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romerona · 1 month ago

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The Cook and The Teacher!

Let's pretend The Bear and Abbot Elementary are in the same city.

Another cute interaction between Carmen (Carmy) Berzatto x Abbot Teacher Femreader! Sunshinereader!

Warnings: None

You glanced at the clock again, sighing like it had personally offended you. Your fingers tugged at the edge of your sleeve, mostly for dramatic flair at this point. The hands hadn’t moved much since the last time you looked—which was approximately forty-seven seconds ago, but who’s counting?

Not that you were nervous. No, no. Nervous is for people who don’t have an emergency backup plan involving a pigeon wearing a tiny tie and a PowerPoint presentation about apples.

You were just… mildly concerned.

Okay, maybe “low-key spiraling” was a more accurate term.

He said he’d come. Offered, even. You hadn’t begged, bribed, or emotionally blackmailed him (which you were fully capable of, for the record). He’d volunteered. That was important. Crucial, even.

It had all started with your now-iconic meltdown earlier in the week—Career Day Eve, if you will—when the zookeeper cancelled via email and emoji. An elephant emoji, to be exact and you, of course, had reacted in a calm, measured way.

By ranting to your handsome neighbour while pacing your living room in mismatched socks and clutching a mug of tea that had gone cold hours ago.

“I told them they were gonna see someone who works with LIONS, Carmy. Actual, roar-in-your-face, majestic-ass lions.�� You groaned, flopping onto the couch like your spirit had physically left your body. “Ugh, I knew it. You can never trust someone with an exotic job and a man bun. That’s, like, a statistically proven red flag.”

From his seat at the far end of the couch, Carmy raised an eyebrow, expression maddeningly calm as he absently played with one of your throw pillows—the one you embroidered with little sunflowers during your short-lived cottage-core phase. He didn’t say anything. He just let you spiral.

You shot up, posture suddenly straight, eyes wild with new inspiration. “It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’ll just… bring in Gus. Yeah. Kids love Gus. Boom. Problem solved.”

Carmy blinked. “You’re not seriously—”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” you interrupted one hand over your heart. “I’ll dress him up. Tiny tie, maybe a little badge. ‘Hello, my name is Gus. I’m a bird with a superiority complex and a cracker addiction.’ They’ll eat it up.”

That was when he said it, without looking up, like he was offering to pass the salt instead of volunteering for chaos. “I could come.”

You paused mid-rant, mouth half-open. “Come where? The pity party? Too late, I already RSVP’d with tears and dramatic flopping.”

“Career Day,” he said, glancing over at you finally. “I could do it. Talk to the kids. If you want.”

You blinked. Then blinked again, slower this time, like your brain needed an extra second to process the words.

“Carmy. Be serious. You run a whole kitchen. You work, like, twenty hours a day and sleep in four-minute intervals. I’m not about to let you donate one of your free mornings to a classroom of sugar-high fourth graders who will, at some point, absolutely ask if you ever had a rat under your hat."

He shrugged, unfazed. “I don’t mind.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut in before you could unleash another dramatic protest.

“If it helps you,” he said, his tone easy but sincere, “I can handle being asked about Ratatouille.”

You gawked at him. “You're serious?”

He nodded, resting his arm along the back of the couch like this was a totally normal Tuesday. “Sure.”

“Carmy,” you said slowly, voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and exasperated fondness. “You do understand this is unpaid, right? Like, full-on volunteer mode. Zero dollars. No tips. Just you, a room of small humans, and probably a glitter explosion.”

He looked at you, completely unbothered. “Still don’t mind.”

You knew Carmy well enough by now to understand there were layers—deep, complicated, messy layers—hiding beneath that simple, “I could come.” Because yeah, sure, Carmy loved to cook, but he didn’t glamorize it. Not even a little. The passion was real, but so was the damage. Even though he hadn’t laid it all out for you—hadn’t sat you down and unpacked every scar—you could see it. You felt it.

You’d seen it.

In the way, his shoulders tensed at the mention of certain names, in the haunted, faraway look he got when he talked about past kitchens, the way his eyes darkened when work crept too far into the personal, the way silence filled in for stories he couldn’t bring himself to tell. The job had nearly eaten him alive more than once. You could tell. It had taken from him—family, sleep, health, peace. Years of his life he was still fighting to claw back, one broken, beautiful piece at a time.

So the idea of standing in front of a room full of wide-eyed, hopeful fourth graders and telling them, “Follow your passion!” like that passion hadn’t nearly swallowed him whole?

Yeah. That wasn’t a small ask.

And yet—he’d offered. Unprompted. Just a soft, casual, “I could come.”

For you.

And god, wasn’t that the part that ruined you a little?

Still, you'd waited a full twenty-four hours before giving him the green light. For his sake. For yours. For that part of you—the newer, softer, protective part—that had started to believe in shielding him from things, even when he didn’t ask to be shielded.

Because Carmy Berzatto may have survived a thousand kitchens, but that didn’t mean he needed to walk into this one unless he truly, truly wanted to.

And the crazy thing was? He did.

Now here you were, pacing between tiny desks like a caffeinated motivational speaker who didn’t have a Plan B involving a pigeon. You were totally calm. Totally fine. Totally not spiralling internally while your brain whispered charming thoughts like, 'he’s not coming', and 'Congrats, you’re about to host a cooking segment with no chef, no plan, and possibly a breakdown'.

“Miss!” one of your students called out, yanking you out of your mental spiral like a life preserver made of glitter glue. “When’s the chef getting here?”

You spun on your heel, smile locked in place like the unbothered queen you absolutely were not.

“Soon!” you beamed, while glancing at the cameras. “He’s probably just fighting with a soufflé or locked in a passionate debate with a garlic clove. You know—chef stuff.”

They laughed. You did too, though yours was the manic sort that said everything’s on fire, but at least we’re warm.

You had told them a real chef was coming. A famous one, even. But you’d kept that part tucked away. Just in case. You didn’t want them disappointed if he didn’t show.

You didn’t want to be disappointed if he didn’t show.

Because while you were currently dazzling these kids with your best “unbothered teacher queen” routine, inside? Yeah, your soul had filed an early resignation.

You glanced at the clock again.

Cool cool cool.

It was fine. Everything was fine. You were totally not about to fake a PowerPoint on “Why apples are the real MVP of fruits” while sobbing internally.

You gave your class a cheerful clap of your hands, channeling the kind of positivity that could sell overpriced candles on Etsy. “Alright! While we wait, why don’t we write down what questions we might want to ask our guest, hmm? Think big. Think bold. Think ‘What’s your favorite sauce?’ but, like, deeper.”

"Writting?" A collective groan rose from the class, dramatic and loud, as if you’d just asked them to handwrite the Constitution.

You raised your eyebrows, completely unfazed. “Yes, writing. The horror. Grab your pencils, Hemingways.”

And just as a few reluctant pens started to scratch against paper, the door swung open—abrupt, theatrical.

You were just about to exhale a tiny breath of relief when the classroom door swung open—and not in the chef arrives like a movie moment with the wind blowing his coat kind of way.

Nope.

It was Ava.

Your best friend. Your favorite menace. And the one person on Earth with zero chill.

Ava stepped in like she owned the place—which, to be fair, she kind of did, at least spiritually with phone in hand, eyes scanning the room like she was about to announce lottery numbers.

You blinked at her. “Principal Coleman?”

She ignored you completely and addressed your students with dramatic flair. “Excuse me, tiny scholars. I have a very important update.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Ava.”

She turned to you, positively glowing with mischief. “Your hansome chef is here.”

You blinked. “My—what?”

“Girl,” she said, one eyebrow raised. “The one you told me about. With the tattoed arms and the trauma. He’s here. And I gotta say, you undersold it.”

The class erupted into giggles. You blinked harder.

You blinked, stunned, brain buffering like a broken Wi-Fi signal. “Ava, this is a classroom. A learning environment.”

“I learned something,” she said with a wink. “I learned you have a taste for emotionally complex kitchen men with cheekbones so sharp they could dice an onion.”

“Can you just send him in, please?” you asked, voice sweet but strained, like you were one Ava comment away from evaporating into glitter.

Ava raised her brows like okay, ma’am, then dramatically pivoted on one heel, mumbling something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Don’t say I never brought you anything good.”

The door closed behind her with a dramatic little click, and you turned back to your students, who were all openly staring at you like you were the lead in a very juicy reality show.

“Miss,” one of them stage-whispered, eyes wide with scandal, “are you dating the chef?”

You blinked. “Excuse me—what? No. Absolutely not. We are just… two humans who happen to know each other and occasionally share oxygen in the same room.”

And with a dramatic little head shake and the world's weakest scoff, you muttered, “Kids and their imaginations.”

A second student raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “But Miss… your face is doing the same thing it did when that one dad brought you cupcakes for Valentine’s Day.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Blinked. Then pointed at the worksheet pile like it held the answers to life itself.

“Okay—first of all, pencils up, Cupid Patrol. Second, that wasn’t a dad, it was the very kind district representative who happened to believe in seasonal baked goods and workplace appreciation.”

The kids oooh’d like you’d just admitted to a full-blown scandal.

“And for the record,” you muttered, loud enough for the mic to catch, "Nothing happened. It was one cupcake. Vanilla. Calm down.”

The camera lingered.

You blinked. “Cut somewhere else.”

You were still glaring at the camera crew when the door creaked open again—this time quieter, less dramatic, almost hesitant.

You turned, mid-eye-roll, fully expecting Ava to have come back for one final round of public humiliation.

But it wasn’t Ava.

It was him.

Carmy stepped into the room, somehow looking both like a Michelin-starred chef and a man who was deeply unsure if he’d accidentally walked into a daycare. His white tee was freshly pressed, chef’s coat folded neatly over his arm, hair was slightly messy like he’d fought with it in the car, lost, and decided to just let fate take the wheel, carrying a large bag.

He stood there for a second, blinking at the sea of tiny faces—and you.

“Uh… hi,” Carmy said, voice low and hesitant.

Your brain, which had been barely clinging to function, promptly short-circuited.

“Hi,” you echoed, way too breathy for someone in charge of young minds, smiling like a fourth grader yourself.

“Miss! Is that him?” one student asked, already halfway out of their chair like they were witnessing a celebrity walk-in.

You blinked back into Teacher Modetm with the grace of someone internally screaming. “Yes. Yes, that’s him. Everyone—uh—remain seated.”

You gestured toward Carmy. “This is Chef Carmy, our very special guest for Career Day!”

The kids leaned forward like a chorus of curious meerkats, eyes wide, pencils ready.

“Can we all say, ‘Hi, Chef Carmy’?” you asked.

“Hiiii, Chef Carmyyyyy!” the room chorused in chaos, overlapping voices.

Carmy raised a hand in a small wave, his lips pulling into a sheepish smile. “Hey. Uh… thanks for having me.”

Then—of course—he glanced over at the camera crew like he just now realized they existed, eyes slightly wide before blinking quickly back to you. He stepped closer, leaning in just a bit, voice soft—just for you.

“Sorry I’m late,” he murmured. “Traffic was… hell.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “You’re fine. You made it. That’s what matters.”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, still looking at you like you’d somehow made this less terrifying just by standing there.

And then, because this day was determined to destroy you emotionally, one of your students blurted out, “Miss, your face is doing the thing again!”

You didn’t even flinch as you turned to the children. “Okay! We are officially in session. Chef Carmy is here, so I hope you have your questions ready—and no, none of them can be about Ratatouille, or I will confiscate your recess.”

A hand shot up immediately. “Is it true chefs yell a lot?”

Carmy blinked, caught between answering and short-circuiting.

You sighed dramatically, shooting him a look. “And here we go.”

To his credit, Carmy recovered quickly. “Uh… yeah,” he said honestly, scratching the back of his neck. “Sometimes. But mostly just when things are on fire or… slicing off a thumb.”

A collective gasp filled the room.

“Wait, did you really cut your thumb off?” one kid asked, absolutely horrified and delighted.

Carmy hesitated. “No, but… close enough.”

“Cool,” the kid breathed.

You gave Carmy a look like sir, but he just gave you a little shrug back that said I’m trying here.

Still, you beamed. Progress. He was finding his rhythm.

And then, the spaghetti.

You’d cleared a small table for him earlier, just in case he brought something. But you had not expected him to go full cooking show.

With sleeves rolled, Carmy walked the kids through how to make fresh spaghetti from scratch.

“Alright, so—flour,” he said, pouring it out onto the surface. “Then you make a little well, like this.”

“Ooooh,” the kids chorused, some of them leaning forward like they were witnessing magic.

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, trying very hard to look composed and not like you were watching a rom-com scene play out in real time. Because Carmy? Flour dust on his hands, explaining things so gently, so patiently, even when the questions made zero sense? It was unfairly attractive.

“So the eggs go in the middle, and you start mixing with a fork—”

“What if you used a spoon?”

“Would it still work if it was peanut butter instead of eggs?”

“Could you make the dough into, like… animal shapes?”

“Do you have beef with Gordon Ramsay?”

Carmy was trying his best. “Okay, uh—no spoons, no peanut butter, yes to animal shapes, and… no comment on Gordon Ramsay.”

He cracked eggs into flour, mixed dough by hand, and passed around little pinches so the kids could feel it for themselves. He used terms like “emulsify” and “al dente,” then immediately explained them in fourth-grade-speak. He asked for volunteers to help him roll the dough out with a tiny pin you’d borrowed from the kithcen. He let one kid sprinkle flour on the surface with a flair that could only be described as “chef-in-training chaos.” Another student tried to twirl the noodles like he was doing a magic trick.

He was awkward, yes—but also patient, funny in that deadpan way that made the kids hang onto every word.

Somewhere around the rolling-out portion of the lesson, the door creaked open again—and in walked the kitchen staff from the cafeteria. Hairnets. Aprons. Pens and little spiral notebooks in hand.

“We heard there was a Michelin star in the building,” Shanae announced from the doorway, arms crossed over her cafeteria apron, clearly enjoying the scene unfolding. “We just wanted to, you know… take a peek.”

“If you need to boil it, Chef Carmy, you can use my pot,” Devin offered, already scribbling something in a little notepad like he was about to text his group chat immediately.

"Thank you, Chef," Carmy nodded at him with a polite smile, a little bashful now, and returned to cutting his dough.

As if that wasn’t enough, Mr. Johnson sauntered in not five minutes later, leaned against the back wall like he was in a speakeasy, and said, “You know, back in ‘92 I made lasagna so good the mayor cried. Just sayin’.”

He then turned and disappeared down the hall like a wizard of chaos, muttering something about gluten conspiracies.

You didn’t even blink. “Thank you, Mr. Johnson.”

Then, Melissa strolls in, coffee in hand and eyebrows already at maximum scepticism.

She paused in the doorway, scanning the flour-dusted counter, the students gathered around like Carmy was performing miracles, and Carmy himself—elbows deep in pasta dough.

She sipped her coffee as she stared at the pasta. “Wait, so… what’s your last name?”

Carmy glanced up, blinking like he’d been pulled out of a trance. He looked at Melissa, then at you, like he was checking to see if this was a trick question. “Uh… Berzatto.”

Melissa squinted. A beat passed.

“Huh,” she said, in a tone that somehow contained five different layers of meaning: vague suspicion, mild approval, distant familiarity, one raised red flag, and a complete personality assessment. “Makes sense.”

And just like that, she turned and walked off, heels clicking, coffee still steaming, not another word spoken.

Carmy blinked after her, then looked at you, deadpan. “Was that a threat?”

You shrugged. “Honestly? It’s better not to ask.”

“Right,” Carmy mumbled, brushing a bit of flour from his fingers before continuing like he hadn’t just been hit with a drive-by personality analysis from a woman with mob energy and perfect eyeliner.

He rolled back into the lesson with ease, walking the kids through shaping the dough into spaghetti strands.

“You want it thin, but not too thin,” he was saying, hands moving with a kind of gentle confidence that made even flour seem like it was cooperating out of respect. “If you can see through it, you’ve gone too far. Unless you’re making ravioli. But that’s… a whole different story.”

Meanwhile, you?

You couldn’t take your eyes off him.

Every time he explained something—how the gluten develops, why olive oil matters, the difference between done and perfect—you leaned in without realizing. Just a little. Drawn in, like the words were for you and only you.

And the worst part?

Sometimes he looked at you while he talked. Just little glances. Barely-there flickers. But each one lit you up like someone had turned on all the fairy lights inside your chest.

Your heart fluttered. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your brain? Fully composing a sonnet titled To the Man Making Spaghetti in My Classroom.

You were so, so doomed and just when your face was halfway to full heart-eyes emoji status, you remembered—

The cameras.

You blinked, snapped your head toward them, and straightened up like you hadn’t just been silently daydreaming about holding Carmy’s tattooed hand while wandering through a farmer’s market in the fall or about his hands elsewhere...

One cameraman raised an eyebrow.

You cleared your throat. Smiled. Gave a stiff little nod like everything is normal and fine and I am a professional adult woman.

The rest passed too quickly for your liking.

One second, he was explaining how flour and eggs became pasta, and the next he was handing off the fresh noodles to Devin who looked so starstruck you half-expected him to ask for an autograph, but instead, he just took the dough reverently, muttering, “I got you, Chef,”

While Devin handled the boiling, Carmy fielded more questions, bouncing between wide-eyed children and genuinely curious adults.

One kid asked if he ever cried over burnt toast.

“Only once,” Carmy replied. “It was a really good piece of bread.”

Another asked if he’d ever cooked for a king.

“Not officially,” he said, glancing at you with a quick smirk that made your heart do a cartwheel. “But I’ve cooked for people who matter.”

The kitchen staff and at least one substitute from down the hall— all threw out questions about risotto techniques, braising, and how he gets his red sauce just right.

He pulled out a small pan he’d brought, explaining how to build a sauce from scratch—olive oil, garlic, a little tomato, basil. Simple, but the room smelled like heaven. The adults were wide-eyed. The kids were openly drooling. You might’ve been, too.

He offered tiny sample spoons as he stirred, like it was the most natural thing in the world to casually do a cooking demo in a public school classroom. And when Devin returned with the perfectly cooked pasta—because of course it was perfect—Carmy tossed it with the sauce and started plating like it was no big deal.

Little paper bowls. Plastic forks. A sprinkle of cheese. And just like that, he was handing out servings of handmade pasta to a group of nine-year-olds and the adults like they were at some five-star tasting event.

You got a plate, too and the second you took a bite, you nearly sat down.

It was so good—like warm, rich, made-with-love kind of good. Like maybe he put his entire soul into the sauce and also possibly his feelings for you kind of good. You blinked up at him, genuinely speechless for the first time all day.

He raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

You nodded, slow. “I hate you a little bit.”

He chuckled. “I’ll take that.”

And yeah, you were so, so gone.

The kids were still buzzing as they lined up to leave, chattering about pasta like it was the greatest invention since slime. A few waved wildly at Carmy on their way out, and others whispered to each other like they’d just met a celebrity—which, honestly, they kind of had to and Carmy gave them a small, slightly awkward wave back.

“Miss,” one whispered as they passed you, eyes wide with hope, “can Chef Carmy come back next week?”

You smiled, warm and fond. “We’ll see.”

When the last of them filed out and the door finally clicked shut, the room fell into a warm, quiet hum—sunlight filtering through the windows, flour still dusted on the counter, the lingering scent of garlic and tomato hanging in the air like some kind of cozy spell.

You turned, and there he was.

Carmy stood at the table he’d used, wiping it down with a damp towel, sleeves still rolled to his forearms, curls a little wild after an hour of navigating the adorable storm that was your classroom. He looked… calm. Settled.

“Hey,” you said, a little sing-songy as you stopped beside him. “Chef of the Year. You did it.”

He glanced up, met your eyes with a crooked smile. “Hey.”

“I just wanted to say thank you,” you said, lowering your voice just a bit. “Like, really—you didn’t just show up, you… you were brilliant, Carmy.”

He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half something more complicated. “I was wingin’ it the whole time.”

“Well,” you said with a smile, “you wing things very charmingly.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than strictly necessary. “You made it easier.”

The words landed between you like something delicate and important. You swallowed, heart doing that tight, fluttery thing again—the one that always showed up whenever he looked at you like that.

You tried to recover, tossing the moment a wink and a grin just to keep yourself grounded. “So does that mean you’re open to a regular Thursday guest chef gig?”

He smirked, low and lopsided. Shook his head like he couldn’t believe you—but not in a bad way. “I don’t know if I’m built for the fourth grade attention span.”

“They were obsessed with you,” you said matter-of-factly, crossing your arms and stepping just a little closer.

“They were obsessed with the pasta.”

You tilted your head, eyes twinkling. “It wouldn’t be hard for it to be both.”

That made him pause. Just long enough for the tension to hum again, low and warm.

He looked at you like he was trying to read between your words. Like he wasn’t quite sure if you meant it the way it sounded—but hoping you did.

A beat passed. You held his gaze, smile softening just slightly. Just enough.

And then he looked down—at your shoes, the floor, literally anything else that wasn’t your face—and cleared his throat. “I should… probably get going.”

“Right. Yeah.” You brushed past him to grab a tray, your shoulder just barely bumping his as you passed. “See you around, Carmy Next Door.”

If he froze for half a second—well, that was between him and the classroom air that had suddenly grown suspiciously warmer.

You kept your back to him, pretending to busy yourself with stacking paper plates while absolutely listening for every move behind you.

A minute later, he was at the door, bag slung over one shoulder, hand on the knob.

“Yeah, see you around,” he said, almost too casually.

You turned toward him, giving him a smile that was part “Thank you, again.”

He nodded but didn’t move. Just stood there and after a pause he cleared his throat, glanced down, then back up at you—like he was in the middle of a conversation with himself and currently losing.

“Hey—” he started, then stopped, his jaw clenching just slightly. “Would it be weird if I…”

You raised your brows, trying not to let the hope leak into your smile. “If you what?”

He shifted his weight, ran a hand through his curls. “If I asked you to dinner.”

You tilted your head, giving him your best faux-casual sass. “Like a date?”

“Yeah. Like a date.” He gave the tiniest nod, just enough

You didn’t even hesitate. “Took you long enough.”

His mouth curved into the softest smile you’d seen from him all day—like it caught him off guard like it made something inside him loosen.

“So that’s a yes?” he asked, voice quiet.

“It’s a yes,” you said, and damn, you didn’t even try to hide your smile this time.

He opened the door, then turned back one last time. “I’ll text you.”

“You better,” you said. “You owe me pasta without a classroom audience.”

He laughed under his breath, then stepped out, the door clicking softly behind him.

You stood there for a moment, alone in the quiet hum of the classroom, heart fluttering like you were seventeen and just got asked to prom. Which, honestly… wasn’t that far off.

You let out a breath, tried to pull yourself together, and failed—because your face still hurt from smiling and your brain was very much replaying every single second in high-definition slow motion.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted it, the cameras.

Still rolling.

“Told you it was a matter of time,” you said, voice smug and giddy. Then you added, dead serious: “Also—if you zoomed in on me blushing again, we’re fighting.”

Cut to black.

A/N: Helloooooo. How is everyone!?? Okay first I want to apolagize that it took me so long to publish this part, lots going on rn, second, I thank you all for the support, for those likes, commentsss and shares ❤️ Like its crazyyyy.

Be safe out there 🫶 Tell me if you would like to get tagged.

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neonovember · 6 months ago

Note

So I currently have food poisoning and I can’t help but it think how mad Carmy would be if a restaurant gave his gf/wife food poisoning

Also Carmy come take care of me and make me soup plz 🙇‍♀️😫

Plus he would give the best snuggles 😭

firstly, sending lots of love and recovery, i've never actually had fp lmao so a lot of time on webmd will be spent. get ur fluids in! secondly, carmen might have to go underground for setting the restaurant on fire. we love him for it

summary: You were hungry and had just finished work and you didn't think about inspecting the goddamn Michelin star restaurant, maybe you should have.

warnings; cursing, food poisoning, richie (he's a warning), hipsters, talks of future arsony, possessive carmen, cracked fic ngl,

divider by @firefly-graphics

i'm slipping back into the unsafe territory of wanting fictional characters. (and i don't care)

You could roll your eyes in annoyance if you weren't hunched over the ceramic bowl of the toilet heaving out the contents of your stomach while Carmen held you hair back.

The one time, the one goddamn time you decide to try a new place without Carmen's input, without his meticulous standards and in depth research behind every night out.

It wasn't like you hadn't tried to vet the new braised beef spot that opened up on west Avenue. In fact, you had heard all but stellar reviews from friends and family, meeting you with suprise hearing that Carmen hadn't taken you. You decided to bring home a small plate, their signature braised meat with plums, red onions and atrichocke hearts.

You had meant to share it with Carmen, and you were going to, but a botched catering order had him staying back another hour than what had been planned. And well..you say you tried to save some for Carmen, but despite its bacteria laced beef and vomit inducing sides it was pretty fuckin' good.

Was this God's wrath coming down upon you? Punishing you for your gluttony? Food poisoning did feel awfully close to perpetual hellfire.

The TV was blaring some indescriptive show, the kind with dramatic introductions and soap opera worthy screams. It helped fill the space of absence when Carmen worked long nights, and you felt quite comfortable wrapped up in a blanket with a full stomach and a warm sofa.

Your phone had pinged with the sound of Carmen's text, letting you know he was on the way when it started. At first you had written it off as mere indigestion, probably from shoveling the cursed meal into your mouth too quickly.

Then, around the time the show's main character had found out her boyfriend got her mother pregnant, the nausea set in. Swirling aches that felt like a whirlpool in your stomach had taken over, sloshing and swirling and never leaving. You couldn't mistake it, as you tried to swallow past a dry throat and the creeping sweats of a headache inducing fever began to ravage your body.

You hated sitting in discomfort, it wasn't as though you were afraid of vomiting no, you just could not bare to feel the way your stomach skipped and jumped with every wave of nausea that took over.

You thought of making yourself sick, but shook your head when the alarming disapproval of Carmen's voice loomed over.

"It's just gonna make it worse, you gotta sit with it till it passes"

Fuck him and his medical knowledge. What did he know?

You had ripped off the blanket that had once felt comforting, peeling of layers of clothing that stuck to your body like a second skin. You just felt hot, so hot, is anyone else feeling this heat? You try to move from the couch to reach your phone, but the sudden movement has nausea bubbling up your throat.

You fall to the ground in a heap, hand clasped around your mouth to stop the possibility of projectile vomiting on the rug you had just bought and shoot your hand up to reach for your phone.

You press Carmen's number, begging him to answer you in genuine crisis rather than when you were drunk with friends and missed him. You feel the urge to heave and crawl quickly to the bathroom, phone clasped in hand and suddenly desperately needed his medical knowledge.

Carmen phone rings from the behind the stack of documents in the office, and he hastily wipes his hands across his apron before trying to reach it before it rings out.

Guilt fills his stomach at the thought of you, he was meant to be home hours ago. The catering order needed a few extra hands to help, and once Carmen began he got lost in it, and now you had spent nearly the entire night alone.

"Fuck- Hey baby, I know I said I was comin' but I had to finish a couple things-" Carmen quickly responds as he swipes the call button.

The groan of pain that responds has Carmen freezing in the middle of the kitchen.

"Baby? What-, are you okay?" Carmen replies quickly, his voice going short as his mind turns every possible scenario that had you whining in pain over the receiver.

"Please come quickly, Carmen I think I might-" You gulp and make a retching sound "I think I got sick from that place I was telling you about" You plead out, breathing heavily into the speaker.

The guilt that had filled Carmen seems to morph into an anger that rushes up his chest as he shakes his head.

"The new place? The one with the fuckin' smoke meat? They did this?"

"Mhm" You mumble "I should've just listened to you" You groan out in sadness.

"Fucking idiots. How the fuck did they even? Okay, okay honey just gimme a second yeah?"

How did he let this happen? Carmen has half the mind to stop at the restaurant that more of a Instagram attraction that a respected place of business. You were so eager and excited t try it, Carmen had his own thoughts but would glue his mouth shut if it meant making you happy.

He'll make sure they get shut down, or at least black listed from Chicago as long as he's concerned. His hands shake with the eager want for the fight, to smash someones jaw for resorting you to a heap of tears and sick. He would, he knows he will, but at this moment he needed to take care of your first.

He mumbles out a rushed reply, phone between his shoulder and ear as he slips out of his work shoes and into his sneakers. He thinks for a moment to grab his things but immediately shut that thought out when he hears you groaning into the phone.

"Just stay on the phone okay? I'm coming now, I need to get you some things alright?"

You let out what you hope is a reply, hunched over the toilet.

Carmen rushes to the store fridge, grabbing containers of soup Tina had prepared for family as the Chicago winter was getting close.

"You alright kid?" Richie mumbles, walking into the kitchen entry way, scratching his stomach as he watched Carmen's erratic movements around the store.

"Fuckin-, she's sick. And I'm here chopping up tomatoes for fucking Guy while she was in pain for god knows how long-"

"Woah, Bugs sick? We talking COVID or.."

"I'm such a fucking idiot. No it's not COVID Rich, Jesus Christ. Some rookie new spot trying something outside of their abilities gave her food poisoning. Fuckin' hipsters"

"Oh that's bad. You know when I got food poisoning the one time I took Tiff to this romantic getaway. Had me projectile vomiting in the AirBnb bathroom. Couldn't even get a deposit back, had to pay some dumb ass cleaning fee-"

Carmen wipes a hand across his face shaking his head. He was already pent up, he might throw a pan at Richie if he doesn't stop talking.

"Richie, I don't have time for this, I need to get her some Sprite or"

Richie shuffles across to the cupboard near the back of the house, grabbing bottles of Gatorade and a pack of saltine crackers.

"How do you even have this stuff lying around"

"You're the one with the inhuman alcohol tolerance Carmy, someone of us actually have hangovers you freak" Richie retorts

"Yeah yeah, thanks. Fuck- I gotta" Carmen replies, to which Richie nods.

"Go. I'll wrap up anything here" Richie replies, understanding in his voice. You took precedence over pretty much everything in Carmen's life.

"And Carm?"

"Yeah?" Carmen calls out, slipping on his jacket as he turns to Richie

"Tell me when we're going to sort out those bearded wearing flannel ass wipes"

Carmen shakes his head with a smile, before nodding and pushing past the kitchen doors. The traffic lights better be green green fuckin' green tonight.

You were stripped to a singlet and sleeping shorts as you knelt over the toilet, blinking back exhausted tears at the state of you.

You suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself, but the indignation righteousness burns almost as bright as the acid reflux crawling up your throat.

You hear the faint opening and loud clang of the apartment door opening and closing and you sigh in relief as you hear the familiar footfalls of Carmen down the hall.

It had felt damn near torturous suffering without him, and as he calls out to you following the trail of loose clothing he spots your figure in the bathroom sprawled.

"Oh honey, I'm sorry" Carmen says

And it was as if your body needed to finally feel safe in Carmen's presence before you felt the nausea spill out of you and splash offensively into the toilet.

You feel Carmen crouch above you, dragging your hair that had gone loose from it's wrapped up do away from your face. Gently rubbing your back, his large hands softly dipping up and down your spine.

"That's it, 'atta girl. Let it all out" Carmen coo's softly

You purged the insides of your stomach into the toilet bowl, retching loudly with every heave as Carmen comforted you. After what seemed like hours, and the nausea had subsided Carmen carefully wrapped his arms up under your armpits picking you up of the floor.

"Slowly, yeah? You damn near emptied out you're entire water content" Carmen murmurs, flushing the toilet and helping you walk to the basin and wash out the taste of bile from your mouth.

"I probably look insane" You cry out, blinking back exhaustion from your eyes as Carmen shakes his head furiously.

"Never, my pretty girl. Need you to go easy okay? Gonna take you to bed and let you sleep through it. Can't have you collapsing on me" Carmen murmurs, wiping at the edge of your mouth, patting the sweat that stuck to your forehead.

You let Carmen carefully maneuver your body, one arm under your legs and the other supporting your back walking to the bedroom. Your wring dry and can barely keep your eyes open as Carmen placed you on the cool sheets you immediately moan at.

You hear the faint rustle of movement as Carmen brings in a paper bag. The clunk of bottles placed on the bedside table as you sing praise for the very short bit of relief you have before the next bout of nausea rolls in.

Carmen pads to the adjacent bathroom, the door opened so you can see the stream of light that illuminates him. Hes running a cloth under water, squeezing the excess and looking up to check on you every so often.

He looked so...domestic, like he hadn't come back from working at one of the most decorated restaurants in Chicago. Stripped of his shirt so he stood bare chested, golden curls pushed behind his ears, sweatpants hung low on his hips and the furrow of his eyebrows in concentration and worry.

Your eyes flutter shut as you thank the midnight sky for bringing him to you, for keeping him for you, this one good thing that was yours.

The skies answer by the sound of his voice listing off all the things you will not be doing in this stage of recovery. Sitting on the edge of the bed as he places the cool rag against your forehead, lips between teeth as he feels your temperature under his skin.

"Just bone broth, Gatorade and bread sticks for you, doll. And no, before you even think it, its not the garlic ones." Carmen tsks.

You were thinking it. He knew you too well, but when he kisses your eyelids and measures out careful tips of the Gatorade bottle, you don't mind it.

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newtkive · 1 year ago

Text

confectionary clash - carmen berzatto

pairing: carmen berzatto x afab!reader (established relationship)

summary: carmy's girl is the human embodiment of a sweetheart. that is, unless it's that time of the month and richie provokes her.

wordcount: 3.2k

warnings: swearing, fighting, weaponized incompetence from richie but we still love him.

a/n: this was meant to be a drabble but turned into 3k words. so it's written kinda like a drabble?? (hence the lowercase i can't be arsed to change) but just... long. idk hopefully its entertaining. also, i don't mean to demonize richie, he's my favorite character i think,, i just love writing him as problematic lmao cuz he's so funny. anyways, enjoy!

as carmy’s confidant and girlfriend, you were always the voice of reason. with just a string of words, you’d be calming him down after a hectic work day, giving him a fresh perspective on his work dilemmas since you were outside of the restaurant circle. in the time he’s known you, he hadn’t seen you do as much as barely raise your voice. maybe the occasional snap, but you always follow it up with swift apologies and big watery eyes.

that is, unless you’re in pain. specifically cramps. the sight of you 180ing from a sweet girl with a bright smile and even sweeter words, to an evil sorceress with spells rolling off your tongue, inflicting curses onto anyone who irritates you is jarring. a bit dramatic, sure, but that’s what you were during that time of the month—dramatic.

carmy tries best to dote on you. you would never ask him to go out of his way for something, unless it’s grabbing a heating pad or water, but carmy wants you to. it takes prying to hear your desires and cravings after asking a million times, and you begrudgingly give in with no expectations. nevertheless, you end up with exactly what you asked for, or something close to it, and you’re endlessly grateful.

on days when you stop into the restaurant when you’re feeling down, carmy enacts this same routine. if it’s food, he’ll cook it for you; desserts, he’ll grab any extras marcus has (or marcus happily makes it from scratch if they're not busy, claiming he needs the practice). if you want snacks, he sends his right hand man richie out to grab them despite your protests.

richie does it often whenever you stop into the store, and he acts like it’s a chore sometimes, but everyone has a hunch that he really loves it. come on, twenty dollars to get a few items for you and pocket the rest for himself? plus a break from work? done deal.

richie wouldn’t admit it, but he liked taking care of you too. you were always a sweetheart to him, but it wasn’t in his personality to be as sincere as you, so this was a little act of service to show his love. besides, the year and a half you’ve known him has definitely earned you the title of a friend, and you’d agree.

now, you don’t ever want to seem ungrateful, but when you ask for a specific treat, you get disappointed when you don’t really get it. maybe it’s the fluctuating mood talking, but you always end up snapping at richie due to his poor choices. if you ask for one thing, he’ll get you the next, and you even suspect he does it on purpose sometimes. pulling reactions from people is his specialty.

it’s not like you’re a complete bitch about it, because he took his time out to go get you something, but richie has a problem with weaponized competence even with his new and improved attitude. you know he can get you the jolly ranchers you suggested, but he chooses to grab goldfish because it’s closer to checkout. it was annoying, but you never really brought it up to carmy. it's not like you needed to, it wasn't a huge deal. you figured richie could use the little break, and you don’t hate the snacks he brings.

except on days like this.

you were at the restaurant on a slow day, dragged yourself out of bed despite your cramps just to see your little grumpy boyfriend and hide in his office. even as you entered the establishment through the back you glared at richie (who sweetly waved) in passing, side eyeing a few of the newbies who ran in front of you despite their apologies. none of your usual bright smiles and cheery greetings. the bee line straight to the office was a clear enough explanation for how you were feeling.

upon entering, carmy looked up in a panic, which quickly melted into a soft smile at the sight of his girlfriend. “hey, baby.” he cooed softly, immediately scooting back from his desk to reach out to grasp at your waist. you let him, but pushed down the irritation, not favoring touch at the moment. however, his rough hands sliding a little under your shirt to grasp at the flesh of your hips calmed you down, earning a small quirk of the lips from you.

“whatcha doin’ here, love?” he asks, bringing one of your hands to his lips to kiss softly, still looking up at you.

you shrug, squeezing his hand, face a bit stoic. you’d been like this for a couple of days so he wasn’t surprised by your lack of friendliness. knowing you this long, carmy became accustomed to your monthly mood swings, and he felt privileged that you didn’t feel the need to put up an act for him.

“missed you.” you finally sighed, scooting closer so you stood between his knees. palms found both sides of carmy’s face and tilted it upwards a bit so you could study his appearance. stressed and tired. however, he seemed to glow at the mere admission of you missing him. it took a few seconds for his brain to rewire, looking up at you like you created the cosmos. the only reason you heard his soft, shy, ‘missed you too’ was because of the stagnant silence.

“hungry?” carmy asked, beaming from the attention. you shrugged again, allowing him to tighten his grip on your sides and tug you onto his lap. whining a bit in protest, you reposition yourself, legs falling over his lap and arms around his neck. your faces were closer now, and carmy looked at your sad eyes with a little pang in his chest. brows furrowing, he tilted his head and snuck a hand under your chin. long, tattooed fingers tickled at your chin, and before you knew it you were giggling and grinning while batting his hand away.

“cmon, i know you must want somethin’.” your grin was infectious and laced in his soft words. you hummed, already cheered up, and tapped a finger against your chin to make a thinking face. carmy chuckled, brushing a lock of hair away from your eyes and patiently waited.

a thought crossed your mind and you met gazes again. “i might go grab some little debbie snacks from around the corner.” you decided and nodded to yourself as if solidifying your decision.

as you started sitting up more, carmy’s grip tightened on your waist. “ah, ah, no. stay here.” he protested. soon enough he was calling out ‘cousin!’ and richie came bounding over, opening the office door.

richie’s face used to contort in disgust at any visual sign of affection exchanged between you and carmy, but he was used to it now. “what’s up, cousin?” he asked, almost seeming out of breath, eyes flickering between the both of you.

a short exchange between the two occurred: carmy asking richie to run to the corner store, handing richie a twenty, and richie asking you precisely what you wanted. you made it simple and easy, something he could remember: oreos and ho-hos, a midwestern's guilty pleasure.

“ight, cap’n, i’ll be back.” richie says, saluting you two before heading out. both you and carmy exchanged an amused smirk, knowing the only reason richie went was to get himself some cigarettes and hot fries he would scarf down on the walk back.

in the twenty minutes richie was gone, the kitchen had gone to shit. the newbies had been running the wrong food to tables, online orders were filling the tablet nonstop due to a discount glitch, and carmy was close to losing it. sitting in the office, now alone with the muffled sound of your boyfriend yelling, you were more grumpy than before. arms crossed, you snapped your head to the side once the door creaked open. in walked richie with a plastic bag, inside of it holding your hope for a better day.

"what took you so long?" you frowned up at him, but sat up straighter in anticipation. you eyes almost shone as you looked at corner store logo on the bag.

"went the long way." he mumbled, digging in the plasic. the skeptical look on your face didn't leave as he pulled out an item and set it on the table. your frown deepened further as you noticed there was nothing at all you asked for, only met with a crushed sleeve of crackers.

“where are the oreos?” you sighed out, lips pursed in a bit of a pout.

“didn’t find any, so i got you some peanut butter crackers.” he mumbled, digging around the bag again, as if he didn’t just break your heart. if it was anyone else you'd believe them, but with richie you figured he just got bored of looking.

your jaw fell slack and you gaped like a fish for a moment, waiting for him to pull out more treats from his bag. but that time didn’t come, as he fished a pack of cigarettes out instead. “and the ho-ho’s?” your voice was hopeful.

richie perked up at that, putting the cigarettes down next to the crackers. the next second he presented you with a smushed mountain of brown and white concealed in a plastic wrapper sitting atop the palm of his hand. eyes flicking between the disappointment before you and his face, you frowned in disbelief.

richie only managed to emote as much as a ‘yikes’ face before placing it on the desk. “got smushed in transit, but tastes the same!” he gave his best attempt at a smile. your brows grew taut together and anger bubbled up in your chest. you were sure your face was quickly turning red.

“carmy gave you twenty dollars, and you come back with this?!” you hiss out, daring to look at the dry crackers and smushed up dream of a ho-ho. the sight only made you become angrier. this was something a senile old person would give you, not a competent 40-something-year-old man. his lack of care was clear, and you were boiling.

richie just scoffed—he had the nerve to scoff.

“no, not just that! i got a sprite and a few pack of cigs for myself and the guy.” he waved around one of them to prove his point. if you thought you were mad before, you reached a new level of anger. usually, you’d deal with the disappointment and thank richie for even going—aside from a smart alec remark.

however, the demon conducting your period for this month did not make your rational decisions seem clear nor enticing. as you shot up from carmy’s chair, you only knew you wanted to make richie as upset as you were in this moment.

with one finger poking his chest, you began raising your voice. as soon as you started talking, richie's eyes turned wide as saucers, exactly like a deer in headlights. a string of curses snuck into your tirade, between phrases such as “you always fucking do this richie!” and “are you fuckin’ dumb?! did you get dropped on your head?!”. you only figured he didn't fire back right away because he was so stunned.

outside of the office, the kitchen was calmer now. things were finally falling into order but still required carmy’s supervision until the sudden rush ended. the only disturbance was you. now, it was your voice yelling behind closed doors and not carmy’s.

the chef—in the middle of helping sydney plate a dish—just about gave himself whiplash with how fast he turned around to look at the barely cracked door of the office. there was the telltale muffled yelling, but what shocked him was it was clearly you yelling.

turning back around, carmy gawked at sydney who silently shared the same look of surprise. it was only until they heard richie start yelling back that sydney silently pushed him toward the door. it didn’t take more than a second for carmy to snap out of his surprise and march over to the office.

throwing the hand towel he was using over his shoulder, he yanked the heavy door open before all but body slamming his way into the room and slamming the door closed. the yelling was suddenly clear, as if carmy was being pulled out from underwater.

“YOU GET ME WHAT I ASKED YOU, OR GET ME NOTHING AT ALL!”

“THEN YOU’D BITCH ABOUT THAT TOO—“

“OR NOTHING AT ALL!”

“hey, hey, HEY!” the two of you were too busy at each others throats to even hear carmy enter, until his voice brought you both to a halt, heads turning towards him.

carmy’s eyes were immediately glued to you, not paying the least bit of attention to richie. your arms were stiff as boards to your sides, fists and jaw clenched, brows taut, and race beet red. the man had never seen you look like this before, and his instinct to comfort you took over. turning to richie with a look that could kill, carmy finally spoke. “what did you do?”

“what did i do?! except take precious time to get your girl shit she didn’t even want?!”

an offended gasp left your mouth, and you retorted instantly. “oh please! because a crushed up sleeve of crackers and a mountain of mushed up cake is just what i asked for!”

“you’re ungrateful.” richie pointed a finger at you now. carmy launched forward and slapped it down. he knew richie would never hurt you, and you knew it too, as you just rolled your eyes in response, but carmy’s instinct’s took over. richie didn’t even look phased, just irritated. carmy stood in front of you and forcefully turned richie around by his shoulders to send him to the door. if carmy didn't have half of a sane mind, he would’ve kicked richie's bottom with his shoe for good measure.

“go take a break chef! or do whatever the fuck, i don’t care.” carmy shouted after richie, and the man left with a slam of the door.

you simply watched the scene unfold with arms crossed and that same deep set frown. carmy turned around to face you as the air settled, a hand running through his hair. blue eyes raked over your tense form and carmy decided he would give you a little space to calm down. however, the second he saw your bottom lip wobbling and eyes grow watery he threw that thought to the wind

“hey, no, no, don’t cry.” carmy extended his arms and collected you into them. the tense posture you held relaxed into his slouched form as he held you close; one hand in your hair, and the other rubbing circles on your back as you sniffled.

a pit of guilt burned in your stomach and spurred you into attempting to bury yourself into carmy. blue straps of his apron rubbed against your cheek as you shuffled impossibly closer. usually, carmy would love this, but right now he'd do anything to not see you so out of it. shushing you, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

there were a few beats of you hiding away before you decided to pull back a bit to face him again—and boy did you look pitiful.

the same cheeks previously bright with anger were now flush with embarrassment and stained with tears. a tattooed hand found itself sitting on your cheek, thumb rubbing under your eye to collect a fallen tear. at the touch, your eyes fluttered closed, and carmy’s heart broke at the sight.

“you gonna tell me what happened?” your boyfriend asked, trying not to make you feel even more guilty. his full attention was on you. exhaling slowly, your eyes fluttered back open and were met with those bright blue ones that always calmed you down.

“i dunno, i just-“ you shook your head and carmy waited patiently, “it wasn’t even a big deal, but richie just really set me off for some reason.”

“yeah, may as well join the club.” carmen’s words were light, not at all sarcastic, but aiming to ease you and bring out a smile. it worked, your lips turning upwards and carmy mimicking the half smile. he looked down at you with such love, head tilted to follow every time yours moved, and thumb caressing your cheek as he took in every expression.

your smile finally faltered as you glanced back at the office desk. “i feel so awful. he went out and got me stuff and i just yelled at him.” you sputter out.

carmy followed your gaze over his shoulder to finally see what started all of this. at the sight of the crackers and ball of what looked like mush, carmy scoffs in both disbelief and amusement, because of course richie would bring you that. turning back towards you, the chef finally gets it.

“baby, if someone brought me that shit while my insides were shedding i’d kill them.” he chuckled.

“really?” you asked hopefully, smile forming again.

“yes, really. even if i wasn’t goin’ through that i’d actually kick his ass.” carmy mirrored your smile.

nodding, you let yourself chuckle along with him. strong arms found you again and you were wrapped in a tight hug, allowing his squeezes to take away some guilt you were feeling. a moment passed and you knew carmy had to get back to work. with a sigh, you pulled back.

it was your turn to reach up and cup his cheek. guiding his face close, you met him halfway and pressed your lips to his in a kiss. lips moving against his, your noses brushed, and after a moment you let the kiss dissipate; lips slowly falling away from where they were molded together. one last peck was placed on carmy’s lips, as if saying, ‘thank you for being so attentive’. that earned an appreciate hum.

you both beamed, faces still close as you came back down to earth. “you gotta get back to work, and i gotta apologize.” you murmured and carmy nodded obediently.

with apprehension, carmy let you go, arms floating in the air for half a second as he walked backwards towards the door. “don’t go easy on him, though. richie lives for a fight. that was probably his anger management for the day.” carmy smirked, grasping the doorknob.

you just shook your head, eyes narrowed teasingly. before he turned to leave, you called out to him. “thank you, carmy.”

the man just gave you a confused look, chuckling. “don’t thank me, you're my girl.” with that he was back to work and you were left to your own devices. with one more glance at the monstrosity on the office desk, you left the room and went on a search for richie.

thirty minutes later, carmy was due for a smoke break and approached the back door. he slowed his tracks, lighter and cigarette in hand as he cracked the door and heard giggling. the sight before him was drastically different than before: you and richie sitting on a ledge next to each other, giggling and bumping shoulders. carmy breathed out a laugh at the sight and fully walked out. this caught both of your attention, grinning ear to ear as you clearly made up.

“hey, cousin!” richie grinned, and you both waved. figures.

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #the bear #the bear imagine #carmy berzatto imagine #x reader #carmen berzatto imagine

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teaspacebar · 24 days ago

Text

spiced chai (pt. 2)

part one

pairing: carmen "carmy" berzatto x reader

summary: you grow closer to carmen berzatto as the seasons change. your walls are coming down, and carmy sees you at a low point.

word count: ~8.4k

warnings: language, depictions of mental illness, barista!reader, afab!reader (reader referred to as 'girl' once, but for all intents and purposes, they are nb), neurodivergent!reader, reader has a meltdown/shutdown, they still don't kiss, yearning/pining, hurt/comfort, weed usage (reader smokes a little), reader has a complicated relationship with their mother.

a/n: hello lovelies! part two is finally here after months of me picking away at it. i hope you enjoy and once again, this is learning toward self insert material, so if you don't like, don't read. i am queer, non-binary, and autistic and i am enjoying exploring that in this space. feel free to leave any asks if you have questions about carmy + reader (my beloveds). also thank you to my lovely beta @straight-n-arrow. enjoy *mwah*

You were right.

Not to say that you were right all the time — it took you months to figure out Carmy’s drink. But you did it, if the look on his face is any indication. His eyelashes flutter as he takes another drink, and you dance victoriously.

Carmen raises his eyebrows at you as he puts his cup down, “Yeah?”

You shrug, grinning, “You can say it. I’m a genius.”

”You’re a genius,” he murmurs, hiding a smile with the back of his hand.

”Thank you.” You curtsy dramatically.

”No, but seriously, I’ve had chai before, but this tastes different.”

You weren’t about to tell him how many different chai concentrates you had to try before you found the right one. It was far too many.

”Barista secret, sorry.” You say, not sorry at all. You push a cookie across the counter to him, which he snags a piece of. He watches you for a moment, and you blurt out, “It’s masala chai. There’s actual spices in it, instead of just the tea. It’s Indian. I had it once — at a tea shop — and I loved it. Regular chai just doesn’t hit quite right anymore.” You lean against the counter, squishing your face as you hold your head up with your hands. “You like it?” Reassurance, asked for casually, as the insecurity bubbles up inside of you.

“It’s really good.” He knocks on the counter twice, mumbling, “Thank you.”

Heat rises up the back of your neck, and you shrug. “I told you I’d find your drink. Wouldn’t be a good barista otherwise.” You rock back on your heels, jitters buzzing through your body.

“I - uh, started listening to that playlist you sent me.”

You almost launch yourself at him, being held back by the counter between you. Your hands grab his arm, and it takes everything inside you to not shake him. “Oh my god, this is the best thing you could have told me! Thoughts? Comments? A ten page essay?”

The playlist Carmy spoke of is one of many in your repertoire. You have a playlist for almost any occasion, and you started putting together a playlist specifically for Carmen when he commented on your music taste one late night at Nan’s. Any time a song comes on you think he’d like — for one reason or another — gets added to the playlist. You’re surprised he actually listened to it at all though.

Music is your lifeblood. Whenever you can’t grasp an understanding of your own feelings, you listen to music to help you figure it out. It’s always been a little difficult for you to understand what you were feeling in the moment. Alexythymia — you remember the word your old therapist (the one good one you had) told you. Probably has to do with how used to masking you are. Ergo, playlists. Music blasting as loud as it can go in your headphones and in your car. Grounding you to this planet…or maybe to aid in your dissociation.

But hey, you never said all of your coping mechanisms were good ones.

Carmy laughs, your excitement infectious. “I’ll have to get back to you on the essay.”

You stick your tongue out at him, nose scrunched. “Ugh, fine. Party pooper.”

“My middle name.”

Gasping, you blink at him with exaggerated wide eyes. “Carmen Berzatto, did you just make a joke?”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” He sips at his drink, staring at the counter for a moment. “Are you, uh, coming to the baby shower thing?”

The thing that Neil had told you about a few weeks ago. That you had agreed to go to without really hearing the conversation. Natalie’s having a post-birth baby shower, of which you got an actual evite from Natalie herself after you said yes to Neil. Other people from The Bear were going, so it wasn’t like you were just invited to a family only function. But you also haven’t been to a party in…who knows how long. And Natalie was literally the sweetest human on the planet, and you wouldn’t say no to looking at a cute baby.

A cute little baby Berzatto. You vaguely wonder what Carmy looked like as a baby — all curly hair, blue eyes, and that same dimple. Maybe Natalie has photos somewhere.

A thought for another time.

“Oh,” you gnaw on the inside of your lip, “I think so. You’re going?”

He nods, “Closing the restaurant early. Just window and lunch service.”

“That’s nice!” You hesitate to say anything more about The Bear. Things seem to be getting better, if the words of Syd, Marcus, and Richie were anything to go by. Chatter you hear while they pick up drinks from you before heading down the street. “I’ll probably come by, at least to say hi.”

“Cool.”

You squint at him, “You gotta promise you’ll save me from making a fool of myself.”

Carmy looks at you incredulously, like you’re missing something, but he relents, “Only if you do the same for me.”

“Deal.” You reach out your hand, raising an eyebrow. He rolls his eyes, but grabs your hand as you shake it dramatically. “Pleasure doing business, Mr. Berzatto.”

Carmen swallows back the acid in his throat as he looks around the crowded living room of his sister’s house. He really should have brought some Pepto tablets or something. He’s nursing a beer in his hand, a cheap one that Pete had in the fridge. It doesn’t help the heartburn, and in all honestly Carmen has barely touched it. He’s said hello to Natalie, and the baby, at least.

He hasn’t seen you anywhere, though. Which puts a different feeling in his stomach, one he doesn’t care to evaluate in the current moment. Taking a drink from his beer, he grimaces, staring at it in contempt. He decides to see if he can find something actually drinkable, maybe in the garage fridge, and he leaves the corner he was hiding in.

As if by thinking you into existence, he spots you near the entryway across from the living room. He goes to walk over to you, but stops when he sees a little blur ram straight into your legs, arms wrapping around your waist.

Eva, Richie’s daughter, grins up at you. You return it, crouching down to give her a proper hug. Richie is soon to follow, calling out your name and clapping you on the shoulder.

It’s like someone’s twisted his stomach into knots.

He watches you smile and chat animatedly with Richie and Eva, letting the little girl grab your arms and use you as a jungle gym. You’re pulled into the living room, a chorus of your name being called by his coworkers, and Carmy dips into the kitchen.

He catches his sister deep in a bowl of some five-layer bean dip thing one of Pete’s relatives bought from Costco.

She’s eating it with a spoon. A big one. Which she waves at him with a glare, “Bear, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Hey I didn’t say anything.” He slides by her to open up the fridge, staring into it. “You have anything decent to drink?”

“No, just some juice, and Diet Coke, I think.” She takes another bite of the dip. “I got rid of anything above a 5% alcohol content months ago.”

“Why?” Silence falls between the siblings for a moment, then Carmy shakes his head. “No, sorry, yeah. Makes sense. I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s okay, Bear.” He can tell she means it. That he didn’t fuck up. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem, really. I just…wanted to make sure, you know?”

“Yeah.” He chews on his next sentence, shutting the fridge to look at Nat. “You-You’re gonna be a great mom.” He immediately sees tears start to well up in her eyes. “Hey, I’m sorry. Shit, I didn’t — it’s okay.”

Natalie sets the tray of dip on the table, laughing as she presses her hands to her eyes. Carmen is quiet; he fiddles with the packet of nicotine gum in his pocket. He barely realizes what’s happening until her arms are wrapped around him and her face in his neck. “Thank you, Carm.”

Something in him rights itself. Like a little lightbulb is finally screwed in all the way and it finally blinks on.

Natalie pushes his shoulder a little and steps out of the embrace. “Okay, enough sap. I have to go check on my baby. I swear if Richie makes one more joke about dropping her I might actually kill him.” She takes one more spoonful of bean dip, humming happily. “Don’t hide in here for too long, okay?” He nods his assent, and his sister leaves.

Carmen follows after her a few minutes later. His gaze finds you without him even trying, as if you have your own gravitational pull. You’re in a little circle with Syd and Marcus on the far side of the room. And maybe you feel it, too, because your eyes lock with his and a smile pulls at your lips. His feet push him forward, but he’s caught by Pete’s brother. Carmy’s pulled into the conversation, Natalie coming over with the baby. She helps him figure out how to hold her entirely too fragile body in his arms, and although he’s itching for a cigarette to ease his nerves, he’s content. Happy, even.

He catches your eyes again, and you make a face, sticking your tongue out at him. Carmy huffs a laugh, shaking his head, while you turn back to engage with his coworkers — his friends.

It’s later in the evening that Carmy finds you outside. The sun has set, sky fading from hues of pink and orange to a cool indigo. There’s a chill in the air, a sign that fall is truly on its way. He had snagged a cigarette off Richie earlier, deciding he deserved to sneak one. He’s been here for a couple hours. All hell hasn’t broken loose. Having a smoke definitely isn’t the worst thing he could do.

He goes out the side door, through the gate that leads back to the front of the house. He’s sure he has a lighter in his car, stashed in the center console somewhere. Nicotine gum be damned.

You’re sitting on the curb, head turned toward the sky, arms resting on your knees. A blanket of calm covers you, but something lingers underneath. Loneliness, maybe. Self-imposed, because it’s easier than holding a smile on your lips around people you barely know. That tug, the one that he constantly feels when he sees you, urges him forward. You must not have heard him walking up, because you jolt when he asks, “You okay?”

“Carmen, shit, you scared me.” You lean back to look at him, resting your hands palm-down on the sidewalk. “I’m good. Just needed a minute. You?”

“Uh,” he fiddles with the cig in his hand. “Left my lighter in the car.”

“I got one!” You dig into your bag — a mini backpack, covered with a cartoon character he recognizes but can’t name. “Usually keep one on me, where is it…” You let out a noise of victory as you find it, holding it out to him.

“Thanks,” he takes it from you, and your fingers brush. Something catches in his throat, stomach turning.

Fwip. Like clockwork, he’s blowing out the smoke, making sure it’s not going in your direction. He hands the lighter back to you, murmuring, “Thought you didn’t smoke.”

Craning your neck to look at him, you reply, “I don’t.” To save your neck from breaking, Carmy decides to sit on the curb. Settling next to you, he takes another drag, right as you say, “Well, not the nicotine kind, anyway.”

Carmen laughs in surprise, then tries to cover it up with a cough, “No shit?” He waves the smoke away with his free hand.

“Fuck off, Carmy.” Your words lack bite, and you tumble off into your own laughter. “What, you think I’m too much of a nerd to smoke weed?” He attempts to hide the grin forming, and you swat at his arm. “Oh my god, you do!”

“No, no, I think you’re very edgy. With your combat boots and your Mothman tattoo.”

“I’m being bullied!” You cackle, outraged. “There’s no way you're not a nerd, too. We congregate.” Your laughter gives way to a comfortable silence, knees pulled up to your chest. Your cheek rests against your knees, and you twirl your lighter in your fingers.

The air is cold, but Carmy has never felt warmer. It’s like you carry the very essence of your late nights at Nan’s with you in your pocket. Only to be brought out at the correct moment. Seeing you carefree is a treat, one he covets. There’s a strange thing in his chest that pangs when you relax in his presence.

“It was nice for Natalie to invite me,” you say, soft and earnest. Like you weren’t expecting it.

“She’s glad you came.” Natalie hadn’t mentioned anything, but he’s sure it’s true.

You look over at him, blinking lazily. You’re staring, blatantly, and he lets you, snubbing out his cigarette on the sidewalk. “Her baby is so cute it literally kills me.” You mumble, more of a groan than words. “It’s cuteness aggression. I swear if I see those chubby cheeks again I could kill someone.”

Carmy snorts, glancing at you, “Do I need to worry?”

“No, it’s fine. I’m just – I think I’m done with,” you wave your hands vaguely. “Words. Brain. I’ve met way too many people today.” You peek over in his direction. “Sorry.”

“Nah, I feel you.” He does. It’s an experience he knows all too well. Social functions with expectations always turn his stomach sour. He inhales, fingers tapping out a rhythm on his thigh, “You wanna get outta here?”

Your head lifts, “Huh?”

“There’s this, uh, pizza place. Small joint, like, ten minutes from here? Mom and pop shop, deep dish, good shit.” He’s rambling, but the words keep spilling from his lips. “We could take my car, if you want.”

Nice going, hotshot.

You’re looking at him like he’s grown two heads, but before he can retract anything, you smile. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Yeah?” Relief; as if you could bring anything else.

“Will your sister get mad…if you leave?”

“I’ll text her.” He stands, and holds out his hands for you. He barely notices he’s done it, until you’ve grabbed them and he’s tugged you up onto your feet. You let out a little noise, doing a little hop, before letting go.

You follow him to his car, and for a moment he panics about what it looks like inside. But then he remembers it’s just you.

The two of you share a pepperoni pizza, in the dim lighting of the little restaurant. The owner comes out to greet you, giving both you and Carmy a firm handshake. You hum as you take bites of food, and Carmy can’t hide his grin. You talk about everything and nothing, random shit that doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. Long moments of silence that’s just the two of you eating.

Carmen feels frighteningly…normal. Like maybe this is what his life was supposed to be like all along. Going to a social function and ditching to get drinks and food with people you care about.

Full and relaxed, he watches as you melt into the dingy leather booth. You’re not really talking, staring off to the side where some sports game is playing on the TV mounted in the corner. Your gaze is vacant, thumbnail picking at a groove in the table. Worried, Carmy settles his hand over yours, and your gaze snaps to him. It’s wide, like he’s caught you somewhere you didn’t want him to.

He fears if he asks if you’re okay that you’ll bolt. “Wanna head out?”

“Sure.” You grab your jacket from where you tossed it beside you, sliding out of the booth. You’re silent, all the way to the car, and Carmy feels his anxiety prick the back of his neck.

When you’re both in the car, you blurt, “Sorry.”

“Huh?” Is all he can say. He hasn’t even turned the keys in the ignition yet.

“I had a good time! Really, I just…today’s been a lot. And sometimes I, like, power down? Like someone flipped a switch and suddenly it’s hard for me to emote about anything. I zone out, occasionally. I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you, or that I wasn’t having a good time.” The words pour out of you, unbidden, and Carmen can see the dots connecting in his own head. You’re defending yourself. You feel like you have to defend yourself for not engaging in conversation. At the realization, his anxiety dissipates as quickly as it came. Of course it wasn’t about him.

Turning to face you in the car, he shakes his head, “No, hey, you’re good. We’re good, yeah?” He bites the inside of his cheek, before continuing, “You don’t have to…just because we’re not at your shop doesn’t mean you have to act any different. And if it’s too much, we don’t have to…” His voice trails off.

Mirroring him, you also turn. His eyes catch on your hands, thumb pressed into the middle of your other palm. “No!” You cringe at yourself, “Sorry, I mean – I want to hang out, outside of work.”

“Okay,” he says, lightly. He lets you sit, watches as you take a few deep breaths. He subconsciously echoes you, inhaling when you exhale.

After a couple of minutes, you nod, “Okay. Maybe we could make plans? Like check our schedules and have a place picked out. Or a list of places we want to try?”

“Restaurants?”

“Or cafes. They don’t have to all be food places. It’s a common denominator between us, though.”

“Having a plan makes it easier?” It’s like he’s pulled a bit of the covering back, revealing a different piece of you.

You hum, “Yeah, most of the time.”

“Cool.”

It’s cool with me, if that’s what you need.

You peer over at him, “Sorry, if I weirded you out.”

“You didn’t.” At your squint, he scoffs, “If anyone should be weirded out, it’s you. You met half of my family today.” He ignores the assumption that pops up in the back of his mind.

Falling back into the passenger seat, you laugh. “A little.” You settle; Carmy can visibly see your shoulders untense. “It’s nice, the community you have.” It’s whispered, a little reverent.

A few months ago the comment might have made him bristle. He’s a little surprised it doesn’t, still.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

He puts on the playlist you made for him, and you brighten a little. The car ride back is filled with your singing, and Carmy is warm once again. He’s made you feel better. He hasn’t royally fucked anything up. He drops you off by your car, and you give a little wave before you peel away.

Carmy walks back into Nat’s house, finding her sitting in a recliner, baby tucked carefully in her arms. The party has slowed, only Pete’s family left.

Natalie’s eyes find his, a gentle smile on her lips, “Have a good time?”

Carmy nods, “You?”

“Very.” The siblings don’t need to say much, to talk, sometimes. It’s getting easier to read between the lines, like relearning a language. “I’m glad they came.”

He holds back a laugh, pleased. “Me too.”

As the leaves change and the air turns cold, Nan’s gets busier. Nothing crazy, but it’s enough that you have to hire another barista. You’re thrown into training the new kid. It’s fun and challenging, but you’re exhausted. Who knew that having to explain why you do the things you do took more brain power? And now every day you feel a bit like mush by the end of it.

“I’m just saying, Nan has to have some connections to powerful people.”

“Elle, that’s insane!” You laugh at your coworker’s gossip. “Nan is the sweetest person I know.”

“The mob boss energy she gives is massive, don’t lie.” Elle is your newest hire, and the youngest of the crew. She’s still in high school, with so much energy you have no idea what to do with. She also reminds you of how "old" you are every second of the day. You like her, though. Plus, she does good work, which you’ll never complain about.

“Hey,” Morgan yells your name, running into the back, where you’re washing dishes. “Your boyfriend’s here.”

You set the dish you’re washing into the sanitizer sink, sighing, “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“The guy from the restaurant?” Elle asks.

Morgan nods, hip checking you to the side to take your place by the sink. “We’re talking Carmen Berzatto. Who owns and runs The Bear.”

“Guys, don’t start.” You really hope the equipment sounds and the swinging doors are enough to muffle this conversation. If Carmy heard one bit of it he’d probably start running.

“We’re just teasing…mostly,” Morgan grins, sticking their tongue out at you.

Elle hums, “He watches you with puppy-dog eyes.”

“Elle.”

She holds her hands up defensively, “Right. I’ll shut up, boss.”

You groan, biting back a smile. “I’m clocking out.”

“I got the bar!” Elle dashes out of the back, and you snort. Saying bye to Morgan, you grab your bag and jacket from your cubby, before rushing out to meet up with your friend.

Carmy is puttering around some book displays, but he quickly swerves his attention to you. He’s wearing a denim jacket; it has some detailed embroidery on the sleeves and pockets. It’s not one you’ve seen him wear before, but you’re coming to learn that the man has a bit of an obsession with denim. His cheeks and nose are red, proof of the cold air that must be whipping around outside.

“Hey,” he breathes out.

“Hi,” you say, walking up to the register so you can clock out.

“Old people,” Elle whispers next to you. You give her a glance, body warming with embarrassment. As you walk around the counter and follow Carmy outside of the shop, she yells after you, “We’ll make sure not to burn the place down!”

The bell jingles as the door closes. “She seems to be doing good.”

“She is, but she never fails to drive me just a little bit crazy? Not in a bad way, just different.” You wave your fingers up by your head, before pointing at him, “No work talk. That’s the rules of our standing lunch outings.” You follow Carmy down the road, letting him guide you through the streets he knows so well.

“Right, right, my bad.”

The ‘standing lunch outings’, as you’ve taken to calling them, have been a frequent addition for the last few months. At least once a week, the two of you will try a new food place. Carmy’s also started bringing leftovers from lunch service to the shop — sometimes enough for everyone, mostly just for you. You’ll bring him his drink on particularly long days, giving him a moment to hide away behind The Bear.

You’ve picked the current location — a waffle spot. All kinds of waffles, some even in sandwich form. The choice had caused Carmy to scoff lightheartedly, but he didn’t veto it.

“How are you not a waffles guy?” You peer over at him.

He shrugs, “I don’t know. They just seem…”

“Wonderful? Nostalgic? The tastiest breakfast item in the universe?”

“That’s incorrect, but sure.”

“Don’t start with me, Berzatto, or you’re buying.” He rolls his eyes at your antics, and the two of you go back to looking at the menu on the side of the food truck. A shiver runs through your body as cold air sneaks into your jacket. You rub your hands up and down your arms, tugging your beanie a bit more over your ears.

When it gets to your turn to order, you stutter over your words when Carmy shuffles up behind you, effectively blocking the wind. Warmth seeps into your back from his chest, and you stop yourself from leaning into it. You finish your order, the world fading into background noise as your thoughts race.

That had to be accidental, right? Casual touches weren’t really his thing. He’s not even that close. God, how touch starved are you?

“That’ll be $30.95.” You check back in too late, as Carmy reaches around you to tap his phone to the card reader.

“Carmen!” You turn to him, shocked. There’s a tiny little smirk on his stupid face. His dimple is mocking you.

“What?” He asks innocently.

“Wha-you!”

“You said I’m buying.”

You glare at him, “It’s not funny when you’re clever.”

“I’m always funny.” It’s deadpan, and he ushers you to the side to wait for your food. “Besides, technically it was my turn. I just couldn’t pick a new place.”

There’s space between you again, which makes your chest ache. “Both of us can’t be indecisive in this friendship, Carmy.”

He huffs out a laugh through his nose, “Don’t think we have a choice in that.” Giving you a look, he says, “You can go wait inside, if you want. I’ll wait for the food.” You open your mouth to retort, but he cuts you off, “You’re gonna freeze to death out here.”

“I’m acclimating,” you pout.

“Sure.” He nudges you with his elbow, and it’s embarrassing how easily you soften. You puff out your cheeks, but mozey to the indoor seating area of the food cart pod. Taking a seat at a table that gives you a clear view of Carmy, you give him a wave. He shakes his head good-naturedly, waving back.

You’ve enjoyed spending time with Carmen Berzatto more than you thought you would. You’d thought you would have run out of things to talk about by now, that it would turn awkward, or he’d get tired of you and disappear from your life as quickly as he’d entered it. But none of that has happened yet. Instead he’s found a place in your routine, fitting seamlessly into your life like there’d always been a space for him.

He’s come out of his shell more. He smiles easier, and the lines in his forehead from the constant furrow in his brow has eased somewhat.

You think maybe he feels just as safe with you, as you do with him.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

(from mom, 2:34pm): Are you at work? Haven’t heard from you in a while. Your grandpa isn’t doing the best.

Three separate blocks of texts are suddenly overtaken by an old photo of your mom. The image causes your stomach to drop and you immediately flip your phone face down onto the table. You take a few deep breaths to try to calm down, but it feels like someone has shoved their hand into your chest and is squeezing as hard as they can. You press your thumb into the palm of your hand until your phone stops buzzing. Biting your tongue, you grab it, opening up your texts. You type out a response, only to delete it.

“I might be eating my words about waffles being shit,” Carmy’s sudden appearance makes you jump. “Woah, sorry. You good?” He slides your waffle order across the table.

“Uh, yeah. Just spooked me,” you put a smile onto your face, shoving your phone into your pocket. “Now go on, I love to hear I’m right.”

The first bite has his eyes widening, a hushed ‘shit’ leaving his lips before he can cover his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Word’s out, Carmy likes waffles!” He throws a napkin at you, causing you to cackle. A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he takes another bite, waving you off.

Carmy eats like a monster, so messy and boyish it’s endearing. You match his pace, engrossed in the food in front of you, texts forgotten.

“What are you doing?” Syd walks over to where Natalie is peeking through a window. The younger woman glances outside where Nat is looking, and sighs, “You know they can see you if they look over here.”

“They’re literally oblivious. Does this happen a lot?” The blonde pulls out her phone to snap a photo.

You and Carmy are a few feet away from the front door of The Bear. You’re chatting, and it’s easy to tell that neither of you want to be the first to leave. Carmy is hovering next to you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

“Don’t take a – yes, this happens a lot. Like once a week, or something.”

Natalie whips around to face her, “And you haven’t told me?!”

Syd shrugs, “I don’t know. I was worried it was going to be like…last time. It doesn’t matter, it’s not my business.”

“What do you think they do?”

“Rob banks — who knows, Nat. It’s not affecting work and he’s been less of a douche lately so I’m not complaining.”

“Are the lovebirds outside?” Richie comes out of the kitchen, adjusting his tie.

Natalie turns to him, “What do you know?”

“Oh my god,” Syd groans. “I’m going to go prep, before this turns into a whole thing. Richie, don’t fuck this up for us.”

The man gives a two-finger salute, “You got it, boss.” At Nat’s pointed look he holds his hands up, “Alright, alright, chill out. Look, I’m not trying to fuck with anything, okay? The place has a good thing going for it right now, so if that means we let the kids disappear for an hour or two once a week, I’m cool with it.”

Natalie frowns, “It’s not that I’m not cool with it. I just—“

“Have to know what’s going on at all times?”

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, “No…yes. Maybe? Things have been getting better but I just get worried.”

“Maybe we gotta let him decide who he wants to talk to and when. Forcing the conversation obviously isn’t working.” Natalie blinks at him in surprise, at which he laughs, “Something my therapist said.”

“You have a therapist?”

“Now don’t go spreading that around. It’s mainly to help Eva. I wasn’t planning on doing more than one stupid session anyways, but Point Pleasant out there convinced me one night when they were watching Eva, so.” Richie is never sheepish, but there’s an obvious fondness for you that Natalie can see on his face.

“Point Pleasant?”

The man screws his face up, “Yeah, it’s not sticking, is it? Mothman feels too on the nose. Don’t even get me started on that, it’s all my kid wants to read about now.”

Just how much change have you already caused in this family of theirs?

Natalie barely has time to dig into the thought when Carmy walks into the restaurant. There’s a smile on his face, one that falls slightly when he spots the two of them standing by the window.

“Hey Bear.”

“Hey, didn’t know you were coming by. I would’ve grabbed you some food or something. Have you eaten?”

Natalie blinks, shocked. She bites her tongue before she can ask where her little brother went. “I’m okay, Carm. Thank you, though.”

“Yeah, no problem. Gotta help prep, but touch base with me before you leave?”

“Sure, Bear.” Carmy gives a nod, pats Richie on the shoulder, then walks through the kitchen doors. “What the fuck?”

Richie snorts at her words, “Yeah, I thought the same thing, too.”

(from carmy in the big blue apron, 10:34pm): Lights are on, but I don't see you. You good?

(sent 10:37pm): not having the best day, don’t really want to subject you to that.

You think that does it. Carmy usually doesn’t push it with you. There’s a crudely drawn line that the two of you dance around. You’ve shared just enough that you consider him a friend, but he hasn’t seen the darker parts. It’s easier when you get to take the mask off yourself — it’s much worse when it gets torn from your face without you saying so. Control slips from your fingers and no matter how hard you try to put the shattered pieces back together, it fails.

(from carmy in the big blue apron, 10:41pm): You wouldn’t be. Feel free to tell me to fuck off though.

A laugh escapes your lips, and you wipe the tears that steadily fall down your face. Few people in your life have seen you like this. There’s a very real worry in your head that it will push him away. The urge to run crawls up your spine.

Desperate little rabbit.

Your fingers twitch, and you’re typing before you can stop yourself.

(sent 10:43pm): there’s a spare key in the hanging flower pot

You’re unsure if he’s still out front, but you can’t bring yourself to get off the floor. There’s static in your head that’s far too loud. You can barely feel your body and any grounding techniques you’ve tried haven’t worked.

He finds you in between the books, your back against one shelf, knees pulled up to your chest. He doesn’t say anything, but sits down opposite of you, legs extended. It takes a moment for you to look up at him, fear and shame filling up the back of your throat. You fight the tears that well up, grimacing.

“Fuck,” you sob, pushing the palms of your hands into your eye sockets. “You really don’t need to be here right now.” You inhale, almost choking on the spit and mucus in your mouth.

There’s pressure against your left side, and you lift up a hand to watch Carmen nudge his leg against yours. “I, uh, have panic attacks, sometimes.” You sniffle, wiping your nose on your sleeve — gross. “They were bad, before I came back home. But they got worse after…” he trails off, clearing his throat. “Shit, what I’m saying is…if you need someone to talk to, you can talk to me. Not anything you don’t want to.”

You don’t say anything for a while, but Carmy continues sitting next to you. He doesn’t make a run for it, like the thoughts in your head predicted he would. It’s just you and him under the warm lighting of the bookstore. The heat from his leg has melted into yours, softening you enough to let the overwhelming feelings leave you.

Inhale. Hold four seconds. Exhale.

He's doing your breathing technique, you realize. Carmy might not even notice he's doing it, but you copy him until the lingering panic fades.

Your pinky reaches out from where it was clenched into a fist, brushing against his hand that’s resting on his bent knee. His eyes shoot over to you, and a wry smile tugs at your lips. “Bet you weren’t expecting this when you came over tonight, huh?”

His brow furrows, fingers catching yours, “It’s okay, really.” Your hands entwine, Carmen’s thumb moving back and forth across your knuckles. You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to fight the onslaught of tears for an entirely different reason.

He's sweet. So much so that you don't know what to do with it.

“Thanks, Carmy.” You let your head fall back to rest against the shelf behind you, already feeling a migraine start to form behind your eyes. “It was stupid. I dropped my phone and it bounced off a table and hit my foot. It didn’t even hurt, but it was the thing that broke the camel’s back, I guess.” Thoughtlessly, your fingers have started to trace the tattoo on the back of his hand, the motion soothing you. “This week has been shit. Little things, stacking up.” Running out of vanilla syrup, sleeping through your alarm one morning, your car needing a new battery. “And my mom called. Has been calling. She doesn’t stop. Every day she calls and every time I can’t bring myself to pick up because I know it’s just going to make me feel worse. Haven’t heard from her in months and now all of a sudden she won’t leave me the fuck alone.” You spit the words out, “She only talks about herself and when she even thinks to ask about me she never really cares. It’s like she has this idea of me in her head, that I’ll never be — that I don’t want to be. I can’t meet her expectations. I’m not her perfect little girl anymore and I wish I could just scream that in her face but anytime I talk to her it’s like I’m suddenly…” it’s half a scoff, half laugh, “…suddenly I’m in that house again and I just stand there, not saying anything.” As if realizing where you are, you pull away from Carmy, curling back into yourself. “Shit, I really didn’t mean to trauma dump on you.”

Your relationship with your mother is complicated. It’s layers upon layers of things that you barely have time to dissect. You’re known to be a runner. A new place, new job; you can remake yourself as many times as you want. As much as you think it’s easier, your heart hurts just the same. She doesn’t call you by your name. She can barely treat you with common decency and yet she sends you money when you need it. She loves you, but not how you want her to. It’s the best you’ll get from her.

But you’ve experienced better than that, from people who’ve known you less. It puts everything into perspective — a big, red warning sign. You’ve crafted masks to fit your face into exactly what people want from you your entire life. You’ve tugged them from your skin in sheets, desperate to figure out who you are under the layers upon layers you had built to protect yourself. You’re finally starting to like yourself.

You’d hate to fuck it up.

Carmy’s quiet; you’re getting ready to sprint. Or backpedal. Anything to—

“That’s fucked.”

It’s the first time that your gaze meets his. Blue eyes reflect the fairy lights above you. Your heart is thundering in your ears.

“It’s fine, I know how to handle it, usually.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” Something passes through his gaze, like he’s seeing something else for a second, but it passes with a huff. “Look, I get it, the expectations thing. It’s not all the same, a-and I’m sure there’s way more to it then just…what you’ve said.”

“Carmen—”

“You don’t need to change, is all I’m saying.” Before you can respond, he gets off the floor, knees popping. His hands are held out for you, and you’re reminded of that night at the end of Natalie’s driveway. You’ve touched his hands tonight more than you have the entire time you’ve known him. “C’mon, let’s get you something to eat.” At your scrunched face, he hums, “I can make grilled cheese.”

“You’re playing dirty.” You let him pull you up, wiping at your face. “I probably look like a mess.”

“Lemme see,” he murmurs. He looks you over, making a point of brushing imaginary dust off your shoulders. “Nah, you’re good. It’s dark enough that nobody will be able to tell.”

He’s offering you a reprieve; it warms your insides. You take it, letting the achy emotions be folded and put away to be processed later.

You pout, “With the bright lights in your kitchen showing how blotchy my skin is?” Even the idea of the white lighting bearing down on you makes your oncoming migraine twinge.

Carmy helps you collect your things, bending down to grab your phone from its place on the floor. “We don’t have to go to The Bear. My apartment isn’t too far.”

Your heart skips a few beats.

“Your place?”

He’s looking at you again, “Uh, yeah. If that’s fine. Didn’t want the lights to hurt your eyes.”

How can he see you so well? How can he walk right through your carefully built walls?

Maybe because you've given him the map. Bit by bit, piece by piece.

He’s grabbed your keys now, tote too. It’s thrown over his shoulder, looking every bit like he’s ready to hit the Saturday Farmer’s Market. You’d giggle if you weren’t so exhausted.

“Okay.”

“S’fine?” At your nod, he says, “I can drive, then drop you off at home, after. Didn’t see your car outside at all. Or, I could just drive you home now. Whichever.” He’s nervous, hand tightening on the strap of your bag.

“I want my grilled cheese,” you whine, gravitating toward him.

He laughs, “Alright, alright.” Urging you out the front door, he turns and locks it. “I’ll grab some stuff from the restaurant, my car is parked in the back. You want to go and warm it up?” Carmy digs around in his own pockets, tugging out his own keys, detaching the car fob and holding it out for you.

Mama Bear.

The thought has you biting your lip to keep the grin off your face.

It’s a quick walk to The Bear, and as he waves you off, you call out his name. “My stuff?” His cheeks flush — is it from the weather or you? He shrugs your tote bag from his shoulder, and you take it from him. “Won’t be too long?”

Carmy coughs, voice a bit higher than normal, “Yeah, like five minutes?” He turns, “You go ahead. There’s an extra sweatshirt tossed in the back somewhere, if you’re cold. It’s almost November and you don’t have a real jacket, you’re gonna freeze.” That last part is mumbled you barely hear it.

Your breath catches, and you press the palm of your hand into your chest.

Please, let me keep this.

Thoughts whispered into the wind, to the universe. A silent plea. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything more.

It’s the smile he gives you — after he opens the driver’s side door, handing you a plastic bin filled with cheese and a loaf of bread — when he notices you’re wearing the sweatshirt he offered you, that just affirms your thought. You want him to keep smiling at you like that.

The fluttery feeling spreads from your chest to your limbs; your fingers tingle like they’re waking up from sleep. It doesn’t catch, but settles into the warmth you’ve come to affiliate with Carmy’s presence.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Mhm,” you reply, “thinking about that grilled cheese.” You peer into the bucket he’s given you. “So fancy.”

“You’re sleep deprived.” He put the car in reverse, putting his hand behind your headrest to look behind him. You live up to his words, because you head butt his arm with your forehead gently. It’s not something you would normally do — if you were more awake, if your migraine wasn’t pulsing. But you’re tired, and Carmy has given you more comfort than you know what to deal with, it’s spilling over your edges. You don’t see him react, and let him pull his hand back so he can drive. “You got the aux?”

You give a two-fingered salute, “Tune master, to the rescue.” The laugh you pull from him — gentle, a bit exasperated — is filed away for later. You’ll hoard it, along with every little bit of himself he gives to you.

Inhale.

Let me keep this.

Exhale.

You’re in his kitchen.

His actual kitchen, not the big, fancy one that he’s known for. Dingy, warm lighting on above the stove, messily written notes to himself about recipes on his fridge. He hasn’t had someone at his place since…

He shakes the thought away, determined to make you feel better. The buzzing anxiety he thought he’d have hasn't made an appearance, and he’s locked into making you the best damned grilled cheese you’ve ever had (again). He may not be the best with words, but he can do this.

You’d asked him fairly quickly after you got to his place, if he would mind if you smoked a little before eating. “It’d help me get an appetite, and help my brain a little bit,” you had said. “If it would bother you though, I won’t.” You had seemed nervous to ask; Carmy wonders if you’ve ever smoked in front of anyone.

(You hadn’t. But you also hadn’t had a meltdown in front of anyone either. Plenty of masks have come down tonight, what’s another?)

He had shown you to the tiny patio, watching you through the window as you blew smoke through your lips. You were only out there for a few minutes, coming back in looking a little sheepish. You’d poked around his living room a little, before meandering your way to him.

Inevitably, you end up sitting on the kitchen counter that juts out from the wall. You’re sipping on a can of pop — through a plastic straw you had floating around in your tote bag — going between scrolling on your phone and peering over to see what he’s doing. He’s shredded the cheeses he’d brought home, layering them onto some spare sourdough. A mix of softened butter, mayo, and garlic powder has been spread thinly across the slices. It’s set into the frying pan with a slight sizzle, when movement catches his eye.

You’ve grabbed a pinch of cheese from the plate, shoving it into your mouth so fast he barely catches it. You hold your hand over your lips, hiding the evidence.

“Did you just—”

“Woah, that’s crazy,” you look around with wide eyes, “did you see that? Some random guy just ran in here and stole some cheese! I tried to stop him and everything!” You’re laughing at your little stint, and he can’t help but join you.

“Oh yeah?”

You lean forward, snatching another handful, “Oh my god, he just did it again!”

He waves his spatula at you, “I saw you!”

You use your other hand to cover his eyeline. “How dare you accuse me of thievery, Carmen!” you exclaim, muffled by cheese. He bumps your knee with his hip, failing to hide his grin, and you poke his thigh with a sock-covered foot. He’s tired; you are too, but both of you are used to the exhaustion. Fatigue giving way in the early hours for something else, soft and silly.

Got a sneaky one there, eh, Bear?

You fit nicely into his space. His sweater suits you, too.

He finishes the sandwich quickly, sliding it onto a plastic plate, before turning to hand you your food. A gentle laugh escapes him when you do your little “happy food dance” as you grab the plate from him. He watches as you nibble on the corner, easing closer to you.

There’s that pull again. One Carmy doesn’t bother to fight. How could he, when you’ve done nothing but make him feel like a person? He’d make another billion grilled cheeses, if it meant he got to see you enjoy it every time.

“Carmy.”

“Hm?”

“Bite?” You hold out half of the sandwich out to him, and he steps between your knees, where you sit criss-cross on the counter. He grabs it from you, and you share the late-night snack in the dim lighting of his kitchen. When you’re both done — plate set on the counter, hands wiped free of grease on a paper towel — Carmy lingers.

It takes him by surprise when your fingers brush against his forehead. He freezes, letting you tug softly on a stray curl. A light huff comes out your nose, like you’re laughing at a joke only you can hear.

Carmy thinks this might be the closest he’s gotten to peace.

“Thanks,” you murmur into the quiet, “for being with me while I was…”

“Yeah, no problem.” He braves the prick of anxiety, the voice in his head telling him he doesn’t deserve this, giving your calf a gentle squeeze where he knows your Mothman tattoo hides under your jeans.

You haven’t run away yet.

In fact, the way you lean into his touch, your own hand drifting from his forehead to rest on his shoulder, only makes him want to touch you more. It’s a desperate thing, one that comes out of nowhere. You've trusted him with something; you've let him care for you, in the way he knows how.

"Can I hug you?" The question, whispered into the quiet, knocks the wind out of him.

"Y-yeah," he all but falls into you, arms wrapping around your waist as you pull him in by his shoulders. You rest your chin on his shoulder, rubbing his back with one hand.

He squeezes you instinctively, and you squeak in surprise, before dissolving into giggles. You pull away just enough to see his face, "I didn't think you were much of a hugger."

"M'not."

You hum, eyes searching his while you run your fingers up and down the length of his arms.

"I didn't think you were," he mumbles, "for what it's worth."

You shrug, "I am with people I'm close to. I know it's different for everyone. Or that some days I don't want to be touched, because I'm overstimulated, or something. It's okay, though?"

Better than okay. Maybe he's contact high, but he's sure that's not right. He's safe; not on edge, yet every nerve ending is alight because you've touched him.

He has no idea what the fuck is going on.

You've made him crazy. Or the sanest he's ever been.

Say something, dipshit.

Fuck, right. You're waiting for him to reply, eyes wide.

"S'cool. Nice." He coughs, "It doesn't bother me." Your nose is scrunched, cheeks puffed out. He pokes your cheek, "Did you want me to drive you home?" Carmy forces himself to back out of your space, going to put the dishes in the sink to be washed later.

"We could watch a movie?"

"I don't really have anything..."

"You don't have streaming services?"

He looks at you over his shoulder, eyebrow raised, "You think I have time to watch Netflix?"

"You can have my login. At least until it kicks you off." You hop off the counter, "We should watch a Disney movie."

His heart warms as you start to talk — mostly to yourself — about what movie to put on.

It's 2am, he's exhausted, but he's never been more awake.

#carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #the bear fanfic #neurodivergent!reader #— moth writes #spiced chai

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