#also migraines break my brain a little bit

[befuddledcinnamonroll]

Ok, I'm about to get all goofy and emotional here.

I was thinking about why I'm feeling so emotionally overwhelmed this morning, and part of it is definitely that I'm recovering from a migraine and had a terrible night of sleep, so I currently have the emotional regulation of a toddler.

But I was also thinking about how the world just has a lot of really shitty stuff happening right now, and we all have to deal with both being hyper aware of it all, and very aware of our limited capacity to change it on an individual level. Like we all do our little collective piece (I hope), but I'm still trying to sort my own shit out, and I can't fix any of the things out there that are hurting people.

And then there's this little place I found, a little escape hatch into a niche world that makes me really happy. And I found it at a time when it was still rather new, and then over the last few years I've gotten to witness this *explosion* of this niche getting bigger and bigger, and deeper and deeper, and we're getting to a place where there's a little something for almost everyone, and there's going to be even more in the future. And yes, at its core, it's a profit-driven thing, but it means something that so many people are being drawn to it, and it brings feelings of seeing the world as it could be, and how love can win, and how it's ok to take time to figure yourself out, and how there will always be people who love you as you are.

And there's a community that surrounds this thing, that keeps getting bigger as well, and it doesn't care about borders, and you get to make friends who live across the world from you, because you all find this same niche such a warm and happy space. And you can be serious with it and goofy with it, and it's all embraced.

And in a world where real joy is of such limited supply, I think it's a genuinely beautiful thing.

[carmenized-onions]

Two Steps Back. | Advanced Payment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you, Amish?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ insane, cousin.”

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

“Why do you keep bringing lunch, then?”

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

“I just like making my own lunch.”

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

“I think beef is fine.”

“Not what I asked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This fucking guy. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Tony?”

“She’s gone.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fak.” 

“Carm?”

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

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

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

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

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

Walk-In Hotfix, $80

Plumbing Repair (Service + 4 Hours), $250

Oven Wiring Fix (House call), $70

Oven Hotfix + Replacement Thermocouple, $120

Non-Gratis: Pinot Grigio, -$20

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bold.”

“Thank you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You never do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s have it, Chef.” David goads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should reply!”

“He doesn't need a fuckin' reply.” 

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

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

“I literally have brothers, Michael.”

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

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

“You're the baby?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you have to add actually and kinda?”

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ delighted, Jackie.”

“Never fuckin’ call me Jackie.”

“Heard.”

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

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

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

“Your hair is fucked.” 

“And the food?”

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

“Someone other than you, yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s the point.”

“That’s the point?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cousin— You’re needed, pronto.” 

“Not your Cousin.”

“Heard and resented.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye aye, Rich.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cousin!” 

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

“Cousin get my fucking bag, now!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She had to leave early.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not nothing, Mikey.”

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

“I know.”

“Mikey, you’re not.”

“Don’t fucking Good Will Hunting me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

“Like a nerd?” “Like a nerd.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s how it starts.”

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

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

“How long you been stable, again?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs, “Better than Jack, no?”

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

“Yeah, better than Jack.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has it really only been thirty minutes?

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

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

“What?”

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

“Fuck you mean what?”

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

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

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

“You said she failed him.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop being you.”

“You don’t love me!”

“Of course we fuckin’ love you!”

“You don’t fucking love me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why’s he in the freezer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods to your phone. “How long?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Same team.”

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

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

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

“Six hours. Same team.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s runnin’ house?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“First time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re multiplying?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Heard.”

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

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

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

“Can you stay after close?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nods, “Can you do that?”

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

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

“Insane, Uncle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course I believe in you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you! I ask for so little.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Richie leads, “You need to fucking relax.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you wish you did?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

“Mikey—”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not?”

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“I’m okay.”

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

“I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Love you, Bear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My best friend, Mikey, died.”

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

“My brother, Mikey, shot himself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not negotiable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Part

[soaringthroughthegalaxy]

Hi!!! How’s it going?

I have a brain cleansing idea 😂

So Hunter is always alert and worried about everyone. How about the reader trying to sooth his worries late at night? Kissing his hands, stroking his hair. With him laying his head in the crook of your neck or trying to hear the steady rhythm of a heartbeat 😭😭. Whatever floats your boat.

Feel free to change things up to your liking (if you like my idea). It can be an established relationship or a friends to lovers thing, whatever you prefer,

Don’t forget to take breaks and to prioritise your health

♡

Hi anon! Thanks for the request. I loved this idea, so I ran with it and tweaked it ever so slightly. Thank you for the little reminder to take breaks - I've been a bit burned out with work, but writing this brought me joy 💕

For a while, I’ve wanted to do a HC’s piece on the Batch looking after reader who has chronic migraines (super self-indulgent), but giving Hunter the migraine worked in this story, so poor bby suffers a little. But it’s okay; he also gets cuddles and love 😂

A Moment of Stillness

Worrying and caring about his brothers all the time weighs heavy on Hunter. So, it’s a good job you’re there to worry and care about him.

Pairing: Hunter x f!reader

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: fluff, sweetness, comfort, mutual pining, use of strong prescription medicine for migraine, very light scent kink/Hunter finds readers scent comforting, pet names, cuddles, confessions of love, friends to lovers, first kiss.

Another storm had rolled in, the crack of lightning throwing flashes of bright light across your room and the rumble of thunder creating white noise as you worked late into the evening. Several mission reports had already been completed and submitted, but there was still a small stack. That was the downside of sending the boys on back-to-back missions.

Twirling your stylus in one hand, your chin rested in the other, elbow perched on the edge of your desk as you stared off through the window, watching the rain lash against the transparasteel. When you had signed up to assist the GAR, you’d anticipated adventure and thrills, near-death experiences and seeing more of the galaxy. Instead, you had politics to play with Command, bad news to break to your boys when the next mission would see them needed on a skughole of a planet, and an endless supply of paperwork. But you were doing your bit – playing your part and keeping the wheels of the GAR turning. And, ultimately, that was what you’d wanted.

A light rap at your door captured your attention between the rumbles of thunder. Abandoning your desk, stylus discarded next to your datapad, you moved across the small room you’d been given in Tipoca City. It wasn’t much, but within these four walls, you could escape. The door slid open quietly, and a soft smile crossed your lips at the sight that greeted you.

“Hey, cyar’ika.” The smoky rasp of Hunter’s voice felt like a warm blanket on a winter’s day. Eight months, you’d been working with him and his brothers, feeding them missions, directing them to the nearest outposts for supplies, and cheating the system occasionally to get them any extras they needed. They were the closest thing you had to family out here, and the longer you spent with them, the more you grew attached to them – especially to Hunter.

As you moved aside to let Hunter in, the dark circles under his eyes looked worse than before, and every step he took was slower than usual, like the weight of the galaxy rested on his broad shoulders. It wasn’t uncommon for them to swing by when they were back on Kamino, usually to drag you to their barracks for a catch-up, but something about this visit felt different.

“Hey, H.” You answer gently, sliding effortlessly into the small nickname you’d adopted for him, the door shutting once he was inside. “It’s good to see you.”

With a weary sigh, Hunter lifted a hand and rubbed at his forehead. He was exhausted, still in pain from a few injuries he’d sustained at the start of their recent back-to-back missions, and the storm had been the final straw, frazzling his senses and dragging in a migraine. While he loved his brothers dearly, they’d started their usual rounds of bickering and chatter the moment they’d stepped foot in their barracks and, in need of peace, Hunter’s feet had guided him to you.

“Here…” You kept your voice low, pulling out the chair at your desk for Hunter to sit. As he lowered himself gingerly into the seat, you rooted around in the fresher for your medkit. As you turned back to the room, your heart ached. Hunter was propping his head up with one hand, not too dissimilar to the way you’d been earlier, but his eyes were closed, brows furrowed in pain. While you appreciated that his senses were a benefit out on the frontlines, you wanted to shoot whichever Kaminoan had decided having the ability to sense electromagnetic fields would be fantastic for someone whose home was on a stormy planet.

Quietly, you approached, pulling a small blue box from the medkit. Prying it open, you popped one of the pills from its packet. “Take this.” You murmured, waiting for Hunter’s eyes to open.

Hunter had heard your approach and slowly opened his eyes at your words. He had mixed feelings about the pill you offered up – one of your personal ones, prescribed for your own migraines. The side effects you experienced were intense; he’d witnessed it firsthand while looking after you a few times. He’d only used them once before, and the side effects, thanks to his mutations, were even worse. However, he knew that come morning, should he take the tablet, his migraine would be gone. He could regroup and refocus on the next mission. 

It was worth the side effects for sweet relief.

Reaching out with one hand, he took the tablet from you, placing it onto his tongue. The medicinal tang as it fizzled made him grimace, a film coating his mouth as it dissolved. Before it kicked in, he’d have ten minutes to return to his barracks. Summoning his little energy, Hunter pushed himself up to stand, using your desk to keep his balance.

“You’re not going anywhere.” You insisted, a firmness to your voice that brokered no argument. “You won’t make it back there before collapsing from exhaustion. Take my bunk.” You gestured to the bed pressed up against the far wall. The standard issue linens had been replaced long ago with softer sheets. Extra pillows had been procured, and Lula sat nestled against them. Wrecker often handed her to you before they left, asking you to look after her until he returned. You weren’t sure if the gentle giant was doing it to try and comfort you – to reassure you they’d be back – or whether he did it because he didn’t want to risk her being misplaced. Either way, she kept you company. And the smile on Wrecker’s face whenever you returned her was brighter than Tatooine’s two suns.

“Don’t want to get in your way.” Hunter mumbled, wincing at the pounding in his head and the slight bout of nausea that rolled through him.

“I wasn’t asking, I was telling.” You double-down, taking matters into your own hands as you guided him the few steps across the room to your bed. Easing him down onto the edge of the mattress, you started to unfasten his armour. Working quickly, you unlatched each piece and set it down neatly beside your bed until he was left in nothing but his blacks. It bothered you a little that they were dirty, and he was about to get into your nice clean bed, having spent Maker knows how long wearing them, but you pushed that aside as you pulled back the sheets for him.

A tattooed hand wrapped around your wrist, and you paused in your actions, head tilting to look up into Hunter’s tired eyes. “I know you.” His voice was whisper soft, words blending a little as the medication started to kick in. You watched as he let go of you, hands slowly dragging the top half of his blacks off, depositing it onto the floor. His pants came next, kicked off haphazardly before he slumped into the bed and closed his eyes.

Most of the time, you saw the boys in their armour, sometimes just in their blacks, and on one occasion, you’d accidentally walked into their barracks just as Crosshair had been coming out of the fresher, copping a load of the man with just a towel around his waist. You’d been mortified, cheeks warming as you turned around quickly to offer privacy. He’d found it hilarious, smirk tugging at his lips as he’d made a risqué comment.

Now, you had a near-naked Hunter in your bed.

Mild panic laced through you, along with appreciation and a coil of heat. Hunter was a good-looking man who you cared for deeply, and you were a red-blooded woman. And those abs of his…

With a shake of your head, you composed yourself and lifted the sheets to cover him.

Hunter couldn’t help the slight hum of appreciation he let out as you placed the sheets over him. Your bed was much comfier than the thin mattresses he and his brothers had in their barracks, and the extra pillows felt like clouds. Not to mention, everything around him smelt like you - a soft, floral scent he’d grown to adore. Another noise slid past his lips as he felt your fingers in his hair, gently undoing the knot of his bandana. The fabric slipped away, and while he felt naked without it, he knew it would otherwise bother him while he slept.

Confident Hunter wouldn’t go anywhere, you laid his bandana on your nightstand. Turning to finish some more reports while he rested, the low rasp of his voice stopped you. “Stay with me?”

“I’m right here.” You countered gently, brows drawing downwards. You weren’t about to leave him in the room to fend for himself.

Reaching out blindly, Hunter patted the vacant spot in the bed. “You’re not.”

A soft laugh escaped you. “H…” You whispered, wanting nothing more than to comfort him but at the same time not wanting to make things weird.

“Please.” Hunter persisted.

You really couldn’t deny him anything, especially when he was unwell and vulnerable. “Alright.” You conceded, returning to the bed. Hand sliding under the sheets in the vacant spot, you found your sleep shirt. Turning your back, you quickly changed and slid into the bed. Reaching up to the panel in the wall, you adjusted the lights – turning them off entirely and plunging the room into darkness would force Hunter’s other senses to overcompensate, so instead, you settled on a dim glow.

As you settled beside Hunter, the room became a cocoon of warmth and soft shadows. The storm outside continued, but it was tranquil within the small confines of your room. Silence lingered for a moment, broken only by the rhythmic patter of rain on the window. Hunter moved slightly onto his side, trying to find a more comfortable position. He was restless, his breathing uneven, and you could tell that the pain and exhaustion were still sitting heavily with him. Without a word, you shifted closer to try and offer some comfort, and Hunter took the invitation.

Although his mind was starting to go blissfully foggy as the medication worked its magic, Hunter’s heart felt as if it were racing. For months, he’d played his cards close to his chest, quietly admiring you, enduring the teasing from his brothers whenever they noticed his gaze lingering on you, and yet now he was sharing a bed with you.

As you shifted towards him, laying on your back, he scooted in and closed the gap between you. Carefully, he slid an arm around your middle, fingers finding your waist as he pressed against you, burying his face into the crook of your neck. Nose pressed to your throat, he inhaled deeply, his overworked senses relaxing as he was surrounded by nothing but you – your scent, your heartbeat, the rise and fall of your torso with every breath you took.

Your hand found its way to his hair, fingers smoothing through the brown curls, nails dragging lightly over his scalp. The tension in his muscles gradually gave way to relaxation, and, in the darkness, the worries that had weighed on Hunter’s shoulders dissipated, replaced by the comforting warmth of your presence.

For a while, neither of you spoke, content in the quiet. Hunter’s breathing evened out, signalling that the pain and stress were finally loosening their grip on him. “Need anything?” You whispered, breaking the silence.

A low, almost content hum vibrated against your neck as Hunter nuzzled closer. “No, ’m good.” He admitted, the words muffled against your skin. “Thanks to you.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “Anytime, H.” As the storm outside began to calm down, you found yourself lost in thought again. The war raged on, and the future remained uncertain. “I worry about you.” You confessed, your fingers still moving through his hair. “The constant missions, the danger you face, the weight on your shoulders. It’s a lot.”

Hunter lifted his head slightly to meet your gaze in the dim light. His eyes, usually sharp and focused, were hazy and soft. “Worry about you too. But we’ve got each other.” Hunter’s words were slower than usual as he struggled to piece them together through the brain fog.

You could only nod in response as Hunter dipped his head back down, pressing his face back to where it had been before. “Smell good.” He mumbled, uncaring in the moment to censor himself.

You chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through your chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever received that compliment before. But thank you.” Amusement curled through your words.

“Appreciate you. Can rely on you.” Hunter continued, unable to stop the honest words from coming out, his voice a mere murmur against your skin. He shifted, his arm tightening around you. The medication was working in full force, but he fought against it a little longer. “Need to say something.” He whispered.

Tilting your head to look at him, the dim glow revealed the faint outline of his face as he pressed his nose to your pulse point. “What is it?” You asked, curiosity lacing your words.

Hunter didn’t want to make things awkward or weird, but at the same time, he didn’t want to keep hiding things from you. And now felt as good a time as any to come clean. “I care about you. A lot.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and that earlier warmth in your body grew hotter. Hunter’s admission hung in the air.

Hunter shifted again, focusing on your delicate scent and the slightly quickened thud of your heart. His fingers on your waist started to rub soft, clumsy circles. “Think I’m in love with you.” Nervousness rolled through him. “Didn’t plan on sayin’ it like this, but I can’t keep pretendin'.” Pushing the words out took monumental effort, but he wouldn’t let sleep pull him under until he’d said his piece.

The atmosphere in the room shifted, and a sense of rightness filtered through you. “You mean you didn't plan on saying it while heavily medicated?” You couldn’t help but tease, your voice soft but steady. Hunter’s low grunt of agreement, his warm breath fanning across your skin, drew a smile from you. “You should know you’re not alone in feeling that way.” You confessed quietly, figuring it only fair that you also laid your cards on the table.

Delight bloomed in Hunter’s chest, and he inhaled deeply, his grip on you tightening. “You mean...?”

“Yeah.” You confirmed as your hand moved, fingers trailing across the darkened half of his face.

Contentment washed over him, his earlier nervousness chased away by your words and soft actions. “Wanna kiss you.” He admitted.

You felt a smile play on your lips, matching the warmth in your chest. “That can be arranged.” You whispered, leaning in as you closed the small gap between you.

Hunter’s lips met yours in a soft, tender kiss. His hand slid from your waist, sweeping up your body to cup your face as he deepened the kiss, lips moving against yours with a gentle urgency. In that moment, nothing else mattered - no worries or fears, no past or future. There was only the two of you.

Hunter’s eyes met yours in the dim light as you both pulled away. “Get some rest.” You murmured, concerned by the fatigue you could see on his face. While it was sweet that he’d fought against it to share his feelings, he needed to rest. “We can figure everything out tomorrow.”

Hunter nodded, finally giving in to the tiredness as he settled against you. The pain that had etched lines on his face had begun to fade, his shoulders dropping as tension eased. With a sense of newfound comfort, he closed his eyes, safe and content with you, and allowed the soft rhythm of the rain and the steady beating of your heart to lull him into a much-needed sleep.

[aspenlovesmedia]

The fact that the superhero au would let me write 3 of my favourite powers (shapeshifting, teleportation and super speed) is so funny to me like it feels like this is an au I was supposed to write.

I’ve altered some of the powers a little to give me a bit more variety to work with. Like I’m having it so that Etho has an enchanted mace he can summon at will and that allows him to manipulate air since I didn’t want it to feel too similar to Joel’s ability. It also means someone has a more long range combat ability. There’s a few others I’m tweaking just to make it more fun for me and to help round out the team a bit since several of the abilities are very similar.

I’m also working on the worldbuilding. It’s going to be a modern/futuristic setting since I want cool tech and also that’s how the original vigilante group was a thing. It also means that Scar gets an exosuit to help him walk (he has to be careful as it can break and if he uses it too much it will wreck his health), Grian will have robotic wings (he keeps them even after he gets powers and can mimic Pearl’s ability because aesthetics), and I’m thinking of giving Pearl a robotic dog. I just think it would be funny to include Tilly for when Pearl’s a vigilante since I’m leaning into Scarlet Pearl for that.

Also I can have so many of them work in animal care or a tech company. Like Grian, Pearl, Gem, Bdubs, Lizzie and Scar would all make sense in an animal care setting (I’m thinking Grian, Scar and Gem in a zoo and Pearl, Bdubs and Lizzie at a rescue centre) and Mumbo (before he died), Impulse, Etho and Tango would all make sense in a tech setting. Scott would be an architect as well btw, it came to me and it’s now a thing. I haven’t figured out the others yet I just thought it would be funny that like half of them are in the same 2 industries. Also I work in animal care so I know how to write it which is very helpful.

This is far from the first superhero story I’ve made so I’m in my element right now lol. Soon I will have to deal with my nemesis: unique superhero codenames (if you’ve ever written a superhero story you know the problem).

This is just another thought dump, sorry if any of it is a bit confusing I had a migraine earlier so my brain isn’t fully working still lol.

[nekomacheercaptain]

💕 Bedridden on Valentine’s Day 💕

Living with a chronic illness sucks ass and I am terrified of ever having a partner because of my migraine ruining days like this (and it would today if I had a partner 🥲). Also I haven’t finished the smut I wanted to with Corazon, so here is a very small comfort with him that I wrote in 20 minutes to make up for it

CW: chronic illness, headaches, migraines, relationship, gn! reader

“I’m so sorry…”

Rosinante heard your small voice from where he was hugging you tightly against his chest on the bed, breaking the silence of the dark room.

He shushed you softly before whispering, “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Your eyes instantly glazed over and a familiar lump formed in the back of your throat, “You love Valentine’s Day… you deserve better.”

Cradling your face softly, Rosinante looked down at you with concern, his features only visible due to the moonlight pooling through the window, “I love you every single day, sweetheart, this day is nothing special, it’s only for fun.”

Your lips trembled, “But you planned-“

“And we can always do that later,” his thumb stroked over your cheek so tenderly you wanted to melt, his voice still a whisper, “when your head isn’t killing you.”

And it was true, even just the small exchange had caused your head to worsen, making it feel like your brain was pulsating hard enough for your skull to crack.

“I love you, my love, on your bad days and on your good days, just as you do me, right?”

You nodded, feeling your throat hurt too much to speak.

A soft kiss was planted your temple, and you closed your eyes before he hugged you to his chest again, “And I can’t help but appreciate the times I get to hold you all day, especially if it makes you feel just a little bit better.”

“…You make everything better.”

He chuckled lightly, his hand rubbing soothingly up and down your back, “And so do you, my love.”

How lucky were you to have someone so understanding?

[ghostlythunderbird]

How they show their love ~ Task Force 141 

Pairings: Simon Riley, John MacTavish, Kyle Garrick, John Price X Fem! Reader

Warnings: Sugar (SFW), Little bit of Spice (NSFW), and everything nice!

Author Notes: My brain do be shutting down while writing these HCs but that’s ok cause a little violence and sleep deprivation never fully hurts anyone, right?

Simon “Ghost” Riley

So to start things off personally Simon isn’t one to really go out with his love due to his past but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t show his love in general. Simon’s love language is gift giving but he actually does it more subtly, in ways not many can see even when watching him do these things. 

Believe it or not but this big guy loves to leave small gifts in places that only you would know to look at. These small gifts include but not pertained to Candy, Favorite Drinks, a Single Flower, etc. If one day you have a headache/migraine and don’t have any pain meds, a random bottle of your preferred pain killers appear randomly in your backpack.

I’ll add this in but all of this starts once Simon starts to feel comfortable around you, maybe even trust you outside of a mission. It becomes deeper once you catch him in the act of leaving a candy bar you’ve been “Whining” about for the last week according to him. Having caught this looming giant in the act seemed to paint the picture that this guy isn’t as subtle as he seems.

You can’t help but smile seeing only small streams of who he really is. Of course you don’t want to make the poor guy melt into the floor in front of you, but he didn’t seem to stop you as you stepped towards him. Reaching up to touch his covered cheek you couldn’t stop the words pouring from your mouth “You know Ghost, I’m starting to think that heart isn’t as cold as you let on.”

John “Soap” MacTavish 

This man is a teddy bear when it comes to showing his unconditional love for you. His way he shows his love is not just with quality time but physical touch too, like good luck getting this man off of you when he’s home. Johnny just loves to be around you but he will respect your space if you say you need to take a break from him.

Another way this man will show his love is by pranking you, whether it be small pranks or full on scares you better be cautious of this cheeky gremlin.

His best one he’s done was him placing EVERYTHING in different spots and acting as if it was normal. The dishes are now in the refrigerator, the pantry food is now in the cupboard with your favorite snacks in the very top, all the frozen stuff is now in the sink on ice. It may be a small harmless joke but it was still irritating regardless, mostly because now you couldn’t find your snacks.

If you end up being a little angry at him he will cling to you afterwards asking for forgiveness “Come on Bonnie I thought it was funny.” Does this end up with apology sex? You're goddamn right it does.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick 

Now this sweet human here I feel like is a mix between a few of the love languages, he loves to give you small gifts that he’s collected off of his missions. While he’s off on missions for months at a time he ends up having a whole bag to bring back to you consisting of necklaces, bracelets, clothes, and small trinkets that he would think you would love.

Kyle also loves to help you whenever he can, he often feels that if he can’t help with anything that he’s not doing anything productive. Even after you tell him you don’t need help he will give you puppy dog eyes until you decide there is something he can help out with. No matter how small the task is he will see it to the end.

His favorite thing to do is help you redecorate your shared flat. From picking out new paint to new furniture if something in the flat has lost its functionality he loves to be part of the whole process. If anyone says that they don’t like your style you choose, prepare to hold him back cause this man will fight for you.

John Price

All I can truly say what johns love languages are both Physical Touch and Quality Time and y’all can fight me on that. Due to his job he can’t be home as often as he would like so the best way to get around it is with phone calls and face time. Of course if our dear captain if feeling more wound up than usual its bound to end up with phone sex.

But once he returns home after however long your not gonna be leaving the bed for the first week. While yes this might be a different form of quality time and personal touch, it still is the basic form of him showing how much he loves and has missed you. After the first week though he will be more doting on you more than usual.

Weather its watching T.V., cooking, going shopping in town, he has a hand on you as much as possible. It also grounds him, reminding him that he’s returned home safe for now. As much as he would like nothing more than to be cuddled up on the couch with you in your home, he understands if you want to go out during his time home so he’s willing when you drag him off to who knows where.

Sorry if this is super short, my brain isn’t as functional today. But if you enjoyed this post please leave a like and a reblog!

[kiiwiigii]

Night-Time Reading

Alec x Fem!Reader

Summary: You are having a rough day managing your POTS/CFS. All you want to do is relax and Alec is there to help.

Warnings:

Fluff! Nothing but tooth rotting fluff.

Word Count: 400+

Requested?: Yes!

So I'm going through a really rough time, I'm disabled (pots and CFS) and my cfs is acting up badly cause school started and I've been so busy I haven't had a break period, constantly walking and running and being busy. now I have a three day weekend so my body is letting myself feel the consequences of pushing myself too far, so I was wondering if I could suggest some comfort? Alec with a mate that either has cfs or just has some symptoms and just him keeping them as comfortable as possible while they're in pain Common symptoms (including the ones I'm going through) - joint pain (I can barely go up stairs and walk -extreme temp fluctuations (really hot to really cold quickly) -brain fog (brain is foggy. I'm too weak to open a bottle of coke so I left it open and while talking I tipped it over and forgot it was open) -migraines/headaches -sore throat -trembling -really tired but can't fall asleep and/or sleeps for a really long time Thank you for listening 🫶🏼 -🦊

A/N: Hey nonny! I am so, so sorry it has taken me this long to write this. Honestly, I was (and still am I suppose) intimidated to write this, simply because these illnesses are not something I am not even remotely familiar with. But I also want to thank you because it's a good writing exercise for me. I'm also sorry that you're having such a rough time. I can't even imagine. So here's a fic, just for you, darling. I hope you're feeling better.

Another A/N: So the wonderful and amazing @alecvolturi did an amazing edit of Alec reading the first bit of The Hobbit. Please give it a listen as you read. It's PERFECT.

Miserable.

I was fucking miserable.

It began just by sitting up. I could feel the migraine building, and I was already in the throws of a hot flash. It didn't help that the pain in my joints was flaring up again.

It was 3 a.m. and I was already this close to crying. I couldn't remember the last time that I had a proper nights sleep. I just wanted one day, one day where I didn't have to be in pain or worry that any movement I made would set off a whole other series of symptoms, all of which almost all of them were painful.

"Darling?" Alec was next to me, his cold hands running over my heated skin, trailing goosebumps behind in his wake.

His hands were a sweet, cool balm on my flushed skin. It gave me a little relief. I leaned into him, enjoying the cold. His lips pressed to my forehead.

"Scale of 1 to 10?"

"7 to 8." I mumbled.

One would think with how long that I've lived with this disease that I would have a high pain tolerance. That couldn't be further from the truth. I could already feel a few tears slipping from beneath my lashes. I just wanted something to make the pain go away.

I whined as Alec disappeared, only to reappear with my meds and a bottle of water a moment later.

"Here, drink." He handed me the pills and water, and I took them gratefully. He pulled the comforter from the floor where I had kicked it off, bundling it back up on the bed for us to lay down on. He then grabbed my phone, pulling up my favorite playlist, the one he made for me to help me calm down when I felt like shit. The music started flowing through the speaker near my bed at a low volume.

"What book, darling?" His eyes were already scanning my bookshelves.

"Uhm…" I blinked back at him slowly, trying to process what he said.

"How about The Hobbit?"

"Perfect." I rasped with a small smile.

He was next to me again in a flash, his back against the headboard as he pulled me gently to him, a pillow already ready in his lap.

"In the hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit." His voice lilted over me, and I felt myself begin to relax as his hands gently ran through my hair and along my neck.

The fine mist that signaled the use of his gift began to unfurl from his fingers and I felt myself begin to numb. The first time he had done this it had been disconcerting, but now I welcomed it with relish. A small reprieve from the pain. I smiled to myself, letting my eyes slip closed as I listened.

Then finally, sleep came for me.

{Masterlist} // {Request Guidelines}

Taglist: @alecvolturi @lack-lust-3r @rosedpetal

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[vixthefantheorist]

Looking through the recent IRIS posts

Guess what time it is, my fellow theorists! That's right! It's theory crafting time! (Or brain rotting because I have no social life)

But as we all know IRIS on Twitter have been pretty active for the last few days. Posting on 10/24/2024 - 10/25/2024 and 10/26/2024

Yes it's all in order... I hope. (Nothing on the 27th, my birthday, I see how it is IRIS -squint-). And I know I haven't covered the 25th and 26th posts, I was getting ready for my birthday and then struck with a terrible migraine all day the 26th.

I'm better now, don't worry. But I had been looking at the posts when I could and figured to post some things together while I can remember them. I already covered the post on the 24th, I just have it here for convivence and in case I remember anything else for it.

The post for 10/25 is a little odd, more obviously the fact the word 'Strangely' is spelled as 'Strangeley'. Honestly not sure if its an intentional misspelling or an actual one that no one caught until too late, either way kinda gives the notice a bit of charm. Or the employee was typing too fast and misspelled it and couldn't be arsed to type onto another paper to correct it. I wouldn't blame him for that.

But it does speak about a deadzone in an area between a certain bathroom and cafeteria. Only battery powered devices seem to be affected within that zone as the lights and ventilation systems were still operational as normal. Hmm, interesting.

Where have seen a cafeteria in IRIS before? That's right the "commercial" for IRIS in 'this is my 5,000th video' shows a cafeteria like area where employees were enjoying their break.

Not the most glamorous cafeteria (IRIS seems pretty cheap on it. Though we know its because budget for AF:CB), but it is still a cafeteria. If that's the case, then the only deadzone I can think of is the red hallway that Chase was terrified of and dragged through against his will.

The bathroom could be that door next to one of the guards.

Or this one which is right outside Chase's cell.

Not sure, but it is just a guess. Literally its just a guess, as there is no evidence to back up the claim like anyone making mention of anything battery powered being sapped dry while in the area in the stream. But the employee in the post did make mention that it may be nothing dangerous and just annoyance from a certain department up to no good and just advising others to use a different bathroom on the east aside to avoid their devices being drained of power.

Why does that matter?

Well, it's an electrical interference that isn't causing damage to the facilities systems, just personal devices carried by employees, phones, watches, that sort of thing. So it never warranted further investigation I believe. And there's at least two instances in which that could cause that deadzone.

One of which is Anti's attack on Chase (where we see the shadows move towards Chase, indicating Anti reaching for him)

As Arin points out that Chase was exposed to dangerous levels of energy. (Though I wouldn't put it past IRIS to also have replicated the energy Anti uses to use on Chase to see his reaction to it. Fucking cruel if that's the case. Which then only prompted Anti to find out where he is and zero in on his location)

The second time this deadzone could happen was when Echo appears to speak to Chase.

Shit goes a little funky for the camera but the lights are fine.

It could be that the hallways between Chase's cell and the cafeteria is the deadzone. We don't know when that post the employee wrote was written, either during Chase's week long stay... or even before that. If it is indeed the same building and universe the employee speaks of. (Goddamn timey whimey shit)

But if it is at least prior to Chase's capture, could mean Echo's energy is causing it, as Echo reveals to Chase that they too have been stuck here. Just don't know if its before or after... will not be surprised if it was before to wait for Chase to appear to talk to him. Again, timey whimey shit.

Again, it's all theory, not the best kind but still fun to think on. I think there's more to this post but I... don't know what else to look for in it, aside hey, no IRIS stamp on it, so likely a private message from one employee to another to avoid that place altogether. And then what Department could the Employee be talking about?

Onwards to the post from 10/26, where obviously things for an experiment have not gone as planned. Nope, someone died in the vacuum room. There is another word, 'vacuum' is misspelled to be 'vaccum' (...I will refrain from making a joke here, it's too easy), and again, I don't know if its an intentional misspelling or someone didn't catch it when it was approved and posted online. (And if it was an accident, don't be ashamed or embarrassed, I misspell a lot of words too quite often. The fun of having your brain go faster than your fingers and autocorrect in your mind to not catch the misspelling too.)

Either case, an experiment was taking place in a vacuum room and someone died in the hands of an ALTR. Why an ALTR? Well, the clues were something in there was dangerous and the term 'designations' was used. Designations being something to identify different things quickly for a variety of reasons. Mostly to determine if one thing is dangerous or passive. Much like SCP uses designations to determine each SCP's threat level easily to prepare to encounter them more effectively.

Plus Designations are alternatives to names. Why? Because if you name something, you or the other forms an attachment to the name.

No attachment, no emotional scuff.

No emotional scuff, means easier times to conduct rather... unethical and cruel experiments without the hassle of morality.

It's SCIENCE after all, science has no time or room for morality. At least in IRIS's thought process I guess.

That thought is hammered in with the person (I'm guessing head researcher for that experiment) making a comment of having to remind everyone the reasons why they do what they do and to think of the great rewards at the end of the day!

As if the dead would have to worry about it. But it's interesting to think about what the experiment could be in a Sound Vacuum room. Is it really a vacuum of no sound entering or leaving the room? Or merely a name because they couldn't think of anything else that relates to sound and blast high decibel noises in the room but does not escape those walls.

Which obviously means they used sound to see if the ATLR is rendered helpless to it or unaffected by it. We don't know the results of that but it did cost them a researcher. And if it was to see if sounds could render an ALTR's powers useless, that failed if it was immune to such a thing, or made it useless because it doesn't need sound to burrow into your head and commit unalive.

If not that, probably understood the researcher was probably using safety gear and the ALTR removed it from the scientist to let them suffer... whatever is going on in chamber.

As for the line 'Please update [blank] to [blank] status' I can think of two things at least.

Either its "Please update [ALTR] to [Keter] status" (I think its Keter for most dangerous class of SCPs. I'm not familiar with SCP, I apologize if I got it wrong)

Or

"Please update [Mr. Daly] to [deceased] status"... I'm just using Mr.Daly since that is the only name we ever got from these posts and someone died so, might as well update their file to dead since well, they're dead.

I'm not quite sure which one, both fit in pretty well in context but I am kinda leaning towards the ALTR's status being updated to a higher tier of danger class.

Either way, the leader of this team is rather much an ass with how dismissive he was for the death of one of his own. But again, science waits for no one and mortality has no bearings in the fields of unknown discoveries.

------

I think that's about it for my current thoughts on these posts. There's probably a lot more to them that we're missing. But that's the fun of theory crafting, finding out all the little things you missed before when armed with new information.

What do you guys think? What could be hidden in these posts? And who is leaking them to the public. And if its being leaked, why on the official twitter and why hasn't IRIS removed them?

(...Be quick to screenshot and save the posts in case they do remove them in the future! We need files to look back to in the future!)

[sixlane]

laneeeee as the og pandoralecto anon i ABSOLUTELY want to talk about them and bartyyy especially since i think barty and alecto would have like a lowkey sibling-like relationship but also theyre both fucked up so it is also a bit sexual but like. alecto is also fucking her brother and barty wants to fuck twins that are already fucking so its not the weirdest most incestous thing going on in their lives.

anyway. pandoralecto. since barty and alecto are close like that she tells him and she's like "this is terrible i hate her but also i cannot stop aaaaagh helpppp" and barty.exo stops working cos erm. what.

I think a huge part of his reaction to that is what is his relationship with evan and pandora at that moment? cause its going to be different if he wants to fuck evan, is fucking evan, wants to fuck dora, is fucking dora, wants to fuck both of them, is fucking both of them, or is fucking both of them cause they invited him to join their weird incest stuff.

im kinda leaning towards him already knowing that there's smth going on with evan and pandora and wanting to join them. that's when it makes me the most insane.

all those relationships are open relationships but he only knew that in theory until now. he never imagined pandora with someone who isnt evan and now it turns out shes into women too?? hes going insane. hes foaming at the mouth.

alecto is objectively attractive but also shes kinda like his sister. he knows too much about her to be attracted to her. he cannot. no. simply no. but also he did have to run away to the bathroom to jerk off that one time he saw her boobs. he convinced himself it was a coincidence and it didnt have anything to do with alecto's tits. he jerked off to the thought of evan.

but now it turns out those two girls who he knows so well and who are both attractive are fucking. two girls. fucking. attractive girls.

he goes into full shock for a minute and just sits there, stares blankly at the wall and imagines it and then he gets a boner and its really awkward for him but alecto doesnt even notice cause theyre both drunk. he leaves and she doesnt think about it, just gets herself another drink.

I gotta ask. do u think he ever joins them?

cause in my mind they'd never like. actually have a threesome or smth. but i could see a situation in which pandoralecto is having sex and barty's watching. (idk if its consenual or voyerism yet ill tell u when i decide)

anyway. love the dynamic of them three. u're a genius mwah bye

ok first of all i love you for sending this. like seriously i was smiling so big reading this. i’m so ready let’s get into it.

ok so upon further thought i kind of don’t think alecto would ever mention she’s fucking pandora to like. anyone. i think barty would just figure it out himself because he’s nosy and perceptive like that. and he’d need like two weeks to fully accept that as something that is happening.

because really the alecto barty friendship only works if he’s not attracted to her at all. @/foursaints and @/jewishregulus have made great posts about this but basically. alecto hates men like barty but she can tolerate barty because he never treats her like other men do. alecto doesn’t fit into barty’s vision of what an attractive woman is. she’s harsh and mean and she takes everything way too seriously. he just doesn’t understand that she’s attractive. she’s not a woman in his mind. and that’s the only reason alecto can be friends with him. (and yeah i do agree they have a sibling-like relationship which is again only possible because he does not like her like that).

so yeah his brain breaks a little when he realizes pandora and alecto are having violent hate sex. because that should be very hot to him. but then alecto is there. so. it’s weird. he gets a boner and a migraine every time he tries to imagine it.

i think you’re right that this is made even better if barty is aware of the rosier twincest but not directly involved yet. if he’s actively fucking pandora and/or evan there’s less mystery surrounding it for him. if he has already fucked pandora there’s less for his brain to break over.

so basically. no i don’t think he ever joins them or actively watches. i think he sometimes walks into heated arguments between alecto and pandora and that’s basically just as good/bad. alecto smashed a plate and now pandora’s holding a shard up to her neck pinning her against the wall. barty walks in like. 😦….. i’ll leave you guys to it. he cannot be involved because he truly doesn’t know where he’d fit into the dynamic. there’s no room for him.

[study-core-101]

Popular Study Methods I dont like

(By Jay)

A list of study techniques that dont work for me at all. But study methods can work amazing for one person and then just complicate studying more for another. If they work for you, awesome, i'm happy about that. These are my personal experience with them, a lot of people wont relate and thats fine, people are different. But if you relate why these common/popular methods dont work for me, know you arent the only one and that there are more options. People might tell you "this method is amazing, you should do this" and there for you is shit.

Memorazing

Avoid this. When you memorize you dont learn. You cannot conect concepts because you dont understand. One thing is memorazing formulas, which is nessesary, but memorazing everything doesnt work. Understandment is way better. Yes, we need to remember and storage the information in our memory, but memorazing is different. Knowing the theory ord by word is shit if you cannot explain it in different words, conect it wit other concepts or put in practise.

Flashcards

Yep, studyblr favourite study method. Bear with me.

For me, it is a really passive way. When i make the Q&As of the flashcards, i remember the answers. I dont think. I associate the words. And then, when the test has the questions phrased different, my mind goes blank. It seem liked i learned because i remember but i wasnt actually learning.

Now you are probably thinking "use it for vocabulary". That doesnt help me either. Maybe it helps for knowing the meaning in a reading, but writing? I cant remember the spelling. For learning to spell a word i need to write it down. Use it in a sentence. Reading it over and over doesnt do anything.

All-nighters

Oh god, there is nothing worse than an all-nighter. One all-nighter will ruin your sleep schedule for weeks and tired=learn less. Plus, too much all-nighters lead to burn out.

With better time management, all-nighters wouldnt probably exist, or at least, be reduced by a lot

Also, as someone with chronic migraines, an all-nighter'd only give me a week straight with only terrible pain and i prefer failing a subject than that (i'd had to learn the hard way that lesson. always prioritaze your health)

Pomodoro

It's a little bit hypocrital of me to put it here, as I usually reccomend it to others. But personally? It just de-motivaties and stresses me. (disclaimer: it is a good technique, thats why i recomend it even if it doesnt work for me).

I'll explain why. The only way i can do a lot of productive stuff together (or just a long assignment) is to "get in the mood" or have like a "streak". I usually have to power through the first 5-10 minutes of studying and then i get super motivated and do a lot until my brain asks for a break. When the timer rings, it breaks it and i have to repeat the rutine again. It wouldnt be so bad if it wasnt that i work 3 or 4 times faster when i motivated than when i am powering through.

Also, having the self-impose deadline of a pomodoro (i know it isnt technically a deadline, but for some unknown reason, my brain processes it as one) makes me nervous and gives me anxiety. Just knowing the timer is going to go off anytime un-focus me. It's unnesesary stress.

[chuuyaspinkmotorcycle16]

Day 6: Camellias of @/Black00Cat’s (twt) SKKtober

Chuuya comes to with a groan and a massive headache, pulses of bruising passing all through his body.

The last thing he remembers is a tight situation and the go ahead to say those forbidden words then complete darkness. Dazai had promised to get him somewhere safe afterwards and, like always, he’d trusted him.

With another groan, he tries to shift. When the feeling of grass he’d been expecting doesn’t gloss over his skin, he braves to open his eyes. A white ceiling greets him, transparent curtains by the window allowing streams of light in. He distantly registers the beep beep beep of a monitor, too focused on squinting his eyes enough to see without worsening his coming migraine.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there for, struggling (and mostly failing) to keep his eyes open, but soon a door nearby creaks open and shut. The tell-tale click of heels on the floor follows after it and then a familiar Agency doctor is in his face.

“Angel of Death.”

“Fallen Angel.”

Chuuya tries to glare, he really does, but his headache pounds harshly in a one-two, so he forfeits with a sigh. “What’s the status?”

“Well, you’re alive, if you haven’t noticed–” an eyeroll on Chuuya’s part “--and I didn’t have to use my ability on you, as I’m sure you’ve also noticed.” Yosano pauses, before continuing, “Dazai got to you seven minutes after the initial blast. You’ve been out for two days. I forced your master to go home and change clothes but I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

“I’m not giving you wine as a thank-you anymore,” Chuuya says, shifting again.

“I’m sure you will,” Yosano says, pulling a knife from God-knows-where to shine in the light as she walks over to her desk. Chuuya avoids shuddering.

His eyes have finally started to adjust to the lighting of the room and he ventures to move his head. When no further intense pounding comes from that, he deems it okay to look around.

He’s dressed in a hospital gown with a blanket over his lower body. The sheets are spotless, surprisingly, and he finds no stitches along his arms – a first in a while. On one side of the bed is a bedside table with a bottle of water and what looks like painkillers. He takes them, then looks to the other side. Another bedside table decorated with handmade letters from the Agency’s younger members looks back at him but it’s not those that have caught his eye; it’s the bouquet of red camellias set in a vase on the windowsill.

And maybe he’s still a little out of it but he can’t help but laugh, even if it hurts a bit.

His favorite flower, both for beauty and meaning. Dazai had given him a bouquet of them the first time he’d woken up in the hospital from Corruption. The idiot hadn’t even thought to look up the meaning of them at first.

Chuuya remembers his two-day ‘free of Dazai’ break once the boy had gotten the brains to look them up. No vacation could ever top that time. The only reason it was cut short was because Mori forced Dazai into running errands for Chuuya while he was on bedrest.

But then they’re relationship grew and it became the running joke whenever Chuuya or Dazai landed in the hospital.

It’s been years since he’s received the flowers, though.

“That dumbass…” he huffs. His chest is warm and it feels easier to breathe. The painkillers must be taking effect.

“Le moi?” A voice rings out, the door swinging open with it.

“That’s not how French works, and you know it,” Chuuya calls back to the best of his sore throat’s ability.

Dazai rounds the corner with two bottles of water, hair still damp and unbrushed. Chuuya can make out the forms of two Switches in his coat’s pockets, one on each side.

“What was the point of showering if you were just going to sprint back?” Yosano deadpans after a glance at the brunet.

“To gain access to be here, of course. Chibi always kicks me out if he deems me too gross,” Dazai pouts, setting the water bottles down and pulling up a chair by Chuuya’s bedside.

“You deserve it. And I’m already stuck in here, I don’t need you getting me grosser than I already feel.” Chuuya raises a shaky hand to lightly flick Dazai’s forehead.

“Dazai Osamu, you better not try to get in my patient’s bed.” Yosano glares. She must have heard between the lines. Whoops.

“I swear on my life, sensei.” Dazai crosses his heart. Yosano only scoffs with an eyeroll, gathering her documents before pointing two fingers at her eyes and then back at Dazai, leaving without another word.

Chuuya waits a second before speaking up, eyes drifting back to the flowers on display. “Thank you for… you know.”

“Hmm? For what now, slug?” Chuuya can hear the smirk in his voice.

“You know what, bastard.” Chuuya turns his head back to make a face at Dazai, only to be met with lips against his own, a chaste kiss that’s gone as fast as it came.

“Chuuya’s welcome.”

And all the pain is worth it for moments like this when Chuuya’s whole being lights with warmth at the genuine smile on Dazai’s face.

[trishacollins]

Afterimage

Please either feligami or felinette friendship. Would love to see sad smol Kagami hearing twins in her childhood au(hurt) then going to Feligami comfort of canon after s5 finale for the Feligami. For the Felinette just make them hug it out at some point after s5. You can also do Felix going to Mari for the cosmic macaroons and then going on flying date with Kagami. Whatever you like most :3

GiftFic for Anarchist Gang Server

*~*

To say that they were all feeling a little bit...under the weather was probably understating the facts by a considerable amount.

Felix had ended up in the center for the train ride back to Paris, Adrien on his left, Kagami on his right – though both of them were holding hands with each other as well.

Felix wanted a shower and to sleep for a thousand years. He could still feel his father’s hands around his neck, hear the way Kagami screamed as he fought his way through the nightmare to get to her.

But they were safe, they were together and safe – it was enough, wasn’t it? Except his uncle was dead, and Adrien had somehow managed to have a private chat with her and somehow ended up with completely the wrong impression as to the circumstances of his death.

Died defeating Monarch?

Felix supposed if it was true, in a logic-twisting sort of way.

He had to give Marinette credit for the mental gymnastics she must have been putting herself through. It was likely impressive.

But why? The why of it itched at the back of his brain, the logical parts of himself trying to make everything that had happened in the last seventy-two hours make even sort of sense in his head. Gabriel was dead, the Miraculous were back with their mistress – save for Duusu, who was sleeping in his pocket complaining of a ‘cosmic level migraine’ – Adrien had been delighted and charmed by the Kwami, fussing at him and babying him.

Felix hadn’t stopped him. Duusu was the only thing that had kept him even sort of sane through the nightmares.

He didn’t know if he could have made it through without the Kwami.

Marinette – Ladybug – was waiting for them at the train station, dark circles under her eyes and an exhausted expression on her face.

She nodded politely to his mother before she stepped forward and fell into Adrien’s arms. They clung, and there was a nauseating sort of backwash through the Peacock as their relief wrapped around each other.

Kagami elbowed him lightly in the side, and he made a face in response. She had done it, if in the weirdest way possible. She had done it. He had to give her that. He didn’t have to give her credit for lying to Adrien about the character of his father.

But defeating him? Ending the nightmares?

He probably owed her coffee or something.

“Kagami.” Marinette let go of Adrien long enough to hug Kagami, and then they both pulled Adrien into the hug.

Felix tried to tamp down a bit of jealousy, but she turned to look at him anyway, red eyes studying him. “Felix.”

“Don’t hug me.” He warned.

She snorted. “Why? You don’t want a chance to pick my pocket?”

Felix’s hand refleively came up to rest on his pocket. “Honestly, I know what you’re capable of. I’m more afraid of you picking mine.”

Marinette’s face softened slightly. “I’m not planning on anything of the sort.” She offered his hand, and he shook it cautiously. “Thanks for breaking them out of there.”

“Some backup might have been nice. But I understand there were other concerns.”

Marinette snorted, shaking her head. “Couldn’t be helped.”

“We’re glad you’re here now.” Kagami said softly. “It’s only been a week, and I feel we have so much to get caught up on.” Kagami took his hand, leaning into him.

Marinette glanced between them, slipping under Adrien’s arm. “I still have questions about this?”

“Getting kidnapped is very romantic.” Adrien deadpanned, resting his face on her shoulder. “Which is why I’m sorry to say, but I’m leaving you for my sensory deprivation chamber.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “He really gave you nothing?”

“Well, I had a foosball table.” Adrien looked thoughtful. “I don’t think he realized it was a two person game.”

“He could have at least kidnapped Nino and left you with a friend.” Marinette muttered.

“Nino’s mom might have been upset.” Adrien pondered it for a moment, then shifted his head on her shoulder, arms wrapping around her waist.

Felix was familiar with the posture. It was Adrien’s ‘I’m about to make a terrible joke to change the subject’ stance, though he had never seen Adrien tuck himself behind anyone like this before.

They loved each other. His cousin was in love with Ladybug.

The girl that had saved them.

“We should go somewhere.” Kagami offered. “To catch everyone up.” She glanced at Marinette when she said that – but Felix had a feeling that it wasn’t going to be something they talked about until – well, later. Much later, probably. Maybe never.

Which saved Felix from the incoming terrible joke.

“I thought coffee and something to eat.” Marinette was aware of Adrien hiding behind her, but she was gentle, careful. Lacing their fingers together and letting him pull whatever it was he needed from her.

It was fascinating to watch. He hadn’t been sure what he would think of this Marinette – the one without any secrets, the one that he knew everything about. He hadn’t been sure when he shared the story that she would even listen.

But she had, and she had acted on it, and the fact had settled somewhere oddly inside him.

Marinette had done what no adult in his life, no person in his life had done – she had believed him, and then she had done something about what she had been told.

But at the same time, he barely knew her. He knew things about her – told to him by others, discovered on his own through accidental encounters. But they weren’t friends. They were at best reluctant allies on the matter of Adrien’s safety. Something she had killed for, unless his uncle had managed for once in his life to do something useful and just dropped dead.

(A part of him hated that he hadn’t been there, but the rest of him knew he couldn’t have been anywhere but where he had been, desperately trying to get to Kagami and Adrien.)

“They’re putting up a statue.” Adrien was saying to Marinette.

She pulled a face, but quickly turned her head so Adrien couldn’t see it. Which put her right in Felix’s line of sight.

He raised an eyebrow, and she rolled her eyes before turning back to Adrien with fake cheer.

Well, if she didn’t want him to say things like that, she shouldn’t have lied to him about the sort of person Gabriel Agreste had been.

*~*

She stops by his room on the way out, after hours spent ‘catching up’ while avoiding the elephant shaped problem in the room.

“Is he actually dead?” Felix asked over his shoulder, studying the windows critically. His mother had come into the house with a notebook and a remodeling crew, and gone room to room. There were bare spaces on the wall already from where pictures of the man himself had been. But he had a feeling that Adrien wanted to take a sledgehammer to these stupid windows.

“He’s dead.” Marinette confirmed, sliding down the wall.

“Did you kill him?” He wants to know the details, the truth of it. Not the pretty sanitized story she’s letting the media believe.

Marinette’s face is half in shadow, expression concealed, but she still shakes her head. “I didn’t.”

“Shame.”

She snorted, pulling her hands to her chest. “He’s your uncle.”

“Sure.” Felix turns and sits on the floor facing her. “And if you or someone hadn’t killed him, he would have set his sights on me once he had what he wanted.”

She winces, looking down at her hands. “I thought I had reached him.”

“So you let your guard down?” His uncle was a brilliant manipulator, if nothing else in his life was his the way he twisted and remade people – Sanculur was a good example of just how far he could drag people down. His aunt, too, probably. Adrien. How many people had his uncle left ruined in his wake?

“I did. He used Venom.” Her hands pressed against themselves. A ring, her earrings.

She was wearing them both. She was casually wearing two objects of utmost power on her person.

She had better be glad he had decided he liked this world, imperfect as it was.

“He made a wish.” Felix intoned, frowning.

“Except, I don’t know what he wished for. Plagg and Tikki won’t tell me- can’t tell me.”

Duusu popped out of his shirt, peering at her. “What about Nooroo?”

Marinette’s face fell, hands lifting to her hair. “I can’t find him.”

Felix felt his stomach sink. “You can’t-”

“He’s the only one. I recovered the rest.” But Nooroo, the one that had been suffering the longest.

There was pressure on his chest, the edge of a panic attack, the twisting, sinking feeling.

“It’s not over.” His mouth says.

“Until I find Nooroo. It can’t be over.” She whispered, hands in her hair, pulling the dark strands.

“And Duusu?” Felix asked carefully.

Marinette’s eyes darted up to him, blinking. “What about Duusu?”

His mouth was dry as he ran his thumb over the broach. “You’re the guardian.”

“Yes?” Marinette stared at him. “Oh. Well. As long as you don’t plan on any more world destroying Sentibeings, I think he can stay with you. He seems to like you. Right, Duusu?”

“Felix is great!” Duusu chirped, rubbing against his cheek.

Something in his chest unraveled all at once, a relief he hadn’t been expecting flooding his entire body. “Really?”

“Felix.” She hesitated, looking away. “The person with the Peacock holds my heart. Because they hold Adrien’s existence in the palm of their hands. They hold Kagami’s – and yours. Anyone with the Peacock could destroy either of them if they decided not to value them.”

He nodded. “That’s why I needed it.”

She smiled, sad. “I know that, now. I didn’t at the time. I think...if we’d worked together sooner, we would have found a better way. But what’s done is done. Monarch is...is dead.” Her voice quivered slightly. “The Kwami are back, safe.”

“Except Nooroo.”

“Except Nooroo.” She answered, voice bleak.

Impulsive, he reached out to take her hand. “We’ll find him.”

Her smile was tentative, eyes on his. “We’ll find him.”

@paracosmicat

@ultear-tigra

[serendertothesquad]

Seren's Studies: Odd Squad UK -- "The Other Ozzie" Episode Followup, Part 2

Look, I'm not gonna lie...whoever said this episode was good is someone I'm gonna smack. Because my lower body is screaming from dashing to McDonald's, but my hands are primed.

I kid, I kid. I will not smack anyone. But let's see what happens after the break anyway.

Okay, when I said in my followup for "Oddtober the Thirteenth" that this was gonna fuck with the timeline, I said it with "it's not actually gonna happen, right?" confidence.

WELL GUESS THE FUCK WHAT IT'S FUCKING WITH THE TIMELINE AND FUCK YOU JON. KA-CHOW YOUR WAY INTO THE CANNON.

Halfway in, I'm getting the unsettling feeling that, much like Marty Marmalade was previously, Oz is meant to be an audience surrogate for all the kids who can't figure this shit out. Not as strictly as Marty was, but the sentiment is still very much there.

Sorry, Orli, but this episode you're getting dethroned.

"Without a script, I'm useless."

"But you're...you're reciting lines from a script right now."

"No, no. I need the script in my hand. That's how this works, I'm afraid."

"You know what I'm going to say, don't you, Agent Onit?"

"Can I just tell you the name of the place? Without giving you the coordinates?"

"I understand you need to tell them for the math lesson, but give me the name of the place first."

"...The writers are breathing down my ne-"

"JUST DO IT."

No no no. If you were green, you'd be de- stop. Stop it. STOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHP-

In which Oz finally learns about autonomy as a member of the Homo sapiens species.

And still botches it up anyway because...uh...

I dunno, can I headcanon him as autistic? Is...can I do that? Because the more I think about it, the more I start to do an "oh my God, I can relate" DiCaprio point.

This "I'm not good with faces" bit isn't really funny to me. Again, you can have a gag, but there's a difference between spacing it out and using it for everyone. When you do the latter, it's a very irritating inconvenience.

Wh- since fucking when? He's cartoonish, sure, but that doesn't exactly translate to being fast.

Jon, my guy, you're going up there with the ranks of Omar and Tasha and I don't like that.

So if he gets a bunch of ideas at once, will he get a migraine? Will his head and brain explode in a big gory mess?

Yeeeeeeeeah, an exciting chase to catch the villain! ...That will only last for less than a minute.

Won't get fooled again...until I'm fooled again.

Now, see, this portal effect is cool. It looks like glittery slime. I like it.

Timetastrophe? Jon's never heard of he.

Seriously, I devised better rules in The Odd Squad Council and yes that is a shameless self-plug and no I don't regret anything.

Ahhhhhh, here it is. The famous blooper reel of the episode. The blooper reel that we really should have gotten for the entire franchise.

Honestly, we should have gotten this dramatic announcer guy a good 8 years ago when they were advertising the first movie.

Okay, I was half-expecting this, but my attention's really more on how Orby is just Orli with glitter scrunchies. (And Oz is just Ozzie with sunglasses, but y'know, that's a little bit besides my point.)

Like I said, this is the blooper reel we should have gotten for the franchise, but instead get tacked onto the end of a decent-but-also-terrible episode.

If you're willing to film BTS content, you're willing to share the blooper reel. Make that a hashtag!

EVEN THE ANNOUNCER GUY IS FUCKIN' FED UP WITH THIS SHIT AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Oh God...I wasn't expecting to cackle but this was an absolutely beautiful cherry on top.

Guy who knows autonomy, meet a girl who doesn't.

And your credits for this episode. Real shame they didn't give the Mayor a name like with Mackelmore, but I call him Ryan Lewis and I'm fandom founder so you have to listen to-

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

Overall, this was...a hard pill to swallow. Between the board of villains and...well...Oz, this episode is not one I'm particularly fond of. I feel like if they explored a bit more of the Movie Star Dimension instead of staying in the world we know, it would have been better. The way it is now, it seems more like they're trying to shove a unique concept in there but failing to make it actually unique aside from Oz himself.

And speaking of Oz...enough with the damn Math Lady memes. I'm like the "stop talking about Among Us" guy but it's "stop doing Math Lady". Get with the times, boomers.

Well, now that that's over, we've reached the finale, kicking things off with "Three is the Oddest Number", which will introduce the Terrible Three. Confidence not inspired in me, but I have a small sliver of hope. Just a small one.

Seren out!

[m34gs]

For the writing ask meme: 9, 12, 19, and 30!

Hi friend, thank you so much for the ask! Sorry for the late reply; my migraine was really bugging me earlier. It's eased up a little now so I am excited to answer! 💜💜💜 (ask based on this post)

9. What fic meant the most to you to write?

Honestly, I would have to say A Different Kind of Magic; my Kalim/Idia fanfic where Idia mentors Kalim and Jamil in learning to control their magic before it consumes them. I know Kalim and Idia are a rarepair, and I know that this fic kind of just seems like me running wild with my imagination and going crazy with the angst. To be fair, those things are pretty much true. But, it's also a lot more than that to me. It's a story about grieving, about learning to let go of the past without forgetting it, about how parents aren't perfect and family is a work in progress, about how trauma follows you no matter how hard you try to hide it, and about how sometimes you can't have everything you want even though it might break your heart. That's some of what I've been dealing with over the past couple of years and so when I wrote this fic, those were all the emotions and feelings at the forefront of my mind. That's why it's so heavy. That's why there's happy parts mixed in with the sad. That's why there's no damnation of characters that don't behave perfectly and there's forgiveness and love in the end. Because that's what I needed too. I didn't even realize how much I needed to write that fic until I was already in the thick of it, and then I had a moment where I went "Oh. Oh. Oh shit this is me this is mine this is what I feel right now this is me" and I almost cried over it that day. I usually do put a lot of myself into fics, but this one was just so different and so raw. I put a lot of my soul into it. I really love this fic; I'm happy with how it turned out and it was so cathartic to write. So, yeah, it would be the most important one to me. If all the others somehow ended up accidentally deleted, I would be sad but I would be ok as long as this one stayed.

12. What fic was the most difficult to write? Did you finish it?

Hmmm, for a singular fic I think the most challenging one for me this year was the gift fic Mistletoe Misunderstandings (a Twisted Wonderland fic where Yuu is the only one aware of the Mistletoe Kissing Tradition); simply because it was the first time I included at least one representative of each NRC dorm in one fic for Twisted Wonderland. Capturing so many different personalities was a challenge for me, and several of the characters were ones I hadn't really written yet, or had not written often, so I pushed myself a bit. I did complete it and it was a lot of fun to do! I was in love with the prompt for it, and I absolutely am happy with how it turned out!! Definitely feel I've grown as a writer, hehe.

19. Share your favorite opening line

"There are some things in the world that simply cannot be explained. There are others which do, in fact, have an explanation, but it is so ancient and so secretive it has been forgotten. Others have an explanation yet to be discovered. Which of those three apply to the little convenience store in True Cross? It is impossible to tell, as much as it is impossible to tell what came first: the portal to another world or the wall it shares a space with."

-from Inconvenience Store, my Blue Exorcist Bon/Rin Haunted Convenience Store AU! I'm not sure why, this opening just sticks in my brain so much. I was super proud of it when I posted the first chapter, and I'm still pretty proud of it! Still a work in progress, and I love every minute I get to work on it!! :D

30. What’s something that you want to write in 2024?

Ooooh there's so many things! Of course, I'm excited to write more of the Saw AU and the Bar AU, as always! But if we're talking about individual fics not in a series, I would have to say I'm really wanting to start posting my Vampire Idia x Human Kalim fic in 2024! I love the ideas I have for it and I am super excited to write more of Idia and Kalim as a couple. (Plus, @kamikazequail gave me inspiration for another vampire au; since when asked I couldn't decide if I liked Human Ortho or Vampire Ortho better...there shall be two AUs!! Mwahahaha). And I'm excited to see what the year will bring!

[cuntess-carmilla]

TW: Weight loss, dieting, food restriction.

Ok, so I'm not gonna pretend I'm eating less For My Health, I'm doing it because I almost started crying the other day when I saw my selfies from early 2021 and I was so much thinner, BUT...!

Alright so one of my big chronic illness nightmares is MCAS aka my immune system releases histamine hysterically for no fucking reason all day every day, which leads to things such as:

Chronic fatigue (because the fatigue I get from my brain being chronically deprived of enough oxygen and the fatigue I get from chronic joint pain weren't enough I guess).

Migraines and headaches.

Nausea.

Dizziness.

Poor nutrient absorption.

Either peeing out of my ass for an hour or not taking a singular shit in over a week and a half no matter how much I eat, no in-between.

Breaking out in hives, either with a concrete allergic trigger or just like, if I'm too sad, angry or stressed (HELL ILLNESS).

Hair thinning.

Soft tissue inflammation aka lots of joints getting locked into place which is extra terrible when you're PRONE TO SPONTANEOUS PARTIAL DISLOCATIONS. Also can't sing because tight throat.

Dry eyes.

Clogged nose and difficulty breathing.

Lots of extra gastrointestinal issues.

Fucks with my heart rate and blood pressure as if I don't already have POTS.

Brain fog. Stupid bitch disorder.

Anxiety, irritability and depression, because why not.

FEVERS. THE FUCKING FEVERS.

Anyway, so, the way the body acquires histamine in order to cause me all of the hell I just described is in big part through food, right? Even food that's low on histamine (and all the good foods are HIGH on histamine because of course they are), it still has SOME histamine.

And like, I've noticed for years too that the more fatigue I'm experiencing the more I crave food because my body is both stupid and smart. Smart enough to realize that we're abnormally fatigued and we need to do something about it, but dumb enough to assume it's because I'm not eating enough carbs rather than because I have THREE chronic illnesses.

So, anyway, these past like, four days I've made a lot of effort to reduce what I eat by a lot (not to an unhealthy degree, I'm still feeding myself reasonably) and it was really hard the first couple of days, but it's getting easier.

The thing is since yesterday I've started noticing that my autoimmunity has been down considerably. I'm A LITTLE less fatigued, BUT now I'm shitting like a normal person? It's not diarrhea but I'm also going semi-regularly, AND it's a normal color instead of the blue-green that indicates I'm having autoimmune fuckery going on in my digestive track.

My hair is falling off A LITTLE less, and yesterday was the first day in over a year in which I don't actively wish I was dead every single second I breathe. My skin is starting to calm down a little bit too. Oh, and I had enough brain power to listen to a lot of music yesterday while ACTUALLY processing what I was hearing instead of everything sounding like white noise in my ears.

It sucks because yummy food is Literally one of the very few pleasures I have left in life but if this helps the autoimmunity... I think I'm willing to cut down on that one pleasure significantly.

[sincelastsession]

Idk if I'm having autistic Meltdowns or what.

Sometimes I don't remember any of it. It doesn't feel like a psychosis or mania.

I go back and read what I wrote and I'm shocked and embarrassed and ashamed that things were said.

I've had a headache for hours. It feels like a migraine. It's pressure. I wish I could pop it like a balloon.

I don't understand what other people don't understand about the fact that I have had no break from traumas.

I save the dog from being put down and I've fallen short of him and I quit smoking cold Turkey and I took care of an elected cat that my father and sister promised to care for and I was stupid and I believed them and I kept her alive and gave her the best life I had to put her down in December It was horrific and I will never forget it because she had a reaction to the satitude and she did not have a peaceful death. This was followed by my sister's boyfriend asking me for my permission to marry her even though he was going to ask her Anyway. I thought it was incredibly trashley but he was going to ask anyways so I made it says she would have the nicest engagement surprise she could and I pretended that I was getting married and I fooled everyone and I did a good job. My parents were not thrilled with me or the entire situation and then not too long after my sister's birthday and January right after she's gotten engaged she decided to attack me over a fucking candle and then my father who I had just brought home from surgery decided to also attack me and it has been 5 months since I have spoken directly To either of them and I have still Not gotten an apology or any sign of regret or anything from either of them.

It's really easy to see that they don't care.

My dad bitches about a house that he never cleaned. If it was clean he would still be unhappy. Because it's not the house.

My sister is deeply insecure and full of potential but she's probably never going to reach that because she holds herself back and won't get help for the things she needs help for and I've tried to help her and I've done what I could and I tried to be a good big sister but I've wiped my hands clean up it for now at least I haven't decided because she's manipulative and a liar and I know that she hates the entire family And does not consider herself to be part of the family because she was adopted but she also just hates the family. I know this because she has told me many times that she does not want to be part of the family nor does she care about anyone. I have seen her break down and cry and throw tantrums and trick my parents in to thinking that I hurt her for laughs as a child into adult hood. She is sick and fucked up in the head and a scared little child that turned out quite a bit different than me but it's doing the same idiot things that I did even though I warned her not to and it just sucks that I even care that she's going to have to learn the hard way. I have a gut feeling that since she is engaged and her fiancé is a fucking idiot that when they do get married which they probably will but no one is betting on it they think it won't last but my sister thinks she owns the family house because she cleaned it but no 1 asked her to do that it wasn't her responsibility and she got into things that were not hers she stole things from me and my mother and my father And I have found those things and I have caught her in lies after lies. I feel like she's been consumed by the same narcissistic crap like my parents brain washed her and conditioned her to abuse me and lash out just like they do at the people around them and I'm sure I do that to an extent as well I can't say that I don't.

And then I think I'm going to date around and I find that People don't know how to behave.

I miss my ex. I miss my boyfriend even though I speak to him almost every damn day. I still talk to my ex and he heart reacts the things I send him and the things I say. I brought Justin around him at a show and I think I hurt him and I did not mean to however he has brought many girlfriends around me at shows. I think it's wild how he was absolutely wasted the entire time we dated. I think it's weird that when I would pick him up from bars after closing that he would ask to go home but he did not mean his home. Is it weird that I miss when he would come over and ask to be held and cry? Is it weird that I miss his incredibly terrible sleep apnea sleep disorder and him thrashing around in bed and me not getting a wink of sleep because of it. Is it weird that I don't like other men to touch me because it doesn't feel like him. Is it weird that I cannot get over him even though I know about awful things he has done. Is it weird that even when he was drunk and I pulled away or was uncomfortable or did not give an enthusiastic yes he would just tell me we could cuddle or go to sleep and never pressured me that I can recall. Is it weird that I miss him holding me like I'm a stuffed animal.