Chapter Text
It doesn't happen very often, but every now and then, Vincent will down a bottle of the harshest liquor in his cabinet in one night. Vodka, whiskey, gin - he always makes sure to keep at least one bottle of something stronger than wine.
Just in case.
It's been 2 days since the new hire - Rody - starting working at La Gueule de Saturne and already he was getting on Vincent's nerves. On day 1: He was late, addressed Vincent inappropriately and nearly lost customers with his behavior. Day 2 wasn't any better - Rody coming in sopping wet, getting rain water all over the marble tile.
Maybe Vincent was treating him too gently...
What's worse, is that the guy keeps asking questions. About the job (which isn't too bad, suppose it means he wants to learn) and, even worse, about Vincent.
By the time Rody's shift was done, Vince had already made the decision to acquaint himself with the lemon infused whiskey that had been sitting in his cabinet for 2 weeks. Wine simply was not going to be enough to get through to the end of the week, especially if he was taking it from the restaurant's storeroom.
Sitting in a cushioned chair, feet up on the mahogany desk, whiskey glass in hand, Vincent took comfort in being able to get out of his tight chef's uniform and have a break. Every sip of his drink burnt the back of his throat, the lemon stinging his tongue. While he was cursed to never be able to taste anything, Vincent could at least enjoy the sensation.
As Vince sat there, he kept thinking back to Rody. How frustrating his time management was, his lack of common sense, his goofy smile whenever he made a mistake, how stupidly tall he was, the 2 little moles on his left cheek, steel-blue eyes, soft ginger hair, large hands that could probably wrap right around his throat--
Vincent glanced at the clock on the wall - 1.00AM - and then at his now empty glass. The bottle of whiskey sat empty by his feet on the desk. Oh. He should probably go to bed.
He slowly removed himself from the desk, hands catching on it's surface when his vision blurs and the world spins. Vincent manages to stumble his way past the small sitting area, using the couch to guide him. Catching himself on the doorframe for his bedroom, Vince goes to take a step toward the bed, tripping over his own feet and landing with his torso draped over the mattress, knees on the floor. As his head rests between his arms, he realizes just how tired he is, eyes slowly fluttering shut. He'll deal with the consequences tomorrow morning.
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On his 3rd day working for Vincent at La Gueule de Saturne, Rody rushes to work as fast as legs can cycle his bike. He'd stayed up drinking and watching bad TV the night before, meaning he'd gone to bed late and woken up late(r than usual). Dumping his bike in the alley, he rushed inside, half prepared to apologize and for Vince to rip him a new one.
Maybe he'll just fire me on the spot, though it's the first time I've been half an hour late
Though, to his surprise, Vincent isn't waiting for him in the lobby, when he busts in the door. Rody checks the kitchen and, no Vincent. There's not even the scent of smoke, suggesting the head chef is in his office. One of the line cooks seems to notice Rody's sheer confusion and takes pity on him.
"Chef hasn't been down today."
"Huh?"
"He's still upstairs. No one has seen him. He didn't even open up shop.
"Did he die?
The line cook shrugs and goes back to work. Another cook in the back pipes up.
"If you're worried (and feel like risking your life) he left the door to the stairs unlocked."
"Oh, okay... Thanks?"
This was new. Vincent not coming down from his apartment to supervise the kitchen? Something had to have happened.
Rody walked to the back of the kitchen, near the trash. The door to the stairwell was narrow and inconspicuous and very much unlocked. Which is strange because Vincent, who is very pedantic on how things should be done, never leaves that door unlocked, especially during working hours.
Beyond the narrow door, was a narrow flight of stairs (who would've guessed). The stairwell was dark, quite different to the bright restaurant, but it suited Vincent in a way Rody wasn't sure he wanted to explain (even if he could). The dark wood creaked beneath his feet as he made his way upstairs. At the top of the stairs was a door, presumably to Vincent's apartment.
Is it really ok for me to go into my boss' apartment uninvited? Is this breaking and entering? Can't be if he left the door unlocked, also I'm checking to make sure he hasn't died.
Reassured that he was doing something morally correct and not at all illegal, Rody tested the knob of the door.
The door unlatched and swung open silently.
...
Y'know, staring into your boss' quiet and dark apartment is a lot different than gassing yourself up to go in. Stepping into the entrance hallway, Rody took in the decor. A long rug, well worn; deeper into the darkness, there seemed to be a living room of sorts.
"Vince?" Rody cringed at his whisper shout - it sounded way louder than it probably was. "Vincent? Are you alive?"
He felt like a small child sneaking into their parents' bedroom in the early morning trying to wake them up without making them mad. He walked further into the apartment and got a better look at the open concept living space. A small kitchen to the right, clean and sterile - Vince probably treated it like the industrial kitchen downstairs. A small fridge, white countertops, a breakfast bar; clean, unused. A large, round coffee table sat behind the barstools. A loveseat and lounge chair, 2 or 3 throw pillows, newspapers and magazines. The space probably saw a fair amount of use when the chef had days off (Does he have days off? I don't think I've ever seen him take a break). On the left, a large mahogany desk, similar to the one in Vince's office.
"How the fuck did he get that up here?"
Walking over to the desk, Rody inspected the surface. Tax invoices, menu ideas (he thinks, Vincent's handwriting really was shit) and an empty glass bottle. Picking up the bottle, Rody inspected the labeling:
WEBREWS WHISKEY
Absolute Perfection!
This Lemon Infused Whiskey---
And that was everything he needed to know. Rody had very quickly become acquainted to Vincent's vices of cigarettes and wine-- or well, alcohol, apparently. But he'd always thought Vince only ever had 1 or 2 glasses after a rough shift and was smart enough to not drink an entire bottle.
However, it would seem, that's not the case. Now, it was just a case of trying to figure out where, in this mid-sized apartment, the chef was. The kitchen and living room could be ruled out, which left the 2 closed doors in the hallway (Rody definitely didn't miss them when he came in, shut up)
Quietly walking over, Rody tried the door on his left. The door opened to small sink and mirror - the bathroom. Peeking his head around the corner of the wall, the waiter inspected the room. Medicine cabinet hung to the wall in front of the toilet, towel rack sitting just underneath it, a bath-shower combo on the far wall. No Vincent. Rody let his body relax, releasing the breath he had unknowingly been holding. But that means...
Closing the door just as quietly as he had opened it, Rody glanced to the door behind him. Surely, if Vince was awake, he would have come out to see who was rummaging through his shit.
There's no need to be worried, Rody. He's probably got the worst hangover ever... Which means he'll be pissy-er than usual. But that's fine. We can deal with him.
"Vincent?" Rody called out as quietly, as he opened the door to Vincent's bedroom. It was just as dark in here as it was in the rest of the apartment - a nightstand and the head of the (Is that a fucking queen size bed?!) bed visible from where Rody stood in the doorway.
He peaked his head around the corner of the door; a TV on a long TV cabinet, a small plant sitting in the corner, a body draped over the edge of the bed-- a body draped over the edge of the bed?!?!
Rody managed to slap a hand over his mouth and actually take a proper look before nearly letting out the most manly scream to have ever been scrumpt. It was a body, yes, but not a dead body; a very important distinction that Rody was most happy for. If he had broken into (not broken into, entered) his grumpy boss' apartment only to find out he was secretly a murderer, he'd start counting his blessings immediately.
Luckily, that was not the case, as the body draped, quite graciously, over the edge of the - probably expensive - quilt set and part of the floor was none other than that of the dark haired chef himself. Taking a moment to breathe and calm himself from the near on heart attack he just had, Rody took in Vince's appearance. Dressed comfortably in a long sleeved black shirt and long black sweatpants, hair a mess. It was rare to ever see Vincent comfortable. Though with how he was sleeping, that could be questioned. Legs curled beneath him, shoulders and arms laying on the mattress.
Taking a quick glance behind him, Rody cautiously walked over to the sleeping man, bending down slightly to get a look at his face. His skin was pale, unblemished, but his eyebrows weren't furrowed like they always seemed to be whenever Rody bothered Vincent. He looked calm - peaceful. Slowly, Rody reached a hand out to brush Vince's fringe out of his face.
Vincent stirred with a groan, taking a deeper breath. The waiter panicked as he watched Vincent's eyelids flutter. Only after it seemed like Vincent had settled back into a deep sleep, did Rody dare breath again. He glanced between the chef and bed.
Should probably move you on to the bed properly. I don't think I wanna deal with you grumpy, sore and hungover.
Ever so gently, Rody managed to grab Vincent under the arms and pick him up, much like you would a cat. He had only planned to pick him up off the floor and put him on the bed properly, however, in his unconscious state, Vince had other plans. Thick arms wrapped around his neck, hair tickling Rody's nose. He had to move his arms to hug Vincent's torso just so he wouldn't lose hold of him as the chef's legs came to wrap around his lower back, thick thighs loosely hugging the waiter's sides.
So now here he was, holding a sleeping Vincent close to his body, very confused as to what needed to happen next. For a start, he had to move his arms so he could grab ahold of Vincent's thighs because hugging him was not enough not keep him from sliding down Rody's body, potentially putting him (them?) in a very awkward situation. Soft, quiet breaths brushed against the back of his neck as Vincent saw fit to dig his head further into the junction between Rody's neck and shoulder.
"Okay... Now what do I do? I have a man, in my arms, who will probably deck me as soon as he wakes up. Put him on the bed?"
Can't hurt to try
Rody placed one knee on the bed before slowly and carefully bending at the waist to place Vincent in the center of the bed. As he was doing this, however, Rody lost his balance and promptly faceplanted into the soft, clean duvet, landing right on top of the dark haired chef. When the man now beneath his much larger frame groaned, Rody let go of his hold on Vincent's thighs, using his arms to hold his body above Vincent's, leaning back as far as he could with pale arms still holding him close.
"Rody?" Vincent's voice was deeper than usual, still groggy with sleep, throat probably dry from his drinking last night.
"M-Mornin' Vince," Rody looked into the older man's dark eyes, noticing how the chef glanced at the face above him, to the space between their bodies and the suggestive position they were in. Rody started panicking even more. "It-! It's not what it looks like I swear! See, you weren't there when I came in for work today, and one of the cooks mentioned that your apartment door was unlocked, so I decided to come check on you and you were--".
"Cease your babbling, please. I'm fully aware you're not that forward."
The waiter pouted a little at that comment, but there were more pressing matters (if he just ignored the small tent in his--).
"So... Are you gonna get up and supervise the kitchen?"
"No."
"Okay. Does this mean I can go to work?"
"No."
"Huh?! But- then who's gonna--!"
"My head's already pounding, I don't need the addition of letting you serve customers, thank you."
Lifting his legs, Vincent wrapped them back around the ginger's lower back, using what strength he had (which wasn't a lot for so soon after waking up) as leverage to swap their positions. Bringing his arms down to rest between the mattress and Rody's shoulder blades, laying the majority of his weight over the waiter while straddling his waist, head resting between plush pectorals, listening to the heartbeat of the man now beneath him.
Rody panicked (again, for the 4th time this morning) not quite sure what to do with his hands now that the smaller, but surprisingly strong, man had managed to flip them (please don't feel it, please don't feel it, please don't--).
"Calm yourself, I'll sit pay you for today. Consider this a... selfish request of mine. I'd like to sleep off this headache." A yawn overtakes the pale man, who digs himself further into the body beneath him.
"Okay..."
Large, tanned and calloused hands rest over the small of Vincent's back, as a soft snore fills the room. In the distance, the general hustle and bustle of La Gueule De Saturne can be heard. Looking back to the small smile on the chef's face, Rody decides to let himself relax under Vincent, eyes slipping closed.
What's a few more hours of sleep?