#carmy is so fucking funny!

[currymanganese]

What's UPS? DWL! 💀

[nikossasaki]

#fun is a negotiable

THE BEAR | 3.03: DOORS

[alwaysrunningoutoftime]

sydcarmy: you’re like me, i’m never satisfied / hamilton (cr: beuck_ on x)

[altschmerzes]

New York Minute

(a fic for the bear, part one of likely three posted. gen except for some incidental cousin michelle/stevie. content warnings for current and past abuse and mental health issues)

Michelle Berzatto is really, really worried about her cousin. Things will not go well for him if he stays in Chicago like he plans, and so she needs to make sure that he takes her up on the offer to come visit her in New York City. Once there, she knows that she can help him secure a job at some fancy restaurant that'll snap someone with his resume up in minutes. For a while, things are good. Carmy stays with Michelle and Stevie, he starts working at this new place, and he seems to be doing really well. And then... Well. Then, everything starts to go bad. They see less and less of him, and what they see when he does come by is more and more alarming. Something is happening to him. Someone is hurting him, Michelle is sure of it. But, without knowing what is going on, there's nothing she can do to stop it and not much she can do to help. (or: Cousin Michelle, during and after the New York saga, spanning the flight home from the Christmas in 'Fishes' to the first time she visits the Bear and sees Carmy after he leaves New York)

read on ao3

[answer2jeff]

Carmen having a finsta and basically only using it for this:

interpret these fake ig posts however you want i don't care they're just so cute😭😭

i am NOT here to cause sydcarmy shipper drama...... leave them alone.

[malaiikka]

well if that jeremy dude is against his character and sydney getting together maybe the dilf should step up 😤 (user has not watched this show)

(user is right)

Also not JAW becoming the unofficial ambassador for the SydRichie agenda 🤭

[chanoeys]

I enjoy watching The Bear but it’s a wild feeling to feel like you’re wasting time with only 10 30 minute episodes

[evild3ad]

watched The Bear

[croc-odette]

seeing how funny molly gordon is in theater camp and then rewatching the bear season 2... well it's not good is it

[queers-gambit]

Two to Tango

prompt: the aftermath of Carmy's words seem to rattle him more than you.

pairing: Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto x female!reader pairing: Carmy x Peach

fandom masterlist: FX's The Bear

collection masterlist: Clingy Baby

word count: 5.4k+

note: author still does not want any messages about glorifying toxic relationships. typically, but not always, when someone calls you clingy, it's weaponized and is abusive. this fic is not meant to portray that! it’s meant to show internal agony and the journey to forgiveness - Carmy apologizes 'cause he's actually sorry!

warnings: cursing, reader folds 'cause who wouldn't for the sweet puppy that is Carmy, hurt and comfort, small angst, small fluff, we talk about Mikey a bit, author uses writing as therapy, relationship angst...? barely edited.

part one: God's Plan

"It's six in the Goddamn morning!" You raged at your front door, stomping up to it, "Are you dumb in the fucking head!? Who the fuck in their right mind knocks like the Goddamn cops at six in the fucking morning!?"

You whipped it open, the force causing a breeze of air to blow your bedridden hair back and highlight your exhaustion. "Hiya, sunshine," Richie beamed down at you, holding up a paper bag, offering, "donut?"

"Richie!? I know you're not fuckin' stupid, baby boy, so, what the fuck is wrong with you? It's six in the morning on my day off - do you want to give me a reason to punch you? You hate your nose that much?"

He tisked at you mockingly, "Someone's cranky this morning."

"What do you want?"

"You're not gonna invite me in for coffee? I brought us donuts! See? C'mon, Peach," He jostled the bag around with a shit-eating, closed-lip smile. "Dooonuts," he taunted.

You had to pause, count to ten in your head, then sigh through your nose. You offered kindly, "Richie? Would you like to come in for some coffee? Since you kindly brought donuts?"

He grinned, "Awwh, thanks, Peach, thats real nice of yah! Don't mind if I do!"

"Don't call me that," you snapped, leading him into your kitchen. The door shut and locked.

"Oh, someone's touchy."

"What do you fucking want?" You whined, pouring two mugs of hot coffee. "You come bangin' at my door, early ass in the mornin'. You better have a good-ass reason," you slid the mug over the counter he sat at. "Cream or sugar?"

He shook his head, fiddling with the mug for a moment before admitting as you dressed up your own coffee, "Uh, so... It's Carmy."

You paused, taking a slow sip from your mug, waiting for more that wouldn't come. So, you quietly asked, "What about Carmy?"

"He's falling apart."

"O...Kay?"

"Peach," he frowned, "you know that your relationship was the only thing that made sense to him - he's falling apart without you there."

"Okay," you nodded, taking another swallow of hot bean-water.

"That's it? Nothing else to say? Dude's losin' his fuckin' shit, Peach. Okay? Barely leaves the restaurant, h-he's all manic and shit, doesn't stop cookin', isn't gettin' a lotta sleep, and Syd said his clothes are all over the apartment - he's not keeping himself in order."

"So, he needs his mother?"

Richie glared with a clenched jaw, "Not fuckin' funny, Peach."

"I'm not laughing."

"He needs you."

"I'd argue otherwise, he's a grown fuckin' man who doesn't need to be taken care of. Look, if he was man enough to call me a desperate, clingy bitch, he's man enough to deal with the fallout of his words."

"Look, hey, hey, hey, I'm not sayin' he's not in the wrong," he waved his hands, eyes widening, "actually, the exact opposite. We all chewed his ass out when we found out what he fuckin' said, Peach. And look, I've never seen Fak that fuckin' angry."

You semi-pouted your bottom lip, "Really?"

"Fak was ready to strangle Carmy, I think," Richie sighed. "I yelled, Sugar yelled, Fak lost his shit, Syd even cornered him in the office and laid into him..."

"I thought she didn't like me," you whispered.

"She's getting to know you, but she likes you," he assured, "and it's obvious the affect you have on Carmy. We all respect that - "

"Oh, great, so everyone except the one person who needs to respect our relationship - respects it!"

Richie frowned at you, nodding in agreement before admitting, "He's a dumb fuckin' idiot, Peach, we all know that, but the dude is losing it without you."

"Sucks to suck."

"Peach," he groaned, slapping his hands to the counter with exasperation. "Don't you love him?"

"Of course I love him, but I also have this little thing called self-respect! He said some shit - shit he can't ever take back. The fuck I look like going back to him when he's the one in the wrong!? I don't hate myself that much, and despite what he says, I'm not that desperate for love."

"How is talking to the man you love - "

"Richie," you paused him, "your Cousin said a lot of hurtful shit. It's been weeks, okay? He's gonna snap outta it, realize what he's done, and right the wrongs he's committed. I don't need to speed that along in any way, shape, or form - he's a grown man. And I'm a grown woman, I don't have to fall to anyone's beck-and-call, he can figure his own shit out."

"I know - look, it's been fuckin' weeks of us dealin' with him losin' his fuckin' mind!" Richie snapped. "We tried to respect that you wanted distance and time, we really did, but he's losin' it, Peach, more than he's lost it before. Okay? I'm concerned about him, more than I was when the shit with Mikey went down..."

You sighed and leaned on your kitchen counter, wiping your fingers over your eyes to pinch the bridge of your nose after. "Okay, okay," you paused, sighing again, blinking as you looked at Richie, "so, what would you like me to do?"

He pouted dramatically, "Talk to him? Please?"

"To say... What?"

"I don't know, you guys can work that out together, but he's miserable, Peach. Just talk to him, just..." He sighed, shaking his head, "I know it's not fair to ask of you, but he's slippin' off the deep end. You're all he knows, all that makes sense to him, and with you gone..." His eyes turned red as he held back his tears, "I-I'm not sayin' he's gonna do anythin', Peach, but everythin' with Mikey's still so fresh... I just - I can't go through this again. Can't lose another Berzatto."

You frowned, understanding now why he appeared so frazzled.

"Carmy's not Mikey, Richie, okay?" You reminded him softly, reaching for his hand; leaving your extended to reach him, "And you're not gonna lose any more of us, you hear me?" You gave a squeeze, "I'll talk to him."

"Really?"

"I will," you assured softly, seeing the single tear drop from his waterline when he bowed his head and sniffled harshly. "Hey, Richie...? Do you, maybe, wanna bring some flowers to Mikey today? Think you wanna visit?"

He shrugged, "Maybe..."

"Maybe it'll be nice," you assured calmly. "It rained a few days ago, so, the ground won't be too soggy anymore, but the grass will be lush and green - hydrated and shit."

"Right," he chuckled, nodding, "yeah, okay, maybe that'll be nice, yeah, you're right."

"Maybe Carmy could use a visit, too."

"He won't go."

You nodded, "I know, but sometimes it's nice to just have the offer."

Richie agreed, downing the last of his black coffee. "All right," he cleared his throat, "let's go - you wearin' that?"

"What?"

"You gonna wear that? To go talk to Carmy?"

"It's not even seven in the morning!"

"He's at the restaurant," Richie shrugged. "Dude doesn't leave. C'mon, he needs a nap or somethin'."

You groaned, knowing he wouldn't leave unless you left with him. So, you got ready quickly while he sat at your desktop computer; playing Facebook's FarmVille - the same you left your little cousins to play when they needed distracted. He was enraptured by the adorable virtual sheep, laughing to himself as he learned the ropes of the game; and when you were ready, you had time to fill a to-go tumbler of coffee while he signed off.

When you arrived at The Beef, it was still closed for the morning prep; and inside, chaos rained in a fury of angry voices. You listened to Carmy snap at Marcus about something petty, going as far as to slap a pastry out of his hand as they argued in one another's faces with ignited passion.

"Ooookay," you moved through the kitchen and got between the two men, hands on Carmy's chest, "that's enough, Chef, hey, hey, hey, c'mon, walk away - just walk away, Carmy, don't do this. Hey, hey, don't do this, c'mon, just step off - walk away with me, please. Please, Carmy, hey, hey, step off, walk away with me, please."

"Fuck you doin' here, Peach?" He asked with red, swollen eyes. He looked sullen; pale between the angry red blotches to his skin, bags under his tired eyes, looking worn out and thinner than you remembered.

"Yeah, hey, hey, we'll talk about that, c'mon, outside, outside, outside," you directed him, sighing at the sight of the splattered pastry you were forced to step over. "I'm so sorry, Marcus," you whispered, seeing him nod and wave you off as you and Carmy pushed outside into the alley.

The door shut behind you, making Carmy snarl, "What the fuck, Peach - "

"No, I think that's better asked to you," you snapped. "The hell's wrong with you? Yellin' at Marcus like that? You know how rude it is to slap shit outta anyone's hand?"

He paced in anger, wiping a hand down his face; circling his mouth with his fingers, eyes ringed with red, hair greasy and tossed in a mess. His pants looked baggy, his shirt wrinkled, stained, and dirty with sweat marks.

"What're you doin' here?" He asked in a pant, hands going to his slender hips, head shaking as his tear-filled eyes avoided yours.

"Carmy, we need to talk."

"No shit," he breathed, scoffing after and widening his pace.

"Hey, Carmy, hey, hey," you reached for him, taking both his wrists in your grasp so he had to face you. "I need you to pause for me, please, hey," you stepped in his way when he tried to move. "Carmy, you're no good to anyone when you're like this - least of all yourself. So, I need you to talk - "

"You left," he panicked, pulling back to start pacing again. "You left - you left me. We got in a fight and you left, you fucking left. You walked away and you left me."

"Carmy, we got in more than a fight," you sighed. "You lashed out at me, then turned avoidant, and I don't linger where I'm not wanted."

"How can you think that?" He demanded, still pacing. "That you're not wanted by me? That you're not welcome, what? In my life? At my side? With me? Baby - of course, you are!"

"You didn't exactly make me feel any different," you pointed out sharply. "Carmy, can you please fucking pause for me so we can talk this out - "

"I know I fucked up," he ranted to himself, huffing and puffing as his emotion strangled him. "I know I did, I kept - I couldn't - I fucked up. I know I did. I couldn't get my head outta my ass," he listed, pacing as he panted when panic took hold of his being, "and I hurt you, and it was like I had to keep hurting you because I couldn't be alone in what I felt and I couldn't exactly figure out what the fuck I was feeling - I just needed you to hurt, too."

"Carmy," you sighed patiently.

"And I couldn't stop, I just kept going, and when I realized how bad I made it, I couldn't fucking stop - I needed y-yo-you t-to know what I felt, but I couldn't find the words. I-I hate that I did that, I-I fucking hurt you and I made this so much worse than it ever had t-to be, and I fucking know, Peach, okay? I know you're not clingy, you were just loving me. Y-You were loving me, you were using your own love languages, and I felt y-you so fuckin' close to me, and freaked out - I just - I just don't know why. I just - I panicked, I couldn't stop whatever I felt, and I'm so sorry," he breathed, shaking his head, wiping his cheeks as the tears started. "I-I-I'm so sorry, Peach, I couldn't control myself and I-I hate that I hurt you, and I know I don't deserve your understanding, but I just - I couldn't stop - "

"Carmy," you stepped directly in his footpath; needing to seize hold of his swollen biceps to catch his movements as he all but barreled right into you, "I need you to breathe."

"Nah, I'm okay - "

"No, you're not," you spoke sternly, shaking your head. "Baby," you eased your tone to a softer tone, seeing a glimmer of hope spark in his baby blues, "I need you to take a breath and remain in the present with me, okay? Just stand here with me," you watched as he blinked a couple of times; reaching out to hold your waist tentatively. "And stay in the present, okay? Stay here with me."

"I'm so sorry, Peach," he whispered, stepping closer so he could feel your breasts against his chest; caging you with his arms. "I'm so fuckin' sorry, I didn't - I didn't know what the fuck I was even trying to fight with you about. You're not clingy - you're not any of the things I said, I didn't mean it - any of it."

"Calling me desperate?"

"I didn't mean any of it."

"A bitch?"

"Please," he whispered, bringing you in closer so he could rest his forehead on yours. "Don't repeat it, I know what I said, and I'm so fucking sorry for all of it. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I'm goin' crazy without yah, Peach. I need my best girl, and I don't deserve you, but I fuckin' need you." He sniffled, pulling back to caress your cheek, whispering, "I need you, Peach, you're the only thing that I know - the only thing I can understand, that makes sense to me. I think I just felt stressed and overwhelmed, I wasn't sure what to do - I couldn't find the words, I'm so sorry."

You nodded slowly, "I think we can work through this."

"I don't deserve you."

"Maybe not, but you have me anyway," you whispered, bringing his forehead to your own again. "But you can't do this again, taking anger out on me when I haven't done anything."

"Never again," he sighed, now nestling into your neck for comfort; arms tightening so you were the closest you could be with your head bent to keep his head caressed with yours.

"I don't think we can say 'never', but we can make an effort to leave work stress at work, right?" You whispered softly, letting one around coil around him to keep him close; the other caressing his jaw. "You don't get to treat me like that," you reminded him, "because I'm on your side, Carmy, I'm not the enemy."

"I know," he squeezed you tight.

"And the people doing their jobs are not the enemy," you smirked.

"I know," he chuckled lightly. "I owe Marcus an apology..."

"I'm sure you owe it to the others, too," you mused, holding his cheek as you turned your head to kiss his forehead. "Promise me we're done with that reactive bullshit. It doesn't make navigating a relationship easier on us."

"We're done, we're so fuckin' done with that shit," he whispered, deflating into your embrace as you held him close. "I'm so sorry, baby. I really am."

"I know," you comforted softly. "I forgive you."

"I don't deserve it."

"Hey, hey, this self-deprecating stunt has to end, too. We've gotta go forward with at least some confidence if we're gonna figure this out together."

He nodded, pulling back but keeping hold of your waist. "I am confident about this... About you - about us."

"Hmm?" You gently pushed a few stray curls from his forehead.

"Move in with me - officially."

Your face contorted in mild disappointment, "Oh, Carmen - "

"No, no," he rushed, sighing as his hand flattened on your jaw and cheek again, "just listen to me. I've wanted to ask you for a long time, okay? I've wanted this for - like - fucking years. Hear me? I just," he sighed, "I wasn't sure how to ask. I want this for us, I want us to be together, okay? Officially. I-I want us living together, Peach, okay? I want to come home and just - I want you there. I want all of you," he frowned, tears swelling again, "and all your shoes in the foyer, hair in the shower drain, perfume on the counter, and every-single-way you know how to love me. I was wrong to say you were clingy - and everything else I said. Baby, the last couple weeks, I've felt so fucking empty, so lonely and - just - cold. I've been cold without you. I need you, Peach, I need you with me, and I need you to be exactly you - no holding back. Because you're exactly who I need to love me, I'm so sorry I fucked that up before."

"Carmy."

He frowned, "I'm sorry."

"I know," you smirked, "and I forgive you. But you know it's gonna take more than a few pretty words and some tears, right?"

He nodded, "Anything to make this work again."

You sighed in patience, "Go say your apologies to the others, we've got t'make a stop before going back to yours - and you're going to take a fucking nap."

"I'm fine - "

"Look me in my eye and try to tell me in the past 72 hours, you've had decent, restful sleep."

He frowned, opening his mouth a few times but then sighing. "You know I can't," he whispered.

"Exactly why we're going back to yours."

Carmy paused, brows furrowing as if a thread pulled them together. He asked softly, "Is that a no to us... Living together? Is that why you're calling it 'my' place?"

You offered him a look of patience and leaned in to peck his lips for a few prolonged seconds, promising, "There's your apartment, there's my apartment, and then there's gonna be our apartment. Somewhere that's just ours, 100% us." His mouth stretched in a grin, so you swiftly cut him off, "But you have to ask me again when you've got restful sleep under your belt. I want you clear headed when you make this kinda decision."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed. "Where're we goin' before?"

You swallowed nervously, telling him softly, "You absolutely do not have to go with us, but I think Richie could use a visit out to Mikey's grave. I said I'd take him with some flowers, but you do not have to get out to go with us - not if you're not ready."

He blinked a few times, rolling his lips between his teeth as his eyes dropped from yours. You were about to coo his name and assure him again, when he nodded at you and tried to half-smile. "Okay," he breathed.

"Okay?"

"Mhm. I'll, uh... M-Maybe I can, just, hang back in the car."

"Sure, baby, whatever you're comfortable with," you whispered, leaning in to peck his forehead. "You good?"

"I will be."

"Mhm," you hummed, caressing his cheek again before pushing your hand into his curls. "Now, let's get a move on - I want you to march in there, say you're sorry to your Chefs, and then we'll leave."

"Yes, ma'am," Carmy whispered, leaning in to kiss you - but you pulled back.

"Aht," you halted him with a teasing finger to his lips, "after we've got everything worked out, then you can kiss me."

"You got t'kiss me," he mumbled against your finger; making you hum as you fought off a stretching smile, and lower your hand.

"Fair point - just one then - "

He cut you off by, indeed, pressing a single kiss to your lips, but not pulling back. His hand raised to hold the back of your head, your lips spreading in a grin against his; finding rhythm to move together before pausing to press in prolonged passion.

When he pulled back, you both paused to smile, and when you tried to peck his lips again, he pulled back, teasing, "Aht, just the one."

"Oh, fuck you," you laughed lightly, letting him take your hand before leading you back into the kitchen. The other Chefs lingered, sparing you and Carmy a few nervous glances, making you whisper in his ear as you squeezed his hand, "Go ahead, baby, get it done."

He nodded and called the kitchen to attention, clearing his throat, and beginning to make his apologies. He singled out Marcus, then Sydney, Richie, and Sugar; the kitchen staff all accepting his words and insisting he could take the day off - even the next few days if he wanted! You had to usher him to grab his things a few times, nudging him in reminder and verbally pushing him back into action. That boy's ADHD would truly be the death of him.

"So?" Richie smirked at you as Marcus handed you a packaged box of pastries.

"We're talking it out."

He chuckled, "Good. Get him outta here, Peach, dude needs to breathe."

"I got it," you swatted him away as Carmy exited the office. "But we've got somewhere to be first, right?"

He paused, then nodded and asked in a mutter, "He said okay?"

"He's got time to decide what he wants to do, but he knows we're going. C'mon, get your coat."

Richie met you at the front of the restaurant and with a parting wink to Sugar, you took Carmy's hand, tangled your fingers together, and left to venture to your parked car. Carmy got in the front, Richie in the back, and after a stop at a corner bodega to grab three bouquets of flowers, you drove to the cemetery. Carmy was silent, no music played, and Richie's leg bounced in anxious tension; making small conversation with you about your job in an effort to distract himself.

When you arrived, you pulled up on the access road that you knew was closest to Mikey's grave. Richie spared a glare between you and Carmy before muttering that he needed a cigarette and got out of the car to leave you alone. "Baby?" You whispered, reaching for his hand. "Hey, look, if you don't want to go with us, it's okay. We won't be long... But maybe you want to sign this," you showed him the small, blank name card left in the flowers.

"Why?" He whispered.

You shrugged, "So he knows they're from you."

"Peach," he sighed, meeting your eyes.

"Baby, I know it's silly, I know it's easier to ignore it all. But I'd like to believe it's just a nice gesture for our own closure - it's a signed gift from us, to them... And maybe it's nice to pretend that wherever they are, they know what we've left for them."

Carmy nodded slowly, "I-I don't think... I don't think I can go..."

"It's okay, baby," you whispered.

"But," he sniffled, opening his hand to you, "I'll sign it, if you'll leave it for me?"

"Of course," you rushed, opening your purse to producing a pen for him. The clank card rest on the center console of your car, pausing, swallowing nervously, then scribbling his name as he cleared his throat. He offered you the pen, waited until it was put away, then offered the flowers. "Hang tight, we won't be too long," you whispered, leaning in to rest your forehead. "You okay?"

He nodded, pecking your forehead before letting you get out of the car. You handed Richie his own flowers with a signed card, holding your own and Carmy's; linking arms with Rich to venture up the small grass hill and moved about halfway down the cemetery plot line. When you came to his stone, you understood this was what Rich needed more than you, so, you knelt and laid the two bouquets down before starting to quickly groom the area around his tombstone.

You told him, "I'm sorry it's not much, but I'll be back later for a picnic and a chat. I brought you flowers from me a-and from Carmy. He's in the car, but he's here, Mikey... Give him time," you whispered, brushing dirt from the stone before standing. "Take your time," you told Richie softly, seeing the tears gather in his eyes.

"Thanks, Peach," he whispered, offering you a tight hug. When you pulled back and started to walk away, Richie lowered himself to kneel and lay his own flowers down; hearing him tell Mikey, "Don't gotta worry 'bout us, Mike-Man, Peach is the glue that keeps us together. Shit, she even got Carmy out here..."

You made it back to the car and got in, smiling at Carmy - but dropping it the instant you saw tears in his eyes. "Talk to me," you whispered, reaching for a wet wipe in your glovebox to clean your hands after plucking the grass and brushing off dirt from the grave.

"Why can't I get out?"

You only stared at him for a long moment, unsure what to say.

"I'm here... I'm finally here... Why can't I get out?"

"You're not ready," you nodded, tossing the wipe aside to a plastic bag. "It's okay, Carmy, it's okay to not be ready yet. We can come back when you are," you reached for his hand.

"I think this added to my frustration," he admitted. "I couldn't... I didn't go to the funeral, haven't been here since he was... You know."

"Laid to rest."

"Yeah," he sighed. "Fuck's wrong with me?"

"You're grieving," you relented, nuzzling closer so your head rested on his shoulder. "It's not linear, Carmy, baby, just let yourself feel. When you try to repress your emotions, you lash out inappropriately."

"I know," he whispered, "'M sorry."

"It's not your fault," you promised, the two of you quietly bowing your heads together. You remained as such until Richie got back in the car, and from there, it was quiet as everyone stewed in their own emotion. You dropped Rich back at work before promising to call him later and driving away; heading for Carmy's apartment in the soothing silence, his hand locked in yours.

When you arrived at his apartment, you froze upon seeing the interior's state. "Oh, Carmy, no," you whispered, frowning deeply.

"Looks worse than it is," he deflected. You only hummed and let him lead you to the bedroom; watching him strip and prepare for bed before joining you on the mattress. He crashed almost immediately, sighing in relief as he pecked over your shoulder and collarbone, muttering, "'M so glad you're back. 'M so sorry, Peach."

"I know you are, and I forgive you," you told him softly, carding a manicured hand through his hair. "Just get some rest, baby."

He was asleep nearly instantly. He deflated on top of you, deeply resting enough to not notice you slip out from under him. You cleaned his entire apartment; doing laundry, cleaning, scrubbing, replacing necessities he deemed himself too lazy to pay attention to. You did dishes, cleaned out his fridge, and as you mopped up the floors, the sun set and Carmy emerged from the bedroom.

"Baby?" He mumbled in earnest confusion, sighing in relief when he saw you.

"What? Afraid I disappeared on you?" You teased with a small grin.

"For sure," he mumbled, wiping sleep from his eyes; making your amusement dim when you realized the nerve it struck. "The hell you doin'?"

"You didn't seriously think I could rest knowing this monster of a clean-up job lingered out here, did you?"

"I don't want you t'clean after me."

"Well, too late," you smirked. "You good now?"

"I feel better, yeah."

"Good."

"And I made up my mind."

"Hmm? About what?"

"I'm gonna take some time off work," he nodded, "and focus on us. Get us in a new crib, it'll be nice."

"Think you can handle that?"

He nodded, "I'll have to, you're the most important thing in my life, I can't lose you. So, if I gotta take time off, that's the least of my worries. I'm only here for us, for you."

You smiled at him, setting the mop aside to wrap him in your arms. "I like the sound of that, us making a home together - being able to decorate a new home. But don't let me overdo it, okay? I get all excited and kinda bulldoze my way through projects. I don't want you t'find real reason t'resent me."

"Nah, that ain't possible," he promised quietly.

True to his word, Carmy took three solid weeks off; agreeing to a fourth week as a contact-only consultant. You and he slept in most days, looking at apartments, and not once did he even mention work. He was diligent in his attention, focused on you and you alone; putting in overtime to rebuild that what was broke by focusing on shared interests again. You found a place you loved ready for what was basically immediate move-in, taking time to pack your respected places and prepare for the official start of your cohabitating relationship.

You didn't forget what he said, being reserved in your displays of love. Yet Carmy was different; he was totally clingy the moment you returned to his life. He feared letting you go meant you'd disappear again, feared you'd run away again. He held your hand at every possible opportunity, got you a fresh bouquet of weekly flowers, ran all his errands with you; never went to bed without you, cooked all meals with you in the kitchen - perched up on a counter. Most showers you took together, and almost every night was spent cuddling on the couch or in bed with either a book being shared between you or a new show playing on the mounted flatscreen TV.

Carmy clung because he thought if he showed you acts of his love, it'd allow comfort towards your loving behavior to flourish again - and he was right. It took a little bit of time, but Carmy clung tighter and tighter; ensuring you started to reciprocate before ever easing up in the intensity of his affectionate displays. He didn't want to overwhelm you, but knew you needed the reassurance.

You were cautious, you were apprehensive; tiptoeing around Carmy even when living together before warming back up to him. You didn't need to repeat the words he hurled at you all those weeks ago, not wanting to dredge up repressed feelings, but never letting him forget what he said. Your actions spoke enough, skittish around his affection; something Carmy took note of and despised himself for. He made up for it, of course he did, it was Carmy and he hated tension and conflict in his closest circles of life. Yet it wasn't so easy for you two to move forward, they weren't just words to you.

They were direct insults to you as a person; to you and how you loved others. Carmy had seen your deepest fear and used it as a defense against you - wanting you to hurt the way he was, too. He understood this wasn't acceptable, knowing the next time he resorted to such despicable actions, you'd simply walk away; never dealing with disrespect, so, he needed to be acutely aware of his words.

You would never allow yourself to be someone else's doormat, but part of being an adult is understanding that people were allowed to make mistakes - it's part of being fucking human. How terrible you'd feel if someone held your own mistakes against you, because the truth was, you weren't perfect either.

Part of being in a(n adult) relationship is understanding when someone apologized, it was best to accept and move on because nothing was ever solved by dragging turmoil out. This didn't mean forget what happened, forget whatever emotion was evoked - but to do your part to repair what was broken; no matter who was at fault, it always took Two to Tango.

And in this song and dance, you were ready to sweep around the dance floor if only with Carmy. Because that's what a relationship was; a conscious effort by both partners to work as one, to dance in-sync; owning the art together, as equal partners.

requesting rules and masterlist

The Bear masterlist

Clingy Baby collection masterlist

[thebearer]

Ugh I love your writing 🫶🫶 could you do something where the reader and Carmen have that asshole to everyone but his partner trope 🫶like the staff see how he acts around the reader when they drop by to see him during his lunch break and they’re in shock ?

yes yes yes!! I feel like that's such a good trope for him!!

"Guys, what did I tell you? House keeping, please, fuck!" Carmen yelled, running a frustrated hand through his hair, a chorus of "yes, chef!" following him.

"Hey, Carmy," Neil puffed, carrying the ladder towards the bathroom. "Your girl's in your office."

Carmen's eyes lit up, frustration dissipated at the sound that you were here, waiting for him- surprised him. "Thanks, Neil." Carmen grumbled, non-slip shoes padding across the floor, rounding the corner with an announcement, slipping into the office.

There you were, sitting in the chair, legs propped up on his desk, lazily flicking through recipes. "Hey," Carmen greeted, lips curling when he shut the door behind him. "What're you doin' here? I didn't know you were stopping by."

You spun towards him, feet clomping on the ground at the movement, a tiny smirk on your lips. "Came to see you." You hummed. "Thought I'd take up your offer tonight and come have family with you."

"Yeah?" Carmen's eyes lit up, bright and excited- still a little bashful, even after all the time you'd been together. "That's nice, real nice. I'm glad you came, baby."

You giggled, flinging the recipes on the desk, hands cupping either side of his head to pull him closer when he ducked down for a kiss. Your lips slotted over his, hands sliding through his hair to push him further into you. Carmen laughed into the kiss, hands reaching for your jaw, tilting your head up towards him.

"Stand up," Carmen muttered, lips moving against yours.

You obliged, switching places with him so he was in the chair, you straddling his waist. Your arms looped around his neck, his on your back, the other cradling your ass, sliding and squeezing over the fatty flesh there.

"Hey, cousin, time for fami- oh!" Richie recoiled, slamming the door just as quickly as he opened it. "Oh, for fuckssake, lock the door if you're gonna be nasty! Christ!"

"How about you knock!" Carmen shouted back, cheeks tinging with the red tint of embarrassment. You bit your lip, biting back a laugh. Carmen glared at you lightly. "That's not funny."

"It's a little bit funny, Carmy." You grinned, gently petting down a stray curl tugged out of place. "Like a teeny tiny bit." You pressed your fingers together for emphasis, ignoring his light snort of laugher.

"Richie's runnin' his mouth in there, you know that right?" Carmen muttered, hands smoothing sweetly down your waist.

You shrugged. "He always is."

"Yeah," Carmen laughed. "You're right about that, c'mon." He patted your ass lightly for you to get up. You grabbed his hands, tugging him lightly out of his chair, swinging your arms between the two of you.

"Who cooked tonight?" You asked, arms looped around his waist, padding down to the back room.

"Sydney." Carmen replied, grinning at your hum of satisfaction.

"Oh, everyone avert your fucking eyes, here they come." Richie announced loudly, turning to the table before him. "Cousin, that was fuckin' quick, eh?"

"Shut up." Carmen rolled his eyes, annoyed, pushing past Richie. He ignored the snickers from Tina, placing a hand on your back, pulling your chair out for you.

"Here, baby, you want a pop or somethin'?" Carmen asked you in a hushed tone, reaching to grab a glass from the spaces behind him.

"I'll just do water." You nodded towards the pitcher in the middle.

"Sure. You want lemon?" Carmen asked, pushing your hand away lightly when you went to pour your glass, a simple "I got it" that shouldn't have made you as flustered as it did. You blamed the make out session that got cut short.

Tina's eyes cut to Richie, watching the two of you whisper gently. Carmen looked relaxed, shoulders not tensed and eyes not darting. No, he was calm when he talked to you... maybe even sweet? The smiles he gave you certainly were.

Tina shrugged lightly at Richie, a smug, knowing smile on her face.

[arlowthenacho]

cherry wine

(carmen berzatto x reader)

summary: carmy has panic attack and calls for you.

warnings: cussing, fem presenting reader, kissing, intended lowercase, please let me know if i misses anything !

wc: 975

a/n: omg its finally done...part 2 to “that funny feeling” !! its a bit short but i dont have the patience for anything longer lmao. @unbearableblog ik you wanted to be tagged so here you go <3

its been a week.

a week since carmen invited you to his house. and the funny thing is, its happened again. more than again, actually.

within the seven days after he originally asked you to come over, you’ve been invited to come back about 5 more times, all for the same reason. being a little taste tester for carmy. telling him what needs salt and what’s too bland and what’s perfect and doesn’t need any more tinkering.

and what’s even funnier than the fact you’ve been in carmen berzatto’s kitchen at 11:00 pm for the better part of the week is the fact he hasn’t tried to get in your pants at all. not once.

all he’s done is…talk.

about you, about him, about his family, and about yours. and its been nice.

refreshing.

seeing this other side of him, this vulnerable side of him, has been almost eye-opening. everything you thought he was had been turned to dust and reborn with new perspective. carmen berzatto wasn’t just the guy who occasionally hooked up with you to let off some steam anymore.

he was soft, and gentle, and vulnerable, and sweet. sure, he had his faults. his stubbornness, his ceaseless need for perfection, and most of all, his pride, but the sweet balanced the sour.

your thoughts drift back to the show playing on the t.v briefly, when a buzzing in your back pocket stuns you out of focus.

carmy parmy 🧑‍🍳

can u comw over?

huh. carm never really misspelled words. whatever.

course! gimmie likeee 15 mins

carmy parmy 🧑‍🍳

please come quickly

shit. now you’re worried.

you hastily make your way towards your bedroom and throw on a hoodie and leggings, damn near sprinting to your car.

after turning on the ignition and pulling out of your garage, you’re right back where you were a week ago. only this time you wear a concerned frown.

“carmen?” you rap your knuckles against the door, your breaths coming short and shallow.

“its unlocked,” his voice is hardly his right now. its all television static and distance.

you burst through the door and frantically scan the room for any trace of carmy. after a couple seconds of searching, you see him curled into himself on the floor of his kitchen, hands in his hair.

your heart drops six feet deep as you sit next to him, taking his hands into yours.

“hey, carm. what’s the matter, hmm?” you spoke with a foreign gentleness, a tone that was never usually present between you and carm.

“i just—i cant…” he hyperventilates. “i can’t breathe,”

and within a second, your blood was lead and dropping your organs to hell.

“i cant—”

he can barely finish his sentence before being enveloped in your arms. the sinking in your gut was still present, but you ignored it. you both just sat on the floor, holding each other together.

after a while of holding carmen, his breathing had somewhat evened out. he releases the white-knuckling grip on your shoulders and lifts his head from your chest. you brush the stray hairs out of his eyes and smile softly.

"hi, baby,"

he takes a stuttering breath.

"hi."

"what happened, carm?" you whisper, not daring to break the silence you both have fallen into. carmen takes another deep breath before letting the words fall from his lips.

"its, uh. family stuff. my mom is fucking insane and it just..." he pauses, takes another breath, and continues. "during christmas one year, she went really crazy. and it gave me some lasting issues."

your heart ached for him in a way that you can't explain. he spoke a little more about his warped family dynamics before trailing off. he meets your eyes again, but with a look in his eyes that you can't quite place. you're rendered speechless for a second before finding the words to say to him.

"you're safe now, baby. you're safe now." you pick the both of you off the floor and towards the couch, still grasping carmen tightly.

another week passed since carmen had the panic attack.

that night, you stayed at his house for the first time. you're departure was abrupt and maybe a bit rude, but in your defense, you panicked. however, you have been over his apartment pretty frequently for one reason or another.

today, you've been invited over to cook.

its 12:34, which is a normal time for carmen to ask for you, when you start to get ready. you only throw on a bra, some socks, and more comfortable shorts before you get in your car and drive to carmen's.

your knuckles rap against his door twice before he opens it.

"hey, hi, come in," he rushes out, mindlessly taking your hand and dragging you inside.

"oh, alright then," you mumble, letting yourself be pulled into his space.

the kitchen smells like an array of spices and you look at the bottles that litter carmy's counter. rosemary, tumeric, paprika, chili flakes and more things that you can't pronounce are written on the glass.

you're pulled out of your thoughts when carmy picks you up by the waist and places you on a clean portion of the counter. you smile at him and swing your legs against the cabinets below.

"what do you have for me today, carm?" you tease.

"this."

he nearly lunges for you and attaches his lips to yours. he tastes hungry, like hes been starved of your lips for an eternity. you gasp an press back into his mouth with a matching passion. his hands find your waist and yours find his hair. a whirlwind of pulling and tugging sends you both into a frenzy before he parts away for air.

"this wasn't about the food, was it?" you breathe. he giggles, the sound akin to something angelic.

"no, it wasn't. it never was."

[carmenized-onions]

Something to Do. | Catering

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

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

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

portion; 13.3k how does this keep happening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For you, I would.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think?”

“I think primal is too clean.”

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

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

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

“High messy bun?” “High messy bun.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, pbbbttt— Syd.”

“Pbb—Fuck, how do you do that?”

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

Sydney groans, “No!”

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

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

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

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

“Runnin’ your mouth, more like.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait staff here had too high a fee—”

“Translation: more than free?”

“More than free, yeah.”

“Heard.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carmen did your prep entirely himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He defends. “Eva put me on them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are we?”

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

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

“Comin’ right up—”

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

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

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

Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a lot of that, on repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Marcus, worrying. ‘sorrysorysorrybakkingemergencymbmmbmb’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm?”

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

“Christ!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He answers briefly. “Expo clock.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

What.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yessir, what can I fix for you?”

“Manhattan with bourbon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lee is a bit taken aback. “Really—?”

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

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

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

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

“Oh yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

“You don’t bite much.”

You shrug. “Try not to.”

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

“You didn’t bite me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Figured you’d need one.”

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

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

“You can sit, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s huge.”

He shrugs. “It’s a start.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have questions?”

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

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

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

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

“What’d you say to him, then?”

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

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

“Salmon or chicken?”

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

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

‘I asked you’ Syd glares.

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

‘Who said?’

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Chef.” Marcus nods.

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

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

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

“You tryna get me fucked up at work?”

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

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

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

Marcus claps his hands, grinning. “Yessir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the tsunami.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean a fuckin’ word.”

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

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

“Then why’d you say it?”

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

“Normal way?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t fail Mikey.” So is he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t owe me shit.”

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

“Where’d that money come from?”

“Where’d your tirade come from?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why’d you do all that, for him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a joke, about— It’s like—”

Just do it, Chip. Let it rip.

“It’s—”

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

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

To Thine Own Self Be True.

“Sobriety chip.” Unity, Service, Recovery.

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

“I was— I was Mikey’s sponsor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Part

[writers-hes]

Sydney Saw it First (c. berzatto x reader)

You’re Carmy’s friend from Noma and he asks tou to mentor Marcus before he heads to Copenhagen to stage. Sydney thinks you’re both fools in love and she’s determined to fix it. (fluff, sydney being the best wingman, inspired by the scene in new girl when nick points his shoes to jess, two fools in love)

navigation | main master lists

It was hard for anyone to read if the Carmen Berzatto cared.

Some days, he was loving but most days he was tenacious. It’s not like he meant it. It was just how he was wired; how he reacts to things. The crew learned that the hard way, when he exploded on Marcus, when he screamed at Sydney…when the stress gets to him, it really gets to him.

He’s imposed penance on himself for his actions, secluding himself from the world…being unreachable. If there was one thing in the world that he craved and that he was afraid of, it was love. So he secludes himself until he feels alone. Relationships were unnatural to him.

But it came naturally with you.

You were training to become a pastry chef at Noma when Carmy was there. You met each other at the halls, shared friends that it was inevitable for you two to become friends. He was your first taste tester when you first made croissants. He helped you make your own sourdough starter for the sourdough cookies that you were experimenting on. You were the first person whom he cooked his mom’s picatta. You were his sous chef, helping him prep the vegetables on important dates. When news arrived detailing Mikey’s death, you were the first person he called. 

You two were great. You were great.

If anyone deserved praise, Carmy thought that it was you.

He didn’t know why but when he saw that Marcus was really interested in pastry, he called you; asked you to come and teach a really, really eager student that was going to stage in Copenhagen soon. Sydney also suggested that sweets are needed in a restaurant. You didn’t hesitate to board the plane upon his request. If anything, you were glad that he was finally asking you for a favor. It only meant that he was still—if not more—comfortable with you. 

You arrived in Chicago all smiles, and greetings. It was Richie and Carmy who picked you up from the airport and Richi was floored. How did his cousin even manage to tolerate you? He didn’t hate you immediately, of course. In any case, Carmy told you about his little girl; you decided to bring her a little gift. 

“I didn’t know what to get you but Carmy said that you have a daughter so I got this instead,” you said, extending a toy. “My niece has the same one…so, I figured…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie nodded. He muttered a small ‘thanks’ before helping you with you luggage. 

The night before, Carmy instructed everyone during family to behave. 

“Look, there will be no funny business, alright? My friend is flying in tomorrow to oversee Marcus and act as his mentor while we fix the Bear. No taking her knife away, no screaming, no fighting, no fucking anything, alright, chefs?” he asked. When he was met with silence, “Alright, Chefs?”

A couple of ‘heards’ were thrown. 

“Who is this friend, anyway, Jeff?” Tina asked. “You didn’t tell us to behave when Sydney over here first came,”

“Someone from Copenhagen. She, uh—“

“She?” Sweeps asked, his eyebrows raised in anticipation. “You got a girl, chef?”

“No,” he replied. “She studied in Copenhagen as a pastry chef, okay? No big deal—“ he proceeds to mention your name and how you’re just really super cool. “No big deal—“

“Wait, Chef, that’s a big deal!” Marcus said. “Oh, you know her recipes are all over my station, right?” he asked. “Sydney—“

“I went to the place she worked at in New York after I graduated. Everything’s just so…good. Amazing,” she recalled. “So, yes, it’s a big deal,”

“Yeah, whatever. Just promise me to behave, alright?” Carmy asked. “She’ll have to make do with what we currently have but I’ll try to stock up and set up the station before she arrives tomorrow.” 

-

You arrived at the Beef—er, the Bear a day after your arrival in Chicago. You were able to find a place that was near the city center for a good deal. You were here indefinitely, still trying to figure out if you wanted to run your own bakery or just work with others for the rest of your life. Seeing Carmy take the leap was insipiring. 

“Hello, chefs, I’m Y/N,” you said, a friendly smile gracing your features. Carmy was right beside you, watching everyone. “I’m a pastry chef and I graduated with Carmy in Copenhagen. I’m here to mentor Marcus but of course, if you have any questions regarding anything, you can ask me. I know how to cook too…and uh, I’ll be taking care of family tonight,”

Carmy jerks from his relaxed position. 

“You sure?” he asks softly. “I can take care of family, if you’re too tired.”

“Yeah. It’s like initiation,” you nod, looking at him and then looking back at the new faces in front of you again. “Do you have any questions…”

Sydney raises her hand. 

“Um, I’m sorry if this comes across rude but why are you here?” she asked.

“Oh, well, I’m not really tied down to anything right now. When Carmy called me, asking if I could come here, I decided to go. I’m here in Chicago indefinitely and I’ve been receiving invitations to cook, teach a class, whatever. I might accept some of those,” you said. Sydned nodded. Damn, Noma’s chefs were being chased from left and right. She was in the presence of two. 

“Do you have a little notebook?” Tina asked, making Sydney scofd. “With recipes?”

“Um, no,” you shook your head. “I keep all my notes in my head and then write it afterwards,” Tina liked you already. 

“What do you think about Carmen Berzatto—“

“Anyway, that’s all, Chefs! Marcus, come to the office with me, chef,” Carmy said, breaking up the huddle, and making you laugh. He discreetly pulls down your shirt, a sign that you should follow him too to the office. When you were both out of earshot, Sydney asked no one in particular.

“That girl and Chef? There’s something,”

That afternoon, during family, Sydney watched the two of you like a hawk. Confirming her suspicions when Carmy stayed for family and sat beside you.

-

Sydney notices it for the second time. You were going over the Noma “picture book” with Marcus, telling him how some of the desserts came about.

“What’s this?” Marcus asked, pointing at a photo of the dessert that put you on the map. 

“That’s a dish of candied hallabong peel, with a prosecco peach sorbet, on a bed of meringue, topped with candied cherries. I got it because some of my friends went to Jeju sometime and brought back this orange hybrid. I think….I think we can recreate it but it wouldn’t be the same without the orange.”

“What about the flesh and the juice?”

“I turned it into like an orange-chocolate cake with chocolate mousse,”

Carmy was just passing by but he decided to watch you interact with his employees instead. 

“Anyways, where’s your chocolate cake? Let’s taste it and compare it from the last one. Also, I can send you my recipe for sourdough doughnuts. Just give me your email,” you said, looking up briefly to find Carmy already looking at you. It made him feel good to see you incorporate yourself so well in the kitchen. Well, it’s not like the Bear is open but his staff went to you for some tips and advice. They were all undergoing some sort of training to make everything more elevated. “Hey, Carm. Do you need anything?” 

“Hey-hey,” he coughed, ashamed for being caught. “Nothing. Uh—“

“Chef, did you ever try Y/N’s stuff?” Marcus asked. He’d really, really, really want to taste something that you made someday. They were all delicate and so detailed. It’s probably why you got multiple awards at such a young age.

“I did. She used to bring big Tupperware containers of things they made in the kitchen,” 

“He finished them all,” you told Marcus. “Wouldn’t spare me a bite,”

“I don’t know, bug,” he teased. “I vividly remember you begging me to do it because you were so sick of fucking croissants.”

“You’re so annoying,” you huffed, a playful smile on your face. “Go on now. Marcus and I have stuff to do and you’re distracting us.”

“In my own restaurant,” Carmy mutters, shaking his head. Sydney’s eyes immediately directed to Tina. Did you see? Did you hear the word ‘Bug’?. Tina only shrugged. 

-

Sugar dropped in to check on the improvements being done at the Bear  when she saw you and Carmen at the back, talking. She had to double take what she saw because it was quite…odd to see him talk to you with the same twinkle he used to have. She has never seen him like this. He was genuinely laughing at some of the things that you were saying, a shared plate of leftover chocolate cake between the two of you. 

“Who’s the girl outside?” Sugar asked, looking at Richie and Sydney for answers. 

“Some fancy pastry chef Carmy met in Copenhagen,” Richie replied. “It’s a whole bet now, you know? They’re always out in their own world ever since she got here,”

“Everyone puts in 10 to predict what’s going to happen,” Tina said. “You’re betting?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sugar says, giving a bill to Tina. “I bet…I bet they’ll fall in love right before she leaves Chicago. Like, on the way to the airport. Carmy’s going to tell her that he loves her and she stays,”

Laughter echoes in the room. 

“This is not some fucking movie, cousin,” Richie said. “Obviously, Carmy’s not gonna do shit about it.”

“I think…she’ll call him over and they’ll share a moment,” Marcus said. “He’s always at her place, did you know that?”

Meanwhile, unaware of the ongoing bet, Carmy looks at you.

“What do you think about Chicago?” he asked, a cigarette hanging idly on his fingers. 

“It’s nice…chilly,” you said. “But it’s nice. I’ve been offered jobs here, you know?”

“Hm?” he asked. “Are you planning to take them?”

“I’m…thinking about them. They’re all the same but like, I want my own bakery, you know? My own place.” you said. “It’s going to be a lot of work if I do that and I don’t necessarily have the staff to do all that.” you said. 

“If you want…you can come stay with us if you’re not sure,” he offers. “Like a pastry chef. Actually, I’ll have to ask Sugar and Sydney if it’s alright with them but you can stay here,”

“Bear, I don’t want to impose—“

Sydney was walking outside to throw the trash but she stopped her trackes when she heard you talk. 

“I want you here,” Carmy said with conviction. “But if you don’t-don’t like it here in Chicago, I wouldn’t mind either, you know? It’s just that…I want you here and-and fuck, I don’t know. I guess working with you made it so much more fun again, you know? Like us in Copenhagen. I mean, we’re always a team and-and it’s nice to have you here with me. Sugar and spice? Sweet and spicy or whatever the fuck they called us back then,” he chuckled, inhaling his cigarette to calm himself down. “We can make it work,”

“Yeah, yeah. You go talk about it to Nat and Syd,” you said, taking a swig of your water. “And then we’ll talk. Cool?”

“Cool,” he shrugged. Sydney leaves and goes back to where the commotion was. 

“I change my scenario,” she said. 

“You can’t do that, Sydney,” Richie said. “It’s a bet! You have to pay again,”

Sydney breathed, what was ten more, right? Fuck. 

“Fuck, sure, okay. Whatever,” she said, giving Richie the bill. “She’ll stay here. She’ll realize the there’s nothing waiting for her back home and she’ll stay here,”

“Where did you get this?” Fak asked. “Quite—oh my God. Sydney, did you fucking cheat?” 

“No, I didn’t fucking cheat!” she defended, it was a lie. “Can’t you see the two of them? Always in their own world? How would Carmy let her go?”

“Jeffrey has a point,” Tina shrugged. “But if she loses, just know that you lost twice, Jeff,”

“I know,” 

-

You, Sydney, and Carm all went to his apartment. It was where the two of them made a menu while you acted as a consultant and a taste tester. Their palates were fucked and they didn’t know what to do or what to cook anymore. So they asked you. But you weren’t there today. You and Marcus were in your apartment, making up stuff for dessert. The Beef has officially closed down and is a rubbled mess. There was no space and Carmy just wanted to be there with you.

“Can I ask you something and you can tell me to fuck off?” Sydney asked while she watched Carmy plate the hamachi crudo. 

“Hm?”

“Do you…have feelings for Y/N?” she asked, looking at Carmy. He blushed, his ears turning red for being caught.

“Is it obvious?”

“To everyone but her,” she shrugged.

“Fuck, really? I thought I was being discreet,”

“Oh, you can stay here! You’re so good and so smart and so pretty,” Sydney gushed, mocking Carmen.

“Fuck off,” he laughs. “I…I do,”

“Yeah?”

“I just…just…she’s uh, so amazing, and like, I’ve been feeling these feelings since…since Copenhagen,” he mumbles, finishing the garnish with an oil. 

“Damn. You never made a move?” she asked, getting forks. She gives one to Carmen and they both taste the crudo. It was amazing. “That’s good,”

“It is. Good job, Syd,” Carmy replied.

“It was her who told me to try adding jalapeno slices,” Syd said. 

“You can’t do that,” Carmy warned her. Why did she want to get you two together so bad? “But I haven’t done anything. I mean, like, she was dating these guys and they’re so cool that-that it was never really my turn,” he remembered.

“But you’re the best chef in the world! That trumps that,” she encouraged. “None of them worked out?”

“No,” Carmy shook his head. “She’d always end things and I don’t want that for myself. She told me none of them worked out…wasn’t what she was, uh, looking for?”

“Oh,” Sydney nodded. “Well, if you’re feeling brave enough…”

“I haven’t been having…fun,” Carmy acknowledges. “With the Beef and the Bear until she got here, you know? Made me feel like I was young in Copenhagen again,”

“Another question. You can say fuck off if you want,” Sydney says and watches as Carmy bites a smile. “The last one. Is that why you asked her to stay? It’s just that I heard you the other day and…”

“Fuck off,” he laughs but Sydney noticed how everything about him conveyed everything that she needed to know. 

-

“This is a quenelle,” you told Marcus. You, Marcus, Carm, and Sydney were at your apartment. It was bigger than Carmy’s and your oven didn’t have jeans in them. “This took me at least a hundred tries,” you chuckled. “You just…away, back, and then hands…” You demonstrated, making a quenelle of a yuzu mousse.

“Damn, Chef. How’d you do that?” Marcus asked, trying it for himself. He failed, his quenelle being a little bit smaller than yours. 

“I had a friend named Luca. He didn’t let me out of the kitchen until I made a perfect one,” you recalled. “Carmy was there and he was laughing at me. He could do it in like three tries and I remember hating him,”

“You hate me?” he asked, leaning on the countertop. He didn’t like to hear about Luca. He only wanted you to talk about the two of you.

“Hey, Bear. Try this?” you asked, spooning him the raspberry curd. Carmy opens his mouth and you walk over, feeding him the pinkish liquid and then watching his face. “It goes with a black sesame shell. Do you like it?”

He notices your close proximity and flushes.

“Y-yeah,” he coughed, looking away. “Really good. Uh, very good,”

“No notes?” you asked and he swore he could kiss you right there because you were so beautiful.

“No notes,”

“Thanks, Chef,” you said. Sydney whistles as you help Marcus master his quenelle. Carmy looks at her and she teases him with a mockery of what he just said.

Carmy and Marcus left after cleaning up. You and Sydney decided to have a girl’s night. You were both sitting on the couch, mud masks on your faces when she turned to you fully.

“You know, he likes you right?”

“Who?” you asked, trying to fit a handful of chips.

“Carmy,” you heard and you choked on the bits of chips in your mouth. 

“Fuck!” you choked. “Sydney!” You were coughing while Sydney handed you a glass of vodka cranberry. You gulp it down. “You—can’t say shit like that!”

“What?” she laughed. “Look, I’m not kidding! Whenever he talks to you, his feet are pointed at you. I’ve read enough fucking books and body language shit to know that he’s interested,”

“I don’t think so,” you said. “That’s bullshit,”

“It’s not though,” she shrugged. “He asked you to stay for a reason,”

“He needs a pastry chef,” you shrugged. “Besides, he and I are friends, Sydney. I’ve been trying to get him jealous all my time in Copenhagen but he never…he never got the signal,”

“Oh,” Sydney nods. Two idiots in love. “Have you ever tried telling him?”

“Of course not! He’s always on about how he doesn’t have the energy to love or date. I tried the jealousy thing before but it never worked. Trust me, there’s nothing.”

-

Carmy arrives at your doorstep the next morning, bright and early. Sydney had already left, telling you something about stopping by at her dad’s apartment to get stuff. You were going to the Bear with him to help Sydney choose plates for the restaurant. 

“Good morning,” he greets. Two cups of take-out coffee in his hands. “I got us some coffee while we walk on the way,”

“Thank you,” You took the cup from his hands and clutched your jacket tighter. It was so, so, so cold. “Didn’t know it was going to be this chilly today,”

“You wanna wear my jacket?”

“You’ll be cold,”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he said, already taking off the jacket to the best of his one-handed ability. He was only wearing a gray sweater underneath. “I have something. See?” He doesn’t take no for an answer, taking your coffee and your bag from you so you could wear the colorful jacket.

“Thanks, Bear,” you said, smiling at him. The sight of you in his clothes does something to him and he couldn’t help except give you a slight nod before forging on in the chilly Chicago weather. 

You both entered the Beef giggling amongst yourselves when the usual buzzing stopped.

“Remember when Luca—“

You halted, finding the silence odd. You looked around to see everyone looking at you.

“What’s wrong? Is something wrong?” Carmy asked, removing his hand from the small of your back. “Syd—“

“Love the sweater,” Richie teases. You look down and feel the warmth on your cheeks. 

“It was cold and he asked me to wear it,” you shrugged, leaving Carmen to deal with the staff out front. You were signalling Sydney for help but she only looked away. Traitor. “Um—“

“Y/N, if you could please help me out here,” Carmy called you. 

“Your boyfriend’s calling,”

“He’s not!” you huffed before walking over. “What is it?”

“I need you to time me, is that okay?” he asked. He nodded towards the stopwatch and you complied. “Thank you. I just need to check or like, map out the kitchen you know?”

“Of course,” you replied. 

“Do you need help getting on—“

“It’s okay it’s just an old thing,” you replied.

“Yo, cousin! If you’re done eye fucking, Sugar needs you.” Richie calls.

“We’re not eye-eye fucking!” you complained. “What the fuck?” You stood up from your corner before you could even work and accidentally looked down. If a man is interested his feet will—

You move to the side and Carmy follows. And then to the side again. 

“Y/N–“

“Stay there,” you asked, walking around him and him turning around. “Carm!”

“What?” he asked, grasping your shoulders. He looks down to his shoes. “Are my shoes dirty?”

“No, it’s just—“ you tried again but Carm still followed. “Sydney told me about like, how when a guy is, uh,”

“Cousin!”

“Fuck, okay. Let’s talk about it later okay? Once everyone’s out?” he asked, looking at you. “Can we do that?” His jacket felt softer on you than it ever did on him.

“Yea-yeah,” you nodded. “I’ll go help Sydney,”

The afternoon passed by and you were alone at The Bear. You waited for Carmen to finish up at the dining area like you promised. Your heart was beating so fast, maybe a thousand miles an hour. What Sydney said has been on your mind and what if it wasn’t true and you get embarrassed? Fuck, could you even handle that?

You sighed, burying your head between your hands when Carmy walks over to you. 

“What’s up?” he asked. “Everything alright?”

“Y-yeah,” you nod. “Can you stay there and just, I don’t know, be Carmy?” you asked, standing up to test the theory again. He just stands there, dumbfounded. You circle around him and he follows. You were looking on the ground. 

“Fuck, what the fuck?” he asked. “Is there something wrong with my shoes? I know they’re old and not—“

“Carmen, shh,”

“What?” he asked, grasping your shoulders for the second time that day to steady you. “What’s wrong?”

“Fuck, I don’t—“

“What’s wrong?”

“Sydney told me that there’s like, this body language thing and like, uh, says that when a guy is interested his shoes are always pointing at you and well, she told me to look at yours,” you rambled, looking away in embarrassment. “Look, if this will be weird between the two of us, I mean—“

“Why would it matter?” he asked, hands inching closer to your neck. He was nervous but maybe this is the opening that he’s been waiting for for years. When you didn’t reply, he asked again. “Why would it matter?”

“Because…because I’ve been trying to make you jealous for years in Copenhagen and it never worked,” you whispered. You were embarrassed. It felt like you were in high school telling your crush that you liked him. “I know you don’t see me that way,” you replied, trying to look for the right words. Carmy lets you finish. He wanted to hear you. “And it’s fine. If this is stupid, let’s forget that this ever happened. Okay? God, I’m so fucking embarrassed right now,” 

“Hey, hey,” he cooes, his thumb tucked the hair back and then caressed your cheek. “Whoever said that I wasn’t jealous? I had to leave all the time because I was so fucking jealous. Those guys were cool. Don’t-don’t be embarrassed, okay? I like hearing that-you, uh, like me,”

“Carmy…don’t lie to me, okay? You don’t have to pretend—hm,” 

Carmy had just kissed you. Carmen Berzatto just kissed you. You were clutching on his shirt so tightly, afraid that if he lets go, he’ll be gone. But he doesn’t. He just trails his hands down to your back, touching skin to skin until you’re one. 

“I’ve been waiting years to do that,” Carmy rasps, breathing heavily. 

“Yeah? Then, do it again,” you whispered, smirking slightly at how he seemed to blush hard. Before you could tease him though, he tucks your hair back again, bringing your lips closer to his.

He did.

A/N: Thank you for giving my recent fics so much love and for being so motivating. Your kind words really make my day and I hope that you love this too. Don’t forget to reblog and comment! Thanks again!

TAGLIST: @kpopgirlbtssvt

[hrts4carmy]

in tommy shelby’s words: “you belong to me, my property. no one touches my property,” please give us your take if this was carmy 🫢🫢🫢

omg friend. i so indulge in peaky blinders. obsessed!

ok tbh i feel like carmy would have trouble being so outright, but if u two already have a sort of developed relationship and he is confident (sexually too) with you then this is very him. thinking abt him having a lil jealous moment. (maybe ur fwb here, hmm)

thinking of you having an ex who shows up at the restaurant one day before open. playful laughter and innocent conversation turns into an uncomfortable situation fast. you don’t want things to escalate so you’re taking a gentle parenting approach and letting him down easy for the hundredth time. Richie sees all of this going down in front of house and can’t help himself but to stir the pot.

“Yo, Cousin. Some guy out here talking to your girl. Might wanna get on that.” He claps him on the shoulder.

Carmen looks up from his station, brows furrowing the slightest bit. “My- what? What’s going on?” He wipes his hands on a rag before his attention is taken entirely. He can’t focus on the dish anymore. What’s Richie talking about?

He peeks his head out the door to find none other than exactly what Richie said. You and some guy. Some skinny guy with shitty tattoos and brown hair. Some guy who is entirely too close to you, he thinks. As your voice starts to raise, said guy steps closer to you. Carmen watches as you take a step back, and he wonders when it’s appropriate to interrupt.

He makes the decision when the guy puts his hands on your waist, pulling you into him. Your hands fall to his chest and try to push him away, and Carmy can hear your voice all the way from the door of the kitchen.

“Jesse, get the fuck off of me.” You push harder, but to no avail. When you hear footsteps, you thank whatever God above. You almost curse yourself when you see who they belong to. Carmen’s face is cold, an expression only a little more intense than what you’ve all been on the receiving end of in the kitchen.

He pulls you back by your shoulder, positioning the two of you so he’s blocking your body. “We got a problem here or something?” The words come out of his mouth like venom, tilting his head as he asks. Your ex looks over Carmen’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of you, but is quickly intercepted by the broad shoulders covering you.

Jesse puts his hands up in surrender and shakes his head at the look on Carmen’s face. “Nah, man. You got that.” He nods. That almost makes him more mad. He balls his fists and presses his finger nails into his palms. A lame attempt to calm himself down. Don’t do anything stupid, you’re not even dating her. But the image floods his mind again, his hands on you where only Carmen’s should be.

“S’what I thought. Get the fuck out of my restaurant.” And he does, he makes quick work of it too. To say you’re thankful is an understatement, because Carmen really got him to go away without a fight. When he turns around, his face is slightly flushed. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. He almost looks more shaken up than you.

“Thanks for that. You good?” You raise an eyebrow at him, and he chuckles. A real chuckle as he throws his head back, and you feel like an outsider. Were you missing something? But when Carmen composes himself, you realize nothing is really funny at all. His hands find your waist, squeezing the same spot that Jesse had moments ago. Tighter, though, almost bruising.

“Meet in my office. 5 minutes.” Is all he says before letting go, walking back in the kitchen like nothing happened. You feel the whole situations given you whiplash, but of course you do what he says. Why wouldn’t you?

The 5 minutes you wait feels like an hour. You pick at the skin of your nails before you make it to his office door, turning the handle and stepping in. Your arm is immediately pulled in, as Carmy slams the door and pushes you up against it. You gasp, but it’s quickly swallowed from his mouth on yours.

Carmy kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever do it. Teeth scraping against eachother as his tongue slips in your mouth. Your hands come to his face as you pull him off to take a breath. You manage to speak between gasps of air. “Fuck is this for?”

He brings you in for another searing kiss before answering, foot knocking your knees apart. He brings his thigh between your legs, pressing it against you. You bite your lip to stifle a moan. “Fuckin’ idiot comes into my place and thinks he can just put his hands on you?” He scoffs, jolting his thigh between your legs again. “You’re mine, no one should touch you but me.” You find yourself deliriously nodding against him. Carmy coos at you, tone full of condescension.

“It’s okay. I’ll show you who you belong to. Remind you why he’s your ex and why I’m the one who fucks you.”

[laiiaaa]

THANK YOU VERY MUCH — CARMEN BERZATTO

summary You pay Carmen a visit after a busy night to give your thanks...with a little extra love.

length 3.1k

contents MINORS DNI, smut, lots of kissing, some heavy petting, oral sex (m!receiving), semi-public sex sorry Richie, soooooo much praise, teasing, a glimpse of subby Carm make brain go brrrrrr, fluffy ending bc he’s a cutie pie, imma be fr...he splooges in your mouth…in his office…after hours…don’t look at me ik it’s FILTHY!!!…apologies to the church it’s not my fault he’s a SLUT

Carmen’s sitting hunched over his desk in a mess of paperwork when Richie barges in.

“Your girl’s here,” he almost sighs, holding the door open as you walk in, all smiles and a Thanks, Richie slipping past your lips before he nods, shooting Carmen a look emphasized with a pointed finger: “No funny business back here, alright? ‘Cause I’ll fuckin’ know.”

When he walks away, you shut the door and lock it. Stupid fuckin’ lock, Carmen thinks, knowing that it’s mostly for show. He can’t remember the last time it actually worked. But he smiles back at you, turning his chair around when you peek over your shoulder after the fact anyway, his skin tingling with anticipation of feeling you in his arms again.

You carefully drop your bag on the floor and leave your jacket on the desk as you walk over to him, standing between his spread legs as he sits up. Your fingers tangle in his hair, voice syrupy sweet when his hands wrap around your thighs just below the hem of your skirt. “Hi, Bear.”

He looks up at you with his chin resting below your navel. An after hours haze comes over him, muscles sore and eyes heavy, and he swears you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Hey, baby,” he drawls, letting you play with his hair a moment longer before bringing one hand to gently lift your top just a few inches, pressing gentle kisses to the exposed skin, trailing right to your waistband to leave heated butterflies frenzied in your stomach. “Missed you a lot today…”

“Yeah?” You tug at his strands to get his attention again and lower yourself to straddle his hips. “Stressful day?”

His palms slide from your waist to your hips, pawing at your ass while he presses kisses to your jaw. “Yeah, just busy…‘n T was in a mood, so…” He trails off, too occupied with soaking in your perfume, your heavy breaths when he drags his teeth against your pulse.

“Carm?” you start, massaging his shoulders and moving to squeeze at his biceps—fuck, his arms, you just wanna…mm. You pry a groan from his throat and it only makes you want him more. “Lemme help you unwind, hm?…” 

One hand urges him to lift his gaze before you take his lips in a kiss, his hands making their way beneath the fabric of your shirt to feel skin to skin. It’s sweet, and it’s sultry, the way you kiss him, like you want him to unravel between your fingertips as you thumb at the knots in his shoulders. He’s not so sure he’d mind, what with the way you’re already turning his brain to mush with just a few cants of your hips against his. 

“Baby,” he breathes, “You don’t—you don’t have to…”

“I want to, though…” You’re nearly whining into his mouth. “You do so much for me, Carmy…”

“I, uh—” he laughs sheepishly, neck and face flushed and breath turning shallow— “I dunno ‘bout that—”

“C’mon, Bear—” you quiet your voice, leaning down close by his ear while a hand cups the opposite side of his face— “You cook for me all the time…” His fingers tease at the hem of your top again, and you peck his jaw. “You never let me lift a finger, and you always hold me…”

He sighs when your nails scratch at the tuft of hair behind his ear, head lolling into the back of the chair, eyes shut as his hands wander up your shirt dangerously close to your breasts. 

“And you make me feel so—” you drag your teeth along the shell of his ear, and put more weight against his hips, and he’s barely keeping himself calm— “so good—”

“Shhhhit—” he squeezes you tight to keep you from grinding against him again— “Richie’s just outside, baby, gotta be careful…”

“I don’t care…” Putting him in a trance, you carefully remove your top and let it fall to the floor, a pleased breath escaping when he grabs at you. “I’ve been missing you all day, y’know?”

“Yeah?” His chest is already heaving in anticipation, and it’s like he’s a virgin, cock half hard and throbbing just at the sight of bare skin he craves to kiss. “Me too, baby…”

You snake a hand down his stomach to palm him through his jeans while smiling like a minx. “And I miss your cock, Carmy—”

“Shhhhit—” he plants his hand on your mouth, and it’s painfully hard to ignore how he just twitched in his jeans— “The fuck’re you doin’?” 

You pout when he hesitantly uncovers your mouth. Feeling up his arms again, biting at your lip, you sigh. “Just showin’ my appreciation…”

He huffs, runs a hand through his hair with his eyes closed. “O-Okay, fuck…” 

How is he supposed to say no when you’re sat all pretty and topless in his lap? That wouldn’t be fair, now, would it? 

“Fuck, okay—” he looks you in the eye, brows furrowed and desperate for you like you always know he is— “We gotta be quiet, though, baby, alright?” A sweet kiss, slow and with his hands holding your face. “Gotta be quiet.”

You giggle into one last smooch. “Fine by me.” You shrug and shuffle out of his lap, sat on your heels in front of spread knees, mouth watering and eyes blown with lust as you brush your hands along his thighs.

He watches you carefully as you undress him: unbuttoning his jeans, opening his fly, looking up at him all sweet when you need him to lift his hips. By the time the denim pools around his ankles his cock is weeping pre and soaking through his briefs. 

“Oh, Carm,” you coo, kissing up and along his inner thighs past a tattoo of your name, leaving him reeling, “Why didn’t you tell me you’re so worked up?” You trail your fingers beneath the hem while lending hot kisses over the fabric, and he groans a little too loud for someone who was just worried about being caught. “I would’ve helped you.”

“F-Fuck you,” he laughs, leaning back into the chair with an arm cast over his forehead to try and calm himself the best he can when you’re breathing on his cock and peeling sticky briefs down his legs.

His dick is throbbing by the time you free it, threatening to stain his white tee, and you’re practically drooling into his lap as you wrap your hand around the base of it. It’s thick, it has your thighs pressing together and tongue going slick, and you can hardly connect your middle finger and thumb.

A breath hisses through his teeth and you hum to yourself. “Mmmm, you’re so big, Carmy.” But you notice he’s not looking at you, and you pause. “C’mon, you gotta watch.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. 

“If you want me to suck it—” wet, slobbery kisses trail from his base up toward his cherry red tip as you pump him slowww, spreading pre down his shaft— “You could at least open your eyes a little, hm?”

And oh, what a sight he is when he obliges: cheeks flushed, brows drawn tight together, golden brown curls made a mess, bottom lip barred behind teeth, preening over the look of your lips glossy with spit. He thinks he could come in record time. 

You smile up at him sweetly. “There he is…” And before he can blink you’re taking him into your mouth, down far enough to touch your lips to your hand, down far enough to have him groaning. 

“Holy shit, baby—” he moans, a sound that makes you dizzy, “Oh, fuck…” His head lolls back again, exposing a bobbing Adam’s apple as he gulps down a breath, a hand of his brushing low and past dark thick curls before squeezing the fabric of his tee and revealing his happy trail. 

You pull your mouth up on his cock and swirl your tongue around his tip to hear him whimper—whimper, all drawn out and whiny like he can’t get enough—before you let go completely, holding him by the base and watching a trail of spit and pre connect his slit to your tongue. 

“Jesus fuck—…” He bites into his fist, a pained look on his face but with lust-blown eyes. What’d he do to deserve you? “So fuckin’ sexy, baby…”

You smile and kiss his tip. “ ‘Cause I love having you in my mouth…”

A heady breath accompanies another rush of blood beneath your hands. “Yeah?”

“Mmmmm ‘f course, Carmy…” You drag your lips back down to his base and flatten your tongue to lick a stripe to the top, prodding his tip past your plush lips before smooching it again. “You have the prettiest cock…” You gather a glob of spit and Carmen can’t peel his eyes off of it as it drips…down from your glossy lips…down onto the beating head…before the words “Thank you for letting me suck it…” fall breathlessly off your tongue.

That makes his hips buck up and a moan slip past stifled by a hand over his mouth. “Fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me come—”

You squeeze the soaked base of him, taunting with a feigned frown. “But I just got started…”

“Y-Yeah,” he heaves, “That’s the problem…”

You pump his cock slow with a tight fist how he likes it, grinning as your free hand snakes up his thigh; his breath hitches, and he starts to think he’s dreaming when you grab for the hand by his navel and bring it atop your head. He smooths it over your hair a few times as he releases choppy breaths, makes a face to ask Are you sure? He doesn’t expect you to hum against his tip, sending a vibration down his cock to make him choke on nothing before you murmur, “Do whatever you want…” kissing and licking along his shaft as your hand twists around his tip, “Wanna make you feel good…”

“You are, baby…” He tugs gently on your hair and guides your mouth back to where he needs you. “Like a—” you wrap your lips around him again, and even with his hands in your hair his head rears back— “Fuck, yeah, just like that—like a fuckin’ angel—”

It’s filthy, and it’s messy and wet and dirty, the way you let him fuck into your mouth, his feet planted on the ground and pushing the back of the chair against the desk, your hands pressing into the sinew of his thighs to keep steady. “God, you’re so fuckin’ good—so fuckin’ good for me, baby—”

And you’re practically dripping in your panties, doing as best you can to relieve some of that pulse between your thighs by grinding your cunt into your heels, too caught up in Carmen’s moans to think too much about the fact you’re in his office choking on his dick because it feels so good, and he looks beautifully euphoric, eyes squeezing shut every few seconds, neck flushed crimson above a gasping chest. 

You hollow your cheeks around him and he thrusts only halfway, the added suction too much to take all the way down to your throat. “Shhhit, suckin’ me so nice—so fuckin’ gorgeous—makin’ me wanna—” but you push away from his dick, drool-smeared lips curling into a smile. He wets his lips as his chest rises and falls at the loss of release. He thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen like this, all messy and covered in spit and pre with tears marring the makeup around your eyes. “Fuck me,” he groans, exasperated as he leans back into the chair and brings his hands up to his forehead. 

You sit up a bit and put more weight into your knees. You keep one hand languidly stroking his cock while the other grips his tee and pulls him forward, crashing into your lips so he can taste himself. His hands quickly take up your jaw, holding you firm against his lips to let him dip his tongue into your mouth and deepen the kiss. Your neck is craned, and his back is hunched over, but with the way you keep your hand away from his throbbing tip has him groaning for more. 

“You gotta be quiet, Carm,” you murmur before he just kisses you again anyway. 

“Can’t—” you squeeze his dick when you near his head at that— “hah, fuck—can’t be quiet when your mouth ‘s on me like that—”

You push against his sternum to send him leaning back into the chair, and his head starts spinning with want. “Figure it out then—” another kiss to his weeping cock, just as sexy as the last ten times as you thumb at his slit— “or I’m not gonna fuck you when we get home.”

“Shit,” he hisses to himself, lifting his hips to move them closer to your mouth. He likes this side of you, knowing what you want and a little demanding, a smirk poking at the corners of your mouth when you command things of him you’ll make sure he can’t fulfill. Maybe he should fuck you in the office more often. 

He doesn’t get to ponder it too long, though, because you’ve already taken him into your mouth again, both hands now gripping at the base while your tongue laps at his slit like you’re begging for him to spill into your mouth. His knuckles turn white as he grips the arm rests of the chair, and he bites down hard into his bottom lip to stifle a moan loud enough to be heard all the way at the front door. 

“I needa come, baby—” you leave your hands on his thighs as you take him all the way in, his tip prodding at the back of your throat— “Fuck—!” He thrusts up into your mouth and realizes too late how fucking loud he is—how loud all of it is, what with you gagging and moaning as you try to get some sense of release while milking his dick for all he’s worth, the sighs of pleasure that slip off his tongue no matter how hard he tries, the wet sounds from your mouth every time he bucks his hips out of the chair. 

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” he groans, a hand coming to the top of your head again to slow you so as not to let him finish too quick. “Baby—ah, fuckmmmmfuck baby, please—” He feels it churning in his gut all the way to his cock: that band stretching and stretching and threatening to snap, growing tighter and tighter every time your lips smooth over his head and your tongue laps at the frenulum. “Baby lemme—shit, lemme come down your throat please, baby—”

As soon as he begs it of you you’re moaning an affirmation, locking eyes with him for a split second before they shut again with ecstasy. He snaps with a stuttered thrust into your mouth, palms pressed hard into the arm rests as he chokes out your name as hushed as he can manage. “Fuck, pretty—” his release, bitter and salty, shoots into your mouth with a groan so guttural you feel it in your cunt.

The shift of his hips slows from a thrust to a meager cant, overstimulation crawling up his spine as you continue milking him. “Shit,” he huffs, arms going limp and jaw going slack. “Slow down, baby…needa—needa calm down…f-fffuck…” He watches as you slowly drag your lips up to the tip of his cock to clean him of his cum, another groan easing by at the sight. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, baby—” You’re giggling and pressing soft kisses to his thighs, and all he can do is tilt his head back and shut his eyes to try and recover. 

You wait less than a minute before you’re hounding on him again, thrumming with success and the thought of him fucking you when he brings you home. “How was it?” You ask the question sheepishly, smiling up at him and wiping spit from your lips like you don’t know how much you’ve just wrecked him.

He wills himself to sit back up again. “How was it?” He smiles back, heart warm. “Baby—” he cups your face all sweet how he is after sex, muscles pliant and brain dizzy with aftershocks of pleasure— “You’re fuckin’ incredible, y’know that right?”

You shrug despite your daze. “Obviously. You came in my mouth like a virgin.”

“Shut up,” he sighs, lips perking up into a reluctant smile. His thumbs brush along your cheekbones with adoration. “Your fault for bein’ so sexy.”

A precious kiss to your forehead, one that has your eyes slipping closed before his nose nudges past yours and he seizes your mouth in a searing kiss, one that’s built on passion and lust and appreciation and awe. Your palms sit beneath his elbows and he smiles into it, flushing when he tastes himself on your tongue but kissing you that much deeper when he does. 

There’s one last sweet peck before he says, “You’re perfect. Thank you.” Another between your brows and to each cheek before he grabs your shirt, crumpled beside the chair, and hands it to you. He lets you dress yourself while he fits his half-hard dick back into his briefs and stands to pull his jeans over his hips, wiping tacky hands down on the denim. It’ll do. 

He helps you get back up and ease your sore knees back into working condition before the door knob rattles. Both of you freeze. 

“Cousin!” A hand bangs hard on the door.

You and Carmen lock eyes. “Shit,” he hisses, looking down and fumbling with his fly. You panic only half-heartedly, the other half laughing at Carmen’s struggle. 

“Cousin!” Richie calls again, shaking the door, “You fuckers better not’ve been doin’ what—” 

Just like Carmen should’ve seen coming, the lock stops working and the door swings open as he’s buttoning his pants. 

Richie catches him and his expression drops. “Oh, you son ‘f a—” he seems to catch your smudged mascara and lip gloss— “Oh, God—” He grimaces and steps away from the doorway with his hands on his head. “In the fuckin’ office, Cousin? Are you kiddin’ me?”

Carmen figures you don’t care enough to bother with the complaints, because you’re shooting him a smile and tugging on his arm to lead him right past Richie. And he’s more than happy to follow behind, a stupidly lovedrunk smile on his face. What he’s got in mind for you when you get home—perhaps a polite thank you of his own—will be worth the headache tomorrow morning.