#Richie jerimovich you are Starved | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ashlingiswriting · 1 year ago

Text

do i know you? chapter four

[ 5k words ] [ prev chapters: one, two, three ] [ masterlist ] "he's actually asking you the question—you, of all people. it’s so funny, it could break your heart." richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn warning: vague conversation about assault (no actual assault happened against any canon character), organized crime activities, mild claustrophobia

when you push open the door, you expect to find richie tucked away safe from the harsh wind, leaning against the wall in his usual spot. instead, he’s sitting on the sidewalk in front of your building, his ass on the curb and his feet on the asphalt, like he’s daring the cars to run over his toes. he doesn’t look like he’s waiting for somebody, he looks abandoned.

you tuck away your latest story—egyptian history is clearly not meant for tonight—and walk over to him. what’s up?

he says nothing.

all right, then. you sigh and you drop into a squat beside him, both feet flat, knees under your upper arms, and arms loosely crossed.

i can do this all night, you say.

his eyes don’t so much as flicker. his big black leather jacket has always looked ridiculous, oversized, like he’s playing dress up in his dad’s clothes, but there’s a touch of pathos to the slouch of it now. there’s a weariness that has soaked into him because he’s been marinating in it over the months. there’s pain, too, so much that you can’t help but think of michael.

it’s eva, he finally says.

the richie bad news thing? you say. it’s a wild guess but better than nothing. you have to say something, anchor him before he drifts off again.

he shakes his head. she said this man at school, he, uh. he really freaked her out today. i don’t know.

your stomach drops. nausea sets in immediately, but you push past it. step one is to protect her, and everything else can be dealt with later. you’re horrified to discover that after all that painstaking care you spent making sure he’s never cross-contaminated with your business, now there’s no choice. now there’s a threat. whatever the cost of the method, the threat has to end.

uncrossing your arms, you reach out and put your hand on richie’s arm, grip him firm through the leather jacket, and look at him squarely.

he blinks, looks down at your hand—you’ve never touched him before—and then up at your face.

slow, steady, marshaling every word of your command to pierce through the fog he’s in, you say: don’t do anything. i know a guy.

at that, his eyes sharpen and narrow, baffled. what are you talking about? he says. ow, jesus.

you search his face hard and clutch his arm even harder, like you can wring the truth out of him by the strength of your fingers alone.

she’s okay? you say.

she’s okay.

oh. pause. when the relief hits, it hits so hard, it’s nearly grief and it’s far too late. your mouth has gone bitter and your heartbeat is like a jackhammer to cement, reverberating through your body loud and fast and unstoppable. you let go of him.

richie’s face wrinkles with confusion, and he figures it out entire minutes too late. why would you think—

because it’s always some dirty old man, there’s always—you have to stop. your voice has gone transparent and you’re helpless to fix it. swallowing hard doesn’t help. standing up so fast that you’re lightheaded, that helps a little, though you don’t like the useless swing of your arms at your sides.

finally, you manage to say, i’m not crazy, these things fucking happen.

these things happen, but eva’s okay. nothing’s happened to her. richie says it with a terrible gentleness you can imagine him bestowing on a car crash survivor or a starved stray dog. his hand closes over your ankle through your jeans, the touch a shockwave that goes right through you. hey, i’m sorry, he says.

between leftover nausea and fresh embarrassment, you can’t even look at him, so stare far over his head and say, don’t.

he lets go. you wish he didn’t.

after a while, he says, you’ve never even met her.

she’s yours, though.

and there it is. the truth. you don’t know when this happened, but somewhere along the way, your care has stopped being richie’s inheritance from michael. now you care simply because it’s richie. it’s a surprise to find that there is someone left alive you’d kill for, but it also feels completely natural. if you’re dropped in water, you will swim. if you’re hit, you’ll hit back. if eva ever does get in trouble, you’ll do what you have to do. and that’s it.

the thought becomes so real you could touch it like a photograph in your back pocket. there’s someone left that you’d kill for. good to know.

you turn away from him, using the wind as an excuse, sheltering your cigarette and lighting it up again. richie stays sitting right where he is, as though you haven’t confessed anything. there really is a merciful streak in him about five miles wide.

the nausea abates, after a little while. the thought occurs to you that you can’t just get lost in your head again. he’s still sitting there, he still needs you.

so what’d this guy say. you keep your voice as casual as you can. the man at the school. what freaked her out so bad?

never mind, richie says. it’s okay.

i swear to god, richie, after all that, you better tell me about it.

okay, he says, every bit as exhausted and miserable as before, but at least no longer fully bogged down in his own head. you wanna sit down?

no.

he nods. into the fraught silence, his words come slower now. he speaks like he’s groping in the dark for the shape of his thoughts, fitting his hand to each individual word, mindful of sharp edges.

a poet visited her school today. he’d written something for them about the class caterpillar that died last week. i don’t know whose genius idea that was, but anyway. he pauses. now she’s asking me about things dying. people dying, you know. her mom. me.

after a second, you say, fucking poets, with real sympathy.

he nods wearily. somebody shot at the beef today too. we’re fine, nobody got hurt, it’s nothing, it’s. he rubs his forehead with his hand. it was a nice poem.

yeah? you say.

whole city’s just fucking…

he gestures once, gives up, and lets his hand dangle from his knee.

after a second, you sit down next to him, cross-legged and companionable.

what was it like? you say. the poem.

i can’t remember the words, he says. the general idea was, like. all a caterpillar needs to do is be what it is. eat everything, dream of flying. that’s what it’s meant to do. he looks over. you know what we’re meant to do?

he's actually asking you the question—you, of all people. it’s so funny, it could break your heart. you shake your head.

me neither. when he looks back out at the street, his eyes rest on the shadows in a way that makes the shadows seem that much more desolate. i mean, i’ve done things, but not. he doesn’t finish the thought aloud.

finally, he says, what would a poet even do with me?

a dark suspicion tries to grab onto, but it’s so ludicrous and so extreme that you bat it away. you just made the mistake of falling prey to a baseless, sick fear once. twice in one night, that’s too much.

what would a poet do with either of us? you say. but you’re not gonna die.

i might.

the worst thing about it is how quiet richie says it. it's not an argument. it's just a fact.

you’re not, you say fiercely.

richie turns his head and looks at you, his blue eyes fraught and unwavering.

how do you know?

ping!

fuck. your phone shouldn’t go off now, of all times. you haven’t had to deal with so much as a simple flesh wound since little caruso got shipped to the hospital, and now is the moment you get called in? if you ignore this text while you’re supposed to be on call, you could get fired or worse.

you ignore the text. back to the question: how do you know richie’s not gonna die? because he can’t. because you won’t allow it.

you say, if you’re not around, who’s gonna explain to your daughter that poets are all a bunch of shitheads?

ping! ping! ping!

fuck me, you mutter, putting your phone on vibrate.

it’s all right, never mind, richie says. he looks faintly sick, or maybe that’s just the cold and the time of night.

it’s not all right, but you open your phone anyway. as you start reading the texts, your heart rate goes into overdrive and the eerie calm of crisis descends on you.

i’m sorry, you say, meaning it. i’m really sorry. but you gotta get out of here.

as if to drive home your point, your phone vibrates in your hand with two more texts.

at first richie doesn’t move, and you’re afraid he’ll argue, or protest, or do anything that will force your hand to choose cruelty so you can get rid of him fast. but instead, he finally hauls himself to his feet.

you know a guy, huh, he says.

you don’t want to acknowledge the insinuation with any kind of an answer, which as it turns out is a mistake.

it’s all right, he says. i’m kind of a diy guy myself.

you look up. don’t be.

the wind is tearing at your hair, and at that angle, in shadow, his eyes look unusually dark, not one hint of blue.

i can’t track the fucking joke with you sometimes, richie says.

i’m not joking.

your phone vibrates once again.

fuck. you have no choice. you stand up, look at him as kindly as you know how, and say, get out of here. please.

and he does.

the texts come from an anonymous number, just like always.

> 28 ppl carbon monoxide poisoning

> 2 dead already

> no hospital

> beth can’t come

> 3 dead

> be there soon

the answer is obvious. if the poisoning has gotten so advanced that some of the victims are already dying, then only in-hospital treatment can save them. even a quick google could’ve come up with this answer, and yet it feels like it’s taking you twice as long to reason it out when half your brain is helplessly looping over and over on you’re not gonna die and i might.

when a black corolla pulls up next to you only a minute later, you yank open the passenger’s side door only to find the seat already occupied.

holy shit.

jack? you say, stunned. i thought you were in prison.

he’s big, round-shouldered and full-bearded, and he looks even bigger squashed into this small car. he’s also sweating like a motherfucker.

i was. get in.

you hurl yourself into the backseat and the driver takes off before you’ve even managed to get your hand on the seatbelt. the sudden violence sets you back on track. who cares how the oldest caruso kid got free? what matters are your patients.

listen, if we don’t do a hospital drop, these people are all dead, you say.

why?

you’re so grateful it’s jack. he’s brutally competent and efficient, not a word or a breath wasted, and he’s the only caruso kid who ever actually listens to you.

if carbon monoxide poisoning is this bad, we can’t just slap a bunch of oxygen masks on them and call it a day. that’s not enough, it won’t work fast enough. not with three dead already.

what do we need?

your skin is practically humming. hyperbaric chamber. lay them in an airtight container built specially for the purpose, fill it with pure oxygen, crank up the pressure. this is the kind of equipment that costs hundreds of thousands of dollars, so they probably don’t even have them at a place like saint anthony’s. these people need a level care of care that only northwestern-level money can buy, okay? or maybe uic. i don’t even think they’ll have enough chambers for all of them in one building, we might have to do two separate dumps, or—

no hospitals, jack says. we have orders.

now you remember why he’s the worst of the caruso kids too. he’s the smartest, which means he should fucking know better.

how much do these people know? you say. when that gets you nowhere, you drop subtlety and go straight for the jugular. are you really willing to kill twenty-five people just to please your fucking dad?

i’d kill you if i got orders, he says. don’t waste time.

it’s a breathtaking thing to hear, and yet, on some level, you were expecting it. after a second, you say, they’re dead, then. but tell me what we got.

no hospital raids, not around here. dad says it might fuck things up for little if a theft cranks up hospital security. but you’ve got as many oxygen canisters as you want down at the blackbird processing plant.

and that’s where we’re headed?

yeah.

okay, you say, and it sounds like a question. but then, five minutes later, you say okay like it’s the answer too.

jack fully turns around in his seat to look at you. he’s going prematurely gray at the temples, and in the dark, his eyes look bottomless.

what do you need? he says.

and for once, you know. what you need, what you are, and what you’re meant to do. so you tell him.

when you arrive, there are only a few lights on inside the factory. you and jack get on an indoor vehicle, a little white golf cart, and speed through a looming, shadowy forest of metallic machinery.

your patients are waiting for you, all of them unconscious and laid out neatly like logs in two rows on the ground. their faces and clothes look sickeningly similar to each other, so you glance at jack and mentally add human trafficking to the long list of his family’s crimes.

there’s also around two dozen men who all came to attention when jack stepped off the golf cart, standing silent and expectant. one of them is different from the others, a short man with the distinctive, overwhelmed expression of a civilian who just got drafted. that must be roberto, the floor manager that you talked to earlier on the phone.

sedatives? you say, and one of the men hands you a big plastic bin full of smaller boxes. you pick one up and squint at the tiny print on the white and orange label. fuck me.

the sedative they managed to get on short notice? it’s dormosedan. which is mean to be used on fucking horses. horses. jesus christ. yeah no, you’re not giving that to your patients.

we’ve got ahold of ten oxygen masks, says jack. eta twenty minutes.

you shake your head. you can see everything in viciously crisp color, time has slowed to syrup, and you can clock even the far-off horn of a distant train. oxygen masks aren’t enough.

turning to roberto, you gesture at the massive section of piping in front of you. is that it?

i don’t think it’ll work, he says, this close to shaking.

you speak past him to the assembled men. load them.

beside you, jack nods. with that, the men begin picking up your patients and carrying them to the wide-open hatch in the huge pipe, getting down on hands and knees, crawling, and pulling the unconscious people after them.

you can’t do this, roberto says. we have to call the cops, we can’t just—

jack reaches for the gun tucked into his jeans and you close your hand over his wrist just in time to stop him from pulling it out. if he gives this guy a heart attack, that’s just one more casualty for you to deal with.

roberto, this is fucking happening, you say. you let go of jack’s wrist, go over, and lean in close to him, ignoring his flinch. you lower your voice. please don’t make me deal with another casualty, we’ve got enough of those already.

after a second, roberto walks away and put his password into the control pad.

when the hatch closes, there are two bodies left lying on the floor, people who are already dead and thus not worth loading. how many patients left living does that make? twenty-four? twenty-three? you’ve lost count.

flood it with oxygen and then increase the pressure, you say to roberto.

how high do you want the pressure?

double whatever the psi is right now.

you can actually see the movement of roberto’s adam’s apple as he swallows.

hey, you say warningly.

after a second, he types in the command. you can hear the humming of the machine as the pressure increases.

you want me to pause it in intervals so the pressure doesn’t increase too fast? he says.

you have no fucking idea. no, you say. just do it.

you take out your phone and start a timer. you don’t even know how long these people should be in for, or how long the canisters will last, but you sit there with your pencil and paper, gather what you know, and get to work.

they can’t stay in for too long, because you’re terrified of one of them improving enough to wake up trapped in the dark. they’d die of a fucking heart attack, breaking into the list of the world’s top ten most miserable deaths. on the other hand, they have to stay in as long as it takes to oxygenate them, or they’ll be dead for certain. and a third consideration? if they’re in for too long, there is such a thing as oxygen poisoning. which. fucking hell.

you write out your calculations so hurriedly that you can barely read your own figures. god only knows if they’re correct. you finally come up with a number of minutes, and once that time has passed, you tell roberto to lower the pressure. in intervals this time, with pauses in between. after all this maniac effort, you’re not gonna lose anyone to the bends like they’re fucking scuba divers. no, no. you’ve entered the stage when everything is hopeful with zero basis in fact. they’re all gonna make it. every last one of them.

this is the worst part. the part when all the decisions have been made, and all you can do is stand there and wait. you abandon your paper and pencil on the floor and begin to pace like a maniac, not caring who sees you.

jack is texting to somebody on his phone, mountainous and intent, but when you pass by him, he says, homemade hyperbaric chamber.

are you supposed to feel fucking encouraged by that?

if they all die, you’re gonna have to kill me too, you mutter in a venomous undertone.

don’t make threats.

the oxygen masks arrive. turns out that only eight of them work, but at least they come with appropriately sized canisters. you instruct jack’s men on how to use the masks on the patients once they emerge from the pipe. if more than eight patients end up making it, they’ll have to rotate the masks between the patients in fifteen-minute intervals. somehow, you don’t think that will be a problem.

you can hear roberto praying quietly in the background.

time disappears, and the one thing you want most in the world is a smoke, though you can’t have it, not with all these gas canisters around. just one cigarette, that would save you. not a menthol, a sapphire. or maybe just standing partly sheltered from the wind in a spot that smells of those cigarettes, drinking half a smile over a stupid joke, you want it to be over already, you want to go home—

finally, the pipe has been completely depressurized and the patients are taken out one by one and laid out once again in their two rows. you dart forward, accidentally bashing your shoulder against an unexpected bit of machinery in the dark, and kneel beside the first one you see.

the woman is weathered and broad shouldered, somewhere in her forties, and looking as peaceful as if she’s just taking a nap. there are strands of gray in her dark hair and laugh lines in the corners of her eyes. you don’t want to check her pulse, but you do.

she’s alive.

all around you, there are footsteps padding by you, quiet words being exchanged. survivors are being laid out, men are fixing the oxygen masks on them, and somewhere in the background, roberto is trying to argue with jack, his voice pitching ever higher with every denial he’s dealt. some of the machines are being turned on in preparation for the morning’s work, great dark monsters humming and growling at each other in the dark.

this is not over. there is so much left to do. and yet, for a moment, you close your eyes and feel her pulse murmuring it into your fingertips: still here, still here.

when you were first charged with the care of these people, twenty-five of them were alive. by the time they’re carried away from the factory and you’re forced to go home, only nineteen of them are still breathing.

it’s nineteen more than you thought you could save. it’s still not enough.

when the car drops you off at your building, your eyes go to the spot where richie should be standing, but of course he’s not there. it’s morning, not his hour. why you were expecting him, you don’t know.

you want to tell him about this night more than anything, but you know you never can and you never will.

you find him laid out neatly like a log, gone cold and facing up. no blood, no wound, nobody else. at least this time they let you come and see him.

the sun comes up over the bridge and stains the cityscape as gold as good. oh, michael.

you kneel without a prayer, run your fingertips across his sweater, soft and slow as though you could still wake him up. your knuckles knock against metal, so you stop short, look down, and there it is: the gun, your gun, the ready death you try to pull from out of his fingers.

baby, let it go.

his grip goes tight, his blue eyes open slow.

the sound of your evening alarm tears you out of your dreams. you find yourself clutching at empty air so tightly that your nails leave red half-moons in your palms, and at first, you remember nothing but the feeling.

it all comes back in bits and pieces jumbled together: the little white golf cart speeding through the factory floor, the sunrise over the bridge, closed eyes above oxygen masks, the rows of bodies, richie’s eyes. you’re not gonna die and i might.

you sit up fast, fully awake. a chest-crushing certainty takes hold. all the old excuses are carried away from you like paper in the wind.

he says shit that would scare anyone into wondering if he’s okay, but then he turns around and jokes like nothing’s wrong. he has people he loves dearly, but he still comes to you for comfort that you are hardly able to provide. he has access to a gun. this time, it’ll be his own. other than that, it’s all the same as last time.

the fact that you’ve noticed the pattern is no comfort to you at all. by now, you know richie right down to the ground, from his peculiar little habits to his pet baseball peeves to his customary jewelry to the shape his mouth makes when he doesn’t want to admit that you’re funny. you know him so well.

and you’ve only ever been able to save people if they’re total strangers.

by the time richie strolls up to your building, it’s occurred to you that somewhere in the haze of grief and touch starvation and whatever words a shrink would use to describe the feeling of twenty-five lives depending on you, maybe, just maybe, you’ve gone a little fucking crazy yourself.

jack won’t return your texts or calls, so you have no idea how your patients are doing, and that is so deeply fucking upsetting that you swerve right back to richie.

maybe richie’s not deeply depressed. maybe it’s like the time—literally yesterday—when you assumed eva got hurt and psyched yourself up to request permission from old caruso for a full-on murder.

also, and this cannot be emphasized enough: you only slept for two hours.

so, mustering the last bit of mental strength left at your disposal, you head downstairs early and decide not to bring up your batshit theory unless you’ve got actual evidence that you’re right.

richie seems a surprised to find you waiting for him, and he approaches a little awkwardly, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. the sight of him alone is enough to calm you a little, the reality of his stained shirt and haggard face.

hey, you say, in your very best imitation of a normal person.

yo, he says. last night was.

yeah, you say. then, as casual as you can, you good?

he shrugs. i am if you are?

you nod. in the silence, you can feel the awkwardness draining away, so you give it a little while before you finally say say, so what’s the story, morning glory?

his nose is running a little and he’s as tired as ever, but the smile is real. you wanna see something crazy?

always.

he gets his phone out of his pocket and flips through a blur of emoji-studded texts to find the thing he’s looking for.

my buddy tim got video of this crazy fight on the l this morning. looks exactly like that one with the nerd. like, same fucking thing, i swear to god.

he turns to you and catches you watching him close, soaking him up. he’s stubble-cheeked and grinning, he’s standing solid, he’s completely fucking fine. he has to be.

what one with the nerd, you say, a little too late. noticeably too late, so you add an explanation. i didn’t get much sleep last night.

yeah, i wasn’t gonna say, but. he raises his eyebrows, tilts the words playful enough so they’re not a threat. secret agent?

you hum a bit of the james bond theme song, then point at his phone. you’re gonna have to show me the nerd one first, cause i don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

you’re gonna love this, he says.

you shake your head as you get out your pack and your lighter. you have no idea what it’s gonna be, but you’re smiling already. am i actually gonna love this, or is—

no, you’re actually gonna love it, he says.

cause you remember the one with the fuckin poacher trying—

well, maybe my tastes are a little too eclectic for you, a little too avant fucking garde, but—

avant—you burst out laughing. you bruce springsteen motherfucker, don’t talk to me about avant garde.

bruce springsteen is the man, was that supposed to be an insult? before you can say a thing in your defense, he interrupts. shh, it’s starting.

you lean against the wall and watch. you’re not gonna cry, but there’s something in the way his body protects you a little extra from the wind. he’s okay. he’s okay, so you must be too.

the video turns out to be exactly the opposite of what you expected, because the nerd wins. in detail, a meathead picks a fight with a skinny little twentysomething redhead, and the redhead retaliates so fast and dirty that even the meathead’s friends seem impressed when they arrive on the scene drag the redhead off him.

right? richie says, when the video ends, supremely satisfied. it’s so funny to you that he loves that video, because between meathead and nerd, you wouldn’t have guessed him as identifying with the nerd. rather than ask him about it, you settle for a childish little poke. you’re too exhausted to do anything else.

that’s a nerd to you? you say.

he’s wearing fucking glasses, what else do you want.

everyone wears glasses, numbskull. you flick the screen with a finger. that’s not a nerd.

richie splutters. and he’s short!

everyone’s short to you.

richie half turns to you and leans a little into your personal space, looming in a way that makes him occupy your whole field of vision. you stand your ground on instinct.

yeah, you’re short to me all right, he says.

well, you’re fucking…

he’s so tall, and that’s terrible, and yet you kind of wish he was even taller so his face wouldn’t be so close to your face. there’s really nothing you can think of to say. you’ve well and truly lost the plot.

richie bursts out laughing.

…a pain in my ass, is what you are, you say. rick.

so you got no sleep last night, he says, still laughing but moving back a fraction, letting up.

you shake your head ruefully. like none.

then what are you doing vertical?

good question. technically, it’s against the rules for you to sleep while you’re on call, but at this point you’re pretty done with the carusos and their fucking rules and you really only got out of bed this morning so you could see richie.

you shrug and raise your cigarette, half hoping he gets it and half hoping he doesn’t.

he does, of course. you can tell by the way he says, go, then. go take a nap.

you should be grateful that you’ve gotten through the conversation without making an utter fool of yourself with your little conspiracy theory, but being with him right now feels so easy, you don’t want to leave it behind.

you good? you say.

i’m fucking golden, baby.

so you leave. as you wait for the elevator to come down and get you, you look back at him one last time through the glass of the apartment building’s doors. he’s standing there watching one of his videos, totally engrossed, totally delighted, his fist pressed to his mouth.

sleep should be safe for you now, right? sleep should be safe for you now.

[ chapter five ] [ masterlist ]

@garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1, @eternallyvenus, @cerial-junkie — if anyone else wants a tag, let me know.

#richie jerimovich x reader #richie jerimovich #the bear fx #the bear fanfiction #the bear fanfic #mine #readerfic #do i know you?#the bear imagine #this chapter kicked my ass lmao. but i fought back #thank you everyone who said anything it all really fueled me <333 #diky

68 notes · View notes