#giverichiehairinseasonthree

[underratedmurder]

Richie Jerimovich x Reader ~ Tastes Like Stew

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Reader burns their hands and Richie offers to help :)

Stuff in this: Soft Richie, reader and Richie argue… a lot, reader is a little bit rude, Richie has a soft spot for reader but hasn’t come to terms with it yet, his love language is caring for others, he’s mean when he cares

Richie is my favorite character on The Bear rn, and I couldn't resist writing a short little something about him.

Just read this in his voice and it's great trust !!!

cw: mentions of death, getting first degree burns (ouch), very subtle sexual themes, that's it

And if anyone is interested in reading more about this dynamic or has a request I am totally open to that!

Note: yeah I know the title is so creative and beautiful and romantic thank you for noticing

Also sorry I called your eyes ‘freakishly blue’ Carmen, it’s just how I honestly feel

Okay just imagine the washcloth is tucked into his apron

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Hot steam coated your forehead, as droplets of sweat dribbled down your nose. The heat and moisture from the giant pot of stew below you was starting to cook you more than the fire, and rolling up your sleeves didn’t seem to be enough to alleviate the sweltering conditions. 

The Beef was bustling, more than it had been in weeks since Carmy took over. Customers filed in like sardines in a can, and the kitchen could hardly pump out sandwiches and fries fast enough. 

You had been spending overtime at the restaurant since Mikey’s passing, and for Christ's sake, even your analogies were becoming food related. 

The stained walls of that sweat box called a kitchen were starting to seep into your dreams. All you could see was the steam and the heat of the stove top, and the unforgettably annoying image of Richie's face. The bustle of the kitchen during lunch rocked your body like an earthquake, and yet you remained standing, somehow accustomed to the unsteadiness of it all. 

Carmy seemed to have plans to fix the place up, though you weren’t exactly sure things would workout. But you hoped, you really, really hoped. 

You at least wanted a proper AC. A thick stream of sweat nearly rolled off your nose and into the stew, before you caught it with your sleeve.

Alright, that’s it.

You sighed and snatched the nearest washcloth you could find, which happened to be the one attached to Richie’s hip. 

You almost didn’t care to mind what you were doing, until you saw him whip around in shock.

You quickly wiped the sweat from your face and on your neck, then threw the cloth over your shoulder.

Richie, still exasperated, stared you down like you were crazy.

“Alright, give it back,” he stood there, hands on his hips as his eyes widened, like they did right before he was gonna start an argument.

“It’s literally hot as balls in here and I’m sweating my ass off, let me use the damn thing,” you turned away, not wanting to prolong the encounter, for you had a stew that needed attending to.

“Get your own damn washcloth okay, you sweaty freak, huh? You ever heard of deodorant?” He said it like he was a genius, carefully annunciating the “t”. What a dick.

“Uh yeah, I have Richie. It’s just that the sweat is pooling on my face and about to fall directly into the food. So, if you please, let me borrow the fucking washcloth, and just get another one” You clenched your fists by the sides of your face, pulling them down to exemplify not only the sweat, but also your growing anger. 

“That’s my favorite one,” he said. You knew it was a petty lie.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s my favorite one, you can't just-,”

“Oh for fucks sake-

“It’s softer! And more durab-""Just get another washcloth Richie!”

Your voices were overlapping now, his neverending excuses piling on top of your unheard reasoning. His arms were waving all around like the fins of a windmill, almost hitting Tina twice. You swore the man didn’t know his own size. Standing above you, you tilted your head up to scowl at his face, washcloth still over your shoulder and unintelligible yelling spewing out of both of your mouths. It was chaos, verbal chaos that matched the actions around you, the scrambled nature of your mind. In the midst of all that chaos, you forgot all about the stew.

It was boiling over, hot and molten like lava it oozed onto the stove, getting everywhere.

“Shit shit shit. Fuck!” You scrambled over, and reached to move the giant pot from the heat.

“Here, let me help with that,” Richie offered loudly.

“No! I got it-” your hands touched the handles, and boom. Instant regret.

The pot was so hot you were burned instantly.

“Fuck!” You quivered and shook your hands outwards as fast as you could, before cradling them by your chest. 

“Shit, are you okay? Let me see, let me see-” Richie quickly grabbed an oven mitt and moved the pot himself before reaching to grab your hands.

You shot back, “No Richie! I fucking got it, just fucking, back off!” The searing pain of the burns had relinquished any kind of filter you had, all your words were pure anguish. 

“Come on, just let me see-” he took a step closer.

“No!”

“Whoa guys, what’s goin on?” Carmy was there in a second, hands on his hips and an equally chaotic look in his eyes that you could feel in your soul. 

“Nothing, chef, I’m fine,”

“Uh, no, they are not fine. They just burned their hands on a hundred degree pot!” Richie stuck his bottom lip in his mouth, face contorted like a hysterical bird. 

“And I have it handled, Richie!” You scowled at him again, part of you didn’t want to be helped, but really, you just didn’t want to place any extra stress on Carm. The guy looked like he was falling apart as is. 

“I severely fuckin’ doubt that!” he inched closer, waving his arms again.

“Oh you severely fucking doubt it? Richie?” you met him just inches away, chest facing his with your hands still cradled close.

You started yelling over each other again, this time stew wasn’t the only thing that was breaking it up.

“Alright! Alright! Guys, please! Chef,” He looked at you,

“Go clean yourself up, there's a first aid kit in my office,” You nodded and headed out of the kitchen immediately, without seeing Richie actually reach out for you before you were gone.

“Cousin,” Carmy announced loudly. Even a foot in front of him, Richie couldn’t seem to listen.

His face was twisted with frustration.

“Go clean up that stew, and get another fucking washcloth, alright?”

Richie opened his mouth to speak, his head rolling back in that way it did when he was about to completely disagree with someone.

“Alright?” Carmy’s freakishly blue eyes were as wide and as commanding as ever.

Richie glanced over again at the door to Carmy’s office, you were out of sight. He sighed, and nodded.

“Yes, chef,” 

Hunched over on Carmy’s swivel chair, you tended to your wounds. Or at least, you tried. Rubbing neosporin all over the swollen flaming mess on your hands didn’t seem to do anything to ease the pain. Looking at all the tools in the first aid kit, you couldn’t help but notice you had no clue what you were doing.

Your fingers twitched when you tried to soothe them, bandages stuck to your palms like tape, and worst of all, you hadn’t even stopped sweating. 

You winced and quietly cursed yourself after accidentally pinching a sensitive spot, unrolling the bandage from your palm swiftly and without much care.

Your leg began to bounce up and down with anxiety and pain, gritting your teeth, all you could do was scold yourself.

Idiot, idiot, you fucking idiot. How the fuck could you let this happen, you’re such a fucking id-

Before you could finish the provocative thought, Richie was strolling his way through the door, a large bowl and water bottle at hand. 

You looked up, a redness in your eyes that hinted at tears but would never dare to actually let anything out, the salt would sting like a bitch on the burnt skin. 

Your expression quickly twisted into anger and annoyment.

“Don’t look at me like that, I’m here to help,” he announced and walked closer.

“I don’t remember asking,” you mumbled, watching as he grabbed a stool from the corner.

“Yeah, cause you never fuckin’ ask me for anything. Could’ve asked for my washcloth, maybe then you would’ve gotten it,” He placed the stool down by your knees, then looked down at you.

“I did get it. And fuck you, I could name a million things that you haven’t asked for but should have,” there was a spiteful but honest gleam in your eyes.

“Yeah like what? A diploma in this cooking shit? A valid liquor license? Or- or- or what? An extra fuckin set of fancy kitchen knives?” He placed the bowel on the stool.

“Yes…?”

“Nah, fuck that fuckin bullshit, I have this place handled. And yeah, you did get it, but maybe you wouldn’t have burnt your hands if you simply said please and thank you,” he sounded so righteous, but also so full of it. He looked too serious to actually mean it.

“Oh do not fucking lecture me on manners, Richie,” you rolled your eyes, he could’nt be talking.

“Oh I think I fucking will, you got a lot a’ nerve just snatching shit from me. I’m not cool with that,” He seemed genuine, you paused.

“What’s the bowel for, anyway?” you shifted forward, and suddenly the view of his waist felt a lot closer.

“I noticed you didn’t wash your hands, that’s like the first fuckin step in treating a first degree burn,” his arms were crossed, and he actually looked disappointed in you, but more so, just worried.

“Ah… I see,” 

Idiot.

“Yeah you fuckin see, whats the point of this neosporin bullshit if your hands aren’t even fuckin clean,” he guestured at the first aid kit.

“Alright, lets see those hands,” he held his own out in front of him.

���Just let me do this myself Richie-”

“No,” he commanded, hand still held out in front of him.

“Don’t you have a boiled over stew to clean up? You already told me what to do so just let me do it-”

“No,” he emphasized.

“The stew is fine where it is. Let me do this, I know what I’m doing,”

He made direct eye contact with you, his gaze honest and almost pleading. He wasn’t being annoying this time, just earnest. He wanted to do this.

You very slowly, very sheepishly held out your hands to his own.

His fingers were warm on your knuckles, but light, and more gentle than you had ever seen him care to be, at least towards you.

The last time he was decently nice to you was when you first met. When he reached to shake your hand and smiled, his cheeks were somewhat red. From the heat of the kitchen… obviously.

“Let's get this mess off,”

“Hey, I… tried,” you stammered, angry but also a bit embarrassed. 

“You did a piss poor fuckin job is what you did,” he spat, fingers still entirely tender despite his tone.

“Watch it,”

“Just sayin’,” he tilted his head to the side and flattened his mouth.

He carefully unwound the gauze from its loose hold around your palms, slowly revealing the sticky, red, inflamed mess at his fingertips.

You winced when the final bandage was torn away, and he frowned.

“Look what you’ve done,” he sounded like he was just about to tisk at you, how dare he.

“Me? Look what you’ve done. This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t scream in my face. I wouldn’t have forgotten about the damn pot,”

“Yeah but, you grabbed it,” he watched your hands as he grazed his thumb over yours, there was a slight tickle.

“No fucking shit, I grabbed it Richie,” you were just about to pull away at this point.

“Just shut up okay,” he muttered.

“Excuse me-” you exclaimed

“Shush,” he remarked even softer.

Suddenly his grip was around your wrists, and you had little room to protest.

He reached for the water bottle, and simultaneously guided your hands over the bowel.

With haste, he untwisted the bottle cap with his teeth and spat it to the floor.

“This might sting a little,” he said softly, all of you wanted to recoil, and push him away.

Your eyes widened with fear, “Let’s just do this at the sink-”

“Relax, I’m just gonna rinse them for now, Jesus. Plus, you really want Carmy’s voice ringing in your fuckin ear? He’s freakin’ out about that stew you know?” He grinned, you were less unnerved.

“Of course he is,” you smiled.

He poured the water over your palms, cool liquid buzzing on the heat of the burns, at first unpleasant, but then relieving.

You breathed in through your nose, mouth twitching into a frown.

“Sorry,” he whispered, his thumb rubbing your wrist lightly to calm you. 

You simply shook your head to reassure him.

It was so strange hearing his voice in this way, low and quiet, but still just as gritty as usual. It was strangely soothing. Way more pleasant than his loud nagging. 

He set the bottle down and dug his fingers through the first aid kit, retrieving a small sachet. He fiddled with the package, clearly very focussed on opening it.

“Is that-,”

“Petroleum jelly. It’s like the ultimate neosporin,” he noted, eyes still trained on the square plastic.

Peeling the package open, he knelt down and reached to hold your right hand, and began to squeeze some of the cool jelly onto your palm.

“How come you know so much about treating first degree burns?” 

“I know how to do things, you know? I’m not useless like you love to assume,” he uttered, and it hurt to hear him say it. 

The jelly was like instant gratification to the highest degree, you wondered why people used neosporin at all.

“I don’t think you’re useless,” you paused, “I think you don’t know what the fuck your doing a lot of the time,”

“Well, some of us have a lot more on our hands than just working at a restaurant,” 

You knew it was true. You worked at The Beef full time, and didn’t exactly have much going on at home. Your life was relatively quiet, no roommate, no partner, no pets, just a job and a few hobbies. Your life wasn’t boring per say, no not boring at all. Richie made sure of that. 

Compared to Richie though, you had it undoubtedly easy. Between Mikey’s passing, his divorce with Tiffany, and working to keep The Beef afloat, he was being stretched thin, with seemingly no clear direction to head in. You wished you could help. 

All you could do in that moment though, was sit there and listen, and just be there. Granted, you didn’t have much of a choice of leaving right then, but you could still just stay. You weren’t sure if anyone else had.

“I uh, used to treat Carmy’s burns when he was a kid, he was a fuck up in the kitchen before he got any good,” he smiled while smoothing the petroleum over your other hand.

“Oh really?” you snickered, that was fun to imagine.

“Oh yeah, he'd spill shit everywhere, and touch the stove when he forgot he even put it on. Mikey was pretty ruthless about it,” his smile slowly faded, his fingers tracing yours slower and slower, until they stopped.

You were both still, air quiet but not empty. It was filled with your heart, the rapid beating ringing in your ears. When Richie's eyes met yours, you were sure there was no other sound on earth. Just your heart and the pulse that you swore was his. His eyes were sunken and sad, but as you held his stare, they morphed into something like an aching hunger.

“What are you freaks doing in there?” Carmy’s voice rang from the other side of the door,

Your head snapped in its direction, loud ringing eliminated, but the breathless feeling still lingered.

“Fucking on your desk shit face!” Richie joked, a comment so out of left field you were about to become deaf from just how quickly the ringing returned. Suddenly your face was filled with heat, and it wasn’t from the kitchen anymore.

Asshole.

“Come on, you should be good now,”

“Mhm,” you nodded, face blank but barely stunned.

He quickly wrapped new gauze around your sensitive palms, his thumb lingering on your wrist longer than it probably should have.

Richie smiled at you, and suddenly placed his hand where your neck met your shoulder.

“No more touchin boiling hot pots, okay?,” he winked and lightly squeezed at the sensitive area. The touch caught you so off guard, you swore you were about to melt.

He quickly stood up, swung the office door open, and angrily announced, “And don't steal my god damn washcloth,”

He’s very concentrated and it’s very endearing