Chapter Text
It was rare that Rody was in a pleasant mood these days.
The strain with Manon took over most of his thoughts, nagging at him like an irksome fruit fly buzzing in his ear – except it was a fruit fly he could kill with no such flyswatter. For a while, he was sure he was going to go insane if he kept repeatedly asking himself when she was going to come back to him.
Every waking moment – and even, sometimes, every unawake moment – was filled with the thought of her. Her lovely bow, that dress she loved and always wore, her darling eyes that – surely – would look at him with renewed interest again eventually. Everything started to fill him with dread after the breakup, wondering what he could do to bring her back to him, what would make her stay. After a while, he decides that thing is nothing. Nothing he could do would make her love him again, would it? He had come ear-to-ear with enough automated voicemails when calling her aimlessly to know that. She would have at least picked up by now if Rody had any sort of chance.
So, today, he decided to just completely stop thinking about her.
He considered it like how an infant completely forgets things that aren’t right in front of it. When something was out of sight, it was out of mind for the baby, so he could just do the same thing, forever, right? He could, in his mind, play peekaboo with the idea of Manon, but just never do the ‘boo’ part, where her face would pop out in his mind and he would start uncontrollably sobbing on the grocery store floor after seeing her favorite brand of tea.
It was a perfect plan for someone who decided not to consider that toddlers develop object permanence at the age of one. So, that’s what he did.
He woke up that morning with his alarm. He didn’t hit the snooze button once, nor did he get annoyed at the blinding sunlight streaming into his kitchen/living room/one-room apartment like he would have any other day. Instead of lying around on his couch for thirty minutes, crying and whining that there was no Manon next to him to hold and love and hug endlessly, he sprang up immediately, because he had heard somewhere that giving yourself no time to lounge around when you wake yourself up makes you feel more energized. He wasn’t sure if it worked or not, but, boy, did he feel energized!
Getting up with his first alarm gave him thirty minutes before he had to leave, and a total of fifty minutes before he actually had to be at the door of the bistro. That was a lot of time for someone who’s morning routine consisted of brushing his hair, putting on deodorant, brushing his teeth and, maybe, on a good day, shaving. So, after he got done with those four steps (four, because he was in the mood to look baby powder smooth), he looked around his apartment and decided that he needed to clean his joint.
So he hurried. He hauled about two heaping baskets of laundry down to his apartment’s basement to throw in the communal washing machines and probably forget about, then raced back up the stairs, gathering all the trash and mysterious food (?) items on the floor into a large trash can to throw away. It was a lot of work, and he did it fast to allow himself maximum time, so when he finished with all the really important stuff, he looked at the clock and realized he had five minutes until he had to go. He beamed. This was a great day. He could show up early for work, and maybe, just maybe, he’d even elicit a smile from Vincent.
He dusted off his hands against each other and waltzed out of his apartment, practically skipping down the stairs and not even faltering when he almost faceplants.
This was great, he told himself, naïvely. This was a fresh start.
He rides to work quickly, the chill air tickling his face and causing his tan cheeks to gain the slightest flush. When he arrives, he throws his bike on the empty bike rack and walks inside, still with a skip in his step, because he was at least ten minutes early, judging from the time on his Jurassic Park wristwatch (it was the only one he could afford at the store, he didn’t particularly prefer it).
When he opens the heavy back door and glances inside, he notices some of the more efficient cooks getting ready for their shifts and opening while Vincent, of course, hangs off to the side, supervising. He had a slight furrow in his brow, his expression tense, as the cooks rushed around to gather the necessities for their shifts, eyeing him nervously.
Rody shimmies in, shutting the door behind him, and Vincent turns his head to look at him. When his eyes rested on the red haired man, Rody always noticed that the furrow between his brows lessened and his face became even the slightest bit less tense. Even if Rody wasn’t completely sure what elicited this reaction, he was always very happy to see it, and it always made him slightly proud of himself.
Today, he had the same reaction, but his eyebrows quickly furrowed again when he realized that this wasn’t their normal routine.
“Lamoree. You’re…” Vincent glances down at his exorbitantly expensive-looking, sleek black watch. He furrows his brows once more in confusion, as if the simple act of Rody being early was that bewildering to him. “... Early. Why are you early?”
Rody blinked at him, ignoring the tiny snickers of the cooks behind him. He offered an awkward laugh and a nervous smile, rubbing his neck. “Is it really that surprising? Come on, Vince, I’m not that bad.”
Vincent narrows his black eyes. “It’s Chef. And, yes, you are. You were fifteen minutes late on your first day here, and for the next six days, you were at least ten. You being early is almost worrying me. That’s not good.”
Rody sighs and smiles again; this time, stronger, and less unsure. “Well, that’s changing, starting today. I’m gonna be early every day from now on. You’ll see. I’m gonna be the best employee you’ve ever seen.”
He then strides away confidently, as if he had just dropped a bomb on all of them.
Vincent’s eyes follow him, unreadable, except for a small raise of his eyebrow. He says nothing, despite probably having more than a few responses ready to fire in that brain of his. He looks back at the cooks, who stare at him blankly.
“... What are you all staring at? I don’t pay you to stand around. Get your sorry asses back to work.”
–
It was a great shift.
Rody was doing amazing the whole time, getting huge tips from the more friendly customers and getting somewhat more passive reactions out of the snobby regulars. Since he was so busy, he hardly had time to think about Manon. When there was an empty table, he wiped it. When there was a dip in customers, he swept the floors. When a new customer came, he was overly friendly and didn’t falter when a few were a little snappy.
When he’s taking out the trash in the alley, he almost went back inside without noticing Vincent, blending into the shadows.
He’s standing against the wall on the opposite side of the door, not looking at Rody. He’s trying to light a cigarette, shielding the small, flickering flame from the wind with one hand while he spins the little sparkwheel on the lighter with the other. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly in concentration, his lips pursed around the skinny cigarette between them.
Rody smiles at the sight of him, feeling himself perk up slightly. Why? He had no clue. He had noticed that reaction from himself becoming more frequent as of late. His heart would feel lighter, and he would immediately have a smile on his face that he really couldn’t control, even if he tried to look cool and nonchalant. He assumed, naively, that, maybe, it was just because they’re becoming something akin to friends. Friends always felt little bursts of joy around each other, right? That’s what he felt around most of his friends. It wasn’t exactly this strong with those other people; this felt different, somehow. But he assumes it was just because he used to be petrified when Vincent would so much as raise an eyebrow at him, so he was excited for the change. That was all it was.
Regardless, when he trotts up to Vincent, the man raises his head, his pale cheeks slightly flushed from the cold winter air. It’s already dark outside, making Rody have to really focus to see him.
“Lamoree,” he acknowledges in that monotonous voice he never seemed to soften, still attempting to light the cancer stick. It took a few tries, but he eventually succeeds, and he closes his eyes as he takes a long, long drag. He gingerly lifts it from his lips and blows, a thin ring of smoke flowering in the air before it scatters.
Rody coughs slightly, strangling the sound in his throat, and waves the smoke away from his face. It was a cool trick, but it sent the vapor right to him. “Hi, Vince-”
“Chef.”
“- Chef. How’s your break goin’? Got some good… cigarettes?”
Rody isn’t exactly educated on all things smoking. The question is hesitant, slightly foolish, because he didn’t know what else to comment on, and he’s a little worried the questions he really has would offend him. He doesn’t know what he would be offended on, exactly, but he wanted to give a good impression. For some, stupid reason.
Vincent gives him a familiar deadpan look as he takes another inhale of the cig. When he huffs out the smoke, he seems to aim it away from Rody’s face this time.
“Cigarettes are cigarettes,” He comments, tapping the end of it so some of the ash falls to the ground. His dark eyes watch it fall. “They’re all bad.”
Rody raises his eyebrows at this. He had assumed Vincent enjoyed smoking, since… Well, because he did it so much. But he guesses that meant less of a chance he actually liked it, didn’t it?
“Oh. Really?” He asks curiously. He moves, leaning against one of the storage containers next to where Vincent was, before promptly realizing that was probably getting his apron dirty and straightening up. He shoved his hands in his pockets and swayed, clearing his throat. “How’d you get into it, then? If- If I can ask that.”
Vincent watches him with sharp eyes. They were always sharp, for some reason, even in relaxed situations like these, when there was no stress or tension between either of them. Or, at least, Rody assumed there was no stress or tension between them right now. He hoped.
“College. Some idiot friends of mine offered me one, and I took it.” He takes a drag. “I assumed it would be a nice distraction from life. It wasn’t. It just gave me more problems.” He shoots Rody a dry look. “Like the annoying fuckin’ risk of lung cancer.”
Rody listens quietly. He had always felt quite sympathetic towards people like Vincent. Well, not exactly people like Vincent, but people who had addictions like his. Rody’s father was a smoker, and, although the topic was mostly shunned from dinnertime conversations, he knew it had taken its toll on his old man, especially since his mother had constantly tried to get him to stop behind closed doors.
“Ah, I’m… sorry to hear that.”
Vincent raises his eyebrows at the odd apology, seemingly not expecting one. A small silence falls between them, Vincent seemingly collecting his thoughts. He takes another puff of his death stick; longer, this time.
A pause.
“You’ve been working pretty hard, haven’t you?” Vincent starts contemplatively, his eyes fixed on the warning-sign orangish end of the cigarette. “Why don’t you take your break early? With me.”
Rody pauses, probably making some stupid thinking face that he didn’t realize he was doing. He likes talking with Vincent, even if the man was scary as all Hell, but he was practically soaring through the day. He was being useful for once, and, now that he knew the feeling, he found that he didn’t want to stop.
“No thanks. I’m not tired yet. I’m working too hard to slow down,” He explains with that enthusiastic grin of his, sporting that shining gleam in his eye that makes him look like he was incredibly proud of himself. Because he is. After all, being useful for once in any of his work environments wasn’t something he took lightly.
Vincent looks almost surprised by his refusal, as if he was expecting an avid ‘Oh yes, of course, Vince, I’d love to skip work right now, because I’m a lazy piece of shit!’
He narrows his eyes slightly, looking over the red-haired man, who always felt odd under his sharp gaze for reasons he couldn’t quite comprehend yet. If someone were to ask Rody how he felt when his boss studies him like that, he’d probably spin some wild simile about feeling like a street mouse in a rat trap, owned by someone with a precarious medical degree. Like he would be studied intently before being dissected.
“... Are you having a manic episode?” Vincent asks with a humdrum amount of bluntness. For him, anyway. Most things he said, he acted like he didn’t even consider they could be remotely surprising or distasteful.
Rody stops, looking at Vincent like he had just told him he has cancer. A manic episode? That’s a Bipolar Disorder thing, right?
He, of course, hasn’t considered it before. He was perfectly healthy in every other aspect, and it wasn’t like he had any issues with it before. He dismisses the thought immediately. Why would he want to know if he has a potentially curable mental disorder, when he doesn’t even have the money for cold medicine when he’s sick?
“Nah, probably not. I don’t think this behavior will be ceasing anytime soon, so you don’t have to worry about anything, bossman. I’ll be your star employee by the end of the month!” He promises, looking entirely sure of himself.
Vincent eyes him wearily. He practically looks like he was planning his retirement as they speak. Perhaps somewhere on a beach in Italy. Rody couldn’t imagine him in anything other than modest long-sleeves, and he certainly couldn’t imagine him looking healthy and well-rested. The thought was almost laughable in his mind, but he didn’t dare let out even a chuckle.
“... Whatever. Do what you want. Just don’t crash in the middle of your shift. You’ve already cost me enough money with the plates you’ve dropped.”
Rody nods, his confidence turning the slightest bit sheepish at the reminder. That’s probably true. He’s probably lucky Vincent hasn’t asked him to pay that back… yet, anyway.
“Right. Well, trust me, I’ll make that money back in no time!” He could do that. It would be no problem with how he was flying through the day. He could make that money, plus about a thousand more, back in a week if he kept this up.
After that, the day was a blur he barely remembered.
He goes home tired but content that night.