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poorlittlegreenie13 · 10 months ago

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Scenes From an Italian Restaurant:

WC: 2,000

Syd/Carmy falling in love to the soundtrack of Billy Joel, idk

It's past midnight, but Carmy & Syd still haven't finished closing. It might have something to do with the fact that neither of them can sleep without nightmares at home, and that there's something uniquely comforting about having another person with an equally fucked up sleep schedule to silently work with well into the early hours of the morning. They rarely talk while they're working like this; a blurry, unfocused period somewhere between opening and closing, things that do not strictly need to be done, but that they both take pride in doing anyway. It's their fucking restaurant, they both seem to enjoy treating it like a child they're co-helicopter-parenting.

This particular night, Carmy is in the kitchen doing food prep & Syd is sweeping up the dining area. It's quiet enough to hear herself breathe in, and the silence is getting annoying, so she finds herself sweeping toward the kitchen, peeking through to look at Carmy. As she gets closer to him, she hears him... muttering to himself, maybe? No, that's not it. She walks closer, slipping into the kitchen as quietly as she can, and realizes he's... singing. Carmy Berzatto. Singing. In the kitchen.

Her first impulse is to laugh but she stops herself.

He's kind of... good.

She listens for a little while, mesmerized, trying to make out the lyrics.

A bottle of red, a bottle of white. It all depends on your appetite. I’ll meet you anytime you want, in our Italian restaurant.

She moves slightly and Carmy freezes like a scared deer in the fucking forest, of course. His eyes are so wide and scared, Syd almost feels bad, so she tries to break the tension.

“Didn’t realize you moonlighted as a singer,” she says with an awkward smirk, leaning on her broom. “Did you write that?”

Carmy’s eyes narrow. “Did I— did you just ask me if I wrote that?”

Syd shrugs slightly, sensing she’s made an error.

“It’s Billy Joel,” Carmy says, looking genuinely concerned that she’s lacking this crucial piece of information.

“Okay, sorry, I’m not, like, Italian… and into 70’s music,” Syd says, with a dry, sarcastic smile.

“No, no, but this is a classic song,” Carmy says, “I mean, this is just a good song.”

Sydney just stares at him blankly. “I wouldn’t know,” she says.

“Alright, something’s gotta be done about this,” Carmy says with a disapproving shake of his head, tone as serious as it might be if he was noticing a typo on a menu or a smudge on a plate. He unplugs his headphones from his phone, walking to the restaurant’s sound system and connecting his phone.

A jazzy piano song overtakes the speakers, Carmy pausing to crank up the volume to far above their normal level before turning back to Syd with a smile on his face.

“Cold beer, hot lights, my sweet romantic teenage nights,” the voice of Billy Joel (apparently) sings out over the speakers of their restaurant. Carmy looks at her expectantly. Syd raises an eyebrow.

“It’s… loud,” she says.

“No, no, no,” Carmy says, rolling his eyes, infuriatingly smooth Italian-American vowels softening out as he speaks, an unquantifiable accent that Sydney is pretty sure is going to actually kill her one day. “It tells a story,” Carmy insists, turning back to his prep, chopping vegetables to the beat of the song, talk-singing along with the song, back turned to Sydney. “Brenda and Eddie were still going steady in the summer of ‘75, when they decided the marriage would be at the end of July.”

Sydney can’t help the laugh she lets out. Carmy spins around, an indignant smile on his face.

“Stop looking at me like I’m crazy,” he says, “you’re the one who doesn’t know Billy Joel.”

“I do know some Billy Joel,” Syd says. “Just not this Billy Joel.”

“Well I'm showing you this Billy Joel,” Carmy says. “Listen. Come on, you’re not listening to it. This is good music.”

He sets down his knife, walking over to her, holding out a hand.

Something in the pit of Sydney’s stomach fires off like an over-excited fire-cracker.

“Are you seriously trying to dance with me right now,” she asks flatly, glancing between his face and his extended hand, trying her very best to hold her sarcasm out in front of her like a shield against whatever fuckary this is.

Carmy’s smile fades, just for an instant. Sydney can’t stand it. She rolls her eyes, and takes his hand. Immediately, he grins, spinning her around him. She can’t help but smile. Carmy reaches out for her other hand, pulling her in on one side and pushing her away on the other, awkward high-school-dance moves that a grown man should probably not be pulling on her right now, and should certainly not be working as well as they are.

She meets his eyes, wide grin, slight flush, hair even more disheveled than usual. For a second, she just stares at him, forgetting to dance, forgetting to smile. Carmy, oblivious, is still singing.

“They parted the closest of friends, then the king and the queen went back to the green, but you can never go back there again, no no.”

Fuck.

She shakes her head ruefully, spinning him around to break their eye contact. And okay, maybe she spun him away from her slightly too hard because his hand slips out of hers and he stumbles a few steps away from her, laughing, and then, in a flash of movement, moving back to her, one hand coming to her lower back, the other settling around her shoulders pulling her into his chest, still laughing, still red in the face, breathing slightly heavier than usual, vocalizing Billy fucking Joel right into her ear.

What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck?

Is she slow dancing with Carmen fucking Berzatto in their kitchen right now?

He’s ridiculously warm in a white tee shirt and jeans, solid and impossibly, weirdly soft, leaning heavily against her, breathing against her neck, smelling like kitchen spices and sweat. This is simply not fair. This is… seriously outside anything normal or manageable. Carmy’s hand on her lower back is keeping her in place against him, stomach to stomach, fingertips splayed out across her back.

She’s stopped moving, she realizes. Carmy stops too after a moment, but he’s still pressed against her, still smiling slightly. Syd lets out a short, nervous laugh.

“Is this weird?” Carmy asks, voice low, unsure, still holding her close—maybe so he doesn’t have to look her in the eye, maybe so he can just rest his chin against her shoulder for a little longer.

Very slowly, Sydney brings a hand to the space between Carmy’s shoulder blades, just resting it there. “Kind of, yeah,” she says. “But not bad weird.”

“Fuck, sometimes… it’s like I forget to be nervous in front of you,” Carmy says—quick, breathless words, slowly pulling back from her, an embarrassed little smile on his face. “And I make a fuckin’ fool of myself before I realize I’m doing it.”

Sydney smirks back at him. “Well it’s kind of too late to fool me into thinking you’re cool,” she says. “Might as well stop being nervous about it. I mean, that ship has sailed.”

Carmy laughs, shaking his head, going a bit redder in the face. “I just really want you to like Billy Joel,” he says.

Syd smiles. “No, I do,” she says. “I totally do like him. I really like him.”

“He has other good songs,” Carmy says. “I always liked this one though. I was like fourteen, thinkin’ I was gonna meet a girl and take her to an Italian restaurant and get… fucking married at twenty. Talk about a ship that’s sailed.”

He goes quiet.

Over the speaker, Billy Joel is still singing.

“A bottle of red, oh a bottle of white, whatever kind of mood you’re in tonight. I’ll meet you anytime you want, in our Italian restaurant.”

“It kind of did work out though,” Sydney says, over the last few chords of the song, “I mean, you do in fact own an Italian restaurant.”

“Yeah,” Carmy says, a boyish smile crossing his face. His expression lingers on her for a long moment.

The song ends, and abruptly, loud guitar chords blare through the kitchen.

“Oh my God,” Carmy says, grinning, the tension of the moment entirely shattered. “Fuckin’ love this one.”

He crosses back to his prep station, picking his knife and returning to his work like nothing happened, bobbing his head and singing, “You had to be a big shot, didn’t you?”

Syd watches him for a little while longer before going back to her sweeping, making a mental note to never think of this night ever again. She’s not sure she could withstand the sheer force of her own stupid fucking yearning. Minutes pass. Half an hour. Carmy cycles through ten odd Billy Joel songs, and then—

“Hey, Syd!” Carmy calls from the kitchen.

Sydney turns, white-knuckling her broom handle, collecting herself for a moment before walking toward the sound of his voice.

When she reaches him, he gives her a crooked, slightly unsure smile.

“If it’s not bad weird," he says, "can we keep doing it?”

Her face burns. She stares at him for a long moment, trying to gauge whether he’s joking or not.

“I mean, can you come here again?” Carmy says, quieter, sounding slightly desperate, while she’s still trying to gauge his sincerity.

Wordlessly she steps toward him, heart pounding. He wraps his arms around her waist, exhaling heavily, chin returning to its place on her shoulder, An Innocent Man playing through the empty restaurant.

“Some people live with the fear of the touch, and the anger of having been a fool.”

Sydney’s not entirely sure how the night ends. It sort of blurs together; Carmy holding her against him, clasped hands, kitchen knives, food prep, sweeping, laughing, blushing, Billy Joel and Carmy’s singing voice. Eventually, Sydney in the doorway, bag slung over one shoulder, Carmy flushed and breathless from laughter, Sydney mentally filing away exactly how it sounds when Carmy says her name, out of breath and slightly desperate.

“I feel like I should apologize to you,” he says, but he's still smiling.

"Yeah you should apologize for not finishing your prep," she says, clinging to the remaining shreds of her self-respect as she stares at him. "Get that done. I need some fucking sleep."

"Yes, chef," Carmy promises softly, with a rueful look on his face. She turns to leave, but he speaks again. "Hey. "Thanks, Syd."

She turns back.

"For what?"

He shrugs, looking down at his feet.

"I just had a nice night."

"Yeah, me too, Bear," Sydney says, and then forces herself to walk away from him, out the door and into the Chicago cold.

Maybe the sleeplessness is making them both crazier than she realized.

Or maybe it's not just the sleeplessness.

Because she's pretty sure she's going to be thinking about exactly how Carmy's arms felt wrapped around her for the rest of her fucking life. And if that's not insanity, she doesn't know what is.

#the bear #sydcarmy #carmy x sydney #sydney adamu #carmy berzatto #i had a vision and wrote this in two hours on the train #bon appetit #the bear fx #sydney and carmy #featuring: carmy's inexplicable brooklyn accent that's never explained in canon #that boy is NOT from chicago #he is from new york #i can tell

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