Chapter Text
A pleasant melody mixed with the hum of conversations in the dining room. The air smelled nice — flowers, maybe something floral. Waiters moved smoothly between tables, taking orders, dropping off food, clearing plates, and quietly celebrating whenever someone left a tip.
John sat at a table with his friend Allen, whose order had just arrived. Spaghetti Pomodoro. John got a milkshake. Allen moved his laptop aside when the food came. John just nodded his thanks and caught the waitress giving him a weird look. She wished them bon appétit and left. The flower smell got replaced by the aroma of spaghetti with beef.
"Want some?" Allen offered his pasta.
John waved him off.
"I heard you lost your scholarship," Allen said awkwardly. He'd felt weird since they ordered, and now it was twice as bad.
"Yeah." John licked the whipped cream off the top of his shake.
"So you're going back to Hamilton for the summer?"
"No." John finished the cream and wrapped his lips around the straw.
"You know my pasta cost the same as your milkshake."
"Me losing my scholarship doesn't give you the right to count my money." John raised an eyebrow.
"Sorry. I'm just worried about you." Allen started eating.
"You don't happen to know anyone who's hiring for the summer?"
"No."
"Great." John slumped back against the booth.
"Maybe you should just go back to Hamilton? What are you gonna do in Gotham with no money?"
"Stop counting my money," John said darkly. "I'll find something… Shh."
They were sitting at a table directly across from the staff door.
The door opened and a young guy stepped out, a bit older than John. Dress pants, button-up tucked in, carrying a cardigan. Glasses. Perfect hair. He walked past the tables fast, not even noticing the waiters waving goodbye at him.
When the guy left the restaurant, John finally looked at his friend.
"How long have you been doing that?"
"Hm?" John went back to his milkshake.
"Stalking him?"
"I'm not stalking. I just hope he walks out when I'm here, which is rare. He's got a crazy schedule."
"Right. You've already got his schedule memorized and know what time he leaves."
"I don't. I told you, it's crazy. Every time I think I've figured it out, he's not there that day. And the time changes. It's like playing roulette."
"You're a degenerate gambler," Allen snorted. "Why don't you just go talk to him?"
John waved his hand.
"He's probably exhausted and just wants to get home. And then there's me. No need to drop my already tiny chances to zero."
"John, sitting here, your chances are already zero."
"That's not why I asked you here." John cleared his throat. "I'm bored looking for jobs by myself. I brought you for company."
John pulled out his laptop, opened it, and scooted closer to Allen, who had to move his food. John started scrolling through job postings, commenting on everything he saw. Allen chimed in sometimes, but mostly he just watched John doom his summer to manual labor with a bored expression. Allen had a scholarship. He could spend his summer however he wanted. Sitting at his computer.
John sent his resume to about five companies, then sighed like he'd been hauling boxes instead of sitting on his ass.
"Look!" Allen pointed at the bottom of the page. John scrolled down and saw a posting:
**"Waiters Wanted."**
"That's for this place, isn't it?" Allen said.
"Yeah." John clicked on it, glanced at the requirements, and sent his resume without thinking.
"Seriously?! Other jobs you spent ten minutes debating whether you even wanted them. But this one you just fired off?"
"Why not?" John shrugged. "For a joke." He grinned. "They're not gonna hire me anyway."
---
John stood in front of the door behind the restaurant. This was where they told him to come. They'd responded to his resume fast — asked when he could come in, and John honestly said, "Anytime." Now Jonathan Kent was sweating, staring at the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed cooks in their colorful uniforms sitting in the shade of an outbuilding, smoking, laughing loudly about something.
John swallowed hard. *Okay. It's just an interview. They'll talk to me. Maybe they'll realize I'm not a good fit.*
The door finally opened. A redheaded woman stepped out. She introduced herself as Barbara and invited him inside. John followed her on shaky legs, barely remembering the maze she led him through. She guided him into an office and politely offered him a chair.
"Coffee? Tea?"
"No thanks." John sat down.
And then the chair behind the desk spun around, and a man appeared in front of him.
"Dick?! What are you doing here?!" The sweet woman turned into a redheaded fury in an instant. John shrank into his seat.
"I'm taking what's mine," the man said in a velvet voice. John gathered his name was Dick.
"What?! He applied for a *waiter* position!" Barbara jabbed a finger at John.
"You know why?! Because *someone* didn't post the listing that we need more than just your waiters. What the hell, Barbara?! Why do I have to check if you're doing your job?! Don't I have anything better to do?!"
"Since you're sitting here, clearly you don't," Barbara crossed her arms and smirked.
"Kid, what's your name?" Dick turned to John, who was practically melting into his chair.
"Jonathan Kent."
"Can you cook?"
"Well, I live alone, so I have to make myself *something*…" John tried to sound calm and not show how terrified he was.
"What's a colander?"
"Uh…"
"Okay. What's a slotted spoon?"
"A big flat spoon with holes… and a colander is a deep bowl with holes in the bottom."
"You'll do. Come on, I'll show you around." Dick stood up and patted John's shoulder to get him moving.
"You can't do that!" Barbara stomped her foot.
Dick stuck his tongue out at her and muttered something like "can too."
---
John was walking through the maze again. He ended up in a big locker room. Dick quickly scanned the rows of lockers, found an empty one, and pointed to it.
"Okay." Dick looked John up and down. "Right. Wait a second."
The man disappeared into the rows of lockers. John felt awkward. He looked around the big room with identical wooden lockers, each with a number. He was standing across from locker number 67. That made him feel a little better for some reason.
"Here." Dick appeared out of nowhere with a stack of clothes. "Change, then go upstairs and turn right."
John nodded awkwardly and took the clothes.
Blue chef's coat. Red loose pants with an elastic waistband. Red apron. And a white chef's hat that John had no idea how to put on. He just pulled it over his hair. On TV shows, chefs barely wear hats anyway. *In The Bear, the main guy walks around looking like a bird's nest on his head.* John looked at himself in the mirror. He looked ridiculous and kinda cool at the same time.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a hairdryer and a curling iron. *What are those doing in the men's locker room?*
John took a deep breath, walked out, went upstairs, and tried to remember where to go next. But thank God Dick spotted him and ran over, shoving a box of shoes into his hands.
"Try those on."
John nodded. He kicked off his sneakers and put on the clogs. They were a little big, but better than squeezing his feet.
---
They walked into the first section. A small square space with several surfaces. John recognized one right away — a regular stove, just like the one he had at home. Another surface looked less like a stove, but it had knobs and a big pot on it with steam coming out, so John figured it was also a stove. There were other things — a shiny silver table, lots of shelves with spices, and a wall completely covered in recipe cards.
A guy came out of the walk-in cooler carrying a huge container full of everything — vegetables, dairy products, you name it. He set it down on the table.
"Meet our hot line, and this is our boy, Timbo."
"Yo." Timbo threw up the horn sign.
"John." Dick gestured. John raised his hand awkwardly. They moved on.
"This is Timbo's cooler." Dick opened the door. John immediately felt a blast of cold on his skin, and Dick quickly shut the door again.
On the other side was a room with a massive amount of dishes and big sinks where someone was washing an enormous pan. Dick called it "the pit."
Across from that was a closed-off section with glass windows. Inside, a man was cutting up an animal carcass with a giant cleaver. John felt sick just looking at it.
"That's Jason. He handles the meat, and when he has time, he helps Tim." Dick knocked on the glass. Jason looked up at them. The man raised one hand in a fist, then used his other hand to mime cranking something next to the fist — and slowly, his middle finger started to rise, giving Dick the bird.
"Idiot." Dick rolled his eyes and kept walking. John followed like a puppy.
The next box was also behind glass, but blocked off so you could only see the top of someone's head — and the chef's hat on it.
"And here lives our owner. Wave to Bruce." Dick started waving at the hat with a big smile, and John did the same. "Let's go. This is the vegetable station, and this is the cooler." They walked through the cooler. Dick even gave John a piece of pre-cut watermelon, and John happily ate it. *Finally, something good.*
They came out of the cooler and kept going.
"Here we've got eggs, dry storage, dairy — let's go." Dick opened another cooler. It felt like all they did was walk through coolers. "This is the pastry prep." Dick opened another door into yet another cooler. "And here are the finished desserts." He pointed to a shelf full of pre-sliced cakes and gave John some to try. *Okay, maybe working in a kitchen isn't so bad.*
"And finally — the cold line!" Dick spread his arms wide. Several people were chopping vegetables or assembling salads.
"So… where's Damian?" Dick looked around for the guy. "Where's the mouse?" He walked over to a girl working a machine that sliced deli meat thin.
"He's in his corner. Pissed as hell."
John tensed up. Dick thanked her for the info, pointed, and John followed. He was completely lost at this point.
Dick opened another door. It was incredibly warm in here — even warmer than the hot line.
"Dami!" Dick said cheerfully.
The guy — Damian — shot him a death glare. He was working with dough, rolling it out with a rolling pin. Then he glared even harder at John.
John recognized him. *It was him.* The guy he was always staring at. The reason he came to this restaurant every free evening, hoping to catch a glimpse of him leaving his shift. He looked even more beautiful up close.
His chef's hat sat perfectly, the brim turned to the side. It was clearly held in place with bobby pins so not a single hair could escape. John had only ever seen him in sunglasses. Now he could finally see his green eyes — they stood out against his dark skin. The blue chef's coat matched his eyes perfectly, and even though he was working with flour, he was completely clean.
Then the romance died the moment Damian opened his mouth.
John didn't understand a single word.
Damian stepped away from his table, washed his hands, and ranted furiously at Dick.
"Yeah, I know the wrong dough came in. I already filed a complaint."
Damian kept going, his voice a snarl. He dried his hands, jabbed an accusing finger at Dick, and finally walked right up to John.
John forgot how to breathe.
Long, thin fingers touched his chef's hat — and yanked it down over his eyes. Then Damian pulled it back and started aggressively tucking John's curly black hair inside.
"Kalib!" he snarled right in John's face. Then he turned back to Dick and kept yelling.
"Can you speak English? I understand every other word," Dick said tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
But Damian kept going. And now he grabbed a long knife — probably for bread.
"Okay, okay, I get it. I'll switch the supplier and look at the machine."
Dick pushed John toward the door, and they hurried out of the warmest, scariest place on earth.
"Phew. So that's our Damian. He's the youngest — a little older than you, I think. Don't be scared. He's just pissed today."
"He's always pissed," Tim shouted as he walked by with a cart. On the cart was a deep container with at least a dozen cracked eggs.
"Jason's calling a smoke break. You coming?"
"No, we're going to eat. Save us a spot?" Dick called back. Tim gave a thumbs up without turning around.
Dick turned to John. "I'll show you where we eat. We'll sit down and talk properly after."
John nodded. But his mind was still in that warm little room. He could still feel the warmth of those hands touching his hair.
*I want to go back to that dessert cooler.*
---
They went back downstairs — not to the locker room, but to what looked like a cafeteria where the staff ate. Dick got in line and grabbed a tray. John copied him. Dick took some mystery soup that looked like it was made from leftovers, some macaroni with chunks of meat, and some compote. John just took the macaroni and a piece of meat that looked like pork.
They sat down at a big table. A few minutes later, Jason and Tim showed up, along with a blonde in a waitress uniform. John recognized her — the one who'd given him a weird look earlier. Her name tag said Stephanie.
She started first.
"Oh! Hey! Did you get tired of sitting in the dining room and finally decide to see what's behind the staff door?"
John tried to say something, but his voice cracked. "I just… need a summer job. And here we are." He awkwardly wiped his sweaty palms on his pants.
"Stephanie." She held out her hand.
"John." They shook hands and ate in awkward silence for a minute.
"What are you studying?" Tim finally started a conversation. Everyone stared at John with curiosity.
He choked a little. "Journalism. Last semester after summer."
"Lost your scholarship?" Tim narrowed his eyes. John turned red.
"Do you smoke?" Jason asked. John shook his head.
"Damn." Jason sounded genuinely disappointed. "Ever tried?"
"No…"
"Jason!" Dick finally cut in.
"What? Is Mommy Duck worried I'll interfere with our little smoke-break dates?" Jason asked playfully.
"I just don't want you teaching bad habits to our trainee."
"I'm afraid he'll leave here still a trainee. He'll be gone by September," Tim said. He clearly wasn't happy about their high turnover rate.
John glanced away and noticed Damian standing in the food line. He wasn't even looking in their direction.
Jason followed John's gaze and whistled. The whistle echoed off the walls, and someone cursed at him for the noise. Damian didn't react at all.
"Why's he so pissed?" Jason asked Dick.
"Does he need a reason?" Tim shook his head and washed down his food with coffee from a thermos.
"It's the flour. The wrong one came in. And the mixer's acting up. He's mad because he has to do everything by hand."
Damian slammed his tray down loudly to announce his arrival. He sat down without a word and started eating his salad.
"Ever think about taking up smoking?" Jason asked Damian, who just chewed his salad even harder.
"Can you stop pushing nicotine on everyone?" Dick sighed.
"I'm just trying to help. You know how cigarettes calm the nerves?"
"I wonder what kind of stress you have that makes you constantly want to put something in your mouth."
"Are you jealous of my cigarettes or something?"
Dick just rolled his eyes.
"Can you once — just once — eat in silence?" John finally heard English come out of Damian's mouth.
And he thought he might be completely, hopelessly in love.
"Wow, you remembered English!" Tim cheered.
"Uskut, ibn al-kalb," Damian said.
John listened carefully to every syllable. *Kalb.* He'd heard that one before.
"Ah." Tim sighed. "One day I'll find your switch."
"Anyway." Jason grabbed a toothpick off the table. "What do you think of the kitchen?"
"Really interesting," John said, trying to sound confident.
"I know you were aiming for waiter. But we have way too many of them — Barbara's just bored. We need a kitchen assistant. We'll figure out the schedule later, but I think you'll be happy with five days on, two off, eight-hour shifts."
Jason whistled. "If I had that schedule, I'd be Superman."
"Yeah, that works," John nodded.
"So here's the deal. We need a morning helper. Can you come in at six AM and leave around two? Your job will be anything anyone asks you to do."
John's face fell slightly when he heard what time he'd have to show up. Damian clicked his tongue at John's reaction, and John immediately started nodding.
He lived close. Like, ten minutes away. Waking up at five instead of eight wasn't *that* bad. He'd just have to cut back on late-night gaming.
"Great," Dick continued. "We'll let you go so you can think about it."
"Kid, think hard. This isn't like the TV shows. It's worse," Jason said. Tim nodded in agreement.
John glanced at Damian out of the corner of his eye. He'd already finished his food and was just staring at his phone.
"If you're still in tomorrow, come at six. You'll try a full shift."
John nodded.
"And after lunch — which for you would be the end of your shift — perfect." Dick nodded to himself. "We'll sign a short-term contract. Does that work for you?"
"Short-term?" John asked. Damian looked up from his phone at Dick.
"You said you needed a job for the summer. We'll sign a contract — start tomorrow, end August thirty-first. Makes it easier for everyone."
Damian clicked his tongue and went back to his phone.
"Yeah, okay. Deal," John said.
They sat at the table for a few more minutes, then everyone got up and left, leaving John alone. He didn't stick around long. He got up, cleared his dishes where everyone else did. A cart full of fruit came by, and John grabbed more watermelon and some sweet cantaloupe.
*At least I won't go hungry here.* That was a relief.
What scared him was how everyone talked about working in a kitchen. They said it was brutal. But looking at these guys — joking, laughing — it seemed bearable.
And Damian seemed interesting. And really, really beautiful.
John got a little lost in the hallways but eventually found the locker room. He changed back into his own clothes and left the uniform in his locker — number 67. Then he headed home.
His head hurt from all the new information. He'd already forgotten where half the things were. But he wanted to try.
Even if it had all started as a joke.