I’m having the time of my life reading everything you share about The Missing and its background, so I just wanted to let you know that the Department of Shy Boy Mads Lauritzen Studies is eternally grateful for every little piece of information - especially that Easter egg about Mads and Kuno. I mean, can you imagine Kuno throwing Mads around like a ragdoll? We already know what that big man can do to Ghita. Crazy.
Anyway, I’ll definitely be back with more questions, but since you asked, I thought I’d shyly share a few of my own thoughts. I’m currently stuck at home with my newborn, so I figured… why not? Let’s fool around a little and fill in some of the gaps. Just to be clear, I absolutely don’t expect you to confirm any of this.
Why did Mads want to kiss Ghita after accusing her of being the mole?
I think he panicked. He switched into investigator mode, convinced himself he was doing the right thing, and then suddenly saw that she was genuinely hurt and furious. Maybe he expected her to defend herself or try to convince him, but instead Ghita basically went, “Fuck this guy.” (And then later… “I kind of want to fuck this guy.” lol)
Since he was already hanging by a thread after everything that had happened (like forced proximity stuff and Ghita nearly dying), I think something in him simply snapped. You kind of hinted at it in his character description, and I completely agree with the idea that offering her his trust is almost like giving her a gift - choosing vulnerability on purpose. And maybe there was also a part of him thinking, “Fuck this case. Everything is so unbelievably messed up, and it’s messing with both of our heads.”
The first date and the first “I love you.”
This one is incredibly difficult for me because I can’t quite place Mads anywhere. I don’t think he invited her straight to his place because that would have implied something more intimate from the beginning of them being officially dating. Instead, I imagine him choosing a small, cozy, quiet restaurant with wooden furniture, dim lighting, and a classic menu, the kind of place he occasionally visits alone because it feels familiar and comfortable. I think he was incredibly nervous. They had already slept together, yet somehow they were going back to the awkward “first steps” stage of a relationship. But (un)fortunately for him, Ghita loves teasing him, so instead of an unbearably awkward evening, they end up having a long conversation about books, her university work, his undercover assignments, and everything in between.They only end up drinking whiskey at his apartment because Ghita is the one who suggests it.
As for the first “I love you,” I imagine it happening after sex, during aftercare. Mads had already caught himself calling her “darling” a few times without even thinking about it, and I think that’s when he realized he was already hopelessly in love with her. So he was the first one to say it.
A few additional headcanons that somehow took over my brain:
At some point, Mads realizes he has an absurd number of unused vacation days because he never takes time off. So they start traveling. I think Greece would be their first destination because Ghita has never been there, and I can absolutely picture Mads enjoying sailing (you know… stoically watching the sea). Then something unexpected happens: Mads becomes the one planning their next destinations. He discovers that he genuinely enjoys wandering through tiny local museums and spending slow mornings reading in bed in some cute little hotel.
Saga and Mads never become especially talkative, but after what feels like their hundredth gathering with Ghita’s friends, Saga casually mentions a book from her book club (not horny book club, the other one). Mads asks her something about the plot because he has already read it. From that moment on, they accidentally create a silent little book club of their own. They don’t lend each other books - that privilege belongs exclusively to Ghita, but whenever they meet, they have one more thing to quietly discuss.
Mads never mentions it to Ghita, but he secretly starts reading books about schizophrenia and how to recognize the earliest warning signs. He simply wants to understand her better. Eventually, Ghita finds one of the books. At first she is pissed off, but then she realizes he bought it because he wanted to know how to support her if she ever needed it.
Mads isn’t really a gift-giving person, but he always remembers her favorite wine and snacks (I refuse to believe Ghita isn’t a wine-and-cheese kind of girl). He quietly keeps them stocked at his apartment so that whenever she comes over, everything she likes is already there without him ever making a big deal out of it.
Ten years after Greenland, when they’re already married, Ghita is invited back to a university as a guest lecturer to talk about the O case and everything surrounding it. The students are fascinated. The case was horrific, famous, and she experienced it firsthand. She talks about the investigation, presents psychological profiles, tells stories from the case. One day Mads quietly attends one of her lectures. Somewhere in the background and he reflects on all the crazy stuff that happened, but also he feels incredibly proud of his reckless, beautiful, infuriating wife.
Thanks! And sorry - I didn’t expect this to turn into such a long message! 😅
First of all - congrats on your baby!
Secondly - why shy????? I read your ideas and I couldn't stop smiling - they're wonderful! I feel like you really understood the characters and very much captured their dynamic in your headcanons.
Everyone should see these, as they are brilliant!
I came from the fandom myself so fanfiction is like..... crack to me. I love to toy around with scenarios that I think should've happened and explore closed-door situations, fill in the blanks as you say. I still try to keep up with books both in Romance Club and other apps, and sometimes an author will touch upon something inconsequential and my brain just starts firing 'what if...!' 'what if...!' 'what if...!' - I love that! It's an incredible feeling.
I know not everyone is like this but then I really hope we as fandom support those who are - and I'm not talking about The Missing, specifically, I'm saying support your mutuals who have ideas and encourage them to bring them to life. It doesn't matter if it's the most navel-gazing, self-indulgent crack ship in the world, or just 100 words describing a kiss that never happened - having an idea and being creative, even chaotically, is good for your heart and your brain and your soul.
Now, I won't make this a habit AT ALL, for all we know, this will be a one time thing, but your first date scenario is super cute and I am really grateful that you took the time to write down your own ideas in such detail, so I wrote you a tiny tiny fic to accompany the date scenario.
Please enjoy when you need a short break from mommy business 😊
(not edited and not canon, just a blablabla)
Ghita held her breath as she noticed the sign of the restaurant in the distance and walked purposefully towards it. His choice, a small Thai-fusion place at an obscure location, obviously not meant for tourists or casual diners. The temperature had dropped again, the winter stubbornly refusing to loosen its grip. She was in heels and a long, strategically tight dress, maroon-coloured and thin enough to match a thick cardigan without giving her the silhouette of a knitted ball. She planned to take the cardigan off if the restaurant was warm enough, but then again, if they sat close to the door…
“Shit…” she mumbled as the sidewalk merged into cobblestone. The shoes were brand new and expensive and wouldn’t survive a slip. She’d be late if she tried walking around the block to the other side. These bloody old side streets, sure it’s cute in the summer, but when it’s zero degrees, icy, drab and—
“Blom?”
The sound of her name in the quiet darkness made her jump and then whip around in alarm, ready to throw hands at whomever.
“Lauritzen?!” her voice echoed in the empty street, a stress on the ‘L’ that for some reason made her cheeks flush.
“I was trying— I didn’t mean— Why are you skulking around in the darkness, you told me to meet you at the restaurant!”
She said this accusingly, narrowing her eyes. The senior PA’s mouth fell open a fraction as he tried to collect himself enough to give a coherent answer. She realised she must’ve surprised him too.
“I didn’t want to get there too early. In case…” he trailed off. Too honest. In case she changed her mind and stayed away? Ghita softened her expression and swallowed hard before replying: “Right, okay, well… sorry for being jumpy. I didn’t—”
“I didn’t mean to scare you—” he interjected over her “—mean to freak out…”
A pause. They both smiled at the other. This is how it's gonna be, isn't it? Delicious.
“Well…” Lauritzen stepped closer, his hands remaining in his pockets, “we can walk there together.”
Unconsciously, Ghita bit softly into her lower lip as his towering figure came closer. She could see the colour of his shirt poking out of the top of his jacket. Not grey. And he was freshly shaven with a dash of cologne. They’d evidently both made an effort.
“Yes, but I have a small issue…” She nodded towards the cobblestone. “It’s hard to walk across that in these shoes. I have to walk around the block. Maybe you should just go ahead?”
Mads looked towards the restaurant and then down at Ghita’s footwear. He looked like he was calculating something.
“Take my arm?”
He caught her eyes and held them steadily. Any other person would’ve heard this as a command, a confident request made by a man to a woman in the spirit of gentlemanly behavior. But in the seconds of silence, Ghita recognised the plea in his voice. The subtle lowering of his chin to his chest. The words ‘you don’t have to touch me if you don’t want to’ already primed to cover up the 'please please please, let me serve you'.
She smiled as she put him out of his misery.
“Yes, thank you.”
He lifted his elbow and she linked her hand through the gap. Her fingers splayed and felt his upper-arm tighten. Would she see those arms tighten later tonight? God, she hoped so…
“I’m glad we’re doing this.”
Ghita looked up and flashed a shy smile before quickly averting her gaze. What was wrong with her? She was suddenly feeling very warm.
“Me too.”
Mads cleared his throat. She couldn’t look back up at him out of acute fear of letting out an embarrassing schoolgirl giggle if their eyes met, but sensed him pull her closer, her hip nudging his, the side of her breast indecently pressing against his arm. Their bodies calling to each other, attraction pulling them together.
Kieran helps a sick Micah and in doing so he begins to clean the trailer more so the two have more living space while Micah faces a dilemma with mixed feelings about a certain individual he calls friend.
Fanfic named by the lovely @g30
Firstly, I just want to thank my dear friend Sunny. Without her NONE of this would even be possible, she is the mastermind behind a large portion of every scenario this fic has to offer and if wasn't for her help then Bell's Kitchen just couldn't be as good, I hope you especially enjoy this one my dear as this is especially dedicated to you <3 check her out here at @sunnysratcollection
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
18 +
London, two years before -
Sunday was the quietest night at The Close, if not exactly quiet.
The English, even Londoners who liked to see themselves as something apart from the rest of the country - which Brede as a New Orleanian understood and respected - were still generally devoted to their time honored Sunday luncheon, with roast and all of the trimmings. As a result, the dinner hour was less urgent than most of the rest of the week, sliding comfortably into Monday, on which they were closed.
Once Roper had brought up the idea to Okoro that they might “do a Sunday roast,” at least one weekend a month. “Nothing wrong with a little tradition, is there, old man?” he said, with a hearty slap to the chef’s shoulder.
That had been before Brede’s time, but she could picture it in her head. One of the commis had said that somehow the dining room had at once been cold enough to skate across and at the same time he was certain several candles had melted to puddles, on the alternating currents of Okoro’s icy and burning rage.
The silence had been terrifying.
“Well, something to consider…” Roper had said, not intimidated, but knowing it wasn’t a fight worth having with his prize genius.
Brede smiled at the memory of that story as she shelved wine glasses. Richard Roper was exactly the kind of arrogant, old money, blue-blooded privileged male that was everything she hated, yet there was no doubt that he had balls of purest titanium.
Roper used that relative Sunday quiet to host guests that he was looking to do business with so that he could show off and yet still be able to have an actual conversation. As usual, his was the last table, the Close having technically been shut for a half-hour.
Looking over at where Roper sat with Jed and their guests for the night - a cold-eyed Brazilian coffee magnet and a Viennese pâtissière who looked like a cheerleader - and their significant others, she caught his nod and pulled out the bottle of late bottled vintage port that he had told her to have ready, lightly chilled and perfect. He was in full-court press mode, working with a casual air that hid his intensity. There was a project Roper had in mind that he wanted both of them in on and as ever, he wasn’t interested in taking no for an answer.
Bringing the bottle to the table, along with five Waterford dessert glasses - the patissier’s girlfriend only drank sparkling water - at the same time that the Sous Chef came from the back with the servers who were dropping individual miniature pistachio cakes, with a dot of orange-scented crème fraiche and a dusting of basil powder.
Daniel had nothing but scorn for working the floor, the head of pastry was a painfully shy Jamaican, and Corky could be… off-putting if he was in the wrong mood, and lately that was more often than not. Roper had been more than happy to have the handsome, terribly English, beautifully spoken Pine take over the role, and he had added the perfect touch of understated dignity to the evening.
With the same professional smile he had worn all night, slight yet warm, the Sous Chef gave a small nod as the plates were placed, his long, red knuckled hands gently folded at chest level as gave the suggestion of eye contact with each guest. “Ladies, Gentlemen, this evening Chef Brown is offering a simple…”
Brede didn’t bother to listen as she followed the servers, filling each small glass, with a slight twist at the end to be sure no drip touched the linen.
He would describe the food perfectly, without over-explaining, his whites gleaming under the subtle lighting, his long legs together, so he looked like a very efficient exclamation point, except he would never make an exclamatory kind of fuss.
The Brazilian, who was clearly nearing the end of his interest in his mistress, would try to catch The Sous’s eye and fail to get more than a reflection and then deflection from him. Jed, who obviously had the start of a crush on him, would refuse to look at him. Roper would have a proud, almost paternal smile, as if he had made Pine from an online, ‘perfect Englishman’ kit and was appreciative of his own talents.
Brede and the Sous Chef would ignore each other, though not in a way that would ruffle the smooth perfection of the evening.
That was how she tended to think of him. The Sous Chef. All capitals. Not Pine, or Jonathan. He was the job, calm, unemotional, than that cool, polite smile and an occasional, clever response to a joke in the kitchen aside. The rest of the crew loved him. He spoke several of their first languages, was exacting without being a bully, was always willing to lend a hand at any station, and was able to temper Daniel even at his most terrifying.
Even Corky, who was jealous of his own relationship with Roper while at the same time clearly wanting to put an end to it while he could leave on his own terms, found him too good to be true.
Yet like Brede, he didn’t trust Pine farther than either of them could throw him onto that perfect, perfect ass of his.
After finishing the pour and leaving the bottle near Roper’s elbow and getting one those same, proud smiles of her own, she returned to the bar to finish restocking glasses and disposing of garnishes that wouldn’t keep until Tuesday when The Close reopened. The deep cleaning crew came in Mondays and she liked to have as much put out of their way as possible.
Around midnight Roper’s party broke up. Jed came over and leaned on the bar, loose-limbed and feigning exhaustion, begging for a last espresso, “We’re stopping to pick up our bags and then driving to Surrey tonight and I am going to fall asleep in the car after that port,” she said, with a hopeful smile.
Jed was a golden goddess, a spoiled toy, and despite some darkness in her past, painfully naïve and young. For all that, Brede couldn’t help but like her. Maybe because they were both considered Roper’s American girls, or because she never played at being superior to the staff, or anyone else, or maybe because she clearly needed a friend who wasn’t part of Roper’s inner circle of old money who she had less than nothing in common with who she yet had to play Princess Consort over.
With a nod, Brede turned to the state-of-the-art espresso maker that had been purchased recently and she refused to let anyone else touch. Over the subtle purr of its pressure, closer to the rumble of a sports car than anything else, she could hear that Roper and The Sous had joined Jed, though she could only make out part of the conversation. Something about an upcoming dinner party Roper was having at home, and that it was arranged for Pine to come and do the cooking there.
Brede was certain Roper had noticed Jed’s crush and was indulging it for the meantime, but she wasn’t so certain he had noticed the look Pine had sometimes while looking at Jed in turn. It was fleeting, unless someone was maybe making a point of noticing.
A look that was a little lust, a little nausea, and a little sadness.
And a lot confusing.
“Brede, Brede,” Roper made an expansive gesture for her to join them, “how would you like to make some more of my money? Having a little soiree. End of next month, could use a proper bartender. I’ll get Corky to jigger the schedule and you can pocket an extra few hundred pounds for pouring whatever wine is fashionable that week and making a few pink gins or whatever else people want. What do you say?”
No matter how much money was on the table, Brede hated working those kinds of parties. The guests were invariably rude because they didn’t have to pay for the drinks, it was impossible to take a piss break, and no matter what, you always ran out of something. She knew that Roper would not hold it against her if she didn’t do it. The man had access to plenty of help.
Then she noticed The Sous Chef. Though he was giving his professional smile she could feel it coming off him. Hot, stormy, uncomfortable. He didn’t want her there for some reason.
She turned back to Roper, giving him her best grin.
“I say, how many hundreds are few?”
Roper and Jed laughed.
Pine gave her a small, professional nod. He had gone just a little white around his lips, under his every so slightly sun damaged skin. He really didn’t want her there.
Brede resisted having a good cackle in his handsome face.
“Mother-Fucking Son of a Bitch!”
Pine started, the very American cursing having pulled him out of his woolgathering. Putting down the biro he had been fiddling with rather than using it to fill out the kitchen daybook that Daniel insisted on having on paper rather than electronically, he pushed away from the desk. He had thought he was the last one in the building and was relieved the voice was unmistakable.
In the hallway that stretched from the kitchen and locker room to the back door, Jonathan saw the bartender standing, hands on her hips, scowling down at two wooden wine crates. He had been certain he had seen her leaving out of the front earlier.
“Miss Herbert, is something the matter? I thought you had gone for the night.”
“I had, but I forgot something. I got back in as the plongeurs were heading out,” she didn’t look up, and actually seemed to be contemplating kicking one of the crates.
Pine stilled his face, rather than smiling as he always wanted to at her peculiar French pronunciations. They weren’t wrong, just odd, and rather charming if he were being honest with himself, but he sensed she wouldn’t take it right if he were to say that.
He had no business finding anyone charming.
Especially someone who, for all of the brash, American swagger was more perceptive than he was comfortable with. Pine had been prepared for Corky to be his main threat, but there was a sharpness to Miss Herbert’s gaze, and a closeness between her and Roper, that he meant he had to step carefully around her as well.
“Did you trip over one of the crates?”
“What?” Now she scowled up at him, “No. Why would you think that? I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
Not sure what his glasses had to do with anything, he tried a smile, “Well, the way you are looking at those crates, it seems personal, so I thought perhaps they attacked you.”
“No. The crates are innocent victims of Tabby’s lazy ass. He and that other porter with the cat food name were supposed to take these to the cellar. They’ve been here since Friday. Part of that deal Corky made with that new booze distributor. Fuck,” she sounded weary. Dropping her large, rather worn tote and shrugging out of her coat, she bent and picked up one of them before he could stop her. “You know that if these stay here the deep cleaners are gonna end up breaking at least three of the bottles bringing their shit in and out. Which was why I told him he had to do it before tonight.”
“I can take them down,” he offered, trying to be gentlemanly, trying not to stare at where her black shirt had pulled out of the waist of her trousers, showing a deeply troubling line of golden skin.
She nodded down at the remaining crate, clearly not realising he would take them both. “Grab that one.”
Shouldering the remaining crate, Jonathan used his free hand to open the door to the cellar and let her proceed him.
“Why didn’t Serafin see to this?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. The Close’s sommelier was talented and charming, and deeply, deeply lazy. The only reason Corky hadn’t fired him was he had a group of wealthy, titled women who followed him from restaurant to restaurant and he wasn’t willing to lose that trade.
“Because he’s fucking Serafin and he kept goddamned forgetting.”
The steep stairs led into the dark, cool, brick-lined basement. At one point long ago this had probably been the street, he thought to himself, before this part of the city was realigned and the roads widened.
Using her hip to keep the crate against the wall, she punched in her code for the cellar. Only a few staff members had regular access to it, and each had their own code. The Close had an excellent list, of course, as well as a few rare and insanely valuable bottles. A few Domaine Georges & Christophe Roumier Musigny Grand Crus, some of the harder to get Penfolds, Petrius and Le Pin Pomerols, there was even a Henri Jayer, Vosne-Romanée Cros Parantoux 1999 in there somewhere, and so on. Wine theft was easy, lucrative, common, and at times simply stupid, as when Jonathan had been working at an elegant inn and the owner’s stepson nabbed a bottle to share with his friends on the beach, not knowing he had taken a Domaine Dujac worth about 900.00 US.
That had been an exciting night.
Corky, who respected a good thief and hated a poor one, was forever fiddling with the security measures on the restaurant, particularly on the celler. Though it appeared very traditional - more brickwork, wooden shelves, a few barrels of the wines they commissioned directly - behind that, the air temperature and humidity and the lock system were very high tech indeed.
They’d had someone out as recently as Saturday to add some new innovation that would be explained at the staff meeting Tuesday.
When the door opened the lights went on automatically. They were in amber fixtures, the dim light was better for the wine, and the punts of some of the bottles gleamed gently. It was a beautiful space.
Putting down the crate on one of the large tables they used when they had tasting events, Miss Herbert rubbed her hands now had deep red lines where the wood had bitten into them. “I’d put them away, but I know fuck all about wine, other than what glass to put what in.”
“I think,” Jonathan carefully put his crate beside hers, close enough to brush, “that we can allow Serafin do some of his own work.”
“Works for me.”
She turned to walk out, and Jonathan found that they were much closer than he thought.
They were also almost close to brushing. Stopping before she stepped into him, she looked up. The top of her head was just under his chin, and her curls tickled him. With her that close Jonathan could see her eyes were a dark, vast brown, rather than black as he had though. Her lips, when not in a line of disapproval, but rather slightly open in surprise were full and biteable.
It had been more than a little while since Jonathan had been with a woman. Heartache, and an unwillingness to engage in any manner of relationship after Samara, had been lust-killing to the point of his rarely even needing to satisfy himself. A banging one out in a rather workman-like way once a week in the shower kept his head on straight and that was good enough.
However, since being back in London, he had found that his lack of libido was not as permanent as he at first hoped and then later feared.
For a short time, he had found himself embarrassed whenever Roper’s girlfriend Jed came into the Close. She was a knockout, apparently didn’t own any undergarments, and was one of the first women he had ever seen tall enough that he would have been able to fuck her against a wall without having to worry about dropping her.
Heady stuff indeed.
However, his plans for her boyfriend meant he felt more than a little guilt about the idea of seducing her, even if she gave every indication she would be open to seduction. Assuming he could even do such a thing. Jonathan had never thought of himself as the Great Lover type.
Additionally, even as he found himself wondering what it would feel like to have a wallbanger with someone the same height as himself, Jonathan found himself thinking about Jed less and less and thinking of Roper’s other American girl more and more.
The bartender. Miss Herbert. Brede.
She had never said, “Call me Brede,” so even in his head he didn’t allow himself the liberty.
He did, however, when having his now more than once weekly wank, find himself being much, much ruder to her in his thoughts. Though calling her ‘Miss Herbert’ all the while, no matter how… kinky… things might get in his head.
Christ, he was pitiful.
“Do you mind?” she asked, when it dawned on him he was blocking.
“Right, sorry,” Pine stepped back, and she shook her head.
“What are you still doing here, by the w-”
She stopped abruptly, her hand on the door handle, which was not budging. With a frown, she pulled again.
Nothing.
Then she pushed.
“Is it stuck?” he asked.
“No, it’s like it’s locked.” Kneeling down, which made Jonathan’s already nosey cock become positively meddlesome, she squinted to look into the minute space between the door frame and the door itself. “It is fucking locked.”
She sat down on the ground, looking defeated. “Do you want to try?”
“I am confident in your ability to work a door properly, as well as being able to ascertain if one is locked,” he said, trying to remain calm. He was not at his best in confined spaces. Especially underground ones.
Looking up at him, her nose wrinkled, “You entirely sure you’re a man?” Then she shook her head, “Fucking Corky and his improvements! You know this is from that.”
“Fortunately there is mobile service down here,” Pine said, reaching down to give her a hand up. “Roper refuses to ever be out of touch.”
For a second she hesitated, then slipped her hand into his. Like him, her hands were calloused and strong, with a few scars on the fingers. From years of cutting lemons and limes no doubt. The touch of her hand gave him a schoolboy’s thrill - a schoolboy from the Victorian era, he amended with a mental eye roll, probably the last schoolboy who had thrilled to holding hands.
The strength and warmth of her grip would be adding a touch of authenticity to his shower sessions, going forward.
“CHRIST, man, get your head out of your pants,” he thought.
They stood and stared at each other for a bit. Until it got weird. Then he cleared his throat, “I would suggest calling Corky, rather than Daniel. He will give us both a good bollocking over this for a week or two but it will still be less painful than wh-”
“I don’t have my phone.”
“What?”
“It’s upstairs, in my bag.”
“I see.”
They stood there a while longer.
“I don’t have my mobile, either.”
“What?”
“I left it in the office.”
“Oh.”
Then the lights went out.
“Shit!”
“Fuck me.”
“Maybe when we get out,” was muttered.
“What?”
New Orleans -
Corky was stronger than he looked, but not taller, so wrestling Jonathan Pine’s long, surprisingly heavy, and all but useless self into his car whilst Brede stood, arms crossed in the doorway of the Avenue Pub, glaring at both of them, was a bit of a trick.
“Why, exactly, am I the one shifting him? I don’t recall being in charge of a chef’s daycare,” he had asked, as the two of them got Pine to his feet long enough to walk out of the French doors on mostly his own steam. It had been rather a trick, as Jonathan’s endless legs seemed to suddenly have be as numerous as an octopus’s and have more than the normal number of joints.
He did manage to gather those outlandish pins under himself long enough to offer Brede a formal bow, saying “My apologies to the publican,” with just a little, decorative slurring.
“Sure,” had been her only response, her face blandly annoyed, which took his legs back out and almost sent him tumbling into the street.
Though Corky did note Brede flinched when he mostly accidentally banged Pine’s noggin on the door.
Once in the backseat, Pine revived long enough to note he was no longer on the floor of the pub, that Corky was not Brede, and to assure him that he would not be vomiting all over his new Mercedes. A promise which he kept.
Of course, thought Corky, even pissed to insensibility Pine was more of a gentleman than he was. Had their places been reversed he would have made a point of painting the leather seats in a dozen shades of sick as revenge for anyone meddling in his love life.
Not normally a romantic even when it came to his own relationship, Corky had found himself surprised to have a soft spot for the gorgeous Pine and cheeky Brede ever since he’d rescued them from the Cast Close’s cellar and he had found them sitting asleep, her head on his shoulder, holding hands.
Looking back at the sprawled chef, his tie loose, his dark gold hair catching the light of the early sun, Corky sighed. “Serves me right for playing cupid, old thing, if you do come up sickish.”
“Brede,” Pine mumbled, covering his closed eyes with a forearm. “She’s never goin’ to forgive.”
“Have you perhaps considered apologizing again, old thing? Not that that is what I would do, of course, but you are made of finer stuff than I.”
But Pine started to snore. Very softly. Like a gentleman.
KATE i'm so happy you're writing more cashton i've been needing more content since i only wanna talk to you ended!!!!! what is this one about?
sdjfjisdods im so happy ur excited !!! this one is gonna just be a big ass one shot and its a restaurant au and is uhhhhh super angsty and dark so if u loved iowtty for the fluff uhhhh prepare urself this is very different!!!
this is the lil synopsis i have rn that’ll go after the excerpt on ao3 its subject to change:
or calum’s a waiter, ashton’s a chef; both have a hopeless crush, one has a dark secret that could ruin it all
So I took a stab at a very quick opening to that restaurant AU. I needed to write it down so it would stop trying to take over my one remaining brain cell.
--
“We’ve got to change up this menu.” Robin tramps through the kitchen. leaving muddy footprints and an annoyed Much in his wake. He’s wearing a thunderous expression Allan recognizes as trouble.
“So what happened now?”
“Nothing. Everything.” He drops into a chair by the backdoor, and lights up a cigarette. Robin’s been trying to quit for years (smoking being a terrible thing for a chef’s palate, don’t you know), but sometimes he just needs to take the edge off. “Have you seen that—that monstrosity—across the street?”
Allan ducks his head and pretends to be curious. The truth is everyone has seen it, everyone knows it. The entire shop front across the street has been taken over by a new restaurant, its signage so industrially white and perfect that it nearly blinds you if you look at it too long.
“I don’t know, mate. Just another fancy bistro. Be out of business in three months. Four tops.” He shrugs and tries to ignore that worrying kernel of anxiety in his stomach.
“That’s just it. It’s not just another bistro. It’s one of those chain things. And get this. It’s called ‘L’Eaterie.'” He scoffs. “Have you ever heard of anything so bloody pretentious?”
“So, competition then? Nothing we can’t handle, I’m sure.”
Robin bounds out of his chair and claps Much on the shoulder. “You’re right. I’ve got a plan.”
Much groans but elbows Allan in the ribs before he can complain. “What sort of plan?”
