Work Text:
The humidity of the Muskoka woods hangs heavy over Camp Wawanakwa, but inside the air-conditioned sanctuary of the staff tent, the atmosphere is nothing short of decadent. While the "Final Four"—Duncan, Heather, Gwen, and Owen—are currently stumbling through the brush of a supposedly deserted island, Chris McLean is far more concerned with the temperature of his Oolong. Chris sits back in a plush, velvet-lined folding chair that definitely didn't come from the camp's surplus supply. He’s thirty-one now, at the absolute peak of his televised vanity, wearing a silk robe over his signature cargo pants.
Across from him, Brutus "Chef" Hatchet, thirty-three and looking formidable even in a floral apron, is meticulously plating a brunch that would put a five-star resort to shame. There are eggs Benedict with a truffle-infused hollandaise and a side of smoked salmon that certainly wasn't caught in the polluted lake outside.
"You think Gwen’s actually going to lose it this time?" Chris asks, his voice pitched in that breezy, melodic tone he saves for the cameras, though here it’s softened by a genuine sense of relaxation. He picks up a Nintendo DS, absentmindedly tapping the stylus against the screen as he waits for a response. "The ratings for a total mental breakdown would be huge, but I don't want to have to deal with the paperwork if she actually snaps."
Chef snorts, pouring the tea with a steady hand. He’s been Chris’s anchor since they were teenagers—the muscle to Chris’s mouth, the pragmatism to Chris’s ego. "She's tough, Chris. Scarier than you, half the time. It’s Owen I’m worried about. If that boy doesn’t find a coconut to eat in the next twenty minutes, he’s going to start gnawing on the camera crew."
Chris laughs, but as he gazes out the mesh window toward the distant, shimmering shoreline, a rare shadow flits across his face. He shifts his weight, the bravado slipping just a fraction. "I mean... it is pretty brutal out there today. The bugs are intense. I saw a mosquito the size of a sparrow earlier. If they get sick, the producers are gonna be all over my case. I’m a dedicated host, Brutus. I have a reputation to uphold."
Chef stops mid-pour. He recognizes that look—the specific brand of neuroticism Chris hides under layers of hairspray. It’s the slight furrow of the brow that says Chris is actually, in his own warped way, worried about the longevity of his 'toys.' Without a word, Chef sets the teapot down. He moves with a surprising grace for a man of his stature, stepping around the table. Before Chris can ask what he’s doing, Chef reaches down and hoists the host clean out of his velvet chair.
"Whoa! Watch the hair, babe!" Chris yelps, though he doesn't struggle.
Chef ignores the protest, settling back into his own reinforced chair with Chris tucked firmly against his chest. He cradles him like a giant, expensive, slightly bratty infant, rocking him back and forth with a slow, rhythmic motion. "You're overthinking it," Chef rumbles, his voice a deep vibration against Chris’s spine. "You’re the most dedicated host in the business. You’re an inspiration to every wannabe TV star out there. You give 'em hell because that's what the people want."
Chris stays tense for a second, his boots dangling in the air, but then he lets out a long, dramatic sigh. The "vitriolic" edge they usually maintain for the public melts away. He leans his head against Chef’s shoulder, smelling the familiar scent of expensive cologne and kitchen grease.
"Thanks, babe," Chris murmurs, his hand coming up to pat Chef’s bicep. "It’s what I do. I’m a professional." He finally relaxes completely, wrapping his arms around Chef’s neck and returning the embrace with a sincerity he'd never admit to if a camera were rolling. "But if Owen eats a cameraman, you're the one cleaning it up."
Chef just laughs shortly, the sound low and steady in the quiet tent. "Deal. Now eat your eggs before they get cold."