Archive of Our Own

Morning light filtered into the bedroom, illuminating the wide back of a man lying in a truly enormous and resplendently furnished bed. A low, contented rumble emitted from the mess of sheets as the man stirred and a set of limbs emerged.

Irwin stretched his large form luxuriously. For all he wasn’t used to this whole…this, he could certainly come to appreciate it. These pillows were a hell of a lot nicer than the ones back home, not to mention the mattress. It was probably the best sleep he had had in a while, even considering the late hour he—or rather, they—had kept last night. Better and better still, there was a beautiful savoury smell in the air, along with the unmistakeable aroma of brewing coffee which served as a siren song to his newly woken and apparently ravenous body.

He went to hook his leg around Ted, but there was no Ted to meet his touch. Irwin lifted himself up on one elbow and, after a moment or two of looking around and getting his bearings, wandered out to find his companion.

As he padded out to the vast main area, Irwin felt oddly self-conscious. He'd never seen this house in the daylight. Attempting to gain his bearings, he squinted around and cursed himself for forgetting his glasses on the bedside table.

Perhaps, Irwin reasoned, he'd run into one of Ted's wait staff. Far from reassuring him, the thought only made him acutely aware that he was wildly under-dressed for such an encounter. Reflexively smoothing his tousled hair and tugging at his crumpled undershirt, Irwin ran though potential scripts. Should he nod, say good morning, make conversation? Try to ignore the fact that he was running around their employer's house in his boxers? C'mon, be normal. It's too early for this shit.

But the house seemed empty. Strange.

Ever so faint, he heard a clatter beyond the far side of the foyer. Following the growing sounds of bustling and—was that sizzling?—Irwin probed his myopic way past the sitting room, smoking room, dining room, powder room. Finally, he headed down an inconspicuous corridor and navigated himself into the kitchen.

To his surprise and delight, he found a Ted-shaped form busy at the stove. The Ted shape was shirtless and humming under his breath, tanned shoulders bobbing gently as he fiddled with various pans and briefly whisked a bowl on the countertop. Irwin's own shoulders unclenched as he felt his uncertainties melt away.

As he made his way to the stove, he saw that Ted’s hair was also unkempt—a truly unusual sight—as Ted turned to Irwin with eyes full of sleepy charm. Irwin’s own slightly bleary eyes must have been playing tricks, because he could swear that Ted was wearing—what was that?

At first glance, he thought Ted was wearing no shirt, but his weak eyes had missed the thin strips of fabric running around the other man’s neck and waist. Irwin grinned as he took in the sight of Ted in a white apron printed up like a tuxedo shirt. Buttons, bowtie, and all. It was about the Teddest thing he had ever seen. A curious feeling welled up in his chest.

"Looking good, chef." Irwin’s arm snaked loosely around Ted’s waist from behind. "What’re you making?"

Ted’s voice, like Irwin’s, was soft and still a bit husky from sleep. "Classic bacon and eggs, slice of French toast, side of fruit... and maybe a bit of trouble."

"I’ll have some of that." He rested in the hollow of his partner's neck, breathing in a rather refined combination of bacon grease and day-old sweat. He lifted his head quizzically for a moment. "Where is everyone, anyway?"

"I sent 'em home. Figured we’d like the house to ourselves."

Irwin’s reply was to allow himself a slow taste of the chef's neck. Ted shuddered, but nudged him away with the spatula. “You’re gonna make me burn this bacon, stud.” Bless the man, he tried so hard to feign his usual ironic detachment. But he couldn't disguise his flushed cheeks.

Ted knew he wasn't fooling anyone, but Irwin let him off the hook anyway. He turned to business. “Well, let me help then. Give me something to do before I pick you up and haul you back upstairs.”

Ted’s heart pounded at the thought. Give it a minute, Teddy. Feed the guy first.

“Why don’t you get some eggs going then, big man.” Ted poured on the sardonic edge, but even with no glasses, Irwin had him read. He simply nodded and set about his task as if he had been around the kitchen for years.

Ted found himself contemplating his partner’s hands as they went about their work. Those hands had laid their rough grasp upon countless opponents, heaving entire men into the air as if they were nothing. Now, those same thick fingers spread an eggshell clean in two with such delicacy, coaxing out the plump yolk one-handed. There was a familiar elegance to his movements, so crisp and precise. Ted wasn't sure why he'd expect any different.

"Maybe I should hire you on my kitchen staff."

Irwin just smiled to himself and kept cracking.

"I mean, clearly you know your way around a stove top..." Ted continued, hoping to wheedle a comment out of his cooking partner.

He was met with a grunt of assent.

“C'mon big man, where'd you learn that move?”

“Well, when I was growing up, I had to cook for myself a lot of the time. Eggs are about the only thing I’m any good at.” Irwin paused to rock the pan with the same dexterity, neatly flipping the eggs over.

Ted nodded, not entirely knowing how to reply. They’d had a few of these awkward moments when it became obvious that they had come from entirely different worlds.

“Well, uh, I always liked hanging around the kitchen when I was a kid. The cooks would make me up a grilled cheese sandwich when I got home from school. Nothing fancy, y'know, just American cheese. I’d eat it right there in the galley and just listen to them bullshitting.” He chuckled. “I'd find any excuse to go down there. Sometimes they’d let me help out with supper before the folks got home. Just cutting potatoes, shredding greens, keeping the sauce moving. I'd...I'd pretend I worked there. Y'know? Just in my head. I'd just chop and stir, and I wouldn't worry about inheriting the family business, prepping for entrance exams, er, getting on the polo team... any of that.”

Ted paused a moment, then turned to Irwin with more urgency in his voice than he perhaps intended. “I am a man of simple tastes. You know that, right?”

Irwin smiled to himself again and flipped the burner off. “I think we’re ready to roll.”

Ted had plates waiting, and before long they were sitting side-by-side at the kitchen island. Ted couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten outside the formal dining room. No settings, no staff, nothing but him and this man and their companionable ease. For all he wasn’t used to this whole…this, he could certainly come to appreciate it.

Once they’d cleared up, as Ted reached into the cupboard to put away the last of the dishes, he felt a tickle at the small of his back. The apron fell away from his waist. He had forgotten he was even wearing the damn thing. He turned his head and leaned into the rough texture of Irwin’s unshaven cheek. A sturdy hand stole up to the nape of his neck and tugged at the fastenings there.

The apron slid down Ted’s chest and lay in a heap on the floor. The sound of bare feet receded down the corridor, past the powder room, dining room, smoking room, sitting room, and up to the bedroom.

The next day, when Ted’s head chef Laurie found the apron lying across the countertop, she huffed in irritation. Leave a mess in my kitchen, will you. Well… your kitchen I guess. That irritation was soon quelled as she picked up the apron and underneath found an envelope with her name written across the flap. Laurie looked at the cheque inside and whistled; double time for the full day. On the back of the envelope, her employer had scrawled a note:

Laurie rubbed her chin and pondered this newfound generosity. A paid day off, once every week. The boss in a great mood. Bonuses for the entire staff. For all she wasn’t used to this whole…this, she could certainly come to appreciate it.