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kitchen confidential | jack abbot

pairing: chef!jack abbot x f!bartender!reader warnings: language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), steamy, reader is described as having hair long enough for jack to grab word count: 2.5k summary: a bet takes over your night out with your favorite chef. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with any of my work or this fic. new series alert!!! i hope you enjoy! there will definitely be a part two, so please like and reblog and let me know if you enjoyed this <3 not properly proofread so apologies for any errors!

there is a low hum of sound that vibrates around you. such is typical for a friday night at pittsburgh’s finest restaurant. well, maybe not finest. one of the most fine, certainly. it had been hours since you had taken a good look at your surroundings. bartending was something that allowed you to lose yourself. you could slip into a rhythm and find that half of your shift has gone by, and you liked that. you liked that you worked hard and fast and that you ached a little bit when you were done. you enjoyed that you always had a story to tell and you knew the best and worst places to go in the city.

it was a certain type of hellish privilege to be a bartender for a fine dining restaurant. and now, you need your reprieve.

you nudge joy with your elbow and let her know that you’re going to go take your break. she barely looks up at you– she’d already gotten her break and her lunch, because joy was like that, and everyone respected that, even if they didn’t follow her lead.

it’s not worth it to take your apron off when it’s likely that you’re only going to get three puffs of a cigarette in before something drags you back inside. you hook the flimsy outdoor chair with your ankle and tug it closer to you, fishing your phone out from your back pocket so you can spend these few moments of solace staring into the blue light.

“mind a buddy?”

your eyes flick upward to see abbot. he’s rubbing his hands together– his arms have little knicks on them from too-sharp knives, his forehead has a slight sheen to it, and the little white t-shirt he wears looks like it’s about ready to bust at the seams from the strain his biceps are creating.

he is, categorically, the hottest man that you’ve ever seen, and you swore that from the moment you first laid eyes on him.

“not at all.” you gesture to the array of mismatched chairs— some being retired and decrepit from the outdoor seating area, others being old camp chairs with name designations on the back: cassie is written on lime green with purple sharpie, shen written in a neat script with a smiley face. it never matters. people take the seat they’ve deemed their favorite, technical owner be damned.

abbot takes a seat in a old plastic white chair that’s seen better days. he takes a gulp from the quart container he has filled to the brim with water. a little stream runs from the corner of his mouth and along the sharp slant of his jaw, and it makes you feel like you need a glass of water.

“you’re kicking ass tonight,” abbot says, looking down at his hands. “every time i’ve popped out on the floor, you’re on that shit. good job.”

abbot gives praises out like they’re mints, abundantly and happily. it’s how he’s able to inspire as a leader, and you respect it. in a kitchen, it’s vital. you’ve worked with many a chef that had the opposite approach— robby, to name one. one of the reasons you try to avoid him whenever possible. “thanks, chef.”

“you’re welcome.” abbot looks over at you out of the corner of his eye, but casts his gaze downward when you dare to meet it. you’re left with a view of the wrinkles around his eyes. a decent trade off, if there had to be one. “now, what about my performance?” he asks, puffing his chest out.

you’re grinning lazily, leaning back into your seat. “i wasn’t paying attention,” you say. “was i supposed to be?”

“i was putting on a show just for you. the, you know, three times you came back.”

“i was on a mission.”

“i was trying to distract you, i guess.”

this was how it had always been with abbot. when you were twenty three and freshly poached from the bar that ellis and shen frequented after their shift ended. when they would drag abbot inside with them and jack would pay for the round and buy you one to have you join in. when he was the patron and you were flirting with him, innocently, because it was always innocent when it came to guys at the bar.

flirtatious. easygoing. just toeing the line of something questionable, but one foot solid on the more appropriate side. despite how attractive you found him, instantly, it always felt very comfortable with abbot. he was warm. you liked warm.

“aren’t you always?” you glance at your watch. joy can hold her own for another five minutes, you rationalize. things had hit a nice lull just before you came out. “well, what did i miss?”

“i garnished the oceanic hamachi crudo just hoping i might catch your eye.”

“my apologies for missing something so important.” you rub at your face. as much as abbot thinks you’re a rockstar, you don’t feel like much of one today.

“uh oh. c’mon, you can’t make that face and then not say what’s going on with you.”

“it’s just one of those days,” you say in the way that all service workers end up understanding. abbot gives a knowing nod of his head. “you going out with everyone after this?”

he sucks on his teeth and it makes you grin. “don’t tell me i’m not going to have my dancing partner tonight?”

“you know, i am old.”

“you are old, but you’re a good dancer. and you’re gonna be up until one am, anyway. what’s another couple of hours?” you bat your eyelashes. “you’re gonna make me beg?”

“you’d like begging too much,” he fires back, and it makes your face warm. but he just takes another drink of water. “i’ll be there.”

you stand up and pat his shoulder. “i knew i didn’t need to beg.”

—

you changed in the bathroom. you usually kept a spare outfit and a cute pair of going out shoes in your locker— a night out was never off the table, and you didn’t want to feel unprepared. most have already shuffled out by the time you were out, having called that you didn’t mind locking up. but a familiar shadow lingers near the bar, your bar. “i said i’d meet everyone there.”

“i think i’d be liable if something happened to you on the walk.” jack says, voice wry. “and, i would never forgive myself.”

“i’m a big girl, abbot.”

“never doubted that,” abbot’s eyes flick down, taking in your outfit from top to bottom. “am i not allowed to care what happens to you?”

this was a regular topic of conversation. you were reckless and jack likes to pretend he’s not reckless, but he recognized parts of you that resonate with parts of him. always telling you to be safe, make semi-decent decisions, all of the good stuff. and that if you were ever in trouble, he was a phone call away. you’d utilized that offer, once or twice. once ended with you throwing up in the passenger seat of his truck, the other ended with him dropping you off at your apartment after your ride back from philly bailed on you.

jack abbot had driven nine hours round trip for you. if you needed something, there was little question if he would step up for you or not.

“yes,” you relent. “thank you, chef.” you mostly only ever call him that to give him shit. the new ones call him chef in earnest— ogilvie and victoria and mel. but you also call him that because every time, you swear you watch him swallow his own heart.

jack holds the door for you and carries your backpack on his shoulder, dropping it off at his truck on the way. he always walks on the closest side to the street and pulls you gently into him when the sidewalk gets busy. you joke about the bachelor party you had in tonight and retell the worries the groom to be had lamented to you over his third vodka red bull. “he tipped two hundred dollars,” you add. “i think he thought it was two five’s.”

“atta girl,” jack says as you approach the loud dive bar, multicolor lights shining from the windows. “was his name chad?”

“brad!” you laugh as you flash your id to the bouncer, jack following in behind you, no id necessary.

the music is loud, and it is so incredibly busy. you look over your shoulder at jack and loop your arm through his, fingers curling around his bicep. because you don’t want to get lost. obviously, that is the only motive that you have. he parts the red sea of bodies until you get to familiar faces. santos throws her hands up and cheers, shen and ellis embrace abbot.

your little restaurant that could is not perfect. but you like these people. you like them very much, and that’s worth its weight in gold.

santos tugs you down into the spot next to her. your eyes trail to abbot, who’s moving towards the bar with ellis. he glances at you over his shoulder and nods— and you don’t have to be a genius to know that means he’ll be walking back with a margarita in hand for you. “so,” santos says loudly. “have you decided to stop torturing yourselves and just do it already?”

“trinity!” you gasp like it’s shocking, or out of the realm of possibility. she looks at you like you’re full of shit, which you reasonably are. “no, we haven’t.”

“i really need you to consider getting on top of that, literally, because i have to win my bet with whitaker. i put all my christmas eve tips on you hooking up before halloween.”

“i can’t believe you put those tips on the line for anything, much less the status of my sex life.” you and trinity had become fast friends when she started working with you. where others saw a brashness, you saw… something different. not softer, definitely not, but perhaps it was that you felt a little bit like the opposite side to her coin. regardless, you liked the tough parts of her. you liked that she said whatever she felt like to rude guests. you liked that she was braver than the rest of you.

“your sex life, generally, is not what i find interesting. i find the will-they won’t-they between you and your boss to be interesting, though. especially when, like, every other person here wants the both of you.”

you shrug your shoulders, just as abbot is approaching, frosty glass in hand. “every other person?” you ask with a cheeky grin, all the while holding out your hand for jack to place your drink in it. treated like a true princess. you’re met with a begrudgingly fond eye roll from santos.

it should be easy to hate you. you can be occasionally aloof, a little bit of a drama queen, and definitely a gossip. but for some reason the amalgamation of these traits concocts into something charming.

“thanks,” you say. he winks at you, the way he’ll occasionally wink at a sweet old lady when they ask to give their compliments to the chef. you imagine that it has a similar effect on you that it has on the pittsburgh elderly.

jack spends his time in his pocket of the bar, you spend it in yours. you win a couple rounds of cards and get your next three drinks paid for. you finally get to smoke that cigarette that had been long forgotten during your break when abbot came out to talk to you. you’ll look over to shoulder to find that he’s already glancing at you. always smiling or smirking or laughing at something that someone said, and you feel this bubbling sensation inside of you. one that has been dormant for a long time, but has become harder to ignore.

“oh, yeah. you’re definitely not seeing my christmas eve tips,” you hear trinity say under her breath to whitaker, who scowls down at his beer.

the words hit you in your periphery. you’re more focused on jack. he saunters towards you and nods his head towards the dance floor. well— dance floor is a sad name for it. a handful of drunkards who have taken it upon themselves to create a dance floor. “didn’t you say you needed a dance partner?”

“is that how you ask a lady to dance? my oh my, where are your manners?”

he goes low. to his knees, practically– down at your feet, his hand up turned, looking up at you through thick lashes. “my lady.”

trinity cheers, fueled by alcohol and the prospect of getting whitaker’s christmas eve tips. you laugh and let your palm settle in his, stand and allow yourself the image of him on his knees for you. he comes to full height and tugs you a little bit closer, and then leads you to the center of the dance floor.

the music is intoxicating. you like a bar that has touchtunes, and you’d been queueing music all night long. uncle ace by blood orange plays over the speakers– not great speakers, and that almost makes it better. it crackles and pops just a bit at you, and reverberates in your ears. jack pulls you in, nice and slow. there’s nothing separating the two of you other than your clothes; you’re pressed against him flush, all by his design and the pressure of his hand on your lower back. your hand snakes up his arm and to the back of his neck, and you bite down on your lip, letting the music wash over you like a cold plunge.

his mouth finds your ear. “what has santos been badgering you about all night?”

your nails rake against the place where his hair curls and he holds you tighter. “her and whitaker have a bet going.”

“i’m sure they do,” his fingers slip into the belt loops of your pants. you press against him just a bit more. “who’s gonna win?”

“jury’s still out.” you laugh a little. “but i think trinity might be onto something.”

the conversation dies as the music swells. everything else fades away into nothingness– all there is is you and abbot and the music and the alcohol. your head sways side to side and jack gathers your hair up into his hand, pulling it away from your face for you. you hum, and you think he must feel the vibration in your chest, because he hums back to you. your lips part and you watch jack’s eyes track the bead of sweat at your temple. everything quiets while he puts a hand on the side of your neck, the pad of his thumb getting comfortable on your jaw. everything is on fire– your skin and your mind and your emotions.

jack says your name. and your eyes blink open at him. you’re about to say something– kiss me, fuck me into your mattress, take me home, fuck me in the bathroom– but you don’t have a chance.

“whitaker– i told you, dude. they’re not making it to fucking halloween.”

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