Waiting The World (Vincent X Reader) (Dead plate)

9: Day 3

 Standing behind the counter, I wave politely at the first customers; the sweet old couple is back. I sit them down, taking their orders and walking to the kitchen. It's clear they see how out of it I am, but they don't mention it, and soon, I'm back in my flow. I barely have to focus on the job anymore, aside from which table ordered what. Smiling brightly, I weave through tables, bringing everyone their plates all while the memory of the kitchens shines in my mind. That poor girl... I feel bad for her. Being in that position is never fun. But he didn't- or should I say, wouldn't- hit her.. Right?

Breakfast comes and goes, and soon after that, lunch rush ends. It's all just more people to me, really. I'm more concerned about my dreams lately. Why, out of all people, is Vincent in my dreams? My brain is running wild with explanations, with answers, but none of them seem quite right. It just doesn't make sense... I see a whole bunch of people daily, but why him? Sure, he's nice, but so are most, if not all, of the customers I meet. What in the world makes him so special?

I'm barely able to focus on making small talk with the tables; some of the people I've started to recognize as regulars have noticed, too. Though most hours are slow, a couple of groups try to ask about my day, but all my answers are simple 'yes' or 'no's. What is wrong with me today? Get your head out of the clouds; your job is more important than a man. Dinner rush quickly pulls me out of my thoughts, and a group of four quickly walks into the lobby, giving me something to occupy my head. I seat them near the kitchen, chatting with the leader as his friends whisper to themselves in the back. I clear my throat, grabbing their attention, before speaking with a smile.

"What can I get you all started with?"

"Oh, we'll all have the appetizers. And don't go light on the wine, sweetheart!"

Despite their friendly exteriors, I can tell this is not going to be a pleasant experience. Give them a chance, at least. Try to be polite, at least?

"I'll have that right out for you all. Hang tight!"

Walking away, I turn in the order sheet to the kitchens, before the door dings, a group of three entering with another group ready to leave. Rushing over and checking people in and out, I can't shake the thought of those four men. I shake off the thought, checking a group of sweet elderly ladies out. The kitchen's bell rings, signifying someone's food is done. Four appetizers; It's the groups' food. Great. I don't delay, bringing them their plates and politely nodding before hurrying off.

The restaurant clears out, and before I know it, it's just me and the table of rowdy men. THey've had at LEAST nine rounds of alcohol, probably more. It's obvious, too; they're drunker than drunk. Unfortunately for me, I still have to go over and collect their dirty dishes. Smiling sweetly at them, I reach for the empty glasses, before a firm hand grips my forearm. Why in the world...

" Um, excuse me, sir-"

Before I can even get my words out, I feel another hand, right on my lower back, and headed down. I immediately rip away from the table, the glasses and plates I had collected falling off my tray and shattering to the floor. I look at the floor, then at the table, and back to the floor again, unsure what to do. It feels like a dream... a sick, twisted dream. I slowly back away; and straight into Vincent. How long he was behind me, I don't know, but I stare up at him quietly. He hisses through his teeth, his voice saturated thoroughly with anger.

"Go wash the dishes in the kitchens. Now."

Now, let's put together the context clues: Vincent sounds pissed, so I assume he saw what happened, and the table of four are all laughing. I can only assume something is going to go down, and it's not looking good for Vincent, considering the fact that it's a four V.S one. In conclusion, I'm going to follow orders and go to the kitchens. I'd much rather have his anger directed to them than to me, even if he might lose this fight. I briskly walk off to the kitchens, my eyes locked on the floor.

Am I going to watch what happens? Obviously. After all, conflict makes for some pretty entertaining stuff. I peek through the food window, watching as he approaches the table with clenched fists. The men look up at him, their laughter cut short by the presumably angry glare on his face. I can't make out what they're saying, but after a minute or so, the group stands up, walking out of the door glumly. Vincent bends down, carefully sweeping the shattered glass into his hands. As he turns to the kitchens, I hide around the corner, quick to start the dishes.

"Are you alright?"

I jump a little at his voice, turning my head to look at him. I guess I wasn't expecting him to sound so... Concerned? I nod my head, looking back to the sink.

"Well? Nothing else to say?"

Apparently, silence wasn't a good enough answer for him. Alright then. I turn to face him, drying off my hands as I speak.

"I... Suppose I'm fine. Just a little... shaken up."

Shaken up is an understatement; I feel gross, dirty... Like I'M the one who touched them. I sigh, smiling up at him, but he seems... less than amused.

"Shaken up, hmm? Well, other than the fact that you're visibly shaking, I can tell you're not 'fine'."

Looking at my hands, I see he's right. I'm quivering like a scared dog in a thunderstorm. I stuff my hands in my pocket, looking at the floor.

"Uh... Thank you... for, you know, taking care of them."

"Oh, don't think anything of it. I have no place in my restaurant for the likes of them."

Taking a deep breath, I turn back to organizing the dishes. This is awkward. I should talk to him, bring something up to pass the silence.

"You look... Tired. Did you get enough sleep last night?"

Out of everything you could've said, that's what you thought of first?! Just as I'm about to kick myself for being so inconsiderate, he laughs quietly.

"Not nearly enough. But what about you? You seem just as sleepy, if not more. What, bad dreams?"

I freeze, my dream hitting me like a truck. Don't mention it. And if you do, DEFINITELY don't mention him!

"Oh, no. Just the normal dreams."

He tilts his head at me, but after realizing I'm offering no explanation further, he sighs. He's in a strangely good mood, considering how easily agitated he was this morning, and the... situation he had to deal with earlier. Drying my hands off on a towel, I turn his way, trying to remember something... What was it? I can't place it, but something is wrong...

"Well, I made you another dinner, if you'd so graciously accept it."

He smiles softly, a rare sight to see. But looking at the plate in his hands, I gasp. I forgot his plate. Oh my goodness, I forgot his plate!

"I-I didn't bring your dish back! Oh my gosh, I-I'm so sorry, sir, really-"

"Don't mention it, alright? It's fine, really. You can always return some other day. Or at this point, you might as well keep it."

He snorts at the horrified look on my face, holding the plate out to me again.

"Really, you worry too much. It's not going to kill you, I promise."

I pick the platter up gingerly, holding it in front of me. I can't help the small grin that creeps onto my face as I look up at him.

"Thank you, sir. I'll bring it back tomorrow, I promise. But I should probably be getting back home."

"Alright. I just want you to know, if anyone else bothers you at work, or even out of work, just tell me. And don't blame yourself, either."

"If you say so, sir. And... Thank you. Again. For defending me."

I nod, stepping out the back door as he holds it open for me. Waving goodbye, I head down the street, turning the corner with the plate he gave me. And, in spite of everything that happened today, 

I can't hide my stupid grin.