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killingkueen · 6 years

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Mr. Cluck’s Chicken Kitchen

Just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? This is a make-up RSS gift for @itschippedcup. It was fun being your adoptive Santa!

The prompt was: Undercover boss, Mr. Clucks, Love, and I, uh, managed to fill the first two pretty well. This went in a weird direction.

Sorry you got stuck with me. Enjoy!

Rated T for some cursing and a scuffle.

Summary: It’s the last night of filming with the mysterious Weaver, so of course things don’t go as planned for Belle.

“And what do you think about the CEO?”

“The CEO?” Ruby frowned at the plastic wrap she was pulling off the containers of lettuce and tomato. “Of Mr. Cluck’s?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Cluck’s.” Jefferson smiled, showing all his teeth. Ruby pretended to think about it (as if she had a opinion in the first place). Jefferson was surprisingly easy to rile up, though, for all he tried to act like the suave Hollywood producer he absolutely wasn’t.

“I don’t,” Ruby said finally, with a shrug.

“You don’t,” he repeated, tonelessly.

“Well he’s not exactly Steve Jobs.”

“And what does that mean?”

“I don’t know anything about the CEO. Why would I?” Ruby popped her hip, making a show of balling up the plastic and throwing it in the bin. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s some crusty old white guy who just sits around wondering how to best exploit his plebeian workers. It’s not even his signature on my check.”

“You have direct deposit.”

“Exactly.” She shrugged. “I don’t care who runs the company. Seriously, who does?” She reached inside the sandwich station, transferring the empty condiment containers for the new. “Like, that’s such a random question, Jeff. Why would you even ask it?”

“What can I say? I have my script.”

“I thought the point of reality TV was that it was unscripted,” said a voice behind them.

“Belle! Just the woman I wanted to see.”

“Ruby, after you’re done here could you run to the back and grab more medium cups?” Belle said, ignoring Jefferson. “Then go ahead and take your break, so we’ll have all our bases covered for the dinner rush.”

“Please tell me I’m not on window.”

“You’re on window.”

“Belle! Come on!” She groaned.

“What’s bad about working at the window?” Jeff jumped in.

“The drive-thru window,” Ruby grumbled. “Complete with the freaking cold, impatient people, and Keith.”

“We have to…accomodate.” To her credit, Belle did look sorry.

“Ugh, I don’t want to work with Keith. You know what he did last time? He ranked every single woman that came through on fuckability. First how they sounded through the headset, and then how they looked when they pulled forward. He’s so gross.”

“Watch your language,” Belle chided.

“Oh, we can edit that.” Jeff waved his hand.

Belle sighed as she rubbed at her temples. Only one more night, only one more night, she thought to herself. “I’m sorry Ruby, but we’re bare-boned because of the film crew, and you have the fastest times, plus with Weaver—”

“Yeah, yeah, the big star of the show.” Her eyes rolled so hard Belle was sure they’d pop out of her head. “And you’ll be ‘training’ him tonight, too, hmmm? Aren’t we past the hand holding yet?”

“Actually,” Jefferson said, “we want him put on front register tonight. We’ve gotten enough footage of him stumbling around like a blind lamb, burning the fries and messing up the sandwich orders. Now we’d like to see him crash and burn when actually interacting with the customers.”

Ruby turned large, pleading eyes to the producer. “Jefferson, if you want drama and chaos, put him on window.”

“Drama and chaos, hmmm?”

“Jefferson, I won’t tell you how hilarious it will be to watch him try to balance drinks and food at once, or how slow he’s going to be on the computer, or even how he’s going to butt heads with Keith because both are controlling assholes—”

“Ruby,” Belle warned.

“—I don’t need to tell you, because you are going to see it all and more, because Weaver is working window.”

Jefferson raised his eyebrows, his expression going slightly manic. He looked around at where Weaver, said Big Star of the Show, was currently elbow deep in soapy water at the dishwashing station.

“He’ll be disappointed not to be working with blue eyes here, though.”

“I knew it!” Ruby said. “This is for a dating show!”

Jefferson laughed. “It really isn’t.”

“Come on, Jeff,” she said, batting her eyes. “You can tell me. We’ve made it a whole week without guessing what the show is.”

“Hey, I’ve lasted this long, I’m not about to spill the beans now. You’ll find out with the rest of the world, when we debut in the fall.”

“Lame.” Her eyes drifted over to Weaver, to his short, greying hair and blue jeans. She had overheard him telling Belle that his hair was much longer before he had agreed to do the reality show—apparently it was a deal-breaker if he had to wear a hairnet or even pull it back so he cut it all off instead. It was a conviction that she could admire, even if he was sort of a jerk who seemed to only be nice to Belle. His ass looked good in the standard uniform blue jeans, though, and he was meticulous about his shirt staying clean. He wore glasses with thin, gold frames, and sometimes Ruby would see him flinch, or shake his head, like he forgot he was wearing them.

Or, well, whatever. There was something so weird about him, which Ruby would have noticed anyway, even if cameras and microphones hadn’t been set up around the back of her lame after-school job. And Jefferson wouldn’t even tell her why.

“I bet he’s a millionaire looking for love,” she said as Weaver started taking the dishes from the top of the drying rack (dishes were the only thing he didn’t curse at).

“Ruby, please.” Belle sighed.

“I see the way he looks at you, you know. It’s some Romeo and Juliet shit. And you’re always the one being filmed with him.”

“Ruby, take your break.”

“Who is flyer than my love? The sun be a jealous ho who is no match.”

“‘The all-seeing sun ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.’” Belle corrected. “And that’s a quote about Rosaline, not Juliet. Also, how cliche can you get?”

“God, you would know it, you nerd.” She handed Belle the old containers, rolling her eyes as she did so.

“And you said my questions were weird and specific, and here you are, quoting Shakespeare.”

Ruby stuck her tongue out at Jefferson. “I’m studying it in school right now. Sue me.”

“Ruby, I am begging you—”

“Alright, alright.” She flounced to the register to sign out. “I’m not working window, though.”

“I agree,” Jeff said, turning to Belle with his wide, manic smile.

“Fine.” She threw up her arms, annoyed despite herself. “Weaver’s on window. Ruby, you’re front.”

Ruby cackled, even as she blew them a kiss. “I’ll see you babes in ten minutes.”

Belle turned back to Jefferson. “That means all the antics you had lined up aren’t going to work.”

He shrugged easily, pulling out a cell phone and tapping his messenger app. “Oh, that won’t be a problem at all. So, Belle,” Jefferson said, one eye on the screen. “That’s the third break that Ruby’s taken today. Why is that?”

“I’ve already explained this.”

Jefferson gestured to the camera, pinned to the metal shelf above them, the red indicator light glowing a reminder that no one has had any privacy in the past week.

With a sigh, Belle looked directly into the lense. “It’s company policy for any employee of Mr. Cluck’s Chicken Kitchen to be given one thirty-minute break for any shift that exceeds six hours. Since Ruby is a minor, she must be given an additional ten-minute break for every two hours she works, under Maine’s child labour laws.”

“You’re killing me, Belle.”

“I’m going to tell Weaver that he’s on window tonight.”

“Belle, I’m sorry for the switching, I know you were looking fo-”

“Whatever, Jefferson.”

“This really isn’t a dating show and I have plenty footage of you two together—“

“Not a big deal, Jefferson,” she said walking away.

Belle turned on her heel, moving past the fryers and heat lamps, into the deeper part of the back, where the washing station stood next to the freezer. The stockroom was across from there, and she made a mental note to grab medium cups after talking to Weaver, since Ruby hadn’t.

He was currently hosing down the cutting board. Belle slipped the containers she carried into the soapy water.

“I thought the point of fast food was to not have dishes,” Weaver said.

He had been making similar statements to her all week; what do you mean there’s no delete button on the registers, what do you mean Ruby is the only high schooler working here, what do you mean we have to wash dishes.

“There’s no solution in the cold bath,” Belle said, looking across him to the end of the large sink.

Weaver looked at her, then down to the clear water. They could see to the bottom, the metal shiny. The sink itself was actually pretty spotless, considering Weaver had been back here for the last past hour or so. If nothing else, Belle was going to miss him for keeping his stations clean.

“Excuse me?” he asked, eyeing her like he was trying to decide if she was pulling his leg.

Belle pointed to the blue lever above the three sectioned sink, turned to the left. “I’ve explained this to you three times, Weaver.”

“So explain it again,” he huffed. The tips of his ears (curled just so like a pixie’s) turned faintly pink.

“You wash the dishes with soap and hot water. Rinse all the suds off. Stick them in the cold bath.”

“Yeah, I got that down, thanks,” he grumbled, shaking out the pan he still held, the water droplets falling on the mats on the floor.

“We switched to putting tablets in the cold bath a month ago, so the blue lever doesn’t control anything anymore, and the sanitation stuff won’t come out when you fill up the sink.”

He scowled at her, his nose looking even more pointed as his eyebrows drew down. Everything about him was pointed, from his nose to his cheek bones, to his words.

“So nothing that’s been placed in there has been sanitized?”

“Unless the city has suddenly increased the amount of chlorine in the water, that would be a no.”

“That’s fucking fantastic, because that water has been sitting there for hours.”

“Don’t worry about it. No, I mean it—don’t look at me like that. Nothing about today has been real.” There were signs up all over the outside of the building warning customers that there was filming in progress, and Belle was pretty sure she had served more than her fair share of paid actors.

He sighed. “This week, you mean.”

Belle reached into the sink, pulling the metal plug up so the water could drain. She watched the whirlpool form, the water spinning round, round, round.

“This is bullocks.” Weaver dried his hands on the towel he had found shoved back somewhere in the cupboards, and Belle bit her lip to hide her fond smile; heaven forbid he have to wipe his hands on his pants like a normal person.

He turned so his back was to the sink, leaning his weight on the metal edge. Belle stamped down the impulse to shift closer to him, to feel the brush of his shirt against her arm, the heat of his skin. Clearly Ruby was getting to her.

“Jefferson wants to put you on window tonight, by the way,” she said with a forced air of casualty.

“With you?”

“No, with Keith.”

“Oh.”

Belle watched as his expression flattened, his mouth drawing a hard line.

When the last of the water vanished with a gurgle, Belle plugged the sink again, before ducking under and pulling out a plastic bottle full of the sanitation tablets. She plopped one in before turning on the water faucet.

“Jefferson isn’t the manager, you know, and doesn’t know the first thing about running this place. I say screw the cameras.”

Belle raised an eyebrow, amused. “You want to mutiny?”

“We can lock him in the walk-in until close.”

It was hard to see any downsides to the plan right then, Belle had to admit. “We could throw Keith in, too, and save ourselves that particular headache.”

He huffed, the humor leaving his expression as quickly as it came. “Mr. Cluck’s has an HR department. You should file a complaint about him.”

“We have.”

“I mean it. Call the head offices and ask for—” he paused, finally registering what she said. “Wait. What do you mean ‘we have?’”

Belle shrugged. “Last we were told was, the problem is being looked into, whatever that means.”

“And so you’ve just been patiently waiting for him to go away?”

“Oh, well, not exactly…”

“You can tell me.”

Belle shifted her feet. Her eyes strayed to the metal shelf that held the larger metal pots and pans, where she knew a hidden camera had been placed.

“Belle,” Weaver said, moving to stand in front of her, blocking her view. “You can tell me.”

She looked up into his sharp face. His eyes were wide, and so rich and brown, and damn, it might be cliche but they cut through her like coffee, a jolt that made her heart race. His gaze was intense, both friendly and angry on her behalf, and it felt good to have someone so unquestionably on her side.

“I asked a friend of mine to file a complaint with one of the other managers, thinking that maybe if it was a customer, someone would actually listen,” she said, her voice fast and low. She turned so she could lean her hip against the sink, so she was front to front with Weaver. “I actually asked several friends, but that was a month ago and nothing has changed. I think he might have found a way to hijack the review page, or maybe has some sort of deal with the GM. We keep complaining but nothing is happening.”

Weaver hummed, sounding unconvinced.

“I know it’s a borderline conspiracy theory, but—”

“No, no, I’m just remembering what my email said.”

Well that was a non sequitur.

“Excuse me?”

“When I agreed to do this show with Jefferson, he said that he had found the perfect store to stick me in, because of all the complaints.”

“The complaints,” Belle repeated.

“Jefferson forwarded me a few; you certainly aren’t the only one submitting them.”

Belle felt her face grow hot. “So what are you saying? That Keith hasn’t been fired because he makes for good television?”

Weaver’s tongue flicked across his lip. “This is reality TV. I’m sure this counts as mild for the strings producers have pulled before.”

“Mild,” Belle hissed. “You know, he’s been behaving himself with the cameras here. I’ve actually noticed an improvement in how he’s been acting. Also Ruby’s grandmother came in once to threaten him with an actual crossbow not too long ago, which helped Ruby out a lot.”

Weaver smiled, before scowling. “He’s still a wanker.”

“Belle! Weaver! Ruby’s back from break, it’s time to start!” Jefferson yelled.

As if on instinct, Belle grabbed his hand, finding the skin surprisingly smooth and warm. “You know,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “If you’re serious about locking Jefferson and Keith in the walk-in, the temperature is controlled on the outside.”

Weaver raised an eyebrow, his ears turning pink again, but his expression schooled into a careful mask of polite interest. “That so.”

Belle raised her eyebrows, trying to pull off an innocent look and not one like she was planning to inconvenience two people who kind of deserved it. If his answering smirk was anything to go by, she was failing miserably. “Yeah, you know. Depending on how tonight goes…”

She trailed off, and her words seemed to hang there. She felt his hand flex in her grip, but he didn’t pull away and she didn’t let go.

“Look,” he said, his voice low and deep, catching Belle somewhere in her belly. “This is just as much his last day as it is mine.” His eyes were so brown, and Belle leaned forward. “I promise you that.”

His eyes flickered down to her lips and, Belle could feel herself be pulled forward, her eyes closing. Her free hand slid around his waist, she could feel his breath at her lips—

“Belle! Weaver! The rush is—”

The producer’s shout was much closer this time, startling them. Weaver sprung back, but didn’t let go of Belle’s hand, effectively pulling her against him, since in Belle’s surprise her own hold tightened. Weaver’s knees caved under her weight, and he landed hard against the metal of the sink.

“God, I’m so sorry,” Belle said, finally relinquishing hands, only to run them up and down his arms, as if that’d make up for their combined embarrassment.

“Hey guys, as much as I encourage canoodling in forgotten corners, we have a finale to film,” Jefferson said with no small amount of smugness.

Belle rolled her eyes at his teasing, reluctantly pulling back. She licked her lips, hooded blue eyes meeting his, pupils blown wide. They were poised, ready to fall into each other. He brought a careful hand up to her temple and brushed a hair that had escaped from her ponytail.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Of course, yeah,” she said, feeling an easy smile tugging at her mouth.

His own smile was a tad more brittle. “I think I should apologize.”

“It can wait a couple hours,” Jefferson said.

Weaver shot him a look, before turning back to Belle.

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He blinked, his face going slack in surprise. “You know?”

“What, you think I’m surprised that you’re someone else? Weaver, come on.” She rolled her eyes. “Your accent keeps changing from cockney to something vaguely Irish. I’m not an American; it doesn’t all sound the same to me.” She reached up adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, which had skewed somewhat on his face.

That got a surprised laugh out of him. “Okay, fair point. It’s not Irish, though.”

“Scottish, then,” Belle said.

“Weaver,” Jefferson snapped.

“Alright, alright.”

Belle giggled. “We’ll talk after, yeah?”

“After my impending humiliation, you mean? Of course.”

“You’ll be great,” Belle said. She impulsively stepped close, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Weaver made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, but he smiled, his ears a deep pink, as he followed Jefferson back towards the front.

Watching him go, Belle tried not to let her eyes stray to his backside. Feeling much better about the final night of filming, she made her own way back towards the front.

“Hey Belle, could you drop in some fries?” Ruby asked as she handed back a customer’s change.

A line was already forming at the register, and Ruby hardly spared her a glance as she greeted the next customer.

The dinner rush went smoothly, or at least as smooth as one could hope, with the crew having to weave around cameras and recording equipment.

“Dude, check out the rack on that broad.” Keith nudged Weaver with an elbow.

Belle pursed her lips, annoyed. Weaver, for his part, brushed Keith away with a short, “do your job.” He pointedly did not look at the video screen.

Okay, so it could have been going a lot smoother. Belle was in the middle, making sure both front and window had all the food they needed. It gave her ample opportunity to eavesdrop on Weaver.

“No, sir,” she heard Weaver groan in his headset. “I can’t get you a Big Mac. This isn’t McDonald’s.” She watched him shoot a glare to Jefferson, who was hovering just outside the manager’s office. “No, that doesn’t mean you can have a Whopper instead.”

“Customer’s always right, man,” Keith said as he stuck a straw in a bag.

“We don’t sell burgers,” Weaver muttered. “It’s in the bloody name of the restaurant.” He sighed as something else was said over the headset. “Yes, we have fries. No, you have to be more specific. Just how much is a fuck-ton, sir?”

Weaver rubbed at his temple, and Belle couldn’t help herself as she swiped the headset off and pressed it to her ear. She heard a long, spaced out voice: “Just, like, a lot, man okay? A lot of fries. A fuck-ton.” Weaver rolled his eyes at her as she handed the headset back to him.

“Man, I wish I had what he was smoking,” Keith said, listening through his own headset.

Weaver grunted as he put through an order of five large fries. He seemed to rather not acknowledge Keith’s existence at all, not that Belle could blame him. With Keith, it was best to just put your head down and pretend he didn’t exist. The stoner, a young man in an old volkswagen, pulled forward.

“Now there’s a chick I’d like to show a good time,” Keith said as the next car pulled up to the order screen.

Weaver grunted as he listened to her order, thankfully a regular combo meal with a diet Pepsi. He reached over for a cup, filling it with ice from the station right next to him.

“Seriously, you gotta be gay or something to not even look up.”

If the comment bothered him, he didn’t say; he didn’t react at all. Weaver snapped the lid on the drink, placing it in line to be passed through the window. He glanced at the order screen, making sure to get the extra sauce packets she wanted.

Belle watched as Keith slid the window open, and hoped that he wouldn’t say something dumb to the customer. She really did not want to apologise again because a customer wanted a manager immediately after Keith said something gross.

For once, he didn’t make any snide comments as he took payment for the order. He leaned out to hand her her drink and card back. Belle’s ears perked up automatically, already preparing to swoop in and offer her apologies.

“You have a good day, sugar,” he said.

Belle looked up at the video feed and saw the lady roll her eyes before rolling her window up. Releasing her breath, she turned to glare as Keith shut the window and busied himself preparing the next order, who was either oblivious to both her and Weaver’s obvious distaste, or, more likely just didn’t care

Whatever. If Weaver was to be believed, this was Keith’s last night anyway. Belle wondered if it was because his inappropriate behavior was caught on camera, or if Weaver had some sort of connection with the GA.

After that, things slowed down. Because it was the last night of filming, they were able to close early so Jefferson and the crew could easily pack up all their equipment.

Weaver opted to stay, to help Belle and Ruby close the restaurant for the night, instead of leaving with Jefferson.

“Are you sure?” Jefferson asked, raising his eyebrows like he was in on a secret. “We have an early morning tomorrow, remember.”

“As I’m well aware. I’ll be back at the hotel later, alright?”

Jefferson hummed, a salacious smile curving his mouth. “Don’t keep him out too late now, you hear, Belle?”

“For fuck’s sake, Jefferson,” he muttered.

“Some of us want to go home,” Keith called from the window where he was counting out the register.

“No, he’s right,” Ruby said, pushing a broom into Belle’s hands before either she or Weaver could respond. “You take the front. I’m pretty sure some lady left her kid’s used diapers under one of the booths and God knows I’m not paid enough to handle that right now.”

Belle sighed, exhausted with today, but she managed a smile in Weaver’s direction. “We still need to talk.”

He smiled back. “Yeah we do.”

So Belle went to the front to clear away the last of the garbage and restock the condiment stations. Ruby was right about the diapers, which absolutely was not the weirdest or even the worst thing Belle had ever found while closing.

As she was sweeping the last of the crumbs and wayward straw wrappers into the dustbin, she let her mind wander to the last few days, to Weaver and his careful, slow way of doing things. To how his arse looked in his jeans.

Belle heard Ruby yell. She was wary to classify it as a scream, because it wasn’t the sort of thing that was really meant to draw attention. Belle looked over to the register, but it was long since closed, and due to strategically placed walls and machines, Belle couldn’t see much else from where she was standing.

Ruby was such a teenager, always loud and dramatic. Belle wondered what it was that she had found that made her call out like that. Maybe Weaver made her unclog the drain, or Keith was being an asshole again and hiding in the stockroom.

Not thinking anything more about it, Belle picked up the dustpan just as she heard a crash from the back, and Ruby yell again.

“You’re a fucking creep, Keith.”

Belle dropped the dustpan, pushing open the swinging door marked Employees Only. She ran around the corner only to see the cart they used to move the sandwich fixings pushed over, the plastic containers scattered across the floor, the saran wrap doing little to keep them from spilling. Weaver had Keith bent over one of the counters, arms pinned uncomfortably half-way up his back.

With his greying hair and slim-build, Belle had assumed that Weaver wasn’t much of a fighter. Keith had clearly also made that wrong assumption; the man was scrappy.

“Everything okay?” Belle asked, somewhat at a loss.

Ruby was shaking a little, but for all Belle could tell it was more out of anger.

“Yes,” Keith said.

“No,” Ruby said, at the same time.

Anger flashed across Keith’s face, gone a deep tomato red, and he kicked a leg out, cursing. Belle stepped a little closer to Ruby.

“Come on man,” he said, trying to appeal to Weaver. “We were just messing around.”

“Messing around?” Weaver asked in a low voice. “Surely you know this girl is sixteen. She’s far too young for anyone to be messing around with.”

“It was a compliment. She should learn to take one.”

“Grabbing my ass isn’t a compliment. It’s fucking assault,” Ruby snarled. Her shoulders were tight and she was leaning slightly forward, like a wolf about to rush it’s victim.

Belle squeezed her shoulder. “How about you call your grandmother? Ask her to come pick you up.”

“I’m not a girl,” she said, shrugging Belle’s hand off.

It took Weaver a moment to realize he was being addressed. “What?”

“I’m not a girl,” Ruby said again, glaring.

Weaver sighed, rolling his eyes. “Yes you’re an independent young woman. I’m sorry, does that somehow make his behavior okay?”

His hold must have slackened, because the next thing Belle knew, Keith reared up, butting Weaver in the face with the back of his head, blow hitting just below his eye. He closed his eyes against the pain, hands letting go. Belle heard his glasses crack.

Ruby let out a shout of surprise, jumping back as Keith reeled around and threw a punch at Weaver’s face. Weaver responded on instinct, his left arm coming up to perry, then ducking and shoving Keith back, but Keith was just throwing random punches now.

Keith definitely landed a few more; Belle could see blood dripping from his cheek, but he shoved him back and jammed the palm of his heel up into Keith’s nose. Keith stumbled back, trying to find purchase on the counter that he had recently been pinned against.

Belle looked at the cart, left lying on the ground. As fast as she could, she pulled it up, gripped the handles, and ran forward.

Ruby would describe it as badass later when they were telling the story, but the truth was a lot less awesome. Belle yelled, getting Keith’s attention. He turned towards her, ready to lunge, when the cart hit Keith square between the legs. He doubled over, clutching the sides, when Weaver kicked at the wheels, toppling it and Keith back to the floor. He went down in a heap and seemed to be staying there.

“You fucking bitch,” Keith said, dazed and winded. Belle wondered if he had hit his head on the way down before realizing she didn’t care.

“Are you—” Weaver hesitated, not sure what to say.

“Fine. Just—fine. Are you? Jesus, Weaver, you’re bleeding.” She grabbed a towel and pressed it to his face, hoping he wouldn’t need any stitches. Weaver cringed at the pain, taking off his glasses. Instead of pulling away for asking that the towel be put under water first, he pressed his hand to hers. Her other hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he said softly.

“Uhm, so, should I call the cops?” Ruby asked, who had wrapped her hands around herself. She winced when Weaver’s eyes landed on her. “Sorry, man. I wasn’t thinking.”

“This is hardly your fault,” Weaver assured her. He toed Keith’s side, but he didn’t stir. He must have passed out.

“I can’t believe he did that,” Ruby said, not seeming to have heard. “I can’t believe he just attacked a movie star like that.”

“Movie star?” Weaver raised a bemused eyebrow.

“Reality TV is hardly Hollywood, Ruby,” Belle said with a tired sigh. Maybe cops were a good idea. She looked out at the spilled vegetables, sad and limp on the floor. She so didn’t want to be the one to clean it up.

“You know what, close enough.” She looked at the twisted frame in Weaver’s hand. “Are they broken? I thought I heard them break.”

“Oh,” he said, looking down. “They’re fake, actually. Doesn’t matter.”

“What, are they part of a costume? For your character?”

“Ruby—”

“I’m your boss, actually.” He was met with a confused silence. Weaver was clearly expecting more of a reaction, as he shrugged self-consciously. “I figured you ought to know now, at least.”

“Wait,” Ruby said with a frown. “You mean, like a new one? New management?”

“No, I mean I’m the owner of Mr. Cluck’s. My name is Robert Gold, and you work for me.”

“CEO!” Ruby says, smacking her forehead. “And Jefferson thought he was so slick.”

Weaver turned his brown eyes back to Belle, her hand still holding the towel against his cheek. “Sorry,” he said.

“That’s what you were trying to tell me earlier, isn’t it?”

“Jefferson wanted have a reveal done at headquarters—walk into the conference room, see me sitting there in my suit, all high and mighty.” Weav—Gold said.

“Like a bond villain,” Ruby said. “I can dig that.”

Belle laughed. Her head felt a little light, actually. “Jefferson is going to be pissed he didn’t get this on camera,” she said, looking back down to the ruined floor. She wondered if Gold had broken the cart when he kicked it.

“There are still the security cameras, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a few hidden ones still tucked away.”

“Does this mean Keith is fired?” Ruby asked.

“Keith is very much fired,” he said. He seemed to realize that his hand was still holding Belle’s, which in turn was holding the cloth to his split cheek. He pulled it down, not letting go.“Belle, I—I just want you to know—I’ve grown very fond of you in this short amount of time, and I realize this puts you in a strange position, and I—”

Belle cut him of, her hand going around his neck, to the back of his head, pulling him down towards her, allowing their lips to crash together. Their teeth knocked, and their noses fought for room, but he still moaned, his lips pulling at hers.

“Ew. Guys, come on.”

Belle pulled away first, her gaze locked on his. “Let’s get this sorted out, yeah? Then we can talk.”

He licked his lips, and Belle bit back a groan, already wanting another taste. “Yeah. Alright.”

#rumbelle secret santa #rumbelle fic #itschippedcup

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