The Meet-Cute Spinoff - Killer's Story 1
This amazing Killer belongs to sweet @igiulss ❤️
Rooted 1
Word Count: 4471
Tags: Fem!Reader; Lots and lots of swearing; Mature Audiences (I'll always tag the NSFW chapters); Modern Day AU; Anger issues; Emotionally constipated reader; Emotional trauma; Abandonment issues; Eventual fluff;
Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.
Special Warning 2: This is a spinoff of Imperfect, Kid's story from the Meet-Cute series. The Killer featured here is the one I portrayed there. This can, however, be read as a standalone, although I do recommend reading Kid's story for more background on Killer. The one thing you need to know for sure, if you don't want to read that one, is that Killer was injured in the army while protecting Kid (thus the bandana covering his face), and that in Kid's story, he fell in love with the reader and was left brokenhearted.
Summary: You working at Baratie never felt like a choice; it was an obligation after Zeff took you off the streets. And since cooking was the only thing that eased the constant anger gnawing at you, you were fine with it. Until a mysterious bandana-covered biker walked in and turned everything upside down.
Notes: Where to begin... I wasn't going to post this yet. Honestly, I only have two and a half chapters completed, even though this isn't going to be a big fic... But it's been a long while since I've posted something, and I've missed you guys! I'm also hoping your comments and love will help give me the boost to finish this! *fingers crossed* So far, I'm having a blast writing this. The reader this time is a spicy little nacho, and I can't wait for you guys to read this! I do hope you enjoy it! Please let me know!
“Could you be any more of a fucking klutz?”
Red everywhere.
Your mouth hung open in shock. Big, fat droplets of red slipping down your fingers, catching at your wrist, and dropping unceremoniously onto the pristine kitchen floor.
Your whites: ruined. Your apron: a crime scene.
Your temper… “Of course I fucking can! Just watch me, you old fart!” …gone the moment the jar of homemade tomato sauce slipped out of your fingers, shattering on the counter and spilling onto the floor.
“Don’t you dare,” Zeff, your mentor, held a pointy finger up, his braided moustache bristling as his eyes flashed in anger. “Don’t you fucking dare, you brat.”
“Brat?!” you exclaimed, ears turning red while Patty and Carne muffled their snickers behind their hands. “I’m a fucking adult!” As you needed to constantly remind the man who took you off the streets when you were a starving, angsty teenager.
“Then act like one and clean up the mess you made!” Zeff stamped his wooden leg with a loud clang. “Then you’re washing the dishes for the rest of the night.”
Indignation burned the back of your throat, stung your eyes, and accelerated your heart.
“The fuck I am!” you protested, swallowing a sob. You were the best goddamned cook in the whole goddamned restaurant. “You can’t tell me what to do! You’re not my father!”
Childish. Immature. Downright unreasonable.
He was every bit your father, even if not by blood. But you were too damn proud to reclaim the words. Even when Zeff stumbled back, as if hit by the force of your contempt. Even when Patty and Carne busied themselves watching the pasta water boil.
Even as Zeff retreated into his office and closed the door without another argument.
“Well, fuck.”
-*-
“Will ye be home for Christmas this year?” Kid’s voice could barely be heard over the sound of the pouring rain hitting the aluminum roof Killer was currently sheltering under.
“Aye,” Killer answered, shaking his head when a fat droplet of rain slithered inside the collar of his shirt. It was October, and the weather kept making that fact clearer every day, making it harder for him to stay on the road.
He had been roaming the Sambas Region for two whole months now, and it was time to head home, spend the winter with good friends, and be in good spirits so he could get back on the road again come spring.
After three years of travelling the world without returning home, he was due for a visit.
“I miss ye, dipshit,” Kid taunted with a boisterous laugh, and Killer smirked. Happiness became his friend, and he owed it all to Kid’s current girlfriend. City Girl.
The one Killer had let escape through his fingertips.
“I miss you, too, you big cunt,” Killer’s retort only made Kid cackle louder. Fuck. He would sacrifice his own happiness all over again just to see this much light shining in his best friend’s eyes. “It’s good to hear you laughing. I’m glad things are going well.”
Kid nodded absently, his gaze softening as he shifted on the couch, looking to his left, where his girlfriend headed after saying goodbye to Killer.
“More than well,” he replied, making Killer smile behind his bandana.
It no longer hurt to think about her. He still felt slightly empty, a space in his heart that would never be filled, he supposed, but it was bearable. He’d come to terms with reality and learned to accept it.
His travelling and the distance had helped cement that fact, and Killer had finally let go. He had found true peace on the road and true happiness near the hot flame of the stove, buried in the scent of spices, learning new recipes, and compiling his book.
It was only when he talked to Kid and saw how happy and domestic he was that a pang hit his heart, and loneliness assaulted him. He wanted that—the domesticity, someone to come home to. But then again, he also clamored to be free and on the road. And who would want to settle down with him while not settling down? Because now he couldn’t see himself creating roots in one place. Now that he had tasted true freedom, he had learned that this was what had been missing from his life.
Even if it meant that the space in his heart would always be there, waiting to be filled, never complete.
Killer looked up, reaching one hand outside the safety of his rickety shelter as the rain relented. “Aye mate,” he started, staring at his phone. “The rain’s stopped, finally. I’ll be heading out before it begins pouring again. Talk soon, aye?”
They spent another moment saying goodbye and insulting each other before Killer hopped on his motorcycle and returned to the road. There was only one last place for him to visit before heading back to the Calm Belt.
The Baratie.
-*-
You avoided Zeff’s office like the plague, even though all you wanted to do was storm in there and apologize, but the old man didn’t step out either, so maybe he didn’t really care that you were at odds with one another. Again!
You cleaned the kitchen floor with a vengeance, snapped at Carne because he stepped on the freshly washed floor, and almost bit Patty’s head off for spilling a bit of water on the place you had just cleaned.
Then, when the new waiter—a scrawny girl with pigtails, fidgety and always scared—announced that a customer had spilled sticky juice on the floor, you took it out on her, and she crawled into the bathroom crying.
Again, you felt bad, but your pride stopped you from doing something about it.
And still, when you stepped out the kitchen doors, armed with a mop and a bucket, you could feel all that pent-up anger vibrating underneath your skin, like a smoldering ember waiting to burst into flames.
You were always angry. Always.
“Watch it!” you growled, barely sidestepping out of the way when a massive form almost slammed into you. The water sloshed inside the bucket, turning you off balance, and the mop slipped from your fingers, headed straight for your head.
You closed your eyes waiting for the hit, except… it never landed.
“Careful,” the man said. His voice sounded steady, firm, and gentle. You opened your eyes slowly, narrowing them again when the figure didn’t match the gentleness in the tone.
He was massive. Broad-shouldered, tall, with blonde hair tied up in a man-bun, with some strands covering a set of big blue eyes. A skull bandana covered the lower half of his face, but by the leather of his jacket and the helmet hitched on his forearm, you could tell he was a biker.
His hand was wrapped around the mop stick, keeping it away from your face. When you didn’t say anything, he tried again, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with a soft smile you couldn’t see.
“I think your mop wants to kill you.”
What the fuck?
“My mop is fine! You’re the one standing in front of the kitchen door like a goddamned rock! Move!” you demanded, face flushing from embarrassment.
“Aye, aye, you're right,” he chuckled softly, raising one hand in the air while the other one still held the mop in place. “Are you going to take this, though, or should I just let it hit you in the face?”
You could feel your face burning. With a growl more animal-like than human, you snatched the mop from his hands, grabbing the handle so hard it groaned. “Move!” you yelled again.
The biker raised his other hand and stepped aside.
“Can I sit anywhere?” he asked, that same gentleness in his voice, even after you were a jerk to him.
“Suits me. Do I look like a goddamned waiter?” you replied without looking back, dipping the mop into the water and sloshing it around.
He mumbled something back, but you chose not to pay attention, drowning all sounds with a rambling of curse words inside your mind, a way to try and release all the emotions burning beneath your skin: rage, anger, that fire inside your chest you could only put out when you were cooking.
You had no idea why you were like this—why everything set you off, and why screaming and getting angry seemed like the perfect solution to everything. It just did. That’s why growing up with Zeff had been both a blessing and a curse: you and he were pretty much two faces of the same coin. While you had bonded by learning everything he had to teach you about food, you clashed with everything else.
You still loved him like a parent, and every argument festered inside your chest like a badly-healed wound.
With a sigh, you finished cleaning the sticky juice off the floor, rinsed the mop, and turned around to return to your post as dishwasher, as Zeff ordered. You took one step before you quirked your brow, your upper lip twitching in annoyance.
“Why are you still leaning against the counter like a creep? Didn’t I say you could sit down?” you frowned, raising one finger accusingly at the big biker with the bandana from before.
“Actually, no. You asked if you looked like a goddamned waiter, to which I responded, ‘No, you don’t,’ so I’m still waiting for a waiter to show me to my seat. I don’t want to occupy a reserved spot by mistake.
What the actual fuck?
“Look, man, sit anywhere. Seriously. This is not a Michelin star restaurant, it’s—where the fuck is that damn girl?” you growled, looking around. Was the new waiter still crying in the bathroom?
Zeff was going to kill you.
“For fuck’s sake…” You sighed, rushed inside the kitchen, setting the bucket and mop aside and reaching for a clean apron, letting out a loud curse with every breath. When you entered the restaurant area again, the biker was in the same place, one raised eyebrow being the only indicator of his curiosity. “Follow me.”
You started walking, without even checking if he was following you, and snatched one of the menus from the counter, leading the man towards one of the window seats, out of everyone’s way since he was getting weird stares from the small-minded folks.
“Sit here,” you said through gritted teeth, your eyes darting around looking for Pigtails. If she was back there writing a resignation letter, you were fucked. It would be the third employee leaving because of you.
And that was just this month.
Zeff still held the record, though, so you could throw that in his face.
“Here,” you shoved the menu in front of his face, and he made a garbled sound before grabbing it. “What do you want?” Maybe if you annoyed the hell out of him, he would just leave, and you could look for Pigtails in the bathroom. Would she stay in the restaurant if you threatened her? Or would that just make her bolt faster?
The biker handed you the menu back without opening it, his eyes crinkling again as if he were smiling. “Your choice. I hear everything’s good. I trust your judgement.”
What. The. Fuck.
You stared at him like a deer caught in headlights. Who was this man, and why the hell wasn’t he demanding to see the manager after the way you’ve been treating him?
A slight pang in your chest made you aware of your shame. You shouldn’t really be treating customers like this, but you were never a people person—never good at human interactions. That’s why you loved your job; the only people you were required to interact with were Patty, Carne, and Zeff. Sometimes the waiters, but that was it.
“You shouldn’t,” you said, color flushing your cheeks again. “Trust my judgment, I mean. I—fuck. I’ll bring you something good.” You sighed again, rolling your eyes and returning to the kitchen. You owed him that, at least—a good meal. You wouldn’t get a tip, that was sure, but it might be your way of apologizing for treating him like that.
You started to move away, but then cursed again and returned. “Drink?”
You hated waiting tables.
“Water would be perfect,” he said, leaning back and placing one arm on the back of the booth. You realized that somewhere between the counter and his table, he had removed his jacket and, boy, was he ripped. There was also some scarring coming from his neck, but you didn’t want to stare, so you returned your gaze to his blue eyes. “Or coffee. Whatever is easier for you to get.”
What?
“Have you ever been to a restaurant, buddy?” you said with a sneer. “You’re not supposed to accommodate your wants to my needs. It’s the other way around!” You were still angry, and this man was making you feel both frustrated and flustered. You were used to being yelled at, to be forced to apologize for the inconvenience you caused, and to let all your anger burst out of you with confrontation.
This man was aggravating because he wasn’t fighting back.
“Well, I want to be accommodating. I can see you’re stressed, you’re clearly not a waiter, and maybe all you need is a nice customer instead of an asshole. So bring me water, or coffee, or nothing. I won’t complain. I really just want to try the food,” he said, never taking his gaze off yours. “Please,” he added as an afterthought, as if he’d been anything close to rude.
“You’re unbelievable,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. But when he didn’t say anything, only tilted his head to the side, letting out another one of those soft chuckles, you cursed, took the menu from his hands, and walked away.
“Pigtails is missing,” you announced as soon as you entered the kitchen. “I’m making a customer’s order. Someone needs to go wait tables or drag the girl from the bathroom by her hair.”
Patty and Carne looked at you in disbelief. You weren’t the sous-chef; Patty was, though that position was meant for you, someday, if you learned to behave. Which was ironic as hell because all the cooks in this kitchen had a dirty mouth and a poorer attitude.
When none of them moved, you growled, throwing a pan on top of the burner with much more force than necessary. “Well, chop, chop, gentlemen! I’m supposed to be washing dishes, anyway, so unless you want to explain to your boss why there is no one waiting tables, one of you better get to it!”
Once they started fighting to see who would draw the shorter stick, you concentrated on the food and the pans in front of you, a quiet finality settling in your bones, a soothing rush through your veins.
The world could be falling apart around you, but as long as you were cooking, all was well.
-*-
The dish was perfect.
You always tried to perfect your dishes. That was the truth, but you got bored cooking the same menu over and over again. And even when it changed, Zeff was the one who chose the dishes, and they were usually on rotation.
The simple fact was that you cooked better when you improvised. You didn’t make the rules; it was just how it was.
So the creamy pasta carbonara you whipped up for the biker looked mouth-watering. You wiped your hands on the kitchen towel hanging on your waist and then grated more Parmesan on top of the pasta.
This wasn’t even on the menu. It was your own dish. Why you had decided to cook this one for the insufferable biker, you had no idea.
Before you had the chance to chicken out, you cleaned the plate, filled up a glass of water, and took both items through the kitchen door and into the restaurant floor. Carne had managed to talk to Pigtails (maybe you should learn the girl’s name, if she were to stay), and she was waiting tables. You ignored how she flinched away from you when you passed by her and headed straight to the window booth.
“Here you go. Enjoy,” you said, sliding the plate in front of him. He removed his blue eyes from the window to stare back at yours, and you averted his gaze. Now that you had cooked your anger away, you felt even more ashamed of your attitude before. You were even considering apologizing to Zeff.
But first, you wanted to see what the stranger had to say about your food.
You were expecting him to remove the bandana to eat. You were even willing to admit to yourself how curious you were to see what he was hiding underneath. Was he hideous? Was he missing a nose? Teeth? Had a curly mustache? The possibilities were endless, but he didn’t remove the article.
“Thank you, this looks incredible,” he said, making you grit your teeth. Why was he so damn polite if he looked like he belonged in one of those gangs that housed murderers and drug-dealers?
You fidgeted your hands against your apron, feet shifting restlessly on the floor. You should have left the patron alone to eat, but you didn’t want to. You needed to know what he thought of your new dish.
He seemed to realize you were waiting for him to have a taste, so he lifted his bandana slightly and shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth.
You held your breath as he chewed, watching closely for his reaction. He paused, eyes widening, finding yours, and then he kept chewing again, a soft exhale shivering his bandana as he swallowed.
“This… this is amazing,” he exclaimed. “What did the chef do differently?” the biker asked, using his fork to try to separate the ingredients on his plate. “It’s pancetta…” he seemed to be talking more to himself than to you. He selected a few pieces of food and placed another forkful into his mouth. “Hmm… smoked? Aye, definitely smoked. And fresh linguine, obviously!”
He looked at you, making pleasurable sounds as he chewed and swallowed. You nodded. He was getting the ingredients precisely right. You were flabbergasted. Who was he? He couldn’t be a regular biker…
“The Parmesan is obvious, but there is something else that makes it different… could it be the eggs?”
What?
“What are you?” you asked, breathlessly. The way he was enjoying your food sent shivers down your spine. “Are you a chef?”
He chuckled again. It always sounded soft, like he didn’t want anybody to hear him laugh.
“Not even close. Just an amateur cook. But, holy hell! This is unreal,” he admitted, taking another bite of the food. The plate was almost clean. He kept making the most delightful noises as he ate, and you found yourself flushing again, your heart pounding faster than a hummingbird’s.
You were used to people liking your food. You were good, and you weren’t shy about it. But his praise was unexpected.
You snorted, trying to gain the advantage of the conversation again, chasing any kind of vulnerability away. “Unreal? Have you been starving or something? Maybe you’re just not used to good food?”
The man swallowed the food in his mouth, still humming in delight, and looked at you again. That intensity in his blue eyes burning.
“Oh, I’m plenty used to good food. Trust me. But there’s something exceptional about this dish. I’ve heard a lot about the chef here, Zeff, is it? He’s supposed to be a legend. I can see why.”
Well, that got you riled up again.
“Zeff didn’t cook that.”
“No?” the biker asked, raising one eyebrow. “Did you?” The way the corner of his eyes crinkled made you realize you walked into his trap. You weren’t going to admit to being the cook or give up any secret, but now he knew you had been the one preparing the meal. “What’s the deal with the eggs, then?”
You frowned, your upper lip twitching in annoyance as you crossed your arms defensively over your chest.
“They’re duck eggs.”
His eyes lit up. And you physically took a step back.
“Duck eggs?” he let out a huff of breath, pushing the empty plate away from him and taking a sip of water. “Of course. They’re much richer and creamier. Not to mention the pasta seemed to be darker. That’s very clever of you.”
You felt hotness in your cheeks again, so you took a deep breath, trying to steady all these feelings happening inside of you.
“Yeah. I’m a prodigy,” you deadpanned. He chuckled again. “Fuck,” you said, not able to contain the curse word when the sound he made churned your stomach. “I gotta go. Kitchen is understaffed and—”
He reached, holding your wrist as you were trying to scramble away from the booth. His touch seared your skin, making you gasp and stop dead in your tracks.
“Wait,” he started, scooting over the booth to get closer to you. Too close! “I’m travelling the world on my bike and…” he sighed, his eyes averting yours for a second, “I’m collecting recipes. I want to write a cookbook about my experience. I came here because, as I said, Zeff is a legend, and I would love to talk to him. Do you think he’d like to meet me?”
Zeff. Fucking Zeff, who was absolutely pissed at you, and who you should be apologizing to. He hated it when people came and asked for his recipes. He only mentored two people directly in his life: Sanji and you. He taught recipes to Carne and Patty and any other cook who came and went working at the Baratie, but he was only ever a mentor to both of you. There was no way he would sit and teach this blonde contradiction of a man a few of his recipes.
“I doubt it. He hates people. Hates it even more when people want to pry on his recipes.”
You looked down. He was still holding your wrist.
You flexed your hand, giving it a small tug, but he didn’t relent.
“Please? Just a little word? It’s really important to me, and it’s not like I need to take up much of his time. I just want his permission to use the recipes in my book. Whichever ones he chooses. And I’ll credit him, obviously. This carbonara can be one of them; it’s delicious.”
You tugged your hand harder, brows furrowing in anger again.
“Well, too bad. That’s not even his recipe.” He released you, and you sighed, hiding your arm behind your back because you were sure his fingers had left a burn mark. You were feeling hot all over. “Go home, or wherever the hell you came from. Just leave us alone.”
And you didn’t even give him a chance to say anything else. You turned and walked back into the kitchen.
-*-
You didn’t go back out for the next hour, not until the kitchen shift was over. It was closing time, and Pigtails still had trouble with the register, so you splashed some water on your face, ready to go outside your domain.
You hadn’t been able to concentrate since you handed the biker the pasta dish. He was so… kind and gentle. You were used to people being loud, in your face, and demanding. He was none of that.
He had only asked for something. So softly, so surely. And you had wanted to help. For a split second, you felt you wanted to help him get what he wanted. You just couldn’t explain it. You were not the giving type. You were selfish and ruthless, like the streets taught you to be before Zeff took you in. That never went away.
So why had that feeling changed when that stranger asked for something?
“Get your shit together, for fuck’s sake,” you whispered and pushed the doors open.
All the air was sucked out of your lungs once you looked at the counter and found him sitting there, sipping on a cup of coffee.
“Shit,” you muttered. “We’re closing,” you said louder. He heard you, his head tilting to the side, the corner of his eyes crinkling. Was this man ever mad? Was he always just smiling? God!
“Aye, I know. I wanted to thank you for the food.”
You rolled your eyes to the back of your head, rushing toward the register so you could get your shift over and done with. “You already did that.”
“Aye,” he sighed, running a hand through his bangs. “I guess I wanted to apologize, then.”
What? Was this man for real?
“I didn’t mean to upset you about the recipes. It’s okay…” But the way he said it made it clear that it was not okay. Whatever he was doing here, it was clearly important to him.
You looked straight into his eyes and regretted it immediately. But you didn’t waver. Instead, you swallowed a lump in your throat and tried to smile. The gesture was so foreign, you were sure you were grimacing instead.
“Look, pal, you look… decent. Which is one of the reasons you don’t fit here. But Zeff won’t talk to you. He hates people more than I do. So whatever this ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ thing you're doing is… just drop it. Move on.”
His chuckle this time sounded more like an airy laugh. And that did an even worse number on your stomach, sending all kinds of flutters about.
“Thing is… I’ve been dropping important things to me for quite some time now… and I’ve decided that what I want matters. So I won’t drop it. Not without a fight.”
Your eyebrows furrowed. He kept piercing you with his blue gaze, the intensity of it making you squirm. And then you scoffed, taking away his coffee cup, whether he was finished with it or not.
“That’s empowering shit right there. Good for you, buddy, put it on a shirt or something.” You smirked. “It’s still a no.”
The biker got up, helmet in one hand, leather jacket in the other. Balancing both in one hand, he took out a bill and placed it on the counter. It was a big tip.
“Aye. See you tomorrow, then.”
“You’re wasting your time,” you bristled.
“Don’t mind me, then.”
For fuck’s sake. “Take it somewhere else!” you shouted, but he just waved and pushed the doors to the exit.
“See you tomorrow, Chef!”
“I’m not—” The doors closed behind him, leaving your words unfinished. Fucking hell. “Unbelievable.”
He didn’t even say his name. But one thing you were certain of. He would come back tomorrow. And you already knew he was going to be trouble.
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|Chapter 2|
