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carmenized-onions · 5 months ago

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Something to Do. | Catering

logline; Itinerary for your trip to New York? Just try not to fucking cry.

[!!!] series history, this is the twelfth; gonna start season three after I post this. Wonder how bad it's gonna throw off the rest of my plot line. Ideally not at all. We'll see.

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. I really like this playlist for all chapters, but for a wedding where music is blasting, it feels particularly fitting.

portion; 13.3k how does this keep happening.

possible allergies; Terrible self-image, everything feels bad, very real conversations abt ,,, self-death and addiction.

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (gets referred to as a woman and other feminine honourifics but no pronouns, i believe)

i made you all so mad last chapter. Let's see if i can make it up to you, babydoll (probably wont)

You hate to admit it, but you were kind of relieved when you found out Carmen wasn’t coming on the plane. You’re in a bit of a state of fight or flight; well, more accurately, currently leaning towards the flight side— Pun intended.

He’s coming to the wedding. You know he is. For one, he’s getting thirty grand for this, he has to. For two, his location is still on for you— Whether he forgot to turn it off or just didn’t care, you’re not sure. But he hates you, so there’s no way it was intentional, you’re certain about that much.

You know you shouldn’t be looking at it, but you have. You’ve been looking all week. Checking your Find my Friends like a doting mother. He goes to work far too early, he stays far after close, he goes home. Rinse and repeat.

You check on him one last time before boarding the plane. He’s opted to drive, with Richie. Something about ‘wanting to bring their personal equipment’, Richie texted you. They’re halfway through Ohio. You’re sure that road trip is definitely going spectacular after their side of the explosion.

Richie texted the day after that fucking fiasco, asking if you’d want updates on how it’s going at The Bear. How it’s going with Carmen. You said you wanted to know if he wanted to tell. He opted not to tell.

You hate to admit, you were kind of relieved, to not know. To just look at Carmen’s little icon go from Point A to B. Instead of Carmen Reports, you and Richie text about much lighter things. Normal things. Eva drew a funny picture of you kinda things. It’s nice. You know you’re probably being childish, but it feels so much fucking better to ignore the Bear in the room. You don’t know how to feel about anything, and frankly you don’t want to try to figure it out.

You suck, Carmen sucks, what more is there to know? Process it? Fuck that.

Carmen hasn’t texted you; you haven’t texted him, the entire week. Radio silence. You stopped playing Connections. Didn’t see a point. Not like they even have a streak function anyways— You’d die before you let that Wordle streak break, though. That was your thing. Carmen doesn’t get to take your things, too.

You didn’t get a text from the Exec, either. So that’s… Something? Or, rather, explicitly, that’s nothing. Does that mean Carmen gives a shit? Not necessarily. Ugh. Your whole system was so shocked after that fucking fight that you didn’t really have time to take in the fact that that jag was into you? Vomit inducing. You’ve got to rethink your life choices, if they lead you to him.

But also, you know if Carmen and you were okay right now, you probably would’ve given him your number. You would’ve catfished him for weeks, laughing over your phone with Carmen and Syd as this idiot falls into your trap. You miss Carmen. You also don’t miss Carmen. You want to see him desperately and also never fucking look at him again.

Carmen’s going to be in the kitchen; you’re going to be out in the banquet hall, on bar, this whole wedding. The likelihood either of you have to actually interact this weekend is quite low. The likelihood either of you have to confront what you’re supposed to do with yourselves now is quite low. You hate to admit it, you’re fucking relieved.

Sydney sleeps on your shoulder, for most of the plane ride. You sleep against her head. Shout out Marcus, for switching seats. He’s behind you, with Tina. He wakes both of you up about an hour in, shaking your seats— Because the dessert cart came out and he didn’t want either of you to miss it. The mini cheesecakes are better than expected, to be fair, so he’s forgiven.

This is going to be the stupidest weekend of your life. You’ll take that, over worst, at least.

“Be honest, would you tip me extra well?”

You give a twirl in your probably too fancy semi-cultural outfit. Your family shows up for weddings, if Vinnie and Mira didn’t want their bartender to go hard, they should’ve put that in their notes. It actually would have been nice to get sent notes, though… What is the theme for this wedding other than ‘Italian’ and ‘New York’…? Glitter eyeshadow is probably fine, right? Yeah it’s fine. Not like you could get that shit off now, anyways.

“If you were my bartender, I would ask ‘what are we?’�� Answers Syd, watching you from the bathroom as she attempts to put her hair up. Definitely struggling in silence.

Sharing a hotel room was the best idea you ever had. It would be a nightmare to get ready alone in silence, right now. It’s nice to talk and have something to do. If you didn’t, you’d absolutely be ruminating about Carmen, debating whether or not to check on his room, that’s just down the hall, you could see if he needed help with getting ready and also see if he’s as tired as you think he is and— Plus, the amount you saved on splitting a one bed? Christ. Economy is in shambles. So is your brain.

“You would not be brave enough to ask your bartender ‘what are we?’”

“For you, I would.”

“Are we about to kiss, bro?” You duck into the bathroom, getting way too close to the side of Syd’s face. She laughs, pushing you away with the palm of her hand, you scoff, “Wooowwww—”

You clutch your heart, mortally wounded. Retching, truly. Now this is heartbreak in its rawest form. “—Reject me, why don’t you?”

“I’m playing the role of timid—” “I’m sick of this friends to lovers plot line!” “It adds! It adds!”

“Shut up— And tilt your head back, dumbass, what are you doing?” You stand behind her, taking her braids into your hands as she struggles to bundle them all herself.

“I do this all the time by myself, y’know.” So Syd says, but she lets you take her braids regardless.

“Yeah, but I’m here.” You stretch the hairband on your fingers. “Messy bun?”

“You think?”

“I think primal is too clean.”

“No, I was gonna do the one where it does like— Like the infinity in the front?”

“Who’s mom are you tryna fuckin’ look like?”

She kisses her teeth, attempting to reach a hand behind her head to smack you. You dodge and somehow manage to make it easier to smack you. “I’m literally only gonna get to come out after everyone’s left, I dunno why we’re making effort here—”

“High messy bun?” “High messy bun.”

Oh, the days of doing each other’s hair. You’re glad it’s back. You’re glad you get to become, together, again. It used to be bobbles, friendship bracelets, and glitter tattoos—but now it’s tying up each other’s hair, helping with the curling iron, clasping the gold chains on your neck, zipping up the back of your outfit, pinning the collar pins on her uniform, fixing makeup, asking each other to compare perfumes before going through with the final decision, mocking each other’s purchases.

“Wait, what mini deodorant did you get at customs?”

“Oh, one of those Native ones— I think it’s peach—?”

“Those cost like five fucking dollars, Ink. For like two swipes.”

“Excuse me for wanting to smell good, fuckin’ ‘wolfthorn’—”

“I work in a restaurant. I need Old Spice strength, okay—!”

“Oh, pbbbttt— Syd.”

“Pbb—Fuck, how do you do that?”

There’s a knock at the door, interrupting your squabble. “Are you decent?!”

Sydney groans, “No!”

“Yes, Rich, we’re decent, doors open.”

Richie comes in, unceremoniously. A touch awkward. He’s so rarely been in a room with women getting ready. It’s simultaneously exactly what he expected, and not at all what he expected. “Chip, can you put these fuckin’ things on f’me?”

Cufflinks. He presents the box to you. They’re just plain and silver, boring. Save that in your rolodex of gifts to get this Christmas. “You’re fuckin’ forty and you don’t know how to put on some cufflinks—?”

You’re nagging, but you’re already putting them on him, he holds his wrist out for you. “Nah, I was too busy runnin’ shit to learn.”

“Runnin’ your mouth, more like.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It’s a quiet moment, a tender moment, of adjusting his sleeves. Sydney’s scrambling to clean up the room around you two in the background. It’s hard to turn off the autopilot of cleaning one’s station, no matter where she goes.

You purse your lips. You shouldn’t ask and you shouldn’t care, but you do. You half-whisper, to Richie. “How was the drive?” He knows what you’re asking.

“Terrible start. Surprisingly okay middle. He went straight to the banquet hall once we got here.” He swallows, treading carefully, a thing Richie never does. “Do you wanna know the dirty details?”

Oh good, you wouldn’t be able to check on his room even if you wanted to. You want to. Need to? Stop thinking. Carmen sucks and you suck.

“Not particularly.” You take one final look at his sleeves, happy with your handiwork, letting his wrists go. “You feel settled, though? Or jury’s still out?”

Richie shrugs, tilting his head back and forth. “Grovelled decent enough, by time we hit Penn. But I’m waitin’ on my informer.”

You cringe, knowing what he means. You also know he’d smack you if you said he doesn’t need your say in order to forgive Carmen. “It’s gonna be a minute, until your informer has an answer.”

“I know.” He nods, twisting his wrists back and forth, looking at the cufflinks. Then he gives you a once over. “Y’look good.”

“You too.” You look over him, he does look good. He’s in his suit, wearing his wedding ring, which makes your heart hurt a little bit, but he does look good. “What’s your fuckin’ job tonight, by the way?” He can’t be doing kitchen. He sucks at kitchen. But he’s also just not dressed for it.

“Fuckin’ everything.” Hyperbolic? Typically yes, with Richie, but not this time.

“Wait staff here had too high a fee—”

“Translation: more than free?”

“More than free, yeah.”

“Heard.”

“So, I’m server, set up, and fuckin’ whore-derve—”

“What?” That pronunciation snaps Sydney out of her autopilot clean, her back snaps up straight. Hands on her hips, like a disappointed teacher. “It’s hors d’oeuvres.”

Richie rolls his eyes and really his whole head back. “Just because you went to the fuckin’ CIA or whatever the fuck—”

You interrupt the fight before it can start. “Let’s just say appetizers.”

Sydney does not let you. “Apps and hors d’oeuvres are different.”

You angle your body from Richie to her, deadpanning. “Just because you went to the fuckin’ FBI or whatever the fuck—”

“Alright!” She’s already walking to the door, despite the fact that she started it— “We’ve gotta fuckin’ get to hall now or we’re gonna have like zero prep time, Chefs.”

You both follow after her, doing one last check to make sure you’ve got everything you need. You honestly don’t need to be in this much of a rush, you’re pretty sure, but you don’t mention that. Richie said Carmen just went straight to the banquet hall, when they came in this morning. You’re not sure how well you know him anymore, all things considered, but by your best guess, he’s almost certainly done all the prep by himself.

Carmen did not do the kitchen prep entirely himself. Well. He might’ve, you haven’t checked, but you don’t think he would’ve had the time.

Carmen did your prep entirely himself.

When you get to the bar, in the banquet hall, you have nothing to do. Side work finished for you. Lemons, limes, oranges— All cut into wedges and loaded in their baskets— even the cherries are pitted. The glasses are organized from wine to whiskey glasses, the sink is clean— Which you know the banquet hall staff didn’t do— They never fucking do.

You don’t see Carmen, but you know he did it. He showed up before anyone else, he was in the kitchen before anyone else— So no one else could’ve left the simple braised beef sandwich on your station. Exactly how Mikey used to make it. Half hot, half sweet. Your order at The Beef. Carmen would’ve done pork, but this is what they had on hand, and he had a feeling this would mean more, anyways. It does. Granola bar on the plate with it. One of the nice ones, too. The wrapping boasts fifteen grams of protein.

He knows how hard running bar is. He knows you won’t have time to eat once it starts. So, he’s making sure you get something down now— And that you have time to eat it in peace, and making sure you have something you can scarf mid-shift later, when you don’t have time.

Fucking. Hell. Fuck this fucking guy. Carmen fucking sucks. You fucking suck. This all fucking sucks so much. This sandwich is so fucking good. You’re so fucking mad. Stop saying fuck. Fuck your subconscious for wanting you to stop saying fuck. It’s so unfair, for him to be maybe the cruelest a person could possibly be, in front of an audience made out of your loved ones, and then be sweet, like this.

He is awful, with words— Well, he’s typically better, with you, par for the last time, but he’s best in the kitchen. You can taste the sorrow, the guilt, the apology. The first thing he ever made you, was a sandwich, the brisket sandwich, that Mikey refined for you, as an apology, for freaking the fuck out in a freezer and having that be your first impression of him— Or, at least, first first-hand impression of him. How far you’ve come.

This will not pass, as an apology. Not a proper one. But… You’ll give him a sign, in return, at least. A confirmation that you got the message, nothing more. Definitely nothing more.

“Rich.” You stop the guy in his tracks, as he marches through the room, helping the rest of the staff set up the hall. Not his job, but it’s Richie. “Can you ask kitchen their shifties?”

He nods, like he understands, walking away with stacks of chairs under both his arms.

He comes back after two minutes, straight up to your bar. “What the fuck is a shifty?”

“Oh.” You feel condescending, for being surprised. You’d never really thought about the huge difference between morning servers and night servers until right now. Richie has never worked with a bar staff. He worked at a fucking sandwich shop. “It’s uh— Your drink. Get a drink on your shift— Shifty— It can be like, a cocktail, a straight, a shot, coffee—”

“I know how many fucking drinks exist, Chip—” “Mocktail, smoothie, juice—” “Yeah, I’ll get a Pina Colada.” “I will break the blender over your head.” “I’ll get you a list.”

You nod, already starting on usuals you know will have remained unchanged since your absence. Steel trap memory. Getting drinks with The Beef staff used to be the highlight of your week, which isn’t a sad statement at all. “I won’t tell anyone you like Dirty Shirleys.”

He defends. “Eva put me on them.”

“Insane thing to say about your five-year-old.”

“You know what I meant— She likes the normal—” “I’m pokin’ fun, go give this to Carmen.”

You’re hoping if you say it fast, coupled with bickering, Richie won’t make mental note of it. Won’t register it. Of course, he still does. How could he not? You slide the mug to him; he takes it, though, slow, with a perplexed look.

Yeah. They had lavender and maple syrup behind the bar. And cardamom. And milk to froth. And black coffee. Whatever. You didn’t have any dried lavender to top it with, this time, so it’s not actually that cool, anyways. Doesn’t make it special. Did you do a maple syrup drizzle to make up for this? Yeah. You hate yourself just a little bit, for it. You really cannot shut off the way you love, can you? Hopeless. Be even the slightest bit withholding, would you? Just a touch petty? God, you suck. Such a princess.

Rich shrugs, when you don’t try to justify yourself. You’re an adult, he won’t coerce you to be sharper, even if you should be. “Aye aye, Chippy.”

If Carmen ends up wanting to drink later, then he’ll have to come to you. That’s being tough, right? Sure. That’s definitely withholding, Chip. Really showed Carmen there. Certainly, a church woman must be clutching her pearls at your backbone, somewhere in the world.

Do you think you’d be able to handle him coming to your bar, anyways?

No. Decidedly no. Which is a bit stupid, because you’ve faced much scarier things in your life, than some asshole you owe two grand. Well, some asshole you owe two grand that you love deeply that hates you deeply because you are in some part responsible for not taking care of his brother—

Carmen doing your side work was unintentionally cruel, honestly. You don’t have anywhere for your brain to go but him. Don’t have anyone to talk to, or anything to do. Richie can tell and whether you want him to or not; he knows what you need. He repeats himself, walking off with the mug. “I’ll get you your list.”

He knows what you need. Something to do. Something to fix, for someone. Not fix someone. People’s princess. Still failed Mikey, no matter how hard you tried.

Sprite, grenadine, vodka, lime, maraschino cherries. Dirty Shirley. Something to do. Just focus on something to do.

You miss the naivety of wanting something to do. Three hundred guests versus one bartender without a barback is a layer of hell that Dante forgot to specify in his Inferno.

“What can I fix for you, ma’am?!” You’ve got to yell every sentence to get anything intelligible over the music and the cacophony of conversations.

There is an overlap of voices from every single woman crowding around your bar, despite the fact that you were definitely making explicit eye-contact with just one of them. You lean over the counter to hear her alone. She blinks, when you get in her face.

“What are we?”

You cannot stop the snort, but you’re pretty sure she didn’t hear it, music's too loud to hear anything. Syd’s a fucking oracle. “We’re fucked. What can I get for you?”

“Lemon drop shot?” Of course. It’s New York.

“Comin’ right up—”

The crowd of women interrupt you, and each other. “Oh, make that two!” “Make that three!” “Wait what are we making?”

Who the fuck is we? They’re more than welcome to get behind the bar with you. You’d take anyone, at this point.

“Lemon drops, babe!” “Oh—Oh, we doin’ lemon drops?” “Let’s just say ten and be safe!”

Of course.

It’s a lot of that, on repeat. But it’s better than the ones that want one very specific brand of scotch with their soda, because at least you can make huge batches for these ones— Does no one know how to fucking act around an open bar anymore? You get a vodka cran and you fuck off. You really need to start telling people you don’t know how to make bellinis.

Working alone is hard, because you can tell when you turn your back to make drinks, and aren’t able to take twenty more orders at the same time, that everyone’s real fucking annoyed with you. You have tried splitting your cells to become a second person, didn’t work. You’re constantly spinning around to accommodate people, and it’s getting fucking nauseating. And you’re usually patient, but the questions are getting just as mind-numbing.

“Can I get a uh… A negroni… Sbagliato? With prosecco?” “Sbagliato means prosecco is in it, sweetheart.”

“Do you do hurricane shots?” “I’m happy to slap you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, so it’s open bar?” “Yeah.” “So, I don’t have to tip, either?” “Well— It’s appreciated— Oh, and you’ve already walked away. Okay.”

It’s a lot of that, on repeat.

You see from twenty feet away, amidst the crowds, Uncle Jimmy walking towards your bar, and when he waves all friendly, he sees your glower, and opts to turn in the other direction. Smart man. No wonder he’s successful.

Richie swings by your bar, waiting at the corner, where the line hasn’t congregated. You don’t need to be shaking this martini for as long as you are, but it’s a good way to look like you’re working when you’re just trying to talk to Richie. He presents his serving tray to you. “Tiny quiche?”

You open your mouth, hands full with your shaker. He gets the point, stabbing a toothpick into the appetizer and shoving it in your mouth. Oh God, food is beautiful. Food is what sustains. You could write a full book of poetry right now about why food is everything. Well, not everything. You’re still in hell.

“Richie, I’m dying, your job can’t be that important, come be barback.” You pour out the martini. You attempt to open the jar of olives by yourself, when you struggle, Richie puts his tray down and grabs the jar from you.

Thankfully for your pride, he’s also struggling with it. Plus, it gives you time to annihilate the tray of quiches. He shakes his head, his job is important, allegedly. “You want me to starve guests?”

“Ideally? Yes.” You ignore the dirty looks you get from eavesdropping patrons. He hands you the opened jar. You take a toothpick from his tray, since you’re already out of yours, pierce an olive, toss it in the martini, and pass it to someone— Quite frankly, there’s every chance that’s not the guy that ordered the dirty martini, but he takes it, so who gives a fuck.

Richie sighs, he does want to help. “I’ll ask kitchen if they can cut someone.”

Thank fucking God. “Ask Marcus, he’s got mixology experience or some shit.” You remember being occasionally impressed by his verbiage— At the very least, he knows what stuff is back here, and that’s enough for you.

Richie just shakes his head, lips in a line, when you mention Marcus. A universal sign that something has gone horrifically wrong. You furrow your brows, immediately worried, leaning forward. “What happened?”

“Excuse me! What’s it take to get a long-island iced tea around here? This open bar is not very open!”

You and Richie both grimace, at the thick Jersey accent on this woman waving her hand hysterically at your bar. He gives you a nod, already taking his empty tray and starting to walk back to the kitchen. “I’ll ask.”

You turn your body to the woman, but head still to Richie. “Don’t ask. Tell.”

Not even five minutes pass, before you get a barrage of texts, from multiple people, all at once. You watch them flood in on the notification screen of your phone laying on the counter, while shaking up a cosmo, this time.

From Marcus, worrying. ‘sorrysorysorrybakkingemergencymbmmbmb’

From Syd, concerning. ‘couldn’t stop him lmk if it’s bad’

From Richie, alarming. ‘yk how to call your dog right’

But it all makes sense, when Carmen comes up to your bar, removing his apron. “You need a barback?”

Hair is normal. Not at its best, not how you taught him, but it’s better than before. He smells excessively like you; like accidentally used half the bottle levels like you. Maybe not an accident. Don’t read into it, too much— They’re almost certainly the only travel sized bottles he had on hand. Of course he’d take them. He smells like Old Spice, too, though. Don’t read into it. He looks tired. You knew he would. You’ve watched his location, every day. By the time you go to bed each night, he’s only just left The Bear. He deserves to feel tired, he was a fucking asshole, and you’re glad your cat ate just short of all of his flowers.

But you brought in the plate, the next morning. You cleaned it, and then hid it in the back of your dishwasher. You wanted it to be safe, you also just didn’t want to look at it or think about it or have it exist in your mind, at all. That’s half the reason you couldn’t let it perch outside your window anymore. Taunting you. He’s a piece of shit, but you can feel it in your chest; the care you cannot get rid of. The desire to ask are you okay? Have you been sleeping? How are you? How’s your week been? Want a hug? Have you been playing Connections? What did I do wrong? Did you need me? Did anything break? Did you break?

You missed him. Was the radio silence relieving? Yes. Preferably, you’d never acknowledge each other for the rest of your lives besides an eventual wire transfer. Preferably, he’d stay in the back of your dishwasher for the rest of your life. But God, you missed him, this week. You’ll probably miss him for the rest of your life. Is that toxic? You’re working on it. No you’re not… He just made every space easier to breathe in, kept a light on, for you. Not at the end, but he did before. Before he figured out that he hates you.

It’s a thing that everyone says about you, that you bring ease, and whether you can confirm or deny that, who’s to say— But you know Carmen does it for you. Lights up a room for you. And you might be alone in that feeling, but that’s okay with you. Or it was. It was, before he figured out he should hate you.

Oh, shit, you’ve been staring at him in silence for way too long. It’s hard to know how to navigate this. You don’t know how to feel, so you don’t know how to act either. It’s all a weird state of limbo that you desperately want to get out of, but don’t want to do any of the work required to do so. What do you do with your hands? Your body? Your voice? Are you supposed to be funny and nice still? Christ, just say something. What’d he ask, again? Can’t remember.

“Uh…” Still can’t remember, but— “What’s happening with Marcus?”

He seems to falter, slightly, but he comes into your bar, oh right, barback. You needed a barback. He exchanges his kitchen apron for a bar apron. Not used to seeing him wear all black. You wish you could enjoy it. Wish you could say it’s cool watching him act as one of your professions. He answers, as he ties the strings around his waist. “Uber dropped their wedding cake.”

Fuck whatever tension you two have. You nearly fold over in shock. The current track on the speakers fades out, right as you yell back, “They dropped their fucking wedd—!?”

With haste, Carmen puts the palm of his hand over your mouth. Knife tattoo hand. Oh, he missed being this close to you. Not the point here, though. “Shhhhhhh…!”

You relax, he removes his hand, you’re annoyed that you wish he didn’t. You whisper, though it’s still screeching in tone. “They dropped their fucking wedding cake?”

He nods, combing his hair back with his hand. Knife tattoo hand. It’s making your shampoo waft. You both notice it. He stops. “Marcus is remaking one, now.”

“From scratch?” You were right to be so worried; Richie was right to make the face he did. Carmen tilts his head back and forth. “Box mix that he’s finessing—”

You finish the sentence with him, “—Because he’s Marcus.” The king of doing too much, especially when there’s no time for it. It’s his best and worst trait.

He nods, smiling just slightly, but not the typical smile you get from him. Timid. “Yeah, so he’s locked in, but I’m here.”

Simple sentence, but it still schisms your brain. You cannot help but feel a distrust of it. “Shouldn’t you be running the back, though?” Keeping his kitchen in order? Being the Exec in his head?

He shakes his head. “They run a tight ship without me just fine.” The first lesson you gave to him, that that’s a good thing. Is this conversation hitting specific pain points on purpose as a punishment from God or is this just how all your conversations are going to feel, from now on?

Probably both. You nod. “Okay.” You do need a barback.

“This is so cute, girl, and I love love but I’m gonna need that Cosmo like yesterday.” Why did this woman have to say love? That would already be terrible if you were good right now. Carmen’s probably not the type of guy to say the L word for like several months anyways. You’re not even dating anyways— Or weren’t? Can you use past-tense on something that never was?

You hand her the Cosmo, and you both pretend you never heard her.

Running bar with Carmen makes your life infinitely easier, though albeit tenser. He hasn’t done this before, but he’s watched previous bar staff from the sidelines— And one of his best traits is how quick he catches on to things. He’s not confident enough to mix drinks, but everything else, he does just fine.

“Behind.” There’re occasional autopilot moments that make you laugh, though. He snaps back into his body, when you do, moving next to you. He tilts his head, “What, you don’t say behind?”

You shrug, and it feels normal, for a second. “Professionals probably do, I’ve never worked in a place that does, though.”

“But what about when you’re holdin’ shit?” You allow yourself to feel normal, for a second. It is a delight to teach him something about your work. You continue to make drinks and hand off orders, all while you both speak. It reminds you of the domestic flow you were both so used to doing. That was so easy for you both to fall into. It’s nice that it somehow hasn’t gone away.

“So, you know when you’re in the kitchen, or here, behind bar, you get like, really fucking hot?” Don’t let that entendre stay doubled— “Like sweaty?”

“Mhm?”

You hold onto your chilled shaker, stepping behind him, “So, we don’t say behind, we—” and press it just under the back of his neck. He shivers, immediately, full shock running through his system. “Do that.”

“Christ!”

You want to enjoy the moment, but you can’t help but remember him calling you a modern-day saviour. You try to push it down, but the warmth you were starting to feel tones down, quite a bit. You manage to keep him from noticing, manage to keep the smile on. “What, don’t like it? It’s nice!”

“Think it’s a safety concern, f’sure.”

“Call OSHA.” You touch the shaker to his face, before going to pour it. He laughs. Actually laughs. You wish that made you feel good, still. And somewhere, in some corner of yourself, it still does. But not like it did before.

Soon enough, you two get a second of reprieve, as Vinnie’s Best Man gets up to do his speech, or whatever. He uses a knife to clink his glass, and of course, it fucking shatters. You’re half-mad, because technically for the night, those are your glasses, but it’s too funny to actually give a shit. Plus, the Best Man gets a pass tonight, in your book, because one, he understood protocol and got a vodka cran from you, and two, his speech is forcing everyone to sit down and leave y’all the fuck alone.

“Beautiful night, beautiful couple, beautiful people— Couldn’t ask for a better weddin’ for my best friend— But let’s be honest, I didn’t think he’d be gettin’ a wedding at all— Aye! This guy Vin, amirite?”

You take this moment to halve your protein bar from Carmen. You wordlessly hand the other half to him. He shakes his head. “M’Good, you eat.”

You shove it towards him. You know he hasn’t eaten much, you don’t know how, but you just know. “I’ve eaten twelve tiny quiches and a beef sandwich, Carm, take the fuckin’ granola.”

He breathes heavily through his nose, but he takes it. You both watch the Best Man, quietly eating your halves. He is silently overjoyed at the verbal confirmation you ate the sandwich.

“I don’t need to introduce my goddamn self, I’m sure my reputation precedes me, right? But I’m Leo, I’m my boy’s Best Man, and I just couldn’t be more honoured, y’know? We grew up together, playin’ stickball in the Bronx, and now this guy’s marryin’ one of the most wonderful women in the world? And I get to be here? Man, I love ya.”

As cranky as you’ve been all night, this really is a gorgeous wedding. More often than not, the guests are nice, it’s just that the shit ones stick out in your head like nails to be hammered. Vinnie and Mira seem like a good couple. You wonder if you’ll ever get to have a wedding like this. They commissioned one of those painters to do a live painting, too. Always wanted one of those. And they’ve got little gift bags for the guests. You’re taking notes, internally, of what you like here, what you’d want to do for your own.

You wish you and Carmen were talking, right now. Despite the fact that Leo’s voice is booming throughout the hall’s speakers, the silence between you feels deafening, because you both know that you would be talking right now, if you weren’t living in fucking limbo. You need to work. You need something to do. The ice basket is running low, refilling it will take at least two minutes and maybe holding the ice will shock your nervous system.

You grab a bag of ice from the freezer behind you both, Carmen pretends to be listening to the speech, because he doesn’t feel like he has the right to help you with the weight. You cut the bag, emptying huge chunks of ice into the basket. You ball up the plastic in your hands to throw out; you nod to Carmen. “Can you break the ice?”

He seems surprised, taking a second, before nodding, crossing and uncrossing his arms. “I owe you an apology—”

“Oh, no!” You hastily correct. “No— Yes but no— I— I meant—” You hand him the metal scooper, nodding to the clumped-up ice you just poured out. “I meant can you break the literal ice blocks?”

Carmen wishes he has dead. And you can both tell that. “Yes. Yes— Yeah, f’sure, one-hundred— Course. Heard.” You nod back, pensive, throwing the plastic bag out, staring straight ahead, trying to refocus on Leo again. You can’t.

Carmen beats the ice, softly, so as to not make a noticeable noise for the audience. After a few seconds, he returns to his point. “…I do owe you an apology, though—”

“Don’t even worry about it, Carmen.” You don’t say this. Fak does. He sidles up to the bar. Where he keeps apparating from and hearing your conversations, you’re really not sure. “I’ve got this one.”

Neither you or Carmen know what Fak thinks he’s got, here, but you’re both too intrigued or surprised to stop him. Well, Carmen does give it a fair shot, after a second, “Fak, I’m—”

“Nono—” But there’s simply no chance. “I appreciate you trying to fix my problems for me, but y’know, I can handle myself, Carmen.” …You wish that’s what Carmen said, last Friday, instead of calling himself your charity tax write-off.

Fak pivots to you, sighing, shrugging, hands up, as if you know as well as he does what the fuck he’s about to say. You can’t tell if you’re supposed to be scared right now or not. When you don’t say anything, he starts, “Alright, I guess I’m the one that's brave enough to say it, there’s some major tension here.”

Now why does Fak think he’s the one to acknowledge this. Quite frankly, why is Fak here? Is he working, too? On what exactly? You don’t remember seeing him on the plane, either. Was he a part of the road trip? Dear God, that's a nightmare third wheel. You just let out a, “Huh?”

“Oh, come on, you haven’t shown up at The Bear since last Friday—” You’re now remembering that before the fight of all fights broke out that night, Fak ran out of the kitchen. Guess no one filled him in, after. “And like, this week, when something broke—” He nods to Carmen, who grimaces, hand over his face. “Carmy told me to fix it, instead of calling you, like he’d usually.”

You know you’re not allowed to be upset about that, and yet, you really fucking are. You’re Carmen’s fucking fixer. Or were? Fuck. Christ, are you jealous of Fak now? You turn your gaze just slightly to Carmen, who’s leaning over the counter, propping his head up on his hands. “What broke?”

He answers briefly. “Expo clock.”

It was extremely apt and even more upsetting for him, the way time literally stopped, when you left. When he made you leave.

You tuck your hands in your pockets, looking back to Fak. “You fix it?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.” Carmen stands back up, opening his mouth to intercept, Fak puts a hand in front of his face. “No Carm, I’ve gotta tell her the truth…” What.

“Tony…” Neil sighs, unable to make eye contact, at this moment. “I was really harsh on you, that Friday…”

“…Huh?” The fucking degree thing? Is that what he’s talking about? You honestly can’t remember anything before Carmen, from that night.

“You don’t need to hide your pain.” He nods solemnly, “I— I’m just gonna say it… I know it’s hard to believe, but I was… jealous.”

“I know.”

He ignores that you’ve said this entirely, “I know, I know, it’s crazy. Me? Jealous? But yeah, I was really good at hiding it, but you’re just really like smart, Tony, y’know? And everyone was like— Tony can fix this— Tony can fix that— And I was holding it together, but then you were good at serving, too. And it got to me— And obviously Carmen could tell, so he stopped calling you. Trying to be a true bro.”

Oh, Fak really doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, huh? “Of course there’s like, the other obvious tension in the room—” Oh okay, so he does know— “Between us.” What.

“What’s up?” You blink, voice going high for a second. Carmen cannot stop staring at Fak, face entirely unmoving, unblinking. Neither of you are sure what emotion to feel right now. Is Leo’s speech still fucking going? You’ve completely tuned it out, if it is.

Fak gestures to the air between you two. “Well like, there’s obviously a really intense sort of rivals to romance dynamic happening here…”

What.

“And like,” He raises his hands, in defense— Of what exactly? You couldn’t be less sure. “I could totally see that happening, in the future.”

It takes everything in you, to just hold your lips closed together. You have to bite down on your top lip, to not scream laugh in his face. “For sure, man.”

He nods, continuing, “But right now, I just don’t think I’m ready to take what you’re giving, y’know?” Holy shit, wait, is that how Carmen feels? Is that what the fuck is going on in his head? “Just not ready for all—” He gestures to you in general. “This.”

“Little harsh.” You tilt your head. “Fuckin’ cool it, Fak.” Carmen barks, in tandem with you. Oh, he’s upset. He wasn’t set on his emotions, this entire time, but he seems to have now settled in the upset category.

“Right.” Fak nods. “And so, I’m sorry I can’t be that for you… And I know it’s gonna take time to recover, but please come back to The Bear, when you’re ready. You’re… You’re a better repairman than me. We need you.”

You put a hand over your mouth, to cover your shit eating grin, trying your best to compose yourself and look sad. The best way out of this is to just agree with him. It’d take far too much energy to clarify everything for Fak. You’re nodding too much. “…Yeah, y’know, Fak… I will consider that. All those words you said? I’m gonna… Gonna really take all of it to heart, dude. I really appreciate… The directness— Y’know, that takes… Strength, man.”

“Thank you.” He nods. “Still friends?”

You did not realize you were even friends to start. And not in the insecure way, this time. You nod. “For sure, dude.”

You and Carmen both watch him walk away, in perplexed silence. Carm’s the first to break it. “…Was that anything—” “Obviously fucking not.”

He’s going to reply something witty in response, and it’s going to make you both feel like everything’s okay, again, but then he seems to see something that scares him straight. He turns to the back of the bar, aimlessly grabbing bottles, for no reason. Literally no reason, everyone sat for the speeches, what’s he doing—?

“You still serving?” Older man, oval glasses. He stands in front of your bar. Ah. Kinda rude of him, maybe that’s why Carmen’s giving the cold shoulder to this guy? Whatever. You'll serve him. Just because you're Chicago's Kindest doesn't mean everyone else has to be.

“Yessir, what can I fix for you?”

“Manhattan with bourbon?”

You salute, “Aye aye.” And get to mixing the drink. You’re pretty sure Carmen must know this guy, because he’s already set out the bourbon, vermouth, and angostura. It doesn’t take long to fix the drink.

When you go to hand it to the man, he seems to notice the mop of blond curls behind you. “Aye, Carmen? Jimmy told me you’d be workin’ tonight.”

A small, tentative, meek wave from Carmen. He sniffs. “Yeah. Hi, Uncle Lee.”

“Oh.” Is all you can say. Pulling the drink away from his hand, as Uncle Lee reaches for it. “You’re Uncle Lee?”

“My reputation precedes me?” He chuckles, nodding.

Carmen comes up beside you, and witnesses a smile from you that he’s never seen from you, and ideally hopes will never be directed at him. It’s the slowness of it, it’s a smile, but you’re doing it purely to bare your teeth.

“It sure does.” Give him a chance, it’s been four years, give him a chance. “I was a friend of Mikey’s.”

He fails the chance. “Ah… I see, friend, ya did a little—” He taps the side of his nose, sniffing. “Together?”

He really fucking fails the chance. Your smile grows, painfully so. The apples of your cheeks so high they practically close your eyes for you. You laugh a deeply fake laugh. “Hahaha, yeah, yeah, that’s exactly what we used to do. Uncle Lee.”

“Oh!” You tilt your wrist quickly, pouring the bourbon Manhattan in the bar sink. “Ah, fuck. Hand slipped.”

Lee is a bit taken aback. “Really—?”

“Really.” You repeat. Putting the glass down. “And y’know, I could remake that for you, but I dunno if you wanna trust my shaky junkie hands.”

Holy fuck. Carmen has always been great at keeping his reactions hidden, and still is, so Uncle Lee cannot tell how out of character this is, of you. You’re nice, you don’t bite— Or Carmy didn’t think you did, because of the amount of grace you gave him, last Friday.

“Lee, I’m gonna level with you.” You cross your arms, smile fading, but there’s still that venomous lilt in your voice. “I’ve been thinking for the last, I dunno, two years, what I’d say to you, if I had the displeasure of seeing you.”

There’s a pile of forks behind your bar, that you’d asked Richie for, just in case this situation came to a head. Just in case this fucking idiot came by. But it just doesn’t feel right, now. Doesn't feel right to leap over the counter and stab him in the neck with a fork. Though you've imagined it, and you still actively are.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, looking around the venue. “But we’re at this beautiful wedding, and Vinnie and Mira don’t deserve to have their reception ruined by us causing a scene.” You gesture to the air between you, almost comical.

He shrugs, “Better than Mikey, in that regard, then.” You know what he’s referring to, despite not being there.

You nod, smiling real big now, really baring your teeth, now. “His fuckin’ house, Lee.”

“I could have your ass fired, y’know.” “So do it.”

You lean forward, elbows on the counter. “I’m not getting paid for this. Please, get me fired. Snitch to Uncle J, c’mon, fire me. I’m delighted to get cut. Do it.”

After what feels like eons of a silent stare down, Uncle Lee throws a fake punch. Carmen’s the only one that flinches, immediately rearing his own fist back, stopping short when Lee does.

You’re still just coy, elbows on the counter. Lee scoffs, “Cokehead.” Of course.

“Yessir.” You just lightly shake your head, standing up straight again, smiling, amused, delighted, even. “That’s me. That’s who I am.” It’s not, but there’s no point in arguing with him— Especially when you agreeing just seems to piss him off more.

You’ve given Lee nothing to work with, to insult you, so it takes him a moment to generate something. “You’re—”

You don’t let him get it out, putting a hand up for him to give it a rest. “Lee, I’m not startin’ a scene, it’s a gorgeous wedding.”

“Oh, how grown of you—” “But, if you wanna have a scene, just wait in the parking lot.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You really think—” “I do. I do think, Lee.”

You lean forward, again, shrugging, speaking nonchalant, speaking with your hands, casually. “I wanna make it so clear, for you, too. I’m not gonna crack my knuckles, not gonna make some empty threats, not gonna scream in your face— I’m not gonna tell you I’m gonna kill you or anything like that. Because obviously, I wouldn’t do that.”

You nod, slowly, methodically, clearly. “What I am gonna say, is that I have been a bartender on and off since I was twenty-one. I was an E-M-T, for three years— All in our beautiful city of Chicago, Illinois. The sheer volume of geriatric white guys I have had to pull to the concrete in a full nelson in both professions— Insurmountable, Lee. So again, to be, so fucking clear, Lee— If I see you outside, I’m taking you to the fucking pavement, and I’m not getting off.”

Uncle Lee’s got no comeback, for this, but he’d be dead in the ground before he just lets someone have the last word. This is why Uncle Jimmy is more successful. “Oh, I’m sure you fuckin’ would.”

You grin. God, those forks are tempting. Resist. You keep your hands busy by grabbing a maraschino cherry from it's jar behind your bar to snack on. “Enjoy your night, Lee.”

“You’re a real fuckin’ bi—” A fork flies over his shoulder, clattering behind him. Not from you, from Carmen.

He speaks for you. “Enjoy your night, Uncle Lee.”

It feels good to be backed. Carmen’s here, and he’s on your team. You tack on, waving goodbye to the fucker, “Back lot, Uncle Lee.”

Lee pivots his gaze to Carmen, he rolls his eyes, disappointed. “Alright, Donna.”

Carmen goes for another fork, you stop his hand, holding it there, for a second. The metal clatters behind the counter. Lee’s pleased enough with the provocation. Men like him don’t leave until they’ve won something in their heads. He leaves, on his way to the punch bowl, since he’s determined he’s not getting shit from the bar tonight. You and Carmen just watch him, like prey, making sure he leaves without looking back.

“You’ve got teeth.” Carmen’s first to speak, cleaning a glass, both of you looking straight ahead. You nod.

“I do.”

“You don’t bite much.”

You shrug. “Try not to.”

Carmen considers the fact that what he wants to say would mean sticking his foot in his mouth. He then considers the fact that nothing he could say now will ever be worse than what he said then. He keeps rubbing away at a perfectly shining glass.

“You didn’t bite me.”

“I didn’t.” You nod, and your body goes on autopilot, as you start making a drink no one’s ordered. Just need something to do. “I couldn’t.”

He doesn’t like that answer. “I deserved it.”

“I deserved it, too.” You’re not a big fan of your own answer, either. But you can’t say it’s not true. You deserved it. Just some failure leech trying to reattach yourself to people through merry good deeds, as if they’d add up to fucking anything—

“No, you didn’t.” He pivots to you, tone inarguable. He puts the glass down. It’s a lowball, you need a lowball, you grab it from him.

“Do you like cognac or vodka?” You ignore his words, but you look him in the eyes. You regret it.

He lets you get away with it, because he is absolutely not the one allowed to lead the conversation, here. He did enough bulldozing, before.

“I dunno, I don’t really drink much.” You squint, you’ve seen his apartment. He clarifies. “Other than wine n’ beer.”

You nod. You opt for cognac. He watches you, for a moment, before asking. “What’re you—”

You’re already finished, by this point, sliding the glass over to him. “Black lavender latte. Cognac n’ coffee liqueur. If it’s too strong, let me know, I can add more milk.”

“Thank you, Chef.” Is all he can think to say. He takes a sip. It’s far behind in his long list of regrets, but certainly one of them in the way he spoke to you, is that there’s a strong chance he will never have a mixologist as talented as you working at The Bear.

“Hmm.” You hum, not watching him drink it, because you won’t be able to handle either reaction— You won’t be able to handle disgust nor pleasure. You never want to look at Carmen again. He’s also all you want to see. This sucks. You suck. Carmen sucks.

“Thank you for the coffee earlier, too.” You’re overjoyed at the verbal confirmation he drank it.

“Figured you’d need one.”

“I did.” He thinks about it, and decides to take the bullet. “Needed yours.”

Your breath hitches, and he can’t tell whether or not that’s a good thing. He doesn’t get the chance to ask, as a meek and overly sweaty man comes up to your bar. There are bar stools at your counter, though they’ve been tucked far under it to keep the flow of traffic moving. But the man points down to the stool, silently asking. You nod.

“You can sit, sir.”

He’s delighted. He sits. “Sorry, I’m not gonna sit long, I just uh— Just—” He turns around pointing to the Maid of Honour, who’s just gotten on the hot mic for her speech. “I uhm, it’s— Usually the bar is empty, when uh, when people are talking.”

“That they are.” You nod, smile soft. “Can I get anything for you, or d’you just wanna sit? No shame in that.”

“I— I, uh, if it’s not a bother— I was just wonderin’ if uhm— Totally fine, if it’s— If it is— Do uhm, do you— Do you do mocktails?”

Carmen watches you grow ten times softer, in demeanor. It’s wonderful, how you’re able to flip on a dime. It’s wonderful what you’re willing to give to people, when they deserve it. You nod. “Yeah, sir. What’s your drink?”

“Oh— I— Anything’s fine, really.” He plays with the loose strings on the cuff of his left sleeve.

You tilt your head, recognizing his nervousness. “If it’s not too personal, sir, are you…” You debate the best way to say it. “Taking twelve steps?”

He looks scared, initially, to be caught; but then he looks at your face, and he knows he has nothing to be worried about. He nods. “One— Two months, two weeks, one day.”

“That’s huge.”

He shrugs. “It’s a start.”

“A start is huge.” You emphasize, and he nods, because that’s inarguable. “What was your drink before? I can make a mocktail of that— Or maybe you’d prefer somethin’ total opposite?”

“Oh! Yeah, I uh, I liked uh, old-fashioneds, but you can’t really make those without whiskey—”

“Yeah, you can.” You’re already grabbing your shaker. “You just use barley tea. I can do that— If you want that.”

He thinks on it, for a second. Debates whether nostalgia is good or not. “Yeah, yeah I’d like that.”

While you work on it, the guy feels enough confidence, bestowed by you, to tell you about himself. “I liked sitting. That was the thing I liked about drinking. The sitting and the talking and the feeling good about it.”

“I hear that.” You watch the tea steep, nodding. “Reason why the phrase is ‘takes the edge off’.”

Carmen has to turn around. He’s listening intently, but he has to turn around. Again, he’s pretty good at hiding his tells, but you’re pretty good at reading them. And you’d be able to tell his flat expression is the equivalent of being absolutely fucking bug eyed on anyone else. You’re a bartender. You were a paramedic. You have seen so many people, on their worst day— Seen so many people like this guy, like his brother. You have taken care of so many addicts.

The number of times he said loser or junkie to your face, and the way that that was what you always fought back on. It will not stop replaying, in Carmen’s head. The way you think that wasn’t okay, but the way he spoke about you was. It’s all just nauseating. You’re so good to everyone but you. You defend everyone but you. Carmen's almost furious about this, though he doesn't feel he has the right to be. You should've treated him like Uncle Lee. He acted exactly like Uncle Lee.

“It can make it easier, to be at the bar, for some people, I've found.” You continue, still making conversation with the man as you stir the steeped tea into the glass, over ice. “Makes you feel normal.” Forced sobriety is definitely in the top five, of the most ostracizing human experiences.

He nods, relieved to have someone. “Most people don’t get that.”

You nod, strain out the virgin old-fashioned, and push the glass to him across the counter. “Well, I get that.”

He takes a sip of the mocktail, it’s perfectly nostalgic in a way that doesn’t hurt. “Thank you.” He’s thanking you for a lot more than the drink.

“A pleasure.” You nod. He stands up, tucking the stool back under the counter, as the speeches end. It won’t be long until the bar is crowded again, and he knows it’ll be too much, for him or you. You add. “Good luck with month three. It's a heavy one.”

“If you work it and you’re worth it.” He recites the line incorrectly on purpose, it’s an important one, but you both still laugh at it. Like an inside joke, practically. You give one quick dap, he puts a twenty in your tip jar, and walks off, with less sweat, and more spring in his step, this time. Good.

When he walks away, before guests start to stand, there’s a lull of silence. You don’t need to look at Carmen to know he has a million different thoughts, and a million more follow ups.

“You have questions?”

“None of my business.” He sniffs, awkwardly. “Unless you want it to be.”

Why did he have to fucking say it like that. Why did he have to put the ball in your court. Carmen fucking sucks. Y’know what, no, turn it on his ass.

“Did you give the New York Exec my number?”

“No.” The reply is instant. He doesn’t get thrown by the topic change in the slightest. You were pretty sure you knew the answer, but the speed of it is still a little surprising. Like it wasn’t something that was ever up for debate.

“What’d you say to him, then?”

This is when he looks embarrassed, just slightly. This part was up for debate, seemingly. “We—”

“Everyone, please stay in your seats for just a moment, our wonderful catering crew will be coming around to serve you!” Says… Vinnie’s mom? Mira’s mom? They all kind of blend together. It’s not long after this, that Syd rolls by with Marcus and a cart of food. She’s starting with you, despite the fact that you’re not a guest. Sweetie.

“Salmon or chicken?”

“Just gimme both, we’ll split it.” You nod your head to Carmen. “Best of both worlds.”

And then, the game of eye contact conversation ensues. A game that Carmen nor Marcus can comprehend.

‘I asked you’ Syd glares.

‘You can’t just starve him out’ You deadpan.

‘Who said?’

“Syd.” You say aloud. She sighs, handing you both plates, mumbling ‘whatevers’, walking off to serve the actual guests. No time to bicker. You look to Marcus, worried. “Heard about the cake, how’s it goin?”

He shrugs but he’s smirking, proud and bad at hiding it, he hands you a paper plate with a little chocolate cupcake. The floral frosting job is simple, and you know if he had more time, you’d probably be looking at a full realistic rose, but it’s still beautiful. “You tell me. Taste test.”

“Lil sacrilege, to do dessert before dinner, but okay.” You grab a fork from your pile, digging in. “Oh fuck,” You have to laugh. “Marcus— You stress me the fuck out, how do you have time to make shit this good?”

It’s a built-in habit for you, to hand your fork to Carmen. He gives you a moment to realize or pull back. You should but you don’t. He takes it, thankful, and tries the cupcake for himself.

“S’fire, Chef.” He points the fork, emphatically. “‘Specially with what you had.”

“Thank you, Chef.” Marcus nods.

You tilt your head, curious, “Do you even have time to test, though? If this sucked you wouldn’t have time to remake the full cake anyways, would you?”

“No.” He answers bluntly, and you both snort. He adds, “Just wanted to make sure you got dessert, over here.” Just wanted to make sure you ate something.

“Marcus…” You pout, overcome by the sweetness of the sweets Chef. You’ve gotta return the favour. “Gin and juice still your go-to?”

“You tryna get me fucked up at work?”

You shrug, grinning. “Are you tryna get fucked up at work?”

He’s going to say yes, but then he pauses, and looks to his boss. Looks to Carmen. Ah, you don’t run his kitchen— Get that through your head. Of course, Marcus can’t just drink—

Carmen shrugs, smiling, “Are you tryna get fucked up at work, Chef?”

Marcus claps his hands, grinning. “Yessir!”

That makes you feel a little lighter. You nod. “Gin and juice, comin’ up.”

You pour out the pineapple juice— Marcus’ preferred juice, of course you remembered. And Marcus leans over the bar, to watch you stir in the gin, even if it’s just a stupid simple drink, the guy loves to learn.

He asks, “How much they payin’ you, tonight?”

You shake your head, “Tips. Nothin’ else.”

Carmen’s ears burn, at that, while he evenly divides and plates out the salmon and chicken plates so you both have a little of everything. If things were normal you could just eat off each other's plates.

Marcus tilts his head, just as surprised. “You in debt, too?”

“Just to Mikey.” You smile, shaking your head. “No, I’m doin’ this in exchange for Uncle J getting me out of work early, a couple weeks back.”

“That’s it?”

“I was in a rush.” You shrug, measuring out the simple syrup. “Got like thirty missed texts from Syd, I thought someone fuckin’ died, didn’t have time to bargain.”

“Wait—” Marcus cannot help but grin, nearly laughing, at the ridiculousness of it, at how bad you got fucked over, by your own permission. “You’re here because you… left work… to go deliver Nat’s baby?”

“Yessir.” Are you fucking serious? Carmen can’t help but stare at the side of your head, for just a few seconds, before going back down to the plates. You’re in this hellscape of a bar, three states from your home, because you were delivering his niece? You did that for them already, and promised yourself for this, in order to do that?

“You know me,” You hand Marcus his glass, and you shouldn’t make the joke, but you can’t help yourself. “Modern day Christ.”

Marcus stifles down his snort, turning his head away from Carmen, to look at the ground. You do the same. There is something painful, about it all, for everyone; but Carmen can’t say that pain isn’t deserved, on his end, so he takes it. You’re allowed to joke about it all you want, if that’s what it takes for you to feel lighter.

A timer goes off on Marcus’ phone. He takes a sip from his gin and juice, nodding in approval, “Oh, shit— Alright, cool times up—” He lifts the glass to you, you hurriedly get the point and grab a random empty cup to clink with him, cheers.

“I’ll be back.” He says. Doubtful, you think. But you nod and wave him off nonetheless.

“If T needs a drink, tell her to take five.” You haven’t seen her tonight, but you realize yourself, again, once you say this. Not your kitchen. “Uh— If that’s, that’s okay—”

“Tell Chef to take a break if she needs it, we haven’t seen her.” Says Carmen, beside you. We. Don’t read into it. He hates you, and you hate him, actually. Carmen sucks, and so do you.

Marcus nods, and makes his mad dash off as a tsunami of guests that have just gotten their plates decide now that they want a drink with their meal. Sonofabitch.

God, you need a break. It’s really hitting you, and your stomach. As full as everyone’s tried to keep you, you really need to just sit down and have your fucking plate. Working behind a bar is a nightmare on the feet and back— Your earrings feel heavy, and your bracelets feel like handcuffs. It’s just all too much, without a break. You need a nap and maybe a thirty-minute session of just staring at a wall.

But the tsunami.

Carmen watches your side profile, and thinking back in his head, the collage of memories forming your face— He’s never seen you genuinely fatigued before. He’s seen you in the middle of the night, he’s seen you caught off guard, seen you distressed— But you’ve never really been one to ask for a break. It’s always yes of course it’s done, with you. It’s your best and worst trait.

As the crowd closes in, and your face morphs into a smile, ready to serve, Carmen claps his hands together, calling out to the sea. “Ey, sorry everyone, we’re just gonna take a quick thirty, alright? Union mandated.”

There is no such thing as a Bartender’s Union, you and Carmen very well know that. You’re about to call it off and say it’s fine before someone can throw an empty glass at your head or something, but instead, a scrawny but wide built, deeply New York Italian man, at the front of the crowd nods.

And as he nods, the crowd groans. He looks deeply offended by this. He turns to his fellow guests. “Where do y’all get off? We fought for those thirty-minute breaks, you fucks!” This quiets them pretty quickly. “We can live with the fuckin’ punch bowl for thirty minutes, c’mon.”

Carmen gets close enough to whisper to you, but far enough that it’s still not personal. Far enough that he still hates you. “Most of the family does or did service work. Say ‘union mandated’ and you can do anythin’”

You smile, watching the crowd dissipate, you crack a joke, because that’s probably what you’re supposed to do. “Union mandated… Murder?”

“Revolt, y’mean?” “Is that an offer?” “I’d ride for you.”

It’s supposed to be light and fun, but you can’t stop yourself, you can’t play the part and it comes out. “Would you?”

That one hurts. It all hurts, but that one really gets Carmen. That you’d have genuine reason to have pause about his dedication to you. Not your fault, his.

You grab your plate from his side of the counter, embarrassed by your instinctual prod. “Sorry.”

He’s not embarrassed by his. “Stop apologizing.”

There’s a heavy silence, before Carmen adds, “I’m supposed to be fuckin’ apologizing.”

There are no more interruptions. Fak isn’t going to come by, patrons are leaving you be, the staff is either helping Marcus or serving food. There is nothing left, to interrupt you two. This is going to happen. Christ, why does Never Let Me Down Again have to be playing right now? That’s not a fucking wedding song. This is too dramatic and simultaneously awkward and clunky and bad. There is no somethings left for you to do. There is nothing left to do, but talk. Nothing left to do but escape the void, ideally together. Please let it be together. You hate to admit it, but you want it to be together.

There is no good place to sit. So, you pick up your plate, and one of the many forks from your pile. With a sigh, you crouch down, and slide yourself underneath the counter, sitting with your legs folded, so Carmen can join you. You nod to him, to let him know that he can in fact join you.

He does. You take a few bites, in silence, before he breaks it.

“I didn’t mean a fuckin’ word.”

“It’s okay if you did.” You can’t look up from your plate. You deserved it.

He says your name, with a severity, to it. “—I didn’t mean a fucking word.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

“I—” Despite rehearsing what he wanted to say, and having ample stage to say it, he does not know how to say any of it, anymore. “I was like, like, jealous? But not in the— Not in the normal way.”

“Normal way?”

“Like, I didn’t— Well I did— But I like—” He puts his fork down, “I saw you as competition.”

You don’t know what to say, and so he keeps going. “I saw you like… Like being so perfect at everything, and being so… Being so what everyone needed, and you being there, and and— I felt so… the way you can just do that— Like— Like you can just be you and it just works. And I just fucking can’t.”

A talent you share with his brother. A talent Carmen envied in Mikey, and thus, envies in you.

“And then I got so… weird about that thought. Like you being you is— You’re for everyone. And I got this idea in my head that…” He cringes, trying to find better wording in his head for it, and he can’t. “That you were for me.”

“But you’re not for me—” “Ouch.” “—Not what I meant.”

He thanks you, internally, for being willing to add levity, right now. “I lo— I like you, so much. And I don’t want you to change. If you were like…” He half gestures to himself, which you’re not a big fan of the deprecation, but you let it slide. “Cold, and not for anyone, you wouldn’t be… you.”

Carmen realized as much, watching you tonight. Watching you interact with full strangers to long time friends. If you were callus, you wouldn’t be you. If you didn’t love his family as much as he did, he wouldn’t have attached himself to you, so quickly. He loves the way that you love. The way that you can’t turn it off. It’s not that Carmen isn’t special. It’s that you are so fucking special. He’s fucking stupid for not connecting those dots, earlier.

He picks up his fork again, needing to do something with his hands. Your brows remain furrowed, as you try to walk back how he spiraled from what and where.

“So, you just wanted to take me down a peg?”

He shakes his head. “It— I— With Mikey, I— I saw some shit that made me think that I was just… fillin’ a gap, or you were just being so good to me out of like… Guilt.” He chews down on his salmon. “And I couldn’t find your fuckin’ invoice, so I just kept drilling into my head that I was just… Charity.”

“You’re not charity.” You’re quick to refute.

“You didn’t fail Mikey.” So is he.

Oh Christ. You nod, but you don’t believe it. “You weren’t wrong to say it.” You have to put your plate down. “I— I don’t see you like I saw Mikey, at all. But I do…” You trail off, just looking at him has you tearing up.

He leaves home so early. He comes home so late. He looks so tired. Gaunt. Has he been eating? Did he light his oven on fire again? Remember how he looked in the freezer. Remember how Mikey looked in the freezer? Remember how they are so so different. They are so different but you still can’t stop connecting every fragment and taking it as a sign and worrying so fucking much, so fucking paranoid—

“Do what?” He swallows his last bite of chicken, and you can’t stop looking at him and fuck you just can’t hold it back, this time. You were doing so good about this. This isn’t even the point of the conversation— Well, kind of. Just breathe.

As your eyes begin to water, he sets his plate aside on the floor, reaching out immediately, worried, immediately. He pauses, hand floating in the air. Hesitating. “Fuck—Can I?”

Eyes barely open, you nod. He’s quick to take your plate from your hands, set it aside, and hug you there. It’s awkward, underneath a bar counter, half sitting, half crouching, grappling you. Carmen does not wish to be anywhere else.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and babble, unable to hold back a fear that’s been long standing, since the day you met him.

“Sometimes you remind me of Mikey so much and I get so scared and I just— Fuck, I just— Please don’t kill yourself, Carmen.” His arms wrap around just a bit tighter, as do yours. “I know that’s selfish—”

“It’s not.” Mumbled, to your neck. Skin to skin isn’t really the focal point, here, but there is a lurking part of his subconscious fearing that he will never be able to hug you like this, again. Never be your rock. “I won’t.”

It’s silent, for a minute. You believe him. He holds you there, and you believe him.

“Why did you think all that? That you were filler?” You pull back, just a bit, to look at his face. “Did I do something to make you feel like that?”

“No— God no. You’re—” He swallows. It feels stupid now, to even say how his fucking tantrum started, you had it so much worse, in your head. Why didn’t you tell him? “I was looking for your invoice, and—”

“I forgot the booths, by the way.” You recall the shoddy invoice you wrote. It’s a stupid time to interrupt, but as you slowly grow more comfortable, inches from his face, it feels like the time to be stupid. “And taxes. I owe you something more like eighteen-seventy.”

“You don’t owe me shit.”

“I’m paying back a Berzatto, somehow.”

“Where’d that money come from?”

“Where’d your tirade come from?”

He swallows again, getting back to the point. “I found a folder. Called ice chips, or something like that— But it wasn’t for ice. It was, for you.”

You look at him, genuinely perplexed for a second. Then you get it. And it makes a lot more sense, why Carmen knows you failed Mikey—Try as he might to deny it. “Oh… You found my Ice folder.”

“Fuck’s that mean?” You’re glad, honestly, that he’s never had a reason to learn what it means. It’s fair. You had to teach it to Mikey, too.

“Ice. I-C-E, Carmen. It’s an acronym.” You spell it out, slow. “In Case of Emergency. I-C-E.”

It knocks the wind out of him, immediately. He’s extra glad he’s holding onto you, because he’s starting to feel untethered. “What?”

You nod. It’s time to walk him through it. You have to tell him. “I made Mikey keep some sort of emergency stuff as a fail-safe, for when he forgot people wanted him alive.” When Carmen’s quiet, you continue. “I was in his work cabinet, I think Richie was in his bedside, you and Sug were in his wallet.”

His stomach lurches, at the idea of being the emergency his brother always had on him. “You knew he was suicidal?”

Who didn’t? You think, but don’t say, because that’s not fair. Mikey cut him out, how could he know?

“Everyone’s suicidal, when they’re trying to get sober.”

“What?”

“What?” You parrot back. It’s both your turns, to squint at the other, confused beyond belief now. How is he confused? You’re first to ask. “Carmen, what was in my ice folder?”

“Anniver— Oh my fucking God.” He unwraps himself from you, because he’s frankly too ashamed to touch you, realizing everything he misunderstood. “Oh, my fucking God.”

You let him go, though you don’t particularly want to. He’s probably realizing he’s hugging the enemy.

“Carmen—?” “You didn’t fucking date Mikey.”

“What?!” You jump, your head hits the bottom of the base of the bar’s sink. “Fuck! Ow, no— What?!”

It’s a mess of limbs and emotions, as he grabs your head haphazardly, seeing if you’re hurt— It honestly hurts more, to be pulled around like this. “Are you o—” You don’t let him finish, grabbing at his wrists, ignoring your sore head.

“You thought I’d fuck your brother and then—What— try to fuckin’ get the whole set?” You’re cringing at the thought. This had just never come up in your mind. You would’ve set him straight, if it did. It was way worse in his head. Why didn’t he tell you? “I— Carmy, babydoll, are you fucking insane?”

You say nice pet names, when you’re perplexed. You’ve got a pattern of doing so. He also has no comeback for this, completely mum. You release his wrists. You add, again, aghast. “How old do you think I am?”

“Ah— As old as Syd?” “Correct.” “So, twenty-eight?”

“Turning, but yeah.” You nod, like a teacher walking him through a problem. “And how old was Mikey?”

“Forty something.” “Forty-three.” “No one remembers their brothers’ age—” “Sixteen years. Carmen.”

You press your hands over your eyes. “And listen, I get at a point age is just a number but I was twenty-five when I met him and he was already fucking forty— I grew up with Muppet Babies and he grew up with Muppets. Period end of sentence.”

You sigh. This situation isn’t funny at all, but you feel a load lighten off of you significantly. And also the situation is extremely funny. It’s hard to be mad at someone this thrown off.

“It’s just— Listen, do I think Mikey’s hot? Absolutely—”

“Alright—” He cringes, putting a hand in the air, asking you to lay off this train of thought.

“Oh, what do you want me to say ‘your genetic make-up fucking sucks actually’? No, you have a hot family, Carmen.”

“Say this in any other way but this one.”

“I did not date your brother, Carmen.” You finalize, he breathes lighter. “Think about it for like more than two seconds. Richie would’ve fuckin’ run his mouth about it immediately— Would’ve said you’re getting sloppy seconds or call me a fuckin’ homie hopper—”

“I did think that he’d say that, yeah.”

“Well fuckin’ think harder on it, next time—” “Well, what about the joint bank account?”

The most romantic paperwork he’d ever seen. It makes you pause, and Carmen’s considers a universe where you’re just the most incredible pathological liar in existence.

“I made him make it.” You finally say, saddened just thinking about the failsafe that didn’t fucking work. “I didn’t put any money in it.”

“Why’d you want it, then?” The idea of you dating his brother quiets in his head, now he just wants to listen.

“So I could keep track of his spending and withdrawals.” You pick up your fork and twirl it around, like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Need something to do with your hands. “Mostly his withdrawals.”

Carmen thinks about it, trying to tie together the red strings in his head without asking you first. “So you could see if he was buying.”

“If he knew he was being watched, he was less inclined to deal.” You shrug and nod. “Plus I wanted him to get into the habit of keeping savings.”

“Lotta good that did.” Carmen can’t help but laugh, pitifully, at that. “Everythin’ got claimed, when he kicked it.”

You shake your head, you tuck your knees to your chest. “Not everything.”

He just looks at you, curious, waiting for you to explain. Mikey had so much credit card debt— Everything he had outside of fucking tomato cans was claimed.

You shrug. “Not the accounts he wasn’t sole proprietor on.”

Joint bank account. It was partially your money, technically. It deferred to you. Carmen’s head just falls over, another painful realization of another thing you did, that he got completely wrong. You never gave Mikey a cent. You just gave him the protection of your name and credit score.

“Why’d you do all that, for him?”

Holy shit, he doesn’t know. Carmen doesn’t actually know you killed Mikey. You live in a world, still, where Carmen doesn’t completely rightfully blame you. You tap your fingers on your knees. Staring aimlessly. There is nothing else to do.

“Anyone ever tell you why I get called Chip?”

“I asked Richie. Said to ask you.” Carmen shakes his head, he’s a bit sick of himself, for being almost excited to get an answer about this. “Said it was personal.”

You squint and snort. “Since when does Richie give a fuck about personal?”

Carmen smiles, finally, and tucks his knees to his chest to mimic you. “Since me, I guess.”

“Good influence.” You smile, trying to distract from the nervousness, thrumming hard in your chest. Spit collects in your throat like it’s trying to choke you. “I uhm… Chippy is, uh, Mikey started calling me Chip or Chippy cause of uhm—”

You take a moment, one deep breath. A breath of air in the world before Carmen knows. A sanctimonious breath.

You pull at the long black rope chain on your neck, pulling it out from underneath your top, where it’s always been safely tucked. Not hidden necessarily, just always close to your chest. Close to your heart.

“It’s a joke, about— It’s like—”

Just do it, Chip. Let it rip.

“It’s—”

You hold out your fist for him to put his hand out and take it. Carmen gets the point and holds his palm out. You press the pendant into his hand. Holding your hand over it, for a moment, as if you could decide now that actually he shouldn’t be allowed to see this. Like there’s still an escape option, somehow.

You move your hand, you try to speak calmly, as he stares. And the text on the large round pendant stares back at him.

To Thine Own Self Be True.

“Sobriety chip.” Unity, Service, Recovery.

A proud and large 3 months, in the middle of the triangle, leers back at Carmen.

“I was— I was Mikey’s sponsor.”

Now y'all in my asks see why I was waiting, eh?

Ya caught on! Well, after thinking collectively, ya caught on. Some of you got it quick. Anyways, I shouldn't be talking about this like it's some gotcha, it's deeply painful.

A lot of hard confirmations! Fuck! This conversation was so hard to navigate, because I was like-- There's just so much for them to catch up on, and so they keep like moving forward and so I was like wait I have to go back and address this-- No. That's not how most real convos like this work, they just keep running forward, they can clarify later. Such a weird brain challenge. I was tweaking. I hope it's sensical to read? If it's not, dw, i'll walk into the sea about it.

Can you believe this chapter began with Syd/Chip/Richie? Absolutely bonkers. We started with getting ready in a hotel/taking a flight. We were so young, then. I've gotta go watch season 3, so don't send me spoilers, but please send me literally any and all thoughts about this chapter. I really fuckin-- Rah.

I'm happy with this chapter and I honestly think I will probably make a separate post sometime this week showing bits you might've missed-- So much of this was me harkening back to those first three chapters. I went back and reread them recently and I was like woah. I don't know how I did the thing where the writing style felt distant and slowly became close as they became close as characters, but I did feel like that was a thing. In the early chapters. Having to recreate that distant feeling here? Oh fuck. Brutalizing feeling.

Oh but on the more cute side, if you also see Tony as Desi, I was thinkin like a lehenga style blouse with all the work, and like, some black flared pants? and she's got big fuckin jhumkas, OF COURSE!!! OF COURSE BRO!!! But I just left it at semi-cultural so everyone could have fun, hehehe

I feel almost certain, someone's gonna be missing from this tag list, and for that, a thousand pardons, I am gonna put it in my notes app so I don't forget next time, mbmbmb, also added people that did not ask but you are so frequent that i feel like you're just forgetting to ask? idk if you wanna get taken off always just ask dw

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

anyways, if you wanna be added send me your thoughts/analysis/diagnosis at length + ask to be added and i will ! try! sometimes they get lost and i am sorry abt that but i do try!

Next Part

#carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto imagine #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen x reader #carmy berzatto #carmen x oc #carmy x reader #carmy the bear #the bear fanfiction #the bear x reader #the bear #the bear hulu #the bear fx

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pompadourpink · 2 months ago

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It's a new beginning!

Hello children,

September is coming, school too for some of you - often a great moment for a bit of decluttering and a few new good resolutions. Here am I, offering myself as one of them!

As you hopefully know, I started this blog in 2016 and have been a private tutor since the beginning of the pandemic. I have room at the moment for several new students, so here is what I offer:

Classes, obviously - the typical schedule is one hour a week, sometimes one and a half, or one every two weeks, or two every two weeks; typically same day same time (I'm always happy to make adjustments if you work shifts)

Homework, if you can make the time for it. I typically prefer it to be finished by the middle of the week so that I have time to take a look and correct it, giving you the opportunity to give it a second try before class!

Depending on your preferences, either just a few activities so we can take our time, especially if you are a beginner, or something a bit more dynamic consisting in five to ten minute long activities to keep you motivated and alert (which seems to be a crowd's favourite as most of my students are neurodivergent).

Talking activities are typically answering series of questions I share from my Notion, talking about your week, summarising a book or a movie, making me guess a word or a person, or a concept I call "alien talk" where you explain something (like a vaccine or insurance) from scratch to a little red man.

Writing activities are often fictional (I have students create a little character on a website and we write an update about their life regularly), they can also be an overview of your month, a letter to quit your horrible job or convince Snoop Dog to marry you because you are a gold digger.

Transcribing activities, especially at the beginning, are either me reading very easy sentences so you can write them down and memorise the way things sound, then it's episodes from young children's shows, extracts from very famous movies, then we hit harder and turn to gameshows or podcasts.

Translating activities, from one language to another, are a written translation of the first page of a novel (I did the Secret History recently), or a newspapers article (we are working on this one at the moment); or an oral translation of songs lyrics, fairytales, children's books, muted captioned playthroughs of your favourite games on Youtube, etc.

Finally, a few games: silly quizzes, crosswords, Wordle and even Quordle, hangman, and sometimes we even sing if you're comfortable with that.

Here is the link of my website where you will find reviews and a list of what to send me to get the process started. A few things to know:

I try to make the activities fit your preferences: get me a list of what you like and that is what we will work on. If your first language is not English, I am happy to include it, I'm always eager to learn (I've been reviewing my Spanish this way!)

I work without cameras. I don't need to see your face, I just need a voice and a good Internet connection. All students are welcome, no matter if you have an accent, a stutter, or disabilities. Do not be afraid of being judged, there is none of that here.

I ask for your contact information to be able to do my billing, no one else sees it and no one will know if you give me the address of a building in your area if you feel more comfortable this way. If you prefer to have a lesson first and decide that you want to continue before sending me your info, that's also an option.

I have a student and a regular rate, depending on what you can afford, and we can make different arrangements if your country's rate makes it too difficult, I've done it before.

Please comment if you have a question!

Much love,

Rose

#personal

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moviesludge · 2 months ago

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tagged by @thechurchofsplatterdaysaints

Do you make your bed? Not usually, but oddly enough I did during covid. Something about doing it then made sense to me but I haven't really thought about it. And then I did it when my ex used to nag me about it. I do it sometimes.

Fave number? Don't really care now but I used to like 13 and 14.

What's your job? Unemployed. Would like to be employed but refuse to work a job I hate unless I have no other option. The stress of my last job sucked bad. I help my family though (parents and sister), and there's a lot to do. My dad does absolutely everything and he's 70, so you know. Shit will be changing sooner than later.

Go back to school? I'm not ruling it out.

Can you parallel park? I can. It's weird too, because the first time I ever did it was completely out of necessity and it was a dark night and it was a really small space too. I couldn't believe it when I did it the first time. And I don't consider myself that good of a driver.

Job you had that would surprise people? I guess the most surprising maybe is call center supervisor for eharmony. Or Blockbuster? I dunno.

Aliens real? I feel like the scope of the universe makes this a certainty and it amazes me how many people think it's a ridiculous idea. Talk about main character syndrome!

Can you drive stick? I never had the means to even learn

Guilty pleasure? Eating stuff I know I'm not supposed to (very sparingly!)

Tattoos? no but I think about it sometimes. I feel like I'd get sick of it no matter what it was.

Fave color? too many. earthtones and ryb are up there.

Fave type of music? probably all the stuff in the post-punk/new wave/no wave/power pop sphere. I'm picky about metal, but when I like something I like it a lot. Also been finding out there's a fair amount of rap stuff I dig. I really like soul and funk music and some oldies (50s & 60s, not modern oldies which are 80s).

Do you like puzzles? Word/mind shit, trivia, board games, etc. Yeah I love Jeopardy and I subscribe to NYT games. I do the crosswords, wordle, strands, spelling bee, and connections games every day. I also like nonagrams and I'll do a sudoku once in a while.

Phobias? just making it in the world, especially when my parents are gone. My parents getting sick and/or dying. Climate change causing a global food supply collapse in my lifetime. The U.S. falling fully into fascism. Basically things that are all certain to happen sooner or later

Favorite childhood sport? Basketball and baseball. Never liked playing soccer or football.

Talk to yourself? Yeah mostly when I'm irritated about something.

Movies you adore? Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, Evil Dead II, Speed Racer, Starship Troopers, Black Christmas, Bad Santa, My Cousin Vinny, Tremors, Gremlins 2, Better Off Dead, Big Trouble In Little China, Boxer's Omen, Terrorvision, etc

Coffee or Tea? both, but mostly coffee. I tried chai tea recently though and I like it a lot.

1st thing you wanted to be when grew up? The way my mind is, I didn't really think about things this way. All I remember desiring as a kid about being an adult was being on even ground with other adults and being given basic respect instead of being treated like a little kid. Like I wanted to sit on the couch and have my feet touch the floor. I wondered what my face would look like as an adult. The idea of a far off future job was irrelevant to me.

tagging @donnerpartyofone @steamedtangerine @jesusismyhostage

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thewrittingpan · 8 months ago

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Random Head cannons:

Lilia

I firmly believe that he would have a Mountian Dew addiction- sure I think other sodas are possible too like Dr. Pepper but there’s this “dad clock” that has haunted every divorced father I’ve met and it’s a Mountain Dew clock and it always hangs on the wall where the kitchen meets the dinning table. Don’t ask me why it’s a trend in my life that’s between me and my therapist but I feel that Lilia would probably own one in his gamer room.

Speaking of which he’s got a damn gammer room. I’ve admittedly been out of the loop event and plot wise since the release of ignihide’s chapter (I can not spell forgive my dyslexic ass), but it doesn’t matter if it’s just his bedroom, a whole separate room, a streaming room or not. It has a fancy custom built pc, one that lights up and the whole room is themed to match. It’s very well put together and could probably pay my college tuition with the merchandise he may collect.

I personally think that since Lilia is so old, he tends to hoard things. It obviously snuck into my fic Ring of Mushrooms with just the whole house being a cluttered mess of history. Some of it is me trying not to be a hoarder myself but living nicknack because I am just a bird in a human shape, but he just has a lot of things he forgets about.

Call it time blindness, forgetfulness, or sentimentality but he just keeps pictures, books, gifts, random things his sons have drug into the house or stuffed into their pockets. He has jars of buttons that Malleus collected as a toddler, the shiny rocks Silver picked up by the stream, he’s the type of guy to have a full box of the same pencil because it’s his favorite and there was a rumor it was being discontinued.

I also think that he has a soft spot for pinks and pastels especially when the boys were young. Mint/sage greens were a common choice for blankets, hats, and mittens. He also probably color coded the boys. It doesn’t matter if they were the same age or not just for ease and avoiding fights he totally did.

Lilia probably has a bunch of abandoned hobbies. Things he did long enough to have a humans level of decent but not great. if he were to “relearn” it he would appear to be a savant to a real beginner. Some of these hobbies include: Calligraphy, Crochet, Knitting, Fish lure making, Astronomy, Woodworking

Hobbies he would be bad at:

Drawing/Painting, he has a bad understanding of color but a great eye for depth and detail. The forms are always very off putting though.

He tried birdwatching he isn’t bad at it per se, but he often gets interrupted or caught up in something that is not the birds.

He wanted to do quilting and scapbooking, it’s not that he can’t do them either but he always forgets the projects. The scrapbooks mostly the quilts he has a lot more practice with as baby shower gifts for neighbors and for his own kids. Yet his stiches can be sloppy same with the binding.

He has a fondness for spinel gems he likes the wide array of colors like most gems but he likes a lot of the vibrant pinks they come in

Malleus

I think malleus would have a habit of forgetting to eat if not reminded or brought food. I cannot explain why I think this I just have a hunch.

I think Malleus is great at word puzzles and puzzles in general, it’s not inherently that he’s super smart but he just knows patterns more often than not. However he is quite horrible at pop culture references and trivia. For example he is good at Wordle, Sudoku, crosswords, and connections, but since crosswords and connections often have pop culture references those are the ones he struggles with most.

When he was young he collected things. I mean a lot of things, buttons, pins, rocks, pinecones, leaves, he pressed and dried flowers, half of his room was just wall-to-wall collections. This continued on until now but it’s just gotten more mild, though it flares up during stressful times.

He’s very good at quilting if I had to assign a good trade themed hobby. I’m open to other needle crafts like embroidery or cross-stitch but I think quilting is something that gets done during school breaks and he often sews in former button collections to them.

I think he has an aversion to some kind of food, whether it be things like a texture like he doesn’t like the feeling of bananas or the taste of pees makes him nauseous. I don’t think it’s an allergy or anything just something that physically makes him feel like death is the only solution to the minor inconvenience.

He’s a peridot guy sure emeralds work too but if he’s being honest the peridots are cuter

Silver

One time he had a talking to about throwing sand. He was only three at the time but it had to be revisited after an incident with an ant hill when he was four.

He sleeps in a funeral-showing sort of way. His hands clasped on his chest while he lays on his back. He rarely moves in his sleep, but cheese can cause him to sleep walk.

Speaking of which he has a mild lactose intolerance. He doesn’t care to actively avoid dairy but he often forgets he has it. On many occasions he has eaten too much dairy and was genuinely confused by the way he was having tummy troubles.

He cries at weddings.

He doesn’t cry at funerals.

Silver has this hobby of wanting to bird hunt but falls asleep too often. He does however have some half okay drawing skills. Enough to have an upper hand in Pictionary maybe but a good hand on proportions and the details are messy but it works.

He has a fondness for pearls it’s the type of jewelry he thinks is the most beautiful.

#fanfiction #twst #twisted wonderland malleus #twisted wonderland #headcannons #twst lilia #lilia vanrouge #malleus draconia #twst silver #twisted wonderland silver #headcanon

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rinyx · 3 months ago

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synopsis: all you wanted to do was to sort things out with him and get rid of the weird awkward tension always lingering, but it seems that he had other plans…

pairings: male x reader

wc: 1.8k

cw: angst, breakup

a/n: hii!! this will be my first fic so i would really appreciate it if you read it and gave me any advice in my inbox!! much appreciated if you read it and liked!!

you sat down at the coffee shop waiting for him, you and him had been friends for a solid three months but within those three months you had became closer than you had with anyone else, you two were practically inseparable…, at one point.

you two would text each other nonstop if you couldn’t meet up, he would always make you play roblox with him and you guys would have daily competitions to see who would win the most dles… which included the flagle, globle, wordle, worldle, and the connections, often times he won, unsurprisingly. he was a total geography nerd, he knew basically all the flags by heart. he even made you play guess the flag on Roblox too. would it be crazy to say you two were ‘casual’ probably. you guys would often say “you missed each other”, stay up late till 4 am just to talk to each other, fall asleep on face time, sometimes while watching movies too. he would show you pictures and videos of his dog named, theo, a little wiener dog. you absolutely adored theo and would always ask to see videos of him whenever you got the chance. you guys also made asmr videos to send to each other just for fun even though they were totally low quality… but either way you both enjoyed making them. you guys had also made a pact between each other to always tell one another if they were feeling upset towards the other in any sort of way. this was mostly made because he got mad at you most of the time, well, all of the times, the reasoning behind it being that he was upset at you for not responding to him… you, unfortunately, were an avoidant texter. you wouldn’t text back most of your friends for hours if you didn’t feel like it.

probably an asshole move on your part, but it was just a part of who you were. unfortunately he was the opposite, whenever he didn’t respond to you for some time he would apologize profusely, saying how he feels so bad and whatnot. he would text you, spam you if you weren’t responding, multiple times and he would wait until you responded, even if you didn’t he never failed to say his good nights and good mornings to you. he soon enough realized he was too attached for his own good, he usually never felt upset at other if they didn’t respond but for some odd reason he did towards you, which led him to talking to a friend about it. To which they had diagnosed him with being too attached unfortunately, and you could do nothing but agree since it wasn’t wrong… but this past week has been an absolute wreck for you… the entire week all your emotions had been off, you were an absolute train wreck of emotions constantly sleeping to distract yourself from your own mind. worst of all, he was drifting, you could feel it from the way he texted, in fact this is how you always caught him if he was mad at you. you could sense it through his texts, the tension between them, how his energy had an obvious shift within. you confronted him about it multiple times asking him if he was mad or upset in any way, to which he always answered with a simple “no”. but he was drifting and you couldn’t do anything but try and grasp at what was still here. coming back to this moment, you decided it was time for you to actually try and talk it out because he clearly wasn’t trying for that which lead to this moment in the cafe.

“hey” you snapped your neck to look up at the figure standing over the table. “you’re here!!” you responded trying to sound as energetic as you could, trying your best to make light of the situation. “you said you had something to say?” he said and sat down on the chair across from you. “well…,”

you then continued to go on a ramble about how you often felt suffocated and drained whenever the person you’re texting isn’t reciprocating your energy, you tell him you know it’s a bad habit, how you want to fix yourself. but you’ve already created your own defense mechanism, whenever you feel unappreciated, or even annoying to the other you back away, distancing yourself from them. you tell him your biggest deepest insecurity, how you’re afraid to tell people things about you, afraid they’d think you’re stupid for your problems, that you’re being over dramatic, they think you’re annoying with your stupid problems, that they don’t want to hear. you’re afraid they’d leave you. and how he’s been acting recently has really made you think, has made you want to distance. as you finish your ongoing ramble you look up to meet his gaze, but you can’t quite make out what’s behind his mind. “well…” he starts. “I don’t know what to say to that…” your heart sinks to your stomach. you feel sick down to every last bone, you knew it you never should’ve done this, you never should’ve said anything. oh great he’s opening his mouth again. to say more. “you basically just said you don’t want to talk to me..?” he says with a slight confused tone “oh but it’s fine, I understand” no you don’t. you don’t understand at all. did you even listen to half of what I said you think to yourself too afraid to say it to his face “I hope you feel better in the future…?” he says trying to make the tension in the air lift. you sit there feeling your nose itch and eyes burn. uh oh. you’re going to cry aren’t you. you can’t. you absolutely cannot cry. if you cry you’ll probably never forgive yourself for it. you somehow start to muster coherent sentences “no… no, you don’t get it..? I only don’t want to talk to you sometimes because I get the impression from you that you don’t want to talk to me…???” at this point you can’t even look him in the eyes, afraid of what will happen if you do. “well… maybe” he pauses as if he thinking of what to say next as he does this you grip the edge of your chair, knuckles turning white. he starts again. “we… should just stop chatting… you did say that you felt weird, so…” as the words come out of his mouth you clench your eyes shut, and take a deep breath in, sighing as you open your eyes to look at him again.

“so, what you’re saying is that you don’t want to talk to me.” he opens his mouth and then closes it again as if he couldn’t answer this one simple question. you scoff, tears brimming your eyes threatening to spill out. “well… I’ve been trying to distance myself…” you take these words in for a moment trying to keep yourself as collected as you can…. “I’m sorry, I just…” your words feel lodged within your throat “why are you sorry” he always did this. he never let you say sorry, you both always told each other to stop saying sorry whenever one of you said it. you repeat the same question hoping to get a better response than just some attempt to dodge it. “I mean… I think it’s better if we don’t.” now, instead of gripping the chair you had now moved on into balling your hand into a fist, digging your nails into your skin, biting your lips, anything to stop yourself from crying in front of him, although you were pretty sure he could tell you were on the edge. you take another breath in a attempt to calm yourself before you speak once again “…okay. I’m sorry.” “why..?” you open your mouth once again “because. it’s my fault, I’m sorry.” oh great. now you’re just trying to do anything to get something out him, anything. “no… you’re good…?” you start to speak again without thinking “I should’ve never said anything.” his eyes softened slightly looking at you with pity. “what.., why??” “cause look at where it led us.” you said exasperated. “but… I think it’s good you said that?” you meet his gaze only to look back down again into your lap too afraid to try and analyze his face throughout this “no, it literally quite proved my point. opening up and being vulnerable with someone is just going to make them leave.”

oh great, now you were trying to guilt trip him. anything to make him stay…. “no…? that’s not the reason this is happening.” you sigh, already worn out. “then what’s the reason.” you say sternly “I’ve been trying to distance myself for awhile, I just… didn’t know how to say it. but it’s not like we’re never going to talk to each other again, I’m just, not going to talk everyday.” you make a shaky exhale as an attempt to balance yourself “… okay. I’m sorry.” he shakes his head as if annoyed… or at least that’s how you take it. “okay..! have fun on your trip! I really liked chatting with you…” he laughs and smiles awkwardly before saying “thank you, but… you’re saying all this as if we’re never going to talk again…” you start to ramble again. “ I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m so… I don’t know…? I don’t know how to process this, there’s so much I want to say but I don’t know how to say it in words… its just that, you got me too attached to you..??? I never text people on the daily let alone hourly but you came into my life and changed everything. and then you started distancing yourself and I just knew this was coming, I could feel it and it’s my fault for letting myself get hurt by this. I just don’t know why I’m so emotional I usually never cry about stuff like that…” you bring you arm to your eyes as an attempt to wipe away the tears, you chuckle and smile bitterly towards the ground too afraid to look at him. “I’m sorry… it’s just that… I only distanced myself because I got attached, and I thought you didn’t care…” you snap my neck up to meet his gaze with your panicked one “of course I cared..?? I cared a whole lot.” oh great, you could tell he was pitying you with his gaze. “I’m sorry…” he says. “stop apologizing.” is the last thing you say to him before you grab your bag and walk out the door leaving him to look at your back solemnly while you try to not bump into anything with the tears blurring your vision.

#oc #oc x reader #angst #x reader #reader insert #imagine #x y/n #x reader angst #male oc #casual #breakup #angst no happy ending

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yoshihashismattebum · 8 months ago

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9 People I'd Like to Get to Know Better

Thanks @sycamoretrees for the tag!

Last song: I'm going to cheat and go for a whole album. I've been really enjoying Where's My Utopia? by Yard Act recently: deceptively clever stream-of-consciousness lyrics that walk the line between wry irony and passionate sincerity, all set to post-punk beats that you can dance to. (Shout-out to HELLMODE by Jeff Rosenstock and Sorry for the Late Reply by Sløtface too – both brilliant albums as well)

And while I'm breaking the rules, I might as well mention my wrestling playlist that I've been working on! It's a really eclectic mix of songs that remind me of various different things in wrestling – feuds, characters, general vibes etc. It's not finished yet (I'd like to organise it thematically and write some annotations to explain my thinking behind the choices), but maybe you'll find something on there you like!

Favourite colour: it's a tie between blue and purple (especially lilac). Also currently enjoying the yellow-green of the new leaves that are appearing at this time of year!

Currently watching: wrestling, surprise surprise. I'm just about keeping up with AEW and completely failing to keep up with NJPW. Other than that, I've not really been in a big TV/film mood recently. Although I did see Dune Part 2 the other week, which I thought was fantastic. My partner and I have also become slightly addicted to watching Gab Smolders play Nancy Drew games on YouTube.

Spicy/savoury/sweet/(sour)/(salty)/[umami]: since @sycamoretrees set a precedent of adding options, I'm going to go with another write-in candidate: my beloved umami. I am a Marmite fiend and will eat just about anything if it has soy sauce/miso/strong cheese etc in it. I enjoy pretty much all of the above tastes though, especially when combined in interesting ways. If I had to choose between the original options, I probably lean towards savoury; I have extremely strong opinions on crisps.

Relationship status: I've been with my partner for almost 11 years now :) (While I'm here, go check out her fantastic art and tabletop RPG writing at @mortphilippa! Obviously I'm biased, but she's super talented!)

Obsessions:

Too many to mention them all, but here's a selection:

Wrestling (of course): as well as my usual AEW & NJPW, I've watched some CMLL recently, which has been fun. I also recently reached new levels of nerd by emulating King of Colosseum 2, a Japanese wrestling game from 2004, on PC. It's good! Holds up well!

Tabletop role-playing games – an ever-present obsession for me. I've just wrapped up a 4+ year D&D campaign that I was GMing, which is an odd feeling, but I'm so proud of the story we told together. I'm also currently GMing/writing stuff for Cy_Borg, Liminal Horror and Brindlewood Bay, among others! There are tons more I want to run though – too many games, not enough time! (I am always up for conversations about TTRPGs by the way – I could talk forever about them! Hit me up if you wanna chat!)

Puzzle games: more of a recent obsession. I continue to do the Wordle every day, but I've recently been enjoying Connections (sorting words into categories), Heardle Decades (identifying songs from the intros), and Squeezy (a weird game about fitting letters into other words). I'm also going through a bit of a point-and-click adventure phase. Really enjoying Unavowed by Dave Gilbert currently. I'm not usually an urban fantasy fan, so it's a testament to how good the writing is that I'm loving it as much as I am.

Spring flowers: spring has well and truly sprung here in the UK, and I am loving all of the flowers that are popping up everywhere! There's nothing that brings me joy quite like going for a walk and doing some plant-spotting (I'm trying to get better at identifying plants this year! I'm mostly reliant on Google Lens and a bit of inherited knowledge from my Grandma currently)

Oops, that was A Lot! Enough about me. Time to tag some other people! (Only if you feel like it though! Absolutely zero pressure)

IRL friends (I know you all very well already, but I always love hearing what you're up to 💙): @thewaythroughthewoods, @thepenultimaterolo and @mortphilippa (and @unpairedbracket if you fancy it!)

Some Tumblr people wot seem cool (sorry if we've not interacted much – I've not been on Tumblr a lot recently and I'm bad at starting conversations!): @norfkid, @sybilius, @dansedan, @unlikelywrestlingfan, @punkrockpariah

#about me #tag game

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farfromstrange · 1 year ago

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Chaos Theory | Michael Kinsella x Reader

Chapter 14: We'll Be A Fine Line

Masterlist ° Chapter List

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Reader (she/her)

Summary: Before Michael’s first day at work, he overhears a conversation between you and your sister, and the day just keeps getting weirder from there. But he still has you. Right?

Warnings: Slight angst, fluff, foreshadowing, mentions of child abuse, spiders

Word Count: 7.4k (oops)

A/n: Giving you this because I won’t be able to post before Wednesday, probably, because of my last final. So yeah, here you go. Have at it. This is not full-on angst, I'm just warming you up. Chapter 15 hurts though. Everyone, say fuck you to the spider in my room that made me sleep in the bathtub last night :) I don't know how I'm supposed to move out and get rid of them MYSELF?! (also, how can a person be so cute WHILE FROWNING??)

The first day in a new workplace is always the most challenging because you don’t know what to expect.

Michael has never paid much mind to coffee before he met you, but thanks to you, his knowledge has expanded. Does he know how to make it? No. He gets confused by your modern machine at home, and he fears he might feel the same way at the café, but it’s the place he met you, so it’s connected to happy memories.

He is a fast learner, or so he has been told. And when you told him that you used to live off of instant coffee and couldn’t afford Starbucks or the like, and so you also paid no mind to good coffee before, he felt a little less alone.

You learned, so he will too.

“Caramel or hazelnut?” you ask, sitting at the dining table with your cup of coffee in hand and your phone before you on the table.

Until a few seconds ago, you were engaged in the New York Times’ new Wordle game that dropped this morning, and now you’re blurting out random questions and Michael is so confused, he almost drops his mug.

“Wha’?” he asks back.

He looks cute with his hair disheveled, wearing his boxers and a shirt, and his face still scrunched up from sleep.

You look at him with a smile. “Hazelnut or caramel?” you repeat your question.

“Uh… hazelnut?”

“Wrong, caramel.”

His frown deepens. “What?”

“Best topping flavor,” you say. “It’s caramel, not hazelnut.”

Shaking his head, he turns back to his coffee and pours some extra hazelnut syrup into his brew, right in front of your face.

You point behind him. “Toss me the caramel syrup, will ya?”

“If I toss it, yer not gonna catch it,” he says.

“And what makes you think that?”

“You put milk in the cupboard when yer sleep deprived.”

You pause for a second before nodding, a soft blush coating your cheeks. “That’s fair,” you reply. With a heavy sigh, you return to your phone.

Michael sits down next to you, peeking at the screen. “Ya still lookin’ fer a five-letter word?” he asks.

“Yeah. It’s really pissing me off. Like, what the fuck am I supposed to do with an E and an S?”

“Try ‘Feast.”

You type the word into the Wordle boxes. The letter T lights up orange and your eyes light up. He loves when that happens. You look like a child on Christmas Day, and something tells him you didn’t have many moments in the past where you got to be excited like this.

His thoughts flicker back to the drawer you religiously keep locked, and his curiosity flares up again. It’s dangerous; when he gets curious, he often gets curious enough to snoop around. But he knows if he deliberately breaks into the drawer, he will lose you forever, and he doesn’t want that to happen.

“Meets,” he blurts out.

You raise your eyebrows. “Meets?” you ask.

“Yes.”

You type the word in, and lo and behold, it turns out to be the word they were looking for, and the screen explodes with confetti. You squeal in excitement and jump off your chair before sitting back down, pulling your leg up to your chest.

“Amen,” you say.

He smirks. “You’re welcome.”

“Right,” you remember and add, “Thank you, baby.”

Humming, he says, “That’s better.”

You cradle his cheek with a playful glint in his eyes and kiss him, then indulge back in your coffee. You savor the taste, your eyes closing, and you slowly begin to wake fully. You have to get ready soon, but for soon you want to spend your peaceful morning with the man you love.

He hasn’t stayed with you that much the past couple of days, which made you a little sad, but he is here now. You spent the night together. You didn’t have sex, much of the opposite. When Michael heard that you like to watch football, he got excited and convinced you to watch the Manchester game. Needless to say, it ended in a discussion about your favored team against his, and you went to bed with popcorn still stuck in your hair. You can swear there is still a piece stuck somewhere from your food fight, even after a shower.

Though when your phone rings and Maya’s name shows up on your screen, your demeanor changes completely. Your body tenses up and the adrenaline starts coursing through your veins. “Excuse me,” you mutter, completely blocking out that it’s Michael you’re with, “I have to take this.”

He frowns again. Something isn’t right. You tense up instantly, and he catches a glimpse of a female name on your screen. Your smile fades. Instead, the corners of your mouth turn down.

You get up and pass by him without another word, disappearing into the bedroom. He knows he shouldn’t do it, but your behavior is suspicious and he feels the desperate urge to protect you from whatever got you switching attitude this quickly. So against his better judgment, he gets up and follows you, stopping just before the bedroom door.

And he is glad he decided to do so because as he stands there, he finally catches another glimpse of who you truly are beneath all the layers of endless defenses and brick walls you have built around yourself. They are almost impossible to break through, and hearing you talk in a hushed tone to whoever is on the phone opens up another door to your heart he hasn’t seen before, and apparently doesn’t get to see when you’re in his immediate presence.

You answered the phone with a sudden and firm, “Are you okay?”

“What?” Maya says. She sounds almost carefree, and you relax a little when she continues, “I just called to tell you that I found something very exciting for you during my field trip.”

“Are you fucking–” You sigh. Idiot. “I thought something happened to you,” you say.

There is a short pause. “I’m okay,” she says.

“Thank God! Next time maybe give me a heads up. Maybe a quick ‘Hey, I’m calling because I’m happy not because I’m half-dead in a ditch’ or something. I don’t know.”

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t– I don’t want you to even start that. I fell into a habit of constantly apologizing for things I didn’t do because of him and I don’t want you to feel like you have to do the same.”

“Okay… I’m sorry.”

“Maya,” you take a warning tone.

“Okay, okay, chill out! I won’t apologize,” she retorts. “Jesus, you old people are all so condescending.”

You gasp. “Old?!”

“You know what I mean. Anyway, can I tell you now what I got you?”

You can’t deny that teenagers are exhausting. As much as you love your sister, they tend to be a lot more honest than the general population.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, you cross your legs to get a bit more comfortable. “Sure,” you say, your lip curling into a smile instead of a frown, and you listen intently as Maya tells you about a new historical romance book and that she got it for you.

“Anyway, I have to find a way to mail it to you,” she says. “If I can sneak past Dad and Mom somehow, I can sneak into the post office, and then off it goes.”

You’re not used to hearing her so cheery, and it melts your heart. That’s the kind of girl she’s supposed to be. Excited about buying a book and smiling about it, and skipping happily on the phone with you on her way home. She’s not supposed to live in constant fear of her parents, and she’s not supposed to feel responsible for taking care of her own mother. You went through the same thing, except that with her, your father isn’t as… violent. But control and emotional abuse are also a form of violence that will leave a child scarred forever. He has a weird way of showing his love.

And with you, he just didn’t like you that much. It took you a while to realize that what he was doing was abuse, but when you realized you were the only child of his getting caught in the crossfire because you were the oldest and the most disappointing, it hurt even more.

You wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, but you were so alone taking care of everyone and still not being enough. It hurts, still, but you don’t let it get to you. You try to, at least.

The reason Maya keeps the connection to you hidden is not to protect herself but you and your mom, and that is sad in itself because she’s only a teenager. She’s your little sister, your little girl, and it sucks absolute balls that every attempt to get her to live with you somehow failed or didn’t even end up in motion because of the fear of consequences and causing more harm than good. It sucks and you hate it and it makes you sad.

“Just be careful, okay?” you say. You love the thought of receiving a gift, but you can’t have her risking her safety because of it.

She sighs wearily. “I know.” And gone is her happiness, instead replaced by dread.

You can hear her shoulders slump as she continues walking, and it breaks your heart as fast as it had melted. Now it is hard as a rock again, and it breaks right through.

“How’s everything else at home?”

“It’s… okay. Dad’s been rather normal, and he doesn’t suspect anything. I apologized, we made up, and he eased the control a little. And Mom… well, she’s being Mom. She didn’t have a seizure again, so her meds are working, but she had some fresh bruises when I came home from the field trip, and I–” Maya takes a deep, shaky breath. “I hate it,” she says.

Your words exactly, and her helplessness makes you want to book a ticket for a flight home and just snatch her when nobody’s looking. At this point, you don’t even care about personal or legal consequences, you just want her to have a chance at a normal life. Like Michael.

Like Eleanor should have had.

“I’ve been writing mostly A’s,” she tries to lighten the mood, “So that is something good, I think.”

You can’t describe how proud of her you are for keeping her head up throughout all of this. You should have never left, but it got too much, and you were tired of being the one who had to take his rage all the time, and you were tired of being forced to stay strong when everyone else got a chance to grieve. Two years you took the abuse, and you took it almost nineteen years before that. You deserved a chance, and you took it when it presented itself.

But you shouldn’t have left her alone. You should have found a way to fight and win, and you should have taken her with you.

A tear escapes your tired eye. “That’s good,” you say, trying not to sound as broken as you are, “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” she answers, hearing it genuinely for the first time. “Dad’s been calm because of that.”

“That’s possible, yeah. He was like that with me when I brought home an A, but that wasn’t often.”

“I know… I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m just scared that he’ll find out about us and then… I don’t want him to hurt you again. You remember what he said—”

“Hey,” you interrupt her. “Stop. I know what he said, but it won’t happen because he won’t find out,” you say. “If we’re both careful enough, that is. I want nothing more than to protect you. You know that.”

“But this isn’t about me,” she argues.

“Yes, it is. It’s always about you.”

“He will take his rage out on you.”

“If he does, I will find a way to deal with it. As long as no one alerts him, I’ll be fine. My only concern here is and will always be you, Maya.”

“But what if someone does alert him?”

“I can’t think of anyone who would.” You don’t have enemies. You’re always kind to others and aim to please them. No one has ever been dissatisfied enough to threaten you or wish death upon you, so you’re confident no one in your life would ring the bells in England.

“I really can’t think of anyone, and that’s a good thing,” you insist. “So we just take care and I’ll be fine, and you are going to be fine, too. One day soon, I will get you here and we’ll be alright.”

You hope, at least.

She pauses again, taking another deep breath. “But let’s imagine he does,” she prompts.

“I’ll cross that bridge if it ever comes to it,” you say. “If he tries to kill me… well, let him. I will find a way to fight back. I survived eighteen years of his torture, and then another two years, and I will survive now, too. But he won’t come here. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have already. My whereabouts are no secret.”

“Your address is.”

“He probably found that out already. So you see, I’m fine and I will be fine. So stop worrying. Please.”

“Okay,” Maya caves eventually. “I believe you. As long as you promise me not to dig into anything that could alert him. And I’ll try to be careful around him.”

“Trust me,” but this time, you are lying to both her and yourself, “I won’t dig into anything.”

“You have the files.”

Damn her for being so smart and aware of everything.

“I haven’t dug into anything for a while and I’m happy just like that,” you tell her. “I won’t risk it. I promise.”

“How happy?”

You smile, looking at the door and thinking about the man in your kitchen–you believe he’s in the kitchen. You’ve kept your voice hushed and he’s not one to pry.

Except that he is, and he‘s standing frozen in shock in front of your bedroom door.

You bite your lip. “Oh, I’m just happy. Happy enough to admit it.”

“I’m glad. Out of everyone, you deserve it the most,” she says.

“Thank you…” You smile sadly. “I wish for you to find the kind of happiness I have here one day. It’s better than living in fear or pain all the time, anyway.”

“Thanks. I hope so, too.”

“I wish you could have grown up with Ellie, it would have been so much better for you,” you say. “But we’ll figure it out.”

The past always gets you so damn sentimental.

“I guess we will,” Maya replies. “Well, I’m almost home, so I gotta hang up now.”

“Right.”

“Talk to you soon?”

“Sure.”

“Okay… love you!”

You wipe another tear from your cheek. “I love you too,” you say.

The line clicks and she’s gone. Just like that. You put the phone down and stare at the wall. The emotions swirling in your chest drag you down and tear you apart, and it hurts so much more than any knife ever could.

You try to calm down, trying not to seem like you have been crying because Michael always notices, and your defenses come back up.

Time to face the day and be there for him, and then you will open that drawer and look at the file again because if you don’t, you might go crazy. The dominos have started falling; you can’t stop them now, anyway.

Once he’s in prison, you can get Maya because he will lose custody and visitation rights, and your mother is an emotional wreck, so you are the one they would grant custody to. Thirty years old, now in a relationship, a job with a stable income, and an apartment. They would give her to you because you’re family and she’s a teenager; she can take care of herself for the most part, and you’d be her confidant and caretaker when she needs it. You want nothing more than that.

Even if it means moving to London and leaving four years of Dublin–and Michael–behind, you would do it.

Surely, he would understand. And you could go for a long-distance relationship, or he could come with you. You would make it work without losing him.

But you would choose Maya over the man you love any day because when you love someone like a child, they will always come first.

Michael stands in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, and smiles softly when he sees you entering. “Ya alright?” he asks.

You nod. It’s a lie. You’re far from alright, but you need to focus on what lies before you, which is his first day at work, and maybe you can find it in yourself to forget for a while again as you did at the carnival.

“I’m alright,” you lie.

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

But now even Michael knows you’re far from alright. Not just today but in general; overhearing your phone call set off the alarms in his head, the most prominent one ringing for your safety. It sounded like you’re in danger, and that from your own father; he gets how it is. He had an asshole of a father and if he ever comes back and touches his daughter or you, he will rage. But it’s your father now, too, and he is scared of what might happen.

He has to protect you at all costs, no matter what.

He welcomes you with open arms when you place your head on his chest and hug your arms around him. You’re seeking comfort, and after what he overheard, that is no wonder. He wishes you would tell him and then you can find a solution, and he can find a way to protect you when he knows just what he has to protect you from. But you stay silent, closing your eyes and melting into the hug. This is what you need.

One hand rubs your back, the other coming to rest on the back of your head. He almost covers you whole and pulls you impossibly closer. You sigh. His touch is made of gold, it seems. It never fails to make you feel like you’re the most important thing in the world to him.

“You sure yer okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Can you just hold me?”

He places his chin atop your head. “Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

You shudder slightly but then relax under his soothing touch again. His heartbeat resonates in your ear. You match your breathing to him, and you can feel part of the weight falling off your shoulders.

“Do you think we’ll be okay?” you find yourself asking into the silence.

His thumb glides over your scalp. “Okay with what?” he asks.

“Just in general. Are we gonna be alright?” you ask.

Michael sighs, tightening his grip on you. “It’s a fine line between bein’ alright and not bein’ alright.”

“I know that. Can you just… answer me, please?” You don’t want to cry. “Just for now, tell me what I want to hear, even if it’s isn’t the truth.”

“We’ll be alright,” Michael tells you, not missing a beat with his answer.

He’s worried, but you relax in his arms and his heart beats a little slower when your tears subside before they can fall.

He sounds determined, his voice unwavering, and the softness of his touch tells you that even though the road ahead might be rocky, he will stay by your side until things are alright again.

You relax further. You should tell him, but you can’t. If things resolve themselves, you can figure it out on your own without bothering or endangering him. Once he knows, his family will find out, and the more people know, the more danger Maya finds herself in–and you’re not entirely safe either.

You like to pretend you’re not scared and it doesn’t bother you, but there is something terrifying about thinking about your own parent and feeling the goosebumps creep up your spine as your amygdala goes crazy with worst-case scenarios. It keeps the body awake at night as the mind reels around the conflicted emotions the soul is communicating, and every night, you feel like a piece of you is dying inside.

It has been like this ever since you were a child, and it only keeps getting worse.

While getting ready later that morning, you turn to Michael and ask, “Dinner tonight?”

He snaps out of his thoughts, spitting out his toothpaste and nodding at you. “I’d love to,” he says.

“Good, we have a date.”

“Date it is, then.”

You kiss him on your way to the bedroom where you left your outfit for the day.

You just want to forget, and a night with him having dinner and trying to be carefree sounds like the most conscious thing to do.

He helps you close the zipper on your dress in silence, adjusting the necklace you chose to wear today, and fixing your hair after it got a little messy. His lips ghost over your shoulder and he follows the galaxy of moles with gentle kisses.

Wrapping his arms around you, Michael inhales the scent of your perfume. “Yer so sweet,” he says.

You close your eyes and lean against him. “And you’re charming,” you say.

“That’s why ya love me.”

“Is it?”

He smacks your ass. “Yeah.”

You giggle, pulling away from him again. “Not today, sir.”

He pouts. You kiss him.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You return the sentiment with a gentle smile, “And I love you.”

Now his first day at work just has to go better than your morning, and then, you assure yourself, everything will be perfectly alright. Or it won’t, but either way, you have to try. For him, for Maya, and for yourself.

Once you arrive in front of the café, you stop him. “I have to warn you,” you tell him, “My friend, Sarah, isn’t too happy about you working here. She’s the one I keep telling you about.”

He straightens his jacket.

“Not your biggest fan,” you say.

“I figure not many people are gonna be,” he says. “I’m used to it. It’s fine.”

“No, really, she is a little firecracker. When she’s mad about something, she’ll show you, and she won’t be nice about it.”

“Not my first rodeo, love.”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with it though.”

He pulls you in, the nerves slowly getting to him, and your words don’t do much to soothe his nerves. They barely even prepare him. “I’ll survive,” he says, but he’s not that sure anymore.

His heartbeat picks up and you can feel his pulse racing against your fingers from where you’re holding onto him.

With a soft sigh, you smooth out his collar, pressing your lips on his as you do so. “I’ll get her to come around, I promise,” you say. “I always do somehow.”

And you wouldn’t let Sarah ruin Michael’s day.

He smiles. “I know you will. Ya always take o’ me.”

You sense the slightest shift in his demeanor, the unshed tears and the nerves. “Nervous?” you ask.

“A little, yeah.”

“You’re gonna do great. Be happy Ava appointed me to be your mentor for the day. I’ll be gentle.”

“You can be bossy with me,” he jokes, and his attempt to charm you works instantly.

The day is going to be interesting, indeed. But at least he takes your mind off of things. It’s like he knows and wants to take care of you, and it is working.

“Maybe I will be,” you say in the same sultry tone.

“Oh, don’t make me wanna bend ya over a table. That’s not gonna go well, pet. For neither of us.”

You shrug. “Keeps things interesting.”

Michael sighs, but there is an amused glint in his eyes that tells you he isn’t upset or annoyed with you. “I’m gonna have a hard time with ya today, don’t I?” he says.

Pinching your fingers, you answer, “Just a little.”

“Alright. Well, I can live with tha’, too.”

And so you make your way inside, praying to God and every other deity that Sarah won’t cause a scene.

Oliver is there, too, because it is the busiest day of the week, so maybe he will diffuse the situation. Maybe they can even become friends. He needs those. From what you could tell, he doesn’t have any, and that’s sad.

You walk into the café hand in hand, and that is something you thought would never happen. You’re used to being behind the counter and serving him; now you’re both going to be there. It’s an evolution, you suppose, but it’s a good one. Good for him, good for you, and good for everyone because he is charming and attractive–on second thought, you’re not sure if offering him a job was such a good idea.

You’re not jealous, you tell yourself, but you are possessive and it shows.

You’ve never had anything that was truly yours before, so meeting Michael and falling for him, even the process alone, makes you want to claim him the same way he has claimed you, and you will continue doing so.

“Would you look at that!” Oliver exclaims behind the counter. “My favorite person. And the newbie.”

“Good morning,” you greet him with your usual cheery attitude.

You pull Michael to stand beside you, and he awkwardly shifts. He’s tense and slightly trembling, so you squeeze his hand in reassurance, telling him that he’s got this. He can conquer anything he sets his mind to.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine. How’re ya?” Oliver asks.

“I’m good, yeah. This–“ you point to Michael. “This is Michael,” you say. You want to get this over with before he implodes.

“The boyfriend,” he nods, “and the newbie. Yeah, I figured. You wouldn’t be holding hands with just anybody.”

Michael gives an awkward smile before letting go of your hand and deciding to be bold. He remembers you told him that Oliver is a convict, too, and it makes him feel less alone in this space full of pure souls like yours.

“Michael,” he introduces himself.

Oliver takes his hand. “So nice to meet ya!” he says. “I’m Oliver, and you are very attractive.”

He stops and stares for a moment before the blood rushes to his cheeks. “Oh, I–“ he chuckles. “I’m flattered, but I’m– I’m taken.”

“I know, the beautiful specimen over there wouldn’t shut up about ya.”

You blush and shoot him a glare, but he brushes it off with a giggle.

Michael raises his eyebrows. “Is that so?” He looks at you. “Ya wouldn’t shut up about me?”

You should have known the revelation was going to boost his ego.

“I just mentioned you once or twice,” you defend yourself. “Don’t let it get to your pretty little head.”

“All I’m hearin’ is that yer obsessed with me.”

“You’re obsessed with yourself, that’s how it is.”

He smirks. “Sure thing, love,” he says, and you want to slap him for teasing you so obviously at work. “That’s how it is. I’m so obsessed with myself, my girlfriend talks ‘bout me at work.”

Showing him the finger first, you then pull him with you into the back room. His smirk never fades.

“Oh, what are we doin’?”

You shove an apron into his hands. “Working,” you answer.

He sighs. “Of course, we are.”

You continue showing him where everything is, handing him an apron to put on. He puts what few belongings he brought with him into your locker, and you lock it. You hand him his keycard for the register, emphasizing though that he’s not there yet and you will show him how to man the register some other time. Today, he has to learn all about coffee, and you are the best teacher for that.

Michael’s nerves fade into silent excitement. This is so much different than working at the dealership. Amanda only trusted him with washing cars, thanks to Frank, but here, with you, he gets to have responsibility, learn, and do something good with his hands that has more meaning than washing cars as some kind of punishment for not wanting to sell drugs or kill people for his family anymore.

He feels like he belongs. The scenery might be strange, still, but you make him feel at ease with your calm and kind demeanor that you show every customer who comes in, too, even the rude ones. He has a lot to learn, especially from you, but he is sure he can navigate it somehow. And with you, he isn’t afraid to ask questions.

You point out all the different machines behind the counter, the drawer with the topics that don’t need to be kept cool, and then those that need to be. You show him the wall with different coffee beans and whipped cream in case the current can run out. He notes what you tell him, your voice a soothing sound in his ear amongst the bustling of the café. Who would have thought that the Butterfly Effect would lead him to this particular position?

When Sarah finally comes out, you tense up. You have been anxious about their first meeting all day, and now that the time has come for them to actually meet, you’re not sure how it will pan out.

“Hi,” says Michael as he approaches her, and he is a lot more confident now. “You must be Sarah, right?”

She’s carrying a box that seems a little too heavy for her to carry. She eyes him, her smile fading, and her jaw locks.

“I’m Michael,” he introduces himself when she doesn’t answer. “Heard good things about ya.”

Sarah shoves the box into his open arms. “That goes over there,” is all she says and points over to the other end of the counter.

Even though he is confused, he remembers what you said about her not being very excited about him being here, and he figures she needs time to warm up to him. You’re friends so you must have told her about him long before you got together, and now she’s weary because you chose to date him despite his past, which he still hasn’t quite understood. You don’t care about what he did or the kind of person he used to be, and might as well still be; you only care about him because you love him, and you can overlook all of his dark sides. He doesn’t deserve you, and Sarah seems to think the exact same thing.

It hurts him a little. He can deal with judgment, but she is your friend, an important person to you, and he wants nothing more than to get along with your friends and everyone he works with. He wants to make a good impression to keep this job, impress Ava, and show his solicitor at the next meeting that people are willing to take a chance on him. And that he finally has a support system that isn’t limited to his family, which looks bad on all documents given their history.

But he has you and he has a good job, and maybe he can make friends with the rest of the staff, too. Oliver seems happy that he’s here, ready to teach him some things whenever you’re busy–Michael appreciates that more than he knows.

There is a silent understanding between them. Maybe it’s prison, maybe it’s the fact that they both carry the guilt of having hurt someone–in Michael’s case, it was someone he loved, but it still ended in death–or it is something else entirely. Whatever it is though, he is grateful for Oliver’s willingness to help him wherever he can.

“Sarah,” you approach her. “What was that?” Your voice is hushed so he won’t hear you giving her a run-down.

She rolls her eyes. “I told ya–” she begins, but you cut her off.

“That wasn’t fair, and you know it,” you say. “You should go and apologize to him, right now!”

“Hell no,” she says. “I told ya, I’m not a fan of him and I’m really not in the mood to try.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“I just care about you.”

“Then you’d accept him!” You say it a little too loud, and the customers closest to you shoot you a nasty glance. You apologize with a kind smile before turning back to your friend. “If you cared about me even the tiniest bit,” you say, “You’d try accepting him and not treat him like he’s scum on earth.”

She sighs. Her defensive demeanor slips a little, and she nods. “Fine, whatever,” she retorts. You doubt she means it, but at least she caved.

As she moves on to clean some tables, you watch Oliver and Michael from a distance.

Oliver has always been a patient man, but it seems even better with Michael. He explains everything, shows him the ropes, and he makes sure to praise him whenever he gets something right. That’s the kind of reaction you had hoped for from Sarah, but she can’t be persuaded so easily, and right now you don’t really like her, you’re just angry.

Oliver calls your name. You turn around.

“Would you be a dear and get some more milk from the basement?” he asks.

“The basement?” you repeat.

“Yeah, the basement. You know where the cooler is, don’t ya?”

“Of course, I do. I have been working here for years. But the basement,” you emphasize, “is not a place I wanna go.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s dark and there are probably infestations of gigantic spiders in every corner of the ceiling.”

“Mate, what–“

“I hate spiders!”

Michael, who has been washing the dishes at Sarah’s command–she is currently busy restocking the shelves–turns around with an amused grin.

“And you make fun o’ me ‘cause I’m scared of heights,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “If I’m not back in five minutes, a spider has probably eaten me,” you say.

“Oh, I’m sure they’d love a taste.”

“Michael, darling, I mean it very sincerely when I tell you to fuck off right now.”

He purses his lips and throws you a kiss through the air. You catch it, pretending to throw it away, and he feigns hurt with his hand on his chest.

Turning around with a dramatic sigh, you make your dreaded way to the basement, hoping you won’t encounter one of the spiders in the corners of the ceiling that you have been avoiding for quite a while–ever since you started working at the Butterfly Effect, actually. Seeming busy and avoiding bringing milk back up is your secret weapon, but with Michael there today, you don’t have as much work and can’t seem busy because you’re not, so you’re stuck on milk duty

You curse Oliver for making you face your fear. This is the last thing you wanted to do today.

Michael continues washing the mugs with a soft chuckle. He takes it very seriously, making sure everything is hygienic before putting it on the rack beside the sink.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sarah reaching for one of the boxes on the highest shelf; she’s not nearly tall enough, even with the ladder, and he knows something bad is about to happen. Shortly after, as predicted, she bumps against one of the glasses and it tips over the edge of the shelf.

She gasps, trying to catch it, but it starts freefalling. Instinctively, Michael reaches out. He catches the glass before it can shatter on the floor. He’s not sure how on earth he managed to reach for it this fast.

Sarah stares at him in disbelief. He meets her eyes and smiles. “Caught it,” he says.

She climbs off the ladder with a huff, tearing the glass from his hand.

“Do ya want me to clean the top shelf? I may be better able to reach it.” His hazel eyes are soft as he gazes at her, his body language open and sincere.

Sarah’s fists ball and she tries hard not to look directly at him, but one look into his eyes is enough to decipher the honesty, and it makes her feral that he is so nice to her.

“Stop that,” she says.

“Stop what?” Michael asks, his eyebrows furrowing a little. He puts the glass aside where it’s safe and dries his hands with a towel. “Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

“Yer not s’posed to be nice,” she clarifies, glaring daggers into his skill, but there is something resembling kindness in them; she doesn’t know he caught it. “So stop being nice to me,” she keeps her voice low because it often causes people to recoil. Not with Michael though.

He stands there, watching her. He tries to read her or somehow interpret her body language. He tries to understand what she’s feeling and what he can do to earn some of her trust. She isn’t an open book, but she also doesn’t have a million walls around her like you do.

“I just wanted to help,” he tells her softly. “Sorry if I overstepped.”

She leans against the counter. “Fuck…”

“Sarah, I–” He takes a step forward, sorting his thoughts and trying to bring up the courage to continue, “I can't change my past, my blood, or my name, but I can assure ya that I love her more than anything,” he says. Your name is a mere whisper on his lips. “I would do anythin’ to protect her, without hesitation.”

“Anything?” Sarah cocks an eyebrow.

“Anythin’, yeah.”

Sarah's gaze flickers with a mixture of emotions—doubt, worry, and something else he can't quite place. She takes a step closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “She's been hurt in the past, and you... If you hurt her, I swear to God—” She doesn’t have to finish her threat because he knows what she means.

Michael knows he shouldn't do it. It is wrong and she already doesn't trust him, and it might seem desperate and suspicious, but the secrecy is starting to eat away at him because he doesn't understand the magnitude, and he needs to find a way to understand before it's too late.

“I understand. I do, but…” His eyes meet her. He looks almost guilty. “But I need to know... how badly was she hurt?” he asks. “What happened to her?”

He should have figured that if you didn’t tell him the whole story, Sarah probably doesn’t fall into your category of people worthy of knowing the truth, either.

Sarah takes a deep breath. Some of the sturdiness from before fades away. “You don't know what she was like when she first moved to Dublin,” she says, playing with the laces on her apron. “She was a wreck, and her relationships were just as messed up. There was this one boyfriend in particular... He seemed to bring out the worst in her. But she wouldn't open up about why she chose him or men like him.”

“Did she ever come home with bruises?”

“Not bruises in particular, but… mentally, she was a wreck, and he just seemed to make it worse.” She sighs. “He was a rugby player, and I truly thought it was the worst she could do.”

Michael scoffs. “But ya realized you were wrong because then she met me?” he finishes for her, the unspoken argument finally being voiced.

Sarah sneers, but he hit the nail right on the head, and she doesn’t need to agree to let him know.

He nods slowly, looking into the seating area before turning back to her. You got hurt, and you had bad relationships, but you were broken before that; you were broken before you even moved, and you came to Dublin heartbroken and alone, and you paved a way of heartbreak for yourself because you didn’t know better. You only knew hurt, so you chose your men like your father.

He should have never listened to that phone call. Michael is quick to connect the dots after hearing Sarah’s words, and it shocks him to his core. His blood freezes in his veins. He wants nothing more than to pull you aside and demand the truth so he can figure out how to help you, but he would lose you. He knows he would lose you, and he decides against it. You will talk to him one day, and when you do, he will be there for you in any way you need. Until then, he has to offer you silent support and catch you before you can hurt yourself again.

“Well,” he says and crosses his arms over his chest, “I never want her to go through anythin' like tha' again. I want to be the one who brings out the best in her, who helps her heal. I’m tryin’ to do right by her.”

Sarah studies him carefully. Slowly, a flicker of understanding begins to form within her. They both want the same thing for you, it becomes clearer now.

“You'd do anythin' to protect her?” she asks him again.

He nods without missing a beat. “And you wouldn't hesitate?” she asks.

He nods again. “I’d burn the world down for her.”

She purses her lips. “You’re different, Michael,” her voice is softer now. “I didn't think I'd ever see her with someone like ya. But I can't deny that she looks happier. It pisses me off a little because I'm not supposed to like a mobster as her boyfriend, but you seem to be a good guy.”

Michael's gaze never wavers. “I know I'm not... worthy of her,” he says, “And I know I'll never be worthy of the kind of person she is 'cause she’s fuckin' amazing, but I wanna try. I have to try, y'know? I promised her.”

“Michael, I–” She can’t find the right words to say whatever she’s thinking.

“I loved and I lost in the past, and I never thought I’d get a second chance, so I was thinkin’ about givin’ up before I came in here and met her. She’s the best damn thing that has happened t’me in eight fuckin’ years and I would never ruin that. Ya have to believe me, Sarah. I would never hurt her the same way she was hurt. I love her so much, I–” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I just love her,” he says, “and I won’t make the mistake of losin’ her.”

For the first time since he met her, her eyes soften visibly, and her heart opens up to him. “You really love her, don’t ya?” she asks.

“With every fiber of my being,” he whispers.

That's when she realizes you were right all along. All it takes is to meet him, and whatever she thought he would be fades into the background. Sarah realizes that Michael is not the villain and he will probably never be. He may carry the burden of his past, but his love for you shines through. A man like that deserves your devotion and a chance at redemption, and she feels foolish for how she acted around him.

She feels stupid for talking about him the way she did to you and making you feel like your relationship wasn't accepted. She probably made you angry and guilty at the same time, and she wants nothing more than to make up for her own idiocy now.

“You better keep that promise, Michael,” Sarah says. “She's been through hell, and she deserves nothin' less than genuine love and happiness. I can see how much she means to ya, and I want to believe in what ya told me. I'm... I'm sorry for how I treated you, tha' wasn't fair, but she’s my best friend and I will raise hell if she ever gets hurt again.”

“She won’t get hurt, not on my watch.”

“I hope fer your sake that’s true. And I hope ya know what yer getting yourself into. She's not an easy person to love, but she's worth it. Just make sure yer there for her when she needs you the most.”

��I promise,” he says. “And thank you fer– well, for tryin’ to understand. It means a lot.”

She raises a finger. “Don’t think yer out of the woods yet,” she tells him, “but I can see the love in your eyes and… no one has ever looked at her like tha’, so I will support ya. Both of you. And if you ever need anythin’,” Sarah offers him a smile, “Don’t hesitate to ask.”

His shoulders slack as the relief washes over him. “Thank you,” he repeats.

She brushes him off with a simple, “Don’t thank me, just be good to her.”

And he vows to do so every day, the same way he vows to protect her with his life if need be.

She bites her cheek, turning back to the ladder leading up to the shelf. He watches her features contort as she contemplates, and then she finally turns back to him. “Can ya help me with cleanin’ that shelf now?” she asks.

Michael smirks, putting his towel away and approaching her. “Happily,” he says.

They may not be friends, but they bonded over their love for you, and it is something important to have in common. They both want the same for you; they both want you to be saved and loved, and Michael will do everything in his power to give that to you.

Only a few minutes later, you finally find your way back from the basement, carrying four cartons of milk. “I was almost eaten by two very large spiders!” you declare. “They were the size of my fucking head and now I am very disgusted. I didn't know we were living in Australia. Also, Oliver-” you point at where your colleague is standing and switching out the offer signs at the door, “I hate your guts for making me go down there.”

Oliver only smirks, triumphant that it wasn't him in your position. “Well, as long as you got the milk, you won the Spider War,” he says. “You're Spider-Woman now. Act like it.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want,” you retort. “Just wait until I lock you down there to be eaten alive.”

Michael, finally done with the top shelf, approaches you. “So, the size of yer head, huh?” he asks. He uses his hands to measure your face, tapping the crown of your head gently, then squeezing your cheeks. “Are you sure they weren't just tiny little spiders?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “They were gigantic, Michael!” you insist. “I'm not exaggerating.”

“Really? How big? Show me.”

“This big–” You demonstrate the size of the spiders with your hands. However, with each gesture, the space between your hands gets smaller and smaller, much to Michael's amusement. “See, they were huge! Like this!” you barely leave any space between your fingers. “This big,” you say. “And their legs were hairy. Hairier than your chest.”

He bursts into laughter, unable to contain himself. “What, that big?” he teases. “I didn't realize we have giant mutant spiders here in Dublin.”

Feeling a bit exasperated, you pout. “Stop making fun of me. It's not funny! They were scary!”

He chuckles softly and pulls you into his arms. “I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean it,” he reassures you, pressing a tender kiss against your temple. “I know they creep ya out. I’m sorry.”

“They do,” your voice sounds muffled through his chest.

“Trust me, if those spiders even dare to come close to ya, they’ll have to deal with me. No spider is going t’ lay a single leg on ya.”

You hum in approval, hugging him back as tightly as you can. “Good answer,” you say.

“And I am disgusted,” Sarah mutters behind you. “Can ya move this to the backroom or somethin’? I’m trynna focus on work.”

Oliver chimes in, “Leave the lovebirds be.”

“I would if their actions wouldn’t call me lonely in fifteen different languages.”

“Jealousy,” he sings.

She swats him with her towel. “Shut up!”

You and Michael exchange a glance before reluctantly pulling away. He presses another kiss on your forehead, but then it’s time to resume work, and you have a lot more to teach him before your shift ends.

Tagging: (let me know if you want to be tagged, too!) @bellaxgiornata @mattmurdocksscars @ms-murdockswift @your-not-invisible-to-me @shouldbestudying41 @glowstick-lesbian @acharliecoxedfan @roseallisonparker @norestfortheshelbywicked @1988-fiend @loveroftoomanyfandoms @mattkinsella @schneeflocky

#michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella angst #michael kinsella fluff #michael kinsella #kin amc #charlie cox #x reader #chaos theory #queue

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kit-just-kit · 11 days ago

Text

Get to know me!

do you make your bed? *Yes, everyday. Also, sometimes in the middle of the night because if I wake up I can't get back to sleep on wrinkled sheets. My name is Sarah and clearly, I have issues lol*

favourite number? *7*

job? *I work for a bank - in Mortgages*

if you could go back to school, would you? *Not if you paid me £1000 a day. I am way to old for that shit. Besides, I already know everything according to my hub lol*

can you parallel park? *No and don't want to*

do you think aliens are real? *Let's put it this way - if we are the only 'intelligent life form in the Universe, then the Universe is well and truly fucked. So yeah, let's hope so!*

can you drive a manual car? *No, I am firmly with Ricky Gervais' reasoning on this subject*

what's your guilty pleasure? *MAFS, Love Island, Real Housewives of - bascially trash TV*

tattoos? *Not a one and at my age now, not likely to get one either*

favourite colour? *Silver-grey*

do you like puzzles? *Yes! First thing I do on waking up is the NYT Wordle, Connections, Mini and Strands cos they get my brain working!*

any phobias? *Flying (yes I just went on a big plane across the Atlantic but there had been a lot of vodka consumed so I was fine), small/crowded/confined spaces, too many steps going down which is kind vertigo-ish I suppose, heights but not when they are on roller coasters, wasps (I am certified allergic to their stings so with good reason)*

favourite childhood sport? *Orienteering, which is hysterical seeing as I now couldn';t read a fucking map if my life depended on it*

do you talk to yourself? *constantly - only way I get any sense in this madhouse lol*

Tagged by: @wiinestories (*cheers lovely* ❤️🍷)

Tagging: *Everybody reading this especially if you learned something new about me lol*

#ooc #about the mun

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serpulalacrymans · 8 months ago

Note

is there anything you like to do when life just feels a little too stagnant?

Oh yes. It's why I made this account actually. I was bored. I craved connection. I was feeling particularly brave that day though.. I have some little games I like to occupy myself online with otherwise. Kind of embarrassing to admit but I've said much worse online. Only one I really check regularly anymore is this.. Little.. Rodent game? I don't know. I made the account when I was a younger teenager. It's kind of just been a presence in my life since. I also like to check on the "Wordle of the day" sometimes... Outside of the computer I like to take walks and make art. Not all of it is bad.. There's something very satisfying about coloring and molding clay. Sometimes I just like to go to the park and lay in the grass. I usually only do that when I abuse too many substances though. Or am just really sad.

#what do you like to do for fun?#(//The game is Cromimi by the way its fire)

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carmenized-onions · 6 months ago

Text

I Want To. | Wellness Check

logline; Such is life, you go from not being needed at The Bear today to being more needed than you ever have been.

[!!!] series history, this is the fourth; First, Second, Third

portion; 4.7k+

possible allergies; a dash of Tony's former paramedic background (and just medical shit in general) in this one, so, a sprinkle of post-trauma stress (and her usual yikes psyche). Mikey comes up a bit, as usual! despite the ops, we ball.

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (pretty unavoidably gendered episode, mb non-fem folks)

we'll talk after babe, have a good time w/ this one.

Falling asleep was easy— par for Carmen fighting to keep his 6:30 am alarm on. When he finds out you don’t have a plug on his side of the bed and he has to charge his phone on your side, he turns it off. Cute.

Well, there’s also the part where you had to ask if he was okay because it sounded like he wasn’t breathing and it turns out —He was not breathing— He then pointed out that it sounded like you weren’t breathing —You were not breathing— Both of you thought the sound of your lungs would bother the other, so you opted not to use them at all. Turns out, counterproductive; you notice each other’s absences pretty well.

But besides that, it's easy. Carmen isn’t an awful bedfellow. He’s not super shifty, he doesn’t tug the blanket, he doesn’t roll all the fucking way over to your side, or anything like that. He’s honestly concerningly still. Is he annoyed that you’ve gotta toss and turn a little to get comfortable? Probably. He's probably dreaming of you exploding right now, he’s so annoyed. He didn’t make fun of your ages old build-a-bear plush nor it’s Cubs jersey, so that was nice. Pity, probably.

...If Carmen wasn’t here, he knows he’d be stirring and kicking and probably sleep-walking to his oven to light it on fire. But he is here. Where kicking would hurt. Where stirring would wake you. Where a fire would cause more anxiety than relief because all your plants and projects would die. Where you washed his hair and told him that taking care of people doesn’t feel like a lot of work to you. Was it not a lot of work, to take care of his brother? Was it worth it, to you? Probably not. How could it be?

He wills his body to not fucking move because if he does it's going to ruin everything. He's going to ruin everything.

He wakes up at 6:30 on the dot, alarm or no. He’d be concerned if his body functioned any differently. But he can’t get to his phone while you’re sleeping in his way and you’re so comfortable. You’re clutching a bear that’s undeniably on a losing team and you’re at peace with it. He’s trying not to make a metaphor out of this in his mind; alas, it’s already there. The only thing he can do is go back to sleep and dream about killing the teenage boy in his head before he can escape again and call you pretty.

It's around ten when you wake up, you try not to wake him when you turn to grab your phone, but the split second of motion makes him flinch like he’s about to get jumped. “Relax!” You hiss, but like, soft, whispered. “I’m doin’ the fuckin’ Wordle, not smothering you with a pillow.”

“You do the Wordle?”

“Oh, fuck you—”

“The first fuckin’ thing you do in the morning is the Wordle?”

“And I do the Crossword too, bitch, what of it?”

“…I like Connections.”

“I fuckin' hate Connections.”

“Alright, damn!”

The Chicago accent in both of you is stronger in your rasping morning voices. As is the laughter. You roll onto your stomach to get closer to him and let him see your screen. Neither of you have entirely woken up yet and that means it’s the perfect time to do a puzzle. If you don't focus on this puzzle right now, you fear you will get too comfortable in this idea of domesticity.

“C’s in the right place. Nothin’ else though.”

He’s the one that figures out its Cumin. You pretend not to be mad about this. You’re furious. Of course, it’d be a spice on the day Mr Food Guy sleeps over. Bullshit.

When you finally sit up, stretch, and say, “I’m just gonna shower real quick ‘nd—”

He’s at a breakneck speed to reply, “I’ll make breakfast.”

“Oh, you cook all the fuckin’ time, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

You blink, then shrug, the man likes to cook, c’est la vie. “Who am I to refuse?”

He looks far too happy about this, as though he’s won a lottery. A lottery of manual labour. He rolls out of bed, grabbing his back pack stuffed with yesterday’s clothes before leaving you to your own devices. In a literal sense, too, since you get a text. Ugh.

‘Gigi called in, can you reach?’

You would prefer not to reach, but this is capitalism.

‘When's the shift?’

‘6:30 to 12:30’

Why couldn’t something else at The Bear be fuckin’ broken today?

‘yeah i can reach’

‘that’s my girl, red tops today, see u’

You have also won the lottery of manual labour today. Look at you and Carm, luckiest people alive. Something like that. Alright, go shower and be normal about the fact that there’s a Michelin Star Chef making you breakfast in your kitchen. And he’s prett—

“You make your own bread.”

“I do.” You sit at your own little breakfast nook, waiting to be served. Towel hung around your neck post shower. You’d offer to help, but based on his urgency to cook for you, it’s gonna be a no. Plus, the gift on the table you’ve got for him is going to piss him off enough, can't poke this bear too much. He's already given you a mile. Too many idioms.

“I like to think in another universe I am a homesteader who makes her own soaps and renders tallow n’ shit. But I settle for growing basil and making sourdough in my shitty little Chicago apartment for now.”

“I like your apartment.” He hums, though amused. He turns and sets your plate—the one black plate— in front of you with a small smile. This smile immediately falls when he pushes the plate towards you and you push a travel bag of toiletries towards him.

“Fuck is this?”

“I don’t want to hear any complaints, Irish Spring.”

“How d’you know I use Irish Spring?”

“It’s all five of your routine, it’s going to be pungent— Now listen.” You pick up the bag; you’d dug through your sink cabinet and found a dollar store pack of plastic travel bottles, unused from cancelled trips of yesteryear. You've decanted your own products for him. It's fine, you buy jumbo sizes anyways...

“Shampoo, conditioner, face wash—They’ve even got labels.”

He takes the bag from you, setting it down on his side of the counter, begrudgingly. Though he hasn’t particularly paid it much mind, tunnelled on something else entirely, “Do you not like Irish Spring?”

"I didn't give you a body wash, you can still use it for that one purpose."

"Yeah, but do you not like Irish Spring?"

"...I think it's fine."

“Fine?”

“I’m more of an Old Spice fan.”

“You don’t deserve breakfast—” He pulls your plate, you pull it back.

“All I said—” “Thinkin’ I smell like shit—” “Did not say that—!” “Just cause you use the fruity stuff—” “I smell good! Deny that I smell good!” “You smell fine.” “Wowww—Whatever, do the thing.”

“Bruschetta with a breakfast twist.” Ah, that makes him give you the plate back. His kink is explaining food. “Sourdough toasted, topped with fresh basil—”

“Courtesy of me.”

“Courtesy of you, yes. Tomatoes, bacon glazed in balsamic, and you didn’t have parm so I used feta. And then, y’know, over medium egg on top.”

“You’re very good, Carmen.”

“Oh, I—Uh—” You haven’t even tried it yet. You’re telling him he’s good for the sake of the effort he’s given alone. He needs an antacid. “Thank you.”

It’s redundant to say his food is good. But what else can you say? It’s a fucking perfect open face sandwich. But he’s eating it with you, and half of it’s your own handiwork, and all of your pantry, so you leave your praises purely reaction based, unsaid.

You're honestly a little distracted, reading too hard into the act of him giving you the black plate and taking one of your shitty plastic ones for himself. Time to talk.

“Itinerary for today?”

“Gotta talk chaos menu with Syd before opening, then, well, running the restaurant all night… And then I’ll—I’ll go home.”

“Yeah? You can come back here, if you want to.” Thank God you took a bite in time to hide your selfish disappointment. It’s good for him to go home, but then he’s not here. Real Catch-22.

He shakes his head, “I think I’m good now. Thanks, though. What’s—What’s uh, your plans for today?”

“I’m gonna drop you off wherever you’re going, n’ then I’m gonna go shopping for Syd’s gift—”

“It’s her fuckin’ birthday or somethin?” It’s a delight how immediately panicked he is by this. You're also thankful because he's so distracted it means you won't have to tell him the rest of your plans for today. You'd like to keep that life separate. For as long as possible, at least.

“Nono, it’s just, I didn’t get her anything for her opening night and I wanna change that. I’ll get you something too.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” The very idea of waiting for his response is freaking you the fuck out, so you’re quick to clear your voice and add. “I’ll give you my number, in case you end up needing to crash.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Ey, text me your invoice too.”

You take both your cleared plates to the sink, and the lie is swift. You've gotten a lot better at that, in the past year.

“Oh no worries, your sister already covered it.”

It is 6:30 and your life is over. Kidding. Unless? You dropped off Carmen at the train station hours ago and, to use his words, ‘it’s hit’. He’s at The Bear and there’s nothing for you to fix there— So you’re not.

You’ve only been there like three times and yet it started to feel… Like your thing!

Like, like you’d just come in everyday and… Dunno, fix something... But it’s not like they’re gonna have a crisis everyday. Especially not ones that Fak can't handle himself if needed— There's no way he's gonna last at hosting, anyways. You’re now realizing the unrealistic dream— Possibly more unrealistic than homestead you.

Speaking of, Homestead You would probably throw up, if she saw the you you’re looking at in the mirror right now. You look good. Objectively, you know you look good. The mug is stamped. Your pants are black, high-waisted, and give you an ass. The bright red leather corset top is… Chafing, but it looks good! It's a sweetheart neckline so you have to take off your long rope chain necklace from Mikey and shove it in your pocket— Which is fine and doesn't feel bad at all. And listen, listen, being an on-call bottle girl is good money!

And you might get put on bar tonight! You don’t know for sure if you’re gonna have to juggle around lit up bottles for a bunch of fucking geezers!

...

God, fuck, it’s 10:20 and your life is over.

This group of geezers have been fucking annoying and fucking Cherry wouldn’t get off fucking bar even though you literally covered for her last week and these stupid grandpas asked if gratuity is included— No fucking shit! Did you take their card and put a 40% tip? Yeah, maybe. Fuck them! They’re too fucking rich to notice! And they took three hours to leave! Gonna bash this champagne bottle over his bald fucking—

“Ey! That’s a face I remember.”

You hear your name— Not Tony, not Chip, not Cousin. Your name.

You turn to see, oh fucking hell, let God kill you—

“Uncle J!~ Good to see you!~ What a surprise! It’s Jack, here.” Jack of all Trades. It was cute at the time of sign up. Your smile is bright, fake, strained, and beautiful.

“Been too long, really.” Cicero isn’t a bad guy—Correction: Cicero isn’t a bad guy, to you, but as Mikey once put it, he’s a fuckin’ ball buster and in your case, you’re one of the few people beneath him that he asks favours from. Always wants free labour and your expertise. And he always has a habit of asking for favours the second you need one back. But you don’t need one right now! So it’s fine! Everything’s fine!

“Do your Uncle a favour,”—Fully not your Uncle—“Could you pair me and my friends here with a good red?”

You let it go that they’re having fish and asking for a red. Stupid thing to get hung up over right now. You make a commission of it anyways; you just pick the most expensive bottle. He won’t know the difference. The Bear would know the difference. Carmen would notice the difference... Alright, relax.

While pouring glasses, Jimmy whispers to his compatriots and one by one they all peel off. It is almost alarming how quickly this group of men turn and leave without a second thought, taking their glasses with them.

You raise your brows and look at Cicero. “Ah. This is the moment where I sit?”

He nods, gesturing to the booth. “This is the moment where you sit.”

You slip into the booth, sitting across from him. “What do you need?”

“Right to the point with you.”

“I hate suspense.” You shrug.

“You liked Mikey.”

What the fuck?

You bite your inner cheek, hard. “Don’t say that shit.”

“I liked him too,” He says it solemnly, like your mutual grief is a proper apology. He takes a long sip of his stupid red wine. “Did you hear? Cousin Vinnie and Mira are gettin’ hitched, finally.”

“I have no fucking idea who Vinnie and Mira are.” You take the glass when he hands it to you, taking a sip. Small. You gotta drive home, after all.

“Really? It’s a big wedding—Destination too, in New York—”

“I hate to remind you, but I was friends with Mikey, not his family.” Not his biological one, at least. The Beef, sure. But you literally only met his siblings two days ago. “What’s a wedding gotta do with me?”

He bristles, and finally cuts it short. “Around three hundred guests, seven-hour shift, open bar—” “Oh, for fuckssake—” “Listen—”

“It’s an easy gig, I’ll fly you out for it, it’s a month and a half away, you’ll get to attend a big fuckin’ Italian wedding— Which will be a shitshow, certainly, so free entertainment; and Michelin Star level catering, kind of.”

You squint. Kind of? “You got Carmy in on this shit?”

“You know ‘em?”

You nod, pressing your elbows on the table, “We’ve recently become acquainted. What d’you got on him for him to cater a wedding?”

“He’s eight-hundred grand in the hole.” “Fuck!” “He gets thirty off for catering. Smart boy, said yes.”

Christ, you massage the bridge of your brow with one hand and pull out your phone with another to check your calendar, you might as well see if you can even entertain the idea. You don’t need a favour right now, maybe you can bargain and get him to actually pay you for it, this time.

“I dunno, Uncle J…”

Oh.

28 unread texts from Syd.

3 unread texts from an unknown number— Probably Carmen.

9 missed calls from Syd.

Uncle Jimmy, always, always, has a fucking way, of asking for a favour when you need one…

You slam your phone, screen down on the table, straightening your posture in your seat. “I have demands.”

He motions for you to continue, taking his wine glass back. “You always do.”

“You and your friends are gonna tip a hundred percent tonight.”

“That why you give me a 2016 Fisher?”

“I like to think ahead.”

“Smart girl.” He shrugs, palms of his hands out. Which means yes.

“If Uncle Lee comes up to the bar I’m throwing a fork at him and leaping over the counter.”

He chuckles, “Thought you 'didn’t know family'.”

“I remember what I'm told.”

His amusement fades quickly, remembering first hand. He nods. “…You’re allowed to jump him if I’m watching first.”

“And you’re friends with my boss, right?”

“We’re acquainted.”

“I’m gonna punch out now and you’re gonna smooth that out for me.”

He perks up, amused, glancing at your phone, “Somethin’ come up, Chip?”

“Don’t call me Chip.” He wants to poke at you, just a little bit more, but there’s a rattled look in your eyes that he’s so rarely seen that he lets it go.

He waves his hand, shrugging, “Be safe. I'll send you the details. December wedding, remember.”

At the end of the day, Cicero isn’t a bad guy to you, someone who loved his nephew as much as he did.

You’re running to your car while you dial back Syd. You don’t have time to read the texts, all you need to know is that it’s an emergency. She picks up just after the first ring.

“Syd what the—” “Code blue!”

You almost fall on your face and eat asphalt. For a flash, you’re in the back of an ambulance being handed a defibrillator at the age of 22, surrounded by faces just as scared and young as you. Then you’re back in the parking lot, slotting the key into your car door because the fob doesn’t work. It’s never worked.

“S-Someone’s having a fucking heart attack!?”

“What?!”

“That’s what fucking code blue means!”

“Oh my god! Sorry! No, I was just saying the thing that scares doctors the most!”

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ scared Syd!” You slide into the driver’s seat and slam your car door shut. You take a deep breath, white knuckling the steering wheel. “…I’m-I'm sorry for yelling! Where are you, what’s going on?”

“The—The Bear, the restaurant.” The second you have a location you’re revving off.

“Nat locked herself in the office—” “Like trapped?” This shit again?

“No, no— Like she locked herself in— She did this like two hours ago and I thought she was just taking a breather— But we’ve closed and, and like almost everyone left and she’s still not coming out— And she blocked the door inside— and— And I think she’s trying to hide that she’s basically shrieking in pain every five minutes.”

You take a long time to register anything she’s just said. Her tone is as panicked as you feel on the inside. You’re only now registering the ambient yelling of Richie and Carmen in the background.

“…Did—Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah Syd, I’m just thinking.” You don’t step on the gas on purpose, it just happens. “A pregnant woman is screaming in pain— in intervals— behind a blockaded door?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Have you called an ambulance?”

There’s a much more distinct yell in the background from Richie, “No cops!”

Then from Carmen, “No coverage!”

“Yeah…” Syd shakily continues for them, “The insurance is a problem, and Richie said— Motherfucker—” You hear a muffled scrap over the phone before Richie continues on for Syd.

“Er, yeah, Cousin, Sugar keeps yelling that she’s fine ‘n blocked the door, if we call the cops they’re gonna ram that shit down and take her to the loony bin.”

“That’s not— That’s not what paramedics do.”

“That’s what they all do.”

“Richie, y’know, I was a paramedic, right?”

“…You a fuckin’ fed, Chip?”

“Richie, if I was a fuckin' narc you would be in prison by now. I, I— I'll be there in like, like eight minutes, everyone stop fucking yelling at Sugar!”

You’re there in four. You almost rear end someone and you run every yellow you get but you’re there in four. You don’t park properly in the back, you just drive your car in and turn it off in the middle of the lot. You don’t bother to be let in, you just punch the code in as you remember it. As Natalie told you.

“Oh good you—Oh my, God?” Syd is no better than a man in this moment, going from grateful for your presence to being one intrusive thought away from whistling.

You did not have time to change out of your ...outfit and someone has been hogging your Carhartt. You pass Syd quickly, waving a hand in front of her face. Goddammit, why do your boot heels have to have that incredibly satisfying femme fatale click right now?

“Alright— Relax—”

“Holy shit, Chippy!” Richie was yelling at Sugar through the door along with Carm, but once alerted to your presence is now snapping his fingers. You'd describe him more as impressed than actually attracted to you. “You clean up!”

“Cousin, are you—” He grabs Carmen’s face, turning it to you— Carmen does of course, immediately slap Richie’s hand away which of course, means they just start smacking each other's hands. Like preteen girls. “Ey, get the fuck off—” “I just want you to look at a pretty girl, Cousin—!” “Stop fuckin’ touchin’ me!” “Are you looking!?” “I—”

“Everyone shut the fuck up!”

You silence the room. You’re thankful most of the staff has left by now since it’s well after close. It's just Carmen, Syd, Richie, Tina, and Fak for some goddamn reason...You can't be mean you're handymen, you have to stick together.

“I look different from the usual jumpsuit, yes, we get it, can we move on? Pregnant woman?”

Syd is the first to speak, “…Were you on a date, though?”

You blink and roll your eyes all at once, twisting your head to her, “Syd—”

“It’s good to see you getting out there, baby.” Tina, deeply unhelpful in this moment, puts a hand around your shoulder. Oh to have a mother’s judgment when she’s not even your mother.

“O-kay!” You drag on the ‘kay’, clapping your hands together, “Everyone, just get your thoughts out in the next five seconds and then we’re moving on.”

“Chippy, I cannot believe you’ve held this out on me—” “—I meant it like-like a concerned, did we interrupt your date—” “—The red is unbelievable on you, Cousin!” “I need you to teach me how you do your makeup—” “Can you— can you yell again—?” “Fak!” “Oh, so that’s too much?”

A cacophony, it continues on. Your eyes glaze over, and you’re waiting for Sugar to let out a scream so everyone remembers the fucking point of being here. But then you look at Carmen. Everyone’s pivoted from staring at you to yelling at each other. But Carmen; Carmen is still looking at you. Stupid soft scary eye contact. And his voice is so much quieter than the yelling but it’s the thing that you hear anyways.

“It looks tight.”

There’s a possibility that when you killed the teenage girl inside you that you also killed the feminist. Because there’s a small sub-sect of you that’s upset that he’s not objectifying you right now. That his vision is focused on you. Not the changes. He doesn’t seem to look at you any differently than when you’re wearing a jumpsuit and utility belt, covered in toilet water. This should not be annoying and yet it is.

“It is.”

He nods, eye contact unshifting, unblinking, “You wanna change?”

“Maybe after we find out whether or not your sister is in labour.”

He nods. He takes a second but he nods.

You approach him, rather, the door, knocking gently. Everyone quiets down.

You clear your throat, and once more, the persona is put on, you’re a paramedic, putting on that soft but firm reassuring authoritative tone. “E-M Rescue, I got a call for a wellness check on Natalie Berzatto?”

“Tony—” A groan of pain behind the door, “I am perfectly well! Everyone go home!”

You grimace, you motion with your hand for Fak to hand you a screwdriver— He keeps one in his breast-pocket, even when wearing a suit. Hey, you should start doing that.

“Nat, I’m a paramedic— Or I was—will you please let me in?”

“I don’t— Fuck! —Need a paramedic!”

“Never hurts to do a check-up, Nat.” You speak calmly, like you always did. “Listen, lover, if you don’t open the door, I’m gonna have to take it off its hinges, and we're gonna lose medic patient confidentiality.”

When she doesn’t reply after a good beat, you start to unscrew the top hinge; she can hear it, “Wait, wait, wait— Fuck-Fuck— I’m opening it!”

There’s another series of pained groans as she exerts herself to open the door, and once she does, it’s only by a crack, to look at you and you alone. She’s absolutely been crying. She speaks in a whispered tone. “Just you.”

You nod, handing the screwdriver back to Fak without breaking eye contact with her. “Just me.”

She cracks it open just enough for you to come in. And so, you do. Everyone is, for the first time, too worried about her shutting down to interrupt or yell a complaint.

You close the door behind you, pressing your back to it. You note the toppled over chair by your feet that she must’ve blocked it with. Plus the puddle of amniotic fluid beneath her. Oh fuck.

...

“You wanna talk or do you just want me to check your contractions?”

“I’m—” She shakes her head, covering her face. She half sits on the desk. “I’m fucking— I am not ready for this.”

“Yeah.” You nod. You’re not here to convince anyone they’re ready to be a fucking mother. But you’re here to listen, certainly.

“She’s gonna hate me.”

“Who?”

“Her—!” Her voice is choked, another contraction. You’re silently taking the time in your head. She points to her stomach.

“And— And we just opened, and— And I’m gonna have to go on maternity leave, which is the last fucking thing we need and— and— If I could just fucking keep her in!”

“Natalie.” You put a hand on her shoulder, she finally looks at you. “This is happening.”

“Not help—fu—ll.”

“I know it’s not. This is scary and there are no take backs—” “Very unhelp—”

“Nat, your daughter wants to meet you.”

You squeeze her shoulder; she looks like she’s gonna cry all over again for a completely different reason. “She probably won’t hate you. Who’s to say. But I know you’ll love her. And that’s enough, isn’t it?”

She nods, emphatically, but something is still bothering her. You squeeze her shoulder again. You whisper, so even if everyone’s ear is pressed to the door— Which you doubt, she’s screaming after all, they won’t hear.

“Carmen will still know you love him, even when you're not here.”

She immediately goes for a hug, you reciprocate with a shuddered ease. She sniffs, head on your shoulder. She stays there for a while before letting you go, nodding. “Okay.”

You hand her the tissue box next to her on the table, she takes it thankfully, crushing it in her hand. Another contraction. Oh, that couldn't have been more than 2 minutes. Oh fuck.

You kneel down in front of her, and you’re simply no longer in your body as a person but just the paramedic. You could not be more thankful that she’s wearing a dress today. Awkward requests of spreading legs and pulling off underwear aside, Natalie’s daughter does in fact really want to meet her. Oh fuck.

You look up at Natalie, between her knees, you speak cool, professional. “You’re crowning. This is gonna have to happen here. I'll have someone call your husband.”

You’re so calm that it doesn’t give Natalie the feeling or need to freak out, she just breathes. “Okay. Okay.”

You stand upright. “Do you prefer this office or somewhere else?”

“I can’t— Move.”

“Makes sense. Makes total sense. Okay. I’ll go get everything we need, I’ll be right back. I might send some people in, okay, love?”

She just grunts in reply, nodding, now that she’s not in as much emotional pain, she can entirely focus on her brutalizing physical pain.

“Oh, hey, I know—” You grab her purse, pulling out her phone and ear buds, handing them to her with haste, your calm demeanour is faltering just a bit. “Listen to some music, loud, y’know, chill…” You put the pods in her ear for her. She’s again, in too much pain to tell you to fuck off, and just plays her music loud.

You softly open the door, smiling just a bit too much as you leave, and very softly close the door behind you. Looking at the motley crew before you, your persona immediately falls apart. You really only wanted her to play music so you could scream. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“What’s happening, she good?” What a sweet, stupid brother, Sugar has.

You purse your lips together, eyes wide, shaking your head. “She’s going to give birth in like— Maybe six minutes. Max ten.” Everyone goes to speak in an uproar of panic, and then you slap yourself in the face. Hard. That stuns them silent.

“Alright!” You press your hands over your eyes, “Tina!”

She’s been around this block before, “What do you need?”

“Can you go sit in there with her? Tell her all the breathing exercises and shit? Keep her calm? Coming from you it won’t seem so—”

“Condescending as fuck?”

“Yes, exactly, can you?”

“Gotchu, baby.” She claps your shoulder when she walks past and into the office.

You clap hers in tandem, “Thank you, Mama—Okay, Richie!”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna need you to call Nat’s husband—”

“Why do I—”

“Because you’re a fuckin’ dad, Rich, and he will need you!” You’re yelling all pissed, snapping your fingers at him, but he does light up when you say it like that. “I don’t care if he wets his fuckin’ bed, tell him to get here!”

He salutes, walking off, “Aye aye, Cap’n Chip.”

You shake off the sting in your hand, God, you really did slap yourself too hard. You turn to the next targets. “Syd, Fak.”

Syd responds hesitantly for the both of them, since Fak is silently enjoying your colonel persona a little too much. “…Yes, C-Captain?”

“I need towels, a lot of clean towels— cloth ones, like sanitized clean— Warm half in water— And then I need a clean sheet— A table cloth or something, I don’t fucking care, something clean and big that you’re fine destroying. I need sterile sheaths, Syd you get those— Other than that, however they get to me, I don’t give a shit— Just scrub in before you touch anything!”

They almost knock into each other the way they run so fast. You yell after them. “Get the big sheet first, she needs to lay down!”

“Yes, Chef!”

You take a deep breath before moving your gaze onto Carmy. The screaming lead EM in you melts off your shoulders, just for the second.

He asks before you can even say anything, “Yes, Chef?”

“I need you to scrub in and get me gloves and an apron—” “On it, Chef—” “And you’re gonna sit in with me for the birth of your niece.”

He cringes, not to refuse, but just the mounting reality of the situation is dawning on him. His sister is going to give birth to his niece in their shared office of his high-class restaurant within it's first week of open.

But you then tag on, “Carmy, she needs you— Frankly, I’m not the one giving birth but fuckin' I need you. T-There.”

He softens instantly, like tranquilizing— Well, a bear.

“Yes, Chef.”

I know the opening probably feels so far away by now, but i do want to note that Breakfast Bruschetta is my own recipe that I used to make like every fuckin' day pre-employment. It's so goddamn good. I highly recommend it, babes. It's balsamic with brown sugar dissolved, btw, Carmy's just a quick explainer.

I wrote like a solid 75% of the labour sequence before deciding it just needed to have the breathing room of it's own chapter, so until next time for that one bbs. But I'm excited for it! And also dreading it! A lot of hard conversations combined with giving birth = nightmare to write, but well worth it, i think. Speaking of: I don't believe at the end of Season 2 that Sugar is at the end of her term of 36 weeks, but in our case here, she is. I'm very much so not interested in a very scary premature birth for our girl!! She's okay!! Dw!! I just wonked with time a little, hope that's okay.

And hey, look at that reveal! Bartender/Sommelier was code for bottle service-- Which is a very respectable career, btw, don't get it twisted-- I was critiquing it only in the way I would critique literally any other job: Misery Under Capitalism. And now we've got that fuckin' wedding in the future midst! Ah!!

Anyways please send me your thoughts ad nauseam, I reload my activity feed every 3 seconds to see what you guys are thinking. If you reblog, tell me what you think in the tags!! Yell at me in the replies!! Send an anon in!! I don't bite, I swear <3

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#carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto imagine #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen x reader #carmy berzatto #carmy x reader #the bear fanfiction #the bear x reader #carmy the bear #the bear fx

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