"You disappoint me, Ramsay." James wanted to vomit and gloat but kept it all in check for the camera. The rotten shark was nigh on the worst thing he'd ever eaten but a dare was a dare. The fact that Gordon sicked it up on camera ruined the shot. They'd have to film it again and slice off another chunk of the shark.
"You want me to do it again?" James was more than happy to reshoot. He'd eaten worse tasting things of his own creation and was pretty sure something similar was growing in his own refrigerator at home. Unless Woman threw it out finally.
Gordon laughed as he wiped at his mouth, and assistant quickly bringing him a bottle of water. They'd been having a good day larking about, the BBC not breathing down Ramsay's neck as much as they watched Clarkson.
The challenges so far had been pitiful. The snake whiskey hardly qualified as a whiskey in the Scottish sense and went down easily. James ignored the crack at Oz every time Gordon repeated it for the camera and sighed in relief when the director moved them along. Bull's penis wasn't anything super exciting either. James kept his mouth shut and stuck to the minimal script. Wouldn't want to spill that it wasn't the first penis he'd had in his mouth or swallowed. The chewing bit was a little different, but he chose his cut from the hilt and it was just meat after that. Gordon ate the helmet - maybe it was some sort of delicacy he'd been unaware of. It helped get things going downstairs, Gordon said, eyes sparkling and perfect white teeth on display. He was acting like Hammond now that James though about it. The laughs were a bit too frequent and looks a bit long...
James chewed on the cock, making a cheap joke that caused Gordon to almost spit out his mouthful of water. He'd already knocked back two glasses of red wine and was working on his third as the crew moved around them.
They reset again and Gordon's waiter brought out the rotten shark. When the cloche came off the smell filled the room like Fusker's box if he'd gone away and not changed it. Unpleasant, sure, but also unlikely to kill him. Ramsay spun out the scene explaining the history of hakarl quickly, rushing through it to get the stench away from the table. Carefully Gordon cut small bits out of the corpse, cutting off the browned crusty exterior.
They were doing well until Gordon grabbed the orange bucket from him. James was sure he'd want to reshoot and not be seen vomiting on television. He wiped his mouth and continued on with the scene, shaking James hand and getting back on script. At least someone considered him manly. Clarkson and Hammond's jokes had taken their toll in the public's eyes over the years. But then James remembered that he really didn't care.
Once they were safely off camera and Gordon had gotten most of the horrible taste out of his mouth, they relaxed and waited while the real work of television happened. Gordon had his arms crossed over his chest. "You've got to have the world's biggest balls under your kit."
James shrugged. The macho pissing about was quite good fun when it wasn't all about excessive noise and senseless waste.
"You weren't actually supposed to eat it."
James let the last of the wine wash away the lingering ammonia. "You should have told me that, man!" He would have been more than happy with a selective edit and less shark. It was still better than Clarkson's V-8 blend.
Ramsay took another swig of his water, still suffering the same aftertastes on his more sensitive palate. "James, James, James, James... " Gordon said as he shook his head, smiling widely the entire time. He rested his chin on his hand. "Do you have your recipe for the next bit?"
James didn't. It was a dish he made many times in his own kitchen and didn't feel like he needed to write it out. "No," he answered. "Well, sort of. It's in my head."
Gordon laughed and ran a hand over his lined face. "Oh James." Production had specifically told him to send a recipe so they could stock for his pie. Somewhere the message had gone wrong, and Gordon surmised it was likely right here with James and his absent minded professor act. This was either going to make for a great film, or get thrown on the cutting room floor with lots of extra footage about his goats being spliced in to fill time.
There was another long break as they moved the crew back into the kitchen and got prepped for the cook off. Assistants did most of the work, the sous chefs doing the cleaning and chopping and washing. James grabbed a bottle of white for the cooking film. White just seemed to go better with fish. James prodded the plate of fish steaks they'd left out for him. He'd chosen haddock and whitefish, and prawns just because he could and the BBC was paying.
They filmed him opening the bottle of wine, which James wondered at as they hadn't properly started filming yet. He poured himself a glass and saw Gordon was already starting to cook on his half of the kitchen. Maybe they were supposed to be working now. James putzed around and peeled his potatoes as slow as his name suggested. He wasn't used to a professional kitchen and treated it much as his own, leaving a mess behind him and stumbling around. Gordon on his other side was much more efficient, used to the layout and structure of a proper kitchen.
Without a recipe and starting to feel the effects of the wine, James started at Gordon's mention of prawns. He'd forgotten to put his in with the fish. "Fuck, the prawns. I forgot the prawns, man." James grabbed the covered bowl and peeled back the cling film and dropping them into the hot milk.
Gordon warned him about them going rubbery and laughed, but James had made this before and knew it would be fine. He'd been laughed at so many times before that he just soldiered on. He hadn't cooked this dish in a bit, but kind of knew how it should go. It was always a little foggy by the time he'd get this far, having made sure the cooking wine was of consistent quality.
Whisking out his flour and butter wasn't working well with this cooker. Normally it was thicker by now. James stirred more and watched as it slid from edge to edge of the pan. "Your rou-ay thing isn't thickening up, Gordon. Is that bad?"
Gordon was laughing again, bubbling away as he sent his mash through a screen. "The roux," he said, spelling it out before helping him. James added some more flour. "You're the rou-ay."
It was one of those word he'd only ever seen printed, either in a cookbook or on a menu, so in his head it was rou-ay. He didn't really talk to anyone about cooking, so it had been rou-ay for years. James left the mix a little thin, figuring it would thicken up in the oven.
He drank and worked in the quiet banter, assembling his pie as Gordon stalled and waited for him. If he hadn't cocked up the potatoes and put the wine down he might have actually kept up with one of the best chefs in the world.
He got more advice on the top potato layer, something that had always vexed him and left milky fish spilling out over the top of his potato edging. It still wasn't perfect, Gordon took a spatula and helped smooth out the top for him, but it looked better than it normally did at home. None of the milk leaked out of the pan and into that hole in the back of the cooker, where it would go rancid and make the kitchen smell for weeks. James though he was doing quite well and poured himself another glass of wine.
Gordon placed his finished pie next to James and he frittered about the top, making it look like he'd smoothed it over for the camera. "You know, if I lose against that, seriously," Gordon pointed at his mess of a casserole, "I'm going to give up cooking."
James was pretty sure this was all going on the cutting room floor never to be seen again, or maybe the DVD extras of the season and he gave up trying to be professional. "There's a hair in there." He pulled a lone strand out of the mash and flicked it onto the floor.
"I don't want any fucking hairs in my fish pie, please." Gordon countered, pulling his dish slightly away.
"Oh bugger off," James said, still smoothing over his mash.
Gordon came back with a hairnet and lassoed it over James' head, missing most of his hair and pushing him around playfully. "It looks like a condom," he laughed, twisting away from James as he started to laugh along.
"Right, can we get in the fucking oven now?" They were still giggling like schoolboys over James' hair net.
"No," James said pendantly, wanting to finish his art now that the mash was smooth.
"James, look at the time." Gordon was still trying to keep some of it editable.
"Just gonna write a word on top..." he already had his fingers in the cold mash, drawing out a C as the camera zoomed in.
Gordon sat on the workbench a bit always, letting James have his space. "What are you putting on top?"
"Cock." James drew the O as an assistant placed a small bowl of peas at his wrist.
Gordon laughed again, lost for words. The director rolled his fingers, letting them know it was time to get moving on and stop messing. Gordon grabbed his pie and started towards the oven, flipping open the heavy industrial door for James, who looked a lot less steady with his pie held in both hands.
"You've got your oven too hot," James said for argument's sake. It made for good viewing to have a good bicker, even if he was blatantly wrong.
"No, it's on 200." Gordon could hear the director's teeth grind. "You've got to speed it up a bit, James, yes."
"You only want it on about 80, trust me," James said as he spied the assorted wine bottles sitting on the work surface. He picked up a promising looking bottle and held it up in offering to Ramsay.
"No," Gordon said even as James filled him a glass. He went on to explain the rest of the challenge to the camera as James promptly ignored him.
They drank while the pies cooked. James thought the oven was still too hot and wasn't sure his pie would cook like it did at home. He kept peeking at it through the oven window, watching as it bubbled away. Gordon had quite a way to go to catch up with James in the drinks department, but like any proper chef he knew how to drink. He also knew he had a show to run. James could look like a cock, but it was Gordon's show and he gave a slight deference to professional working norms. He still assumed that all this would end up being cut. None of this was fit to air.
When the pies were done, Gordon pulled them out of the oven and prepared to go back on camera, slamming a glass of water to try and cancel out the bottles of white wine that had disappeared from the kitchen inventory. The makeup and hair girls tried their best before giving up. James hair was completely wrecked and Gordon's wasn't far behind. Too much laughing in the kitchen today and not enough serious work.
With more stern prompting from the director, the pies were placed next to each other and Gordon spoke a bit while plating for the judges. James drank, glass prominently displayed as Gordon spooned their pies onto plates. Gordon talked as James lagged, until James' mouth kicked in to mention how runny Gordon's dish was. James used his finger to wipe a drip off the edge of the serving plate. That was not done in a kitchen without a towel or napkin but Gordon was laughed out after four hours in the kitchen with James. His ribs hurt and he didn't have any chuckles left in him.
Jean-Baptiste came to collect their dishes, whisking them away to the judges. James drained his wineglass again and Gordon threw a towel at him. "We're not done yet you pillock," he warned.
"Neither am I," answered James as he rummaged through the wire racks, putting down a bottle of cooking Vermouth and trading it for a Sauvignon Blanc.
"If I lose to that shit you half arsed together, I'm quitting cooking and moving to Peru."
He poured Gordon another glass of wine, figuring the man needed to relax a bit. "And if I lose, you can come do a few laps in a supercar instead of the Lancetti." James smirked to himself. Gordon was a good ratings draw and would likely be able to drive anything he wanted should he show up on an appropriate day.
"I want to drive the Veyron."
"You sound a bit sure of yourself, Ramsay. I want a knit alpaca jumper, hand dyed."
They waited at the pass, each man egging the other on as the wine flowed. The director eventually nodded as Jean-Baptiste finished with the ladies, bringing back the results for the big reveal at the end. As soon as this was shot they could get out of here and relax and forget about the cameras and hot lights and nagging assistants.
"Three - two," Jean-Baptiste announced after Gordon insulted him about his heritage.
"Two? He got two?" Gordon couldn't believe he got two out of five. James was pretty happy with that result and blinked, waiting for the official verdict to be filmed.
"So, umm, ah, the winner is..." Jean-Baptiste held out his hand, diverting at the last minute to where James stood. "James."
James felt adrenaline flood through him. "Oh yes!" as he did a small version of his victory dance. He'd done it, he'd beat Gordon at his own game. "Seriously?" He double checked even as he shook Jean-Baptiste's hand.
"Yeah," the Frenchman confirmed as James laughed it up. Looked like Gordon was out a career now.
"What?" Gordon was stunned and hammed it up for the camera. "With that pile of shit?" Both James and Jean-Baptiste laughed as Gordon burned. Jean-Baptiste knew Gordon could be a sore loser and it was good to see someone finally get one over on his friend and boss, especially someone disorganized and careless as James. "No salt..." Gordon started to list off the deficiencies of James' dish. He'd only had a bite and didn't understand how the girls could possibly have preferred Drunken James' Cock Pie. The man hadn't even taken things seriously and he still won.
"Are you any good at driving?" James joked, planning on making a smart arsed remark about Gordon's previous threats to give up cooking.
"Seriously, no fucking around James." Gordon was living up to his reputation as a poor loser. "Been beaten by a shaggy tramp who spent four hours peeling his fucking potatoes." James bounced on his heels, still celebrating his amazing win. "Do something very quickly for me please, yes?" James knew it was coming, it was Gordon's stock line on the series and win or lose he was going to hear it. "Fuck off out of here please."
"Yes..." James drawled and moved like he was going to get out of the kitchen. The camera would only follow him so far and he didn't really have to leave, but that was the set up.
"Oh my god," Gordon pulled at his hair as James grabbed his wineglass on the way out.
The director cut the taping and the crew gave an audible sigh. A full day of filming and most of it would never see the light of day. James moved back towards his dish while people scurried around him. Catering had been hours ago and the wine had left him quite peckish. He did cook a good fish pie if he said so himself. It was one of the reasons he'd chosen this dish when the producers approached him. He had a full plate of it, so what if it had gone a little cold during filming? He'd left dishes out overnight at his own house and had eaten them the next morning without any issues.
He found a fork and scooped up a bite sized portion of his creation, savoring the flavor and texture of the tender fish. Gordon hovered near him, his own fork digging into James' dish. "I've got to try it." A hair fell from James' head to land in the potato mash topping. Gordon tried to blow the strand away, finally picking it up with his fingers and wiping it away on a napkin. "Either lacquer your hair down like Jean-Baptiste or get a hairnet man, yeah? That's disgusting."
"What?" James shrugged. "It's clean."
Gordon looked doubtfully at the slightly sweaty locks that James had been touching all day. No longer would Gordon classify it as clean. He did, however, have to admit that James' pie was tasty if not visually appealing.
"Mmmm," James mumbled around a mouthful. "Lemme try yours." He stuck his used fork into Gordon's runny pie, not at all surprised when the bite of vermouth overpowered everything but the salmon. James much preferred his, the milk and cream making for a heartier dish. Gordon could keep his thin soup that he sold to WAGS and investment bankers. "Interesting, that." James went back to eating his own work.
Gordon had a room full of extras to greet and charm, leaving James on his own while he posed for photos and signed autographs. A few people came up to the pass to chat with James, one or two brave souls sharing his food and talking motorcycles until security started to clear people out. Cleaning staff scurried about the kitchen, taking James' dish from him even as he had his fork stuck in it. They did leave his wineglass, and James leaned against the counter as he watched the last of the stragglers leave the set.
Gordon undid the top button on his jacket and pushed his product laden hair back from his forehead. "Good job today, James. Congratulations."
"Thanks," he said as Gordon picked up the matching glass, downing the rest of his wine.
"If you ever get tired of cars, you should explore cooking more. God knows somehow you're intuitive." Gordon started undoing the rest of the buttons on his jacket, the studio lights still bright and hot above them.
Still not one to take a compliment well, James swirled his wine and changed the conversation to something he'd been wondering all day. "Is that jacket stiff?" It looked immaculate through the heat of the kitchen and the stress of filming. James rubbed his hands over his rumpled shirt. "It looks good on you."
"It's heavy cotton," he explained. "And the laundry starches the fuck out of it." Gordon stopped half way down his chest, the beast flap hanging open limply. James reached out and felt the collar, noting the way the almost-canvas was smooth under his fingers. "Are you ready for your winnings yet?"
James stopped fiddling with the collar and let his fingers trace over the partially obscured embroidery on Gordon's chest. "Yeah, think so."
"C'mon, big boy." James followed Gordon around the central work island, stopping short as Gordon grabbed a bottle from under the chopping board. Gordon shoved a bottle at him, James thought it was more wine despite the liquid's green color. He quickly read the label.
"Extra virgin olive oil," he said aloud. "Didn't know you cared, Ramsay."
He chuckled and continued walking. James followed behind him, olive oil held tightly around the bottle's neck. Gordon led him out of the kitchen and across the hallway, opening a door to a storage room full of canned goods and extra cooking pans.
"This is romantic," James said as he looked around the small room. "I like what you've done with the place." He carefully set the oil on a shelf, making sure it would balance between the wire racking.
Gordon made sure the door was shut and locked, giving the handle a quick pull to make sure it was closed. He rubbed his hands together in delight. "Right, trousers off."
James raised an eyebrow. "Thought I'd at least get a kiss first."
"You want a kiss?" Gordon closed in on James and stepped nearer until James' back was against a cold rack. Pans rattled as James ran out of personal space. Gordon chose to lean in and rub his nose against James' chin, letting the skittish man grow accustomed to nearness. He turned and set his lips on James' and settled his hands on James' hips, anchoring them for what he had planned.
James was much more timid than what he had assumed, given his unflappability about the shark and the bottles of wine he'd consumed. Gordon swiped his tongue across James' bottom lip before pulling away.
"So what's my prize Ramsay? It had better be good." He already vaguely knew what his prize would be as they had discussed it before ever venturing into the studio this morning.
"You are in for a special treat today, James." Gordon reached into his pocket and pulled out something he'd grabbed earlier from the kitchen. He held it up for James, who promptly grabbed it and started exploring the red silicone.
James stuck his finger inside the sheath, feeling the nibs that lined the inside with his fingertips. "What is it?" If it had been Clarkson he would have guessed exactly what it was for, but Gordon had it in the kitchen earlier, in plain sight of everyone.
"Ummm," Gordon moaned slightly, pushing the silicone further up James' probing finger. "Technically it's a handle holder for hot pans, however..." Gordon pulled the silicone back slightly, moving it back and forth on James' finger.
"I think I like where this is going." James leaned in again to steal another kiss as Gordon fucked his finger.
Gordon pulled the pot holder away and started reaching for James' trousers. "Get these off, yeah." He paused and looked between them. "You've got mash on your shirt."
James sucked in his gut and looked between them, the crust of potatoes overlaying the floral motif and the bit of smear that had come off on Gordon's wrist. "Cock," James cursed and he tried to scrape the carbs out of the cotton/poly blend.
"Leave it." Gordon grabbed James' wrist and purposefully moved it to his side. He pinned James' wrist into his hip, nodding slightly as he released the sturdy bones and James kept his hand where it had been placed.
Deftly he undid James' trousers and slid them down to his ankles. Horribly worn pants, fraying at the hem, peeked out from under the mash encrusted shirt. "They do sell new pants in the shop, James."
"But these are comfortable, and I like them."
Gordon chuckled, wondering how much James' coworkers had suffered over the years. Carefully he grabbed the tattered elastic waist and pulled it over and down, letting it drop on top of the trousers. Gordon raised an eyebrow. The sight was not completely unexpected. He ignored James' cock for now, reaching lower to gently cup James' testicles. "I knew they'd be big, but bloody hell..."
James spread his ankles as much as his trousers would allow, letting Gordon have better access.
Gordon palmed James' scrotum, feeling the coarse hair and wrinkled skin underneath. "I like that," James said quietly, letting Gordon explore.
Curiosity was satisfied much quicker than other needs and Gordon abandoned James' bollocks for something larger. He wrapped his fingers around James and slowly started to stroke his length. People shuffled by outside the door, production staff or building maintenance most likely, but it was enough of a reminder of their limited time and locked but not private location.
James turned to look at the noise, eyes wide at the thought of being caught. Even the most trusted coworker would surely turn to the press for this kind of a scandal. "Gordon..."
"Shush, James." Gordon leaned into James and nuzzled into his hair. "Get the olive oil."
It distracted James from the footsteps outside, which had died away as whomever it was made their way down the hall. James had to twist his upper body to reach the wire rack, carefully grabbing the neck of the oil bottle. Gordon retrieved the handle sheath from over James's shoulder.
"Top off." Gordon continued to work one hand over James' cock, the other hand holding the opening side up on the cover. "Pour a good bit in, three or four tablespoons."
James unscrewed the bottle but dropped the cap as soon as it was off. It bounced off the floor and disappeared to parts unknown. Gordon only shrugged slightly, tipping his head towards the silicone. James poured carefully, waiting for Gordon to nod again when he'd dispensed the required amount.
The oil bottle went back on the shelf, pushed back so it wouldn't fall off. Gordon was tilting and tipping the sleeve, coating the inside and all the nubs with the oil. "Olive oil feels good on," he said as James watched his methodical preparation.
"Used it before?"
"Oh god yes," Gordon stopped jerking James, using both hands to warm the silicone. "Sixteen hours in a kitchen, six days a week does bad things to a young man."
"You came out alright."
Gordon smiled, letting out a half laugh. He dropped a kitchen rag over James' wadded up trousers, in no mood to help James out of the binding garment and well aware of how conspicuous oil stains could be. "Right, ready?" He stretched the opening of the cover to fit over James' girth. None of his pans, not even the expensive Duparquet, had handles that thick. James straightened up and pressed back against the shelving rack. Gordon laughed, not sure what James was expecting. "Fuck's sake James, relax."
He didn't and Gordon continued onwards, bringing the warmed and oiled silicone between them, using both hands to guide James into the slick opening. James moaned quietly and thrust into the sleeve as Gordon slowly slid it down his cock. Shamefully he eyeballed two or three inches left uncovered once James hit the end of the sheath. Good Lord... He squeezed around James' cock, letting the nubs inside play against James' skin.
Gordon looked up from his work to check on a suddenly quiet James. They'd both been watching James' cock disappear. "Good?" James had his lips pressed together tightly and a lazy droop to his eyes that Gordon committed to memory. James nodded mutely, letting his eyes run over Gordon's face. At James' nod, Gordon pulled the silicone back, holding it against James' tip before reversing and sliding it down. He could feel the nibs catch and drag on their way down, knowing how good it felt when it was tight and warm and slippery.
James landed his arms over Gordon's shoulders, pulling him in for a needy kiss. James' tongue pushed into Gordon's mouth, cigarettes and white wine and fish dominating the current flavours. He made little noises, huffs and tiny grunts as Gordon moved hands around him.
James settled for breathing into the side of Gordon's neck as Gordon changed his grip and quickened his pace. He was silent, half of his brain unable to stop listening for more footsteps outside or the quick turn of a lock. He dug his fingers into Gordon's back and shoulders as he nipped at the thin skin of his neck. Gordon pushed his shoulders against James, checking him against the racks as the oil dripped out of the sheath and down James's shaft. It left an interesting texture as Gordon reached beneath James again to fondle his balls.
It was hard to miss the interested shift of James' hips as Gordon held his scrotum and the sheath slid over his cock. James was enjoying his winnings so far, the fizzy feeling long since dissolving into a needy lust at the promise of a quick orgasm. He couldn't stop the movements of his hips, thrusting into Gordon's hands and back against the warmed metal of the shelves, #10 cans rattling as James reared into them.
James grabbed the stiff collar of Gordon's chef jacket and bit, muffling his noises into the starched cotton. He grabbed at Gordon's back and shoulders, levering against him as his orgasm bloomed.
Gordon worked quickly, muscles used to the quick pull and drag of stir fry. He added a little twist that would normally send frying vegetables flipping off the edge of the sauté pan and into the air. James grabbed at him, biting at his neck. For someone who wrote and drove all day, James had no right being so strong. Gordon felt James lift him to the balls of his feet with his bear hug.
"C'mon, big boy. Come for me." Gordon gave James' plums a firm rub. He felt them pull up and he pushed the sheath as far down James' cock as it would go, squeezing his grip like Tana used to when she...
"Fuck," James hissed, teeth losing their grip on Gordon's neck. He bucked a final time and pulled Gordon into him as orgasm took him over.
Gordon fought not to struggle. It wasn't everyday he was overpowered. He let James crush and lift him again as he came, not at all used to being treated like a side of beef since he'd reached his full adult size. Something told him sex with James would be a wild ride, something his own cock screamed to experience. He pushed the wandering thoughts aside and waited for James to release him.
James' arms relaxed as everything slowly unclenched and the tension bled away. His ass was pressed uncomfortably against a wire rack and Gordon's almost full weight leaned against him awkwardly, hands shoved between their bodies as olive oil dripped to the floor. "God, I'm sorry," James said as he unwound his arms and let Gordon find his balance again.
"No worries," Gordon tried not to wheeze as he fell back on his heels. "Alright?" At James' nod he carefully he slid the pot holder off and dropped it into a nearby bin, not wanting it anywhere near a kitchen again.
James smiled lazily and stretched his suddenly limber back. They were even now, Gordon winning at Dunsfold and James winning in his kitchen. When he felt steady, James bent over and pulled up his pants, wadding up the kitchen rag draped over his clothes and tossing it jokingly in Gordon's direction. In addition to the mash on his shirt, there was now a large oil spot on his khakis that would have to be spot treated and soaked when he got home.
Gordon unbuttoned his jacket further, ready to drop the Celebrity Chef persona and get out of the studio. "Pub then?"
"Let me get my kit on first," James said pulling up his trousers. Gordon had access to the best of everything in London and had the palate and polish to pull it all together much better than 'that other guy' from some motoring program.
"Was thinking Chelsea if that's alright with you." James raised an eyebrow as he straightened up. He was seriously underdressed. "Just sneak in the back and pop around. There's a Côte de Nuits laying down with your name on it."
James wasn't sure, but he might have groaned out loud.
"Ever hear of a place called Musigny? High up on the limestone ridge, where the night winds blow cold through the warm air..." Gordon teased mercilessly, James' trip with Oz Clarke fresh on his mind.
"I'll get hard again if you keep talking like that." He lowered his chin and looked through his lashes at a laughing Gordon.
Gordon looked around to make sure there were no traces left behind. "Let's get out of here. I've got the Continental GT today, hope it meets your standards." He poked James in the chest. "And I'm driving, you lush."