Work Text:
The familiar hustle and bustle of the New York kitchen, in which you worked, seemed to fade out into an underwater muffle as soon as you lifted your head to find her standing there. Monica Geller, her back turned to you as she read the board, her short, brown hair in that cute, little ponytail, with a hand to her head as she mentally sorted out which jobs to do when. You couldn’t help but admire; she was… different. Different from you, different from anyone you’ve met - it was probably the tax bracket. Just from the way that she held herself, it was clear that she came from a family of wealth. Nice, clean house, big yard, summer vacations, nuclear family, a good education, and opportunities you could only dream of having. And yet, you couldn’t tell if you wanted her life, or if you wanted her.
“Y/l/n, you’re overworking the dough! Where’s your head at?” A shout from the other side of the room causes you to instantly stop what you’re doing and for your cheeks to warm. “Everyone, let’s keep at it, we can’t have any more mistakes today, we’re on a very tight schedule!”
Shit.
“Sorry, chef, it won’t happen again, chef!” You apologise and shamefully bin the pasta dough that you were just kneading. Your eyes lift to find hers, her gaze hard, and you avert your gaze to the ingredients. Picking up the pace, tenfold, you quickly put together a second batch. No more mistakes; no more thinking, you had your jobs and you needed to get them done.
Monica’s never been mean, but she’s never been exactly nice. Always short with you, always dismissive, it was obvious that she didn’t want to know you; something you couldn’t quite understand as one of the very few female chefs in the kitchen. It’s not that she was closed off, she was quite the opposite with her bubbly antics and rambling and her sparkling eyes and wide smile. You wanted to get to know her, to become friends, and you’ve tried. Always saying hello, always trying to have a conversation, but no matter how many times you did, you always received the same, old response.
You wonder if you’ve done something to cause this kind of reaction. She’s always been like this with you. Maybe, not at the beginning, the very beginning. She had shook your hand just as she had everyone else’s, greeted your smile with her own, she had introduced herself and then you did the same. Was it you? Your voice? The way you said things? Okay, maybe you weren’t as proper as she was and, if you were right, she could be a little prejudiced towards you due to her upbringing. Or maybe you were wrong and being prejudiced all the same. If she didn’t want to be friends, then so be it, you could still be nice.
That was a few months ago and since then, you weren’t quite sure exactly when you had become bitter. Your admiration for the woman had soon spoiled and turned into resentment. You tried to still be kind, you think, it was hard to think back. You were most definitely not the same warm person you were when you started this job. And the changes probably weren’t because of Monica, it was tough work and oftentimes both mentally and physically draining.
The weather was much colder now, city streets covered in a slippery sheet of ice topped with a light dusting of snow which quickly became a dirty slush under the heavy footfall. It was nearly the New Year, which meant that the restaurant was going to be especially busy. New, exclusive menu for the doting couples of New York. One that you all had to quickly memorise, and perfect, in a very short period of time, all for one night.
You lightly tapped your foot nervously against the floor as you stood amongst your peers, all intently listening to the plan for the week coming and the new menu. Outside, it was early evening - though it looked much later - and a gusty wind rattled dry leaves against the kitchen window. The feeling of everyone’s stress was tangible, the rubbing of hands, the picking of fingers and the wrinkle in everyone’s brow was evident. A luxurious menu only pleased the customers, every person in staff, no matter if it were bar, house or kitchen, was filled with dread. But you’d all make it through, with a smile on your face after the last dish is served and the rush of adrenaline causes the tips of your fingers to tingle and the fluttering of your heart. It was something you were made for and busy nights only reminded you exactly why you had pursued this career.
“New Year's Eve, I need Y/l/n to join Geller on the first prep shift as Mack has called in sick…” His words tumbled into nothingness. You couldn’t believe your luck, that was going to be hours, hours spent with someone you could barely stand to be in the same room as, and now you had to actively work with her? It also meant that you wouldn’t be on the New Year’s shift. Damn you Mack, you mentally cursed with an imaginary shake of your fist.
After the first initial annoyance of it all washed away, anxiousness soon seeped in. What if you couldn’t work with her and you messed this whole thing up? What if- you were being stupid, you were an adult, you just needed to be passive, to keep your head down and do what was required of you. It couldn’t be that hard, right? You took a tentative glance at the side of Monica’s face and felt your jaw clench, right.
New Year’s Eve finally rolled around and with a gloved hand you opened the door to the room at the back of the kitchen. Inside, you could already hear the sound of soft music and the movement of someone inside. You mentally rolled your eyes; of course she was early, she always is. After shedding your layers, your hat, scarf, gloves, and coat, you slipped on your work shoes and tied your apron behind your back before stepping into work.
Monica turned to face you, a smear of flour on her cheek, at the sound of the swing doors and she sent you a tight-lipped smile. You acknowledged it with a nod of your head and quickly moved on to wash your hands. She started speaking and you shut off the water.
“What?” You asked as you turned to face her, she was closer and had a towel slung over her left shoulder.
“I can turn off the music if you don’t want it.”
“It’s fine.” You shrugged and had to move around her to get started on your section of the prep.
Monica threw down the towel, literally. You turned to her at the sudden movement, large bowl in hand and a taken aback expression on your face, to find her standing with a hand on her hip and her lips pressed into a tight line.
“Why don’t you like me?” She questioned, her face serious, and you almost didn’t stop yourself from laughing in her face.
“Me? I should be the one asking you,” you threw back as you mirrored her challenge. Her brows furrowed at your words. You let out a quiet scoff, “Really?” With a shake of your head you turn away to get on with your job.
A small hand wraps around your bicep, firm but gentle. You look at her again, an almost pleading look on her face, in the background a slow, instrumental melody plays and you feel your shoulders slump.
“C’mon, I tried really hard to get to know you and you always waved me off,” you confess a little embarrassed, “but that’s in the past and now I’d really just like to work- if you’ll let me.”
Monica’s hand returns to her side. “I’m sorry, I really am,” she says earnestly, “could we start over?” She sticks her hand out and after a small pause you take it, shaking it like you did all those days ago. She grins, “Hi, I’m Monica.”
“Y/n,” you say through a small smile that warms your cheeks.
It’s exactly what you wanted, you realise as Monica talks animatedly from across the other side of the kitchen, albeit it had taken much longer than you had first anticipated - having a friend from your workplace. However, the more that she talks and the more that you listen, you can’t help but notice the beginning of a lovesick smile on your face. You find that she only stops talking when she’s really focussed on what she’s doing, and her constant chatting helps the time fly by in almost an instant. So much so that when you cross off the last item on your list and begin the last of the cleaning, you’re thoroughly shocked.
“This was nice,” you smile and hand her a piece of paper, “call me if you ever wanna grab coffee of somethin’” And with that, you leave the way you came in, ready to brave the journey back home, though you’re sure that the feeling in your chest is warm enough to keep you from feeling the cold. Monica watches as the door closes behind you, the same warm feeling in her chest as she feels the paper between her fingers.