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crying-wolves · 9 months

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𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 (𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛)

----𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐟!𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

----𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝟓 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 '𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲' 𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

----𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 - 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞, 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 (𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫), 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

----𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝

——wc - 2.4k

----𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓! 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐆𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆

----𝐚/𝐧 - 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭. 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 ‘𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫’ (𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐠𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐭 𝐫𝐧) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐭. 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐜, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨 𝐈'𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 <𝟑 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐢𝐭.

----𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐞 (𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐫) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐚!!(𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭)

Abby was in an exceptionally agitated mood for most of the evening, but she believed, in her shoddy wisdom, that nobody could really tell.

“I swear to God if there is even a single parsley flake out of line, none of you are gettin’ outta here alive tonight.”

“I need everything to be going 500% faster and, at least, 1000% more smoothly, assholes! Got it?!”

“Whoever the fuck keeps chopping the carrots medium dice style instead of brunoise is getting their fucking face ripped off before dessert’s been sent out. Pull it together!”

A shaky chorus of “Yes, Chef!’s” reverbed through the steely silver restaurant kitchen, bouncing on and off of the spotless appliances and shiny tiled walls, and meshing with the clangs!, shlicks!, and plops! that regularly sound in the back of Delicatesse.

Yeah, she was hiding it pretty well if she did say so herself.

No one could really blame her, though. Not with how badly she needed things to go exquisitely tonight.

And everyone knows how sorry she is for snapping and raising her voice and throwing things (they’re all confident that tomorrow she’ll shuffle in with her hands clasped behind her back, head hanging towards the floor, eyes flitting from place to place spilling with hundreds of apologies and a box of syrupy treats for them all to enjoy until they’ve thoroughly forgiven her), because everyone knows that she honestly can’t help herself when it comes to pleasing you.

So, when half a month ago she had broken the news that you, her absolute favorite person in the entire galaxy, was going to be eating at the restaurant in a couple of weeks for your fifth ‘Best Friendiversary’, they kind of knew exactly what to expect from Chef Abby.

She had even put together a small team of her most talented subordinates to carefully craft a separate menu to be used specifically for tonight. Days spent tasting and testing various combinations of sauces and vegetables, grains and flavorful meats to ensure that your taste buds could never find an equal competitor.

She knew you better than anybody else did, of course, so after finalizing each dish, she could only count down the seconds leading to your arrival.

It didn’t matter if its entirety was a nightmare to prepare, as long as you could sincerely feel the affection emanating from each serving.

She needed you to love every diminutive detail, or she wasn’t sure what she’d end up doing.

Chef Abby is much, much too busy clenching and unclenching her hands around the late afternoon air to even think about facing you right now.

Okay, she’s definitely thinking about it. She’s probably spending an unsettling amount of time trying not to if she’s being honest with herself.

She knew that you would search every inch of the kitchen for her once you finished your food, and she was beyond pissed at herself for hiding behind the building like a frightened kitten, but she just couldn’t take it.

You, amiable, kindly, lovely, you had arrived 10 minutes before dinner was set to begin. This wasn’t a problem considering that the team was completely prepared for your arrival hours ago, but it did mean that Abby’s already teetering blood pressure reached an all time high after spotting you through the tiny door window.

A flicker of regret panged in the back of her head.

If she knew you would be wearing that dress, a sparkly, strapless little number that you’d definitely been saving for this exact occasion, she would’ve begged you to curl up on your sofa with her and watch shitty horror movies until sunrise.

An incredibly devastating display, she found it. Watching you waltz out of line to your specially reserved table, in heels that made your calves look so damn pretty. And when you smiled up at the hostess after laughing at whatever sappy line she just fed you, Abby wanted to kick down the house entrance and hand feed you herself.

But, naturally, what she ended up doing instead was accidentally burning herself on a hot stove and going out for a smoke break immediately after.

She’d been pacing in the warm summer breeze for maybe half an hour now, and she didn’t see any end in sight.

Fuck, she needed a drink.

And you. She thinks that she very much needs to see you no matter how quickly her heart finds its way to her throat.

You think it’s supposed to be fish.

In fact, you’re pretty sure of it.

The lightly colored coating of orange and gold forming the crisp outer layer is familiar, inviting in the way it's positioned over a pile of cleanly-cut potato wedges, and flanked by three other pieces just like it.

But considering the last three courses that were served (each a more troubling, but certainly delicious fanciful “deconstruction” of a totally normal, totally acceptable, already amazing dish than the next), caution wasn’t entirely off of the table for now.

So, when you pick up your fork and knife, and slowly separate one crunchy hunk into two, the simple sight of pearly white cod meat almost makes you split your bottom lip in joy.

Abby was right. Fine dining really is its own ‘russian doll’ experience. Chocked full with at least a thousand “what the fuck am I looking at?!’s” before the main course has even been served.

You’re only a little embarrassed when, after placing a fish/potato/tar-tar sauce amalgamation onto your tongue and chewing it eagerly, a soft moan followed by a surprised exclamation of “holy fucking fuck” escapes from your lips.

You weren’t even aware that something so straightforward could be this good.

It was like biting through the most tender memories of childhood meals brimming with laughter and ease, and snacks quickly snatched from the kitchen cabinet when you were positive the churning hunger you felt from a 12-hour on call would have you nipping at your own arm for the smallest form of sustenance.

And yes, sure, maybe you’re venturing into overdramatics a little, but it truly tastes like the chef has transformed you into a malnourished zombie, cut their own frontal lobe out of their skull, and fried it in bread crumbs and cornstarch before gently setting it beside all of your favorite condiments and telling you to dig in.

You suppose, however, that even the act of lobotomizing herself for the sake of a happy customer wouldn’t be a farfetched task for Abby Anderson, who revealed to you that, in her earlier days as a chef garde manger, once spent 2 hours in the middle of January driving to the only Indian supermarket she knew would be open at 6 in the morning, and an additional 3 hours after that trying to get back before breakfast in spite of the insanely slippery ice covering the Seattle roads. All because some guest flying in from California had called the night before his reservation was set and let slip that he had always wanted to try jackfruit, and was disappointed to hear that they didn’t serve it.

He didn't even end up finishing his meal, telling the waiter that it was too chewy for his delicate teeth before sending it back and demanding a refund.

Abby had almost bit her tongue off when the waiter relayed the information to her,

but she was pretty certain she’d do it again if it meant she’d get just the slightest chance at helping to prepare something genuinely special.

And even though her station days are long behind her, and she can proudly call herself the Sous Chef of one of the most distinguished restaurants in all of Washington, Abby can’t get enough of the electric, tingling sensation in her fingers and cheeks when she’s told a customer is more than sincerely satisfied.

Which is, you think, precisely, unfortunately, why she hasn’t come to see you yet.

The kitchen is one of those places you’ve never been extraordinarily familiar with, so, when you’re led through the heavy double doors into what you’ve always thought of as ‘Abby’s domain’, you feel yourself freeze up a little.

It’s a lot of everything going on all at once, and while you’re definitely used to the chaos of a fast-paced workplace, something about these hastily moving bodies in white coats make you feel like an obstacle. Like one wrong step means toppling this delicate ecosystem.

You’re happy to see a familiar face in the form of Manny, who you’d met before at the dingy old bar Abby held her 23rd birthday at. He expertly ushers you around the surfaces and corners making up the room, and gives you a sympathetic look when you request the whereabouts of one Abby Anderson.

“Well, she kinda…went for a smoke and never came back? She was already a little—okay, a lot fired up, so we thought it was best to let her chill out for a moment.”

Ah, okay. That certainly explains it…

“Huh. Well, then. I’ll be right back. Down this hallway and through the back, you said?”

He gives you a nod and you’re promptly on your way, but not before thanking him and every other white hat in there for your unquestionably glorious dinner. Some of them smiled back at you and gave each other knowing glances, almost as if to say, “We told her so.”

The walk into the outdoors is a short one, and you catch sight of Abby, finally, after turning the corner and squinting your eyes a little, where she’s pressed up against the red brick of the restaurant, burning cigarette clutched between jittery fingers.

There’s your girl, you think, and lift up a bottle of white wine ceremoniously (You’d shoved it in your bag right before leaving, thinking that it could work as a little treat for you and Abby for the walk back to her place. This, though. This works, too).

“Hey, stranger!”

Abby’s head shoots up. Her eyes are a little puffy and the skin above her neck is all rosy and flushed, but you’d say she’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever laid eyes on. She shudders a little when she locks eyes with you. Takes a deep breath and stretches to her full height once you’re in front of her.

She can’t fight the watery smile that makes it to her features when you pluck the cigarette from her hand and place it to your own lips.

“So…you come here often, or–”

Abby erupts in laughter at that and pulls the wine from your grasp, unscrewing it and gulping down a mouthful of the stinging liquid.

“Jesus, fuck. That’s atrocious. Where’d you even get this?”

“It was like 90% off at the grocery store! It’s, like, totally organic and–”

“Fuckin awful, is what it is.”

“Pfft. Go fuck yourself.”

You breathe in, feeling the warm rush of nicotine move across your shoulders.

“So…” You start again, a little more hesitancy in your tone than before. It makes Abby’s stomach spin.

“...You’re out here and not in there with everyone else because of?”

You watch as she clears her throat and takes another hearty swig from the bottle.

When she turns to look at you, she thinks she might start crying.

You’ve got this look on your face that yells “You could never make me love you any less.” and suddenly, everything feels a whole lot smaller.

I’m being stupid so fuckin’ stupidstupidstupid–

“Manny said you’d been out here for a while, and I wasn’t sure what ‘a while’ meant? Like, 5 minutes or an hour or–”

Everything’s fine! Everything’s literally perfectly fine, it all turned out great, so what’s the problem?

“This place is, like, a maze within a maze, you know that? Just goes round and round and–oh!”

You’re cut off by the slump of Abby’s wide frame against your own. A comfortable, intimate happening, reminiscent of when the two of you would cuddle in your Queen bed after equally exhausting workdays. You adored when she held you close like this, but at the moment, it was just a tad concerning.

“You alright there, chef?”

A muffled “fuck off” is heard from against your shoulder and she holds you even tighter. The cold glass container is nudged into your lower back. You place a hand in her too-tight braid and let it unravel against the stroke of your fingertips. A few contented groans against your form later, and Abby feels strong enough to face you once more.

“Just…wanted you to like it. Always just want you to like it. Wanted to make it perfect for you.”

You let out a tiny laugh and she glares. Rather mildly, but it’s still a pointed stare.

“Oh, honey. You got yourself all worked up over me? How flattering!”

She rolled her eyes and turned away. Not that she didn’t love it when you teased her, but she was a little all over the place emotionally. You chased her with her hands, placing both arms around her waist and pulling her back into you.

“You know, everything was spectacular, right? Like, Hollywood spectacular. I felt like I was in fuckin’ Ratatouille–”

“You’re such a dick–”

“-which means that everything went so stupidly perfect. And I loved every little thing about it. So, really, the only thing you gotta worry about is how to top this next year, cause I have a few ideas.”

She tilts her head back towards you, and you know you’ve got her now.

“Like what?”

“Okay. How about…”

The wine bottle’s back in your hand, and, with a jerk of your head towards the open road, you spin around in front of her.

“...you and I go back to your place, we get wildly drunk, and I tell you everything that was going through my mind tonight?”

An almost shy gaze arises from the blonde and she looks down towards the kitchen entrance.

“Let me grab my things and then, it’s a date.”

Before she can leave, though, she presses a single, sugary sweet kiss to the middle of your forehead.

“Happy Anniversary, sweetheart.”

A grin from you.

“Happy Anniversary, honeybear.”

thank u for reading! and welcome to my new blog <3

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