Chapter Text
"How long on the shrimp?"
"They're usually like a couple inches, chef."
Pietro realises his mistake almost immediately after the words leave his mouth, but silence is descending in the kitchen before he can correct himself. The rest of the staff fail at looking like they're not listening as the chef rounds on his junior and looks up at him, eyes narrowed.
"Get my box."
"Oh shit." Someone comments, quiet and extremely unhelpful in the middle of dinner service. Pietro swallows hard and goes to the large sinks, pulling out the empty apple box and taking it back to the red-faced chef.
"Steve—"
"My. Box."
The little guy isn't backing down, so Pietro reluctantly sets the box on the floor in front of his grease-splattered shoes, upside-down. Steve steps up on it determinedly, bringing him up to eye level with Pietro, who braces himself for what's about to come. He gets the full wrath of chef-on-a-box more than anyone else, and it's never fun.
Steve doesn't disappoint when he explodes.
"When I ask you how long on the goddamn shrimp, I mean how long have you been standing around with your thumb up your ass when I have three tables waiting for their appetisers! I don't mean how many inches bigger than your dick they are!" For such a small, frail-looking guy, the chef has a serious pair of lungs fuelling his dirty mouth. "You've fucked up eight fuckin' times during this service! You're never working fish again, do you understand me?!"
"Yes, chef." Pietro ducks his head and nods, because there's no arguing with the head chef once the box comes out, and he's also given a pretty fair evaluation of his crappy performance tonight.
"One more service like this and you're getting Barton's job." Steve throws the threat around too often for it to be serious, but they're all slightly afraid that one day he'll follow through and actually demote someone to dishwasher. "Now shape the fuck up."
"Yes, chef."
With that, Steve steps down off his box and the kitchen comes alive again. It's all well and good to take a pause for the entertainment of seeing someone get screamed at by an unusually small man on a box, but there are still over fifty covers in the works and every ingredient is too expensive to burn or spoil because they're too busy watching Steve do his best Gordon Ramsey. Some of these dishes cost more than their average rent, although the intimidation factor mostly wore off a long time ago.
The only intimidating thing left in the kitchen is Steve. Who always gets significantly more exacting and irritable when food is sent back to the kitchen. Especially when that food is delivered by the head waiter, who he just happens to have a massive personality conflict with.
Steve thinks Bucky Barnes is a smarmy, greasy jerk, and he stopped trying to hide his opinion a long time ago. After around the second day they worked together, probably.
"I need another filet mignon. Table five says it's overdone." In front of customers, Barnes is the epitome of professionalism and elegance, even managing to make his slick hair bun look classy above his black uniform. In the kitchen, however, he and Steve butt heads like they're in a back alley brawl. He shoves the returned plate unceremoniously onto the serving counter, because he never has any goddamn respect for the kitchen. "C'mon Rogers, this is the second time this week."
"You wanna come back here and make it yourself, asshole? The ticket said medium." Steve yanks the plate through the service window and glares at the beef like he wants to char it with the force of his anger. "That's not overdone. What the fuck does he want, bloody?"
"Hell if I know, he just said it's fuckin' overdone." Bucky peers through the window and smirks at the general mood in the kitchen. "Did you get on the box again?"
"Fuck you." The new filet is already in production, because Steve's team are the best even if he has to kick them into line now and then, and Steve is hot and sweaty and really not in the mood for Barnes' snarky shit. "Tell Nat I'm keeping this back for her when she gets off shift."
"You only bribe her with shit because you want server gossip." He leans on the serving counter, which is violating about five of Steve's strict rules of conduct at once, and pulls out one of his most charming smiles that Steve knows are just produced to piss him off. "How come you never keep fancy shit back for me, huh?"
"Because you're literally the world's worst waiter and I want you to get fired two years ago." Steve huffs, studiously ignoring the way the kitchen staff near him look like they're trying not to laugh. For some reason they find his and Bucky's rocky relationship amusing, in spite of all the broken plates it inspires. "I'll ring the ticket when it's done, there's no point in standing there doing nothing."
"I mean, I do get to look at your ass if I stand here, so…"
"Leave. Immediately." He's pretty sure his face is red again, and Steve points jerkily at the exit without looking up from his plating. If he fucks up these violet petals twice in one day then he'll never hear the end of it from the rest of the kitchen, and he's not going to let Bucky fucking Barnes put him in the pool for buying everyone drinks after work.
It's part of what makes Barnes so fucking irritating to Steve, the fact that the guy constantly pretends to flirt with him in an effort to distract him while he's working. Steve's job is stressful, no matter how much he thrives on the pace and pressure of that hot, cramped environment, and he really doesn't appreciate the distraction while he's dealing with knives that could cut his finger off in a heartbeat. He's got more scars and burns than he cares to count from Bucky's little forays into the kitchen, and he doesn't intend to add to that collection.
And if part of the reason he gets so distracted is because he kind of thinks the greasy bastard is charming and handsome, then he's not going to admit to it. He's too busy for that kind of shit.
The rest of service passes in a tightly-controlled blur. Barton smashes two plates, which the superstitious kitchen crew take as a good omen, and despite a burned finger or two things go as smoothly as they ever do. None of the other dishes are sent back to the kitchen, and at the end of service the manager, Pepper, comes back to let them know that everything was well-received. It's a standard night, and standard is always good in their business because it means nothing went horribly wrong.
The staff stays well past closing, as always. Steve helps the rest of the team get the kitchen straight for the following morning and eats midnight dinner with Natasha, who gives him all the gossip from the bar that night. It's almost two in the morning by the time they shut up shop and all the servers and cooks go home, walking their familiar, hazy routes to bed through the November Brooklyn chill. They could walk home with their eyes closed by the second month on the job, and most of them frequently have. Dinner service is long and arduous, but the adrenaline rush is worth it.
Steve manages to brush his teeth and take a piss, eyes shut against the sandpaper feeling that hours of heat and bright lights have caused. He forces himself to pull his clothes off before he collapses into bed, the smell of old cooking oil clinging to his pillow when he shoves his face into it because he can't remember the last time he had time to change the sheets. He'll probably dream about cooking, he's lived and breathed it for so long that it frequently worms its way into his subconscious, but that's preferable to the other thing he's been dreaming about lately.
Crashing hard and fast, the last conscious thought in his exhausted brain is that he will not dream about Bucky fucking Barnes. He refuses.
That goes about as well as Pietro cooking fish, obviously.