#OPT Jobs in Chicago

[carmenized-onions]

Two Steps Back. | Advanced Payment

logline; it's time to retrace your steps. both of you.

[!!!] series history, this is the thirteenth; nothing distresses me more than when i see people read this out of order PLEASE BABY PLEASE

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. constant headache was actually in season 3? my brain. my power.

Or, maybe you'd like a playlist made especially for this chapter? Consider this my Fishes special.

portion; 17k new record again, please god tell me it gets shorter from here on i'm so. tired..

possible allergies; you will know exactly what trigger warnings you need upon reading seeing the first line. Also! I watched Season 3, and injected some lines from it into this, including the finale. I don't consider it full spoilers, because it's an entirely new context, but you might wanna catch up before you read this one!

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader so excessively gendered, in this chapter. my bad.

it's my birthday so if you typically lurk legally you have to tell me your thoughts on this one! Also it's once again the new longest, so like. cmon.

“What are you, Amish?”

You blink, craning your head back to look up at this annoying giant. You’re too tired for this shit. This is your one day off this week and you’re spending it fixing faulty lights with your dad, at some shit diner. Why did you agree to start coming on jobs? Why’s this guy gotta bother you on your lunch break? What’s wrong with you not wanting to smoke? Pardon you for not wanting to kill yourself with tobacco—

“Ah, no, I’m just uhm—” You gesture your hand to your head. “I get migraines, kinda easy, so I can’t, uh— Can’t indulge.”

He nods, he opts to stand next to you, while you’re sitting on the curb. At least the smoke will blow over your head, this way. You try to eat your lunch in peace. He does not let you have this moment of peace.

“Jack, right?” He nudges your foot with his. “That’s what your pop’s calls you, at least?”

“Yeah. Everyone calls me Jack.” You nod. Guess this is a conversation now, whether you want it or not. “You’re Mikey? The owner?”

“The Original Chicago Beef, in the flesh.” He nods, and he says it like he’s proud but he doesn’t look it. He leers at your partially consumed tin foil wrapped sandwich. “You bring your own lunch?”

You shrug. “Uh, yeah, grilled cheese with pork—” 

“Why would you—”  The door to the kitchen swings open, as Mikey grimaces. You both turn your heads to see another guy come out— Oh it’s that one, the one that cannot stop talking about his divorce— Mikey consults him. “Yo, Rich, do I look like some jamoke, to you? Just wonderin’.”

Rich, tilts his head, and his legs follow after him, “No, cousin, whatssup?” He takes the cigarette from Mikey, when it’s offered up.

“Well, our little fixer friend here—” Mikey nudges you, again. “—seems to think me a fuckin’ ass.”

Now when did you say anything like that? “Wha—”

“Stop making lunches, I’ve been watching you come in here with your little lunch pail the past few jobs, you eat free ‘ere, aright? You’re workin’.” Doesn’t matter what you said. Mikey sees you. Mikey’s always seen you. 

‘workin’’ is a bit generous. The most you do is hand your dad tools, hold a flashlight, and ask too many questions. You definitely could do more, but he knows you're too tired. He really just wants to spend time with you. You pretend to not know his ulterior motives.

“We’re gentlemen here, sweetheart.” Rich bends down, so you can see him past Mikey’s frame, at your level. He reaches a hand out for you to shake. “Richie. Jerimovich.”

You’re not gonna remember that. You take his hand and shake it. “Jack. It’s— I’m just Jack.”

You’ve only got one hand on your sandwich, to shake Richie’s hand. So, like a school bully, Michael takes your loosened grip as his opportunity to grab it from you. “Yoink—!”

You whine, “C’mon—” “Let me make you a real fuckin’ sandwich, sweetheart—” “I’d just like my sandwich, alright?” “Oh, it’ll be your sandwich, alright? You think I don’t make good sandwiches? Richie, she doesn’t think I make good sandwiches.”

“Fuckin’ insane, cousin.”

You attempt to defend yourself from the peanut gallery of one guy. “Not what I said!”

“Why do you keep bringing lunch, then?”

Because it’s easy? Because it’s orderly? Because you’ve been in a full state of autopilot for the last threeish years and every day you’ve eaten the same breakfast and made the same lunch and then you go on your shift and then someone nearly dies and sobs in your arms and then you sit on the edge of the ambulance and you eat your grilled cheese and pork? Because if you break the routine it’s all gonna hit?

“I just like making my own lunch.”

“Well, stop. You’re breaking my heart.” Michael takes a bite of your sandwich. You click your teeth. Germs. You’re going to chastise him, but he doesn’t let you. “You like pork more than beef?”

“I think beef is fine.”

“Not what I asked.”

You take too long to respond, meaning the lie won’t be believable, so you have to tell the truth. You have to tell The Original Chicago Beef that— “I… I like pork more.”

“How dare you—” Barks Richie, the guard dog, apparently. Mikey stops him, putting a hand up.

“No, no, I asked the lady a question. She’s wrong but I asked. Fair’s fair. We express our fury like gentlemen, Cousin.” He nods, to himself. Thinking. About what is beyond you. God, so much for a lunch break. You point to your sandwich in his hand.

“Can I have that back—” “No. I’m makin’ you a goddamn real sandwich.”

You all but growl, really. You start to stand up. God, this guy is pushy. “I just said, I prefer—”

Mikey’s already making his way back into the kitchen, with the last half of your lunch as hostage. “Oh, I’ll make you a fuckin’ pork sandwich, aright?”

Mikey’s guard dog stamps out the butt of the shared cigarette, walking backwards into the kitchen, following Mikey but watching you. “He’s gonna make you fuckin’ pork, aright?”

“Aright!” Is all you can yell back, at your wits with the two dumbest most stubborn middle-aged geezers you’ve ever met.

Richie holds the door open for you, so you don’t get locked out. Alright, maybe he is a gentleman. You hear Mikey’s voice ring, from inside the kitchen. “And if you’re not doin’ nothin’ for your dad, try to fix the fuckin’ coffee machine, would you?”

This fucking guy. 

You have waved at him a couple times, here and there, while helping out your dad. But now, you’ve officially had Michael Bear Berzatto in your life for a solid ten minutes. Doesn’t feel like it.

Carmen Anthony Bear Berzatto has officially not had you in his life for ten minutes. Doesn’t feel like it. Feels like you’ve been gone for years. But you’re probably still just outside, talking to Richie and Syd. How is it still Friday? What time is it? Almost six? They’ve still got four fucking hours of service to go? No, that’s a good thing. This is a good thing. Doesn’t give him time to think. Everyone needs to stop staring at him. 

What a fucking monster. What did he even say? He can’t remember anymore. He remembered ten minutes ago, and now it’s gone. Completely walled off in his memory. What did he say? Why did you make that face? What did he say to Richie, again? Why did you step in front of him? What did you say, again? What did Richie say? What happened? He can’t remember. He knows he did something fucked up but Carmen cannot remember what happened twenty minutes ago. That’s bad, right?

“I need hands!” Carmen does not recognize the fact that he’s working until he hears his own voice.

Right. He’s on expo. He’s doing expo. That’s what was happening twenty minutes ago, he thinks. That’s what was happening, right? Doesn’t matter. This is what he’s doing now. Fak comes back in and takes the tray to run. He looks around for a moment, confused. 

“Where’s Tony?”

“She’s gone.”

Fak pauses. You don’t leave, that doesn’t match up in his brain. It doesn’t really match up in Carmen’s either, but this is what’s happening now. “What’d’you mean she’s gone?”

“I mean she’s fucking gone, Fak.” Carmen barks back, practically. Such a fucking monster. Could Fak tell him what he said? Doesn’t matter. Carmen nods to the plate. “Table twenty-five, go.”

“...Where’d she go—” “Fucking go, Fak!”

There is a loud, thrumming buzz. The type that goes off after a game. Or maybe after a wrong answer. Expo clock. Since when did it have a sound setting? The kitchen flinches, including Carmen, including a meek-made Neil, and look to the clock behind them. 

Time has stopped. 0ERR is all it displays now. The sign ‘EVERY SECOND COUNTS’ is real ironic, now. What the fuck happened? You would know. You’re still outside, Carmen could get you. Carmen could get you and say he’s sorry for whatever happened. The back of his head feels like it’s hemorrhaging. He needs to go to a doctor. Maybe a paramedic. Carmen could get you, ask you what he said, and also ask if he is actively dying, right now.

“Fak.” 

“Carm?”

“Table twenty-five.” Carmen points at the plate again, with his sharpie. Then points behind him, to the broken clock. “Then fix that.” 

“Why not call To—” “Do you want a fucking job here or not?” “I—I do—” “Then do your fucking job, Fak.”

Carmen doesn’t need you. The Bear doesn’t need you. They can function just fine. Everything’s fine, without you. Everything’s normal. Everything is the way that it should be. He is shaking so much— When did he eat? Has he eaten? What the fuck is wrong with him? What happened twenty minutes ago? Or was it twenty-five? No. That’s table twenty-five, he’s mixing up his numbers. What time is it? He doesn’t know. The whole kitchen doesn’t know what time it is, anymore. You are gone and so are the minutes. 

Fak leaves, with the plate. Shrunken. Following orders. Carmen just turns everyone into himself, doesn’t he? What a fucking monster. He knows how bad it is to be him, and yet he still does it. Look at the orders, Carmen. Run fucking expo. So fucking slow, Carmen. Look at the orders. 

The crumpled piece of paper you handed him twenty minutes— Thirty? Fuck. The fucking note you handed him some amount of time ago. It sits on his table, next to all the actual orders. He rereads it, instead of the five cavatellis he’s supposed to be yelling about, right now.

Walk-In Hotfix, $80

Plumbing Repair (Service + 4 Hours), $250

Oven Wiring Fix (House call), $70

Oven Hotfix + Replacement Thermocouple, $120

Non-Gratis: Pinot Grigio, -$20

Advanced Payment, M. Berzatto. -$2,500

You forgot the booths. And taxes. And you should probably get paid a half day, for serving for the past half hour. You also forgot all the times he called you, texted you, came over, the bookshelf you brought him, the basil, the rosemary water, cleaning up his trash, every time you tried food for him, every time you told him everything was going to be okay, every time you made everyone breath in here like it was going to be okay— You forgot everything you do. Priceless. Easily, you are owed millions, from Carmen. 

He flips over the note. He reads Sweeps’ quick scribings from David, the fucking asshole out front, the fucking asshole in his head. 

Cherry + Lamb, good flavour. A lot of elements. Fresh, Unique. Overall good? Ig? Weird tone.

Said he’d like to speak to ‘Wine Girl’ (ick), mentioned Michelin connect? Number = Connect? (Ick)

You didn’t eat the cherry and lamb dish. That just connected, in his head. You didn’t get to eat it. Not only did you not get to eat it, the motherfucker outside did. Fuck. You were trying to be nice, but you’ve fucked him. Unique is practically a slur to his Exec. Carmen has fun when he makes things for you— He plays— That’s not what his Exec wants. He wants two elements, max. The fact that David actually liked the flavour is nothing short of a fucking miracle. Carmen could throw up. He’s definitely getting an ulcer, again. Where’s your Tums? Fuck, you took it with you, didn’t you? 

It’s embarrassing how many rules he forgets to implement, when he cooks for you. Boundless, unrestricted— When he cooks for you. Doesn't cut a single concept. It’s mortifying that someone other than you ate it, let alone David fucking Fields.

Carmen’s eyes feather, almost closing, but not completely. He scratches his fingers through his hair, destroying the cast of gel it’s been stuck in. His curls are desperately trying and failing to reform. It doesn’t matter how much he runs his hands through it, he cannot get it to smell like you again. He cannot find you in himself, he cannot find you in his kitchen. That’s what annoyed him, earlier, wasn’t it? That you were everywhere? That you were carved in, everywhere? He thought he didn’t want that?

His knees bounce where he stands, he bumps into his jacket under the table. Right. You left it. Are you cold? Turtleneck was thin. You looked so good. You always look good. Better, in his clothes, but you always look good. Did he remember to tell you that? Probably not.

“Where—” Fuck, he really is going to throw up. “Where we at on Booth Twelve’s dessert tray, Chef?”

You said it was okay for Carmen to give your number out. You gave your dish out. You shelled yourself out, for Carmen. It feels like a cave is being hollowed out, in his throat. He is so angry and he doesn’t know who it’s for. He doesn’t know where to put it. Is that what happened twenty-three— twenty-four minutes ago? Did he give it to you? No, he gave it to Richie, right? That’s how it started. Marcus hands off the dessert paddle to expo, silently. No one wants to talk to Carmen. That’s probably fair. What did he say? Probably bad. It’s already huge they haven’t walked out on him, yet. Has anyone walked out, yet?

Marcus is here, Syd is still out back— Well, actually, she might’ve left with you, she should if she can. Are you still out there? Tina wipes her eyes, working at the oven you fixed thirty— No, forty— Fuck— Earlier. It’s probably the onions from the broth making her tear up. No, it definitely is. Fak is out front, Sweeps is out front, Richie is still out back.

What did he say to Richie? Something about kids? There are no servers to hand off dessert to stupid fucking booth twelve. Carmen cannot keep looking at the family he’s ruined, in whatever way he managed to ruin it. He grabs the dessert tray. He’ll deliver it himself. He can do it all himself. He’s good by himself.

You’ve been out of Carmen’s life for 0ERR minutes. Yeah. That’s exactly how long it feels like.

“Try it try it try it.” You mumble, hurriedly, excitedly, to Marcus. The bread guy. He’s the nicest of the bunch, so far. You hand him the mug. He takes a sip of the coffee you’ve been perfecting for the last six jobs here, give or take. You’ve been in The Beef’s life for two months or so.

“Holy shit.” He nods, digesting it— Actually digesting it, which means— “It’s edible.”

“I know!” You all but shout, too excited to hide it. You’ve finally figured out how to make this thing produce what it’s supposed to— Instead of what is essentially arsenic with coffee flavouring.

Your excitement makes a line cook behind you grimace. The one you’ve still got yet to win over. “My ears, kid.”

“Sorry.” You reply lightly. Your back is turned to her, so she can’t see you cringe to Marcus, crying for help, practically. He’s sympathetic. He kept saying you just need to prove yourself, but it’s been taking forever, what else can you prove?

He decides to fast track you. “Yo, T.” She nods. She respects Marcus. But you’re just some girl that’s been in her walkway for the past seven weeks. “Try it.” He hands her your edible coffee.

She rolls her eyes, already nonplussed, but she takes the coffee. She is genuinely impressed, for a split second, before it turns into a coy sarcasm. “Wow— You’ve made not poison, great job, baby.”

“I’m gonna get better.” You respond instantly. That’s something you noticed Tina likes. Quickness. “I’m gonna make you a good coffee.” Determination, too.

“Bold.”

“Thank you—”

“No.” She pushes the coffee to your chest; you grab it before it spills. “I like it bold.”

God, she’s so scary. “Heard.” She’s so cool. 

She watches you, for a second; wants to see if you crack. You don’t, thankfully. She folds. She finally kinda likes you— Or rather, is willing to admit it, in some small way. “You can come tonight.”

You can come to family, tonight. It takes everything in you not to cheer. You should mix them drinks. Or is that too try hard? No, it’s the perfect amount of try— Right? It was your old party trick in college, you should use it. Prove yourself.

“Cool.” Is all you can say, without seeming like a desperate nerd. 

You've been slowly cutting away at every relationship in your life, par for your family— And even that hangs by a thread— And you thought you were fine with that. You thought you were good like that, but once you got used to The Weirdos of The Beef, you cannot help but desperately want friends, again.

Every moment you get outside of your twelve to twenty-four hour EMS shifts, you spend it here. You’re tired, but it might actually be worth it; to talk to people instead of rotting in your apartment for half a week every week.

What month is it? March? When's Squid's birthday again? Did you miss it? It's the one time a year you get to talk without the underlying pressure that you have to hang out now.

Happy Birthday, what have you been up to? Oh, same thing as last year? You're irrevocably a different person now but you're also still the same? Nothing much? Same here. We should see each other soon. We won't. I won't say I love you because I don't want to be weird. Even though we used to say it every day. I will never know you like I used to, and so I won't even try. Same time next year?

Working in The Beef reminds you of her. Reminds you of the other stubborn cook in your life. Was in your life? Don’t think about that. Sometimes you hear her dad's voice out front, buying himself a half-hot half-sweet braised beef sandwich. Sometimes you think about going out there and saying hi. Sometimes you think about asking about Syd. Sometimes you think about asking how the catering gig is going. Sometimes you think about asking if she needs you anymore.

You never do.

“Aye.” Mikey claps your shoulders, bringing you back to earth. You didn't even realize he was behind you. He digs his hands in, a sudden and always painful massage. His preferred way of saying stop fucking tweaking. He leans over your shoulder, looking at the coffee cup that doesn't look as pitiful as it usually does. “Good job, kid.”

“Thank you—” “Now figure out how to make it worth drinking.”

You scoff, rolling your shoulders to push him off you. “I'm fuckin’ trying!” 

His hands stay in place, but his massage does become gentle, and actually decent. Per usual. You’re not sure how he always manages to get the knots. “T say you can come to family?” 

You had to get all yeses that you are now in fact family to join for family. You look over your shoulder to face him. “Mhm.” 

“Good.” He looks around. “Your dad here?” 

You nod. “In the basement, something about your furnace? It's fucking beyond my skill set, so I'm up here until he needs me.” As much as your dad started doing this to hang out with you, heads got too hot with you fucking up which tools to hand him one too many times; repeatedly yelling same team in a more and more distressed tone did not seem to be helping either. Whatever. Gave you more time with the coffee machine. You’re going to make this thing your bitch, one day. One day this thing is going to sing for you.

“Oh, good.” And with that, he's already pulling you to his station. “You can help me with family brisket, then.” 

“Nooooo—” “If you want family you gotta be family, Jack.” 

You whine, but you don't mind this at all. Mikey sees you. Mikey knows you; probably better than he should. He knows you always need something to do.

“Pork?” “Pork.” “Fine.” It's your recipe, so you must oblige.

He's good. Mikey is good. Mikey pays attention. Mikey's made the cycle break in a way that doesn't hurt.

Carmen needs to apologize to Richie, for never taking his stress over running front of house seriously.

Carmen hates being out front already and he’s only just stepped out. Why is everyone looking at him out here, too? He should also apologize for whatever he said forty minutes ago. Thirty-five? Doesn’t matter. What’s important is handing this dessert tray to the fucking jagoff. The man who Carmen dreamed of becoming, the man who he’s now scared he’s become. David Fields. Former Executive Chef. Too many accolades to list. 

“Dessert is served, hope you enjoy, Chef.” Carmen manages to bite his tongue for this guy, so why can’t he do it for the people he actually gives a fuck about? He’s a fucking coward. He swallows, setting the dessert paddle down in front of the stupid five fucking guests. Far too big a party, for a fucking walk in. And all they got for dessert was the fucking tasting paddle? Why are they skimping now? Assholes. All of them. Carmen knows all of these people. Well. Knows their faces. Remembers working with them, but never really talked to any of them. Why would he? He was focused. He was good.

“Thank you, Chef.” Says David. It feels like lightning, to hear those words. But not in a good way. It should feel like an accomplishment, to hear this guy say anything remotely positive, to Carmen, but it doesn’t. It feels the opposite, honestly. Feels like something’s wrong. Getting this guy’s approval is wrong.

This is the part where Carmen is supposed to leave. This is the part where the server goes back to the kitchen and continues their job. But he can’t. He’s stuck in place. He’s back in front of the fire, and he’s not putting it out. Carmen swallows hard and his spit feels like glass all the way down his throat. His Exec stares at him, nearly coy— Like he knows. Like he can see the invisible snake coiling around Carmen. Like he knows that Carmen desperately has something to say. 

“Let’s have it, Chef.” David goads.

Fuck it. Fuck everything, fuck it. Not like the night can get worse. “Can we step out, for a second, Chef?”

“Lookit this.” Mikey pivots his phone to you, for you to see a photo he's just been sent.

It's of… “What the fuck is that?” You've got no clue. Some weird spiralling array of colours. 

“I've no fucking clue. Food? Apparently?”

It's April, and Mikey has let you in. You will not realize how big a deal this is until it's too late. But right now, you're just happy to be hanging out with him before open. Without your dad, too.

Their most frequent regular’s favourite chair broke, one of the legs just fully gave out underneath him. It's an easy fix. Mikey could probably do it himself. Fak or whatever the fuck his name is could absolutely do it himself. Mikey called you, instead. Called you. Not your dad. You think this'll be your first and last solo job. Naive.

“Carmy?” You assume, he's the only person that's on that rich people shit. Michelin Star Chef, baby boy with big dreams.

“Yessir. He’s still killin’ it.” Is all Mikey says, tucking his phone away. You frown at him, screwing the chair leg in, sitting on the floor. He groans. “Don't gimme those eyes, Jack.”

“You should reply!”

“He doesn't need a fuckin' reply.” 

You tilt your head, the look you give him translates to ‘Are you forreal?’

He just sighs, exasperated. “You don't get brothers, Jack.”

“I literally have brothers, Michael.”

“Yeah but it's—” He gestures to the general air, attempting to explain nothing. “It's different. We communicate different.”

“Sure.” You can admit that. “I'm sure the dynamic is very different brother to brother, brother to sister. But like—” You jiggle the chair leg, alright maybe it's not that easy of a fix. “It sucks bein’ the baby, I know that much.”

“You're the baby?”

“Yeah, why?” You lift your head from the chair back to him. “I got middle child energy? I’ll fuckin’ kill you.” 

“No, no— Oldest.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Thought you were one of me, Jack. My own blood.”

You scoff. But it’s not something you haven’t heard before. You’ve got the blood of people who’ve had to take care of people. “Well, being the only sister kinda made me the oldest sister.”

You pad your hand around the floor, searching, before looking up to Michael, again. “You see the fuckin—?”

He tosses you the chair leg cap, before you can finish asking for it. “You’d like Nat. Similar ideologies.”

“I would love to know how your younger sister fuckin’ survived you, that’s for sure.”

He laughs, at that. “She’s a trooper. Surrounded by some of the worst men Chicago has to offer.” He looks at the coffee that you painstakingly crafted for him, this morning. “This is actually kinda fuckin’ good, Jack.”

“Do you have to add actually and kinda?”

He rolls his head back, neck straining. “For what you had, it’s fuckin’ perfection, alright? Happy?”

“Fuckin’ delighted.” You throw the chair up onto its legs, and it stands. “You?”

He gets up from his seat to try out the chair. He takes the coffee with him. There’s a split second where you’re scared that actually this was too hard a job for you and Mikey is going to fall and the hot coffee is going to careen everywhere and fucking scald him and you told him he needed to get a first-aid kit in here but he hasn’t gotten around to it yet—

Mikey sits, and the chair works. He takes another sip of your chai coffee blend, like a vote of his confidence. He never had any doubt you could get the coffee machine to work, never had any doubt you could make a good coffee, never had any doubt you could get the chair to stand strong. Mikey has always always believed in your capabilities, even when you haven’t, and has always been happy to prove yourself to yourself. Mikey is really good at being an older brother, you think. And forget that he never texted back the real baby of his real family.

“Fuckin’ delighted, Jackie.”

“Never fuckin’ call me Jackie.”

“Heard.”

Two executive chefs stand in front of a restaurant, there’s probably a joke in here somewhere. Carmen doesn’t care to find it. He watches your car drive out onto the road, out of the corner of his eye. That’s it, then. You’re gone. He fishes a pack of cigarettes out from the chest pocket of his chef’s uniform. 

“You should quit.” Says David, so high and fucking mighty. As if he doesn’t house a bottle of wine daily.

“I’m aware.” Carmen lights it anyways. You don’t smoke. Did his mouth taste bad, every time he’d kiss you? Probably. You probably just bore it for his sake. Maybe that’s why you so rarely went for his lips. He takes a puff, it doesn’t calm him down. 

“Your hair is fucked.” 

“And the food?”

“Busy. You can lose the basil and eggplant. You’ll re-learn.” David tilts his head, thinking, smarmy. “Someone got in your head.”

“Someone other than you, yeah.”

“Awe.” David smiles, something he so rarely did in the kitchen, but perfected in public. His tone is so perfectly pouty, like it’s disappointing he’s not the only one living rent free in Carmen’s brain anymore.

Carmen steadies his eyes forward, to the street. He cannot look his own personal nightmare in the eyes, but he can say what he’s always wanted to say. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”

“How am I an asshole?” “Can you stay ‘til after close?” “You’re welcome.”

Carmen turns his head to face him now, eyes wide like plates. “I— I’m welcome? For—For-for what?”

“You were an okay chef, when you started with me.” David doesn’t fear eye contact. David’s probably never had a bad day in his fucking life. “And you left an excellent chef, so you’re welcome.”

Carmen’s never even heard the fucking word excellent come out of this man’s mouth. Let alone to describe him. It doesn’t feel good, for some reason. It still doesn’t feel good to receive praise from him, despite the fact that he’s everything. 

“You…” Carmen needs a second, to catch his breath. He probably should quit smoking. “You gave me ulcers, and panic attacks, and— and nightmares— You— You know that? You understand that?”

“Yeah.” David’s entirely unfazed. All he’s heard is a list of benefits, in his head. “I gave you confidence and leadership and ability— It fucking worked.”

Is this what it working is supposed to feel like? Is this what it feels like to function? Is this what it means, to make it? If it is, then what the fuck does not making it feel like?

“I’m— I’m, I’m— I’m actually fuckin’ stunned, right now, I—” Carmen rubs his hands over his eyes. “My life stopped.”

“That’s the point.”

“That’s the point?”

“You wanted to be excellent. You got rid of all the bullshit, you concentrated, you focused— And you got excellent. And it worked. You’re here.”

You’re not bullshit. You’re not bullshit and he shouldn’t have done whatever he did to make you leave. Carmen is anything but excellent, without the people behind him, and he’s realizing that now. He’s an idiot, because you told him this, the second day of knowing him you told him this. He has a wonderful team— A family— A family he now considers you a part of. And he tanked all of it, everyone— Why? Because he had a bad fucking day? Because a dish got sent back? Because he fucked up tremendously? Boo-fucking-hoo, Carmen. It takes an idiot like David, who thinks he’s a genius, for Carmen to realize they look exactly the fucking same— And that is the actual thing that’s mortifying, tonight.

The real mortifying thing, isn’t that you were so fucking sweet and considerate of his stupid fucking brain and his stupid insane aspirations— It isn’t your dish. The mortifying thing is he prioritized the man in front of him, in any regard. It’s mortifying that Carmen made you feel like you had to prioritize the man in front of him.

“I just— I just made the—The only fuckin’ good thing in my life leave because— Because you got in my fucking head.”

David just raises his brows, like Carmen’s fucking stupid. Like there’s not a problem here. Because to him, there isn’t. And once again, the stupid fucking Exec repeats. “You’re welcome?”

“I’m—” The door opens, and for a moment, despite the fact that he watched your car disappear minutes ago, Carmen still thinks there’s a chance it’s gonna be you; begs a higher power that it’s going to be you. It’s not. It’s Richie. 

“Hey asshole—” Richie stops, when he sees David. “Ah. You’re needed, Chef Carmen.”

“Cousin— You’re needed, pronto.” 

“Not your Cousin.”

“Heard and resented.”

Richie’s had a habit of calling you cousin, lately. You pull your head out of the back of the Ball-Breaker arcade machine. Its controls are allegedly on the fritz, but you’re pretty sure Chi-Chi just sucks at this game. “Whaddya need? Do I have to run front a-fucking-gain?”

That was a fun out of nowhere three hour shift with zero restaurant experience— Par for bar. It will not be the last.

“Nono— Just a cuppa coffee? More like six.” 

You kiss your teeth, tutting him. “You know how the fuckin’ machine works—”

“Want your coffee?” He corrects, like stroking your ego will make you fold. It does. You stand up, stretching your legs.  

“Fine. Just get me a list of everyone’s—” He slaps a folded note against your forehead. “Orders.” 

“Fucker.” You take it off your head to read. “Whatta ‘bout Mikey’s?” He’s missing from the list.

Richie shrugs. “Surprise him, he’s out back— In one of his moods.”

You don’t know how uncommon it is for Mikey to be so out of it. You’re meeting Mikey during his slow but certain downward spiral, but you don’t know that. No. How could you? No, so you think it’s normal for Mikey to occasionally leave rooms and turn inward. 

“Aye aye, Rich.”

He kisses your temple as you pass him, making an all too aggressive ‘muah’ noise, because that’s what fake Italians do, as a form of thanks, and lets you go work your magic on the coffee machine. 

You’re pretty integrated into The Beef, at this point. How long has it been? You don’t really need this list of orders, but it’s good to visually ingrain in your brain. You’re thankful to Mikey for investing in a bunch of Torani’s syrups for your coffee dreams. You’re here enough for it to be worth it, anyways. 

You’re probably gonna start being here a lot more, soon. Well, maybe.

You haven’t told anyone yet, about what your dad told you this morning. That he’s gotta retire, soon. Like soon, soon. Now, you’re faced with a decision— Keep going with this EMS thing until your body fails and you need to be wheeled out by your own coworkers, or take on ownership of a small family business directly after the fucking pandemic. Really good options, here.

You’re leaning towards the latter, at the moment. You’re leaning towards being called here, for half your jobs. It’d be hard to make ends meet on just whatever crack change Mikey is able to pay you— But you used to bartend in college— You could work dailies whenever you’re short. Probably. It probably won’t be that hard. Could it be harder than what you’re doing now? Could it be harder than watching someone flat line? Probably not.

Ebra, watered down black coffee. T, two sugars, one milk, cinnamon and chocolate syrup. Marcus, spiced coffee. Sweeps, water in a deli cup— A delicacy. Richie, two sugars, cinnamon syrup, ideally boiling hot. 

But to be fair, people need someone like you. People need paramedics. Is it selfish for you to decide you can’t handle it anymore? Should you let your body break before you let yourself go on one? Fuck. Fuck. Where’s Mikey? You’re feeling the knots build up again. 

Out back. Richie said he’s out back. You pick up your coffee, and Mikey’s— cinnamon and caramel, this time— And head out back. 

And you see a sight that you’ve actually seen plenty of times.

You’ve just never seen it in the back alley of The Beef. You’ve just never seen it happen to a friend. You’ve just never seen it happen to Mikey. You don’t drop your coffee cups in some sort of dramatic shock, or anything like that. Because that would take time. It’d take too much time to be shocked. You just turn around, immediately, partially crashing into the door as you run back in, breaking the mugs and spilling scalding hot coffee over your hands and chest— You don’t feel it, you don’t give a fuck. 

“Cousin!” 

You’re a mom friend. That’s what Syd used to say. You carry Tums, painkillers, cough drops, pepto— All in your purse or pockets. You keep a lighter on hand. You keep safety pins— All ranging in size, just in case of a clothing mishap. You keep kid’s band-aids in your wallet. You’re a mom friend. Everyone used to find you also carrying a naloxone kit a bit dramatic, like you were overdoing it. You always hoped they were right; that it would never be used. Regardless, you'd always replace it when it expired.

“Cousin get my fucking bag, now!”

“Right.” Carmen’s honestly kind of surprised, to be needed. But it’s probably just cover, to talk. People don’t typically need people like him, especially not Richie. He nods to David. “Chef.”

“Chef.” David nods back. He looks at Richie. “Where’d your translator go?”

The fuck? Richie does not look phased, at all. He also looks like he’s been crying— So it might just be that nothing phases him, right now— But at the very least, Carmen would expect some surprise. So this disrespect must not be new. Why didn’t he tell him?

Maybe he did, actually. Maybe that’s what happened forty minutes ago? How’d that lead to you leaving? 

“My what?” Richie knows exactly what David’s getting at, but he asks anyways, to embarrass the fucker.

But David doesn’t feel embarrassment, it’s just not in him. “Your somme.”

“She had to leave early.”

“Ah,” He nods, “You’ve got her number, by chance?”

A deep and sharp exhale, through Richie’s nose, as he desperately tries to be a good host. Tries to be star material. But he runs his tongue across his top teeth and he just can’t bring himself to bite it. Richie hates both of the men in front of him right now. “I do, I do, actually— I’ve had her number for three years, memorized, y’know why?”

David shrugs, delighted to upset someone. “She your wife or something?”

A sharp, terrifying chuckle, honestly— One that hides any sign of a smile. Rich steps forward. “Oh, I should be so lucky. I would be so fucking lucky, if a woman like that—” And he pivots his head, to speak very deliberately, to Carmen. “Decided for some Godforsaken fuckin’ reason, that I was worth an ounce of her precious time— Let alone her hand.”

“If only, truly, David.” Still looking at Carmen, squarely in his face. “If fuckin’ only. If I had someone like that— I’d be on hand and fucking knee, for her.”

“Chef.” Carmen’s talking to David but looking at Richie, but that might also be because he can’t look anywhere else. 

“Chef.” David shrugs, whatever fight here is beyond him. He doesn’t fucking care. Carmen knows the Michelin thing was bullshit—Certainly David can put in a good word, but inspectors are anonymous, that’s the whole point. But his stupid fucking Exec wanted to see if Carmen would stoop so low as to take the bait. It also wouldn’t hurt to get your number, you’re perfect. Carmen doesn’t think he’d have taken the bait, but the fact that he’s not sure speaks volumes.

David steps back into The Bear, and an Executive Chef and his dead brother’s best friend stand outside their restaurant. There’s a joke in here somewhere, and it’s probably Carmen.

“I’d fucking kill him.” You shake your head, when Mikey tries to brush off the end of his story like it’s no big deal. “I can’t believe no one fuckin’ said anything.”

“They might’ve.” He sniffs, arms crossed— Guarding himself. He sits opposite of you, both sitting on the floor of his office, backs against either wall. “But I couldn’t fuckin’ hear anything but him— And then the fucking car, obviously.”

You can tell he’s trying to move on. He wants you to ask if his mom was okay. You don’t honestly care, and you don’t care if that makes you a bad person, either. 

“You’re not nothing, Mikey.”

It’s close to midnight, a humid but cool August midnight. A week or so, since Mikey’s overdose. You’re finally christening your jumpsuit with a patch from The Beef, on the left shoulder. You do keep stabbing yourself with the sewing needle— If you were sleeping beauty you’d be fucking dead. 

“I know.”

“Mikey, you’re not.”

“Don’t fucking Good Will Hunting me.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.” You both laugh, but you’re still stuck with him, at that dining table, in your head. You’re still hearing Uncle Lee screaming, despite never actually hearing it. “They should’ve said something.”

“It’s different when you’re there.” He shrugs, again. “Hard to speak in those rooms.” 

Your lips stay tight, for a moment. There’s a long silence of just staring at each other, because you want him to know that you’re completely serious when you say— “I would’ve said something.”

“Sug tried to say somethin—” “She told you to stop, that’s bullshit.” “She was mediating—”

“And why the fuck were you the one that needed to calm down, exactly?” You frown, deeply. You don’t have anything against Sug, but this story just rubs you the wrong way. The way no one was on his side verbally. “Just cause you’re the guy, means you can’t stick up for yourself? I hate that shit.”

He thinks on that, for a moment; because no one has ever said the thing out loud, never acknowledged it. He nods, tucking one knee up to rest an arm on it. “It sucks, being the guy.”

“It fucking sucks to be the guy!” You shout back, emphatic, practically jumping to agree— You jab yourself again. “Fuck, ow— Yes, it sucks.”

“And—” You’ve really opened a faucet for him. “And no one wants you to acknowledge that you’re the guy— Like you can take the compliment, but you can never say ‘I know, I’m doing it on purpose.’”

You poke at the tip of your nose with one hand and then to Mikey with the other, bang on. “No one wants the guy to know they’re the guy!”

“We always know!” “We always fucking know!” “We’re the guy on purpose!”

It’s rare for people like you two to talk and actually get along. The typical stereotype is that two sweethearts will always end up butting heads, too intimidated— But instead, you’re both just able to honestly commiserate over being who you are. The Guy. The Dependable One. The Head.

“You shouldn’t have to always be good and—and like, understanding of every single fucking person— Especially when they’re a dick!” You yell, exasperated. “You are allowed to fucking stick up for yourself!”

He tightens his lips in a line, because he agrees, but he has been so trained to lay down and take it. To take the teeth; it’s one of the many many jobs of being the guy. You know it just as well. He sighs, “I know.”

“You’re worth standing up for, Mikey.” You emphasize. They should’ve said something. It shouldn’t have been on you. You shouldn’t have had to defend yourself. They should’ve protected you, like you did for them. Like you always do for them. 

His eyes flicker, a bit. He clears his throat and punches his chest, shaking his head out of it, because if he doesn’t, he might actually fucking cry, and that’s not what the guy does. “Okay.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He kicks your foot with his. “Now tell me some fucked up thing that happened to you, Jack.”

You laugh, and it quickly turns into a groan as you try to come up with something. “I uh… Oh! I fuckin’ hate the nickname ‘Jack’, that’s something.”

“Oh?” He leans forward, teasingly intrigued— You’ve thrown him a bone, because you’re the guy, too. He’s able to focus on this in lieu of himself.

You nod and continue. “My dad gave it to me, when I was really really little, like five or six— And it was ‘cause I like— For a kid, I was really into uhm, like— Like everything?”

“Like a nerd?” “Like a nerd.”

You chuckle. “I liked helping him go on jobs, and barely being able to hold flashlights. And I liked learning what all the wires and the pipes do— I liked doing chores and like— Making shit for people, or doing shit for people, if it made ‘em happy.” You’re a little too zoned in, on your sewing. The motion helps keep you grounded. “And so he would go like Awe, my helpful little Jack of all Trades, you can do it all.”

You pull the string up and out of the fabric, taught, dramatically high. “Which like, of course he was trying to be like, a good dad and hype me up— But my kid brain just garbled it and translated ‘you can do it all’ to ‘you have to do it all.’”

“Damn.” He cringes but laughs, sympathizing. “You got ‘guy’d’ at fuckin’ five?”

“Well, when did you get ‘guy’d?!” You snap back, he takes a moment to think about it, sighing.

He shrugs. “Probably five.” “Exactly!”

You both laugh, a bit too aggressively, honestly; compensating for the sting. Mikey sniffs, adding. “So that’s why you hate it? ‘Cause of the weight?”

“‘Cause of the weight.” You nod. “Like a constant reminder, that I need to be like— constantly at service.”

“Yeah.” He nods, eyes looking down. Thinking about far too much, and though you have become his closest confidant, there are still parts of him that he won’t show. “Drinking helped?”

“Drinking helped.” You close the last stitch on the patch. “Which is funny, because that whole thing started from wanting to be helpful.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“There was uhm—” You can’t help but laugh a little, at the ridiculousness of it. “There was this girl, and she was my best friend, and she fucking loved— Or I guess still loves— Cooking. And even as a dinky little highschooler, she’d have me try shit, and it’d be like— So luxe.”

“Right.” Mikey smiles, thinking of all the dishes that have been foisted on him by the precocious cook in his life.

“And I wanted to be like… equally impressive. So I started doing research on wine pairings and shit, so I could have something to talk to her about, have somethin’ to say other than wow great job— Because I could tell she always wanted more.”

“And so you became an alcoholic?” “I haven’t gotten there yet!” “Well stop burying the lead!” “Oh don’t you point a finger when it comes to burying a fucking lead.” “Oh, fuck you.”

“Anyways!” You clap a hand on your knee, casting aside the completed sew job. “I’d give her pairings based on research— still teens, so we couldn’t drink yet, but she appreciated the thought. And then I went to college and she went to CIA and we were talking and then we graduated and suddenly we weren’t…” You knock your fist against your hand a couple times. “We weren’t talking, anymore.” 

“And so you became an alcoholic?” “Kinda.” “Oh. I was being sarcastic.” “Yeah, dontchu feel guilty as fuck now?” “What happened?”

“It was easy.” You shrug. “I started working at pubs in college, I was getting free drinks all the time, I was trying more wines for her— I didn’t really see it as a problem, because like, I didn’t do it to function, I never reached for anything like ‘oh I fucking need this.’”

“That’s how it starts.”

“That’s how it fuckin’ starts.” You nod. “Then suddenly we weren’t talking and I became an E-M-T, and then suddenly I was watching people y’know, live through the worst moment of their lives or die, and I— Suddenly I did need that drink.” You should’ve just called her. She would’ve done a lot more for you than a bottle could. But you were stupid and tired, and still are.

“Who coulda thunk it?” “I know! Ridiculous.”

“How long you been stable, again?” 

“Six months, four days… But who’s counting?” You laugh, and so does he.

You’re both very literally counting. And the buzzer of a timer going off on your phone reminds you of that. You both stare at it, in a daze, as it officially hits Twelve in the morning. Once you silence it, you look to Mikey. 

“Michael The Bear Berzatto, you have officially been sober for twenty-four hours.”

He smiles, no teeth, but he smiles. “Gimme.”

“Be patient!” “I am being the most patient a person can be.” “Yeah that’s fair.”

You opt to go for the cupcake first, a big One candle sticking out of it. “This is stupid.” Says Mikey. “Have some fucking whimsy in the face of adversity.” Says you, pulling out your disposable camera. 

“Do we need photos?” “What the fuck else are we gonna put in my folder?” “I dunno, write me sonnets.” 

“Do you want sonnets?” You ask, and the worst part is Michael can tell you’re being sincere. You would write him sonnets, if he only asked. You would do anything, if he only asked. You quit being an EMT, immediately after seeing the state he was in, last week. You are here for Michael, and he only has to ask.

He shakes his head and blows out the candle when you lift the cupcake to his face, and he makes a wish to whatever higher power exists, that he won’t drag you down with him. 

You thread a 24 Hours in Recovery chip onto the embroidery thread you were using and tie it off. When you present it to him, he bends his head down. “Chip me.”

“That’s not what chip me means.” “It means something?” “I’m pretty sure chipping someone means shooting someone—” “Well Google it, Chip.” “Well, fuck, ok— Chip?”

He shrugs, “Better than Jack, no?”

You throw the necklace over his neck, like you’re knighting him. You grow a great degree softer. Even when he’s deliberately not supposed to be The Guy, when he’s supposed to be working on himself, he’s still your guy. Still looking out for you just as much as you look out for him. He will never realize that you consider the exchange equal.

“Yeah, better than Jack.”

“This sobriety thing is going to be easy.” “ —Okay, so— The thing is, everyone kinda says that after twenty-four hours and then a week or two in, it actually hits—” “It’s gonna be so easy.” “I love that you think that and I want you to keep that hope up, I also think maybe let’s just be easy on ourselves if it gets hard—” “It’s not gonna get hard.” “That’s what she said—” “Fucking gross!”

He throws his arm over your shoulder, a loving noogie, but a noogie nonetheless. You try to hit him from below, it’s a failed flailing. You both start laughing and he stops, opting to just hold you there. You hold his forearm with your hands, and sigh.

“...Even when it’s not easy, we’re on the same team, okay? Don’t forget that. That we’re on the same team and I love you.”

He squeezes you a little, bicep curling. In fifteen seconds you will complain that he’s choking you, but right now, he says, “I’m not gonna forget you love me, Chip.” and neither of you know this is a lie, yet.

“I’m sorry.” Carmen sniffs, is he actually going to cry? Holy shit, he might cry. “I don’t know what I said—”

“You don’t know what you said?” Richie scoffs, he can’t help but laugh. “You don’t know what you fuckin’ said? Ah— It’s— It’s all good, man. You don’t know what you said, so it’s all good—”

“I’m apologizing—” “Nonono— No— It’s all good, I don’t need a fuckin’ apology. I know how you feel now, so it’s all fuckin’ good.”

“I love you—” “You love me? You love me? Oh, that would’ve been nice to hear half a fucking hour ago.”

Has it really only been thirty minutes?

“No— No, you know what?” Richie takes a choked breath, pressing his index finger over his nose and mouth, then points it to Carmen. “If that’s what your fuckin’ love is— I don’t fuckin’ want it. And I don’t want that shit for Chip, either— So leave her the fuck out of your fuckin’ love or whatever the fuck you think that is, too.”

That one hurts, because it’s true. Carmen can’t say anything to that; the silence just eggs Richie on more. “Oh, was that a low blow, to you? Cause I’d say saying it was her fault was a pretty low fucking blow— Kinda below the belt shit, if you ask me—”

“What?”

A silence louder than anything either of them have ever heard hangs in the air.

“Fuck you mean what?”

“I said what?” Carmen’s spit still feels like glass, he is destroying his throat. “What—What did I say?”

Stunned, Richie is stunned. And he can’t tell if Carm’s lack of cognizance in the situation makes him more or less angry. He’s pretty sure it’s more. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Cousin, what the fuck did I say to her?”

“You said she failed him.”

Yeah, Carmen’s gonna cry. Carmen is absolutely going to cry. Not weeping, but a tear. Just the one. Just the one, and the dry heaving. The dry heaving and just short of falling over, managing at the last minute to fall onto his rear. He slides his back against the full length window of The Bear. All the guests will get to witness his full blown meltdown. Who fucking cares. He cards through his semi-matted hair, again— It’s not fucking working. It’s not working and he might as well tear his hair out because there’s no reason for it anymore if you're not in it.

“I am a monster.” Not said like a question, not said with emphasis, not choked. Completely monotone. Zero pulse. Said as a fact as simple as the sky is blue. And it is. Because now that he remembers that one thread, he can follow it back. “I am bullshit.”

It’s hard to kick someone, when they’re down. It’s hard to say all the things you want to say to a person, when they’re just saying it about themselves. Richie just stares, debating his options. He could so easily choose to destroy what’s left of Carmen. Frankly, Carm’s sitting at the perfect angle to kick his fucking teeth in. Richie came out here with full intent of throwing Carmen through the window. Came out here with the full intent of proving he’s a fucking problem.

“...I don’t know how to fix it.” But Carmen looks up at him, with a never before seen level of humility. “How do I fix it?”

His best friend loved this guy, and unfortunately you also seem to be on the verge of loving this guy. And even more regrettably, Richie loves this guy. He shrugs, and to any onlookers, his response would seem to be lacking any level of empathy. 

“Stop being you.”

“You don’t love me!”

“Of course we fuckin’ love you!”

“You don’t fucking love me!”

Like tidal waves, Richie and Mikey crash against either side of the walk-in freezer door. Mikey desperately trying to escape the freezer; you and Richie desperately trying to keep him in. 

Your phone rings, in the middle of this. “Ah, shit, she’s calling back, hold on—” You slide your back off the door slowly, giving Richie time to place extra weight where your body was to keep it closed as Mikey relentlessly slams. He’s pivoted to screaming like— Well, a bear, now. 

You move just a few feet away— Enough to fog up the yelling, but not enough that you couldn’t run back to Richie if his arms start to numb. 

“Yo, T.” You answer, thankful that somebody has finally returned your fucking calls. To be fair, it’s painfully early— But how is no one awake an hour before they have to clock in? C’mon.

“We’re doing this because we love you, fuckin’ numb nuts!” 

“Don’t be fuckin’ mean when he’s in a vulnerable state!” You kiss your teeth, yelling to Richie behind you, just as Tina tries to say hi. 

“I am not a fucking patient, Chip!” Another slam, another violent jiggling of the door handle. You’re pretty sure that shit is going to break off one day, if he keeps doing that. You don’t know how right you are now, but you will in a year or so. “Open the fucking door!”

You only remember you’re on the phone with Tina when she pipes up, vaguely hearing the yelling on her end. “...Two week milestone going well?”

“Just fucking peachy, T.” You grimace, rubbing the space between your brows. “You think it’s healthy to lock him in the freezer? I feel like we are fucking this up.”

“Why’s he in the freezer?”

“Guess who was—” You turn your head to Richie, when you speak into the phone. “So fucking stupid— And left his fucking xanax just out in the open with his unfinished breakfast?”

“I apologized—” “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong, Cousin! Now open the fucking door!”

“Yeah, I think freezer is the right call.” Says Tina; you’re both not sure if that’s true, but at the very least when he’s in there he can’t hurt himself or either of you. But fuck, he must be cold. Maybe that’s good for his nervous system? Every yell just mounts with guilt— But you’re his sponsor now. You are not his friend right now, you’re his mentor and you’re meant to do this. This is definitely— slam— the right thing—scream—to do.

“Yeah, probably.” You nod, to no one. “Well, basically, if you can let everyone know to just— Not fucking come in, today, or at the very least not come in for like— At least three hours. Maybe six. It’s not like you can work anyways, the freezer’s off limits until further notice.”

“You sure you don’t need us to come in?”

“Ah, T, that’s a nice thought but—” You wince, as you hear a crash from inside the walk-in. “I don’t know if it’s better or worse, for more people to witness this.”

Richie can tell what the crash is, because he himself has dropped shit an innumerable number of times in that walk-in before. “—Did you just knock over the fuckin’ stock—” “Fuck yourself! Fuck yourself! This is my fucking restaurant! Let me the fuck out, Richard!”

“Let’s just say call me back in three hours.” Is what you settle on. You don’t want to see this, and you don’t want anyone else to have to see this. And when Mikey eventually comes out of his rage state, he will be glad that the only two people that actually saw him like this, are his two closest friends. “Can you let everyone else know?”

“Yeah baby, I’ll let ‘em know.” First time Tina’s called you baby with sincerity instead of sarcasm, you wish you could savour it, but you’re so distracted with everything else that you really don’t even notice it. “Keep yourself safe too, alright?”

“Okay, Mama.” You reply with what is really only half sarcasm, and let her go. You sidle up to Richie, back on holding the door closed duty. Backs against the walk-in door, holding Mikey in, despite punch after punch after punch. He’ll wear himself out, eventually, but you’re terrified about how long that’s going to take. So is Richie.

He nods to your phone. “How long?”

You don’t need to check to know. “In six hours, he’ll be at two weeks.” You wince as one of Mikey’s hits against the door very directly targets your back, putting it in knots. “But it’s not like he’s suddenly going to go, oh well it’s been two weeks so I’m normal now, though.”

Richie just nods, pensive. “M’sorry.” 

You shake your head. “I was just bein’ a bitch, we’re all getting used to it, I gettit, just try to be safer.”

He nods again, looking down at you as the beating seems to slow down. Richie tries to imagine a world where you two aren’t here right now; for some reason, he finds that universe more miserable. “We’re so fucked.” Because here it’s you two. You’re so fucked but it’s you two. It will take more than a year for you to figure out that’s how Richie feels.

“I know.” You punch back against the door, alerting Mikey— Not that he wasn’t already alert, and speak to both of them. “Same team, though!”

One last resounding body slam into the door, with everything Mikey has— It moves, just a bit, but not at all enough to open it. And then, a long silence. To the point where you and Richie look at each other, worried if Michael has somehow just died in there. But then a quiet voice speaks, like a white flag being raised. 

“Same team.”

You look to Richie for permission, he’s just as clueless as you are here, as to what the right call is. With the most trepidation one could have, you put your hand on the handle and just start to pull on it, not even close to opening it. But Mikey notices the way the hinge moves by a hair, on the other side. 

“Don’t open it.” You know he’s up to the door, just opposite of you. Not capable of looking at you; not capable of looking at him. “Six hours. It’s just six hours.”

But you can hear each other. And maybe that’s all you really ever needed. To be able to hear each other, even when he’s not here. 

“Six hours. Same team.”

“I don’t know how.” Carmen’s nose twitches. “I don’t know how to stop being fucking—Garbage— I’ve tried—” “Have you?”

It’s a bit knife twisting, from Richie, but necessary. “Have you done the work? Cause it’s— I don’t think you have, Carm.”

“...What the fuck kinda work can I do, to fix me—?” Richie snaps his fingers, pointing at Carmen, interrupting him. “That— That is the exact fuckin’ problem with you, Cousin.”

Carmen almost rolls his eyes, putting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. “What, that I’m self-aware?”

“That you just fuckin’ give up.” “I don’t just give up—” “You do! You give up and you go wah, I’m a Chef with issues and I’m gonna make it everyone else’s fucking problem—” “I am asking for help—” “Are you? Because the last person that helped you just ran out crying.”

Richie exhales, eyes closed. There’s a long forced silence, as a few tables full of patrons exit The Bear, awkwardly shuffling past what is clearly a crisis between the people that have been serving them tonight.

“That was below the belt, I’ll admit.” Says Rich, once they’re out of earshot. 

Carmen just shakes his head, though he cannot look at Richie, though he can’t refute anything. 

Richie steps next to where Carmen sits, and like an olive branch, Carmen lifts up his arm to offer his cigarette. Richie accepts, thank God— Thank you, for softening him up, because if you hadn’t, again, Carmen would be going headfirst through the fucking window right now.

“Don’t yell ‘t me—” That honestly hurts more than getting thrown through a window. “But I don’t think you got Andrea, at all.”

Andrea? Oh. “Chef Terry?” The Ever’s owner, Richie means. 

“Andrea.” Richie nods, taking a puff. “Every second counts— I don’t think you got it.”

Carmen just shrugs, shaking his head, sure, he worked there for years and Richie worked there for days, but sure, he’s the one that didn’t get it. “Yeah? What’d I miss?”

“It’s not meant to make you fuckin—” He gestures to the general form of Carmen. “Tweak. It’s not about speed or— or— like firin’ off on all fuckin’ cylinders.” 

“Then what is it?”

“It counts because it counts.” Richie hands the cig back to Carmen. “It’s— The fucking—” He kisses his teeth, trying to figure out the best way to explain. “When you took like, a million goddamn years to make that fuckin’ mont— Mont— What was it?”

“Montmorency.” Your cherry sauce. Carmen spent too fucking long reducing it, yesterday. He redid it like five times. He’d redone it so many times the autopilot in his brain fucked up that fucking plate yesterday, and it threw his entire life into a spiral. No. That's not what happened. He threw his life into a spiral.

“That was worth it, cause it— Cause it took time. Does that— Am I making any fuckin’ sense? Terry did this shit better, fuck.” Richie rubs a hand over his face, you’d probably be able to explain this better too. “It’s not the thing you’re doing that makes it count, it counts because you’re doing it.”

The value is in the time, not what is delivered. It does not need to be the most special, hyper condensed, hyper focused, upper echelon second to count. It will count because it counts. Time spent is worth it, no matter what was bought. Every second you spend, will always count. All the work and the not work and the love and the not love— It all counts. It counts because it counts. You care therefore you care. Any effort made is good effort. 

Why does Carmen keep taking eons to learn what you are always trying to tell him?

The door opens, again. Instead of more patrons, Syd steps out— Wondering where the fuck her Exec and Host have gone. “Are we good?” 

“No.” Says her Exec and Host. She nods, that’s good, cause she’s not good either. 

“Who’s runnin’ house?”

“No one.” Lies Syd, Tina’s running the back, Sweeps is running the front, but she wants to freak Carmen out a little. She grabs the cigarette from Richie. “Burn the money, I say.”

“So, what you’re asking me to do— If I’m understanding, correctly, which— I might not be— You want me to take all my money, okay, and place it in a fucking furnace? Is that right?”

“So I’m sensing—” You curl your hand in the air. “A touch of hostility, which is fair.”

Bargaining with Uncle Jimmy isn’t the easiest thing in the world— Especially when this is your first time meeting him— And you’re begging him for money. Well, helping Mikey beg him for money. 

“Listen, Uncle, please.” Mikey swallows, leaning in, elbows on the table. It’s nearly the end of January. New year, fresh start. No better time to pitch a half-baked pipe dream in the middle of The Beef’s dining room. “It’s not like I’m brand new to the restaurant gig— We turn profit, here, we can fuckin’ pay people.”

“Can you pay me?” “We will—” “Or you could just let me cut my losses—” “I wanna do something real, Uncle.”

“Why’s she here, again?” You shrink, when Cicero points at you. You swallow. 

“I’m here as… Proof… That he wants to do something real.” You have to stop yourself from doing jazz hands, doubling down on the awkwardness will not make it go away, that is sadly not how that works.

Jimmy stares, for a moment, the cogs in his brain almost audibly whirring, as he stares at the space between you and Mikey, where you sit, at the other side of the booth. “Are you having a fuckin’ baby or somethin?”

The visceral reaction from your side of the booth is immediate. The worst part is he’s not even the first one to ask something like this— No, the manager at Wells Fargo was.

“What the fuck!” “Come on, Uncle…” “Do I— Do I look like a Milf, what the fuck is going on—” “She could be my daughter!” “Alright— So that is a little far, but the sentiment—”

“Alright, shut the fuck up, what is so fucking real that I’m suddenly going to hack up—”

Mikey tosses his necklace onto the table. It shouldn’t be physically possible, because it’s on a string, but it still manages to roll for a comically long time, like a coin, over to Jimmy. To thine own self be true. One Month.

“You will not be giving your money to some fucking junkie, Uncle—”

You wave a hand, interrupting Mikey. “Verbiage.” 

He swallows and nods, taking the note. A hard lesson to learn. “You will not be giving your money to— To— You— You’re gonna give your money to someone who is trying, alright?”

Uncle Jimmy hasn’t looked up from the chip since it landed; Mikey continues. “And— And I’m gonna bring Carmy on, and we’re gonna do like—Like high level shit. Like a real fuckin’ Michelin level—”

“How many times have you gotten to a month?”

“First time.”

Jimmy frowns, crossing his arms. “How many times have you tried getting to a month?”

“Five.” Michael says, “Six.” you correct. Christmas was hard. Christmas was extremely fucking hard. You weren’t with the Berzattos, upon Mikey’s request— And neither was Carmen, upon Mikey’s ignoring him completely. And that made things a little fucking hard. 

Jimmy just nods, arms still crossed. He’s forming some sort of plan, in his head, you’re just not sure what it is yet. He looks to you. “So you’re his sponsor, then?”

“Yessir.” “Do you feel qualified to do that?” “No-sir.”

Mikey kicks you under the table, your proclivity for honesty is not doing a great job selling this whole restaurant idea. You kick him back. “I don’t think it’s possible for me to feel qualified.”

“You sober?” “Not really.” “Well that’s kind of a key factor, I’ve heard.”

You sigh and lean forward, putting your hands in your lap. This is Mikey’s Uncle— Well, is he, actually? Unsure. But he gives as much of a fuck as you do, so you spill your guts, because you know he’s poking because he’s worried that some kid is taking care of Mikey and it’s the blind leading the fucking blind. 

“I’m stable. I drink, sometimes— But never more than one glass, and never multiple days in a row. I’m coming up on a year, I still attend A-A— Though not as often as I’m told I should— And I’ve told Mikey that turbulent month long benders and a full blown decade long opioid addiction are not the same thing and I really shouldn’t be his sponsor.”

Mikey leans forward as well, then, meeting your level. “And I told Chip— And our coord— That I won’t do the program without her.”

After a long moment of silence, taking his time to digest every bit of information, Jimmy nods to the folder on the table. “N’ this?”

“It’s like a… Proposal?” You look to Mikey for help, he shrugs. This motherfucker— You’re not even a stakeholder in this, why are you talking? You turn back to Jimmy. “It’s like a promise.”

You open the folder, there’s loose sketches you’ve put together of The Bear’s signage, plus Carmen’s original piece— It was fun and weird, to work off of an artist you’ve never met before. There’s also cut outs from the New York Time’s and Food and Wine magazine showing off his award winning talents. 

“We make money now.” Mikey finally chimes in, crossing his arms. “Imagine what we could do with him.”

“It would be cool!” You wingman. A little too excited for someone who’s never even breathed in a Michelin restaurant. “It’d be cool to have, like, a fine-dining establishment on North Orleans.”

“Or you’d completely cut out the audience that already likes The Beef.”

Mikey defends, “The people don’t know what they like, yet.” while you spread out some more papers across the table, showing off screenshots of food Carmen’s texted, that Mikey has never replied to. “They will like this shit— It’s— It’s art, Uncle. When they see this, they won’t give a shit about sandwiches.”

“They’ll give a shit about the price.”

“Uncle, I’m the guy.” Mikey uncrosses his arms, straightening up his posture, because now it’s serious. “I can— We can do this.”

As you continue to spread out papers, Uncle Jimmy stops you, seeing a peculiar page in the pile. He points to it, so you fish it out and hand it to him. He squints. “Joint bank account?”

You nod. “It’s so I can keep an eye on his spending and withdrawals.” Mikey tries not to wince at the fact a kid is in charge of managing his finances. You try not to wince at the fact that despite managing his finances, he's still reset six times.

“Y’know banks are a fuckin’ scam, right?”

You do not entertain Jimmy for a second, finally losing your whimsy. Your leg is shaking underneath the table— Thank God these tables are bolted. “I know that this is the first time in twenty years that my best friend is keeping savings.” 

Not just living paycheck to paycheck, anymore. Not spending every penny on painkillers, anymore. Mikey is saving up because now there is a future to spend it on. Cicero swallows, nodding, eyes looking down, thinking deeply. 

When he speaks again, it’s to say the most insane thing you’ve ever heard. “Ten grand a week.”

Your reply is in sync with Mikey, both jumping forward in your seats. “What?”

“Every week.” Jimmy pushes the chip back to your side of the table. “Every week that you keep going, that’s ten grand.”

You flail your hand under the table, grabbing for Mikey’s— He does the same, and it’s like a contest for who’s going to break who’s hand first, with how hard you’re holding each other. 

Mikey’s first to ask the question, “Is that… Starting now or starting since I—”

“I’m so glad you asked, fuck no, that’s starting now.” He points to you, now. You flinch. “You’re gonna piss test him every fuckin’ week. I’m not fucking around about this.”

“Right. Heard.” You can only nod, because if you express anything else, it might just be screaming forever and ever. He pivots back to Mikey.

“And it’s gonna be cash— It’s not going in that fuckin’ joint, aright?” “Heard.”

“...Alright. Deal.” Cicero comes forward in his seat, and shakes Mikey’s hand. And despite not being a stakeholder, he reaches for yours, too; you shake it, and after a moment, he ruins this excitement stirring in the room, moving out of the booth. “I gotta piss, now.”

When he leaves for the bathroom, Mikey leans his head to you, putting his chin on your shoulder, whispering, “Art of the deal.”

You push his face away immediately, laughing. “Shut the fuck up! Why did you make me lead that shit!?”

Tomorrow Mikey will relapse again, and you’ll reset his necklace for the seventh time, but you don’t know that yet. Carmen’s gonna be so excited, when he finally comes back to Chicago and gets a sober brother and his dream restaurant. You’re excited to meet the guy, one day. Fingers crossed he likes you. 

“That was fucking nuts.” Sydney decides that’s the best way to surmise it. “Like more than usual.”

“I’m aware.” Carmen can only nod, and despite the fact that he’s just going to lie down and take this, it does not remove the bitter feeling in her heart at all. Syd’s fucking mad, and she wants him to know. 

“I’ve— I’ve literally only ever seen her cry like, like during Pixar movies or when we graduated. Like she just— That’s not a thing she does. I, I’m so— I literally don’t know what the fuck to do, right now.” For a second, she thinks her vision is flickering. “Oh my god, am I finally having a stroke?”

The three restaurateurs look up to see their neon white logo of a bear’s head, flickering and occasionally buzzing out. Richie’s the first to speak, as they all blankly stare at it. “Who are we gonna call, f’this?”

If this was yesterday, or maybe even if this was an hour ago, it wouldn’t be a question as to who they’d call. Carmen scratches the back of his head, the flaking hair gel is getting itchy. “Ted?”

“Who’s Ted?” Asks Syd; that’s not Tony, Terry or Tommy.

“Ted Fak.” Richie and Carmen answer at once, she almost gasps. 

“They’re multiplying?”

Richie rolls back into his memory. “There’s eight— No, fuck, nine of them— I always forget Avery.”

Sydney just nods and hugs her shoulders for warmth. They all keep staring at the flickering bear, like moths.

“I don’t—I don’t have anyone, except her, y’know?” Syd sniffs. “Like after my dad, it’s— it’s literally just her. She’s my best and only friend.”

Carmen presses the palms of his hands over his eyes, “Heard.” 

“I don’t want to choose between her and my career.” Carmen thinks she’s pausing, so he waits, but she’s not talking. That was the end of the sentence.

“Heard.”

“If that’s what getting a star takes, I don’t want it.” That’s huge. That’s a big statement, from Syd of all people. That gets the men to turn their heads from the light to her.

Syd continues to stare at the flickering bear, which lights up the two single straight streams of tears perfectly. It’s silent. She’s not snivelling or anything, she just shakes her head in tight swivels, biting her inner cheek. “It’s just— it’s just not worth that.”

“How can I fix it?” Maybe Syd will have a better answer than Richie did, something a little more actionable. She finally flits her gaze from the light down to Carmen, where he sits. 

“Can you stay after close?”

“—Nobody in this motherfucking city knows transit etiquette— Why does everyone get on and go ‘wow I love standing in the walkway’— I’m so— There was so much seating just ahead of the blockage, Mikey, I’m so pressed, I’m literally—” You massage your brows, finishing up your rant from this morning’s commute. “I can’t. I can’t.”

“If you weren’t a little passenger princess, this wouldn’t be a problem, Chippy.” “I have my fucking license! I just don’t have a car!” “Then buy one!” “With who’s money!?” “Mine?”

A terrible running joke, from Mikey, is telling you to spend his money— The money he gets from staying sober. The money he’s saving for The Bear. The reason why he thinks this is funny, is because you have no fucking idea where he’s been putting it. But you know he hasn’t spent it, so that’s all that really matters.

You just huff, leaning back against the wall of his office as you watch him work, arms crossed and cringing as he futzes with the wiring. “You’re going to light us up like a Roman fucking candle.”

“It’s Jewish lightning—” “Top twenty-thousand reasons we do not say that— Number One—” “It’s gonna work! Just trust me!”

Mikey’s office looks a lot more lively, lately. He never cleans up the mugs of coffee you give him, every morning. He says it’s his way of tracking which flavour is his favourite, since you’re always switching up. It will never change from the chai spiced blend, and you both know that. It’d be more accurate of him to say he likes the sticky notes you tack on to each mug, saying you love him and saying he needs to keep going.

“I could fix it, y’know.” At that, Mikey turns away from his distressing handiwork to look at you. 

“I know. But I wanna prove I can, too.” 

That hits you right in the chest. You want to tell Mikey that he never has to prove anything, with you; never has to lift a goddamn finger. But he would hate to hear that. “Okay.”

You hear from outside the office, the back door opening. “Child incoming, no expletives please!”

“What the fuck is an expletive?” Mikey asks you, whispering.

You whisper back, leaning forward off the wall to close in on him. “It’s what you just did.”

Eva runs in, the way that kids do— The way they kinda waddle. Immediately up to you and Mikey. Uncle Mike and Aunty Chip, she calls you both. Sometimes Uncle Jack— Because she hasn’t completely grasped the concept of gender yet— Good, no one should.

“Watch!” You have yet to even say hi, before she immediately attempts to do a cartwheel in the middle of this very small office. 

“Good job, Evie!” You clap, after she just barely lands safely on her shins.

She nods, “Can you do that?”

“Honestly? I don’t think I can.” You look up from her to Mikey. “Can you?”

“Can I cartwheel?” He stumbles back, slapping his hand over his chest. Gutted. “Can I cartwheel? Eve— She doesn’t think I can cartwheel.”

“Insane, Uncle.”

“Not what I said!” You can’t hold back your laughter, what a shining this kid has taken to her dad. “I’d love to see it, I really would!”

Mikey just shakes his head, kissing his teeth. How dare you offend his honour, in this way? This forty-two year old man can absolutely cartwheel with the best of them. In five minutes he definitely isn’t gonna eat shit in the dining room of his restaurant. He pats Eva on the shoulder. “You go with your dad and clear out some tables out front, I’m gonna need space.” 

“You’re gonna break your neck, Mike.” Richie chimes in, standing in the doorway now, waiting for Eva to return to him. “I don’t wanna plan your funeral.”

“Please, you would plan a terrible funeral.” “That’s bull—”

“Expletive!” You cover Eva’s ears. She just laughs, looking up at you with that cute and bizarre blank kid stare. What a little patoot. 

Richie looks to you, forgetting the bit for a moment, “Y'need a grocery run, tonight?”

You nod, removing your hands from Eva, but then she holds them there. Goddamnit, kids are an awful idea but she's fucking cute. “Pay you gas money in the form of Wendy's?”

“Marone!” Richie exclaims, poorly, grabbing your face by the chin and top of your head to kiss your cheek just short of a million times. “The perfect woman—”

“Not Italian!” is the synchronous reply from you and Mikey.

Richie rolls his eyes, “Not Italian— Fu—”

Eva interrupts him, taking as much as a shining to you as she does her father. “Exp—Expultive!” She looks at you for approval and you nod in delight.

“Just go set up front, would ‘ya?” Mikey brushes Rich off, the man just rolls his eyes, picking up his daughter from you to fly her off like an airplane. 

“Let's set the stage for your Uncle’s neck injury, sweets. Bwwwwrrr—” Richie makes good airplane noises. Richie’s a good dad. You will never find a good time to tell him this. You watch Mikey’s back flex, as he cracks back into the hole of wires in the wall. He's been working hard on a lot of little things lately. 

You will not realize he is trying to make things clean and square, until it is too late. Right now, you’re just happy, because, “You’re already at three weeks again, and you haven’t even noticed.”

“Oh, I fucking noticed.” He doesn’t face you, when he says it, but it’s with a hearty chuckle. He’s noticed it violently, he’s just getting very good at the first month, now— Well acquainted with the burn out. “But now there’s money on the line, I can’t lose.” 

It’s not that money’s on the line. It’s that his brother is on the line now. And Mikey couldn’t do this for himself— but the guy could do it for his brother. So he’ll just be the guy, that’s what the guy’s do. Six hours, same team. Nine weeks, Mikey, come on.

“Well you’re doing good, I’m proud of you.” 

“You believe in me?” He says it like he doubts your conviction. You nearly punch him in the back of the head.

“Of course I believe in you.”

Mikey bites his inner cheek, though you can’t see his face. “...Why are we keeping the candles?”

Ah. You’ve still got the one and two candles in his drawer with a lighter, ready for the next cupcake. They’re slowly but surely melting with each reset, eventually they’ll be incomprehensible. Do you believe in me? If you do, why are you saving them? Do you think we’ll need them? That’s what Mikey’s asking. You scoff. 

“You’re so stupid.” “What the— I confide in you and I get this—”

You interrupt him, arms crossed. “One day, one week, one month, one year, fuckin— When we get to double digits? Ten months? One decade?”

He’s mum, at that. You add. “We’re getting our fucking mileage out of these candles, Mikey. I believe in you.” You think Mikey has a future, still. Mikey knows he doesn’t. He changes the subject because if he doesn’t, he’ll tell you everything and you will stop it.

“I want you to start talking to Carmen, when he comes back.” You should’ve asked Mikey why he was so certain Carmen would be coming back. But you weren’t smart enough. 

“What the fuck?” You snort. “Okay, out of literally nowhere—” “You’d like him.”

“He sounds very nice.” “He’s not. He’s a—” “Ball buster, yes, you’ve told me.” “He’d like you.” “Why?” “Cause you’re you.”

“Wow, pretty inarguable there.” You can only smile, unable to see the wheels turn in Michael’s head. “Guess we’ll be besties.”

“I meant talk like talk—” “Are you trying to hook me up right now?” “He’s a virgin, so it’s definitely not a good deal for you—” “And— And why are we talking about your brother's sex life— Did we already explode and this is hell?” “I just want you to be prepared for what you’re getting into, he gets performance anxiety so—” “Mikey!”

“You’ll talk to him?” Mikey turns away from the wall, wanting you to look him in the eyes and promise him.

You shake your head and roll your eyes, but stick a hand out for the Berzatto to shake. “Yes, Bear, I’ll talk to your virgin Michelin star ranked brother.”

“Thank you! I ask for so little.”

After close, after everyone but Carmen, Sydney, and Richie leave, the three make plans to meet in Michael’s office. Carmen will go in ahead to hide your folder because he doesn’t want to see it himself and he absolutely doesn’t want anyone else to see it. Even if one of them could very well explain it, because he’s fucking in them. It’s fine. He looks at your wrapped up painting in the corner of his office. Carmen considers for what feels like a decade, whether or not he should open it. But he hasn’t earned a gift from you, so he doesn’t— Not for now, at least. He hasn’t earned your art right now. 

Underneath your ICE folder is his notepad— The one he was scribbling recipes for his Exec into, the one he scribbled your recipe into, and underneath all that torn up paper— His list, from this morning. The non-negotiable rules he wanted— Wants? To add to The Bear. There’s twenty-seven. Half of them are spelt wrong as he wrote them while absolutely losing his shit, this morning. This list did not go over well, when it was proposed during family, at two in the afternoon. Some of these could still work though, right? At least the technique and the boxes and the—

Richie comes in, not knocking, and immediately spots the list. “Oh good.” He grabs the notepad and rips off the twenty seven points. Leaving only the title, NON-NEGOTIABLES. 

“Come the fuck on—” Says Carmen. Richie rolls his eyes, tossing the list onto the desk. Richie can tear him and his stupid fucking list a new one another time— Richie and Carmen can sort out their own part of the fight in a week, when they take a twelve hour road trip. Right now though, they are both completely focused on you. 

Sydney comes in with two labelled deli containers of coke. Time codes and everything, she can't turn it off. She hands one to Rich, the other one is for herself. That’s fine, soda on Carmen’s shredded throat really wouldn’t be great right now anyways. She takes a sip, looking over Carm's shoulder. “Oh, we’re doing a real list, now?”

Carmen just sighs, letting the dig go, because he deserves it. He clicks his pen, sitting down, ready to write, without hesitation. “Go.”

Richie leads, “You need to fucking relax.”

“Lay off her,” Sydney waves her hand over her neck. “Leave her the fuck alone, for like a week, minimum.” 

“No— What? No— You should call her like now—” “Absolutely not the right move—” “Solve it hard and fast—” “Why hard—?”

“I’m just gonna wait.” Carmen decides, typically Syd is the right one, anyways. Plus if he hears your voice right now he might throw up and he doesn’t have your tums, anymore. “Next?”

“An exorcism.” Richie doesn’t laugh, when he says it. “Also read fuckin’ Runnin’ on Empty— By Doctor Webb.”

The two cooks just look at him, like Richie’s grown five thousand heads. He groans before they even say anything. “I’m fuckin’ well read, shut the fuck up— It’s—” He snaps his fingers, pointing to Carmen’s list, “It’s an audiobook, too, on fuckin’ Spotify— Listen to that shit on your commute you have no excuse.”

“Yes, Chef.” Carmen writes it down, he also writes down under things to look into, catastrophizing, while he’s at it. Richie watches over his shoulder, and adds, “Look into sublimation and behavourial dysfunction.” 

Syd’s still reeling over the sudden character growth. “You need to relax with the self-help books.”

“Yeah, well you need to read Mark Wolynn’s ‘It Didn’t Start With You.’” Richie’s got lists of books now, instead of zingers. They somehow hit harder.

She’s got no come back for that other than a surprised pout and nod, taking her own phone out to write it down. “Yes, Chef.”

Carmen pipes in, not looking up from his list of to dos “Should I also read that one—” “Yes.” “Heard, Chef. Next?”

“It cannot be on Tony to be your fucking punching bag. If you’re tweaking— Keep that shit between you and your therapist—” Syd switches from her notes app to search, “We’re finding you a fuckin’ therapist.”

“Is that covered in our contract?” Didn’t he write it? Carmen doesn’t know.

“Doesn’t matter. Also I don’t know, but doesn’t matter.” Syd hasn’t read it yet. She also doesn’t know.

You are worth a couple out of pocket fees. Well, more importantly, Carmen is worth a couple out of pocket fees— Well, alright, he’ll discuss his weaknesses of self-prioritization with the therapist. 

Before Carmen can even say next, Richie adds. “Also you smell like shit.” The hair gel is pungent in a bad way.

And before he can defend himself, Sydney adds, not looking up from her phone, “We’re going to fuckin’ Kohl’s after this and we’re getting you a skincare— And haircare— routine. You’re seconds away from breaking out, I bet you use fuckin’ Palmolive dish soap.”

“Well— I’ve been using Tony’s, actually—” “We know.” It’s a completely synchronized interruption. 

“It’s been her signature scent, since highschool.” “Who do you think took her grocery shopping when she didn’t have a car?” “I thought I was having a flashback everytime you walked by in the kitchen, this past week.” “You should go back to it.”

“I know. I will.” He’s got every intention of re-upping on your shampoo and conditioner, when he’s taken on a shopping spree to get his shit together. Hopefully you won’t mind him copying you. “No more Five in One.”

“You’ve been using fucking five in one!?”

Carmen thought, yesterday, naively, that he would do right by you on Friday. He didn’t, he did the very opposite— But even if he did, that’s weak shit. Carmen’s not gonna do right by you for just one single fucking day. Carmen’s gonna do right by you, for the rest of his life. The three get to well over twenty seven points, and he has every intention of showing up to it. He’s gonna be your man, and he’s going to fucking earn that title. He’s going to prove it.

“Okay. So can you tell me what happened on February 22nd?” She’s a shit therapist. You’re imagining both you and her dead in your head. You’ve been imagining a lot of people dead in your head, for the last two weeks. Every time your dad comes to check on you, you imagine that he’s a ghost. 

You imagine having a passing conversation with someone, maybe catching up with Syd, one day. And she’ll ask you ‘Meet any interesting people?’ and you’ll say ‘Yeah. But he killed himself.’ That’s gonna suck. You didn’t prepare for that one. So you need to prepare now. Look at all of your friends and family, and imagine they are dead— And introduce them as such. ‘That’s my friend Richie, he died.’ Make it hurt now, so it doesn’t hurt then. 

You didn’t prepare enough. Didn’t do enough. Countless little mistakes and moments you missed. The therapist is looking at you, oh right, it’s your turn to talk again. You’ve told her all these cute little stories but now she wants to hear how the sad shit went. Or maybe it was all sad shit. Maybe it’s all coated in a film of grief, now. 

You’ll tell her that Mikey was very thorough, with his plan that you didn’t know about. He waited until he thought you were out of the city— When he knew you’d be out of the city. When your sister in law delivered your nephew and you went to Oak Park to visit. 

Just days before, you celebrated three months of sobriety with him and Richie— You’ll tell the therapist, excitedly, that this was his longest streak so far, it took him a year to reach three months— It was a big fucking deal. You were beaming all day. You didn’t realize, however, that days after Uncle Jimmy had made his deal with you two, that Mikey did the math. Figured out exactly how many weeks he’d have to be sober, to get three-hundred grand. 

Thirty weeks. Roughly seven months and two weeks. He did it. Not in sequence, but he did it. You’re still not sure where that money is. Uncle isn’t either. Maybe Carmen will figure it out. It’s meant for him anyways. You’ll say that Carmen will figure it out in such a way that she asks— “And do you hold animosity? Towards his younger brother?”

You look at her like she’s a psycho, because she is. Replying incredulously, “I don’t fucking know him.”

‘My best friend Michael is dead.’ ‘My best friend, Mikey, is dead.’ Doesn’t sound right. Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue. 

“Do you wish you did?”

“I really couldn’t say I give a shit, ma’am. Can I tell you about the guy I did know, though?”

She nods, you roll the fuck on. You tell her that the morning after you got to your brother’s place— February 22nd, you all decided instead of staying for the week, as you’d planned, as Mikey planned, you’d instead go home early. Because as much as you wanted to be helpful, having more people in the house was stressing the new mom the fuck out. Understandable. So you took a train back to Chicago early. 

You got home, and you found that you’d gotten some mail, waiting for you on the floor, shoved through the mail slot of your door. Bill, bill, invoice, spam, coupons, handwritten envelope— Ah. Mikey’s handwriting. A deep unsettling feeling burrowed its way into you. It just says For Chip. There’s no letter inside. No. There’s a debit card, his, of your joint bank account, there’s a key, yours, a copy of your key to this apartment, and a necklace, his— With his three month sobriety chip hanging off of it. 

You call him, immediately. He doesn’t answer the first time. You call him again. He answers on the last possible ring. 

The inciting incident, the thing that pulls you in, and permanently alters the trajectory of your life—                Is honestly quite boring, because it’s just a phone call with an old friend.

“Yo, Ice-y!” A classic nickname, reserved purely for phone calls with Mikey. Because in his phone, you’re 0ICEChip, so you’ll show up at the top of his contact list, if he’s ever found unresponsive. Typically a pro-tip reserved for those in hospice care.

You don’t entertain him. “Where are you?”

“I’m just out for a walk, sweetheart.” “Shut the fuck up out for a walk— Where the fuck are you?”

He hums at your snarky tone. “Nephew didn’t take a liking to you?” “I came home early.”

The silence is long, and you can hear the heavy wind coming through his phone. He’s outside. He’s somewhere outside. It’s a cold night. It’s usually not this cold at the end of February, but it really fucking came down, this morning. 

“Oh.”

“Why did you leave this shit at my door? Where are you?” You thought of 0ICE but you didn’t think to have him turn his location on? Fucking idiot. Fucking idiot. You didn’t do enough. ‘My friend, Bear, is dead.’ You didn’t prepare enough. “Bear, c’mon, what’s going on? I told you, if we need to reset, it’s two steps forward, one step back, it’s okay—”

“It’s not.” “It is! We will get there!” “I’m not. You’re gonna get there, I’m not.” “That’s not true!” “I love you but we both know this was a pipe dream.”

“Mikey—”

“Chip, I’m not going anywhere. You’re— You’re fucking going somewhere. I can’t— I can’t let— We both know where I’m going and it’s nowhere you should begin to be.”

“You don’t get to make that choice for me. You don’t get to make that call. I decide what I bet on— Mikey, where are you?” You’re walking out of your place, you hadn’t even closed the door before leaving again.

Fucking idiot, you should’ve bought a car. How are you supposed to get to him on foot and train? Fucking idiot. The snow is beating down, the wind is cutting into your face. ‘My best friend died on February 22nd. On the State Street Bridge.’— Why didn’t you get a fucking car? You didn’t do enough. You can’t remember any of your training, right now. What are you supposed to say? “Are you using?”

“No. No. I’m— This is me, Chip.” “No it’s fucking not, Mikey! Shut the fuck up, where are you!?”

“I love you, I didn’t want this to be— I-I—I’m not killing myself, Chip.”

“You’re not?”

You shouldn’t have believed him. You should’ve just kept walking. You would’ve figured out where he was, eventually. You should’ve called the coast guard, or some shit. Should’ve just figured it out.

“I’m not. I’m— I’m okay, I’m really just going for a walk— I-I just— I had a… I— I don’t want you to be my sponsor anymore. That’s it.” It made sense. He didn't want you to feel hurt, so he was hesitant. It made sense.

“Why?”

“Cause you’re a kid, and I can’t make you responsible for what I do.”

“I’m not a kid.” “To me, you are.” “Then we’ll find you someone else.” “Yeah, okay.”

You pause, for a good bit, listening to the shakiness of his breath. “You’re cold, Mikey.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re just cold.” That’s all that’s wrong. He’s just cold and he doesn't want you to be his sponsor anymore. “Go inside, soon. Come home.”

“I will.”

Mikey always had that way of making you think everything was going to be okay, even when it wasn’t. “Okay.”

“I want you to start treating our joint like an advanced payment, by the way. A million things are always fucking breaking at The Beef, there’s no point in wiring all the time.”

Mikey wants this to be clean and square, too. Because he couldn’t figure out the wiring by himself— He needs to make sure his baby brother is taken care of, he needs to make sure his restaurant is taken care of, he needs to make sure that you have something to do because Michael fucking saw you. 

“Yeah, that makes sense.” You nod to no one. “I think your toilets fucked, speaking of.” You laugh, everything’s okay. There’s a long silence, and you think he’s hung up. 

“Good. Okay— You should— You should come fix it, sometime soon… Love you, Chip.”

“Love you, Bear.”

You will tell your therapist that after that phone call, you went back inside, cleaned yourself up, unpacked unused toiletries, changed out of your borrowed brother’s sweats into your nice pajamas, because Mikey said he would come home. He said he would come home and you believed him because he never lied to you before. You set up the things he left for you in your handmade clay dish tray; so he can take them back. Just because you’re not his sponsor, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t keep his chips. 

You will tell your therapist that you fell asleep on the couch, waiting for Michael. You will tell her you woke up to a phone call from Richie, and all he said, wavering, was, “You should come over.” Richie doesn’t ask things. Richie will always say, come over. You don’t know why that’s the signal you get, since you seemingly must have missed so many other obvious signs, but you know then that your— Your— Your best— Fuck, the knots are fucking debilitating, fuck fuck fuck. 

You will not come over. You will walk, in the cold, to your dad’s place. You will not bring anything with you. You will stay there and rot for two weeks, as will everything in your apartment. He will force you to go to this several hour long therapy appointment because he can’t keep watching you do this, and you will resent the woman you are telling all this. 

You will continue to see her, for five more sessions, because the first six are covered under your insurance. She will help in a lot of ways, she will hurt in others.

Wells-Fargo will ask if you want to close your account. You don’t want to, but it’ll accrue monthly banking fees, so you take the money out and close it. You buy a shitty maroon 2004 Dodge Intrepid off Facebook Marketplace with the two and a half grand. It barely functions as a car. But it will drive. The next time someone needs you. You can drive. Next time you’ll think of everything, next time you won’t fail.

You stop paying the phone bill, for your business line. It goes defunct. You just don’t think you should be trusted to be helpful, for the next little while. You will blame your father for this, when people ask about it.

On the day of his funeral, you will go. You will go, and you will sit on the curb across from the church, and you will not go inside. It's just not possible. You will buy a pork chop-cheese sandwich from a bodega nearby and you will eat it on that curb and it’s only then, after shoving it down for so long, that you will scream and cry.

You will leave before anyone sees you, and you will go to State Street Bridge, and you will set up a small vigil. You will finnick with the candles and the flowers until you feel they are perfect. They will never get perfect. You just don’t want to leave. You have a tendency to do that. 

You will stare at the little stuffed bear, the roses, the picture frame of him, and you will finally say it aloud. 

“My best friend, Mikey, died.”

When Carmen shows up, two hours later, not honestly that long after you finally left, he will add a bouquet and a prayer candle. He will readjust all of your work, to his preference, and then readjust it again and again and again— and he will finally say it aloud. 

“My brother, Mikey, shot himself.”

No matter how you say it, it won’t roll off the tongue.

And about thirty-nine weeks from that day, you will be in New York, at a wedding, talking with the virgin Michelin star ranked brother, as you promised.

You will have abandoned your bar after making confessions under the counter, and have instead co-opted the single stall gender-neutral bathroom to have ample time and space to tell each other everything you’ve told your therapists. Even now, neither of you can get the words to roll off the tongue. 

But Carmen manages to make “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry— I will never be able to surmise, how sorry—” roll off well enough. Alas, he’s interrupted, by a knock on the gender-neutral bathroom door, made by the only fuckers that knows you two are in here. 

“Guys I— Guys I don’t know how to run bar, and I don’t think I should’ve been trusted, with this.”

Carmen will not look away from your bleary-eyed face, he will not break his focus even when you laugh at the sudden tension break. He will just tell the Faks to fuck off and figure it out.

“I’m gonna fix it.” Carmen will tell you, and you will nod and say, “I will too.”

Because it’s not just on one of you, anymore. It can be both. The shared burden. The shared grief. No more fucking shoes, because it's all out now.

It’s not negotiable.

I love when tumblr drafts fully start to lag and my macbook lights on fire because the post is too fucking long. I have so much to say about this chapter but I think I will just make a separate post entirely about this. Because I’m. I’m really proud tbh not to toot my own horn but I think I kind of maybe a little bit ate with this one. 

Fun fact, that you may or may not believe: The Carmen scenes? Not planned. Fully did not plan to do any of that. This was going to be entirely Mikey flashbacks, originally— There might’ve ended up being more honestly, if I didn’t add Carmen, but after Something to Do when I started writing I was like,,, these cats aren’t cooking, Carmen’s side is missing a second beat before the third. And so, here it is. 

I know everyone was expecting a depression week for Carmen— And to be fair, I also kind of was. But I then thought, nah. They’d done too much work, and I don’t think Rich/Syd would allow him to wallow. Like get your shit together, not for you, for her. Ugh. 

Speaking of Rich and Syd— FUCK man my heart. The way their scenes from the past and present meshed together in such a deeply painful way I’m sooo SICK WITH IT!!! WHAT DID YOU THINK?!?!! Just fuckin— The way Tony was too scared to reach out to Syd but it’s SO FUCKING OBVIOUS that Syd was on the other side of Chicago thinking the exact same shit i’m SO SICK!!!!! I’M HACKING UP A LUNG HERE!!

Anyways it’s my birthday send me well wishes and an essay on what you thought I’d love to hear it. I know this was a tough one. Thank you for getting through it with me lmao. Tag list! Hope I didn’t forget anyone, pwease note i ownwee add pweople who swend theiw twoughts— It also may or may not hurt my feelings when people don’t read this text at the bottom. It might. It might a lot.

@anytim3youwant @navs-bhat @whoknowswhoiamtoday @gills-lounge @slut4supersoldiers @sinceweremutual @itsallacotar @catsrdabestsocks101 @popcornpoppin @renaissance-painting @lostinwonderland314 @v0ctin @ashtonweon @sharkluver @fridavacado @hoetel-manager @mrs-perfectly-fine

Next Part

[feminist-space]

"Artists have finally had enough with Meta’s predatory AI policies, but Meta’s loss is Cara’s gain. An artist-run, anti-AI social platform, Cara has grown from 40,000 to 650,000 users within the last week, catapulting it to the top of the App Store charts.

Instagram is a necessity for many artists, who use the platform to promote their work and solicit paying clients. But Meta is using public posts to train its generative AI systems, and only European users can opt out, since they’re protected by GDPR laws. Generative AI has become so front-and-center on Meta’s apps that artists reached their breaking point.

“When you put [AI] so much in their face, and then give them the option to opt out, but then increase the friction to opt out… I think that increases their anger level — like, okay now I’ve really had enough,” Jingna Zhang, a renowned photographer and founder of Cara, told TechCrunch.

Cara, which has both a web and mobile app, is like a combination of Instagram and X, but built specifically for artists. On your profile, you can host a portfolio of work, but you can also post updates to your feed like any other microblogging site.

Zhang is perfectly positioned to helm an artist-centric social network, where they can post without the risk of becoming part of a training dataset for AI. Zhang has fought on behalf of artists, recently winning an appeal in a Luxembourg court over a painter who copied one of her photographs, which she shot for Harper’s Bazaar Vietnam.

“Using a different medium was irrelevant. My work being ‘available online’ was irrelevant. Consent was necessary,” Zhang wrote on X.

Zhang and three other artists are also suing Google for allegedly using their copyrighted work to train Imagen, an AI image generator. She’s also a plaintiff in a similar lawsuit against Stability AI, Midjourney, DeviantArt and Runway AI.

“Words can’t describe how dehumanizing it is to see my name used 20,000+ times in MidJourney,” she wrote in an Instagram post. “My life’s work and who I am—reduced to meaningless fodder for a commercial image slot machine.”

Artists are so resistant to AI because the training data behind many of these image generators includes their work without their consent. These models amass such a large swath of artwork by scraping the internet for images, without regard for whether or not those images are copyrighted. It’s a slap in the face for artists – not only are their jobs endangered by AI, but that same AI is often powered by their work.

“When it comes to art, unfortunately, we just come from a fundamentally different perspective and point of view, because on the tech side, you have this strong history of open source, and people are just thinking like, well, you put it out there, so it’s for people to use,” Zhang said. “For artists, it’s a part of our selves and our identity. I would not want my best friend to make a manipulation of my work without asking me. There’s a nuance to how we see things, but I don’t think people understand that the art we do is not a product.”

This commitment to protecting artists from copyright infringement extends to Cara, which partners with the University of Chicago’s Glaze project. By using Glaze, artists who manually apply Glaze to their work on Cara have an added layer of protection against being scraped for AI.

Other projects have also stepped up to defend artists. Spawning AI, an artist-led company, has created an API that allows artists to remove their work from popular datasets. But that opt-out only works if the companies that use those datasets honor artists’ requests. So far, HuggingFace and Stability have agreed to respect Spawning’s Do Not Train registry, but artists’ work cannot be retroactively removed from models that have already been trained.

“I think there is this clash between backgrounds and expectations on what we put on the internet,” Zhang said. “For artists, we want to share our work with the world. We put it online, and we don’t charge people to view this piece of work, but it doesn’t mean that we give up our copyright, or any ownership of our work.”"

Read the rest of the article here:

https://techcrunch.com/2024/06/06/a-social-app-for-creatives-cara-grew-from-40k-to-650k-users-in-a-week-because-artists-are-fed-up-with-metas-ai-policies/

[roosterforme]

Right Girl, Wrong Time Part 8 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: You fulfill your promise to visit both schools. You can't deny that Miami is beautiful and offers a lot of things you want. But San Diego has Bradley, and it's time for you to figure out where your priorities lie. During your trip to California, you reach out to a new friend to discuss your decision. 

Warnings: Fluff, swears, and angst

Length: 4500 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader (former fuckboy college student Bradley)

This is a sequel to accompany my story Old Habits Die Hard (you'll want to read that one first)!

Check my profile for my masterlist

Your flight touched down in Miami on a Monday morning in late July, and you couldn't get over how disgusting the weather was. Once you had your luggage, you made your way outside to get in line for a taxi, and you thought you were going to melt. Your lungs felt uncomfortable from the humidity, and it was blazing hot for so early in the day. 

You were completely stuck to the seat, and your taxi driver was weaving in and out of traffic. "How much further?" you asked him cautiously, but he was already making a turn toward an absolutely beautiful campus. You peeled yourself off of the seat and braced yourself as you opened the door to the wall of humidity once again. 

When you made your way to meet the dean of students with your suitcase and sweaty clothing, you wished you had decided to visit during the winter. And now you had to sit through several meetings thinking about the fact that you hated this weather, perhaps even more than the Chicago winters. 

If you were too cold, you could always snuggle up to Bradley. 

And then there he was. Again. Right at the front of your mind. You promised him you'd take him out of the equation of which job was the right one for you, but you just didn't know if you could do it. 

"Is that correct?" The dean of students was talking to you, and you had no idea what she was saying. She would literally be your supervisor's boss if you took the job here, and you were busy daydreaming about Bradley.

You pushed some of your sweaty hair out of your face. "Uh, could you repeat that, please?"

When you finally got the conversation back on track, you left with a schedule for the next three days. You'd be meeting dozens of people, sitting in on a calculus lecture, looking at curriculum, and taking tours.

You learned pretty quickly that the best time to go out was late at night. You also learned that the Cuban food trucks made some of the most delicious things you had ever tasted. You went out to dinner with some of the deans, and you toured what could become your future office. 

It was all very nice, and luckily heavily air conditioned. There was nothing wrong with any of it. But you weren't convinced it was actually right. Until you took yourself on a tour of the library and found the study rooms. They were sterile, with harsh fluorescent lighting. And the doors had windows and didn't lock. You laughed and took a few pictures, including a selfie of you frowning. You'd send them to Bradley when he got back. 

On your last day in Miami, you stopped at a coffee shop before doing some sightseeing. You opted for an iced coffee to try to fight away some of the heat, but even in a sundress, it felt horrible outside. You were just pulling the fabric away from your tattoos when you bumped into the person behind you.

"I'm so sorry," you told him, holding your hands up in surrender. "I'm not used to the heat."

He smiled at you. "You're not from Miami."

You shook your head. "No. And I actually think my blood got too thick after living in Chicago? Is that a thing?  Are you from Miami?" You eyed him up and down. He was handsome, and his clothes looked pristine, like he was somehow magically avoiding sweating to death. 

"Born and raised. And never left," he confirmed. Even his smile was charming. "You're up," he nodded with his chin, letting you know it was your turn to order. 

"Oh, thanks," you mumbled, reaching for your wallet as you ordered an iced coffee. But he insisted on paying for your drink along with his, leaning slightly against your shoulder as he handed his credit card to the barista.

You turned to thank him once again, and his face was close to yours. As you opened your mouth, his eyes darted down to your lips. 

"Do you want to get dinner with me tonight?" he asked, leaving you just staring at him for a beat. 

"Wow," you laughed, startled that he was already asking you out. "Thank you, but no," you said, shaking your head, thoughts of Bradley filling you up and making you warm.

He just nodded once. "You're not wearing a ring. Are you seeing someone?"

You took your iced coffee from the barista and said, "Something like that."

"Well, you don't sound so sure," he replied, grabbing his drink and following you to the door. "We could just go out as friends."

"Friends?" you asked with a laugh. "You don't even know my name."

"You could tell me," he said, his tone hopeful now. 

But you just shook your head and told him, "I have an early flight tomorrow. But thanks anyway." You made your way outside as he called after you, but you didn't look back.

The next morning you flew back to Virginia for a few days, before continuing on to San Diego. 

-------------------------

Bradley could only spend so many hours per day working out. And when he wasn't flying a mission or eating a meal, he was usually looking at pictures of you on his phone. 

He had texted you almost nonstop when he first boarded the aircraft carrier in the port in San Diego, finally calling you to hear your voice one more time before he was out of range of phone service. He kept replaying the way you said 'I love you, Beer Boy. Be safe.' before you ended the call. 

You had texted him a few newer photos of yourself. Nothing crazy, but he still felt his entire body stir every time he looked at them. Which was frequently. 

And when he had to take matters into his own hands, he thought about that UVA study room, and how fucking happy you made him feel. He thought about your tiny office and your bedroom. He thought about how it felt to have you wash his hair. 

He could not stop thinking about you. He tried, but it didn't work. The fact that he hadn't imagined that perfect weekend with you was almost too much to bear. Now that he'd had you in his life again, he couldn't go without.

Bradley assumed you had visited both schools by now, and he was almost hoping he didn't get another chance to have a facetime call. Because he would try to use it on you. And he was terrified you were going to break his heart again, something he could better brace himself to handle from the comfort of his own home. He would call you then.

--------------------

San Diego had a lot of things going for it, primarily the weather. You seemed to be able to go outside in the middle of the day in August without nearly passing out here. Miami definitely lost points for that one. 

You also liked the beaches better. They were a little more rustic and not as crowded. Everything moved at a bit of a slower pace, and you thought you could get used to that. 

But your office space would be smaller, and the labs were not as updated. The salary was also a bit lower. You had called Veronica a few times, trying to sort through all of your feelings and expectations. 

And you honestly tried your best to remove Bradley from the equation, just like he had asked you to. But when you did that, it was almost an even split. Neither school seemed to be able to pull through and clench the top spot. 

As you paced up and down the windswept San Diego beach at sunset, you just felt like crying. You were afraid of disappointing yourself, but you were even more afraid of making the wrong decision where Bradley was concerned. 

You knew what you wanted to do, but you didn't know how well he was going to take the news when he was back on land again. But you swiped away your tears and checked the time on your phone. You needed to go meet up with someone very important. 

---------------------

Bradley was up and pacing in his khaki uniform, and it wasn't even light outside yet. He thought he could barely see land in the distance from the observation lounge, but maybe that was just his mind playing tricks on him. He wanted to get back, needed to be able to talk to you.

It had been six weeks. And it had felt almost as painful to him as the previous ten years without you. Because all of his memories were fresher now, a little more crisp around the edges. Your voice had faded in his mind, but was never quite forgotten. But now he could hear everything so clearly. 

He wondered if you were still in Virginia. Maybe you would let him come see you again for a weekend, prolong the pain and suffering if necessary. It would be worth it to be with you again, even if you left him after that to go to Miami.

"Come on," he muttered, checking his phone to see if he had service yet. He needed to make sure Nat remembered to pick him up, but then he would plan the rest of his day around whenever you were available to talk to him.

There was no way his eyes were playing tricks now. He shielded the sun from his face with his hand and squinted, and he could definitely see land. He'd be on the dock in an hour tops, and now he was starting to feel very anxious. So he jogged out onto the walkway to get some fresh air, but even that barely helped. 

Suddenly his phone started vibrating with dozens of messages and alerts, letting him know he finally had phone reception. So he called Nat with a pounding heart. 

"Rooster!" she greeted when she answered after one ring. "Are you docked already? I haven't left my house yet."

"No," he said, his voice a little shaky. "Getting there, but not quite yet. Less than an hour."

"Okay, I'll leave soon. And before you ask, yes I started your dumb Bronco for you once a week."

That got him to laugh. "Thanks."

But he could always count on Nat to know exactly what was going on with him. "Are you going to call her soon and see what she's doing?"

He cleared his throat a few times. "You know, I thought I could wait until I got home and got settled. But I think I need to call her now, Nat. I'm a mess."

"I know," she replied softly. "I understand that you need to know what's going on. Just give her the benefit of the doubt, okay? Hear her out and don't judge her decision?"

Bradley raked his fingers through his hair. "I could never judge her, Nat. I just can't stop thinking about her."

"You thought about her the whole time?"

He sighed and turned away from the early morning sunlight. "The whole time."

"Oh, Bradley. Those ten years did nothing, did they?"

"No. Nothing."

Nat hummed through the phone before saying, "I'll see you soon."

Bradley paced the length of the carrier, grasping his phone in his hand. It would be late morning in Virgina. He could call you now. But if you crushed him on the spot, he would definitely prefer to be at home while he cried and drank himself into a state of forgetfulness. 

If you told him you were going to Miami, but you still wanted him, he would somehow make it work. But if you told him you were going to Miami and that he wasn't going to fit in your life, he was going to have to do all of the things he really didn't want to do. Delete all the photos of you. Delete your phone number. Try to move on for good.

Because it felt like a blessing that he ran into you again last month, but he knew there would never be a third chance for him. 

"Fuck," he grunted, unable to wait another minute. He pulled up your contact in his phone and looked at the recent picture of you before tapping the screen

One ring. Two. Three. Four.

"Bradley?"

"Sugar," he gasped, feeling lightheaded and dizzy. 

"Hi! Are you back in San Diego now?" you asked, your voice impossibly soothing even though he knew it could break him.

"Almost," he replied, wishing he didn't have to talk over the sound of your soft breaths instead of just listening. "I can see the dock now."

"You're still on the aircraft carrier?" you asked.

"Yeah, Sugar. I couldn't wait another minute to call you." He took a deep breath. "Did you visit both schools?"

You paused for a beat. "Of course I did. I promised you I would."

He squeezed his eyes shut and asked, "How did you like Miami?"

"It was great," you told him, and his heart sank. "The offer is incredible. They have the most state of the art lab facilities I have seen since Chicago. And the offices are huge."

Bradley was cradling his forehead in his hand, thinking about getting dumped by you in his fraternity house. Thinking about how that didn't hurt as much as this potentially could.

He forced out the words. "And if you pick Miami, where does that leave us, Sugar?"

"Bradley? I'm actually meeting up with someone shortly here. Can I call you back later?"

His heart was pounding, and he let out a little laugh, because he knew he'd let you get away with this kind of shit forever. Which was why he would have to stop himself. "Yeah."

"Great, I'll talk to you soon. And Bradley?"

"Yeah, Sugar?"

"I love you."

You ended the call before he could respond. He didn't know what to think as he slowly made his way back to his bunk to gather his things together. He waited in line to deboard the carrier, and once he was on the dock, he heard Nat yelling his name.

"God, you're loud," Bradley told her, scooping her up into a tight hug. "I could hear you a mile away." He felt a little bit better now as she rubbed his back and let him hug her. 

"In spite of all of your flaws, I missed you," she told Bradley with a smile, leading the way toward her car. Bradley grumbled a bit, shifting around trash and food wrappers before he could even climb in.

"This is disgusting," he said, nearly gagging as something sticky met his arm. But the terror that was the interior of his best friend's car took his mind off of you for a moment. 

"That's just because you're a neat freak."

"I always have been," he agreed, "but this is next level, Nat. So gross."

As she pulled out into traffic, Bradley turned the radio on and listened to Nat tell him about work. 

"What else did you get up to while I was gone?" he asked, rubbing his hands along his face. 

"Oh, well I met up with a new friend I made on Instagram."

"Instagram?" he asked. "Really?"

"Yeah, she's new to the area," Nat said, giving him side eye. "I actually really think you guys would get along. I could introduce you?"

He turned to face her as she waited at a traffic light. "Nat. Come on. You know I'm waiting on Sugar." Saying the words out loud brought back his bout of nerves, and he kicked some trash out of the way so he could stretch his legs out.

"I know. It was just an idea," she said, zipping down the street once again. 

"I called her," he admitted. "But we didn't talk much. She said she'd call me back."

"Really?" Nat asked, looking alarmed. "Do you know where she was?"

"Not sure. Probably Virginia, unless she already moved to Miami."

"Maybe she's out looking at apartments?" Nat asked, turning onto Bradley's street.

He didn't even want to fucking think about that. He pictured some soulless highrise in Miami, and he couldn't even imagine you there. Not after your cute little cottage with the crumbling front step. "Maybe," he mumbled, suddenly anxious to get inside his house and be alone. 

Nat pulled her car in his driveway behind the Bronco; he loved that thing, and it couldn't even bring a smile to his face right now. "Thanks for the ride, Nat. I'd invite you in for some coffee, but I'm just not feeling up to it."

"No problem," she said, rubbing his shoulder with her small hand. "Why don't you call me later when you feel like it? Maybe we can get dinner or go to the Hard Deck?"

He sighed, popping the passenger door open. "Maybe." 

When he started to climb out, Nat said, "Oh, Bradley. Almost forgot. I left something sweet inside for you. I hope you don't mind."

He just gave her a thumbs up, because if she went grocery shopping for him or left him something to eat, that was more than okay with him. He closed the door and waved to her, digging his house key out of the side pocket of his duffle as he walked up to his porch.

But then he froze. There was a bright yellow post-it note stuck to the middle of his pristine, white front door. He had even painted his door white for a reason, and he never wanted anything marring it. Except maybe for this. 

He climbed the steps, tossing his duffle aside, and reached for the note.

BEER BOY

I love you

With shaky fingers, Bradley shoved his key into the lock and wrenched the door open.

------------------------

You had been immensely enjoying your dinner with Natasha. Once the two of you had connected on Instagram while Bradley was away, you made plans to meet her in person while you were looking at San Diego State. And now you fully understood why she was Bradley's best friend.

"I feel like I already knew you!" Nat said with a bright smile over drinks and dessert. "Is that weird? That this doesn't feel like I'm meeting a stranger?"

"No, it's not weird," you agreed with a laugh. 

"Bradley has told me so much about you over the last decade. I know more about you than I do any of his other more recent girlfriends, and I'd actually met them in person," she indulged over a glass of wine and some cheesecake. "Maybe I shouldn't be telling you that." She winced at you.

You took a deep breath. "Here, I'll make us even. I got a tattoo in honor of Bradley after I moved to Chicago."

Nat just rolled her eyes. "I already knew that. He told me over facetime like three weeks ago."

You buried your face in your hands as she chuckled. Then you groaned. "I know which school I want to pick. But I think Bradley is going to have a hard time coming to terms with it."

Nat's eyes went wide. "What does that mean?"

"Well...." you began, pausing to collect your thoughts. "If I tell him I picked the University of Miami, I'm afraid I'll break his heart, and mine. Again. But, if I tell him I picked San Diego State, he's going to act all high and mighty, and tell me I shouldn't be making this decision for him."

Nat set her empty wine glass down a little hard. "You know, you're absolutely right! But he's just going to have to get the fuck over it! I know he loves you, and he would be so happy to be with you. So if you want to move to San Diego, don't let him try to stop you."

You both looked at each other before bursting into laughter. "He's making this a lot more complicated than it needs to be!" you groaned.

"He's the worst," she said, nodding in agreement. "But also the best."

"Yeah, he really is," you agreed with a small smile, really missing him right now. "Well, this was so much fun, but it's getting late." You noticed it looked like your waiter was hoping you'd vacate the table soon so he could leave.

"I hope you do pick San Diego. We could hang out," Nat said, setting down some cash on the table. 

"Oh, didn't I make it clear? I'm definitely picking San Diego."

Nat actually squealed and ran around the small table to hug you. You let yourself relax into her embrace. "I'm so happy for Bradley," she muttered, releasing you with a huge smile.

"When he's being a noble pain in my ass about it, I'm calling you for help. But for now, I'm going to head back to my hotel room."

Nat grinned at that. "Why don't you just stay at his house? I have a spare key."

Your eyes went a little wide. "Without him there? You don't think he would mind?"

"No. I think he would love that." 

And so you ended up staying at Bradley's house for three nights. It was just as surreal as running into him at the bar had been! His house was spotless, just like you expected it to be. But when Nat gave you a little tour, you were shocked to see so many familiar things. The spare bedroom had a framed Grateful Dead concert poster that you remember from his bedroom at the Beta house. And his office was complete with a solid wood desk and his dad's Navy desk lamp.

But after Nat left you on your own, it became increasingly difficult not to be nosy. On the morning he was due to arrive back home, you were running your fingers along his bookshelves, and you came in contact with something familiar. You pulled down your old, purple notebook from your differential equations class. 

"Oh my goodness," you gasped, flipping through the pages. Because along with your old math notes, you saw little doodles and messages in the margins that matched Bradley's handwriting. You closed your eyes, and you could perfectly picture the way you used to sit on his lap in the study room while he messed around with your notes. He had written your name surrounded by a bunch of little hearts. You saw where he had written Beer Boy and Sugar with some cute little stick figures, and you laughed. 

He had been moving around all over the world, and bringing this notebook with him everywhere. Your eyes filled with tears, and the desire to be with him was so strong. 

And then he was calling you. You were so nervous to see him, and you didn't want to get into your decision over the phone, so you tried to throw him off. 

"Bradley? I'm actually meeting up with someone shortly here. Can I call you back later?"

He sounded so dejected, so you made sure you told him you loved him before ending the call. Then you made his bed and quickly tried to tidy up his house. You fixed your hair and makeup, but he still wasn't back yet. Nat had sent you a quick text as soon as she saw him on the dock, but that had been quite a while ago. 

You were pacing the length of his living room now, terrified that he would be annoyed that you'd spent a few days here. Then you heard a car in the driveway and peeked out through the window to see Nat's dirty car. 

"Oh god," you whispered, finally getting to see Bradley after six weeks. He looked so handsome, and you had missed him so much. You scrambled back to the middle of the room when you saw him walk up the porch steps, a look of shock on his face.

The sound of the key in the lock and the way he swung the white door open wide had you chewing on your lip. 

"Sugar?" he asked, standing in his entryway and gaping at you. 

"Hi, Beer Boy," was all you could manage to say as your heart pounded in your ears. But he looked so stunned, you felt yourself start to smile. 

He took a few steps closer to you. "What are you doing here, baby?"

You felt like you could melt inside. Just the sight of him in his uniform had you aching. He was gorgeous, and you loved him so much. You took a step closer as well. 

"I was actually wondering if it was okay if I had my boxes shipped here? I don't have an office for another week or so, and I'm still looking at apartments."

He was running one hand through his hair, making it stand on end, and his mouth was open, but no words were coming out. 

"Unless...you don't want me to?" you whispered, watching him slowly close the distance between the two of you until he was standing barely a foot away.

"Please, Sugar. Please tell me what that means."

You swallowed hard, looking up at him. You gently ran your hands up to rest on his chest. "I'm picking San Diego. I'm picking you. I'm picking us. If that's still what you want, too?"

A strangled sound escaped his lips, and then his mouth was on yours and you were in his arms. He kissed you deeply as your arms gripped his shoulders, and he held you tight. 

"You mean that?" he asked between kisses, nibbling at your lips, barely giving you a chance to answer as he deepened the kiss. Just as you were relaxing into his embrace, he pulled his lips from yours. "You really mean it, Sugar?"

"I really mean it, Beer Boy."

He closed his eyes and ran one hand over his face, sighing deeply. But he still held you snug against him. Then he opened his eyes and gazed down at you. 

"I've been dreaming about this for ten years," he whispered, brown eyes soft. "I love you."

"I love you, too," you replied with a smile.

He nodded, and you ran your fingers along his mustache, making him smile. "You can send all your stuff here, Sugar." He kissed your fingers. "You should move in with me. Don't leave or look at more apartments. Stay here."

It felt right. You knew it did. Just like San Diego State felt like the place for you. "Okay. I'll stay."

He licked his lips and kissed your forehead twice, pulling you impossibly closer to him. "And be my girlfriend again?" he whispered against your hair.

You smiled and buried your face against the collar of his uniform shirt. "You were the best boyfriend I ever had. You can have the title again."

"I love you," he whispered, over and over until his lips found yours again. 

-----------------------

It feels soooo good! But, only two more parts to this story! Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 9

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@swthxrry

@chassy21

@yaboid19

@solacestyles

@avoirlecoupdefoudre

@daisyhollyxox

@callsigndiamond

@harper1666

@throwinsauce

@beebslebobs

@awesomebooklover17

@wintercap89

@whosyourgnomie4

@rosesinmars

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@wishfulwithwine

@backinwonderl4nd

@monte-carlando

@tetragonia

@gingerbreadandpaper

@emptyloverofmine

@apparently-sunshine

@chaoticassidy

@missmirandafe

@topgunbb

@changlingkhat

@sugarcoated-lame

@callsign-jupiter

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@andycanbeemotional

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@tallyovie

@shanimallina87

@starlightstories

@teddyluvs2sing

@little-wiseone

@ccbb2222

@lilyevanswhore

@o-the-o-grim-o-reaper-o

@hecate-steps-on-me

@xoxabs88xox

[equallyshaw]

ᴅᴀʏ ꜱɪx: ᴀʟʟ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴄʜʀɪꜱᴛᴍᴀꜱ ɪꜱ ʏᴏᴜ - ᴄᴏɴɴᴏʀ ʙᴇᴅᴀʀᴅ

part of holidays with equallyshaw

warnings: none!

word count: 4.5k + 🫣

also for context, she is a year older than him, so shes 19 right now almost 20.

ᴄᴏɴɴᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴇʟ ʜᴀᴅ been friends since birth, or well they used to be. ironically noel ended up in chicago after growing up in vancouver for 14 years and when connor had gone off to regina. it seemed as though noel had forgotten about connor, he had surmised. and hoped that once he came to chicago - officially - that the two would see one another again.

ofcourse as luck would have it, they would.

❅

"noel!" she heard her name yelled from downstairs. she sighed, putting down her romance novel, and took in the white flurries that had miraculously come just in time for christmas eve, in a day. she stood up, picked up her coffee mug, and headed down the three flights of stairs. when her father moved her and her brother to chicago, they quickly fell in love with the brownstone that just happened to be available as soon as he took the job. especially in the area that they were, and because noel adored the area so much she opted to stay in the city and go to school in the loop. after her freshman year of dorm living, she convinced her best friend abby from highschool to join her in off-campus housing- and now here she was back in her bedroom, for holiday break.

noel had made it down to the landing, right before the foyer and heard her dad talking with somebody, and the two were laughing. her eyebrows crinkled, unsurely. as soon as she hit the top step, connor froze. he swallowed, his gaze shifting from noels father and towards his best friend and the girl that he had loved for some time. she jogged down to the last step, and that's when she recognized him. she tilted her head just a bit, and gave a weary smile. "connor?" he stood silent for a minute before speaking, "hey noel, its good to see you." he said and she nodded softly. "yeah, you too." she hummed, pulling a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "how long has it been?" she questioned, shifting her hold on the mug before her dad swiped it from her. "ill get you some more." he said before leaving the two.

"about 6 years almost." he stated and she nodded, "right." she hummed looking at the historic wood floor. "oh! congrats by the way. my dad was really excited that chicago drafted you. apparently, they needed a good ole canadian to lead the team again." she said grinning, and he nodded smiling. "yeah i was pretty stoked when i remembered that you guys had moved here. my parents had hoped that we'd cross each other's path at some point. they were thankful and relieved to know your parents were here." he exclaimed and she nodded, "they always did say that you were like their second son. which doesn't hurt." she grinned, "do you want something to eat? drink?" she questioned and he shrugged, "did i hear coffee?" he smirked and she nodded, "ofcourse! my dad can never go a day with out." she hummed, pulling him towards the kitchen. "nice house by the way." he said as they went through the dining room and then down two halls. she nodded, "yeah. things changed a lot when my dad got the job. my dad was finally able to give the historic home my mom had always dreamed of." she shrugged, before htye entered the black and white marble floor. "connor!" her mom gushed, putting down her knife and rushing over to see the boy.

"mrs. murphy! how are you?" he questioned as she pulled back a bit to inspect the now 5'11 boy. "good good! how are you?" she questioned, returning to her chopping board. noel took her coffee mug out of the nespresso machine, and placed another one for connor. she took out the medium roast pod from the drawer, before grabbing coffee creamer from the fridge. oh shoot, she thought, she didn't know what he liked in coffee. "hey connor? what do you want for coffee?" she questioned, turning back towards him. "whatever you're doing is fine." he said before her mom pushed connor into the island chair. "sit sit, i want to hear all about your time here so far. tell me about regina too!" her mom said continuing to prepare dinner. noel brought her mug to her lip, not to drink just yet but to hide the small grin that was forming. connor flicked his gaze towards noel for a brief second, before looking at noel's mom. noel turned back towards the coffee machine, putting some creamer in his cup before bringing it over to him. she sat down next to him, and he made a weird face. "this is so you." he said but continued to drink it. "last time i checked, i didn't start drinking coffee until i was 17." she said without really catching her self. connor nodded softly, a wave of uneasiness filled him. "so connor! tell us about your parents!" her mom butt in, and noel silently thanked the universe for it.

a few hours later, with a home-cooked meal and some cookies placed in a tin, noel was walking connor out. "please come back soon! we'd love to have you for dinner again." her mom said hugging the boy tightly. "i can never go without your cooking again! giving my mom a run for her money." he joked, and her parents laughed. she pulled away before he went to hug noel's dad. "ill walk him out." noel announced and then she walked him back through the halls and to the front door. "wheres your brother?" he questioned, "oh! he's uh, he lives in the loop now with his girlfriend." she said shrugging waiting for him to slip his shoes back on. she peered out the window next to the door and smiled, it was still snowing. "well drive safely, its still snowing." she said as he finished. he nodded, "would you, would you like to get coffee with me tomorrow? my parents fly in tonight late, and so they wont be up for a while." he explained. she waited a brief second, before nodding. "id love that connor." she smiled before pulling him in for a hug. a good chill went up connor's spine and butterflies erupted from within noel. she began to pull away, and she could feel his breath at one point. she tried to hide her blushing as they pulled away for good, "how about philz coffee in lincoln park, say 9 ?" he questioned and she nodded. "ill be there." she grinned, before opening the door. she waited a few seconds before shutting the door, once he opened the small courtyard gate and then he was gone.

❅

it was 9 am the next morning, and noel had just sat down at a table with a hot coffee. her leg tapped anxiously, as she waited for him. and even though connor wasn't that guy, she was worried about him bailing on her. because, again- she was the one who stopped talking to him once she moved. her roommate and best friend abby had just woken up when connor walked through the door. abby and noel were on the phone, and abby was harping about something when she noticed connor find her within he coffee shop. he waltzed over to her, and sat down in front of her. she held up a finger, and nodded at whatever abby was saying. "ill be by afterwards and then we can talk about this." noel said before saying bye to her friend. "sorry my best friend was trying to explain what happened last night when she went out." she shrugged, sipping her coffee. "no problem, im gonna go order and ill be back." he said standing up and walking over towards the counter. she sat back, pulling off her long coat and sipped her coffee.

connor heard his name called a few minutes later, and he quickly swiped it from the counter. "so! tell me about your friend." he said, trying to start the 'catching up' conversation. she smiled, "i met her the first day of highschool, and we've been inseparable since. we had joint grad parties, and we roomed our freshman year at depaul, and now were still together down the street actually." she said shrugging, "she's been my best friend through everything. i couldn't have picked a better person to share so many amazing memories with." she added, and connor nodded. "that's nice." he hummed, sipping his iced coffee. "yeah, it made moving here a lot easier." she finished. he nodded, "yeah, it was hard after you left but me leaving at 15 definitely helped." he began, "oh right ! you left for regina." she said before grinning, and then out a soft chuckle. "you're such a child!" he said joining her. "i promise im an adult but everytime, its made me laugh." she hummed, her giggles claiming down. "but anywho, continue!" she squeled, placing her arms on the table. "it was good! met a lot of my close buddies there. was basically homeschooled when my mom was there." he shrugged, "oh right! they do things differently here." she said sipping some coffee. "but that was sweet of her to relocate. im sure melanie likes being back home now." she giggled, and he nodded. "yeah, it definitely helped my parents relationship. oddly enough, they got closer when she came to live with me. and now that they go back and fourth with my sister, its evident." he said sipping his coffee. "how is mads doing?" she questioned, "shes good! started her sophomore year at Calgary in business and is working at lululemon as she takes classes, up at bc." he said and noel smiled, "that was her dream. ubc." she hummed smiling widely. connor took in her wide smile, and in turn smiled.

"god i miss that girl. sister i never had." she hummed, "is she here for christmas?" she questioned and he nodded. "oh that's right! my mom wanted to know what you guys were doing tomorrow." he said.

❅

an hour later, the two walked out the coffee shop doors and they began their descent toward her apartment, that she lived in. they chatted the whole way there, catching up and laughing over some good times. they took the elevator up to the third floor, and quickly made their way over to the door. "abby?" noel called out, opening up the door all the way for him to slip through. "abby?" she called again, slipping her shoes off. "hey! hey?" abby said stepping out to the hallway and didn't realize connor was there. "ouu! you're connor bedard the one she neve-" and noel cut her off, "yes abby, miss chatty cathy." noel joked, as abby grinned. "anywho im abby her best friend and you are connor bedard that everybody in this city knows about but i could really care less." she said before turning back to the kitchen. noel snickered as she rolled her eyes playfully, "that's her." she said as connor said, "that's her." he laughed, as she began to take him on a tour of the apartment. "and here is my room." she said allowing him to walk in first. she leaned against the doorframe, watching him inspect her room. he took in all the photographs she had on the all and the one next to her bed. a picture of them when they were 12, and they had finished up a school project. "you still have this?" he asked, picking up the frame and looking at it closer. she nodded, "yeah that was one i knew i had to take from my parents house, it was too good not to." she mused, taking off her jacket and hanging it up.

she sat down on the bed, and he set the frame down before joining her. she sat there pretzeled styled, "so what trouble did you get into when i left?" she teased.

❅

when connor left to uber back to his fancy apartment building, abby drilled noel with questions. "oh come on you still like him!" abby accused her as noel just blushed. "he was the first guy i really liked, and always believed that if i hadn't moved away we would have ended up together. but he found somebody back in vancouver." noel said tucking her chin on her knee. "wait, but i thought that rumor wasn't true." and noel shrugged, "beats me." she hummed. "but he for sure likes you i know it! i saw the way he looked at you when yall walked in. it was hard not to notice. like you hung the stars and the moond!" abby further explained- the last part sing song, but noel shrugged. "nah. thats just connor. he probably looks at mads and his mom the same way, hell he probably looked at my mom that same way yesterday too. its just how he is." she shrugged but abby wasn't buying it. "whatever you say, but are you guys going to have them come over tomorrow?" she questioned. "i don't know, i sent a text to my parents but haven't heard a thing. but we used to have christmas morning together, we'd pile into one house and open presents, and then have brunch before afternoon mass for us." noel explained, "i always looked forward to christmas eve since the three of us and my brother would have a sleepover at whoevers house it was at that year, it was our tradition. the murphy-bedard christmas story." she smiled, a flurry of memories flooding her mind. "maybe you'll get lucky, and find yourselves under the mistletoe your parents put up." abby grinned, sipping coco. noel rolled her eyes, before standing up. "ill see you tomorrow, im going to chill in my room." she said beginning to walk off, "no phone sex!" abby called and noel groaned playfully.

back at connor's place, he was talking to his sister madi. he was explaining each and every detail of that day, his face lightening up the whole time. madi just sat back and grinned, asking questions here and there. she hadn't seen connor be this giddy in a long while. "did you ever tell her?" madi questioned as connor finished, "tell her what?" he asked as his eyebrows crinkled, while leaning to grab his hot coco. "did you ever tell her about your relentless crush as a kid?" she grinned, before sipping hers. he shook his head, "i don't know what your talking about." he mused and she chuckled. "connor i love you but don't act like a dummy. brendan and i both knew that yall liked one another. so no lying here." she chastised. he sighed, resting the mug on his knee. "she's never once expressed anything, so i never said anything. so why would i say it now?" he questioned, and madi did the same. "maybe then you two would finally get together." melanie stated as she walked into the living room that overlooked the city. "you knew?" he asked, bewildered. melanie laughed, "its a parents job to recognize these things. do you remember how heartbroken you were when she left and what she didn't call or text you she'd made it to chicago? absolutely wrecked." she mused, as madi snickered. "see?" madi said, cocking an eyebrow. connor sighed shaking his head.

❅

"im back!" noel announced walking into the brownstone. "sweetie, good you're here!" her mom said coming out to greet her at the door. ""whos here?" she questioned "im gonna go change and ill be down to have some brunch." noel said and her mom shook her head, taking her coat and bag and placing it near the door. "no need." her mom smiled taking her hand and pulling her into the kitchen and where the breakfast table stood. "noel!" she heard the famous melanie bedard voice call out as soon as she entered, "melanie!" noel smiled widely and melanie walked over. "soo good to see you again missy. we've missed you." she smiled pulling back a bit to place her hands on the side of her head, like she had as a child. "nelly!" madi said from beside her, and melanie let her go. madi and noel hugged each other tightly, truly the sisters they never had. "oh my god i could cry!" noel said giggling and madi joined in. "if you do im gonna and it isn't gonna be pretty." she said as they smiled at one another. "i cant believe you grew!" noel said as they parted, "i cant belive you didn't." madi joked and everybody laughed. noel was the odd one out in the family, barely coming out to 5'4 while her family was 5'10 and above. "hush now. im sure i could still drop kick you and beat you on beam." she said eyeing her, and giving her a playful finger point. "that you could." madi hummed, pointing right back at her. "hi tom!" she said as she finally found the very tall dude, "hi sweetie! so good to see you." he said and she nodded, "you as well. all of you guys!" she smiled looking back towards the rest of the family. connor was missing. "he's with your brother." madi answered her, and noel nodded.

"coffee?" her dad asked and she nodded, taking the expresso. "been saving the last one for you." he smiled placing the mug in her hand, and she grinned. "thankyou." she smiled, sipping her peppermint coffee. "thanks dad." she hummed, placing it on the counter. "ill be right back, i need to go check something." she said to her mom and her mom perked up, "grades?" she questioned and noel nodded. "let us know hun how ya did." her mom smiled, and noel nodded again. noel made her way upstairs to the third floor, and heard laughter coming out of her brothers room. she hurried to her room on the opposite end, and shut her door behind her. she leaned against it trying to collect her thoughts, which ranged from grades, money and ofcourse connor. all the above, as any college student thought.

she sat down at her old desktop her dad had given to her a few years ago for her birthday, saying that the old computer still worked well. she signed in quickly doing the damn double sign in her college did, and she waited for the screen to load. as soon as it loaded, she did a double take before smiling widely. her hard work had paid off, earning herself a 3.7 gpa. she logged off and headed back towards her door and when she opened it, she was surprised to see connor standing their patiently with a hand raised to knock. she swallowed hardly, a blur of anxiety washing over her.

"uh..hi!" she said opening her door like she had at her apartment, and allowed him to walk through. as she was shutting it, she saw her brother do a small salute before he jogged down the stairs.

"whats up connor?" she questioned, as he sat down in the desk chair. he spun around in it, and leaned his forearms on his knees. "everything ok?" she questioned heading over to her closet and slide the door open. "i wanted to talk to you about something, something that I've wanted to speak to you about for years, now." he said nervously, and she looked back at him as she tried to grab a bin from the top shelf of her closet. she growled, turning around and hopping a bit to grab it. with no luck. connor stood up and took a few big steps, reaching her. he grabbed it, and she now only recognized how close she was to the 5'11 hockey player. she swallowed, "thankyou." she said staring directly into his blue eyes. he smiled, "ofcourse." he said not moving an inch. he was too mesmerized by the girl, as cheesy as that sounds. "we shoul-" he cut the girl off by doing the one thing he'd wanted to do for years. it was the same thing she'd wanted to do as well.

he pulled her in closer as his hands found her back, and hers found his neck. she even stood on her tippy toes, to find the back of his head. they pulled away after a few seconds, blushing like fools. they rested their foreheads against one another. their breathing heavy as they looked at one another. "you don't know how long I've waited for that to happen, truly." she hummed smiling. "you don't know how long I've waited you to do that so i could tell you how much i liked you." she added, "liked?" he questioned, and she grinned. "ok i still do, i..honestly never stopped." she said giddily. "I've had a crush on you for so long, i just always told myself you didn't like me back." he said pulling away a bit more. she shook her head, "i never said anything because i always thought you had a thing for shannon." she said giggling a bit. he shook his head, placing a finger underneath her chin. "it was always you noel, always nelly." he smiled, leaning in again to kiss her. she felt heat creep up throughout her body, noel not being able to get enough of the dark blonde boy. connor was absolutely mad about this girl, and kissing her made him go absolutely wild. she pulled away when she felt they were getting carried away, "okay connor as much as i'd like to continue this. we need to go back down there." she said pulling away from him. "but i promise that once i start up school again, and your parents go back north- there will be much more time for this. whatever this may be." she hummed, picking up her phone from the desk. connor nodded, coming up in front of her, and pushing her gently back into the desk. "promise you're not gonna disappear on me again. ghost me?" he mused, cocking an eye brow. he was being semi serious, she could tell. "i promise not too. you're stuck with me boy." she grinned pushing him back and took ahold of his hand, pulling him into the hallway.

❅

it was around 9 pm when the bedard family were leaving for the night. they promised to come for one last dinner before the three of them went back up north, and the murphy family would keep them to that promise. noel had just walked into the kitchen to grab a tin and place some cookies her mom had made the day before. connor came in and stood behind her, placing a soft hand on her back. "coffee tomorrow morning?" he questioned, placing his hand on the counter beside her, and he now hovered behind her. "shore. how about someplace near here? i can pick you up if you'd like." she offered but he shook her head, "ill pick you up, so you don't have to walk any place nor pick me up." he offered and she nodded. "i guess that'll be okay, but i swear to god connor if you try killing us, im never letting you drive in this place again!" she said and connor chuckled. "she isn't joking, she'll hold her promise. or grudge." brendan her older brother said as he walked into the kitchen. connor quickly shifted away from the girl, but brendan only laughed. "didn't we just have the conversation?" brendan teased leaning his arms on the counter, and noel whipped her head towards connor. "what conversation?" she questioned and connor blushed. "me giving him the go on asking you out, once and for all." brendan said shoving a cookie in his mouth. "suttle brendan, suttle." noel said shaking her head with a fake scowl. "just no funny business, or at least don't kiss in front of me. i don't want to see that." he said fake gagging. madi then walked in, "see what?" she asked and connor groaned. "told them i don't want them to kiss in front of us. we already have to deal with their presence, we don't need all that kissing or touchiness." brendan said making madi giggle. "i agree." she said taking a cookie and biting it. "can we like not? but you knew?!" she whipped at madi who nodded. "good lord, seems like we were the only oblivious ones." she hummed, and madi nodded. "we had a running bet on what age you two would realize." madi grinned. "oh fuck off, the both of you." noel said closing the tin full of desserts and held it out for madi. "thankyou, gonna go finish this tonight." she smiled before leaving the kitchen. "text me soon?" he asked connor who nodded. brendan left the room so now it was only the two lovebirds. noel sighed, cleaning up some of the cookies.

"i cant believe that everybody noticed before we did." connor said chuckling. "i know, i fear its gonna haunt us forever." she hummed, and connor looked over at her. watching her sort cookies, for a few seconds. he smiled softly, "you know as a kid, its so dumb, i used to ask santa for you to- y'know, like like me." she gushed, popping an oreo ball in her mouth. "oh really?" he grinned, taking a peanut butter cookie and taking a bite out of it. "uh uh, remember when we heard the song 'all i want for christmas?' she paused waiting for him to nod, and he did. "i always used to say, all i want for christmas is for connor to like me or maybe y'know kiss me." she mused as her nerves flared. "really?" he quizzed and she nodded. "oh most definitely. every year before i moved." she smiled softly.

"come on connor, were leaving!" they heard melanie call out and noel had an idea.

"wait! come here." she whispered, grabbing ahold of his hand and pulling him out of the kitchen and towards the back room that was a small reading area, library and had a fireplace. she stopped in the doorframe and waited for him to realize.

"what?" he questioned, watching as her smile turned into a grin. "use your eyes, bedsy." she hummed, "bedsy? thought you hated that nickname." he mused, and she shook her head. "nah i just hated that i didn't come up with it." she smiled. he smiled back before looking around and then up above them. "oh. i get it now." he said looking down at the girl. "do you now?" she hummed, and he nodded leaning in closer. he placed his hands on her pale cheeks, before kissing her softly.

it was cut short.

"i literally told you not to kiss in front of me." brendan called out before pretending to gag. noel giggled, pushing her forehead into connors chest in embarrassment. "oh my god! ew no!" madi said recognizing where they were at.

"mommmm!" brendan called out and noel only laughed in response, as madi called out for melanie making connor laugh too.

"the murphy-bedard story - continues!" melanie screamed, with her mom adding a cheer with her.

"ready to face our audience?" noel grinned looking up at him, and he nodded. "just one more." he hummed before kissing her once more.

hope you all enjoyed!!!

tags: @cuttergauthier @toasttt11 @jayda12 @jackhues @dancerbailey

[stardustedknuckles]

I kept going back and forth on making this post, but in the end I decided I would encourage someone else to do it and that means I ought to give it a go.

I'm moving - fleeing, really - back to Chicago. 40 anti-queer bills have been put forth in Oklahoma since the start of this year alone, and it is only going to get worse. It's true that I hadn't really wanted to be here in the first place, but I was making peace with taking my time getting my feet under me before going elsewhere, and making connections with other queer folks in the state in case I did decide to stay and make a difference here with them.

That's no longer an option.

With the way I have things set up, I should be able to pay first and last month's rent by the time I go in June. But that's all I will have, and it requires me to underpay my quarterly taxes and rely on whatever extra job I get in Chicago to make up the difference before next tax season. I'm loading everything into my stepdad's truck, which means none of my furniture is coming. I won't have a bed, for instance, and it also severely limits what I am able to afford before I go. Cutting grocery corners, praying the car doesn't lose its shit again, opting out of appointments insurance won't cover, and all the little things that make up a day-to-day life.

If you are able and willing, I could use some help. I have the tipping option on my blog, and my kofi is daxstardust. It's still set up for Dax the fic author - maybe again, once I'm away from here. Right now I'm just Dax the queer, hauling ass out of Oklahoma before it is literally illegal for me to be here.

I've got a place waiting for me. I just need some help getting there. Thanks so much.

[kratosnaturals]

WIP #6

The promise of coffee finally got Nick out of bed, feet hitting the cold hardwood floor and making him shiver with a grumble, but he marched on, or rather dragged his feet to, the kitchen. No breakfast – he preferred to grab a quick snack on the way to the office, on his days off he simply went to the bakery for a pastry or two, or waited ‘till lunch. While his freshly brewed coffee cooled he jumped in the shower. An unabashed groan slipped his lips when the warm water hit his skin, melting away any soreness in his body.

With a tired sigh he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and wiped away the condensation on the mirror, staring at himself for a moment. His reflection stared back at him. As it always did. Why wouldn’t it?

His eyes were still a little red and puffy, amber irises still dull so early in the morning. His dark brown eyebrows were furrowed and disheveled; odd hairs sticking up from mushing his head a little too much into the pillow during the night. Long, thick fingers smoothed down the hairs, but a stray remained stubbornly upright. Nick grumbled and accepted defeat. The stubble on his cheeks was a little itchy, but on an off day he couldn’t be bothered less to shave. Well, and Jenny did so like the rougher look, as she called it. It made him grin, and oh, there it was – the little sharp tip of his left canine. At this point he didn’t even remember how often he nicked himself on that thing throughout his life, but he could not bear to remove such a charming little part of himself.

Quickly and efficiently he got the job of styling his dark hair done – dry it, tussle it, smear in some wax to hold it’s shape. It was a routine he’d done thousands upon of thousands of times before. He found what framed his angular face best and stuck to it. For decades. If it ain’t broken, don’t fix it, the man told himself.

Not having to dress up to the office for once felt like a blessing. He could ditch his heavy trench coat, his tie, his-

If he owned anything but formal clothing, that was. No, his closet was a mountain of white shirts and slacks ranging from black to an adventurous beige. One tacky aloha shirt was catching dust in the far corner of his wardrobe. A bright red eyesore of sorts, but it was sentimental. His mother had bought it from him while she was on vacation. Then forced him to wear it and pose for a photo. Or two. Or three. Nick cringed – those photos were still stashed somewhere at his parents home. Maybe they even put them up since the last time he visited them back in Chicago. With a click of his tongue Valentine decided against wearing it, opting for a white shirt, as always. His coworkers would never let him live it down if they spotted him wearing that. The hat he couldn’t ditch, though.

With one last look at the photograph next to his bed he grabbed his holster and gun, put on a light jacket, took his keys and wallet and headed out the door.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Aaron Rupar at Public Notice:

MAGA-friendly CNBC host Joe Kernen dropped an interesting nugget right as Squawk Box went to commercial break on Tuesday. “Well, Trump canceled, and he was going to come on,” Kernen said. Not only did Trump once love going on CNBC, but Kernen’s revelation comes on the heels of Trump declining or canceling a number of other high-profile opportunities to make a pitch to voters on mainstream TV. Trump refused to debate Kamala Harris a second time, which would’ve aired on CNN. Trump then refused CNN’s offer to host a town hall. And Trump of course also recently backed out of a 60 Minutes interview. The explanation for all this is not that Trump has suddenly become camera shy. It’s that his campaign undoubtedly realizes his rapidly degrading condition doesn’t play well with audiences beyond the MAGA cult. As a result, they’re retreating to the safer terrain of nonstop rallies and fawning Fox hits.

Losing a step or three

The reason Trump’s campaign isn’t keen to get him in front of swing voters on mainstream platforms was on stark display Tuesday when Trump did a rare event that wasn’t a festival of sycophancy. By any objective standard, Trump’s Economic Club of Chicago interview was a disaster. He came out of the gates with an asinine proposal for 2,000 percent tariffs on imported cars, then was quickly reduced to insulting the moderator, Bloomberg’s John Micklethwait, when Micklethwait rightly pointed out that his his economic proposals are an inflationary disaster. 

Trump repeatedly refused to answer questions Micklethwait asked him, instead going on self-absorbed rants about how Google is unfair to him or about how he could do a better job as Federal Reserve chairman than Jerome Powell. By the end of the event, Trump had veered into making an impassioned defense of the big lie and his coup attempt, bragging about his crowd size on January 6 and absurdly claiming the events of that day were just “love and peace.” 

While Trump’s devoted fans might applaud him for starting fights with moderators and trying to own the libs, most everyone else can see that his policies are bad and his presentation is worse. Micklethwait’s pointed questioning helped expose those realities. And that’s why Trump is intent to do everything he can to avoid more settings like that until election day.

[...] These rallies may energize his base, but beyond that they mostly end up providing fodder for damaging video clips like the ones above. Trump, however, reliably gets help from a mainstream press that too often sanewashes his speeches for readers and viewers who aren’t watching them live and may not spend a lot of time on social media. The New York Times, for instance, described Trump as “swaying soberly” during his musical “detour” in Pennsylvania, adding that he’s known “for improvisational departures.” The WSJ’s headline about the event read “Trump’s Pennsylvania Town Hall Ends in Concert,” as though the plan all along was to have Trump behave like a maniac. ABC News’ TV report on the bizarre spectacle was even worse, with a reporter praising the “almost intimate” atmosphere and noting “people were having a good time. It did not seem out of the ordinary.” (It was very much out of the ordinary.)

But it’s harder to spin something that hundreds of thousands or millions of people are watching, like the debate in which Kamala Harris dominated Trump so thoroughly that MAGAs are still spreading conspiracy theories to try to explain it away. And so the Trump campaign is circling the wagons.

[...] Tellingly, instead of taking CNN up on its town hall offer, Trump opted to do a prerecorded “town hall” with sycophantic Fox News host Harris Faulkner that will air later today. Kamala Harris, meanwhile, is doing a Fox News hit of her own tonight, and she’s also reportedly in negotiations to appear on Joe Rogan’s podcast. She’s out there trying to make a case to voters who aren’t already part of her coalition while Trump ensconces himself in safe spaces.

Aaron Rupar’s Public Notice post today highlights why Donald Trump’s campaign is stowing him away in safe spaces where he won’t be facing real challenges, as when he does veer out of the right-wing bubble like with John Micklethwait of Bloomberg this week in Chicago, Trump crumbles for the world to see.

Recently, he has backed out of appearing on CBS’s 60 Minutes, the proposed Trump v. Harris CNN debate (that have since been repurposed as town halls… at least for Harris), and CNBC’s Squawk Box (a place where he repeatedly loved to go on).

[chrisbitchtree]

Hello to all my Harringrove friends! I’m sorry that I’ve run off and spent the last couple months inhaling Lokius content like it’s air, but I swear I’m still around!

Please accept this ficlet as a sign of life! 💕💕💕

***

It all started with a lemon and a bucket of tears. After he and Nancy had split, amicably, after finally both admitting that they were better as friends, Steve had needed a change.

He’d been with Nancy for almost fifteen years, since his junior year of high school, started bus job at his father’s company fresh off his graduation, and living in the house his parents had set them up in after Nancy graduated the next year, so he had decided that a move to California was the best way for him to get a fresh start.

He was going to be doing the same job at the San Diego office of his father’s company, but he’d refused the offer of a sleek, shiny downtown apartment, and had instead opted for a tiny, cottage style home nestled beside a citrus farm.

The first month, he’d been pumped full of adrenaline, riding the high of being on his own for the first time in his life. The job was going well, his new coworkers were friendly, and he found a little coffee shop that he liked to frequent before work and after running errands on weekend afternoons.

But then December hit and Steve realized that he’d be alone at Christmas for the first time ever. Sure, he could have gotten his dad to pull some strings, get him the time off, or he could have caught a flight on the evening of the 24th, but he was trying to be more independent, do his own thing for once, so he decided to hang out by himself in the little cottage.

But one Saturday afternoon in early December, he’d been mowing his lawn when he noticed a bright yellow lemon nestled against the fence. This wasn’t out of the ordinary, considering that the property next to him was covered in lemon, lime, orange, and grapefruit trees, but now, cradling the lemon in the palm of his hand, all Steve could think about was his mother’s famous lemon meringue pie.

It may not have been a traditional holiday dessert, but every single year, without fail, it graced their dining room table at the end of their Christmas feast, ending the meal on a bright note.

That’s when the tears started. Steve wasn’t a cryer. He hadn’t cried when he’d broken his nose while playing hockey sophomore year of high school, or when his beloved grandma Joan had died, or when he’d been a hair’s breadth away from flunking out of high school senior year, or when his childhood dog, Frankie had been hit by a car in front of his eyes. He wasn’t a robot, he had emotions, he just didn’t express them through tears.

But once the tears had started, they wouldn’t stop. He had to sit down the catch his breath, the lemon still clutched in his hands. What had he been thinking, moving so far away from home? From his parents, his best friend, Robin, who’d previously been so close by in Chicago, from his favourite diner that knew just how he liked his eggs, and Mrs. Smith, the owner of the local creamery, that still, even as Steve was approaching thirty, would give him an extra scoop of ice cream with a wink, telling him it was there little secret? Another stupid decision made by Steve Harrington, the idiot.

He was finally just getting himself to calm down, the tears turning from an ocean to a trickling stream, when he heard a voice through the trees.

“Hey,” the person said, hesitantly. “Are you alright, man?”

Steve turned his head, startled. He’d met one of the owners of the farm, a young, redheaded woman named Max, when she’d brought over a welcome fruit basket the day after he’d moved in, and she’d mentioned that she owned and ran the place with her brother, but Steve had never met him. Was this him?

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” he told the disembodied voice as he tried desperately to wipe the tears from his face. “I’m just feeling a little homesick. It’s stupid, but I found a lemon on my lawn, and it made me think of this delicious lemon meringue pie that my mom makes at Christmas and then I thought about how I won’t be there this year, and I won’t get to see my parents or my friends, and I won’t get to have the pie, and it was just a lot hitting me at once.”

The voice made a humming noise. “I get that. My mom died when I was young, and I don’t keep in contact with my dad, and I know that’s not the same thing as what you have going on, but my point is that I know what it’s like to be lonely around the holidays. Do you need some company? I could use a break from picking fruit.”

Steve was tempted to say no. He didn’t want anyone seeing his tear streaked face or puffy eyes. He just wanted to cry in peace and get it out of his system. But the voice sounded nice and emphatic, so he accepted the offer. “Sure. The gate’s unlocked.”

Apparently using doorways wasn’t this guys style though, because a minute later, he landed with a thud on Steve’s lawn, having climbed the eight foot fence separating their properties.

The guy stood up and dusted himself off, and oh wow, he was beautiful. He was about Steve’s height, but had a completely different build, thick and muscled, where Steve was slim, with a swimmer’s build. He had shiny blond curls, all piled atop his head in a bun and held in place with a scrunchie, and he had on denim overalls that were ripped at the knee, a threadbare tank top on underneath. And his eyes. They were bright blue and shining like the ocean, and the crinkled at the corner as he smiled at Steve.

Steve suddenly felt hideous, his shirt soaked with tears and sweat from the yard work he’d been doing, and he knew his unwashed hair was sticking up all over the place. Not to mention his eyes that were probably rimmed in red, or his cheeks that were properly a similar shade, burning from embarrassment.

“Billy,” the man said, sticking out his hand for Steve to shake. His hand was dirty, but it was warm and dry, and it was the most human contact Steve had had in a month, so it was perfect.

“Steve,” he replied. “I’m sorry that you had to take time out of your busy day to console me. I don’t even cry. I never cry, and now I’m crying about a stupid lemon pie.”

“It’s ok,” Billy said, getting down on the lawn and taking a seat beside Steve. “Like I said, I needed a break, and I know where you’re coming from. Do you have the recipe? Maybe you could try to make it? I know it won’t be quite the same as seeing your family, but maybe it’ll help a little?”

Steve laughed. “I can’t bake. At all. I might just make things worse by fucking it up.” It was true. He couldn’t bake, and he was barely any better at cooking. He’d only passed Home Ec. senior year because of Robin, his partner. That’s how they’d met, working together begrudgingly at first, but then bonding over a chocolate soufflé that Steve had somehow managed to set on fire inside the oven, both of them cackling with laughter as they tried to remember how to use the fire extinguisher that they’d been given a lesson on their first day of class.

“I could help you.” Billy replied. “If you’d like, that is. I don’t want to pressure you into it if it’s just going to be upsetting. But I’m a pretty good baker, and I can supply the lemons if you want to bring everything else and the recipe over? Tomorrow, if you’re free? And if it turns out well, we could maybe make it again, for Christmas, if you’d like to come over? It’s just me and my sister, Max, I think you met her? at Christmas, so the extra company would be nice.”

Steve thought about it for a minute. It would be upsetting if he fucked up the pie, but Billy seemed nice, and capable, and something made Steve feel like he could trust the other man to make sure everything turned out ok. “Ok,” he nodded. “You’ve got yourself a deal. And to thank you after, I could make spaghetti and meatballs for dinner? It’s the one thing I can cook well.”

Billy agreed, smiling.

“Oh,” Steve said, as Billy was about to return to his yard. “Will Max be there tomorrow night?” He suddenly realized that that might make it sound like Steve hoped Max would be there. She was nice, but she wasn’t who Steve was interested in.

“No, it’ll just be you and I. Will that be a problem?” He raised an eyebrow at Steve.

“No, no,” Steve said quickly. “Just the two of us is perfect.”

So it started with a lemon and a bucket of tears, but it ended with a lemon and the possibility of something great. Maybe Steve should cry more often.

[homosexuhauls]

Whether consciously or unconsciously, many women in heterosexual relationships put their careers on the back burner to enable their partners to advance.

By Kate Morgan, 22nd June 2023

When Kerry was in her 20s, she had a job in social work. She made enough money to both pay her expenses and also put some aside in a savings account. Her long-term partner was a graduate student who worked part time, and Kerry, as the primary earner, paid most of the bills. But when he graduated and got a job offer, things changed.

“He ended up getting a job halfway across the country,” says Chicago-based Kerry, now in her 30s. “I quit my job and moved with him. Even though I was really happy in my career and my life, I basically abandoned it for a place where I didn’t know anybody and couldn’t find a job.”

Over time, Kerry realised she’d fully prioritised her partner’s career over her own – to her detriment. She felt the whole move had set back her own career and earnings by several years.

Even though women outpace men in education, and, in the US, make up close to half the labour force, many women still share Kerry’s experience. Researchers for Deloitte’s Women @ Work 2023 report surveyed 5,000 women across 10 countries, 98% of whom were in heterosexual relationships. The data found that nearly 40% of respondents say their partner’s career takes precedence. They cited several reasons, ranging from financial and social factors to the burden of caretaking and household responsibilities.

But the biggest reason women in the Deloitte survey cited for prioritising their partner’s career over their own was that their male partners earned more money. That’s unsurprising, given that, worldwide, some data shows women still earn only 77 cents for every dollar a man makes.

“Naturally, there will be some individuals who say, ‘well, this person earns the most’,’” says London-based Emma Codd, the global diversity, equity and inclusion officer at Deloitte. “Particularly when times are tough, you may end up in a situation where the person that earns less says, ‘well, my career will take the backseat’, whether that’s a conscious or unconscious decision.”

Either way, that choice is rational, adds Pamela Stone, a professor of sociology at Hunter College in New York City, who co-authored the books Opting Out? Why Women Really Quit Careers and Head Home and Opting Back In: What Really Happens When Mothers Go Back to Work. Stone says many of the women she interviewed for the two books “saw a man going full speed ahead and prospering. And so, when it came to making their own internal decisions, they’d say things like ‘I knew he was going to be able to make so much more money than I could’”.

The choice becomes less emotional, says Stone, when it’s about dollars and cents. “It’s not about the women being visionless, or not being liberal, progressive, etcetera,” she says. “It’s about who has the better chance. If you’re a betting person, you’re going to bet on the man’s career being stronger, because there is gender discrimination in the market.”

But making that bet kicks off a vicious circle, says Codd, because women who deprioritise their own career are less likely to ever reach their true earning potential, or be able to match their partner’s income.

“The reality is it’d be great to see more women being the primary earner,” says Codd. “But if so many of these women are not prioritising their career, then the chances of becoming the primary earner in the family are likely to be reduced.”

But even if a woman’s income does begin to exceed her spouse’s, that’s still not a guarantee that her career will become the priority. In many cases cited in the Deloitte report, women who were the higher earners still put their jobs second to their partner’s. One in 10 women said they were the primary earner in their partnership, yet 20% of that group still felt pressured to prioritise the other’s career.

“That number was the bit that was stunning to us,” says Codd. “Whether there’s a cultural element that comes in to explain that… who knows.”

This may mean that women aren’t only prioritising their husbands’ careers because of money: there are social pressures and expectations at play, too.

In a multi-generational study, Stone and her colleagues interviewed more than 25,000 graduates of Harvard Business School. They found that although the “vast majority” of those women expected an egalitarian marriage where both careers were of equal importance, more than half of all the men surveyed, from Baby Boomers to millennials, expected their careers would take precedence.

The men expected to be the “breadwinner”, a term imbued with meaning well beyond being the person who makes more money. Research data suggests men’s mental well-being is tied to whether they make more money than their partner. A Pew Research Center survey showed that being the sole earner breeds anxiety, but stress levels also spiked when their wives’ income rose above 50% of the household total.

When men consider themselves breadwinners, some research shows they have less respect for their wives’ careers and are less flexible around them. And that, too, is a circle, says Stone, who notes that when a man devalues his wife’s career, it leaves little space for her to rise to meet or exceed his.

But male partners in a heterosexual relationship aren’t alone in perpetuating the cycle. Sometimes women play a part in devaluing their own careers; intentionally, to keep the peace in a relationship, or unintentionally, because the scales tip without them being fully aware it’s happening. In Kerry’s relationship, she says it became clear her partner was content with the uneven balance they’d fallen into, with her career taking the back seat. She recalls him telling her, “I like taking care of you”, a sentiment she knew was well-meaning, but that still made her chafe.

“I just didn't feel like the sacrifices I was making were appreciated as much as they should have been,” she says. “I don't think he ever fully understood.” Kerry says slipping into a traditionally accepted gender role, and pushing her own ambition aside, happened without her really noticing. Eventually though, she realized that wasn’t what she wanted, and the pair broke up.

“People fall into gender norms,” says Codd. “It can happen totally unconsciously.”

Experts say women also deprioritise their own careers because they are spinning so many other plates, especially regarding home and family responsibilities, which fall heavily to women. According to the Deloitte report, “Despite the fact that 88% of respondents work full time, nearly half of them have primary responsibility for domestic tasks such as cleaning or caring for dependents. Only around 10% say that these responsibilities fall to their partner.”

Simply, says Codd, they could be deprioritising their careers out of sheer fatigue. “Frankly, you're working full time, and then you're going home and doing a load of stuff in the evenings, and on weekends, and before you go to work,” she says. “The exhaustion, the burnout – all the things we know around mental health – you can imagine choice may be along the lines of, you know what, I don't have the energy. I don't have the time to dedicate to furthering my career.”

Even if they haven’t consciously decided to prioritise caretaking and other household responsibilities over their career, Codd says labour still primarily falls on women.

“Those responsibilities sometimes don't go away,” she says, “And they sometimes intrude into your working day. We all know that progressing in the workplace isn't just about turning up and doing your job. But if you're deprioritising your career versus someone else's, or you just know someone needs to do all this stuff at home, are you going to take that stretch opportunity? Chances are, you might not.”

[backmaskcd]

(Maia Mitchell) [THE VENGEFUL]. Please welcome [WICHITA BURTON (SHE/HER)] to Huntsville, WV. They are an [30]-year-old [RESIDENT] who lives in [THE COMMUNE]. You may see them around working as a [SALES PERSON AT HAVERSHAM'S BOUTIQUE]. Poor unfortunate soul. We’ll see if they survive.

Full Name: Wichita Rae Burton Birthday: August 18 Age: 30 Hunter or Gatherer: Neither Sexuality: Straight Height: 5'6 Relationship Status: It's Complicated

Born and raised in one of the poorer areas of Huntsville, all Wichita wanted to do was go anywhere else. The only person she ever felt had her back was Augustus Underwood, a boy who lived a few houses down from her. They often built blanket forts, hiding under it and mapping out where they would go if they could, until they were both too old to play pretend; but their closeness never really changed.

Their lives always somehow stayed intertwined; constantly in each other's classes, often turning to each other for homework help or whatever else cropped up that might need a second opinion. Wichita never bothered to think about it too hard. The only thing she did think about too hard was how to get the hell out of dodge. She'd do any jobs anyone would be willing to pay her for - babysitting, cleaning services, yard work, until she was old enough to get a proper job. She kept Auggie in on it all, and while she didn't pressure him to get a job or save up money, she always talked about it like their next great adventure.

When Auggie got a girlfriend, it's not that Wichita cared; but she cared that the girl seemed hell bent on keeping the two apart. Maybe she was threatened by how close they'd grown over the years, how often Wichita felt like Auggie's body was an extension of her own, or because she'd heard about their plan to leave Huntsville as soon as possible; either way, she wasn't thrilled about the wedge that was being driven between them. At least it seemed to be all on the girlfriends end though; Auggie was more than happy to keep making time for her.

Finally, with high school almost behind them, Wichita was convinced that enough had been saved up, and she didn't want to wait any longer. Spring break would be a good time to say they were just going to have fun, but then actually pack up all their things and never look back. Sure, they still had a half a semester left before graduation, but they could always just get their GEDs once they got to anywhere but here. Auggie had agreed, so you can imagine how hurt and angry she was when it seemed like he backed out and disappeared so as not to face her wrath. Furious, she more or less said fuck you too, and sped out of Huntsville. This was barely a month before the Paradox hit.

She went to Florida for a while, then Louisiana, and up to Chicago, every place she traveled to after her lease was up. She'd take odd jobs, waitressing, not really knowing what she was supposed to do out here on her own. Resentment and bitterness started building up, and while she was having fun checking out all the big cities and events she always wanted to, it felt hollow without her partner in crime.

Traveling around for the next twelve years, she basically stayed in twelve different states before inadvertently winding back up in Huntsville. Learning what had become of her home - and why no matter how many angry texts she sent Auggie, none of them ever got a reply - caused her heart to ache, and instead of trying to move back into the family home - which she was sure was either repurposed, or would just be a dark reminder of what she lost - she opted to move into the commune, trying to make herself useful and reconnect with the friends she had before she refused to look back in the rearview mirror.

She's seen Auggie from a distance - at least he's alive, you can't be mad at a dead man without feeling guilt - however the two of them have not spoke since she arrived a few months ago. She has no doubt he is also avoiding her, and there's only so much longer they can do this before they inevitably wind up at the sasquatch at the same time and have a screaming match (or at least, she'll be screaming. She has no idea how he'll react to her at all.)

[adultswim2021]

Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job #49: “Greene Machine” | April 26, 2010 - 12:30AM | S05E09

One of those TIm & Eric episodes that’s more-or-less one thing. This is actually introduced as an episode of Inventive Discoveries, a paid-programming commercial presentation for the Tairy Greene Machine, a refrigerator-sized appliance that is dedicated to showing you any movie, TV show, or public appearance featuring Tairy Greene. It’s hosted by Tim & Eric, the later of which has sliced his hands very badly and requires medical attention. He instead opts to wrap them in gauze and proceed with the infomercial.

We are treated to an extensive trailer for The Little Dancing Man, starring Tairy Greene, portrayed by then-comedy mega-star Zach Galifianakis. It’s a weepy-but-inspirational tale about a brilliant ballet dancer who loses the use of his legs. He is despondent, and constantly crying. The ghost of Levar Burton appears to him, and either helps him recover, or is just holding him up the entire time Angels-in-the-Outfield-style, eventually leading him to lift off and fly around like a dang-ass bird. He is still crying constantly, but now they are tears of joy. 

Our hosts show us how to get extra features, like the kind you find on a highfalutin special edition DVD edition. This costs extra, but luckily it’s only two Tairy Tokens (which cost $39.99 apiece) to see the tie-in music video. 

Enter Mary Bly, the high-strung old woman whose delivery is unlike anyone else's. She wants to watch The Little Danson Man, a spiritual spin-off to the Tairy Greene film about Ted Danson being shrunk down by a bolt of lightning and having to adjust to his new life of being hella small. David Cross is in this, playing his agent, who promises to get him all the tiny things he could ask for. David Cross again approximates Tim & Eric’s sensibilities and slightly misses the mark, but he’s mostly okay in this. Him saying he gets the “chilly willies” just reminds me of him saying “I ain’t no ho-ho” in the Abstinence episode, and I FAMOUSLY didn’t care for that. Sorry to pick nits, I promise I respect David Cross. I even watch his bad podcast sometimes. 

There’s also a tie-in music video for this film, featuring Peter Cetera from the band Chicago. Some friends of mine have a mutual fascination with a certain public persona who loves the band Chicago, and I remember riffing with them about his reaction to the sketch. We would mock this man for having a son, for some reason, and I suggested that the part in which the tiny Ted pops up and tugs on Peter Cetera’s cool earring just disappointing this man on a profound level, and that he’d be watching it with his son. He would turn to him, shaking his head in disapproval, point to Tim & Eric on screen, and say to him, “those men fucked me, son”. Made us laugh, anyway. 

Okay: I am pretty sure Tim told a story on Office Hours or somewhere about recording Peter Cetera (It might be about someone else, but I’m having trouble finding a source to confirm or deny my claims) who took all of this very seriously and was a consummate professional. According to Tim there was a little lull in the conversation and Tim was feeling awkward and found himself mindlessly asking Cetera if he ate “a lot of fish”. 

The Tairy Greene Machine runs on tap water, but when you’re done using it you simply open the back of it to let the water spill out on the floor. The machine comes with a bunch of mops, so you simply mop the mess up.

While mopping, Eric eventually succumbs to his blood loss. Tim eulogizes him by slapping his shoulder and saying “you were the best”. Cut to a panicked Mary Bly, seemingly caught in an unguarded moment of genuine confusion. She looks into the camera and pathetically asks “What am I supposed to do? Who am I??”. I recall Tim & Eric discussing this moment as a highlight in their careers, and it inspired them to cast Mary as Mrs. Heidecker in their Billion Dollar Movie. She also shows up in a Funny or Die Presents segment that was created by Tim & Eric collaborators Ben Berman and Jon Mugar.

I’ve always really liked this one, and have used the whole crying-too-much thing as a reference point for pandering, over-serious tear-jerkers. This is basically satirizing the dramatic version of a sitcom, only instead of a laugh-track there’s a crytrack.

I’m usually glad when Tim & Eric do an episode that is roughly all one thing. Some of them are like short films, while some are things that still resemble the format of a typical Awesome Show episode, just with everything tied together. Is this Jim & Derrick? Brother, it’s not even Anniversary. But I consider this a highlight of season Cinco, even if you don’t. 

EPHEMERA CORNER

[meowmeow-motherfucker]

The Fox & The Squirrel- Chapter 12

Summary: Chasing yet another demon in a long line of hunts, the Winchesters get help from an unlikely source. But their new recruit isn’t exactly who she says she is. Savannah is used to looking over her shoulder. Life in hiding doesn’t leave much room for enjoyment, but traveling with the Winchesters just may give her a new lease on life.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/OFC Savannah Hart

Trigger warnings: elements of horror and witchcraft, references to past torture/trauma, Crowley is a dick, lies and deception, mutual pining, flirting, sex, typical Winchester shenanigans.

Read it on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16242644/chapters/37972217

Thanks to the lull in cases, they had the day off. Sam had gotten up early as usual, going for a run, while Dean and Savannah slept in to recover from their club adventure. 

     “Alright princess, what are we doin’ today?” Dean asked as Savannah stretched languidly beside him. 

     “Hmm?” Savannah asked sleepily, opening her eyes lazily to see him watching her. “I don’t know...I kinda feel like doing some shopping. Maybe painting my nails.” 

     “I’m gonna hate this, aren’t I?” 

     “I promise to make it as painless as possible.” Savannah giggled. 

     “You sure? Not gonna make me miserable?” 

     “I’m not gonna torture you, Dean. I might tease you or make you do something girly with me, but I’m not going to humiliate or demean you.” 

     “I appreciate that, princess,” Savannah smiled, meeting his warm gaze. They lay in silence for a few seconds, just drinking each other in. Savannah felt completely at ease with Dean, and she could tell by the calm look on his face that he shared the sentiment. “Alright, let’s get a move on.”

     “‘Kay,” Savannah yawned as Dean got up. “Dean?” she called after him.

     “Yeah?”

     “Can I wear one of your flannels?” 

     “Sure, princess. Wear whichever one you want.” 

~~~~

     “Dean, what do you think?” Savannah held up the bottle of nail polish for him to see. Dean turned to her and looked down at the bottle of mint green polish. 

     “Cute.” he remarked.

     “You’re hating this, aren’t you?” Savannah asked, pushing the stray hair out of her face. That damn hair was killing him. She'd opted for a French braid today, with tendrils of hair framing her face. It made him want to bury his hands in it and kiss her.

     “It’s not so bad. S’interesting to learn new things about you.” Seeing her in his red, gray and white flannel wasn’t so bad either. 

     “I’m gonna grab one more and then we’ll get out of here, okay?” 

     “Whatever you say, princess.” Dean grinned. Savannah smiled, turning back to the rows of nail polish. She picked up a clear polish with multi-colored confetti, turning the bottle upside down to check the price. 

     “Oh my god,” she snorted. “This one’s called Unicorn Farts!” she giggled as she showed the bottle to Dean. 

     “Sounds like a winner.” he snorted. 

     Still giggling, Savannah paid for her purchases and they left the store. 

     “Where to now, princess?” 

     “Um...I need to replace my favorite lipstick, and maybe get some drawing stuff.”

~~~~

     “Oh this is precious.” Sam cackled as he shut the door. Dean sat on the bed, Savannah's legs in his lap as he carefully painted her toenails with the mint green polish. Savannah lay propped up on a pillow, her head turned toward the TV.

     “Shut up.” Dean growled. 

     “Yeah Sam, shut up,” Savannah echoed, glancing away from the TV. “If you distract him he’ll mess up and have to start over.” 

     “Uh huh,” Sam replied. “What are you guys watching?” 

     “Chicago. Apparently the best musical ever.” Dean replied flatly. 

     “No bitching.” Savannah pointed her toes at Dean, squealing when he tickled the bottom of her foot. 

     “Quit moving, you’re gonna mess up my paint job.” 

     “Then don’t tickle me!” Savannah pelted him with a pillow, earning a sharp look from her nail artist. 

     “You done?”

     “Are you?” 

     The three of them ended up rewatching the movie because Savannah declared that Dean wasn’t taking it seriously enough. (It’s not my fault, the costumes are distracting! Shut up, Dean! ) Sam also found the costumes distracting, but kept it to himself. 

Monday 

     “You're kidding, right?” Savannah balked as Sam stripped off his plaid shirt and threw it in the washer with the rest of his clothes. They’d had a busy day- a new case dropped in their lap and wrapped up seven hours later. 

     “What?” Dean asked.

     “You guys just strip down in front of strangers?” 

     “Not all the way,” Dean said defensively. “Sam doesn't care.”

     “I'm not Sam,” Savannah folded her arms over her chest. “Well go on.” she challenged when Dean just stood there looking at her.

     “What?” he asked dumbly.

     “If it's so easy, you do it.”

     “You gonna stand there and watch?”

     “Yep.”

     “Sweetheart, if you wanted to get me naked all you had to do is ask.”

     “And now it's weird.” Sam grumbled, going to sit in one of the chairs along the wall. Dean rolled his eyes and started to unbutton his plaid shirt. 

     “You really gonna stand there the whole time?”

     “Yep.” 

     “Alright fine.” Dean growled, unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way and pulling it off aggressively. He tossed it in the washer, and reached for the hem of his black undershirt, pulling it over his head.

     Oh fuck me, he's hot. Savannah was tempted to look away and blush, but she was determined to see this through. She would not give Dean Winchester the satisfaction of seeing her drool over him. Even if the tattoo on his chest did make her knees a little weak.

     The clanking of metal drew her eyes downward just as Dean was pulling his belt free and tossing it onto the chair next to Sam. Flicking her eyes up to Dean's face, she noticed he was resolutely not looking at her. She stifled a giggle and instead watched as he shoved his jeans down off his hips and into the washer.

     “There. Ya happy?” He asked sharply as he closed the machine, finally looking at her again. Savannah held back a laugh at the indignant look on his face. “What?” He asked doubtfully when she smiled.

     “I didn't say anything.” She turned to her own washer, unable to hold her laughter at bay any longer. 

     “Yeah okay chuckles, let's see you do it.” Dean said smugly. Savannah might have been embarrassed, but she was stubborn as a mule. There was no way in hell she was letting Dean Winchester beat her at this game.

     “Okay,” She shrugged, quickly shucking her jeans and tee shirt, leaving her in the black boy shorts and push up bra she'd put on that morning. “Piece of cake,” She said, smirking when she saw Dean's eyes glued to her chest. “Dean?”

     “Yeah?”

     “You wanna keep staring or buy me dinner first?” 

     “Shit, sorry! It uh...s’nice- I mean- good work.” The hunter stammered, flashing an awkward thumbs up to go with his red cheeks. 

     “You're a weirdo.” Savannah snorted. 

     “You’re a weirdo.” Dean shot back, leaving her by the washer to go sit by Sam. Savannah sighed. She hadn’t yet had an opportunity to wield her new found power over Dean, and it looked like it wasn’t happening today. She’d have to try harder tomorrow. 

Tuesday

     An opportunity struck as the three of them were returning from a day of interviews. 

     “Dean?” 

     “Yeah princess?” 

     “Will you braid my hair when I get out of the shower please?” 

     “...what makes you think I know how to braid hair?” Dean scoffed as he shrugged out of his suit jacket. 

     “There are tutorials on youtube. You’re a smart cookie, figure it out.” Savannah said as she walked away to shower. She heard Dean sigh and Sam protest as his older brother grabbed the laptop from him. 

     She emerged half an hour later to find Dean perched at the foot of the bed they shared, elbows resting on his spread knees and his chin cradled in his hands. Surprisingly, he hadn’t changed yet, still clad in the black slacks, white dress shirt, black vest and tie. He’d rolled his sleeves up, and Savannah bit her lip at the sight. She loved that suit. 

     “Ready?” He asked as he looked up from the television, nearly catching Savannah as she traced the veins in his arms with her eyes.

     “Yeah.”

     “Alright, come on.” Dean patted his thigh, instantly making Savannah feel like this was far more intimate than she’d meant it to be. Whether it was intentional on his part or not, Dean had to know what he was doing. Savannah's eyes darted from his hand on his thigh ( Do NOT look at his crotch.) to the carpet.

     “Am I...am I sitting on the floor or your lap?” She asked doubtfully. Dean's hand left his thigh as if he'd been burned, rubbing the back of his neck in a show of discomfort. 

     “Uh, the...floor.” he stammered. Savannah swore she saw the faintest shade of pink on his cheeks and grinned. So it wasn't intentional.

     Savannah planted herself on the floor between his knees, offering him the comb between her fingers and pointedly ignoring the way the scent of his cologne enveloped her. 

     Dean carefully gathered her hair in one hand, gently plucking the comb through the strands to get the tangles out. He worked from the ends up, getting through her hair with ease thanks to the detangling serum she'd used. The gentle strokes were in danger of lulling her to sleep, and Savannah forced herself to turn her attention to the television. She didn't need Dean teasing her about falling asleep between his legs. 

     Dean began parting her hair into three even sections, tossing the comb aside when he was satisfied. His fingers began to work, gently tugging her hair this way and that to make it cooperate. 

     “Hair tie?” He was almost to the end of her hair already? Color her impressed. She slipped the black scrunchy from her wrist and held it up for him to take, their fingers brushing as he did. Dean said nothing, but Savannah bit her lip. Did he feel that jolt of electricity too? “Alright, I think I'm done,” Dean said as he wrapped the scrunchy around the end of her braid. “You wanna take a look? Make sure it's not awful?”

     “Yeah, sure,” Savannah got to her feet and slipped into the bathroom, giving a quiet gasp when she saw Dean's handiwork. The French braid was perfect. Definitely good with his hands. “You sure you've never braided hair before?”

     “Positive. It look okay?”

     “It's perfect, Dean. Thank you.”

     “You're welcome.”

     “What about me? Will you braid my hair too Dean?” Sam asked teasingly, making Savannah laugh.

     “God no! Do it yourself you weirdo.” Dean protested. Sam gasped with fake hurt.

     “So rude! I didn't want you to braid my hair anyway.” Sam declared, giving his head a dramatic shake. 

     “Jesus Christ, what is my life.” Dean grumbled to himself. 

Wednesday

     “Will you stop picking at ‘em? They’re gonna chip.” Dean chastised, glaring pointedly at Savannah over his coffee cup. 

     “They’re already chipping,” she scowled, ignoring his glare in favor of eating her waffle. “They’re gonna need repainted.” 

     “Ugh, fine,” Dean stuffed the last of his bacon in his mouth as he rolled his eyes. Across the table he saw Sam hide a smirk behind his orange juice. “What?” 

     “Nothin’,” Sam shook his head. “I just can’t believe you of all people are voluntarily going to paint a girls nails.” 

     “Okay first of all, shut your face,” Dean growled, stabbing a piece of bacon toward Sam’s face. “Secondly, I’m contractually obligated, so get it right. Lemme see.” Savannah placed her hand in his, waiting patiently as he examined the damage. 

     “Will I live?” she teased, grinning when his eyes rose to meet hers. 

     “Yeah, you’ll be fine. When we get back I’ll repaint ‘em. I think we should put the glittery one over this color; maybe it’ll last longer.” 

     “You mean ‘Unicorn Farts’?” Savannah deadpanned, snickering when Sam choked on his juice.

     “I am not saying that out loud.” Dean said stubbornly, dropping her hand. 

     “Saying what? ‘Unicorn Farts’?” Savannah repeated loudly, getting stares from the next table over. “You’re being ridiculous.” 

     “You’re being...shut up.” 

~~~~

     Back at the motel, Dean immediately set to work fixing Savannah’s nails. He’d already stripped her nails of the chipping paint and let them dry, and was hard at work painting them anew while Savannah watched TV over his shoulder. 

     “Alright, these are dry. Hand me the other one.” Dean replaced the cap on the mint polish and blew on her nails gently.

     “What one?” Savannah asked. 

     “I’m not saying it, now hand it over.”

     “But if I don’t know what you’re asking for, how can I give it to you?” Savannah giggled. 

     “You know damn well what I’m asking for, you little brat.”

     “No I don’t,” Savannah shook her head. “What’s it called?” she asked, lifting up the bottle of polish. Dean shook his head, licking his lips as he tried to fight back a smile. 

     “Nope, not saying it.” 

     “Come on, tell me what it’s called,” Savannah snickered. “Mythical horse flatulence?” she pretended to guess. Dean broke, bursting into an adorable fit of giggles and dropping his head onto her knee. 

     “Why?” he asked, his shoulders still shaking with laughter. 

     “Because I can,” Savannah smiled proudly. Dean collected himself and straightened, reaching for the polish to complete his task. “Go on, say it.” Savannah urged, holding the polish out of his reach. Dean rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. 

     “Unicorn Farts.” He grumbled, his eyes trained on the bedspread as she cackled. “Alright, I said it, now give it here.” Dean snatched the polish from her hand and Savannah gave a gasp of shock.

     “How rude!” 

     “Yep, that’s me. I’m a jerk, and you’re a brat.” 

     “Only for you, Dean.” Savannah quipped, offering a tight lipped smile when his eyes darted up to her face. 

     “‘You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means’.” Savannah peered at him in confusion.

     “Has the definition changed?” 

     “Never mind. I keep forgetting how innocent you are,” Dean shook his head, uncapping the glittery polish to finish his task. “And I can’t believe you’re just gonna ignore my awesome Princess Bride reference. Hold still.” Savannah rolled her eyes and did as he asked. 

     “Well then what does it mean?” she asked impatiently when he didn’t elaborate. 

     “I’ll tell you when you’re older.” 

     “Oh shut up!” 

Saturday

     “Dean?” Savannah whispered in the dark. She was still struggling with the emotional toll their latest case had taken on her. The difficult hunt had spanned several days, and resulted in Savannah facing her first werewolf and five people losing their lives. 

     “Hmm?” the sleepy grumble was slightly muffled by the pillow.

     “Can I...um…” Savannah bit her lip. She couldn’t possibly ask Dean to cuddle with her. It was too embarrassing. “Never mind.” 

     “What is it, sweetheart?” Dean rumbled tiredly, lifting his head to look at her. He was unfairly adorable with his sleep mussed hair and squinted eyes. 

     “Well, I uh...at home, I had a whole bunch of pillows on my bed. And whenever I felt upset or lonely, I’d cuddle them and pretend it was a person.” 

     “That’s...kind of depressing.”

     “Yeah, well.” Savannah said dejectedly. Dean said nothing for a few seconds before turning onto his back.

     “C’mere.” he murmured.

     “Really?” 

     “Wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to.” Savannah hesitated, knowing they were crossing a line they hadn’t before. She scooted closer to him, resting her head on his chest and pressing the length of her body against his. He was so warm. She threw an arm across his stomach and snuggled closer, letting her eyes slip closed.

     “Thank you Dean.” 

     “Any time, princess.” She felt him press a kiss to her hair and sighed contentedly.

[nomorefstogive]

I had a thought what do you think would be a modern songs or musicals want get a musicart in tact opt. I thought of ones based on Mean Girls, Heathers, Cats the musical, Chicago the movie specifically the cell block tango and Six the musical.

I am not sure about the lore of musicarts and why there is no such thing as a male musicart or is there a in lore explanation that I don't know about but If we can I would love to see one based on Jason Dean from Heathers if we can't get a male musicart we could just get one based on Veronica.

Mean girls, They could have one based on Regina George or Cady Heron.

Cats could have an old cat girl named Grizabella to me I would like to see more variety as in gacha tend not to have playable elderly women that look visbily old.

Cell Block Tango and Six the musical, there are so many options on who to pick I would be fine with any of them but if I had to pick Katalin Hunyak Helinzki and Catherine of arragon would be my choices.

Admittedly I am likewise uncertain as to why there are no male Musicarts, the closest we have to a male one is Enigma and that is because no one knows what their gender is.

The pictures are courtesy of the Takt op. fandom wiki:

That said, it is interesting to consider modern, or simply non-classic era Musicarts, your ideas for potential Musicarts for the songs are nice as well, especially in regards to there being more variety by adding an older character, perhaps she could be the one who acts as a tired grandmother most of the time, but when one of her grandkids is threatened she starts making the Despair Dolls into her personal scratching posts lol.

Perhaps she could be of a thicker build, muscles gained from a lifetime of work matched with calloused hands, laugh lines and crows feet to go with her gray hair, all joined with a slightly whimsical nature to match the...unique let's say, nature of Cats, that is nonetheless underlined by a relaxed and calm personality.

I also cannot see her speaking with anything but a New York accent for some reason lol.

In that same vein, in thinking of non-classical music inspired Musicarts, an image that comes to mind is that of Frank Sinatra's "My Way", and the Musicart inspired by it being either an older man or woman, they look like someone that has walked their road and are content with the ending in sight.

Be it male or female I see them wearing a dapper suit and hat, at least partially in honor of the way Sinatra would dress when singing, with their hair having gone gray or white and their face adorned with laugh lines and wrinkles.

They would be the wise old mentor to most of the Musicarts and Conductors, the one that would have them sit down at a Tea Break and offer wisdom and advice as they smoke a cigar.

In battle though, they quickly teach everyone that the old adage is true, that "In a job where most die young, Fear the old" is especially true in regards to them.

I admit I am unfamiliar with the other songs, I will take a look at them when I get the chance.

With all of that said, I am glad to see your ideas for this fandom, and I hope that you stay safe and take care.

P.S. What do you think of a Musicart inspired by something like "Dark Was the Night, Cold Was The Ground" or "Sound of Silence" would be like?

[proceduralpassion]

Side Eye

Day 26 of Narcoctober- Pick a quote from the show that you love and use it as inspiration for your fanwork. Then share what the quote is at the end of your post.

Character(s): Walt Breslin x Sal Orozco; Walt Breslin x Dani

WC: 403

A/N: Something humorous and fluffy bc I'd love to see Sal as a low key wingman for Walt.

“...So, you’re not gonna do anything special?” 

An awkward silence had hit the car about thirty seconds earlier and Sal’s question didn’t do too well in relieving the tension.

Walt finally shrugs in response, his eyes jumping as his mind runs a mile a minute. His words are unsure when he speaks, “I mean, dating anniversaries don’t really count anymore once you get married, does it?”

Sal sighs, “I give your marriage six months.”

Walt grunts with indignation, “Who the fuck still celebrates their dating anniversary after they’re married?! My friend’s parents have been married for decades and I’m pretty sure they don’t celebrate two separate anniversaries.”

“Well, you haven’t been married for decades, that’s one,” Sal pops in, “And two: you even said that Dani’s been sad with the both of you working all the time. Maybe, a nice dinner out or something special might put her in a better mood?”

Walt gives a tired sigh as his reply because he doesn’t have any useful ammo to shoot back at him with. He’s right, Dani has been a little down in the dumps for the past week or so. He can tell that she’s not trying not to complain, but with her job and barely getting to see her new husband, she’s been craving more time and attention from Walt. 

The quiet remains in the car and Walt’s unsure of how to navigate the dialogue. Conversations like this weren’t commonplace in the bond that the two have built as partners. The fact remains though that Sal brought up a point that Walt cannot contest and so he’s not opposed to hearing more from his perspective. 

After a beat, Walt finally speaks up again, “...So what should I do?”

Sal glances over at him wearing a look of slight impatience, “She’s your wife. What do you think would make her smile?”

“She liked it when I cooked that one time…”

Walt swears he hears Sal mutter “Can’t imagine why,” under his breath but opts to pretend he doesn’t hear it. Instead, he only acknowledges Sal’s second statement, “Then, you should cook her favorite meal. Maybe light some candles. Play your wedding song or some shit.”

“Good idea, good idea..” he mutters.

The way Dani lights up when gets home tonight is a sight worth a hundred stars. Walt thinks to himself that maybe, just maybe, that Sal knew what he was talking about.

A/N: The "I give your marriage six months" quote is a funny comment from an episode of Chicago PD that I watched yesterday and it just kinda stuck in my head bc the dynamic between Antonio/Ruzek kinda reminded me of Walt/Sal lol. Click here if you wanna be added to my taglist. Taglist: @drabbles-mc @ashlingnarcos @asirensrage @narcosfandomdiscord

[octavianxbishop]

IN CHARACTER INFORMATION

• FULL NAME: Octavian Bishop • FACECLAIM: Michael B. Jordan • GENDER: Cismale • PRONOUNS: He/him • SEXUALITY: STRAIGHT • AGE + BIRTHDAY: 32 + 02/24 • LENGTH OF TIME IN FAIRFORD: 20 years • HOUSING: Downtown • OCCUPATION: P.E. teacher at Fairfield High • PERSONALITY: Confident, charming, persuasive, arrogant, immature, indifferent

DIGGING DEEPER

Q: “What’s it like, living in Fairford? Did you ever picture yourself settling down here or did you always know this would be your home?”

A: “It’s not ideal, It’s – I mean it’s fine, but not what I had planned when I was younger. I try to make the best of it though.  I always thought I’d want to travel, live somewhere warm, where it’s practical to have a backyard, in-ground pool accompanied by a trophy wife. Things didn’t work out that way, thanks to a few things out of my control. Number one being, my mother getting sick and needing in-home care. This caused me to leave my scholarship at UCLA, and to finish my degree in Fairford.” 

Q: “What’s your family like? Are you still close, or have you blocked all their numbers?”

A: “It’s really just been me and my mom for most of my life. I remember visiting some cousins of mine in Chicago and Memphis when I was younger. Family hasn’t really been all that important to me, at least, not extended family.”

Q: “Top five songs currently on your Spotify?”

A: “I can think of a few of my favorites that I work out to.”

“Turn Down For What” - DJ Snake

“Come As You Are” - Nirvana

“B.O.B.” - Outkast

“Straight Outta Compton” - N.W.A.

“Genesis” - Justice

Q: “Would you say you’re easy to get along/work with? Why or why not?”

A: “I think most people would. What’s not to like about me? Intelligent, attractive – I’ve yet to meet someone who doesn’t like those traits in coworkers, teammates, friends, whatever.  It’s possible maybe, people who are introverted might not enjoy my company, but I’ve been known to help even the most reserved to break out of their shell.” 

Q: It’s the little things in life; tell me three things that bring you a great deal of joy or put a smile on your face.”

A: “Number one is definitely a good breakfast. French toast, pancakes, bacon, the works. Second is hitting a game winner at the buzzer when playing with friends. And third is definitely getting a girl to crack a smile.” 

BRIEF BIOGRAPHY: 

• Octavian was born in Chicago, Illinois. At the age of ten, his mother took on a job across the country, which landed them in Fairford, Washington. She thought it would be a good place to raise her child, and for her son to see more of the world, beyond just the inner city. At the time, Octavian didn’t care for the change, but as time went on, he genuinely enjoyed his new location. 

• In High School, Octavian was a standout in both baseball and basketball. His mother didn’t allow him to play football, which he reluctantly respected the wishes of. Despite being a bit of a “smart-mouth” as labeled by a few of his teachers, Octavian’s grades were average, despite opting to go out with friends rather than study.

• Octavian received a few baseball scholarships, opting to attend UCLA. However, after his freshman year, his mother needed assistance at home due to an illness. This prompted him to move back home, finishing his Education degree locally. This was humiliating to Octavian, having to return home after enjoying his independence in sunny Socal. 

• After taking a P.E. position at a middle school in the Seattle area, Octavian would later decide to take a job at his Alma Mater, Fairford High. He’s been teaching there for the past 2 years. He enjoys his work, knowing it’s one of the few subjects students actually find entertaining.

[rayanedesena]

❝ Sometimes people can hunger for more than bread. ❞

Age: 28

Gender identification: Cis female, she/her

Residential area: Fog Gate

Occupation: Podcast creator & host of Tell Me a Story & Who Are You? / Amateur indie filmmaker

Two positive traits: Resilient & creative

Two negative traits: Reticent & stubborn

Length of time in Vancouver: 25 years

Faceclaim: Julia Dalavia

barely contained notebooks, band tees, a record player spinning an extensive vinyl collection, empty wine bottles by the bathtub

introduction:

infidelity tw, child abandonment tw, drug addiction tw

A free-spirited woman, Noa's mother was in Chicago having an affair with a prominent man when she was conceived. The woman had herself fooled, thinking he was in love and would leave his family to be with her and this baby she found out she was going to be having. 

When she told him of the amazing news of what would surely only bring them closer, he got upset and threatened her. His social standing couldn’t be jeopardized and he would never leave his family. Not for a woman like her. Noa's mother had supposed to have only been a means to blow off steam, nothing more. 

Frightened by the threats, she ran back home to Night Rest and eventually gave birth to Noa in the backseat of her beat up car.

It was a vehicle that would be her home many times in her youth. Sometimes it was stairwells, but occasionally they got lucky and lived in a rundown apartment. That was when Noa's mother had it together and her addictions were mildly under control. 

When Noa was 15 her mother just kind of left town and disappeared, never to be heard from again. For a while she lived in shelters or with people that would take pity on her as long as she could pay for a room. At that time she worked whatever odd jobs she could get and usually at the soup kitchen. 

The struggle and her hard work paid off, Noa went to the university and earned herself a broadcasting degree thinking she wanted to go into radio. Shortly following her graduation she opted for film school instead.

As a big fan of film and film noir, she has the dream to bring real art back into film. To make movies how they used to be made, with strong stories and acting performances. 

During film school, Noa took a chance and created a podcast called Tell Me a Story which is based on having a guest each episode come in and tell a significant story from their life. Something that’s always stuck with them. 

Following the success of that, her producer asked her if she had any other ideas and Noa went on to create another podcast. This one a little closer to her heart. Called Who Are You? it’s about a quest for people to find family, to get in touch with the lost ones in their lives and receive answers.

Back during her first year at university, Noa had begun thinking about looking for her dad. She’d been wanting to know who he was and if she looked like him, sounded like him, or had any of his traits. And, if possible, Noa wanted to track down her mother.

She’s finally at the place of doing her own search and investigation into her own roots, but first that calls for Noa finding her mother.

As of now Noa has a successful podcast company where she not only produces her own two shows but she also develops and produces shows for other talent.

potential connections:

roommates — noa makes decent money but living alone isn't always what its cracked up to be. plus, with her work she needs to cut costs where she can. currently i have her living in fog gate but that is adjustable based on plotting and such. age and gender does not matter for this connection!

production crew — it would be AMAZING to have the producer for her podcasts in play! just a fun venture to toy around with and tell some great stories!

podcast co-host/s — noa has two shows and could use a co-host for either or both of them. they’re popular shows so it could help with someone’s career or be a side gig.

the ex — truthfully, noa hasn’t dated much or even attempted relationships other than this one. she has abandonment issues and doesn’t trust easily. which was ultimately the downfall in this relationship. it was roughly about two years and full of ups and downs as they just couldn’t get things to work despite how strongly they may have felt for each other. gender does not matter for this connection!

MORE TO COME!!!