished confusion for a moment, then stood and strode quickly to the door. This was most definitely the strangest encounter with a boss she'd ever had.

In the doorway, she paused, unable to let it just end like that... "Um... good night, Chef."

A second later, she was rewarded for her humanity.

"hh! -NXT! ah..." sniff.

The voice that followed was flat. Tired.

"Good night, Ms. Rousseau."

[doggo]

And....and....and.....and?!......AND?!!?!!!

[everest]

This is awsome!

I'm not familiar with the fandom, but still!

Really, really good.

[Winged]

This is awesome! I love love LOVE the French, and your writing and characterizations are very impressive! Can't wait for more! <3

[starpollen]

This is awsome!

I'm not familiar with the fandom, but still!

Really, really good.

Hey everest -

There is no fandom here. (I know - surprise! A sneezefic CAN exist without a fandom!...) These are my original characters, who live nowhere except inside my own addled imagination.

Still, I'm glad you like it!! I hope to have the next part up before the weekend is out...

[everest]

This is awsome!

I'm not familiar with the fandom, but still!

Really, really good.

Hey everest -

There is no fandom here. (I know - surprise! A sneezefic CAN exist without a fandom!...) These are my original characters, who live nowhere except inside my own addled imagination.

Still, I'm glad you like it!! I hope to have the next part up before the weekend is out...

Oh...

My bad!!!

Really great story, though. Especially since you did invent it all! I'm glad your continuing!

[starpollen]

Oh...

My bad!!!

Really great story, though. Especially since you did invent it all! I'm glad your continuing!

No problem, love! I tend to only write original characters. I've only written 1 or 2 fanfiction stories... I have this ridiculous self-conscious streak when it comes to fandoms (like I'll get them wrong and experience an EPIC FAIL) so most of the stuff you'll see from me is original.

I'm working on the next chapter now. I've got a poll up here - http://sfforum.invisionzone.com/index.php?...c=5967&st=0 to let me know what kinds of colds you like. I'm sort of taking the results and incorporating them into this fic.

Again - THANK YOU SO MUCH for you responses!

Edited November 29, 2009 by starpollen

[littlesneezer18]

Ahh! Brilliant work starpollen! Keep it up !

Edited November 29, 2009 by littlesneezer18

[Nicole]

You know, star...I'm not a really big fan of male sneezes in a fic. I tend to read male stories and think, "Ah, that was nice," and feel pleased. BUT...every male story you write, I LOVE. Honestly LOVE. This is wonderful, your writing is absolutely stunning, as always. Fabulous!

[obsessed]

To quote Shiny:

... AND?!?

Marvelous, marvelous.

[Song_Bird]

Starpollen, has anyone ever told you you're a genius? because you're writing is absolutely phenomenal! pretty please continue?

[jezebel215]

based on the results of the poll I suspect that chef Aimon is going to be feeling mighty poorly in the upcoming chapters...

super awesome story. makes me wish i knew how to cook, if only to go to cooking school and meet sneezing chefs

[starpollen]

This is the face I've been wearing since reading your comments. Yeah. Really. I am SO thankful for each of you!

Part 3

If she thought she'd slept poorly the previous night, it was nothing compared to this. She had the most vivid sneeze-dream of her entire life, so realistic that she woke around 5am tangled in the sheets with her hands digging into the mattress.

And - yes - it starred Chef Aimon.

It was no wonder, really. In the past six months she'd never seen him sneeze, then she'd seen four in the past two days. Well, three definitely but she was pretty sure that shoulder-flinch during the dinner rush had been another stifle. If the kitchen had been quiet, she wondered if she would have heard the same nasal "hxt" as the others ... or if it would have been completely silent.

She was betting on silent.

Claire lay in bed all morning, staring at the ceiling, unable to fall back to sleep as she tried not to indulge in fantasy after fantasy. It didn't help that her house was quiet. Too quiet. It was the weekend before Thanksgiving, and nearly everyone else in the neighborhood was running around getting ready for the descent of family members and football games and the overabundance of calories. But Claire had known she couldn't ask off for the holiday, so her family would be gathering at her brother's house - six hours away. She would call them a couple of hours before her shift when they were all gathered around the table, her chair glaringly empty.

It was something she knew she'd have to get used to: as a professional chef, she had no personal life.

Finally crawling out of bed and showering just after noon, she flopped on the couch and ate a bowl of cereal while she rolled her eyes and called sarcastic comments to the personalities on the Food Network. None of that was real... which was why she loved watching it. It was like heckling at a sports game. But when a Food Network Challenge came on, she had to turn it off and go do a load of laundry. Looking at those men in their chef's coats just made her think about him again: none of them filled the coat like he did.

About 2:45, she dressed for work: her shoulder-length hair pulled back in its customary low bun, her feet shoved into their black, restaurant-grade shoes, loose black slacks, and clean white jacket. (She'd found her dry-cleaning receipt.) The drive was a little slow, so many people on the road getting groceries and rushing around to prepare early for the holiday. But today she'd left in plenty of time and arrived ten minutes early.

The first thing she noticed was the absence of Chef Aimon.

He was a predictable fixture, normally arriving half-an-hour before the rest of the staff, finalizing any menu changes or going over inventory and supplies before the evening shift. He liked to wander the kitchen, looking over each chef de partie's shoulders as they prepped, making sure everything was perfect. But tonight...

Nearly 45 minutes passed without his appearance. Finally, she couldn't help it.

"W-where is Chef?" She addressed the Aboyeur, Phillipe, trying for casual as she rough-chopped some celery for a vegetable broth.

"En le office," he responded in that thick, haughty accent with the arrogant sniff his race had all-but patented. "Not to be disturbed."

Well haugh-haugh-haugh, she retaliated acerbically in her mind, barely refraining from rolling her eyes as she indulged her snarky sense-of-humor the one way she could in the kitchen. Phillipe was ridiculous on the best of days: the smallest hair out of place causing him to flounder into near-conniption, a spill or stain on his dark tuxedo the equivalent of Armageddon itself.

She, however, simply buckled down, determined not to let herself be distracted by any abnormalities.

Still. The dinner rush arrived, and Chef Aimon did not appear.

This was so bizzarre that the staff couldn't help but take notice. At first, they floundered, unable to think independently of their leader. Phillipe snapped at Armand which meant Emile tried to step in and it almost looked like someone was going to walk out before 6:00. Ultimately though, in spite of the unusual circumstances - or maybe because of them - everyone dug in their heels and managed to pull it together... and the rest of the night went like clockwork. Orders came in and dishes went out with ridiculous efficiency: each station working with the next like the well-oiled-machine each restaurant always strives for but rarely achieves.

By the time the last patron's order had left the kitchen the euphoria was unparalleled, Cabernet Savignon flowing like water. Claire joined the male-dominated group for the first time, indulging in more than her usual 2 glasses as they all laughed and celebrated a wonderful Friday-night-rush. After nearly two hours of joking and sharing stories the rest of the staff stumbled out into the chill, pre-Thanksgiving night, weaving their way home to families and shared beds.

In all this time, the office door remained closed.

The most successful night of the restaurant since its inception a year earlier... and its Founding Executive Chef had spent it holed up in his office, away from the staff who had unabashedly celebrated with his wine. They'd all subconsciously known they were flirting with danger, but the contagious spirit of triumph had overridden any logical trepidation.

Claire stayed behind, chucking empty bottles into trash bags and scooping up corks and foil wrappers... ever the responsible one. As the eldest of six, she was used to cleaning up at the end of a raucous night. Everyone else stumbled home, leaving only she and Chef Aimon in the building, the dedicated Maître d' being the last to abandon his post amid profuse and intoxicated protests. Claire locked the front door behind him, unable to lock the back door without a key and the security code.

Which meant she'd have to brave the office... Lucky her.

She stood before the door, frozen, her fist poised to knock... when she heard a muffled thump from inside.

"Kgm," she cleared her throat politely, hoping to declare her presence before knocking on the door with a light rap. "Chef Aimon?..."

A brief silence.

"...oui."

It was barely there, a hoarse whisper carried on little more than a thought. In fact, for half a second she wondered if she'd imagined it. Hesitating for only a moment, she grasped the cool handle and gave it a brave turn.

Behind the door, the familiar dimly-lit scene greeted her: the low-watt lamp, the desktop strewn with ivory papers... the only change was that the computer screen was dark.

Chef Aimon sat in his customary seat, but instead of rigid and upright he was slack and hunched over the mess, a slight bruising to his now-dull eyes, the front to his coat distinctly rumpled. Moreover, it was unbuttoned at the top, baring the dark dip of a forbidden collarbone.

"What is it?" he toned, low and flat.

"Um it's... time to lock up," she murmured quietly. She'd never seen him so... disordered.

A shadow crossed his features, half-ashamed, half-grateful. "Yes."

He sat there, almost as if he hadn't really understood, and she put a tooth over her bottom lip, uncertain. Then, decisively, he stood, stepping gingerly around the desk. When he paused at the corner and leaned heavily on it, she didn't fight the impulse. Taking less than two steps, she settled a hand on his arm.

He stared at it, brow wrinkling. They stood in the deep quiet, both seeming to wait for the other to break it.

"Ms. Rousseau..." he began softly.

"Claire," she corrected.

He let a momentary breath of silence reign.

"Claire," he amended, leaning into her somewhat more than she thought necessary.

They stood there, together, and she found her eyes fighting not to close as she indulged in the primitive heat of their shared bodies.

Then, he pulled away suddenly, dismissively, "Thank you," stubbornly closing his eyes as he obviously gathered strength. "It is late. Good night."

She gaped for a long moment. Then - incredibly - she managed to bark, "Would you cut the crap already?"

He jerked to face her, dark eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Seriously," she continued, not knowing where this sudden bravery came from (maybe the wine?) nor quite able to stop it from spewing forth unchecked. "Tonight? Went unbelievably well. It was CRAZY - Emile didn't burn his hands, Armand didn't get frustrated and curse at Miguel for ten minutes when his pans weren't washed, and Michel was sober and had everything all lined up every time we asked for it... So where the hell were you? What was so all-fired important that you couldn't be out there... with us..."

She trailed off, believing at first that she was hallucinating.

Those normally fierce green eyes - slowly, hypnotically - went glassy and vague. His mauve lips parted in a soft, helpless gasp, long fingers rising and hovering uncertainly in front of his face for a brief, agonizing moment... Then they crushed the nostrils of his Aquiline nose cruelly closed as his hard body contracted, shuddering against her with stubbornly contained violence.

"Hh! NXt! ah..."

The sneeze had little sound, mostly the flinching jerk of his body and that smoldering, teasing little exhalation of breath at the end that made her knees go weak. She had to clamp down hard, biting her lower lip nearly in half and barely resisting the urge to moan out loud in response.

The second sneeze, however, escaped his controls. "-NGKtsch!- hh."

That final breath? Probably the hottest thing she'd ever heard, let alone felt, every lean line of muscle in his body currently pressing into hers fairly shivering with the force of his restraint.

He pulled away, breaking contact completely and swiping a curled finger under his nose. He cleared his throat as he apologized. "... Pardonez-moi." sniff.

Exhausted. That's what he looked like, she decided. It was a condition that did not become him... and yet it did. While the weary line of his body was unfamiliar and.. wrong... it was at the same time elegant, provocative... and right.

Are you okay? she wanted to ask, wanted to lay her hand on him - skin to skin - to know for herself, to use it as an excuse to touch him. But knew that would be crossing the line.

Instead, she tucked her hands into her coat, regarding him steadily. "Would... you like to have a drink with me?"

He went very still, one knuckle pressed against his upper lip as he stared at the floor.

"Pourquoi pas?... oui. Let me get my coat." sniff.

This? Probably one of the best ideas she'd ever had.

x x x

Translations:

Pourquoi pas = Why not?

[a red nine]

Hooray! Such a good update!

[doggo]

Continuing the yummyliciousness! I'm eating your chef this up!

[Nicole]

Star, you tease! This is just fantastic! Love!

[VoOs]

Mmm-MM, this is absolutely delicious. I think your sneeze-spellings just killed my brain.

Moar?

[starpollen]

I love you guys!!

Part 4

He held the back door for her like a proper gentleman, murmuring, "Just a moment," while setting the alarm and locking it behind them. They stood on the back stoop under the yellow security bulb, their breath making dragon clouds as it left their lips. The stars were out, the deep black bowl of the sky pricked with twinkling light.

"So, um, liquor, beer, or wine?" Claire asked with a wry smile, digging her fists deeper into the pockets of her pea coat. She didn't spend much time in this part of town outside of work, and realized a little belatedly that she'd asked the man out for a drink and had no idea where to take him.

Aimon was also wearing a wool coat, black and longer than her own, with a cream scarf tucked sensibly around his throat. He was looking at her steadily, his green gaze unreadable.

"Beer, I think."

She blinked for a second, certain the world was going to end. A Frenchman choosing beer over wine? "O-okay," she stuttered stupidly. Well you did ask. She racked her brain for any bars or other late-night establishments nearby as she looked up and down the street, worrying her lip again with her teeth. When she glanced back, he was still looking at her. It made her throat suddenly dry.

"I know a place," he offered, clearing his throat a little. "Not far, a few blocks."

"Oh," she said, grateful. "Sure. Lead the way."

Turning, he inclined his head, letting her go ahead of him down the short steps. She expected that he would lead her to a car, but noticed hers was the only one in the lot. They crossed to the sidewalk, turning and heading down the street. There was a good half-block where they walked without speaking, the sound of their shoes scuffing the sidewalk ringing loud in her ears.

Finally, she decided she'd better start some sort of conversation.

"How long have you been in America?"

"About eight years," he answered, slowing his longer legs to match her stride. "I came on an exchange program when I was at university, and when I finished I decided to stay." His accent was a little more pronounced than usual. Most of the time it was light, present enough to announce his background but not heavy enough to be distracting. Now it was curling around his vowels, exotically hardening some consonants while softening others.

"What were you studying?" she asked, loving the sound of it when he spoke.

Turning away as he brought one hand out from his coat pocket. He swiped a curled finger gently under his nostrils as they flared with a soft sniff. "Literature," he replied.

"Oh," she did that blink-thing again, for the second time tonight completely surprised by his unexpected response... not to mention distracted after he'd unwittingly brought her attention back to that fine nose... "Wow. What-... what made you go to culinary school?"

He slipped his hand back into his pocket and stared ahead for bit, the crunch of glass under their feet. When he spoke it was low, reluctant.

"My father."

Her lips parted to ask to ask more, but he turned away sharply, flinching a frantic "hh-ngkt! -uh” into his shoulder.

Mmm.

"...à vos souhaits..." she barely breathed, staring at him.

He tossed his head, flicking the dangling hair out of his eyes with a deep sniff, his eyes cast down. "Merci." Surely he wasn't blushing...

Before she could bring her brain back from the edge of stupid, they turned another corner and across the street was a friendly-looking Irish pub. Aimon curved an arm out to hover just behind her back as they stepped off the curb, keeping it there as they crossed the street. It was a protective gesture, gentleman-like, and Claire found she enjoyed how it seemed second-nature to him, so different from many of the guys she'd dated. Most men she'd been out with were irritatingly deliberate with their gestures of chivalry, a look-at-me air about them that stripped the act of all its dignity.

He opened the door for her and they stepped into the dimly lit interior - slightly smoky with a low din of conversation and the soft clink of glasses. It was a nice place, she noted, clean and well ordered. But when she moved toward the bar he laid a hand on her arm, nodding his head toward a table in the back. His touch burned right through the wool, and her pulse began to ripple a little faster through her veins.

When they reached the table, his hands grasped her collar to help her remove her coat, and his knuckles brushed the nape of her neck. His fingers were ice-cold.

"Geez!" she yelped, jerking forward with a hard shiver.

She turned around and immediately felt bad: his brows had drawn together, strangely contrite. "I am sorry," he murmured, accent quite pronounced, taking a small step back and folding her coat over his arm. "I did not think..."

"No, it's okay," she breathed in a rush, fisting her hands so she wouldn't reach out to lay them on his arm. "You just... startled me, is all."

He didn't reply, merely turned and hung her coat on a hook she hadn't noticed on the wall... then pulled out her chair for her. She hated it with waiters did that at restaurants, never able to align her body with the rhythm of theirs as they attempted to push the chair in as she sat. It was always awkward. But Aimon was a pro, subtly taking control and getting her seated and himself settled across from her before she was even aware of it.

An older waitress appeared, attractive the way a woman is when she is just beginning to fade. "Chef," she addressed him warmly, politely. "Nice to see you again." She glanced at Claire ... approvingly?... "What can I get the two of you?" she asked, and the way she said it suggested she wasn't used to seeing him with anyone; Claire thought this was a good sign.

Aimon looked to Claire first, his eyes appearing darker in this light: a black-green that glinted handsomely.

"Uh..." she wasn't sure what kind of bar this was, and didn't really know what to order... "Um, a... Corona?" she finally decided. It sounded safe enough.

"With lime?"

"Yes, please. And a glass of water."

The waitress seemed satisfied. "And you, Chef? The usual?"

"Oui," he responded cooly, not taking his eyes from Claire. "Merci."

When they were alone again, she leaned back against the wall and surveyed the scene: the dark wood paneling on the walls, faded pictures of mid-century rugby teams and a few unfamiliar neon signs. Soft fiddle music was playing in the background.

"Nice place," she said, for want of anything else. It was banal, and made her cringe, but she'd never been good on 'dates,' and since she wasn't even sure this qualified was even more out of her element.

"Mm," he agreed, leaning back as well, one arm resting on the table and the other on the back of his chair. One ankle came up to rest on the opposite knee, and suddenly he looked relaxed. Approachable.

It looked wrong - unfamiliar - but she decided she liked it.

The waitress appeared, two bottles of beer on her tray. One she recognized - the pale Corona with the wedge of lime sticking out of the mouth - the other she didn't. A dark brown bottle with an oval label, accompanied by a glass that almost looked like those goblets they called water glasses at the restaurant. The waitress served her first then set the brown bottle and goblet in front of Aimon.

"Merci."

"Nothing from the kitchen?" she asked, folding her tray under her arm.

He looked to Claire.

"No, thank you," she responded with a small smile. She was starving, to tell the truth, but didn't think she could eat in front of him. It'd always been a problem: eating in front of men she was attracted to. He regarded her for a moment or two, then turned to the waitress.

"Laura, demander à Jean pour deux tartiflettes s'il vous plaît."

The waitress blinked for a moment, her brows raised slightly, flicking a glance at Claire before replying, "Oui, Chef, très bon," then disappeared into the shadows.

Claire watched her go, brow furrowed, then looked sharply at Aimon. "What did you order?"

One corner of his mouth curved into a small half-smile as he reached for his drink. "I have not eaten, and so ordered two tartiflettes. One for myself, and one for you."

Her eyes narrowed. "I said I..."

"You are hungry," he murmured, his eyes focused on pouring burnished amber liquid into the goblet. "And you will like this. It is my mother's recipe."

That stopped her cold.

What? But he... and I... Fuck.

Seriously, how could she be appropriately offended as a modern woman completely capable of making her own decisions if he was going to counter with something so sentimental, so... personal. This was the Nazi Chef, the man who caused more hostesses to break down in tears in a week than most restaurants have in a year. He wasn't supposed to HAVE a mother... He was supposed to be inhuman, engineered in some Communist lab that was creating French Chef's to spread terror across the land and undermine Democracy.

But the way he sat there, carefully - deliberately - pouring his drink and avoiding her eyes... holding himself so still. As if anxious.

So while she felt honor bound to all the women of the 21st century to rail against this 'insult,' instead she grabbed her Corona and squeezed the lime down into the neck, taking a long pull. She hadn't had one in a couple of years, and fought not to wince as the sour/bitter/sweet fought a war in her mouth. But almost right after the first swallow she lifted it for another, needing something to distract her from this... unusual piece of information.

"Would you like a taste?" he offered politely, holding out his beer. The head on it was huge, frothy and white. She set her bottle down, eyeing it warily. The look on her face must have been interesting, because he chuckled, low and resonant. "Do not worry, Claire. It will not bite you."

Ohh. Her name. He hadn't said it since that moment his office - that marked instant where something changed between them, shifted.

His eyes were on her face, fathomless and dark. She reached out, taking the glass from him, and their fingers brushed lightly in the exchange. His were still cool, but not as cold as the frosty brew fogging the smooth surface. The first sip brought her the taste of the head, rushing over her tongue like a meringue. The swallow that followed allowed the beer itself to take center stage: herbs and grass, green apple and sweet malt. And at the tail end, a spicy earthiness and alcoholic warmth that spread through her chest.

"Damn. That's good," she said as she handed it back. Reaching for the bottle, she eyed the label - 3 Monts. "French?"

Aimon nodded vaguely, setting his glass down with a hurried clink. His eyes fluttered, his lips parted. "HH!" he gasped sharply, the corner of a lip lifting tantalizingly in irritation, nostrils flaring wide, ““hhk-NGKsch! -uhh." His head snapped down, long fingers pinching his nose closed hard as his shoulders shuddered with the strain. Once again, he'd tried desperately to stifle it, and failed. That breath of air at the end was almost a groan.

"Bless you," she murmured softly with a smoldering stare, both sympathetic and completely aroused. Picking up her cocktail napkin, she held it out to him.

He glanced at it with what looked like utter loathing, but took it from her with a quiet, "Merci," too polite to refuse. He dabbed at his nose lightly, glancing away as he gave a deep sniff that didn't quite sound as clear as he had earlier.

"Are you all right?" she finally asked.

But the waitress chose that moment to arrive with their food, and the question was lost amid her setting down two crocks of what looked like steaming, cheesy potato goodness in front of them. The moment the smell hit, her mouth watered, and she was suddenly so grateful for male chauvinism.

They picked up their forks. "Bon appétit," he murmured softly, bringing up a bite and twirling the melted cheese around the tines of the fork. She did the same, blowing on it until it cooled enough for a taste. Fresh potatoes with some sautéed onions and bacon, a dash of white wine, and thick cream; all topped with an entire round of tangy, rich cheese and baked until the cream bubbled up and the cheese oozed out. It was heaven.

"What did you call this?" she uttered around another warm mouthful.

"Tartiflette," he responded, taking a sip of his beer. "My mother used to make this in the winter for dinner. It was wonderful when it was so cold outside and we had walked home from school in the snow."

"Is your mother still in France?" she asked, reaching for her water. She wasn't sure she'd ever drink Corona again.

"No," he answered, dropping his eyes back to his dish. Low and clipped, it was not an answer that invited further discussion.

She took another swallow of water.

"What about your parents?" he asked her gently, obviously aware of the awkwardness of the moment and trying to repair it.

"They live a couple of hours away. I grew up around here, and my brother lives in Springfield. They're all getting together at his house for Thanksgiving next week..." she rambled on, talking about her father's penchant for fishing and her mom's uncanny sense of direction. He asked good questions, helping her reveal the endearing nuances of her family while still admitting a certain element of the ridiculous.

Finally, their dishes were empty, their glasses drained, and the clock above the bar read nearly 2:30.

She reached for her coat to grab her wallet.

"No," he stopped her, laying his cool hand over hers. "Please let me."

"I can't," she replied, shaking her head. "I..."

"Claire."

Any protest died in her throat. How he could do that, simply with her name on his lips, was... ludicrous. But irrefutable.

She stared into his eyes, and he stared into hers. It was another pivotal moment, where one person acknowledged the significance of this, of the other. She only wished she knew which one she was. Because the way he was looking at her?... she wasn't sure.

It almost seemed mutual.

"Come," he said after he'd paid the bill. "I will walk you to your car."

Edited December 2, 2009 by starpollen

[Song_Bird]

Aww we love you too! And this story just gets better by the minute!

[doggo]

An evil Chef engineered in some Communist lab, with a repressed passion for literature??? I want to eat him.