He sets about things, now--a towel over his shoulder, the sleeves to his flannel rolled up. It's fairly easy to put together what he wants, and he talks as he goes.
This is nice. He's finding he's not too worried about much--it's more conversation than keeping the other person happy, which is what he does far more frequently.
"Are yours? Honest." He means 'good,' really, though he's too polite to say it, and he's mostly curious if Benedict thinks he's worth it. Silver doesn't understand art at all--though Charlotte at the Benbow is an awful talented painter.
Benedict doesn't think he's a bad artist. Certainly among the general populace he's considered quite good at it, but he doesn't find himself to be particularly amazing, either (though Henry certainly tells him he is and he ought to ease up on himself a bit). But that's why he continues to sketch and rework, and the things he makes he makes largely for himself.
Silver does laugh at that, already cutting up potatoes. He glances at the other, amused, before his gaze dips down and he shakes his head. Benedict is now asking about his personal life--he's officially the strangest customer he's ever had.
"No. Absolutely not--I didn't think anything about cooking until my early 20s. It never shows I came into this late, though, I assure you--from what artist to another," he jokes, "although mine is the culinary."
"If we're all supposed to reach greatness by our twenties, then I may as well pack up my paints now."
Did his mother do this on purpose? Of course she must have thought Benedict might find him handsome (anyone with eyes would find him handsome), but some part of her mother's intuition must have told her that Benedict would feel some sort of attraction.
Maybe it's punishment for not learning how to cook for himself. Or maybe it's a gift.
"Should I get out of your way now? I'm worried even just my presence might somehow mess it all up."
"No--no, no." Silver smiles, right in the middle of patting off the salmon. "On the contrary. Company while you're working can be nice." It's rare, but also it's pleasant. Benedict is pleasant. Usually some part of Silver's gut seems to pinpoint exactly what's wrong with another person in under five minutes, but it's empty with Benedict. Maybe the other's far more dangerous than he lets on.
"Most of my clients usually either talk about themselves, or just towards the other people they bright with them. It's a pleasant change." The view is nice, too.
"What do you enjoy most in your art? Other than honesty--paints? Pencils? I've a friend of mine who enjoys charcoal."
The irony isn't lost on Benedict - Silver says usually people want to talk about themselves, and then Silver keeps asking Benedict about his life. It almost makes him laugh, but instead he smiles a little crookedly.
"I'm partial to pencils, but when I'm feeling indulgent I like oil paints."
He leans against the counter, making sure he's not going to be in the way while Silver does his thing, but still so he can see what the other man is doing. Maybe he can pick up a thing or two.
He glances up just in time for that smile, soft and with a small nod. It's just in time to catch that little crooked smile, not quite bashful but so very endearing. Silver's well aware he shouldn't look at someone who's technically his boss like that, but...
Well. Benedict Bridgerton is incredibly, insanely attractive. That's not his fault.
"The result," he says after a small moment to think. "Quickest way to a person's stomach is food--have you ever met a person with a full stomach that was cross? It's impossible."
He seems amused with himself, pre-heating the oven, still getting everything ready. "It's relaxing to me," he says after a while, and perhaps it's a more serious answer. "I don't have to think about anything beyond the recipe."
Benedict moves out of the way of the kitchen all together, grabbing a sparkling water from the fridge before he moves around to the other side of the counter. Now he can face Silver while they talk, and watch what he's doing a little better.
"I suppose that's another way it's like art. I don't have to think about much."
He's better at this angle, and if Silver was off work he'd absolutely ask if the other is aware he's statuesque himself. He does value his job, however, and he's certain the other is fairly straight, and it's unbecoming to flirt his first day here.
He does slide the tray into the oven once it's pre-heated and ready, and the moment that happens he immediately sets about prepping the meals--other than a few stumbles with where the pots and pants are, he's chopping at lightning speed, quick and precisely--despite the sharp knife he's glancing over at Benedict, extremely comfortable with it. It helps that he can't look away from the other's little crooked smile.
"I work with a girl who's an artist. Fairly good at it, too--I can't pretend to understand half of what she talks about. Something about colour theory." He shrugs.
Benedict can't even imagine being so skilled with knives. He tries to remember the last time he actually tried to cook, and how mincing garlic had proven to be harder than it seemed. He even buys mangoes and watermelon pre-sliced to save himself the hassle.
He wonders if Silver likes to listen to her talk because he likes her. He won't ask, of course, that's rude.
"It's always nice to listen to someone talk about what they enjoy. Do you do something else besides cook for hopeless socialites?"
"Three jobs," he answers simply. "I don't really have time for hobbies." He doesn't mind, either--it's better to keep busy, and all said jobs are what he loves to do. He works like a dog and his leg acts up occasionally, but it's pretty ideal considering I where he's come from.
"I suppose if I admit I like rum far too much you'll label me a troublesome alcoholic?" He winks at that, unable to help himself, smirking.
"I'd label you a man who deserves a bit of rum after spending the week working three jobs," Benedict replies, looking equally amused.
He honestly can't fathom it. Mostly because he's never actually worked a day in his life - he's done school, sure, but that's not really the same as a job, is it? Even Anthony has something of a job, though most of his job involves sitting in an office now and then and signing papers and going to meetings. But three seems excessive, particularly when Benedict imagines that being a personal chef is a lucrative business.
"Anyway, some of the world's greatest men were troublesome alcoholics."
Compassioinate, too. Silver actually stops chomping carrots momentarily, gaze on Benedict, and his smile widens into something genuine. He's almost flattered, and he has to remind himself that he's on the clock and that Benedict's making conversation.
"Your artists?" He asks casually, though he knows damn well most kitchen staff have one hell of a love for either alcohol or cocaine or both. "Isn't that the big commonality?"
"I think they say Alexander The Great was an alcoholic."
It's such a bizarre turn in conversation and Benedict's sort of delighted by it. He'd been worried the whole thing was going to be awkward and he'd sit in the other room while a stranger cooked for him, but it turns out his mother may have been on to something here.
"Was he?" Silver sounds surprised, though it's more that he's surprised the other is actually interested in this sort of thing. He begins to actually cook, and in a short matter of time as he continues the conversation, all of the burners will be going with various pots and pans.
"Wasn't really much for history. Alice Cooper was for the longest time," he offers, wondering why the hell he's listing alcoholics in front of an incredibly beautiful man. He's certainly not complaining, stealing glances every now and then. He's got gorgeous brown eyes.
"This might shock you, but I studied art history in uni."
The crooked grin is back, and Benedict ducks his head, feeling a bit foolish about it. He keeps thinking he might go back to get his masters, and then maybe he can also get a job, but he's aware that now he's not only a rich boy who can't cook. He's a rich boy who can't cook who had the luxury of studying something frivolous in school.
"It makes me a very good filler on a pub trivia team."
There it is. Silver's smile matches the other's grin, bright and despite himself. He seems almost bashful about it, despite the playful tone of voice, something Silver finds weirdly endearing.
"A Bridgerton plays pub trivia."
He's probably overstepping, but he can't help the surprise. Besides, he's too distracted by the way the other had ducked his head earlier.
"I know, we're dreadfully normal. Sorry to disappoint you."
He laughs, then, enjoying that Silver doesn't seem to mind joking around about it. A part of Benedict had been worried that he'd have to be tediously proper, and that Silver would be more concerned about not offending him.
It's a refreshing interaction.
"My older brother gets incredibly competitive about it."
Silver whistles. "I thought you were the eldest," he says casually, attending to a pan as he talks. He begins tossing the vegetables, less to show off and more out of complete habit.
"I'm afraid I don't really pay attention to things like that--not that I think your status is bad, or anything." he's quick to add it, chuckling to himself. He's surprised the conversation is coming so easy. It occurs to him that it sounds like he's fleecing him now, acting like he's somehow "not like the others" to gain his trust. That's laughable.
"All I really know is you're rich, you large family, and your mother would prefer you eat less carbs."
“If you take away my carbs I’ll waste away. She’s just upset that my ideal meal is bread slathered in butter. Maybe with some cheese on the side.”
Benedict leans on the counter, resting his elbows against it.
“I don’t quite understand the fascination, honestly. There’s this blog that’s come out recently by someone calling themselves Lady Whistledown. It’s not much better than a tabloid but everyone I know is so obsessed, she seems to know everything about everyone but no one knows who she might be.”
A mystery in the upper elite. Silver continues to listen as he works, pleased he just has to look up to see the other--it's nice. The only thing that's missing is two glasses of wine and it could be a friendly date.
Jesus, Silver has to get laid.
"Probably one of the hired hands," he guesses. "You'd be surprised what I'd hear."
Benedict knows how indiscreet people can be when they think no one is listening. He suspects that Silver’s got enough gossip to sink and entire household if he wants to.
“Fortunately, I never find myself caught up in it, and I find the whole thing too silly to pay as much mind to it as everyone else does.”
Sure, Benedict’s popped up a couple times, but never for anything juicy or scandalous. He’s apparently the least interesting of his siblings and he’s perfectly fine with that.
"I make a habit of immediately forgetting," he assures, and strangely enough, he feels almost bad for lying to Benedict. He's very well aware of what happens with rich people, and while he doesn't pay attention to gossip, he sure as hell pays attention to what's being said around the elite's table. Always helps to smoothly talk his way into something.
This job is a prime example.
"Do forgive me if you find my conversation tiresome--but I dare say you're one of the friendliest clients I think I've ever had. It's refreshing."
"I should be apologizing for myself, really. I'm not exactly of the etiquette when it comes to a personal chef, but I assume if you didn't want to talk, you'd have told me so. I just assumed it'd be strange to be in the same space but pretending the other doesn't exist."
But something inside Benedict preens a little, proud that he's somehow a standout among the many faces that Silver likely sees.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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If the man's willing to talk about art, Benedict's more than happy to comply. Maybe Silver's just humouring him, but that's all right.
"I think an artist only shows his audience what he wants them to see. But the best works are the ones that are honest."
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This is nice. He's finding he's not too worried about much--it's more conversation than keeping the other person happy, which is what he does far more frequently.
"Are yours? Honest." He means 'good,' really, though he's too polite to say it, and he's mostly curious if Benedict thinks he's worth it. Silver doesn't understand art at all--though Charlotte at the Benbow is an awful talented painter.
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Benedict doesn't think he's a bad artist. Certainly among the general populace he's considered quite good at it, but he doesn't find himself to be particularly amazing, either (though Henry certainly tells him he is and he ought to ease up on himself a bit). But that's why he continues to sketch and rework, and the things he makes he makes largely for himself.
"Have you always wanted to be a chef?"
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"No. Absolutely not--I didn't think anything about cooking until my early 20s. It never shows I came into this late, though, I assure you--from what artist to another," he jokes, "although mine is the culinary."
Good lord, the other is attractive.
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Did his mother do this on purpose? Of course she must have thought Benedict might find him handsome (anyone with eyes would find him handsome), but some part of her mother's intuition must have told her that Benedict would feel some sort of attraction.
Maybe it's punishment for not learning how to cook for himself. Or maybe it's a gift.
"Should I get out of your way now? I'm worried even just my presence might somehow mess it all up."
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"Most of my clients usually either talk about themselves, or just towards the other people they bright with them. It's a pleasant change." The view is nice, too.
"What do you enjoy most in your art? Other than honesty--paints? Pencils? I've a friend of mine who enjoys charcoal."
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"I'm partial to pencils, but when I'm feeling indulgent I like oil paints."
He leans against the counter, making sure he's not going to be in the way while Silver does his thing, but still so he can see what the other man is doing. Maybe he can pick up a thing or two.
"What do you enjoy cooking the most?"
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Well. Benedict Bridgerton is incredibly, insanely attractive. That's not his fault.
"The result," he says after a small moment to think. "Quickest way to a person's stomach is food--have you ever met a person with a full stomach that was cross? It's impossible."
He seems amused with himself, pre-heating the oven, still getting everything ready. "It's relaxing to me," he says after a while, and perhaps it's a more serious answer. "I don't have to think about anything beyond the recipe."
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Benedict moves out of the way of the kitchen all together, grabbing a sparkling water from the fridge before he moves around to the other side of the counter. Now he can face Silver while they talk, and watch what he's doing a little better.
"I suppose that's another way it's like art. I don't have to think about much."
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He does slide the tray into the oven once it's pre-heated and ready, and the moment that happens he immediately sets about prepping the meals--other than a few stumbles with where the pots and pants are, he's chopping at lightning speed, quick and precisely--despite the sharp knife he's glancing over at Benedict, extremely comfortable with it. It helps that he can't look away from the other's little crooked smile.
"I work with a girl who's an artist. Fairly good at it, too--I can't pretend to understand half of what she talks about. Something about colour theory." He shrugs.
"It's nice to listen to, though."
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He wonders if Silver likes to listen to her talk because he likes her. He won't ask, of course, that's rude.
"It's always nice to listen to someone talk about what they enjoy. Do you do something else besides cook for hopeless socialites?"
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"I suppose if I admit I like rum far too much you'll label me a troublesome alcoholic?" He winks at that, unable to help himself, smirking.
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He honestly can't fathom it. Mostly because he's never actually worked a day in his life - he's done school, sure, but that's not really the same as a job, is it? Even Anthony has something of a job, though most of his job involves sitting in an office now and then and signing papers and going to meetings. But three seems excessive, particularly when Benedict imagines that being a personal chef is a lucrative business.
"Anyway, some of the world's greatest men were troublesome alcoholics."
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"Your artists?" He asks casually, though he knows damn well most kitchen staff have one hell of a love for either alcohol or cocaine or both. "Isn't that the big commonality?"
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It's such a bizarre turn in conversation and Benedict's sort of delighted by it. He'd been worried the whole thing was going to be awkward and he'd sit in the other room while a stranger cooked for him, but it turns out his mother may have been on to something here.
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"Wasn't really much for history. Alice Cooper was for the longest time," he offers, wondering why the hell he's listing alcoholics in front of an incredibly beautiful man. He's certainly not complaining, stealing glances every now and then. He's got gorgeous brown eyes.
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The crooked grin is back, and Benedict ducks his head, feeling a bit foolish about it. He keeps thinking he might go back to get his masters, and then maybe he can also get a job, but he's aware that now he's not only a rich boy who can't cook. He's a rich boy who can't cook who had the luxury of studying something frivolous in school.
"It makes me a very good filler on a pub trivia team."
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"A Bridgerton plays pub trivia."
He's probably overstepping, but he can't help the surprise. Besides, he's too distracted by the way the other had ducked his head earlier.
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He laughs, then, enjoying that Silver doesn't seem to mind joking around about it. A part of Benedict had been worried that he'd have to be tediously proper, and that Silver would be more concerned about not offending him.
It's a refreshing interaction.
"My older brother gets incredibly competitive about it."
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"I'm afraid I don't really pay attention to things like that--not that I think your status is bad, or anything." he's quick to add it, chuckling to himself. He's surprised the conversation is coming so easy. It occurs to him that it sounds like he's fleecing him now, acting like he's somehow "not like the others" to gain his trust. That's laughable.
"All I really know is you're rich, you large family, and your mother would prefer you eat less carbs."
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Benedict leans on the counter, resting his elbows against it.
“I don’t quite understand the fascination, honestly. There’s this blog that’s come out recently by someone calling themselves Lady Whistledown. It’s not much better than a tabloid but everyone I know is so obsessed, she seems to know everything about everyone but no one knows who she might be.”
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Jesus, Silver has to get laid.
"Probably one of the hired hands," he guesses. "You'd be surprised what I'd hear."
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Benedict knows how indiscreet people can be when they think no one is listening. He suspects that Silver’s got enough gossip to sink and entire household if he wants to.
“Fortunately, I never find myself caught up in it, and I find the whole thing too silly to pay as much mind to it as everyone else does.”
Sure, Benedict’s popped up a couple times, but never for anything juicy or scandalous. He’s apparently the least interesting of his siblings and he’s perfectly fine with that.
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This job is a prime example.
"Do forgive me if you find my conversation tiresome--but I dare say you're one of the friendliest clients I think I've ever had. It's refreshing."
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But something inside Benedict preens a little, proud that he's somehow a standout among the many faces that Silver likely sees.
"You're easy to talk to."
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