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"Fine Dining"Written By: Dentelle_noir Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing AC or the
characters. GW belongs to Bandai, Sotsu and associated parties. This
is a work of fiction and written for fun, not profit Rating: PG 13 Warnings: fluff. No warnings to speak of. Written
for Lemon Advent 2006! Pairings: 3x4 Summary: The other servers were trying to get
rid of Trowa, the newest server at Huître , so they made him
take their most difficult patron. " Fine Dining" Trowa wasn’t sure why he put up with this shit. Yes, he needed a job over Christmas break. Sure, the tips were incredible compared to his and Cathy’s diner, and Sure, he had been flattered to be chosen to be a server at Huître, the most pompous, stiff, elegant, and all together hoity toity-est restaurant in the town. All of that had been a part of the decision to take the job. But he had had enough. He had thought that Fine Dining was fun when he took it as a requisite for his restaurant management program, but in practice he hated every god damn second. He was paid, incredibly well, to stand beside a table perfectly straight with a towel across his arm so he could immediately satisfy any whim a diner may have. He was not to speak to said diner past near-silent affirmations or to-the-point memorized explanations. He was not to leave his post physically nor mentally. He was to wear the blinding white and cardboard starched tuxedo shirt, immaculately cared for dinner jacket (with tails), and perfectly crisp, pleated pants at all times while in the restaurant. He was, to be blunt, perfectly miserable. He had only taken the job on a temporary basis, temporary being all that Huître would hire, since he was sure their regular servers had been in the business since Moses parted the sea. Through the vast wall of perfectly windexed glass (he knew, because he did it last night at 2am) Trowa could see the beautiful sparkles of Christmas lights from the nearby stores and homes twinkling, but not a speck of snow could be seen. It was almost Christmas, 2 weeks and counting, and not a flake had graced the sky. Trowa hadn’t realized how much he loved the snow until it was missing. A rather disdainful cough from the table beside him caught his attention. The dining man was looking at him quite pointedly from his opulently upholstered chair. Trowa had been caught staring out the window. He would have turned on his charm, smiled, and made a joke to the customer (which always worked back home) but he was quite forbidden to do such a thing as show a personality there! So he did nothing. The man gestured subtlety to his partially empty wine glass and Trowa quickly filled it for him and his lady (who looked to be at least 30 years younger then him, and quite content with her ropes of pearls and diamond so big Trowa wondered if holding it caused her wrist injury) without a word. When they finally finished dinner they left almost $40 for a tip since he was being, ‘quite generous in the holiday season’ then preceded to tell the Maitre d’ about his charity to the ‘absent minded server’. Trowa never bothered to hide his eye rolls. Half of that went to the kitchen staff, and then three quarters of the leftover went to the Maitre d’, the seating attendant, and the other many random people milling about, plus a bit deducted from his portion only to his ‘supervising’ server, who was supposedly ‘training’ Trowa. By the end of it all the tips were only marginally better then what he made at the diner and he felt 100x better about himself there. With that last complaint the other servers gleefully informed him that if he screwed up once more they were within rights to fire his ass. It was a cutthroat, backstabbing, hierarchical snake nest behind the scenes of Huître that Trowa was more than willing to let go of.
To the shock of his life, he found David. Mr. Winner was no older than Trowa was, and he had the face of an angel. The notoriously irritable patron had angel-soft blonde hair, sky-blue eyes and was constructed of nothing but slim, elegant archs draped in Armani. But the moment of romance was quickly squashed when he saw the man growl, literally growl, at the seating attendant for pulling out his chair wrong, and snatched the offending piece of furniture back from the startled man. The maitre d’ walked over to the table, Trowa silently following along behind him, to roll off the restaurant’s most renowned dishes. They all sounded pompous and unappetizing to Trowa. It seemed they did to Mr. Winner as well, since he stared Pierre down and then acquiesced to whatever the next thing he said was. Which was some fancy Chicken dish Trowa had thought was disgusting but at least came with the Leek and Potato soup (which was named something fancy and different, of course. That was just what they had called it at Trowa’s Diner). Pierre then left Trowa to fend for himself with the grouchy Mr. Winner and hoped for a disaster of gossip proportions. “This place has the worst food.” Mr. Winner said, to himself it seemed, but obviously meant for Trowa to overhear. ‘Then why do you bother coming?’ Wanted to shoot out of his mouth, but he stopped it just in time and managed to keep his emotionless face firmly on. Mr. Winner huffed angrily and took a few sips of his wine. “I don’t like this wine” He scoffed, looking pointedly into Trowa’s eyes. All his training said to demurely bow and avoid confrontational eye contact. Trowa, instead, lifted a brow in cocky satisfaction. Knowing he was fired anyway, he decided to make his last table worthwhile. “That’s a 1988 Chardonnay. It’s one of our best wines. What would you rather?” Trowa was breaking about a dozen rules, but he really didn’t care for the challenging look in the blonde CEO’s eyes. The blonde perked right up and leaned his elbows on the table to gaze intimidating at the server, “How about something more currant? Why can’t I have something from this year?” “That would be grape juice.” Trowa retorted automatically. At least it was quietly so the other servers hadn’t carted his ass out the back door just yet. The blonde grinned from ear to ear, probably celebrating getting another waiter thrown out. Trowa was expecting the blonde to hail Pierre and demand Trowa’s immediate dismissal for being such a smart ass. Instead, the blonde continued, “As tempting as that sounds, perhaps you’d like to suggest your favorite?” The blonde asked, reclining back in his chair to a posture that was even more powerful, if Trowa was any judge. It reminded him of the evil Villain in Inspector Gadget cartoons. All he needed was the cat. So his (lack-of) taste in wine wasn’t picked apart by the sharp business man, Trowa decided to be an even bigger smart-ass and throw some of his diner-charm into it, “I much prefer Pepsi. But, of course, all they have in this place is Coke.” The blonde suddenly began to laugh, his stern, cold face melting away to a bright smile. It was the most handsome thing Trowa had ever seen in that restaurant. The soup arrived via another server and the blonde was suddenly Mr. Winner again, his face back to the critical, detached look of before. After glaring at the too-slow server, Mr. Winner had him gone and took a few spoons of the perfectly presented Soup. He scowled and began to push it away. “Take out the ridiculous sprig of whatever and break up crackers into it, Mr. Winner.” Trowa found himself saying. Mr. Winner paused, raising a brow to the server. He pulled the bowl back towards himself and fished out the garnish to drop onto a napkin and sent Trowa for the afore-mentioned crackers. Within a few moments Trowa was back and was trying to decide if he should discreetly place them by the patron’s side or break the crackers up into it for him, since a gentleman would not be seen breaking up crackers into a soup! The Maitre d’ shot him an annoyed look as he crossed the floor and the decision was made for him. Trowa tossed the crackers onto the table haphazardly and took his position standing at attention. The blonde broke his own crackers into the soup, under the aghast look of the manager and Maitre d’, and then took a few bites. “It’s Quatre.” He said. Trowa frowned, trying to understand his random logic. The blonde gave a little smile, his face taking on that handsome warmth as he spoke, “My name is Quatre. Only my Minions and Stock Holders call me Mr. Winner.” The Head Waiter sauntered over, another server of Trowa’s position slinking along behind him, obviously about to pull Trowa out of there and kick him to the curb. “And how is everything today?” He asked, an almost malicious glint in his eyes as he waited for the notoriously bad-tempered patron to give him an opportunity. Quatre lifted a brow and surveyed the little congregation around his table, “It was horrible until this wonderful waiter suggested the crackers. Now it’s good. But I want a Pepsi.” Rodger practically choked on his double-chin, his jaw dropped so fast. “Trowa, Why don’t you find Mr. Winner his Pepsi Cola please?” The head waiter intoned, looking ready to throttle him behind his chubby face and pretentious spectacles. “No, No. Why don’t you handle that Roger, I want to make sure I get a Pepsi, and not a Coke. I wouldn’t trust that to any one but you. Leave Trowa here.” Quatre ordered, Trowa biting his lips so hard to keep from bursting with laughter. The two slinked away dejected, Roger threatening bloody murder with his eyes. “Don’t die now.” Quatre smiled sarcastically, “You want to live to see the rest of this. I have only just begun to fight.” Trowa let out a brief laugh, unable to keep from turning blue if he hadn’t. “I think he deserves it.” Trowa whispered, trying to respect the other diners around them. The main meal arrived incredibly quickly and Quatre took a few bites out of it before giving it up, “any clever tricks for this one, Trowa?” Trowa lifted a brow, “Nope. You’re on your own with that.” Quatre proceeded to cover the chicken in pepper until the little black granules flaked off in piles. He took a few more bites out of it, then gave up the goat. “The food here is terrible.” “Then why do you come?” Trowa actually asked, honestly interested now instead of cynical. Quatre answered with a subtle groan, “Because I’m a CEO of a multi national company.” Trowa immediately felt a brush of the pain the blonde must feel, having to stuff himself into an ill-fitting mold day after day. “So what.” Trowa finally answered, “You’re a CEO, so eat where you want..” Quatre smiled ruefully, “I tried once. I didn’t even know the first place to start. I ended up at Coquine in the east end.” That place was even fancier and more pompous than there! No wonder Quatre was bored with the over-done high caliber meals. “When was the last time you had a burger?” Trowa couldn’t help but ask. Quatre laughed that happy smiling laugh that made him turn radiant. Trowa had a sinking feeling that he was building a bit of a crush on the blonde man. Quatre didn’t order desert, nor did he even take another bite of his dinner. Robert finally returned with a stemless wine glass filled with Pepsi. Quatre took a few sips and simply asked for his bill. Trowa didn’t know what the blonde CEO said to the Maitre D’, but Trowa wasn’t fired, even though he was told not to go near a table again without express permission. Then he was told to come into work again the next night. And called in the night after that, and the night after that. He never did anything but wait on Quatre. Sure, Quatre left a huge enough tip that Trowa couldn’t complain, but Trowa found himself going into work, not for the money, but just to see a little more of Quatre. He was far more interesting then the bland snow-less winter landscape. But as the little escapade turned into a habit over the next week, Trowa began to hate the routine. What we wanted was to talk with him where he didn’t have to worry about decorum and the angle of his towel-arm to the floor, for God’s sake. It was the fifth night of this insanity, a Tuesday which Trowa had booked off for an exam, that everything finally blew up. Uncramping his fingers from the hour and a half of writing, Trowa turned his cell phone on to find over a dozen massages. They started with “You are wanted at the restaurant tonight” and slowly progressed to, “You had better pick up this phone and get into work!” and the last one, made just two minutes earlier was a frantic “I don’t care if you are dead, get your corpse into work NOW, Barton, or I will personally make sure you and your family will never work in this town, hell, in this STATE ever again!” Trowa called back, the relief was so obvious in Pierre’s voice that it made Trowa reconsider his decision... for a split second. “I am not coming in to work.” Trowa stated clearly and then hung up. The air was biting as he climbed out of his jeep a few minutes later in front of Huître. And, as he expected, through the wall-like window Trowa could see Pierre was personally trying to calm down a very pissed off blonde CEO. He didn’t even bother to check his hair before he stormed in. His worn jeans and faded blue T-shirt under a black zip sweater were a clear and offending violation to the dress code, but no one even tried to stop him. He made it to Quatre’s table, the centre of the escalating ruckus, and lifted his voice to regular volume (something he had yet to be able to do there), “What is the problem!” All the waiters stopped their hissed placations and tuned to look, almost disgusted, at Trowa. Quatre blinked in surprise, then his eyes began to cloud over in fury “They said you weren’t coming. You promised yesterday that you would be here, you liar!” Quatre’s voice was strong and sharp, but Trowa could see the underlying hurt at being stood up and lied to in his eyes. Trowa huffed moodily, “I told them I wasn’t coming into Work. I promised that I would See you today, not that I would serve you.” Trowa waited with baited breath. Quatre’s reply to that would mean Trowa had been absolutely right, or that he had made a fool out of himself and the entire restaurant. Slowly, as the words and their meaning began to sink in, that radiant smile of his began to grow and light up his face. A little pink dusted his cheeks, “You came all the way here from an Exam just to see me?”. Trowa had never heard the blonde sound so flattered. Trowa remembered to do it to him more often; it suited him. “Nope,” Trowa corrected, grinning from ear to ear, “I came all the way here to take you out to dinner. A real dinner.” And he held out a hand. Without a second glance Quatre grabbed Trowa’s hand, smiling radiantly. Trowa held on tight and turned away from the pack of superficial, pompous servers and flew out of the restaurant, Quatre laughing madly behind him all the way to his Jeep. Trowa shifted into drive and peeled out of the parking lot as fast as he could, the two of them laughing and howling wildly as they sped down the road towards Trowa’s Diner. Inside the diner a Christmas tree was glowing invitingly through the many windows into the small homey establishment. Catherine busily ran around from table to table smiling brightly with her snowflake earrings dangling madly and glinting from the Christmas lights blinking all around. Trowa parked the jeep and walked around to open Quatre’s door, but was met halfway by a demonstratively capable CEO. “This place looks wonderful!” Quatre breathed, taking in the smattering of regulars inside enjoying the plates of turkey dinner and stuffed-full sandwiches to the sounds of laughter and conversation. He was blushing and bright again. Trowa felt his heart warm just watching Quatre take everything in. Freedom, and maybe Love. There was nothing more Trowa could want for Christmas. “Wanna go inside with me?” Trowa asked, “I make a mean hot chocolate?” “Absolutely,” Quatre replied, blushing gently at Trowa’s smile. Above the two of them, the first crystal of snow formed and began to drift towards the ground. It was going to be a picture perfect Christmas.
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