Work Text:
“Where’s my pan, Rory!”
Mick wonders if throwing the pan at the Executive Chef’s head is worth getting fired for. Probably not. Besides, the woman’s not always so prissy.
“Finally,” Marianne sighs, and snatches the item out of Mick’s hands. “And did you clean – ah, great.”
Six months in and his bosses are still surprised when Mick thinks ahead and cleans the knives used for the entrées ‘cause they’ll be needed for the main course again thirty minutes later.
Mick somehow manages to stay sane until the White House chefs finish plating desert and then catalogues the piles and piles of dirty dishes awaiting him while Miranda and the pastry gal cop all the praise from President Joe West and whoever’s with him that warranted the dinner.
An hour later, he’s alone with a sink, his pair of gloves, and a steaming dish washer that’s not as much use as you’d think ‘cause most of the china and equipment’s gotta be cleaned by hand.
It’s not so bad, actually. Sure, at the end of his twelve-hour workday, Mick’s soaked and dirty and exhausted, and no matter what he does he can’t get the smell of dish soap outta his nose. But he’s good at the job. He can take direction, and he’s faster at washing dishes than anyone he’s ever seen. He’s tall enough to reach everything, and broad enough to lift whatever needs lifting. If his boss tells him to take out the trash, he takes out the trash.
Telling people he works at the White House is also fun.
At least till the door opens and someone interrupts his comfortable solitude at one o’clock in the fucking morning.
“Oh, I didn’t expect anyone – I mean, uh, sorry?”
Mick stashes away the rack of clean glasses and turns around. “What d’you want?”
The intruder – college kid, probably, with puffy hair and a lanky frame. His jeans are almost as worn as Mick’s where they’re stuffed into his employee locker.
“I, uh, was looking for a snack?”
“Should’a come to the dinner.”
A startled laugh escapes the guy, but Mick’s got no clue what’s so funny.
He points to the fridge. “You’ll have to make do with what’s in there, kid. Delivery isn’t due for another four hours.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” the man stammers, already crossing the kitchen.
Mick is used to being ignored, so he doesn’t expect any further contact. He starts on the final pile of dishes – the President’s china, to be handled extra carefully for reasons Mick forgot two seconds after Miranda told him – and makes a mental list of what’s left to do before he can head home for the night.
“Are you always here so late?”
Mick starts and barely manages to keep a hold on the plate despite his slippery fingers.
“Sorry!”
“Next time wait till I ain’t holding something breakable, alright?”
That gets a jerky nod. Mick heaves a sigh.
“Either here or over at the mess, wherever they need me more.”
“Are you, like, the super-dishwasher?”
From anyone else the question would’ve probably sounded patronizing as hell, but the kid’s tone is sincere, as far as Mick can tell. Who is he, anyway?
“I’m fast.”
“Cool. Me, too – or well, more out of necessity, really. I’m chronically late to everything so I’ve gotta run everywhere if I don’t want to upset anybody…”
The kid finishes the sandwich he made and Mick starts drying the china.
“Hey, do you believe in soulmates?”
Mick blinks. The other man seems to realize how completely non sequitur that was, and explains.
“Well, see, my professor – he’s also my boss – and our team discovered a particle that suggests there might be people who’re destined to be together, because their matter used to be close together at the start of the universe, so these people are gonna be drawn to each other. At least that’s the theory so far; of course we’ll need to find a way to test our hypothesis and –”
Which is where he loses Mick, mostly ‘cause it’s after one o’clock in the morning and Mick’s been here since noon.
“So, what d’you think?”
“Do I look like I got a degree in astrophysics?”
“Shit, I’m sorry – I prattle when I’m tired, and you don’t care, I’m sorry. Iris says I could do with a muzzle but I doubt the press would find that as funny as she thinks they would, and Joe –”
“Iris West?” Mick interrupts.
Now it’s the kid’s turn to blink. “Yeah, uh, my sister. I’m Barry Allen.”
The First Son’s been talking at Mick for the past fifteen minutes. Huh.
“Mick Rory,” he introduces himself, ‘cause his Ma taught him some manners at least.
It was the right reaction judging by the big smile Barry gives him.
“Nice to meet you! Uh, where do I…?” the kid gestures with the plate that held his sandwich.
When Mick takes the dish off him, their fingers brush, and Barry starts babbling even worse than before. It’s more about where he works, that lab in Central City over on the east coast, which is why his skype schedule’s so weird.
Mick doesn’t think anything of the way Barry’s cheeks go all red until it happens again a night later after Mick hefted some heavy boxes onto a shelf in the pantry some other idiot forgot in that evening’s chaos.
Just for kicks, ‘cause his life’s boring outside the White House, Mick wears a tighter shirt the day after that. It’s damn uncomfortable after a while, but it’s totally worth it to make the President’s son run into the corner of the counter and blush from his hairline to the collar of his worn t-shirt.
Nothing’s ever gonna coming of it, Mick’s perfectly aware, but Barry said he likes that Mick treats him like anyone else, and with anyone else Mick’s a tease sometimes. As soon as summer’s over, the kid’s gonna be back in Central City and Mick’ll be washing dishing on his own again.
Or so he thinks.
*
“Hey Mick!”
Mick chokes on the smoke from his cigarette. “What’re you doin’ here, kid?”
“I saw you from the window,” Barry says, pointing towards one of them on the wall behind them. “I figured I’d say hi.”
“On my cigarette break.”
“Why not?”
Mick’s got no idea where to start – the fact that they’re exposed on two sides, that Barry’s missing a protection detail, that he could get into real trouble for talking to Mick or something – but before he gets a chance to say anything, the staff door bursts open.
Next thing he knows, he’s on the ground with his hands behind his back and painful weight pushing him face-first into the gravel.
“Len, no, stop it! Get off him!”
Len turns out to be SIS agent Leonard Snart and the protection detail Mick thought was missing.
“You guys know he’s been coming to the kitchen for snacks in the middle of the night, right?”
Judging from the way that vein in Snart’s neck throbs, they didn’t.
*
Mick expects that to be the end of it.
He doesn’t expect Barry to show up at the kitchen later anyway; he doesn’t expect Snart to come storming in minutes later. He sure as hell doesn’t expect Snart to stay around, or to end up liking the guy’s snarky comments and attitude.
Barry says they’re bickering like an old married couple. Mick throws a dish towel at the kid. Snart draws his gun, just ‘cause he can.
And what Mick definitely doesn’t expect’s to be invited to a party Barry throws when his best friends from STAR Labs are in town.
Or to land in bed with Barry and Snart.
Mick gets the hell outta dodge before either of them wakes up, but instead of leaving him alone, Barry’s back in the kitchens with his stupid big eyes and coy smiles, and Snart snaps at him to call him Len.
It becomes a thing.
*
During Barry’s last week in DC, he brings up the soulmate particles again, or whatever they’re called.
“You never told me what you think of soulmates.”
Len – who’s still Special Agent Snart on occasion, but only in the bedroom – groans as he snatches the last slice of pizza from the box between them.
“It’s dumb,” Mick grunts. “Takes away people’s free will.”
“But free will has nothing to do with falling in love,” Barry protests. “You can’t chose who you fall for.”
Mick says nothing.
“Hang on – you’ve never been in love, have you?”
Mick doesn’t get why the kid sounds so scandalized.
*
Six years later
“We need more pans, Mr. Rory.”
Mick squints at the main chef of the STAR Labs mess. “I ain’t washing dishes anymore, Charlie.”
“That’s not – I mean in addition. To the ones we have. They’re not enough.”
It’s the first time Charlie runs a kitchen, Mick reminds himself. At least he’s got some experience with managing one, thanks to the promotions he got back in Washington.
“We got enough pans. You just gotta clean them faster.”
“They’re working as quickly as they can, Mr. Rory.”
“Yeah, right…”
When Mick’s done with work for the day, he smells like soap and dirty dishes again, which has Len turn up his nose and Barry starting them off on a trip down memory lane with one hand still on his microscope.
It cheers the kid up, so Mick lets him talk. At least Len’s also still in his work clothes, Mr. Head of STAR Labs Security.
On the backseat of the car, though, Barry slumps against Mick’s side.
“Feelin’ better today?”
Barry shakes his head where it’s resting on Mick’s shoulder.
“There’ll be other particles to find and name after yourself, Barry,” Len says from the driver’s seat.
“I just really wanted a soulmate particle,” Barry whines and Mick pulls him closer towards his body.
Len smiles fondly at the two of them. “You’re the biggest sap I’ve ever met.”
“But we love you anyway, kid,” Mick adds.
Barry makes one of those cooing sounds that’s got everyone doubting the guy’s actually almost thirty. Mick shares a look with Len through the rearview mirror.
“Yeah,” Len agrees. “And isn’t that better than soulmates?”