A/N: This fic was inspired by the lovely Maggie, aka mirkwood-meriwether!

As Happy walked to the subway, she had to side-step three piles of trash that had somehow accumulated on the sidewalk, ignore two catcallers, and pretend that it wasn't freezing cold outside and pouring down rain. It wasn't an unusual morning for her, but she managed to get through it with an uncharacteristically good attitude; she was much happier than she normally was on her way to work.

It wasn't that she disliked her job. Cooking was interesting, from a chemical point of view; making new recipes fascinated her. But she didn't particularly enjoy having to deal with the people - her boss, her coworkers, the way-too-rich patrons that frequented La Petite Table. For that matter, she didn't particularly enjoy the fact that she worked at a place called La Petite Table, as if translating the most mundane phrase in the world into French made it somehow upper-class.

But, regardless, Happy boarded the subway with a bit more skip in her step than usual. The day before, Louis, the ancient head chef who had been with La Petite Table longer than Happy had been alive, finally retired. She'd heard nothing concrete about Louis' replacement, but Walter, the restaurant owner, had been dropping hints all month that the job would be Happy's. She was the logical successor; she'd been there nearly five years, had worked her way up from a dishwasher to sous chef, had come up with the recipes for half of the menu. She wasn't an optimist by any means, but she felt good about this.

Just after Happy had gotten to work and slipped on her white coat, Walter walked into the kitchen, flanked by a shorter man with three-day-old scruff on his chin and a hat. Not a chef's hat, a bowler hat. Happy had to keep her lip from turning upward with disgust.

Walter was giving the hat guy a tour. "And here's the kitchen," he said, waving his hands around grandly. "The fridge, stoves, ovens, dirty dishes go over there - I'm sure Happy won't mind showing you around."

"Thanks, Walter." The hat guy walked towards her. "You must be Happy." He held out a hand. "Tobias M. Curtis."

Happy ignored him and looked at Walter. "Who's this guy?"

"This is our new head chef."

Happy frowned. "Excuse me?"

"He's straight out of Johnson and Wales. We're lucky to have him. You can show him around the kitchen, right?"

Without waiting for a response, Walter ducked out, leaving Happy alone with the newcomer.

"Johnson and Wales, huh?" Despite herself, she was impressed; that culinary school, last she heard, was one of the top in the world. Louis had graduated from there around the time Eisenhower was in office.

"Yep. What about you? You a wildcat, too?"

"God, no. I'm all self-taught."

Toby raised his eyebrows. "Seriously? You work at La Petite Table" - his French accent was impeccable; Happy instantly found him tiringly pretentious - "and you never went to culinary school?"

"Do you have a problem with that?"

Toby held his hands up innocently. "No problem here. Just respect."

Happy fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Anyway, like Walter was telling you" - she started into a fast-paced rundown of the kitchen, pointing to things as she went - "stove, pots and pans, knives and cutlery, dirty dishes over there. Head chef works right here; I work over there. I'm sure a wildcat" - she said the word with mock reverence - "like yourself can figure out where everything is."

Toby raised his eyebrows. "Thanks for the detailed tour."

Happy didn't respond; she turned, walked over to her station, and began prepping for their lunch special.

"Where are the steak knives?" Toby called out in the middle of the lunch rush. Happy slowly set down the fish she was filleting and sulked over to the knife drawer, grabbing one and handing it to him indignantly.

"Here."

He started slicing a cut of meat. Happy, in her annoyance, unconsciously hovered over him, waiting for his deft hands to make a mistake. When Toby noticed her, he paused mid-slice, slab of uncooked steak in hand, to look at her.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"No, really. Why is it such a problem for you to hand me a knife?"

"It's not."

"Tell that to the look of murder of your face."

"It's just a little annoying that the head chef doesn't even know where the knives are."

"Well, it is my first day."

"Yeah, and it's my eleven-hundred seventy-sixth" - she'd counted while she was chopping carrots - "so forgive me if I don't have a ton of patience for a newbie."

The words came out harsher than she meant them to. He frowned at her, and she waited for him to yell, to throw his stupid hat at her, to fire her for insubordination - that's what Louis would've done. But he just turned wordlessly back to the steak and continued cutting.

After the dinner rush had come and gone that evening, Toby dismissed everyone an hour early, even the dish boy - Toby said he'd finish cleaning up. Everyone had clapped at the impromptu leave time, but Happy couldn't even find it in herself to be excited about the prospect of an early night in. She was sure it was just Toby trying to win over their coworkers' friendship.

As she pulled off her coat and hung it in her locker, Toby came up to her.

"Happy, do you have a minute?"

She nodded. So this was it. He didn't want to make a scene before, but he'd fire her quietly now. She was already planning what restaurants she'd go to next - what restaurants would kill to have her - while Toby led her into his office.

The room was undecorated, still filled with boxes - she'd almost forgotten this was his first day. On his desk, there were two plates of filet mignon with sides of mashed potatoes.

"Walter said this was your favorite meal."

It wasn't her favorite meal to eat; it was her favorite creation. She'd worked for three months on perfecting the sauce, and she was sure Toby hadn't done it right. But, despite herself, she was kind of touched that he'd tried.

"Um, is this your way of giving me a soft exit?"

"An exit?"

"Yeah. I kind of figured, after the steak-knife incident…"

"That I'd fire you over that? Jeez, if I fired everyone who's snapped at me in the middle of a lunch rush, there wouldn't be anyone left in the kitchen. But your apology is accepted."

"Wasn't going to apologize."

"Sure you were." Toby motioned for her to sit down; she did so reluctantly, and he followed suit. "I know," he continued, "that it's tough for someone like you to not be the head chef."

"You don't even know me."

"You're right, but I sure as hell know of you. You're all over the papers. 'Innovative', 'genius', 'stands alone at the top of her field' - and that's just from the latest Times review."

"I don't read the Times," Happy responded, looking away. It wasn't really a lie; she didn't normally read the Times. But she'd skim the restaurant-review section for her name; she clipped every article that so much as mentioned her and saved them in a folder at home.

"Well, they have some glowing things to say about you over there," Toby said. "As does the Post, the Journal - everyone who talks about restaurants talks about you."

"And yet here I am, still a sous chef."

"Yeah. Life's not always fair."

Happy snorted. "You say that like you have nothing to do with this situation."

"Oh, what, you'd like me to step down?"

"It'd be nice, yeah."

"And then Walter would hire some other amazingly-qualified culinary school grad to fill my place. This isn't about me, Happy."

"Then who's it about?"

Toby shrugged. "Society? I don't know. How many restaurants around here that are worth their salt - no pun intended - have head chefs who are self-taught?"

"Self-taught doesn't mean bad."

"I know that. You know that. Hell, the New York Times knows that. But restaurant owners are a conservative bunch; they might disagree."

"Whatever. Why do you care, anyway?"

"Because I don't want you to hate me."

"I don't hate you."

"Well, good. Then we're getting somewhere. Now eat your steak. That sauce took me three tries, the bastard."

The sauce, Happy had to admit, was pretty good. Not up to her standards, but close - annoyingly close. As they ate, Toby made pleasant small-talk about life in New York. Happy, never one for words, found that the conversation flowed easily.

"So," he said as they were finishing their meal, "why do you hate the name of this place so much?"

"I don't."

"Please. I saw the way you curled your lip up at the sign when you walked in."

"I did not." Happy sounded more petulant than she would've liked.

"Okay, maybe you didn't literally curl your lip. But I can tell you don't like the name. Why?"

"I don't know. I just think it's a little pretentious. It literally just means 'The Little Table'. They took a totally ordinary phrase and translated into French and suddenly, voilà, it's a name suitable for a restaurant where appetizers cost twenty bucks? I just don't get it."

"So you're not big on French?"

"I have nothing against the language. The use of the language to make something sound upscale, though? I hate that."

"If you had a restaurant, what you would name it?"

Happy blinked, thrown-off by his question. "Oh. I don't know."

"Come on. Every chef had a restaurant name locked away."

"What's yours?"

"Amy's."

"Who's Amy?"

He smiled. "The one that got away."

Happy scoffed. "Of course. Could you be any more cliché?"

"Okay then, what's yours?"

Happy shook her head. "You're going to laugh."

"I won't. I promise."

"The Monkey Wrench."

"The Monkey Wrench?"

"Mm-hm."

"Why?"

"It's a stupid reason."

"I doubt that."

Happy examined him for a minute, trying to find a hint of malice in his face. She could see it now: he got the name of her dream restaurant and told the whole kitchen team; it would become a running joke. But there was only kindness, genuine interest, in his eyes. So she said, "Well, I don't know. Life keeps throwing monkey wrenches in my plans. So I figured, screw it, I'm going to make something out of the monkey wrenches. Plus, I like tools."

"Mm. That's very poetic."

"Stop."

"No, I'm serious. Much deeper than 'Amy's'. Now I'm going to have to think up a better name."

"Is this what you all did at Johnson and Wales? Sit around and think up restaurant names?"

Toby laughed. "Not quite. It's a tough school, you know. When we weren't cooking, we were studying."

"Studying? For what?"

"Um, our tests?"

"What, like written tests?"

"Yeah, like written tests. It's a college. That's kind of their thing."

"Sounds like a waste of time, if you ask me. An exam isn't going to teach you how to cook."

Toby smiled at her. "No, I guess it isn't. Is this why you never went to culinary school? Because you didn't want to take the tests?"

"Yeah," she said sarcastically. "That's why."

"No, seriously. Every aspiring chef goes, even if it's just to a few classes at community college."

"School was never my thing."

"Why I am not surprised?"

"Look, by the time I turned eighteen, my life wasn't exactly pointing me towards culinary school, okay?"

"Yeah? Where was it pointing?"

Happy shrugged; she didn't like talking about this - not with anyone, and certainly not with her new boss.

"Well, let's just say we're not all legacies at Johnson and Wales," she said eventually.

"Oh, I wasn't a legacy."

"You weren't?"

"Not even close. Neither of my parents went to college; my mom didn't even finish high school, and my dad only did by the skin of his teeth."

"They weren't chefs?"

"No. My dad worked at a shoe store."

"And your mom?"

"She didn't work. She... wasn't well."

"Oh?"

Toby shrugged; Happy didn't push it.

"But," she said, "you still ended up at the top culinary school in the country."

"Mm. I guess I did."

"Look, Toby, you and I both know that people like us - people whose parents work in shoe stores - don't just get in to Johnson and Wales."

"Well, I did."

"What did you do, kidnap the dean's kids and hold them hostage until you got an interview?"

Toby laughed. "More like called the dean's assistant incessantly - and I mean incessantly - until I got her to go on a date with me. Then I charmed my way onto the dean's schedule."

"Oh, great. A womanizer as my boss. This is just perfect."

"I'm not a womanizer."

"Really? How long after you got your interview did you dump poor Miss Dean's Assistant?"

Toby looked away. "We actually just broke up last month."

Happy raised her eyebrows. "You dated this girl for two years?"

"Three, actually. Took me eighteen months to get my degree, another eighteen months of interning to get qualified to work here."

"And you dated her the whole time?"

He shrugged. "I kind of fell for her."

"Was she Amy?"

"Yep. The one that got away. We were actually engaged. We'd sent out our save-the-dates and everything."

"Why'd you break up?"

Toby shook his head. "A lot of reasons. Most of them were my fault."

"I'm sorry."

He smiled sadly. "Well, that's my monkey wrench, I guess - losing her." They were silent for a moment before he said, "What were yours?"

"My what?"

"Monkey wrenches. Stuff that life's thrown in your way."

"The real question is, what hasn't life thrown my way?"

"For real, Happy. I want to learn more about you."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I like to know about my employees. And you seem like a girl with some interesting stories to tell."

"I guess you could say that." She glanced at her watch; it was nearing midnight. "But I should probably go. It's late."

"Ah, saved by the clock."

Happy stood up and moved to clear her plate. Toby stuck out a hand to stop her.

"No, let me. Please. It's the least I can do, after swooping in here and taking your job."

"My job?"

"Come on, we both know you're ten times as qualified as I am to be head chef."

"Want to tell Walter that?"

"Oh trust me, I will, soon as I get the chance."

Happy looked at him, trying to understand the strange man in front of her, one who seemed willing to give up the most prestigious position at one of the nicest restaurants in New York for some girl he met that morning.

"Well, goodnight then," she said. "And thanks. For everything."

He smiled. "I'll see you tomorrow, Happy."