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Jean-Phillipe did not cook.
It wasn’t like he couldn’t. Or even that he didn’t want to. Nothing like that. In fact, the Belgian thought he could whip up quite the chicons au gratin if he ever had a day off just to relax and roll up his sleeves.
No, you see, Jean-Phillipe did not cook, because Gordon Ramsay refused to let him.
“That looks lovely, darling,” Gordon hummed, plucking the knife out of JP’s fingers before the man could even register his presence beside him. “Let me, yeah?”
The stove top wasn’t even switched on yet.
“Gordon.” Jean-Phillipe’s voice was just a touch too strained.
He tried to be as quiet as he could that morning, waking up much earlier than the Scot just to prepare the ingredients in absolute silence. He had laid out the eggs and crème fraiche and all that other scrumptious stuff he had watched Gordon prepare a million times before. He even stayed up to the wee hours of morning, just replaying the instructional YouTube video and then tip-toeing around the kitchen with sinister breakfast plans in mind.
But Gordon’s cooking detector was much too strong. He seemed to have an internal alarm clock, triggered by the slightest buzz of activity near any cooktop in sight.
“Let me cook, mon cheri,” JP gave him a tight smile that implored the chef to take a break already. “You can relax, no?”
Gordon tilted his head, his tuft of messy blonde hair flopping in suit. “What? Oh come on, I’m fine, I’m not tired at all!” With firm hands on Jean-Phillipe’s shoulders, he inserted himself between his partner and the stove, flicking on the fire to high heat. “It’ll be quick, won’t it?” He grinned, cracking eggs effortlessly with his right hand and patting the mushroom heads dry with kitchen towels on his left. “Couple’a minutes. High heat. Whisking–,”
“Continuously.” JP cut in, finishing the sentence with a clipped voice. He quirked up an eyebrow in what could only be described as mild annoyance, which, by the way, was pretty extreme on the Belgian’s part. “I know, Gordon. So, let me do it, ah? I know how to cook scrambled eggs, oui?”
“I mean, I know you know,” Gordon laughed, oblivious to the growing exasperation that was colouring the tanned skin of JP’s cheeks a rosy pink. “It’s just some fucking eggs, innit?” He placed a hand on the small of the other man’s back in assurance, “You’re probably better than all those fucking Hell’s Kitchen donkeys. And a lot of restaurants—if you call those shitholes that, anyway.” He added after some consideration and a look of distaste about something too dry, and yet still raw, flashing across his face.
Jean-Phillipe’s problem laid in the operative word “probably”.
He pursed his lips. Gordon would probably know that the Belgian was pretty good at cooking morning eggs if he just let him cook once in a while.
“Get the veg there, will you?” Gordon pointed to the corner of the counter, where the lettuce leaves JP had already washed and dried and chopped sat in all its glittering glory.
“Yes, chef,” JP said habitually, before realising that he should be the one tossing the splendidly sliced lettuce (if he did say so himself), and not the Scot manning the stove—even if he was already eighty percent through breakfast completion.
“I mean–,”JP tried, but the chef was steering his ship and the clattering sound of silverware and glass bowls was amplifying with each second.
“Gordon–,”
But the man never could stop talking once he was on the roll. “Ooh, the carrots came in yesterday, yes? Bottom shelf. Back of the cupboard. Get them, will yo–,”
“Non!”
Jean-Phillipe immediately covered his mouth, absolutely aghast.
Who knew Saturday-JP was capable of such a tone?
Gordon was a little surprised to say the least. He even stopped whisking (just for a second though). “Cheri,” he frowned, “Ca va?”
Jean-Phillipe took a deep breath. Gordon always spoke French when the Belgian was distressed, and JP let the calm lull of his native tongue soothe his brain, which was still muddled from the clamour of beating whisks and roaring fires and cookbook narrations.
He really should’ve slept last night.
“Excusez-moi,” The Belgian cleared his throat, smoothing down his sleeping shirt which was somehow still perfectly wrinkle-free despite it only being eight in the morning. “It’s just– You know– I–,” His translation brain was not working right now.
Gordon didn’t usually have it in him to keep his mouth shut and not fidget. Being the wiry ball of too-much-energy that he is, and after decades of fast-paced kitchen environments, it was difficult to not always be looking around, adjusting things—making sure everything was right and in place and ready.
But, at the sight of JP, he laid the whisk on its side (taking the pan off the heat first, of course) and bent down to look into the eyes of Jean-Phillipe’s glumly hanging head. The Belgian appeared much too tired for his liking.
“God, JP, you look exhausted.” Gordon knew the both of them were overworked, but damn. JP looked as if he hadn’t slept at all the past week. He crossed his arms, brows furrowing, “Comment as-tu dormi? Did you get a wink in at all?”
JP gave a sigh. “Non,” He admitted, now regretting it and vowing to uninstall the YouTube app from his phone. “Je voulais te préparer un repas. You always cook breakfast, no? So I also wanted...”He trailed off, right hand limply indicating to the pan.
“Oh.”
Neither Gordon nor Jean-Phillipe looked at the platter of already gorgeously cooked scrambled eggs and bowl of tossed salad that laid on the countertop beside them.
Gordon thought about his next words carefully—an act of consideration reserved only for Masterchef juniors and cute, tired Belgians who couldn’t get a word in edgewise when Chef Ramsay was in the kitchen.
“Sorry, JP, I, uh, I love cooking for you, you know? I want to cook for you forever.” He only felt the heat of embarrassment after he said that corny line, but he smiled nervously like a schoolboy and meant every word. “You know that, yes?” He repeated it in French this time. Just in case. “Je veux cuisiner pour toi pour toujours.”
Well, that just isn’t fair.
Jean-Phillipe found himself smiling too much. His cheeks hurt trying to fight against the natural upturn of his lips, considering that Gordon all but confessed his eternal love. And in French, nonetheless. But he was supposed to be mad at the man.
Ah well.
“I know, Gordon, I know,” JP sighed, twiddling his perfectly manicured fingers and picking at non-existent dust on his shirt. “It’s just– you have been so tired lately, non? I want to be able to give you a break sometimes.”
The ridiculousness of that statement made the Scot gawk.
“What? Me?” He placed two hands on the sides of Jean-Phillipe’s head, looking right into his eyes. “You’re the one who looks like a fucking racoon! God, those bags under your eyes are a fucking nightmare. You should be the one taking a break!”
“You are not serious?” The Belgian looked incredulously at Gordon, swatting away at his hands. “Tu plaisantes! You always stay up so late, non? You cook all day, and work all night, you never rest.”
“Oh, I don’t rest?” Gordon looked pointedly at his maître d’. “Right, okay, and who exactly was the one re-folding all the bloody tablecloths last night? And the night before?”
He made a quick mental note to punish the Blue Team even further for not meeting JP’s standards yet again.
“And don’t pretend you didn’t stay up all night doing some fucking paperwork or something.” Before Jean-Phillipe could retort, he gave a firm nod of his head, “That’s right, I saw you, four in the morning on the fucking balcony, typing away on that bloody laptop of yours. What could be so important at four in the fucking–,”
“I was watching you!” The Belgian huffed, finally allowing himself to interrupt the man who spoke five hundred miles a minute.
Gordon blinked. “Huh?”
Jean-Phillipe, now feeling strangely shy, crossed his arms. “I was learning your scrambled eggs last night, ah? Watching your video again and again. To cook.”
He met the Scot’s gaze.
“For you. Juste pour vous.”
A smile bubbled on Gordon’s lips.
And then a startled chuckle.
Next thing you know, he was laughing, and JP was confused, and Gordon’s arms were around the Belgian, in a strong, relieved embrace that even the agitated Jean-Phillipe let himself melt into (after a string of protestations in French, of course).
Why didn’t Gordon notice it sooner? Of course JP was going to be fucking worried—even if his maître d’ worked as hard (if not harder) than he did.
It was bad enough that the Belgian witnessed his ever-increasing blood pressure on a nightly basis during dinner service. And with the Channel 4 contract renewal negotiations looming over him, Gordon was stumbling to bed at 4am to a very anxious looking Jean-Phillipe every day, only to get up a few hours later to once again scream out his lungs at some shit-for-brains who couldn’t cook a risotto to save a life.
Gordon took a second to look around.
Really, look around.
He considered how beautifully laid out the glass bowls were, and the perfectly measured ingredients, arranged systematically in the order the recipe called for.
He looked at the bunch of heirloom tomatoes still stuck to the stem, just how he liked it, and the kitchen top that sparkled.
Sometimes, Jean-Phillipe’s angelic nature still astounded him.
“God, you’re a doughnut.” Gordon sighed, knocking his forehead against the other man’s, who frowned at his teasing. “And I’m a fucking dumbass, too, right?”
JP tilted his head.
Well.
He didn’t exactly disagree.
“Right, I promise.” And Gordon took Jean-Phillipe’s hands. “We’ll cook breakfast tomorrow. Together, yeah?”
JP looked taken aback, but pleasantly so.
“But,” Gordon continued, “You have to promise that you’ll stop inspecting Hell’s Kitchen till—fucking, I don’t know—2am every night.”
Jean-Phillipe might have argued against that (there was always so much to do, after all), but he relented with a request of his own. “Then, you will leave your office before 2am, too, okay?”
Gordon grimaced, thinking about all those stacks of paperwork that gave him a fucking migraine every time he looked at them. Maybe he should be leaving the office sooner.
Gordon sucked in a breath. “Fine.”
“Fine.” JP repeated. And he smiled that wonderful smile of his that crinkled the corners of his eyes and absolutely brightened the room.
Gordon couldn’t help but grin.
The two of them stood there for a while, almost completely still, finally realising that today was a rest day. That today was supposed to be the two of them taking a break, together. For the first time that month, JP felt his shoulders loosen just a touch.
“Let’s eat now?” Jean-Phillipe asked, indicating to the dining table where he had already laid out the glistening silverware and poured the orange juice (freshly squeezed, of course). Gordon was hungry, all right, but he’d rather get fucking stabbed than serve JP, of all people, lukewarm eggs.
“No, it’s cold, now,” He complained, because his chef’s hat was never too far away. “And it’s like rubber.” Gordon poked at the dish, choosing to leave out the fact that the eggs only got this way because they had a distracting conversation—an important one, but distracting, nonetheless—in the middle of his whisking. “Three minutes, I’ll restart, yeah?”
JP nodded, rolling his eyes fondly. He had no right to judge considering that half of the time he spent that morning preparing for breakfast was actually dedicated to the polishing of cutlery.
They were both pain in the necks in their own way.
“Oui, chef,” Jean-Phillipe teased, tightening the ribbon of his apron. “I will prepare more mushrooms, ah?”
But Gordon was already distracted, and in a flash, already whisking. Again. “Oh no, you can just sit, yeah? And get comfor–,”
“Gordon.”
JP folded his arms across his chest. Did he already forget the last two seconds? (Yes.)
The Scot winced, scrubbing a hand down his face. He smiled sheepishly at the Belgian, who gave him a pointed look.
“Sorry.”