Work Text:
“Six salmon all day!”
“Six salmon, oui chef!”
Crowley slams his fist on the line and leans forward to shout at the expeditor. “This squab is dying on the pass! Get it the fuck out of here!”
The flustered gentleman on the other side sputters as he scans the row of tickets hanging on the rail between him and Crowley. “I… Squab?”
“Jesus Christ! Squab! Yes! Cute little birdie! You said fire squab, I fired squab. Now get someone to run it!” He snatches up a ticket and throws it onto the pass. “Table thirteen. Why the fuck am I doing your job?!” His saucier snorts next to him and he whips his head to the side. “Best not call attention to yourself after that broken velouté. Fucking amateur hour.”
They drop their gaze and wipe a plate before sliding it toward Crowley. “Oui chef.”
The expeditor pushes the squab into a server’s hand seemingly at random. Picks up a ticket and stammers. “W-we… um. Table twenty never got their apps.”
He shrinks under Crowley’s glare. “Why the fuck. Am I just now hearing this?”
“I-I-I…”
Crowley grits his teeth. Sets a dish on the pass with more care than one would imagine he’d be able to muster with the veins popping in his forehead. “You what?”
“I didn’t realise…”
“Their mains just went out. Fuck! Get Aziraphale.” The expeditor stares at him with his mouth open. “Now!”
Crowley storms out of the kitchen and scans the tickets. Some hanging in the pass. Others on the counter below. It’s absolute disarray. He curses to himself before calling into the kitchen. “Beez, you’re running the pass. I’m taking over here.” He shouts over his shoulder. “Because this fucking twat can’t seem to figure it out.” He scowls. Shakes out his shoulders and finds Beez’s gaze. “We gotta get out of the weeds. Fire the salmon. We need a risotto and a pork belly.”
“Oui chef.” There’s a chorus of heard and oui throughout the kitchen as Crowley marks up the tickets and tries not to snap the pencil in half.
“Chef?”
Crowley whips around to find the General Manager standing patiently near the entry to the dining room. Or at least seemingly patiently. Crowley can tell by the clench of his jaw that front of house is just as much of a clusterfuck as his kitchen is right now. He almost feels bad for the bastard until he remembers that he’s the one that makes the front of house schedule. And therefore set him up for one hell of a dinner service.
Crowley jabs a finger toward the dining room. “That idiot you have on expo has been a bloody pain in my arse all night. And now he went and sent out mains before apps. Table twenty.” He snaps his fingers at a server lingering a respectable distance away. Grumbles at them under his breath as he sends out two salmon. When they’re over the threshold to the dining room Crowley snaps his attention back to Aziraphale. “And table thirteen got their squab late. It’s probably fucking cold by now.”
Aziraphale folds his hands and looks at him as if he were a misbehaving child instead of the Chef de Cuisine at one of the city’s hottest restaurants. “I’d appreciate it if you kept your voice down. Our guests don’t want to listen to your foul language while they’re enjoying their meal.”
The way Aziraphale speaks to him makes his chest and ears feel hot. He clenches his jaw and very intentionally doesn’t lower his voice. “Yeah, well I’d be willing to bet they’d let it slide if they got their fucking food on time.”
Aziraphale blinks slowly. Smiles in a way that tells Crowley he’s getting close to stepping on toes. “I’ll comp twenty. And bring a free bottle of our house red to thirteen. In the future, please don’t talk to my staff like that.”
Crowley’s never been afraid of stepping on toes. You don’t end up in his position at his age through pleasantries and patience. “In the future hire better staff. This is a Michelin-starred restaurant. There’s no excuse for tonight.”
“He’s doing his best.”
“Well tell him to do better. Or better yet, put someone competent on expo.”
Aziraphale doesn’t dignify Crowley with a response. He rolls his eyes and disappears back out to the floor.
Crowley turns back to the pass and snaps at Beez. “Last push. Let’s go.”
Crowley wipes down the stainless steel surface of a worktop until it shines. It feels quiet in the kitchen without the sizzle of sauté pans and clank of dishes. His crew scrubs and scours and mops in silence. The last push to get through their final seating was brutal. Crowley can’t remember the last time they floundered so badly. Even the pâtissier, normally meticulous in their details, served up lacklustre dessert courses. Crowley’s still seething when the door to the kitchen swings open and he finds himself staring down a tall blond. He stands upright and tosses his towel over his shoulder.
Crowley glowers. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
His station chefs glance around nervously. Aziraphale might wear a smile more often than not, but everyone in the restaurant knows the score. Same way they know that Crowley might scream his head off during service but will be the first person to walk that poor expo through keeping things organised so he doesn’t lose his job.
Aziraphale isn’t smiling now. He raises a brow. “I think we need to discuss tonight’s service.”
Crowley nods to Beez. “I’ll finish up. Go ahead. Get outta here.”
Beez and the rest of the kitchen crew shuffle toward the exit quickly before Crowley changes his mind.
Crowley crosses his arms over his chest. "Well? Out with it."
Aziraphale’s voice has lost that calm cadence that he uses during service. He’s not nearly as quiet either. "You need to let me handle my own staff."
Crowley’s voice rises to meet him. "Yeah? Well maybe you should handle them then."
Aziraphale takes a step forward. "Screaming might work in the kitchen, but that's not how I run my crew. A little patience…"
Crowley steps forward too. "Well excuse me for losing my patience when I have to step out of my kitchen…"
"I could have taken care of it."
"Well next time maybe you should. And then I wouldn’t have to do your fucking job for you."
Aziraphale steps forward again. Crowley can feel his breath ghost over his face with each word. "You can be so fucking irritating, you know that right?"
"Look. I run a tight ship. You know I do. And sometimes that requires being fucking irritating. But this whole thing only works if your people are working with my people. We'll sink if we can't keep this arrangement running smoothly."
"I think they're all gone now."
Crowley looks over his shoulder. Leans to the side and peeks through the pass. "Thank fucking Christ." He fists his hand in Aziraphale's shirt and yanks him forward until their lips meet. Aziraphale doesn't resist. He stumbles forward and gets his hands on Crowley’s arse. Groans as Crowley drags his mouth to his jaw.
"That service was a fucking disaster."
Crowley slips away Aziraphale’s ridiculous bowtie and pops the button at his collar. "That expo was a fucking disaster."
"That velouté was a fucking disaster."
Crowley laughs against Aziraphale's throat. Pulls away to lean against the worktop he'd been cleaning when Aziraphale walked in. "Such a fucking disaster."
Aziraphale pushes Crowley up onto the table. Squeezes his hips and drags him flush against his chest. He narrows his eyes at Crowley.
"Really though. Don't fucking talk to my staff like that."
Crowley smirks at the irritated look on Aziraphale's face. Runs his fingers through his hair and watches it spring up in wild coils. "God I love it when you blow off steam."
Aziraphale pretends to ignore him, but Crowley catches the glint to his eye. The hint of a smile. That's how this always goes, after all. What started, months ago now, with an after-hours blowup, ended with Crowley pressed up against the door of the walk-in. They “resolved their differences” and the next service went off without a hitch. Now, when the shit hits the fan, it's practically Pavlovian. Crowley’s been turned on since he saw that clenched jaw. At this point he’s not even sure that they aren't throwing off service now and again just to have an excuse to end up here.
Crowley's right shoe hits the ground and Aziraphale snorts. "Those things are ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous." Crowley lifts his hips and lets Aziraphale pull his trousers down his thighs.
"I'm on my feet all fucking day, Aziraphale."
"So am I, and you don't see me wearing toddler shoes to work."
Crowley pulls his foot out of the elastic waistband and hooks it around the back of Aziraphale's thigh. Yanks him forward and grabs for his belt. "I get here way before you. Besides... front of house?" He snorts. "Puh-lease. You sit on that pretty little arse and taste the new menu with the staff while I'm breaking down half a cow."
Aziraphale’s hands run up Crowley’s thighs and then creep between them. His teeth drag over Crowley’s throat.
"It's not my fault..." Aziraphale grunts as Crowley gets his hand around him and pulls him out the front of his slacks. "Not my fault you don't trust anyone enough to do it for you. Let your fucking sous chef do their job for once."
"I'm not gonna be one of those… Hah hng! Fuck!" Crowley didn't even see the lube. Wasn't expecting those wandering fingers to dive right in so soon. He grips Aziraphale by the elbow and pushes them in deeper. Rocks his hips down for even more. Maybe he’s blowing off a little steam too.
Aziraphale smirks. Quirks his fingers so that Crowley curses again. "You were saying?"
Cheeky bastard.
"Was saying…" Crowley leans back. Drops Aziraphale’s arm and braces his palm on the cool metal worktop for leverage to rock forward onto him again. "Fuck… what was I saying?"
Aziraphale pushes Crowley’s chef coat up to his collarbones and kisses a nipple. Pauses only long enough to help him out. "Sous chef?"
"Right! I'm not gonna… gonna be one of those guys that stops cooking. Ya know? Just because…" his chin drops forward as Aziraphale really starts to pump his fingers. "Goddamn… Um. Uh. Just… just because I have the title."
Aziraphale pops his lips off the nipple he’s been sucking into a swollen peak. "You're just stubborn."
Crowley’s sure he has an argument prepared for that, but he loses track of it as Aziraphale pulls him forward and kisses him. He’s soft and hot and such a fucking bastard that Crowley’s not sure why they usually only do this at work after a bad shift. Crowley’s eyes fall closed as Aziraphale’s tongue slips between his lips. Then open again and roll back into his head as he nips at him.
Aziraphale’s hips twitch up into Crowley’s fist where he’s been stroking him slowly. He’s awfully composed for how hard he is. Crowley squeezes tighter to feel every velvet inch of him. The slide of Aziraphale’s cock against his palm makes Crowley groan.
"Fucking… God will you just fuck me already?"
Aziraphale's hand spreads across the small of Crowley’s back, broad and warm, to steady him as he withdraws his fingers. Crowley stares into the space between them as he lines up Aziraphale's cock and tries to urge him forward.
Aziraphale pulls his hips back an inch. "Slow down, God you're so impatient."
Crowley tugs him forward again with the leg still wrapped around his thigh. "Hurry the fuck up then." Aziraphale fumbles in his pocket and produces a sample-sized packet of lube. Takes the corner in his teeth and rips it.
"Where the fuck did you get that?"
Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "After the whole olive oil incident I thought it prudent to be more prepared."
"Worked fine, didn't it?"
"I read up on it afterwards, did you know…"
"Oh Jesus fuck, I don't want to know. Not right now. Give me that." He snatches the packet and squirts it inelegantly onto Aziraphale's flushed cock.
"Oi! You're getting it everywhere!"
"Kind of the fucking point." Crowley squeezes with his legs and pulls Aziraphale forward and, finally, into him. Aziraphale stumbles on his feet. Catches himself on the edge of the table and somehow still has the wherewithal to draw Crowley forward with his hand on his back.
For a moment it's actually quiet in the kitchen. Nothing but the sound of laboured breathing as Aziraphale grips Crowley's thigh and thrusts into him.
Crowley's the one to break the silence. "I want… I want you to expedite tomorrow."
"Crowley, I can't." Crowley starts to speak and Aziraphale muffles him with another kiss. Takes his mouth slow and deep. Ebbs and flows with the rhythm of his hips. Crowley lets him. But the moment Aziraphale pulls away he's continuing with what he wanted to say. Albeit with more tremor in his voice than before.
"You aren't a host, Aziraphale. Let someone else greet the guests."
"I have standards to uphold, Crowley. A first impression is important."
"Yeah? Well so is getting their food to them. Instead of… whatever the fuck happened tonight." Crowley’s slick fingers leave damp spots on Aziraphale’s shirt where he grips his shoulder. It makes him shudder. Nothing gets him hotter than mussing up that picture-perfect facade that Aziraphale curates so carefully. Knowing that Aziraphale is letting him.
Aziraphale bends his knees. Tilts his hips to fuck Crowley the way they both know has the best odds of making him forget how sentences work. It makes his own voice come out stilted. Punctuated by his increasingly laboured breathing.
"I'm not expediting. I'm General Manager, Crowley, I need to be on the floor."
Crowley groans. Half with irritation and half because the angle is working the way Aziraphale clearly wants it to. "Why?!"
"Because… I just do."
"Now who's being stubborn?"
"I'm not being…"
"I don't work with anyone in this place the way I work with you. You're the only one, Aziraphale…" He drops his gaze. They both know what he isn't quite saying.
Aziraphale slows his hips. Brushes Crowley's hair back and kisses him again. "Fine. Tomorrow. For you." Crowley sinks his teeth into his bottom lip to try to tame his smile. "But only if you let your sous chef take the lead on prep."
Crowley tangles his fingers in the curls at the nape of Aziraphale's neck. "Deal."
Aziraphale smiles. Leans back and starts to thrust harder again.
"Oh, fuck yeah…" Crowley's foot, still clad in a molded foam clog, finds the metal rack behind Aziraphale and braces against it. He panics for a moment that he's able to. It must surely be against code, such a narrow space. He shelves it for later as Aziraphale grips his thigh. Holds it close to his hip and fucks him faster. Crowley presses a palm against the table. Grips Aziraphale’s neck with the other. Pushes and pulls at the same time until his arse lifts off the surface entirely and he can thrust his hips forward to meet Aziraphale.
"Oh God, Angel…" He always slips when he's close. Always lets that humiliating little endearment out. If his station chefs could hear him now, voice a trembling, breathy whisper. About to beg the holier than thou General Manager to touch him. "Please…"
Aziraphale grins. Draws his hand out from under Crowley's white coat and wraps it around his aching cock. "I love it when you're polite."
Crowley's mouth drops open as he strokes him firmly. The corners tilt up. "P-please and thank you…"
"Fuck…" Aziraphale laughs as his palm slides up and cradles Crowley under his arse, his forearm running the length of his thigh. Each time that he thrusts forward he rocks Crowley back down onto him harder. The fingers Crowley still has tangled up in Aziraphale's hair clench tighter. His heel presses into Aziraphale's thigh. The stainless steel legs of the worktop screech against the floor and the rack at Aziraphale's back shudders under Crowley's foot as they move together. A cambro topples off the shelf beneath the table Crowley’s perched on and he spares a passing thought for what else he's going to have to clean up rather shortly.
Crowley's thighs squeeze. He loses the coordination to keep meeting Aziraphale's thrusts. Another container spills beneath them as Crowley's hand gives and he lands back on the table while Aziraphale fucks into him, driving them both toward release. Still gripping his arse hard enough to leave fingerprints behind. There's a bright point of pleasure deep in Crowley’s groin that smolders for just a moment before bursting out in all directions at once.
As he spills over Aziraphale's fist he feels Aziraphale pulsing inside him too. Filling him up with his heat and sending him quaking with sensation. Their bodies lurch against one another. Their movements falter. Crowley's pulse nearly drowns out the ragged moans coming from Aziraphale's mouth.
Crowley slumps. Rests his forehead on Aziraphale's chest and watches it rise and fall with his breathing. It takes him a moment to realise his hand is still on the back of Aziraphale's head, stroking his hair and scratching at his scalp absentmindedly.
"I'm gonna have to start writing thank-you notes if being polite gets me fucked like that."
Aziraphale sneaks his hand back under his coat and runs his palm up and down his back until Crowley finally raises his face to look at him again. Crowley groans quietly at the sight. Aziraphale’s cheeks are pink and his hair is a right mess. Those barely tamed curls now sticking in every direction. He tilts his head to the side and smiles shyly at the look Crowley is levelling at him.
"You could just buy me breakfast instead."
Crowley laughs. Sits up the rest of the way and scrunches his face as he lifts up and off of Aziraphale's cock. "Breakfast? It's midnight." He cringes at the mess that they leave on the worktop as Aziraphale slips out of him. Imagines the citations they would get if there were surprise inspections at this hour.
"I didn't mean tonight."
His eyes snap up. Sanitary measures now the furthest thing from his mind. "Oh?"
Aziraphale holds his trousers up around his hips and steps away only so far as he needs to grab a towel lying next to the cooktop.
"I thought… maybe you'd like to come back to mine?"
Crowley watches as Aziraphale wipes his hand and then his cock. They've been doing this for a while but rarely see each other outside of the restaurant. There was the time at the bar with the crew. Then the supply store to pick out new tableware that satisfied both of their rather particular aesthetics. The first had led to fucking. The second most certainly had not. Ironic, now that Crowley thinks about it.
"Your place?"
"Only if you want."
"Like… staying over? In your bed?"
"I hear that's actually where most people have sex, you know?"
Aziraphale hands Crowley the towel and stoops to pick up the shoe that had tumbled away when he'd wrenched it off Crowley's foot earlier. While he's there he guides Crowley's leg through the waistband of his trousers and pulls them up to his knees as Crowley cleans up the mess between his legs. He sticks the Croc onto Crowley's foot with a barely veiled scowl.
"Is that what you want then? More sex?"
As Crowley slides off the table Aziraphale steadies him with a palm on his waist.
"No. Well… yeah. But. I thought we could… talk." He drops his gaze and mumbles and Crowley's not sure he's ever been so infatuated with him. "Cuddle."
Crowley grabs him by the front of the shirt as he tries to turn away. His cheeks ache, he’s smiling so broadly. "Oh my God. You like me."
Aziraphale forces a frown. "Do not."
Crowley walks his hands up Aziraphale’s chest and lets them hang over his shoulders. "You want… you want to be with me."
His frown wavers. He puts his arms around Crowley’s waist. "I didn't say that."
"The staff is going to mutiny when they find out we're doing more than just fucking after hours."
Aziraphale’s frown returns. He glances around the empty kitchen. "I'm going to table that for later..."
"Second thing you've tabled tonight…"
"I'm about to rescind my invitation." His hands fall from Crowley’s waist and Crowley wiggles closer with a laugh. He clasps his hand around his wrist behind Aziraphale’s neck to keep him in place.
"Ok, ok. I'm sorry."
Aziraphale’s arms slip back around Crowley. "Is that a yes then?"
"Yeah. That's a yes."
"Crowley?"
"Yeah?"
"You're not wearing those stupid fucking shoes in my home."
"Oh Angel...” He dips his face and kisses his throat. “I'll have you wearing them by the end of the night."