Cops Prefer Croissants, 2/3
Dec. 6th, 2011 08:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: Cops Prefer Croissants
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: PG
Pairing: Monroe/Nick
Summary: Bakery!AU. Monroe runs a bakery, Nick is clueless.
Notes: IMPORTANT: I'm ret-conning my own fic, because apparently it has a plot now. Who knew? Anyway, for the instances of this chapter, assume that Monroe doesn't know Nick is a cop.
Chapter One: Bakers Prefer Biscotti
“I’m giving baking lessons?” Monroe repeated, eyebrows disappearing into the mop of hair on top of his head. It was bushier and more tangled than its usual wont, as he had spent another sleepless night experimenting with red velvet cupcakes—dammit, dammit, dammit--and ended up with a counter full of something that was emphatically not red velvet cupcakes and may not have even been food. It was composed of food ingredients, but could definitely make a strong case of plausible deniability if someone ever accused it of being edible.
“You’re giving baking lessons,” Juliette confirmed as she tacked another flyer up on the window. He trailed after her to the counter, watching as she put up another one of the neon yellow signs in his window.
“Why am I giving baking lessons?”
“Because tuition went up and I need a raise. Also, you need new aprons.”
Monroe put his hands protectively on the knot of his favorite apron, a beige one with the “Periodic Bagel” on it. “There’s nothing wrong with my aprons. I hate giving baking lessons. If I teach people to bake, they won’t buy my food anymore. Are you sure you’ve thought this through? This is a terrible plan.”
“It’s a great plan,” Juliette corrected. Wu nodded in agreement behind her, munching on a slice of coffee cake and reading the latest Terry Pratchett novel. She beamed at him. “See, Wu agrees!”
“Wu just doesn’t want me to shout at him for eating the treats made for the customers only,” he shouted pointedly, somehow not surprised when Wu ignored him. He got no respect around here. He turned to face Juliette again. “Remember how I used to be the Big Bad Boss? And you all respected and feared me? Weren’t those good times? Can’t we go back to those times?”
“There was never such a time,” Juliette said with a pitying look on his face. She patted his cheek. “Cheer up! It’ll be fun, I promise. And you don’t have to teach them to bake well, just give them the basics. How about teaching people to make eclairs?”
“Most people don't even know what eclairs are. They keep calling them 'long johns', the heathens. I’m not teaching a class full of people who microwave their dinners how to bake them.”
“Fine, how about those raspberry tarts you like so well?”
He thought about it. They weren’t that complicated, and it took a lot of skill to fold them just right, which meant he would have more opportunities to give a fake smile and pat them on the head and tell them, “Good job!” the way parents praise their spawn’s latest attempts at drawing a realistic dog. It was one of his few pleasures in life, really, making fun of people who didn’t know what they were doing in the kitchen.
“Fine,” he said with a sigh, “But only because you’ll nag me incessantly if I don’t.”
Juliette smiled at him like he was a dog who had just learned a new trick. “You’re learning!”
The important thing that Juliette entirely neglected to mention was that only one person had signed up for the class—a cute young guy with big gray eyes and, “Oh, for God’s sakes, what are you doing here?”
“Uh, baking class?” Nick asked, holding up a flyer. “Your barista threatened to cut off my coffee supply unless I signed up for it.”
Which pretty much confirmed what Monroe had always suspected: Juliette was a secret genius. All this time he thought she was one of his team, the Bakers and Coffeemakers Team, holding out against the world with him, when really she was a traitor just waiting to sink the knife into his back. He should have known when she insisted on only wearing the black apron. Only villains wore black.
“Will you excuse me for one moment?”
Without waiting for an answer, he fled into the main room, where Juliette was sneaking out the door, just like a supervillainess would.
“Halt!” he said in a commanding voice. Juliette’s hand froze on the handle. He stalked toward her. “Why is there only one man in my baking class? The one who ordered the Cupcakes Which Shall Not Be Named and the one you said was cute?”
Juliette turned around, her expression appallingly not guilty. “You would make a cute couple,” she shrugged. “Wu and I talked about it and this seemed like a great way to get you together. Think about it. You two alone, you holding him in your arms to show him how to fold the dough just right so that the raspberry filling oozes out—”
Monroe held up a hand. “No! There will be no talk of oozing!” He grabbed her arm and led her further away, hissing, “You don’t even know he’s gay!”
“Oh, he’s gay,” she said, with a knowing look that implied she did, in fact, know he was gay and probably could name all of his favorite songs, his previous partners, and what he did on the weekends to relax. She probably could. Juliette had strange and mystical powers which were not meant for the minds of men to know. “He’s definitely gay. And what are you doing out here?” She checked her watch and pushed him toward the door. “He’s waiting for you. He’s going to think you don’t like him! Go forth and make wild, passionate ferret-y love!”
“I don’t think ferrets make wild, passionate love!” he shouted back at her through the door. He turned to see Nick still sitting at a counter, his expression vaguely trapped.
“Uh,” Nick said intelligently.
“That made sense in context, I promise,” Monroe assured him.
“That’s kind of what I was afraid of,” Nick said, but it was with a smile, so Monroe figured he was okay and not wondering if the tall baker with the unbrushed hair was going to kidnap him or something.
“Right. Well, there will be no further talk of ferrets, because this is Baking 101,” he barked. He rolled up his sleeves, not at all showing off the toned muscles of his forearms from years of kneading stiff dough, and tied his apron securely around him. “Today we make raspberry tarts.”
“I thought you were showing how to make eclairs?” Nick wrinkled his nose. “That’s what your barista said.”
“She lied. She does that a lot. I’ve been trying to beat it out of her, but she refuses to be cowed.”
“Ah.”
“Raspberry tarts: what do you know about them. Go.”
“Uh, they’re… good?”
Monroe stared at him, appalled. “Good? That’s it? You can’t even muster up an adjective better than ‘good’?”
Nick shrugged. “Delicious?”
“Better,” Monroe admitted grudgingly. “A little prosaic, but definitely an improvement over ‘good’.”
“I’ll bring my thesaurus next time,” Nick said, and Monroe was forced to re-evaluate his former assumption that the man was all sugar and may actually have a little bit of spice to him. He mentally slapped himself for entertaining the thought. Bad baker, he told himself sternly, do not listen to Juliette. She is clearly evil, remember?
“Have you ever baked before?” he asked to distract himself, pulling out the assorted ingredients needed. Nick watched him with fascination as he unerringly discovered the grater tucked away behind a stash of mixing bowls, the spices that were organized by an arcane system known only to Monroe, and the essentials needed for the dough and filling.
“My aunt and I used to make cookies and stuff sometimes.”
“Was she any good?”
“The best,” Nick said with a smile that faded as he looked at the counter. “She passed away recently.”
“Oh,” Monroe shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Cancer, you know?” Nick looked up at him again. “Honestly, even if your barista hadn’t threatened me, I probably would have signed up for this class. Plus, she’s, um, kind of scary.”
“Your aunt?”
“Your barista,” Nick corrected.
Monroe nodded. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. She does that to everybody. You don't get used to it."
An hour later, Monroe was surprised to find himself actually enjoying Nick’s company. The man had a wicked sense of humor underneath that butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth façade and when Monroe snapped at him for doing something wrong, he gave as good as he got. It was… kind of hot, honestly, and he wasn’t talking about the ovens preheating.
He peered over the shoulder of his only student, who was delicately folding the dough into a criss-cross pattern on top.
“That’s pretty good,” he grudgingly admitted. “Though you want to make sure to tuck the ends in so that it doesn’t come apart in the oven.”
He tried not to stare as Nick bit his lip in concentration, agile fingers deftly tucking the soft dough into position. Nick sighed. “Can you show me? I can’t seem to get that part right.”
Steadfastly ignoring his inner Juliette voice, which was cackling in glee right now, Monroe stepped behind Nick and guided his hands. He had made these so many times that it was second-nature to him by now, but slowing it down and showing Nick how to get them just right so that the presentation was pretty and functional, Nick's hands held loosely in Monroe's own, his warm body leaning against Monroe’s chest, his ass pressed tight against his--
He coughed and took a step back. “Looks like you got it.”
“Thanks,” Nick said, and he did something weird with his eyelashes. Was that a smolder? He had never seen one up close, only read about them, but Monroe could swear that was a smolder. It looked just as hot as those cheap paperback romances that Juliette occasionally left and Monroe most certainly did not read made it out to be.
Monroe panicked. It wasn’t something he did often, but like a smolder, apparently he knew it when he saw it. “I, um. I was wondering if you’d like,” and dammit, why was this so hard to get out? “I was wondering if you’d like to get some coffee.”
“Uh, sure, I’d love some,” Nick replied, looking somewhat confused. Monroe could have slapped himself. Coffee? Really? At a coffee house? Way to go, Monroe!
“I’ll just go get some,” he fled the scene to gather his thoughts. As the coffee machine bubbled cheerfully, completely ignorant of his current plight, he lightly banged his head on the wall beside him.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid. So much for the universal pseudo-date. Buck up, Monroe. Ask him out on a proper date.”
After his pep talk, he poured the coffee into two mugs and returned. He set one of them down and was about to clarify his previously botched attempt at romance when Nick took a deep, appreciative sniff of the coffee and let out a tiny little moan that did horrible, wonderful things to Monroe’s insides.
He did not whimper, but he would have liked to.
“My partner and I love your place,” Nick said with a smile. “He’s going to be bugging me to make these all the time now.”
Partner, Monroe’s mind repeated, like he hadn’t heard it clearly the first time, thank you, brain.
“Oh,” he said, trying to keep his disappointment out of his voice. “Is he—”
What was he going to finish that sentence with? “Is he okay with you sleeping with the baker of the place?”. He could feel himself starting to panic again, and like his one aborted attempt at chocolate dipped lemon drops, disappointment and panic really didn’t mix.
Nick finished for him, thankfully. “Hank? You’ve probably seen him. He’s about this tall,” he gestured somewhere a few inches above his own head, “comes in and orders the sweetest thing off the menu?”
Monroe remembered. The man was handsome, with a deep voice that sounded like melted chocolate. They probably looked great together, Hank’s arm wrapped around Nick’s waist, his smooth voice mixing with Nick’s softer one. Monroe didn’t have a snowcone's chance in an oven.
“Yeah,” he said dully. “I remember him. Well, cooking class is over, so I guess you’d better get home.”
Nick looked confused at being rushed out, and honestly, Monroe felt a tiny bit of a heel for doing it, but seriously, he couldn’t take waiting around for the cutesy “how they met” stories coming out and when their anniversary was and what bed and breakfast they were going to celebrate. He hated that stuff from normal couples, much less a guy who he had nearly made an ass out of himself to just a few minutes ago.
He looked expectantly at Nick, who gathered up his things and left, shooting him odd looks as he went.
Staring at the mess they had created while laughing and doing what Monroe was reasonably sure could be called flirting, he felt an overwhelming apathy toward cleaning it all up. Morose, he washed one of the mixing bowls and found a recipe for red velvet cupcakes in one of his cookbooks.
If he was going to be disappointed, he might as well be disappointed at something he actually had a shot at.
Chapter Three: Lovers Prefer Lemon Tarts
Author:
tripatchRating: PG
Pairing: Monroe/Nick
Summary: Bakery!AU. Monroe runs a bakery, Nick is clueless.
Notes: IMPORTANT: I'm ret-conning my own fic, because apparently it has a plot now. Who knew? Anyway, for the instances of this chapter, assume that Monroe doesn't know Nick is a cop.
Chapter One: Bakers Prefer Biscotti
“I’m giving baking lessons?” Monroe repeated, eyebrows disappearing into the mop of hair on top of his head. It was bushier and more tangled than its usual wont, as he had spent another sleepless night experimenting with red velvet cupcakes—dammit, dammit, dammit--and ended up with a counter full of something that was emphatically not red velvet cupcakes and may not have even been food. It was composed of food ingredients, but could definitely make a strong case of plausible deniability if someone ever accused it of being edible.
“You’re giving baking lessons,” Juliette confirmed as she tacked another flyer up on the window. He trailed after her to the counter, watching as she put up another one of the neon yellow signs in his window.
“Why am I giving baking lessons?”
“Because tuition went up and I need a raise. Also, you need new aprons.”
Monroe put his hands protectively on the knot of his favorite apron, a beige one with the “Periodic Bagel” on it. “There’s nothing wrong with my aprons. I hate giving baking lessons. If I teach people to bake, they won’t buy my food anymore. Are you sure you’ve thought this through? This is a terrible plan.”
“It’s a great plan,” Juliette corrected. Wu nodded in agreement behind her, munching on a slice of coffee cake and reading the latest Terry Pratchett novel. She beamed at him. “See, Wu agrees!”
“Wu just doesn’t want me to shout at him for eating the treats made for the customers only,” he shouted pointedly, somehow not surprised when Wu ignored him. He got no respect around here. He turned to face Juliette again. “Remember how I used to be the Big Bad Boss? And you all respected and feared me? Weren’t those good times? Can’t we go back to those times?”
“There was never such a time,” Juliette said with a pitying look on his face. She patted his cheek. “Cheer up! It’ll be fun, I promise. And you don’t have to teach them to bake well, just give them the basics. How about teaching people to make eclairs?”
“Most people don't even know what eclairs are. They keep calling them 'long johns', the heathens. I’m not teaching a class full of people who microwave their dinners how to bake them.”
“Fine, how about those raspberry tarts you like so well?”
He thought about it. They weren’t that complicated, and it took a lot of skill to fold them just right, which meant he would have more opportunities to give a fake smile and pat them on the head and tell them, “Good job!” the way parents praise their spawn’s latest attempts at drawing a realistic dog. It was one of his few pleasures in life, really, making fun of people who didn’t know what they were doing in the kitchen.
“Fine,” he said with a sigh, “But only because you’ll nag me incessantly if I don’t.”
Juliette smiled at him like he was a dog who had just learned a new trick. “You’re learning!”
The important thing that Juliette entirely neglected to mention was that only one person had signed up for the class—a cute young guy with big gray eyes and, “Oh, for God’s sakes, what are you doing here?”
“Uh, baking class?” Nick asked, holding up a flyer. “Your barista threatened to cut off my coffee supply unless I signed up for it.”
Which pretty much confirmed what Monroe had always suspected: Juliette was a secret genius. All this time he thought she was one of his team, the Bakers and Coffeemakers Team, holding out against the world with him, when really she was a traitor just waiting to sink the knife into his back. He should have known when she insisted on only wearing the black apron. Only villains wore black.
“Will you excuse me for one moment?”
Without waiting for an answer, he fled into the main room, where Juliette was sneaking out the door, just like a supervillainess would.
“Halt!” he said in a commanding voice. Juliette’s hand froze on the handle. He stalked toward her. “Why is there only one man in my baking class? The one who ordered the Cupcakes Which Shall Not Be Named and the one you said was cute?”
Juliette turned around, her expression appallingly not guilty. “You would make a cute couple,” she shrugged. “Wu and I talked about it and this seemed like a great way to get you together. Think about it. You two alone, you holding him in your arms to show him how to fold the dough just right so that the raspberry filling oozes out—”
Monroe held up a hand. “No! There will be no talk of oozing!” He grabbed her arm and led her further away, hissing, “You don’t even know he’s gay!”
“Oh, he’s gay,” she said, with a knowing look that implied she did, in fact, know he was gay and probably could name all of his favorite songs, his previous partners, and what he did on the weekends to relax. She probably could. Juliette had strange and mystical powers which were not meant for the minds of men to know. “He’s definitely gay. And what are you doing out here?” She checked her watch and pushed him toward the door. “He’s waiting for you. He’s going to think you don’t like him! Go forth and make wild, passionate ferret-y love!”
“I don’t think ferrets make wild, passionate love!” he shouted back at her through the door. He turned to see Nick still sitting at a counter, his expression vaguely trapped.
“Uh,” Nick said intelligently.
“That made sense in context, I promise,” Monroe assured him.
“That’s kind of what I was afraid of,” Nick said, but it was with a smile, so Monroe figured he was okay and not wondering if the tall baker with the unbrushed hair was going to kidnap him or something.
“Right. Well, there will be no further talk of ferrets, because this is Baking 101,” he barked. He rolled up his sleeves, not at all showing off the toned muscles of his forearms from years of kneading stiff dough, and tied his apron securely around him. “Today we make raspberry tarts.”
“I thought you were showing how to make eclairs?” Nick wrinkled his nose. “That’s what your barista said.”
“She lied. She does that a lot. I’ve been trying to beat it out of her, but she refuses to be cowed.”
“Ah.”
“Raspberry tarts: what do you know about them. Go.”
“Uh, they’re… good?”
Monroe stared at him, appalled. “Good? That’s it? You can’t even muster up an adjective better than ‘good’?”
Nick shrugged. “Delicious?”
“Better,” Monroe admitted grudgingly. “A little prosaic, but definitely an improvement over ‘good’.”
“I’ll bring my thesaurus next time,” Nick said, and Monroe was forced to re-evaluate his former assumption that the man was all sugar and may actually have a little bit of spice to him. He mentally slapped himself for entertaining the thought. Bad baker, he told himself sternly, do not listen to Juliette. She is clearly evil, remember?
“Have you ever baked before?” he asked to distract himself, pulling out the assorted ingredients needed. Nick watched him with fascination as he unerringly discovered the grater tucked away behind a stash of mixing bowls, the spices that were organized by an arcane system known only to Monroe, and the essentials needed for the dough and filling.
“My aunt and I used to make cookies and stuff sometimes.”
“Was she any good?”
“The best,” Nick said with a smile that faded as he looked at the counter. “She passed away recently.”
“Oh,” Monroe shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Cancer, you know?” Nick looked up at him again. “Honestly, even if your barista hadn’t threatened me, I probably would have signed up for this class. Plus, she’s, um, kind of scary.”
“Your aunt?”
“Your barista,” Nick corrected.
Monroe nodded. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. She does that to everybody. You don't get used to it."
An hour later, Monroe was surprised to find himself actually enjoying Nick’s company. The man had a wicked sense of humor underneath that butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth façade and when Monroe snapped at him for doing something wrong, he gave as good as he got. It was… kind of hot, honestly, and he wasn’t talking about the ovens preheating.
He peered over the shoulder of his only student, who was delicately folding the dough into a criss-cross pattern on top.
“That’s pretty good,” he grudgingly admitted. “Though you want to make sure to tuck the ends in so that it doesn’t come apart in the oven.”
He tried not to stare as Nick bit his lip in concentration, agile fingers deftly tucking the soft dough into position. Nick sighed. “Can you show me? I can’t seem to get that part right.”
Steadfastly ignoring his inner Juliette voice, which was cackling in glee right now, Monroe stepped behind Nick and guided his hands. He had made these so many times that it was second-nature to him by now, but slowing it down and showing Nick how to get them just right so that the presentation was pretty and functional, Nick's hands held loosely in Monroe's own, his warm body leaning against Monroe’s chest, his ass pressed tight against his--
He coughed and took a step back. “Looks like you got it.”
“Thanks,” Nick said, and he did something weird with his eyelashes. Was that a smolder? He had never seen one up close, only read about them, but Monroe could swear that was a smolder. It looked just as hot as those cheap paperback romances that Juliette occasionally left and Monroe most certainly did not read made it out to be.
Monroe panicked. It wasn’t something he did often, but like a smolder, apparently he knew it when he saw it. “I, um. I was wondering if you’d like,” and dammit, why was this so hard to get out? “I was wondering if you’d like to get some coffee.”
“Uh, sure, I’d love some,” Nick replied, looking somewhat confused. Monroe could have slapped himself. Coffee? Really? At a coffee house? Way to go, Monroe!
“I’ll just go get some,” he fled the scene to gather his thoughts. As the coffee machine bubbled cheerfully, completely ignorant of his current plight, he lightly banged his head on the wall beside him.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid. So much for the universal pseudo-date. Buck up, Monroe. Ask him out on a proper date.”
After his pep talk, he poured the coffee into two mugs and returned. He set one of them down and was about to clarify his previously botched attempt at romance when Nick took a deep, appreciative sniff of the coffee and let out a tiny little moan that did horrible, wonderful things to Monroe’s insides.
He did not whimper, but he would have liked to.
“My partner and I love your place,” Nick said with a smile. “He’s going to be bugging me to make these all the time now.”
Partner, Monroe’s mind repeated, like he hadn’t heard it clearly the first time, thank you, brain.
“Oh,” he said, trying to keep his disappointment out of his voice. “Is he—”
What was he going to finish that sentence with? “Is he okay with you sleeping with the baker of the place?”. He could feel himself starting to panic again, and like his one aborted attempt at chocolate dipped lemon drops, disappointment and panic really didn’t mix.
Nick finished for him, thankfully. “Hank? You’ve probably seen him. He’s about this tall,” he gestured somewhere a few inches above his own head, “comes in and orders the sweetest thing off the menu?”
Monroe remembered. The man was handsome, with a deep voice that sounded like melted chocolate. They probably looked great together, Hank’s arm wrapped around Nick’s waist, his smooth voice mixing with Nick’s softer one. Monroe didn’t have a snowcone's chance in an oven.
“Yeah,” he said dully. “I remember him. Well, cooking class is over, so I guess you’d better get home.”
Nick looked confused at being rushed out, and honestly, Monroe felt a tiny bit of a heel for doing it, but seriously, he couldn’t take waiting around for the cutesy “how they met” stories coming out and when their anniversary was and what bed and breakfast they were going to celebrate. He hated that stuff from normal couples, much less a guy who he had nearly made an ass out of himself to just a few minutes ago.
He looked expectantly at Nick, who gathered up his things and left, shooting him odd looks as he went.
Staring at the mess they had created while laughing and doing what Monroe was reasonably sure could be called flirting, he felt an overwhelming apathy toward cleaning it all up. Morose, he washed one of the mixing bowls and found a recipe for red velvet cupcakes in one of his cookbooks.
If he was going to be disappointed, he might as well be disappointed at something he actually had a shot at.
Chapter Three: Lovers Prefer Lemon Tarts
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-14 04:05 pm (UTC)Loving this fic :D
(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-14 04:17 pm (UTC)Thanks!