#richie and i would know <3< /div>
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josephtrohman · 6 months ago
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It’s doing weird things to his brain because it’s both familiar and comforting, but at the same time, it’s all wrong... Or: Patrick dressing like a past era of himself at Download Fest has Joe thinking lascivious thoughts that he can’t help but act on.
if you were also left feeling ways and thinking thoughts about tttyg era beartrick at download, my friend and i wrote a fic you just might enjoy <3
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lylahammar · 6 months ago
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I've been rewatching the first two seasons of The Bear so I can watch the third season that just came out and man the character writing in this show makes me froth at the mouth it's like some of the best arcs I've ever seen in a TV series
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woodsborostabathon · 5 months ago
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have been fighting for my life trying to find this one richie/ethan x reader fic (it was like. an ethan fic but there was a pretty significant sort of kind of fake dating richie subplot) on here that i rbed onto a sideblog on my old acc and saved NOWHERE ELSE apparently bc it was so good but im getting NOTHING 😭
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randomchaotichuman · 1 year ago
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just watched the first season of the bear (the second one is not available in my country yet) and I need more fanfics for this show
give me everyone else in the restaurant realizing Syd and Carmy are basically dating without realizing
give me a look at Richie's life pre divorce and Mikey's death (I have the headcanon that Michael was his kids godfather)
give me a social media au where the general public gets to react to the absolute mess that somehow works that is that kitchen
or maybe some network offers them a shit ton of money in return for allowing them to make a documentary on the start of the restaurant, which means the in universe audience is just reacting to that
give me the crew finding out Syd and Carmy are together through security cam footage of a day where they stayed last to finish cleaning up and maybe made out a bit
I have so many ideas, but don't really want to write them because I am shit at writing romance and haven't really seen the second season. If anyone writes these let me know, please, if not, wait a couple of months and I might write them myself.
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╰┈➤ SHUFFLE AU
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DESTINATION POINT (DP)
the Leo/need adjacent unit, composed of Ichika Hoshino, Airi Momoi, Ena Shinonome, and Minori Hanasato. ☆ a girl who's lost her friendships, and three others searching for their worth.
about the group's name: ♡ originally, i had "from here to there" in mind, but someone from the Discord gave me the name "destination point" and i thought it was much better, so i went with that. ♪
about the SEKAI: ♡ the Train SEKAI. no one knows when it left, or where it's going - just that it never stops. it's the perfect place for those who feel like they're lagging behind. just close your eyes and let yourself be carried away, right? but maybe there's something you can do… starts with a Miku and a Rin. the former's hardworking and talented, but the latter struggles - Rin is somewhat influenced by Ena's (and, to a lesser extent, Airi's) jealousy towards others.
Ichika hasn't managed to rekindle her friendship with her friends, and she's not doing particularly well. At one point, she meets Airi - who just quit being an idol. The two start talking and become friends, at which point they end up forming a band together. Airi wants to try finding a place where she could finally be taken seriously.
Ena's invited by Airi, and Minori - who had failed auditions recently - ends up inspired by Ichika's kindness, Airi's drive and Ena's determination, which is how she joins. (Haruka completely gave up on being an idol; something Minori is saddened by.)
In my mind, Ichika plays the guitar; Airi, the drums; Minori, the keyboard and Ena, the bass.
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IDEAL HEAVEN! (IH)
the MORE MORE JUMP! adjacent unit, composed of Mafuyu Asahina, Emu Otori, Mizuki Akiyama and Shizuku Hinomori. ☆ an up-and-coming idol group that combines cuteness and sophistication.
about the SEKAI: ♡ quite similar to the Empty SEKAI, but with some idol influences - a broken stage with no one in sight. there's no bright lights, no colorful props. nothing. that SEKAI both comforts and pains Mafuyu. home to a lone Miku. sweet, hopeful, but genuinely crushed by the pressure she's feeling.
Mafuyu's mother wants a perfect child. idols are very frequently represented as being perfect - so, she decides that her daughter should become one, too. Mafuyu's not keen on the idea, but that's her mother; she's obedient, so she goes along with it.
Shizuku still quit Cheerful * Days, but instead of stopping altogether she ends up with Mafuyu. Emu wants to make people smile, but no one ever came; Wonderlands × Showtime was never a thing. so she decides to become an idol instead, even if it means she'll never bring back the Wonder Stage to its former state.
Mizuki's half-dragged into IDEAL HEAVEN! by Emu, who saw them looking with interest at idol merch. after bringing them to meet Mafuyu and Shizuku, Mizuki ends up accepting - the idea of wearing cute clothes and being called cute doesn't seem too terrible.
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READY MADE SUCCESS (RMS)
the Vivid BAD SQUAD adjacent unit, composed of Haruka Kiritani, An Shiraishi, Shiho Hinomori and Akito Shinonome. ☆ two street musicians chasing after their dream, and the two girls they brought with them.
about the SEKAI: ♡ the Street SEKAI. weirdly, it seems Haruka's idol background has somewhat influenced its appearance. its inhabitants are Miku, Meiko and Len. this Miku is levelheaded, but it seems like there's something holding her back from going all-in...
after quitting being an idol, Haruka is invited by An to join her.
An's never met Kohane, and she never found a partner. Haruka is hesitant for a moment before deciding to give it a shot, though she keeps struggling with singing. Shiho tries getting more experience, meets Akito. no one really knows how these two ended together, but they both have a similar drive and take music very seriously.
eventually, they all start working together. Haruka deals with her guilt and, while she doubts she'll become an idol again, she's mostly made peace with what happened.
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STARLIGHT ☆ EVERMORE (S ☆ E)
the Wonderlands × Showtime adjacent unit, composed of Tsukasa Tenma, Saki Tenma, Kanade Yoisaki and Toya Aoyagi. ☆ a strange troupe of people who aim to help others through their performances.
about the SEKAI: ♡ still very much Tsukasa's, so it's the Wonderland SEKAI. [kanade goes there for the first time and dies. alas, they're still a shut-in and this place is simply too colorful for her poor eyes.] starts with a Miku and a Kaito, though this version of the former uses far less onomatopoeias.
Tsukasa figures he needs to show the world how much of a star he is himself, and he drags his siblings into it (with varying degrees of willingness).
a part of Saki still wishes she could be in a band with her friends; she's only somewhat managed to repair her friendship with Ichika. but she's still happy to do something fun and lighthearted after all her struggles. Toya's very excited to do something with Tsukasa and his siblings. he also gets to stick it to his dad, which, honestly - is a bonus.
out of the three, Kanade is obviously the most hesitant about the whole thing. but she sees Tsukasa's drive to make others happy, something she shares with him, so she ends up agreeing. Kanade is… slightly healthier physically on account of the stubborn people looking after her, as well as all the exercise she does she does as part of Starlight ☆ Evermore. mentally? eh… we'll get there. i need her traumatized to be interesting. <3
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LONELY SYNDROME (LS)
the 25-ji, Nightcord de. adjacent unit, composed of Nene Kusanagi, Rui Kamishiro, Honami Mochizuki and Kohane Azusawa. ☆ hidden behind avatars, these citizens of the web tell stories online.
about the SEKAI: ♡ the arcade SEKAI. this Miku is shy and withdrawn, though she one day hopes she'll be able to break out of her shell, just like Nene. alongside her is Luka - she has a bit of a teasing attitude and a catlike personality, but she always does her best to boost Nene's confidence.
about the group's name: ♡ syndrome refers to a group of symptoms - i paired it with the word lonely because i felt like it represented the atmosphere of an arcade. you're connected with people who share your interests, but at the same time, you're sort of separate from them. surrounded by people, but utterly alone…
Nene's social anxiety hasn't gotten better over the years. since she never joins Wonderlands × Showtime, she doesn't learn how to fight her stage fright.
but, she finds an alternate solution; using an avatar online. it's less stress-inducing, and it lets her pursue acting, in a way - it's not what Nene wants, but it's close enough. she figures she could be satisfied with that. Rui ends up figuring out what she's doing, and asks if he can help. Nene doesn't really have any reason to say no, so they start working together.
as for Honami and Kohane, they ended up on Nene's channel by pure accident. but her performances quickly became a comfort to them, since they were struggling at the time (the former because she no longer had her friends, the latter because of her lack of confidence).
unfortunately, ignoring your problems only goes so far, and eventually, her feelings give birth to the arcade SEKAI.
#// ooc#shuffle au#didn't bother detailing every SEKAI - they're mostly staying the same#destination point is accidentally very similar to richie's unit 💔#and ideal heaven! also. oh well. i didn't do it on purpose..........#my favorite out of these five is lonely syndrome & starlight ☆ evermore :D#which is evident because a) i developed lonely syndrome's story the most and b) starlight ☆ evermore has all my favorite characters#pushing my tenma agenda <3#lonely syndrome is like… dear to me because i struggle with very bad social anxiety and it's held me back so many times#so i relate to nene a bunch#i wish i could just - go out there and show people what i'm capable of doing. but i just freeze in place each time. it's easier to just…#give up. y'know? it hurts less.#and fun fact: lonely syndrome's luka is more or less based on rui? he's an important person in nene's life so you know -#i figured that it would influence one of the virtual singers. i love nene and rui's friendship ww#i put Kanade in the WxS-adjacent group because i wanted her to die <3#also. the potential of others finding out that this pathetic wet cat? is in a theater troupe?? insane. i think it's hilarious.#ready made success is a name i settled with despite not being very satisfied of it - so changes might happen!#there's some angst potential in there. i put some for emu too :3c#anyway. enough rambling in tags. i feel bad 💔#i'm insanen over them. if you have any questions - feel free to ask. teehee <3
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slashersweethearts · 2 months ago
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really luv pondering the duality of my oc ships bc both amber and richie pulled the cute but weird girl w little to no real connections outside of them who had literally never been w anybody else.
n yet amber wound up w the most obsessive bitch to walk woodsboro’s 2 streets and 1 cornfield who would need the jaws of life just to be kept away from her bc she will NOT leave her tf alone BUUUUT she is down bad enough to be willing to kill for her. even after getting broken up w and stabbed in the shoulder.
meanwhile richard is out here fighting for his LIFE just tryna get his bitch back bc it turns out his detached from others to a clinical level shawty (who didn’t even date him out of any romantic interest. she saw him as like a brother she just didn’t know how to turn him down w/o being and/or feeling mean abt it 💀) surprise surprise could also just detach herself from him w relative ease 😭 and he only cheated ONE TIME!!! (that she knows of 😭)
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willowdied · 1 year ago
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something something steph normally having a mild chill slightly nervous attitude about meeting the spankoffski's in any other universe, but in nerdy prudes must die , having this sinking and guttural nauseous feeling and terror because she almost took pete away from his family, she would have killed him, she fired a shot to do just that. he should be dead. and it's her fault. she is actively scared to meet them and has a hard time looking them in the eye
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enslaughts · 1 year ago
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sorry i'm still thinking about all the things carm and richie screamed at each other through the fridge door. forever yeah
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a-a-a-anon · 8 months ago
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i genuinely wish a real edwina character existed so bad. genderbent eddie who punches men in the face yelling "HOW DARE YOU?" when she senses slight innuendo but flirts with bartenders to get free drinks and punches richie in the face when he gets jealous and when she has to wear a bra wears one so tight it cuts off circulation to her head so she's even dumber and orders one of every wine bottle and saves women from richie's seduction attempts only to flirt with them herself.... you are real to me and i love you. "just because I'm a bird, it doesn't mean I'm not handy with me dukes!" while beating a man over the head? would be even more iconic if said by an actual female character.
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thebearer · 8 months ago
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nothing in the world belongs to me |carmen berzatto x reader|
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prompt: still new in your relationship, you show up to the bear for dinner unexpectedly, surprising carmen and the others.
based off this prompt from the other day :)
contains: fluff lol. really, it's just fluff. established-ish relationship (the others don't know). carmen being a little nervous and possessive but mainly cute <3 language.
“Alright, listen up,” Richie stood next to Sydney, flicking through the piles of tickets that were ringing through by the second. It was normal now, an expected task in their routine. “We need to walk the focaccia to table seven, please.” 
“Yes, Chef!” A chorus of nearly robotic voices rose from the sizzling hiss of the lamb searing in Carmen’s pan, lifting the spatula to tip the meat over, before giving it back to the chef on the line. 
“And for table nine, we’ve got a shellfish allergy, alright? So let’s triple check the cross contamination on that. T, can you handle that one?” Richie moved from his leather bound book of notes back to the ticket. 
“Yes, Chef!” Tina chimed, pulling a freshly washed pan, filling it with the veal stock. 
“Table nine, is that- that’s the senator?” Carmen turned to Richie, tasting the roux bubbling on Victoria’s station, giving her a curt nod of approval. 
“No, that’s table eleven.” Richie hummed, looking back at his notebook. “Nine, is… a birthday. Booked online.” Carmen had already begun to drone him out, mind racing with a million other things as Richie listed the guests name. Until he got to one. 
The name Carmen was sure he was hallucinating. The name no one knew- How would they know? How could they possibly know your name? 
You and Carmen had been seeing each other for a little while. A few weeks that were slowly turning into months. A casual thing that was slowly turning more serious. Dates and meetups are becoming more frequent. You’d even invited him over to your place a few times, he’d spent the night last week. 
Still, Carmen hadn’t managed to tell anyone. Selfishly, he liked that you were all his for now. Privacy was not guaranteed in the Berzatto house, in Carmen’s life still. He knew they meant well, they always did- he knew it wasn’t purposeful, the intrusion that almost always led to a demise. Carmen wasn’t ready for it, not yet, he still wanted you all to himself. 
“Carmen?” Sydney’s voice pulled him out of his panicked trance. “Chef, are you- are you good?” Her voice lilted with that familiar suspicious quip, the one always accompanied with her lifted brows. 
“What?” Carmen blinked, hands buzzing, heart thumping. He could see the window, Richie’s frame blocking most of it. “Sorry, yeah- yeah, I’m good, Chef.” 
Sydney watched him carefully, a slow nod before she continued calling out orders. Carmen could feel Richie’s eyes on him, narrowed with curiosity. Carmen tried to be nonchalant, crossing the kitchen back towards Tina, his eyes cutting carefully, looking out the window. 
There you were. 
Sitting pretty at the middle table, surrounded by friends, some Carmen recognized from your Instagram. He’d actually logged in to the app, looked you up after the first date, consumed every photo of yours in the dark of his room. Cheeks burning with excited heat, stomach fluttering in a way he hadn’t felt since junior high. 
“Alright, walk five salads to nine.” Sydney called out. “Where’s our runners? God, Richie, can you run-” 
“-I got it.” Carmen called, the urgency in his tone making Tina jump behind him. Carmen took the tray before Gary could, his hands shaking as he lifted it. 
“Cousin, I can get it.” Richie frowned. 
“No, I-I got it.” Carmen nodded, swallowing down his fluttering nerves. His eyes cut to your table through the window, heart skipping when he saw you. “I got it. I’ll be- I’ll just be a second.” 
“I don’t- I can’t even handle that one right now.” Sydney sighed in exasperation. “Alright, Chefs. Let’s get back on track.” She announced, shaking her head. Richie frowned, pulling out his phone. 
Sugar’s cell buzzed against the hostess stand, excusing herself to check it. 
From: Richie 
‘Look at table nine.’ 
Sugar huffed. 
To: Richie 
‘Why? Is there something wrong?’ 
She stepped back, casually turning to scan the room, eyes landing on the table. A small group of girls, younger, and amongst them- Carmen? 
To: Richie 
‘Is something wrong with the food? Do I need to comp it?’ 
From: Richie 
‘No. Cousin wanted to go out there.’ 
Sugar frowned, angling her body behind the large plant near the front as casually as she could. She watched through the leaves as Carmen passed out the salads, each girl grinning widely, but their eyes always cut to one on the end. 
Carmen saved your salad for last, hoping the lowlights of the restaurant would hide his boyish blush, setting the bowl in front of you carefully. “Hey,” 
“Hi,” You smiled sheepishly, looking to meet his gaze. “Everything looks so good.” 
“Yeah? Thanks.” Carmen nodded. “I-I didn’t know you were comin’ tonight.” 
“I’m sorry.” You cringed softly, embarrassed heat flooding through your veins. You knew better, knew you shouldn’t have done this- showed up at his restaurant unannounced. 
“I, uh, it’s my friend’s birthday.” You nodded towards Alicia at the end of the table. “And I was telling them about that pasta you made me, and they really wanted to come try it.” Your nerves bubbled, rambling in nervous peals that seemed to pour out before you could stop them.  
“Yeah, no, that’s really nice. Thank you.” Carmen nodded, giving a half smile to your friends, hoping they didn’t see the way he wiped his clammy hands on his apron. “Why didn’t- Why didn’t you just call me? Tell me you were comin’ in.” 
“I didn’t want to bother you.” You muttered softly. “I honestly didn’t think you’d even see us here, I swear. I didn’t mean to bother you or anything-” 
“-You’re not bothering me.” Carmen’s voice dropped to a coo, accompanied with a soft smile that had your head spinning. “Never a bother, but, uh, next time? Bother me, ok? Wanna make sure you get the best seat in the house.” 
Your cheeks flushed with heat, your friends excited giggles only intensifying the rushing heat blanketing over your body. Carmen’s own cheeks heated, tongue rolling on the inside of his cheek to hide his grin. 
“Alright?” Carmen added, and in a complete act of shocking boldness, his hand squeezed your shoulder affectionately. A small gesture on the outside, but for Carmen, it was huge. 
“Alright.” You grinned, leaning into his touch, your hands sliding over his. 
“How’s everything so far?” Carmen turned to the table, nodding at the excited gushes of compliments, not missing the way your friends cut their eyes to you with animated glee. 
“Just let me know if you need anything, ok?” Carmen turned to you.
“I will.” You nodded, starry eyed with love sick affection. 
“Good. I’ll see you before you leave, alright?” Carmen muttered, ducking down towards you. His lips brushed over your cheek, your perfume clouding his senses. “You’re not botherin’ me. ‘M glad you’re here.” 
Your cheek pressed to his, a gentle, affectionate rub before Carmen parted. Both of your features painted with shy delight. 
Carmen could feel everyone’s eyes, through flickering gazes and lifted brows. Sydney’s gaze lingering over him skeptically, still counting tickets. Fak’s wide grin from the corner, loading trays to take out. 
“Hey, uh, Marcus.” Carmen ignored Richie’s raised brows, a teasing, questioning remark on the tip of his tongue. 
“Yes, Chef?” Marcus muttered, looking up from the cannolis he was garnishing. 
“Table nine has a birthday. I was thinkin’ maybe the chocolate ganache, punch it with the little circle to make it look like a cake. Add a candle?” Carmen muttered, hand rubbing across his face. 
“Yeah, Chef, I can do that.” Marcus nodded. 
“Thank you.” Carmen nodded. “And Chef? Let me know when it’s ready before you walk it.” 
Marcus frowned. “No, it’s not- I just wanna walk it, ok?” Carmen shook his head. 
“Alright.” Marcus nodded slowly. “Heard, Chef.” 
Richie smirked, leaning against the stainless steel table. “So,” Richie hummed. “There a complaint or somethin’? Need me to go talk to ‘em-” 
“-No,” Carmen snapped, the possessiveness in his tone startling the both of them. “Sorry, it’s- No, I-I don’t need you to do that, Chef. Everything’s good.” 
Richie nodded slowly, passing the dishes to Gary with a nod. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” 
“No, Chef.” Carmen clipped, an edge to his tone that was teetering on annoyed. “But, uh, there’s not gonna be a check on table nine.” 
“What?” Richie frowned. “Did you mess somethin’ up? Seriously, Cousin, if something's wrong it’s my job to know-” 
“-No, it’s not-.” Carmen huffed, eyes pinching closed, running a hand over his face in frustration. “Look, that’s… The girl on the end? I-I’ve been kinda seein’ her, ya know?” He muttered. 
Richie gawked, blinking in disbelief. “No shit.” He grinned. “No shit? You-You’re serious?” He turned to look out the window. 
“Don’t fuckin’ look.” Carmen hissed. “Look, it-it’s not a big deal, alright? Just don’t-don’t say anything o-or do anything.” 
Richie swallowed back a teasing remark, a reactive reaction from years of being with Mikey. How the two of them used to tease Carmen endlessly, until they were fighting on the front lawn, Mikey howling with laughter while Carmen was red faced with mortified anger. 
This time, Richie held back. He wasn’t sure why, call it divine intervention, a gut feeling maybe, but it felt different this time. 
“Alright.” Richie nodded slowly. “No ticket for nine. Heard.” 
Carmen’s foot tapped anxiously. “I mean, right? Th-That’s what I should do right?” Carmen looked over his shoulder out the window. “That would be shitty to give her a check? Be a complete jagoff move to charge her?” 
“Yeah,” Richie scoffed lightly. “Jagoff of the fuckin’ year. Makin’ your girl pay to come to your place.” 
Carmen’s heart swelled at the term- your girl. His girl. You were his girl. 
“Walk four Pappardelle to nine. Walk one Pappardelle vegetarian style to nine.” Sydney called. 
Carmen dipped the spoon in the glaze, garnishing the plate before sliding it towards Sydney. “So, you gonna take these out?” He muttered. 
“No,” Carmen huffed. “Gonna wait until the cake.” 
“Yeah, good idea, Cousin.” Richie nodded with a proud smile. “That when you’re gonna tell them no check tonight?” 
“No,” Carmen shook his head. “I don’t- It would feel weird comin’ from me.” He looked up at Richie. “I was gonna let you do it.” 
“Yeah, I can handle that.” Richie smirked. “And I won’t say anything, Cousin.” He stopped Carmen before he could say it. “I got you, Cousin. I won’t fuck it up, alright?” 
Carmen nodded slowly, a strangled thank you on the tip of his tongue. The door swung open behind Richie, and for a second, Carmen caught a glimpse of you. Smiling and laughing, leaned in over the table, no doubt giggling with your friends about him. Carmen’s heart squeezed, but this time, without fear. No, there was no dooming fear that you were mocking him, making fun of him. This time, he felt the content rush of adrenaline filled love. A change in his routine, yes. Unexpected, sure, but he was glad for it. Glad that you were there- here, with him.
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morganbritton132 · 2 months ago
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Thank you for feeding us with the Steve Has Older Siblings AU. God tier level of characterization I gotta say.
How do the older siblings handle the “Eddie Munson Problem”? I would imagine they actually do try to get rid of him at first given Eddie’s reputation but then realize he treats Steve better than any of them ever have.
Well, there is cash incentive.
Richard Harrington still has aspirations of going into local politics one days and he is not going let Al Munson’s son kill that dream. Or kill their son. Richard waves a dismissive hand in his wife’s direction because, “Of course. Of course. Or that.”
Whoever makes that boy disappear gets five thousand dollars.
(1.)
Claire takes a direct approach. She corners Steve and tells him that Eddie is a drug dealer and a drug user. She tells him about all the scary things that showed up on his toxicology report in the hospital and Steve replied flatly with, “Wow. Crazy. I had no idea.”
“I’m serious,” She says. “You could get hurt with someone like that. Do you know how that would make us feel if something happened to you?
“I fractured my ankle at a track meet once and Dad made me walk to the car afterwards,” Steve replies. “I think you guys will be fine.”
“I’m serious.”
“You know, Claire,” Steve nods to himself because, yeah. Sure. Let’s do it. “How have you felt the last three years? Or, I don’t know. The last two concussions? You have no idea what I’ve been dealing with for years now and – and you’ve never cared so why now? What’s Dad giving you to ruin my life because-“
He shakes his head, “This is not worth it. Like how picking up the phone when the mall caught on fire with me inside it wasn’t worth the effort. Tell Dad you tried really hard, but no. I’m not going to get rid of one of the few people in my life that actually like me.”
(2.)
Jason takes a different – dumber – approach. He goes in with no plan and no intentions, just took the opportunity when he saw Eddie’s van pulled off on the side of a backroad. He bangs his fist against the side and is delighted that he caught Eddie and Steve.
He threatens to beat Eddie up which is bold to say to an accused murderer in the woods, but okay.
Then he turns around and threatens Steve that he’s going to tell their dad that he was getting high in the woods if he doesn’t keep away from trailer trash, but Jason is fucking idiot because they were decidedly not getting high in the woods. He leaves with an eighth of marijuana and  no closer to five thousand dollars because Steve had just shrugged like, “Okay? Go ahead. Tell him.”
(3.)
Richie does not participate in this because he actually wants to improve his relationship with his little brother and he was the first person Steve went to after they got Eddie, barely breathing, to the hospital. He saw how shaken up he was and he also saw the bruising around Steve’s neck.
He knows what the bruising looks like. He knows how people gets bruises like that. And he knows that he’s a coward because he could not bring himself to ask a question he did not want the answer to. And he knows Eddie Munson.
Eddie is harmless.
All you have to do is have one conversation with the kid and you’ll see that he couldn't hurt a fly. Richie, however, had many conversations with him when Harrington & Associates took his case on pro bono so he knows just how harmless Eddie is.
He also knows that Eddie spends a lot of time trying to make Steve laugh. Richie has spent enough time in his life making his brother miserable. He's not doing anymore.
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dontmixpaintinyourcoffee · 1 year ago
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More of my favorite Prudes <3
Alright, left to right, top to bottom:
1. I just get the vibe that Grace has beef with Richie specifically but for no discernable reason ("Richie, the whole point is that it's in the dark!" + "No, this is where you GROW UP!") and the second the sentence popped into my head I had to draw it. Also consider how goddamn funny the image of Grace pulling bleach and gloves and a bone saw out of her backpack is because holy shit did she have a contingency plan
2. I think that Pete saw Ted as the coolest big brother in the world right up until the exact minute he introduced him to Steph and suddenly Ted had the power to be very embarrassing in front of Pete's friends. (He would be used to this, as this is standard older sibling shithead behavior, but he's never had friends for Ted to tease him in front of.) I do think the Spankoffski brothers are really interesting, especially with what an asshole Ted is. In Abstinence Camp Pete does seem to really look up to him. Ted does not hide the fact that he's a massive prick, so the fact that Pete sees him as a positive figure implies that he's one of the very few people that Ted actually tries to be a good person for. Makes a lot of sense too, the age gap between them is massive, so Pete has no way of knowing the kind of sleazy shit Ted does, he's just the cool older brother to him. Also heheheh I did the funny meme
3. All her brothers got one so I gave Webby a humansona. I don't know why she ended up looking like 90s Gwen Stacy but I kinda like it? I was going for classic straight-a student, not quite as frilly as Grace, but very academic and cute. I also think that Webby should be allowed to be a little cosmically horrifying as a treat (watching her casually fucking evaporate Willabella was so unnerving and cool, I would love more of that.) She lets herself be soft and gentle for Hannah's benefit, don't want to scare a little kid after all, but she exists far beyond those... Limitations.
4. Ok this one is highly inspired by a series of drawings by @samglyph , the concept of Ghost Ruth and Richie took my brain captive. So go show them some love!!!!!
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persevereforahappyending · 3 months ago
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No Man's Land |2|
Pairing: Sam Carpenter x Reader
Summary: Sam can’t help but be drawn to the cute stranger from her gym, even if everything about them makes them the perfect suspect, just when Ghostface has returned.
Warnings: Talks of Murder and Killing
Word Count: 3k+
Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15
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Sam had her head thrown back, trying to calm her nerves as she and Tara waited for Detective Bailey to arrive. When Quinn called her father, he had said he wanted to speak with Sam. He wouldn’t confirm or deny whether the killings on the news were the work of Ghostface, but he wanted her to come down to the station. Tara had refused to let her go alone and Bailey even agreed that he’d like to see Tara as well. They arrived at the police station first thing in the morning and were immediately escorted to an interrogation room, without anyone telling them anything.
Sam finally looked up when she heard the door open, seeing Bailey enter. “Sorry about the wait,” Bailey said, giving them an awkward chuckle.
“What’s this about?” Tara asked, tapping her fingers on the table.
“The killings,” Sam cut in. “Was it Ghostface?”
“We found this,” Bailey said, tossing an evidence bag containing a bloody card onto the table, ignoring both the girls’ questions. “At the crime scene,” Bailey sat in the chair opposite of them. “In which two of your,” he pointed at Tara. “Classmates were murdered. Care to explain?” he shrugged.
Tara leaned forward, her eyes widening at what was in the baggy before she looked back at Sam. Sam furrowed her brow as she took a look as well, her face instantly going white at seeing her ID, covered in blood, and in the evidence bag. “I lost my ID months ago,” Sam mumbled, shaking her head. “I had to get a new one.”
“Why didn’t you report your ID as stolen?”
“I didn’t know it was stolen,” Sam glared at Bailey.
Sam didn’t know detective Bailey too well. She knew he was a homicide detective and when Quinn decided to go to college at Blackmore, he transferred to New York so he could keep an eye on her. Quinn complained about him occasionally, usually saying how overprotective he was, though he did allow Quinn to live on her own with Sam and Tara, even though it would be much cheaper for her to live with him. Bailey always seemed like the typical dad, but Sam wasn’t sure, she saw danger around every corner but the majority of the time it was just her being paranoid.
“Where were you last night?” Bailey asked, getting back to his questioning.
“You can’t seriously think she’s a suspect,” Tara said. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m just trying to figure out what happened,” Bailey held his hands up in defense. “Do you have an alibi?” He looked at Sam.
Sam sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “I was at work,” Sam answered. “Then when I came home Chad and I went to the gym, then back to the apartment.”
“And someone can verify this?”
“Lots of people probably,” Sam shrugged. “Your daughter being one of them, she was at the apartment last night.”
“It’s true,” Tara said, crossing her arms. “We were all with someone the entire day. Anything else?”
“Your classmates,” Bailey said, pointing at Tara. “Had a Ghostface shrine, it seems they killed their professor a Ms. Crane.” Tara sucked in a breath, Sam didn’t know her personally, but she had heard Tara and Mindy mention her a few times. “Earlier this evening. Know anything about that?”
“Why would we? I barely talked to them.”
“Are you familiar with a,” Bailey flipped open a file, squinting his eyes at something in the file, “Richie Kirsch?”
Sam couldn’t help the way she shifted in her seat, trying not to react. “He’s my ex,” she answered with a tight-lipped smile. “And he’s dead.”
“Yeah, he and my best friend tried to kill us last year,” Tara snapped. “What’s this got to do with anything?”
“Well, it seems these boys,” Bailey said, tapping his fingers on the photos of the two guys killed. “Intended to finish his movie.” Sam and Tara’s faces both fell at those words. “It seems they were working on a plan to kill you two.”
“We don’t know anything about that,” Sam said.
“Right, right,” Bailey mumbled to himself. “So, it’s just a coincidence these two boys end up dead?”
“There are no coincidences when Ghostface is involved.”
“Look,” Tara cut in, seeming frustrated and tired. “Are we under arrest or can we go?”
Bailey looked between the two sisters then down at the photos and evidence bag. Sam held her breath as she waited for his response. She wasn’t sure what was going through his mind, he still never confirmed if Ghostface was back, and she didn’t know if Bailey suspected her or thought she and Tara were in danger.
“You’re free to go,” Bailey said. “Just don’t leave town,” he gave Sam a look, like he knew she wanted to run.
Tara didn’t hesitate to get up, nearly knocking over her chair in the process. Sam gave Bailey one last glance before following after Tara. They flagged down a cab and Tara gave the guy directions to Blackmore. When Sam furrowed her brow Tara showed her Mindy’s text saying to meet at the school so they could go over suspects before class.
Before she knew it Sam had her head thrown back again, this time as she sat on a bench outside Blackmore College. Everyone was already there when Sam and Tara arrived and since then Mindy had been standing in front of everyone pacing back and forth. Sam just wanted her to get to the point already, she wanted to try and get some sleep before she had to go to work. She knew she wouldn’t get any sleep though; she wasn’t able to sleep last night and there was no way she’d be able to before her shift, not with Ghostface out there.
“Suspects!” Mindy said, finally seeming to get to the point. “With Ghostface, most likely, back we should go over potential people who might want to kill us! Because Bailey clearly won’t be of any help.”
Sam couldn’t help but glance at Quinn. The girl frowned at Mindy’s words but didn’t move to argue with her. Mindy also didn’t bother sparing Quinn a glance, let alone an apology. Sam couldn’t help but frown at Quinn’s reaction, or her lack of reaction. Detective Bailey was Quinn’s father, and she wasn’t saying anything to stick up for him or defend him. Sam wasn’t sure if that alone was suspicious or if Quinn just knew by now there was no point in arguing with Mindy.
“First!” Mindy continued, holding up a finger. “Ethan! The shy, dorky guy who no one suspects because he’s just so shy and dorky.”
“I’m a suspect because I’m randomly Chad’s roommate?” Ethan questioned, gesturing at Chad awkwardly.
“Roommate lotteries can be fixed,” Mindy rolled her eyes as if it was the easiest thing in the world to do. “And second, Quinn!” Mindy turned, smiling at Quinn. “Tara and Sam’s slutty roommate, a horror movie classic.”
“Sex positive,” Quinn corrected. Though she didn’t seem offended by Mindy’s accusation like Ethan had.
“How did you come to live with Sam and Tara?”
“I answered their ad online.”
“No need to say more, you’ve implicated yourself enough!”
“It was an anonymous ad,” Tara said. “And we vetted her.” Sam nodded, she had done incredibly thorough questioning to both Quinn and Bailey when they were interviewing potential roommates. “Plus, her dads a cop.”
“And that makes it more likely!” Mindy gestured wildly. “Cop dad is a great cover! Besides, what are the odds, your dad, would get this case?” Mindy crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at Quinn.
“How the hell would I know?” Quinn crossed her arms, finally seeming to get annoyed by Mindy.
“And lastly, Anika,” she smiled at her girlfriend. “You aren’t clear either.”
Anika’s face fell. “Are you kidding me?” she asked.
“Sorry babe,” Mindy shrugged. Anika just scoffed, crossing her arms and turning her head away as she refused to look at Mindy.
“I think that’s all the suspects,” Mindy said, giving herself a little nod of approval.
“And Y/N,” Sam added. Everyone turned to her with raised eyebrows. “What?” Sam shoved her hands in her pockets. “I just think they should be on the list.”
“I thought you said you haven’t ever spoken to them?” Mindy narrowed her eyes.
“I haven’t.”
“Then why would they be a suspect?” Tara questioned, crossing her arms.
“Because we have the same schedule!” Sam tried to reason. “No matter when I go, no matter what day, or what time, they’re there.”
“Suspicious,” Mindy admitted. “Anything else?”
“They have fighting experience. Not sure how much but I’ve seen them train, they definitely know what they’re doing.”
Sam continued to ramble on about you. She told them once again about how similar your schedules seemed, even when it was well after midnight and there was no one else there you’d show up. She talked all about the kind of people you did talk to and how you were otherwise reserved. Then she got into your workout and mentioned how much you lift and how much you focus on either sparring with someone or hitting the punching bag. When Sam was finished revealing all her observations about you, she looked around at the others. Everyone was looking back at her with raised eyebrows, she was going to assume they were just shocked by her keen observation skills.
“They are pretty badass,” Chad added, holding a finger up. “I hate to admit it because they seem so cool,” he let out a little chuckle. “But the way they fought that dude in the ring,” he let out an impressed whistle. “I’d hate to see what they’d do to an enemy.”
Everyone’s face slowly morphed into one of worry. Ethan and Quinn gave each other a look of concern and Tara looked at Sam as if Sam would have a solution to their problem. Sam could only offer her sister a comforting smile, she didn’t know who this new Ghostface was, but she wouldn’t let him hurt Tara.
“Okay, we’ll add them to the list,” Mindy agreed.
Sam nodded. A part of her felt a little guilty for suspecting you of such heinous things when you’ve only ever been nice, but she couldn’t take the risk. She dated Richie for months and he betrayed and used her, she hadn’t even spoken a single word to you. Sam didn’t have a real reason to suspect you, besides the fact that you went to the same gym, which a lot of people went to, but none of them had even close to the same random schedule she did, and she had never seen any of them fight like you could. She hoped you were just the cute stranger from her gym though, and not some psychopath. But she knew her life, there was no way her first crush since Richie was just a normal person that went to her gym, and all the other stuff, the stuff that drew her to you, was just coincidence, she wasn’t that lucky.
After being satisfied with their suspect list everyone went their separate ways with most of them going to class, while Sam went to work. Sam managed to get home and change but didn’t have time for a nap before having to head to her job. She managed to make it to the diner she worked at, just before she had to clock in.
Sam tried to focus on work and not let her mind wander to Ghostface and what was happening. She ignored the way people kept glancing at her, she ignored the articles she saw on their phones when she came to fill their coffee cups, she ignored the way customers bumped into her, spilling their milkshakes, ketchup, and syrup all over her. She ignored it all, she put on her fake smile and apologized to the next person who bumped into her.
Sam glanced at her phone every time she had a spare moment, when she knew, she wouldn’t get caught by her boss. She ordered everyone to text her throughout the day, so she’d know they were okay. She ordered her sister though to text her every fifteen minutes, Tara had rolled her eyes, but she had been doing it, if Sam didn’t hear from Tara within the time frame she would try calling first and then head off to wherever Tara was supposed to be.
When Sam’s shift finally finished, she rushed home, ignoring the way everyone was lounging in the living room once again as she ran to her bedroom. She didn’t have long before she needed to be at her therapy appointment, and she needed to shower and change first. She moved as quick as she could, showering long enough to get rid of the diner smell but not long enough to actually enjoy having the water rain down on her.
“I have therapy tonight,” Sam said as she rushed around the living room, ignoring her still damp hair. “I’ll be back later.” Tara nodded. “Be careful, stay inside, and don’t unlock the door for anyone.” Sam gave all of them a pointed look.
“We know,” Tara sighed. “You be careful too,” she whispered.
Sam smiled at her sister, giving everyone a quick wave goodbye before making her way out the door. She made sure to lock all the locks and double check herself before walking down the stairs. Her neighbor Danny offered her a kind smile, holding the door open for her as he was coming, and she was going. Sam did a quick check of her surroundings before shoving her hands in her pocket and began making her way to her therapy appointment.
Before Sam knew it, she was sitting in her therapist’s office, pulling at her sweater as she refused to look her therapist in the eye. She hadn’t been seeing the woman very long, she was seeing a guy for a while but when he learned her dad was Billy Loomis, he basically stopped being helpful. When Sam found Doctor Williams, Sam had started the first session by telling her all about her father, if this therapist wasn’t going to be helpful either Sam figured she might as well figure it out right away instead of wasting all her time and money.
“We’ve been sitting in silence for twenty minutes,” Doctor Williams said, not looking up from her notepad as she continued to write something down. Sam wasn’t sure what the doctor could be writing considering she had yet to speak. “Your session is only an hour long, if you want to talk,” she glanced at her watch. “You might want to think about starting soon.”
Sam frowned and flicked a glare at Williams. “I met someone,” Sam said, breaking the ice.
“That’s good,” Williams smiled, setting down her notepad and pen. “How has that been?”
“Well, I haven’t exactly talked to them yet.”
“How-How does that work?” Williams furrowed her brow.
“We go to the same gym,” Sam nodded along with her words. She was sure this was probably making her sound even crazier than she already seemed. “We’ve shared looks and a few nods,” Sam smiled to herself
She didn’t miss the small smile still on Williams’s face. “And what’s stopping you from talking to them?”
Sam’s eyes drifted down to the carpet, she pursed her lips, nodding to herself. “I think someone is trying to kill me and my sister again.” She looked up to see William’s staring at her with wide eyes. “And they’re on the suspect list,” Sam gave a little shrug.
Williams opened and closed her mouth a few times, clearly trying to process her words. “You think the person you like is trying to kill you?” Williams said slowly.
“Well, not just them, everyone’s a suspect.” Williams nodded unsurely. “I’m not being paranoid,” Sam tried to assure. “At least I don’t think I am,” she shook her head. “Tara always says I’m too paranoid but this time there’s a legitimate reason.”
Sam’s words slowly died down as Doctor Williams raised her hand. “Let’s start from the beginning,” Williams said softly.
Sam swallowed, ringing her hands as she tried to calm her nerves. “There was a murder last night. Two boys in Tara’s class killed their professor.” Williams furrowed her brow. “Then someone murdered them in their apartment.” Williams opened her mouth, but Sam wasn’t done yet. “There’s no proof, but the killings might have been committed by Ghostface.”
“And what makes you think this is Ghostface? Are you sure he’s not just on your mind, it’s around that time of year, no?”
Sam clenched her hands together. “The two students, they were fanatics,” she rolled her eyes. “Fans of Richie apparently. They were planning on killing me and my sister, but someone killed them first.”
“And you think that someone is Ghostface?”
Sam nodded. “Ghostface would never let two kids,” she scoffed. “Take out me and my sister. Not that they could,” she ran a hand through her hair.
Before Doctor Williams could say anything else the timer went off, signaling the end of their session. “See, you next week, I guess.” Sam gave a shy smile as she got up from the couch.
“Wait, I don’t want you to do anything rash,” Williams rushed, following behind her but Sam was already out the door.
Sam checked her surroundings once again as she exited the building. She began her walk back to the apartment. When she got back to the apartment, she saw everyone still in the living room. “We got pizza,” Tara said, nodding to the box on the table. Sam snapped a glare at her sister as she dropped her keys into the bowl by the door. “Anika went to pick it up,” Tara held up her hands, but Sam didn’t miss the eyeroll.
Sam sighed, shaking her head at her sister as she made her way to her room. She got ready for bed, but her mind wouldn’t stop. She kept thinking about the killings, about Ghostface potentially being back, and who they could trust.
Taglist: @thatshyboy1998
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etherealxwitch · 1 year ago
Text
Breaking In
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Summary: What would you do if a masked man broke into your house?
WC: 4.3K
Warnings: SMUT (MINORS DNI), CNC, used he/him/his a lot since eddie is “mysterious”, mask kink, knife kink, blood kink, pain kink, slight humiliation kink, dacryphillia, reader having arms tied, a lot of hair pulling, degradation, teasing, oral (m and f receiving), fingering (f receiving), rimming (f receiving), choking, face fucking, gagging, cum play??, name calling, pet names, spanking (use of belt), slapping (face, tits), spit as lube, unprotected p in v sex, p in a, orgasm denial
an: huge shoutout to @corrodedcorpses, @bimbobaggins69, @trashmouth-richie, and all the discord servers for the help with this fic! truly don’t think i could’ve gotten it done without any of yall <3
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You felt him press against your backside as he trapped you between his hard body and the wall. "P-please… I’ll do anything."
He darkly chuckles as the mask presses against you, his breathing amplified. "Anything? It’s like you read my mind.” The cold blade of a knife trailed up your thigh, a gasp leaving your lips, stopping right at the edge of your shamefully soaked panties. “I love a girl who gives up so easily."
His cock tightened in his pants even more at how vulnerable you were already being for him. He was going to have so much fun playing with you, he knows you’ll beg for him. 
“I-,“ you choke on your words as you feel his hard cock throb between your ass cheeks. He was pressed so tightly against you that you could feel every part of him, and you couldn’t deny the need that ran through your veins. 
The masked man had busted through your front door minutes ago, chasing you throughout your house before cornering you. It all happened so quickly that it took a moment to process things. 
You immediately pleaded with him, begging him to take what he wanted and go. But what he wanted was you. 
He had tied your hands behind your back as he ghosted his calloused fingers over your body. And his voice, he had whispered so many things to you in such little time. He had many plans for you.
“What was that?” He slammed your head against the wall hard enough that you winced. “You’ve gotta have some words in that pretty little head of yours. I haven’t fucked you dumb… yet.”
You shivered as chills ran down your spine, and goosebumps covered your arms. “Just- please don’t hurt me.” 
“Hurt you?” He rested his masked cheek against yours, inhaling your sweet scent. “There’s always fun in a little pain,” the blade dug into your skin enough to cut you a little, causing you to whine. “I bet your cunt is throbbing.”
It’s a shame that he was right. Feeling the pain of it all did make your cunt throb in such a blissful way. Your face was heating up in embarrassment.
In one swift motion, you were turned around and pushed to your knees, now eye level with the growing tent in the man’s pants. “Well, it’s not gonna suck itself.” 
You gulped as he palmed himself. The heat radiated off his body, you could feel it engulf you. You could tell that he was big when he was pressed up against you, but seeing it more up close, you weren’t sure how it was going to fit. 
Hands grabbed your hair from the roots and angled your head back. You couldn’t see the man’s face, but you somehow knew that his eyes were dark with lust. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we can make it fit nice and perfect in your mouth.”
The man pulled your head so it rested against his upper thigh, his cock throbbing under the confines of his pants. You licked over his clothed cock, where the wet spot was forming from all the leaking precum. Your lips closed as much as it could around what you assumed was the tip, suckling on it.
A groan reverberated from his chest, and his head fell back as you took him by surprise. The warmth of your mouth over his hard cock had him bucking his hips. “You’re a desperate slut, aren’t you?”
He reached down and undid his zipper, pulling out his cock and slapping it against your cheek. “Let’s see you try and take the whole thing in your mouth.”
You whimper as the precum dribbled from the slit and over his knuckles as he pumped his cock. It made your mouth water with an urgent type of neediness.
“I don’t have the fucking patience for waiting.” He guided his cock to your lips, smearing precum over them. “Now, open that pretty mouth so I can fuck it.”
Without even a second thought, you obediently opened your mouth and stuck out your tongue. Once, twice, he tapped it against your wet muscle before sliding it fully in, resting at the back of your throat. He was right about having no patience.
“Jesus- c’mon, you can do it.”
His cock hit the back of your throat with each thrust of his hips. The mask did little to conceal his loud groans as you swallowed around him. “Knew I had to fuck this mouth as soon as I saw you. Ah shit- knew you’d be such a good girl and take it too.”
Tears began to fall down your cheeks as he held your head still, his cock sliding in and out of the back of your throat that you barely had time to breathe. You could feel your lungs burn with the need for oxygen. 
He gnawed at the inside of his cheek the further you took him into your mouth. In all honesty, he could blow his load right now, but he had to hold it at bay to make this night last.
You tried to rip out of the restraints he had your arms in, but the rope he brought was too strong. It kept you in a docile, just how he wanted you to be for him. 
“Awe, are you crying?” He swiped a few tears away as he pushed his cock further down. It was so far down your throat that your nose was in the thick patch of hair at the base of it, and his balls pressed wetly against your chin. “It’s a good thing I like criers then, isn’t it?”
He pulled you off his cock, strings of saliva connecting the two of you. “Do you like having your face fucked?” 
You looked up at him with big doe eyes, makeup smeared along with your tears, and your lips swollen from being used. No words found their way out of your open mouth. 
Slap! A ringed hand came in contact with your cheek, a pathetic, high pitched moan to escape your throat. “Oh, fuck,” He laughed at you as your face heated up in embarrassment. “You really do like pain. What a dirty fucking whore. Now answer the question.”
“Yes…” Your voice was meek, quiet. You shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as you are. 
He pushed your head further down and ran the velvety skin of his heavy sack across your lips. “Be a good slut and suck my balls, yeah?”
Your tongue rolled against them, massaging them before suckling on them. You couldn’t help but to moan at the feeling of them.
Above you, the man grabbed his cock, stroking in slow pumps and smearing some of the precum across your forehead. “Should I make a mess on your face? Paint you a pretty little picture.” 
His balls fell from your mouth as you went to shake your head, but a slap left your face stinging in pain mixed with pleasure. 
A whine left the back of your throat, causing him to chuckle at how much of a pain slut you really are. That’s information he’d use later. 
“Did I tell you to stop? Put them back in your mouth.” 
You let out a huff, pouting out your lips. “And if I don’t want to?” 
Another slap, and he was yanking your head back to his cock, waiting for you to get back to sucking, moaning the second your tongue licked at the leaky slit. 
You couldn’t not obey him, not when his cock was throbbing hard in front of your face, the tip red and angry. 
“See? It’s not that hard to be a good, useful slut for me. I bet you like this too, huh? Being used like a stupid toy.”
Your cunt throbbed between your legs, silently begging for some attention. How could you be enjoying this? This man broke in, was claiming your body as his to use, but your body wanted it- craved it even. God, you were disgusting.
“Wrap your lips around it,” he guided your head up and down his cock, the vein on the underside gliding easily across your tongue. 
“Tell me you love having my cock in your mouth. Fucking. Tell. Me.” He enunciated each word with his cock thrusting down your throat.
You tried, as much as you could, to talk around his cock. It caused more drool to drip from your mouth, down your chin, and across the peaks of your tits that spilled over the top of your dress.
“Can’t talk?” He ran a thumb over one of your hollowed cheeks, feeling his cock rest in your mouth. “Is your mouth too full? Too busy getting me off?” He was mocking your struggles, fake sympathy lacing his voice.
He held your head still, thrusting quickly into the back of your throat. The loud, wet gawk, gawk, gawk sounds of your gagging echoed off the walls. As embarrassing as the sound was, it made your cunt become more slick, your panties becoming more wet the more you heard yourself taking every inch of his cock.
A string of curse words slipped past his lips as your throat constricted around his massive cock. He swore he could’ve cum from that sight alone, the days leftover makeup running down your face, lips swollen and red, eyes glassy from all the tears you had been crying. You were the most perfect site he had ever seen. 
Between you swallowing around his cock and the warmth of your mouth, the man standing became closer and closer to cumming. And you could tell it by the twitch of his cock and see it in his stomach muscles tightening under his shirt. “Y-you better- fuck yes- swallow my cum.”
One hard thrust and a loud groan later and his body was shaking, cum shooting onto your tongue. Some of it dribbled out of the sides of your mouth, making you more of a mess. 
“My fucking god! You taste that? You taste what your mouth did?” He pulled his cock out, his cum and your spit stringing from it. “Show me your tongue.”
Instead of obeying this time, you spit all the cum that didn’t shoot down your throat, right onto the toe of his black boot. You made sure to look at the eye holes of the mask as you did it.
You yelped in pain as he pulled your head back, but you still had a proud smirk on your face. “Oops?” 
“Oops?” He voiced boomed, and he pushed your head down until your face was mere inches from his boot, his cum shining from the moonlight that peeked through your curtains. “Lick it up.”
You hesitated, barely sticking your tongue out. 
He lifted his foot, the toe of the boot now pressed to your lips. “Did I fucking stutter? Lick up my fucking cum.” 
The roughness of his voice has goosebumps forming over your skin. You were scared and horny, adrenaline pumping through your veins. 
You slowly licked up the mess you made, making a show of it. The salty taste lingered on your tongue until you finally swallowed, showing him that you finally did, in fact swallow.
“It’s not as funny when you have to lick my boot like some sort of pup, is it?” He pulled you to your feet and dragged you over to the couch, throwing you face down. “But it will be funny for me when you’re begging to cum on my cock, and I don’t let you.”
Your panties were pulled to the side, and your ass cheeks were spread apart as he looked at both holes that were displayed for him, deciding which one to use first. 
He breathlessly sighed as his thumbs pulled your pussy lips apart, slick stringing between them. His tongue wet his lips, a hunger for your taste growing inside him. 
He slowly dragged his thumb up and down your slit, collecting your slick, and caught your clit with the pad of his finger. You were dripping, and his eyes couldn’t leave where you clenched around nothing, a silent plea to be filled with whatever he was willing to give you. 
“You didn’t want this in the beginning, and now look,” his finger dipped in your cunt for a second, getting it nice and covered before pulling it out. He brought it to his mouth and loudly sucked on it, pulling it out with a soft pop! “You’re making a mess for it.”
The whines that fell from your mouth were loud. You wanted to speak, beg him to give you more, but all the words came out jumbled together. Your mind was already foggy from all the teasing. “I- yes- need it!” You could barely form a small sentence.
“God, you’re fucking gross for this.” He trails his gloved finger over your cunt and up to your puckered ass as he slowly rubs over the rim, “can’t wait to feel both of these holes as they squeeze my cock.” 
You heard the jingle of his belt as he pulled it through his belt loops. The hairs on your body stood up in anticipation for what was to come next. Suddenly, your mouth was dry as you tried to beg him. 
In one swift motion, his leather belt came down hard on your ass. Spank! “Tell me.” Spank! “Tell me that’s what you wanted.” Spank! “Tell me that you’re nothing but a filthy slut who likes to be fucked by a masked stranger.”
You cried out, heat rising to your skin.
Each spank, no matter how painful, made your clit throb harder. A sigh of relief fell from your lips as gloved hands rubbed over the tender, almost raw skin of your ass, soothing you. 
“I-I’m a filthy slut…,” your tongue rolled from your mouth and over your lips, trying to make your voice not so shaky. 
“And?” He waited for you to continue, his palm roughly rubbing over the welts forming from the belting.
“Who likes to be fucked by a masked stranger- oh my god.”
Two fingers quickly sunk into the wet heat of your cunt, down to the knuckles. They expertly pumped in and out at a slow pace, but it was enough to have you whimper into a pillow. “You’re making such a mess on my gloves, tsk, tsk.”
You let out a breathless sigh as he slid in two more fingers, scissoring you open. “Fuuuck.”
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” He felt you clench around his fingers and quickly pulled them out. “Oh no, no. I can’t give in that easily, can I?”
You tried to turn your head around to look at him, but he forced your face down. “Keep your head forward, got it?” 
He lifted up his mask just enough for his mouth to be free, kissing over the globe over your marked up ass. You rocked your hips back and forth, his lips comforting the sting that was still there. 
You could hear him inhale deeply. The sweet smell of your arousal had his cock twitching and leaking. He’s never smelled something so enticing. 
“Needy little thing.” He mumbled against your skin as his lips ghosted over your puckered ass. 
His tongue licked over it, the two of you moaning in unison. He moaned from the taste, and you moaned at the feeling of the feather-like touches. 
“More,” you pushed your ass closer to his face. “Pretty please.” 
He finally gave in, diving into your ass like it was his last meal. His tongue licked over your hole, getting it nice and wet before sliding it inside you. You clenched around his tongue, moaning loudly as he pumped it in and out. 
“Holy shit-,” your legs shook as his tongue opened you up more. 
He pulled back, a glob of spit fell onto the small gape that his tongue left. His thumb slides in with ease, another finger sliding in right behind it. “Look at that,” he pumped them slowly, his eyes never leaving the filled hole. “You like your ass being played with?” 
You nodded your head repeatedly, moans leaving your open mouth. “I- I love it!”
He kept his fingers deep inside your ass, his lips coming down to wrap around your throbbing, sensitive clit. His groans vibrated against you, your back arching. 
Sweat covered your body as he added a third finger to your ass, stretching your hole wide open so it could fit his thick cock. 
His tongue swirled around your clit before licking up to your entrance, teasing it before slowly sliding it in. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head, your back arching. You felt so full, and his cock wasn’t even inside you yet. 
“Taste so damn good,” he spit on your cunt, rubbing it in with his fingers. “Just like fucking honey.”
“T-thank you.” You yelped when you felt his sharp teeth nibble on your clit. The pain makes you mumble out words and moan pathetically.
“My little pain slut.” For another time tonight, you felt the blade against your skin. This time the knife dug deeper than before. 
You cried out in pleasure and pain as he carved his initials into your ass cheek, something to silently say that he owned you. He took his time, making sure that you felt every slide of the knife, the way it cut into you. 
Blood trickled from your new branding, sliding down your ass. The droplets didn’t get far, though. The man’s tongue was right behind it, licking up all that had spilled. 
Knowing that he was tasting you, your blood made the coil in your stomach almost snap. 
You were so close to cumming, you just needed a little more. “Please let me cum!” You grind against his fingers, the coil in your stomach tightening quickly. “Please, please, please!”
And just as you were about to finally cum, he pulled away, leaving both your cunt and ass empty. 
He pulled the mask down before turning your head to face him. “I said no cumming, remember?” 
You whined loudly, your fingernails making crescent shaped moons into the palms of your hands as you squeezed them. This was torture. Your body craved an orgasm so bad that your cunt was started to ache, but before you could protest, you felt the cold blade against your skin again. 
Gently, he slid the slightly bloodied knife under the waistband of your panties, quickly cutting through the fabric and ripping them from your body. 
“These are mine now.” You watched as he stuck the soaked panties into his back pocket, a little souvenir from tonight.
“Now,” he grabbed his cock and ran it through your sticky folds. “I’m gonna fuck you until you’re screaming so loud that maybe the neighbors get scared and call the cops.”
In a blink of an eye, his hips pressed against yours, and his cock was nestled deep inside your cunt. 
“Jesus- fuck!” His hands squeezed your hips, your cunt already squeezing him perfectly. “Such a tight and warm cunt. I should’ve done this a lot sooner.”
Your face fell into the couch cushions as your body adjusted to the size. He filled you to the hilt, balls squished against your clit. “O-oh, you feel so good.” 
He raked up your back, stopping at the base stopping of your skull to pull hard so your back arched. “I wanna hear you moan as you take every. fucking. inch.” He made sure to thrust with every word, his cock grazing your g-spot. It felt like the air was being punched from your lungs. 
“Yes, sir!” You moaned as he slowly dragged his cock out of you, feeling every vein, every ridge as your cunt clenched tightly around him. “Y-yes sir!”
He looked down where you two were connected, his cock already covered in arousal. “I’ve barely even fucked you, and you’re already creamin’ on my dick.” He snapped his hips, jolting your body. “Dirty girl.”
Your mouth fell open as moans spilled from your throat. Each thrust, each groan, was making you fuck back against him. “Don’t hold back.” You turned your head, resting on the arm of the couch to look at the masked man. “I-I can take it.” 
“Yeah?” He untied your arms and laughed as your sore muscles fell to your sides. His arms wrapped around your throat and pulled your body to him, your back now against his chest. “Can you take it?” 
An animalistic growl traveled from his chest as you reached below you, your hands grabbing and lightly massaging his balls as he pumped his cock into you. 
Your head fell back against his shoulder, eyes locking with holes of the mask. “I know I can.”
He pushed your body flush against the couch again and fucked you like you’ve never been fucked before. 
Your body jiggled, legs shook, and eyes squeezed shut. You felt high, like your body was full of euphoria, almost on the edge of delirium from how delicious his cock was sliding in and out of your cunt. 
Lewd squelching sounds echoed off the walls, fueling him to fuck you harder, faster. It was to the point that you could barely moan anymore, only silent scream. 
“You hear that?” He pulled all the way out and slammed back in, watching your cunt suck him in. “Hear that pretty pussy make those sounds for me?”
Fingers are quickly hooked in your mouth, opening wide open. Whines, moans, whimpers; all came from your mouth and mixed with the sounds of you being fucked. You still couldn’t catch your breath. 
Drool dripped from your mouth as you tried to speak, trying to beg him more to let you cum. He knew what you were saying, though and could feel how badly you needed an orgasm in the squeeze of your cunt. 
“No, no.” He pulled out with a huff, fingers also leaving your mouth. His breathing was labored, sweat beading on his forehead under the mask.
You were on the verge of tears from how badly you needed to cum. He wasn’t being fair.
“You poor thing.” The head of his cock teased your clit, chuckling as you reached back and tried to pull him closer to you. “Maybe next time I break into your house, I’ll let you cum.”
“Give it to me now,” you sniffled. 
“Awe, that’s cute.” He rubbed up and down your back, stopping at your hips to grab them. “Now, turn the fuck over.” 
You gasped as he flipped you over with ease, showing no signs of a struggle.
“I wanna see you fall apart for me as I stuff your ass full of my cock.” He grabs your legs from behind your knees, pushing your thighs towards your chest.
This new position has your ass up enough for your hole to be on display for him to take. You held onto the back of your legs so he could spit on your puckered hole, rubbing it with his thick fingers. 
You looked down and watched him toy with you, take his time to make sure you were well lubed up. He was enjoying it, too, knowing that he was teasing you more and more. 
“You’re a fucking creep.” Your head fell back against the couch when you felt the tip of his throbbing cock barely slide inside your tight ass. It was enough to have you already panting. “Oh!”
“Say that again, baby.” Slowly, he pushed his cock inside you, inch by inch until he was bottomed out. Your ass was so full of his cock that you couldn’t move, could barely breathe. “Jesus- it’s getting me off.”
The first thrust had you seeing stars behind your eyes, feeling him stretch you wide open made your toes curl. “R-right there, yes!”
He used the grip he had on your legs as leverage, pumping in and out of you slowly until he couldn’t take it anymore. “Barely fucked your ass, and you’re already whining like a pathetic slut.” He sped up with each word, the couch scraping against the hardwood floors below it.
Groans, whines, and skin slapping against skin quickly filled the room as the two of you etched closer and closer to cumming. Your legs shook in his hand as you brought your own down to rub over your cunt, thumb catching on the bundle of nerves that had your breath hitching.
“Hold it.” He let go of your legs, giving you time to wrap them around his waist. “Fucking. Hold. It.” Each word came with a sharp slap to your tits, the pleasurable pain coursing through your body and finding home in your used, dripping cunt.
“I- I can’t-“ 
“You can!” His grunts became louder, thrusts became sloppier. You knew he was close to cumming. You only hoped he would finally let you cum.
“That’s it- keep taking it just like that, baby.” One, two, three thrusts later and he was quickly pulling out, spilling all his cum on your pretty pink cunt. “G-god dammit!” 
His cock twitched as he pumped it, making sure every drop landed on you. “That’s fucking it, all covered in my cum.”
Your cunt clenched as you felt his cum drip down your cunt and onto the couch below you, making a mess. “But I- I didn’t get to…” 
“Told you it would be funny.” He sadistically chuckled as he quickly stuffed himself back into his jeans. 
���You're an ass.” You sat up on your elbows, your body spent from all the fucking and teasing. 
“Don’t worry,” he patted your cheek in a mocking manner before making his way to your busted front door. “I’ll be back.”
You were left shocked, cunt so sensitive from the need to cum. 
It wasn’t until minutes later when the phone ringing pulled you from your daze. You stumbled as you went to grab it, your breath coming out in short pants. “Hello.” 
“So,” Eddie spoke on the other line, a smirk so obvious in his tone. “How did I do, sweetheart?”
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carmenized-onions · 6 months ago
Text
Two Steps Back. | Advanced Payment
logline; it's time to retrace your steps. both of you.
[!!!] series history, this is the thirteenth; nothing distresses me more than when i see people read this out of order PLEASE BABY PLEASE
Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. constant headache was actually in season 3? my brain. my power.
Or, maybe you'd like a playlist made especially for this chapter? Consider this my Fishes special.
portion; 17k new record again, please god tell me it gets shorter from here on i'm so. tired..
possible allergies; you will know exactly what trigger warnings you need upon reading seeing the first line. Also! I watched Season 3, and injected some lines from it into this, including the finale. I don't consider it full spoilers, because it's an entirely new context, but you might wanna catch up before you read this one!
pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader so excessively gendered, in this chapter. my bad.
it's my birthday so if you typically lurk legally you have to tell me your thoughts on this one! Also it's once again the new longest, so like. cmon.
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“What are you, Amish?”
You blink, craning your head back to look up at this annoying giant. You’re too tired for this shit. This is your one day off this week and you’re spending it fixing faulty lights with your dad, at some shit diner. Why did you agree to start coming on jobs? Why’s this guy gotta bother you on your lunch break? What’s wrong with you not wanting to smoke? Pardon you for not wanting to kill yourself with tobacco—
“Ah, no, I’m just uhm—” You gesture your hand to your head. “I get migraines, kinda easy, so I can’t, uh— Can’t indulge.”
He nods, he opts to stand next to you, while you’re sitting on the curb. At least the smoke will blow over your head, this way. You try to eat your lunch in peace. He does not let you have this moment of peace.
“Jack, right?” He nudges your foot with his. “That’s what your pop’s calls you, at least?”
“Yeah. Everyone calls me Jack.” You nod. Guess this is a conversation now, whether you want it or not. “You’re Mikey? The owner?”
“The Original Chicago Beef, in the flesh.” He nods, and he says it like he’s proud but he doesn’t look it. He leers at your partially consumed tin foil wrapped sandwich. “You bring your own lunch?”
You shrug. “Uh, yeah, grilled cheese with pork—” 
“Why would you—”  The door to the kitchen swings open, as Mikey grimaces. You both turn your heads to see another guy come out— Oh it’s that one, the one that cannot stop talking about his divorce— Mikey consults him. “Yo, Rich, do I look like some jamoke, to you? Just wonderin’.”
Rich, tilts his head, and his legs follow after him, “No, cousin, whatssup?” He takes the cigarette from Mikey, when it’s offered up.
“Well, our little fixer friend here—” Mikey nudges you, again. “—seems to think me a fuckin’ ass.”
Now when did you say anything like that? “Wha—”
“Stop making lunches, I’ve been watching you come in here with your little lunch pail the past few jobs, you eat free ‘ere, aright? You’re workin’.” Doesn’t matter what you said. Mikey sees you. Mikey’s always seen you. 
‘workin’’ is a bit generous. The most you do is hand your dad tools, hold a flashlight, and ask too many questions. You definitely could do more, but he knows you're too tired. He really just wants to spend time with you. You pretend to not know his ulterior motives.
“We’re gentlemen here, sweetheart.” Rich bends down, so you can see him past Mikey’s frame, at your level. He reaches a hand out for you to shake. “Richie. Jerimovich.”
You’re not gonna remember that. You take his hand and shake it. “Jack. It’s— I’m just Jack.”
You’ve only got one hand on your sandwich, to shake Richie’s hand. So, like a school bully, Michael takes your loosened grip as his opportunity to grab it from you. “Yoink—!”
You whine, “C’mon—” “Let me make you a real fuckin’ sandwich, sweetheart—” “I’d just like my sandwich, alright?” “Oh, it’ll be your sandwich, alright? You think I don’t make good sandwiches? Richie, she doesn’t think I make good sandwiches.”
“Fuckin’ insane, cousin.”
You attempt to defend yourself from the peanut gallery of one guy. “Not what I said!”
“Why do you keep bringing lunch, then?”
Because it’s easy? Because it’s orderly? Because you’ve been in a full state of autopilot for the last threeish years and every day you’ve eaten the same breakfast and made the same lunch and then you go on your shift and then someone nearly dies and sobs in your arms and then you sit on the edge of the ambulance and you eat your grilled cheese and pork? Because if you break the routine it’s all gonna hit?
“I just like making my own lunch.”
“Well, stop. You’re breaking my heart.” Michael takes a bite of your sandwich. You click your teeth. Germs. You’re going to chastise him, but he doesn’t let you. “You like pork more than beef?”
“I think beef is fine.”
“Not what I asked.”
You take too long to respond, meaning the lie won’t be believable, so you have to tell the truth. You have to tell The Original Chicago Beef that— “I… I like pork more.”
“How dare you—” Barks Richie, the guard dog, apparently. Mikey stops him, putting a hand up.
“No, no, I asked the lady a question. She’s wrong but I asked. Fair’s fair. We express our fury like gentlemen, Cousin.” He nods, to himself. Thinking. About what is beyond you. God, so much for a lunch break. You point to your sandwich in his hand.
“Can I have that back—” “No. I’m makin’ you a goddamn real sandwich.”
You all but growl, really. You start to stand up. God, this guy is pushy. “I just said, I prefer—”
Mikey’s already making his way back into the kitchen, with the last half of your lunch as hostage. “Oh, I’ll make you a fuckin’ pork sandwich, aright?”
Mikey’s guard dog stamps out the butt of the shared cigarette, walking backwards into the kitchen, following Mikey but watching you. “He’s gonna make you fuckin’ pork, aright?”
“Aright!” Is all you can yell back, at your wits with the two dumbest most stubborn middle-aged geezers you’ve ever met.
Richie holds the door open for you, so you don’t get locked out. Alright, maybe he is a gentleman. You hear Mikey’s voice ring, from inside the kitchen. “And if you’re not doin’ nothin’ for your dad, try to fix the fuckin’ coffee machine, would you?”
This fucking guy. 
You have waved at him a couple times, here and there, while helping out your dad. But now, you’ve officially had Michael Bear Berzatto in your life for a solid ten minutes. Doesn’t feel like it.
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Carmen Anthony Bear Berzatto has officially not had you in his life for ten minutes. Doesn’t feel like it. Feels like you’ve been gone for years. But you’re probably still just outside, talking to Richie and Syd. How is it still Friday? What time is it? Almost six? They’ve still got four fucking hours of service to go? No, that’s a good thing. This is a good thing. Doesn’t give him time to think. Everyone needs to stop staring at him. 
What a fucking monster. What did he even say? He can’t remember anymore. He remembered ten minutes ago, and now it’s gone. Completely walled off in his memory. What did he say? Why did you make that face? What did he say to Richie, again? Why did you step in front of him? What did you say, again? What did Richie say? What happened? He can’t remember. He knows he did something fucked up but Carmen cannot remember what happened twenty minutes ago. That’s bad, right?
“I need hands!” Carmen does not recognize the fact that he’s working until he hears his own voice.
Right. He’s on expo. He’s doing expo. That’s what was happening twenty minutes ago, he thinks. That’s what was happening, right? Doesn’t matter. This is what he’s doing now. Fak comes back in and takes the tray to run. He looks around for a moment, confused. 
“Where’s Tony?”
“She’s gone.”
Fak pauses. You don’t leave, that doesn’t match up in his brain. It doesn’t really match up in Carmen’s either, but this is what’s happening now. “What’d’you mean she’s gone?”
“I mean she’s fucking gone, Fak.” Carmen barks back, practically. Such a fucking monster. Could Fak tell him what he said? Doesn’t matter. Carmen nods to the plate. “Table twenty-five, go.”
“...Where’d she go—” “Fucking go, Fak!”
There is a loud, thrumming buzz. The type that goes off after a game. Or maybe after a wrong answer. Expo clock. Since when did it have a sound setting? The kitchen flinches, including Carmen, including a meek-made Neil, and look to the clock behind them. 
Time has stopped. 0ERR is all it displays now. The sign ‘EVERY SECOND COUNTS’ is real ironic, now. What the fuck happened? You would know. You’re still outside, Carmen could get you. Carmen could get you and say he’s sorry for whatever happened. The back of his head feels like it’s hemorrhaging. He needs to go to a doctor. Maybe a paramedic. Carmen could get you, ask you what he said, and also ask if he is actively dying, right now.
“Fak.” 
“Carm?”
“Table twenty-five.” Carmen points at the plate again, with his sharpie. Then points behind him, to the broken clock. “Then fix that.” 
“Why not call To—” “Do you want a fucking job here or not?” “I—I do—” “Then do your fucking job, Fak.”
Carmen doesn’t need you. The Bear doesn’t need you. They can function just fine. Everything’s fine, without you. Everything’s normal. Everything is the way that it should be. He is shaking so much— When did he eat? Has he eaten? What the fuck is wrong with him? What happened twenty minutes ago? Or was it twenty-five? No. That’s table twenty-five, he’s mixing up his numbers. What time is it? He doesn’t know. The whole kitchen doesn’t know what time it is, anymore. You are gone and so are the minutes. 
Fak leaves, with the plate. Shrunken. Following orders. Carmen just turns everyone into himself, doesn’t he? What a fucking monster. He knows how bad it is to be him, and yet he still does it. Look at the orders, Carmen. Run fucking expo. So fucking slow, Carmen. Look at the orders. 
The crumpled piece of paper you handed him twenty minutes— Thirty? Fuck. The fucking note you handed him some amount of time ago. It sits on his table, next to all the actual orders. He rereads it, instead of the five cavatellis he’s supposed to be yelling about, right now.
Walk-In Hotfix, $80
Plumbing Repair (Service + 4 Hours), $250
Oven Wiring Fix (House call), $70
Oven Hotfix + Replacement Thermocouple, $120
Non-Gratis: Pinot Grigio, -$20
Advanced Payment, M. Berzatto. -$2,500
You forgot the booths. And taxes. And you should probably get paid a half day, for serving for the past half hour. You also forgot all the times he called you, texted you, came over, the bookshelf you brought him, the basil, the rosemary water, cleaning up his trash, every time you tried food for him, every time you told him everything was going to be okay, every time you made everyone breath in here like it was going to be okay— You forgot everything you do. Priceless. Easily, you are owed millions, from Carmen. 
He flips over the note. He reads Sweeps’ quick scribings from David, the fucking asshole out front, the fucking asshole in his head. 
Cherry + Lamb, good flavour. A lot of elements. Fresh, Unique. Overall good? Ig? Weird tone.
Said he’d like to speak to ‘Wine Girl’ (ick), mentioned Michelin connect? Number = Connect? (Ick)
You didn’t eat the cherry and lamb dish. That just connected, in his head. You didn’t get to eat it. Not only did you not get to eat it, the motherfucker outside did. Fuck. You were trying to be nice, but you’ve fucked him. Unique is practically a slur to his Exec. Carmen has fun when he makes things for you— He plays— That’s not what his Exec wants. He wants two elements, max. The fact that David actually liked the flavour is nothing short of a fucking miracle. Carmen could throw up. He’s definitely getting an ulcer, again. Where’s your Tums? Fuck, you took it with you, didn’t you? 
It’s embarrassing how many rules he forgets to implement, when he cooks for you. Boundless, unrestricted— When he cooks for you. Doesn't cut a single concept. It’s mortifying that someone other than you ate it, let alone David fucking Fields.
Carmen’s eyes feather, almost closing, but not completely. He scratches his fingers through his hair, destroying the cast of gel it’s been stuck in. His curls are desperately trying and failing to reform. It doesn’t matter how much he runs his hands through it, he cannot get it to smell like you again. He cannot find you in himself, he cannot find you in his kitchen. That’s what annoyed him, earlier, wasn’t it? That you were everywhere? That you were carved in, everywhere? He thought he didn’t want that?
His knees bounce where he stands, he bumps into his jacket under the table. Right. You left it. Are you cold? Turtleneck was thin. You looked so good. You always look good. Better, in his clothes, but you always look good. Did he remember to tell you that? Probably not.
“Where—” Fuck, he really is going to throw up. “Where we at on Booth Twelve’s dessert tray, Chef?”
You said it was okay for Carmen to give your number out. You gave your dish out. You shelled yourself out, for Carmen. It feels like a cave is being hollowed out, in his throat. He is so angry and he doesn’t know who it’s for. He doesn’t know where to put it. Is that what happened twenty-three— twenty-four minutes ago? Did he give it to you? No, he gave it to Richie, right? That’s how it started. Marcus hands off the dessert paddle to expo, silently. No one wants to talk to Carmen. That’s probably fair. What did he say? Probably bad. It’s already huge they haven’t walked out on him, yet. Has anyone walked out, yet?
Marcus is here, Syd is still out back— Well, actually, she might’ve left with you, she should if she can. Are you still out there? Tina wipes her eyes, working at the oven you fixed thirty— No, forty— Fuck— Earlier. It’s probably the onions from the broth making her tear up. No, it definitely is. Fak is out front, Sweeps is out front, Richie is still out back.
What did he say to Richie? Something about kids? There are no servers to hand off dessert to stupid fucking booth twelve. Carmen cannot keep looking at the family he’s ruined, in whatever way he managed to ruin it. He grabs the dessert tray. He’ll deliver it himself. He can do it all himself. He’s good by himself.
You’ve been out of Carmen’s life for 0ERR minutes. Yeah. That’s exactly how long it feels like.
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“Try it try it try it.” You mumble, hurriedly, excitedly, to Marcus. The bread guy. He’s the nicest of the bunch, so far. You hand him the mug. He takes a sip of the coffee you’ve been perfecting for the last six jobs here, give or take. You’ve been in The Beef’s life for two months or so.
“Holy shit.” He nods, digesting it— Actually digesting it, which means— “It’s edible.”
“I know!” You all but shout, too excited to hide it. You’ve finally figured out how to make this thing produce what it’s supposed to— Instead of what is essentially arsenic with coffee flavouring.
Your excitement makes a line cook behind you grimace. The one you’ve still got yet to win over. “My ears, kid.”
“Sorry.” You reply lightly. Your back is turned to her, so she can’t see you cringe to Marcus, crying for help, practically. He’s sympathetic. He kept saying you just need to prove yourself, but it’s been taking forever, what else can you prove?
He decides to fast track you. “Yo, T.” She nods. She respects Marcus. But you’re just some girl that’s been in her walkway for the past seven weeks. “Try it.” He hands her your edible coffee.
She rolls her eyes, already nonplussed, but she takes the coffee. She is genuinely impressed, for a split second, before it turns into a coy sarcasm. “Wow— You’ve made not poison, great job, baby.”
“I’m gonna get better.” You respond instantly. That’s something you noticed Tina likes. Quickness. “I’m gonna make you a good coffee.” Determination, too.
“Bold.”
“Thank you—”
“No.” She pushes the coffee to your chest; you grab it before it spills. “I like it bold.”
God, she’s so scary. “Heard.” She’s so cool. 
She watches you, for a second; wants to see if you crack. You don’t, thankfully. She folds. She finally kinda likes you— Or rather, is willing to admit it, in some small way. “You can come tonight.”
You can come to family, tonight. It takes everything in you not to cheer. You should mix them drinks. Or is that too try hard? No, it’s the perfect amount of try— Right? It was your old party trick in college, you should use it. Prove yourself.
“Cool.” Is all you can say, without seeming like a desperate nerd. 
You've been slowly cutting away at every relationship in your life, par for your family— And even that hangs by a thread— And you thought you were fine with that. You thought you were good like that, but once you got used to The Weirdos of The Beef, you cannot help but desperately want friends, again.
Every moment you get outside of your twelve to twenty-four hour EMS shifts, you spend it here. You’re tired, but it might actually be worth it; to talk to people instead of rotting in your apartment for half a week every week.
What month is it? March? When's Squid's birthday again? Did you miss it? It's the one time a year you get to talk without the underlying pressure that you have to hang out now.
Happy Birthday, what have you been up to? Oh, same thing as last year? You're irrevocably a different person now but you're also still the same? Nothing much? Same here. We should see each other soon. We won't. I won't say I love you because I don't want to be weird. Even though we used to say it every day. I will never know you like I used to, and so I won't even try. Same time next year?
Working in The Beef reminds you of her. Reminds you of the other stubborn cook in your life. Was in your life? Don’t think about that. Sometimes you hear her dad's voice out front, buying himself a half-hot half-sweet braised beef sandwich. Sometimes you think about going out there and saying hi. Sometimes you think about asking about Syd. Sometimes you think about asking how the catering gig is going. Sometimes you think about asking if she needs you anymore.
You never do.
“Aye.” Mikey claps your shoulders, bringing you back to earth. You didn't even realize he was behind you. He digs his hands in, a sudden and always painful massage. His preferred way of saying stop fucking tweaking. He leans over your shoulder, looking at the coffee cup that doesn't look as pitiful as it usually does. “Good job, kid.”
“Thank you—” “Now figure out how to make it worth drinking.”
You scoff, rolling your shoulders to push him off you. “I'm fuckin’ trying!” 
His hands stay in place, but his massage does become gentle, and actually decent. Per usual. You’re not sure how he always manages to get the knots. “T say you can come to family?” 
You had to get all yeses that you are now in fact family to join for family. You look over your shoulder to face him. “Mhm.” 
“Good.” He looks around. “Your dad here?” 
You nod. “In the basement, something about your furnace? It's fucking beyond my skill set, so I'm up here until he needs me.” As much as your dad started doing this to hang out with you, heads got too hot with you fucking up which tools to hand him one too many times; repeatedly yelling same team in a more and more distressed tone did not seem to be helping either. Whatever. Gave you more time with the coffee machine. You’re going to make this thing your bitch, one day. One day this thing is going to sing for you.
“Oh, good.” And with that, he's already pulling you to his station. “You can help me with family brisket, then.” 
“Nooooo—” “If you want family you gotta be family, Jack.” 
You whine, but you don't mind this at all. Mikey sees you. Mikey knows you; probably better than he should. He knows you always need something to do.
“Pork?” “Pork.” “Fine.” It's your recipe, so you must oblige.
He's good. Mikey is good. Mikey pays attention. Mikey's made the cycle break in a way that doesn't hurt.
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Carmen needs to apologize to Richie, for never taking his stress over running front of house seriously.
Carmen hates being out front already and he’s only just stepped out. Why is everyone looking at him out here, too? He should also apologize for whatever he said forty minutes ago. Thirty-five? Doesn’t matter. What’s important is handing this dessert tray to the fucking jagoff. The man who Carmen dreamed of becoming, the man who he’s now scared he’s become. David Fields. Former Executive Chef. Too many accolades to list. 
“Dessert is served, hope you enjoy, Chef.” Carmen manages to bite his tongue for this guy, so why can’t he do it for the people he actually gives a fuck about? He’s a fucking coward. He swallows, setting the dessert paddle down in front of the stupid five fucking guests. Far too big a party, for a fucking walk in. And all they got for dessert was the fucking tasting paddle? Why are they skimping now? Assholes. All of them. Carmen knows all of these people. Well. Knows their faces. Remembers working with them, but never really talked to any of them. Why would he? He was focused. He was good.
“Thank you, Chef.” Says David. It feels like lightning, to hear those words. But not in a good way. It should feel like an accomplishment, to hear this guy say anything remotely positive, to Carmen, but it doesn’t. It feels the opposite, honestly. Feels like something’s wrong. Getting this guy’s approval is wrong.
This is the part where Carmen is supposed to leave. This is the part where the server goes back to the kitchen and continues their job. But he can’t. He’s stuck in place. He’s back in front of the fire, and he’s not putting it out. Carmen swallows hard and his spit feels like glass all the way down his throat. His Exec stares at him, nearly coy— Like he knows. Like he can see the invisible snake coiling around Carmen. Like he knows that Carmen desperately has something to say. 
“Let’s have it, Chef.” David goads.
Fuck it. Fuck everything, fuck it. Not like the night can get worse. “Can we step out, for a second, Chef?”
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“Lookit this.” Mikey pivots his phone to you, for you to see a photo he's just been sent.
It's of… “What the fuck is that?” You've got no clue. Some weird spiralling array of colours. 
“I've no fucking clue. Food? Apparently?”
It's April, and Mikey has let you in. You will not realize how big a deal this is until it's too late. But right now, you're just happy to be hanging out with him before open. Without your dad, too.
Their most frequent regular’s favourite chair broke, one of the legs just fully gave out underneath him. It's an easy fix. Mikey could probably do it himself. Fak or whatever the fuck his name is could absolutely do it himself. Mikey called you, instead. Called you. Not your dad. You think this'll be your first and last solo job. Naive.
“Carmy?” You assume, he's the only person that's on that rich people shit. Michelin Star Chef, baby boy with big dreams.
“Yessir. He’s still killin’ it.” Is all Mikey says, tucking his phone away. You frown at him, screwing the chair leg in, sitting on the floor. He groans. “Don't gimme those eyes, Jack.”
“You should reply!”
“He doesn't need a fuckin' reply.” 
You tilt your head, the look you give him translates to ‘Are you forreal?’
He just sighs, exasperated. “You don't get brothers, Jack.”
“I literally have brothers, Michael.”
“Yeah but it's—” He gestures to the general air, attempting to explain nothing. “It's different. We communicate different.”
“Sure.” You can admit that. “I'm sure the dynamic is very different brother to brother, brother to sister. But like—” You jiggle the chair leg, alright maybe it's not that easy of a fix. “It sucks bein’ the baby, I know that much.”
“You're the baby?”
“Yeah, why?” You lift your head from the chair back to him. “I got middle child energy? I’ll fuckin’ kill you.” 
“No, no— Oldest.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Thought you were one of me, Jack. My own blood.”
You scoff. But it’s not something you haven’t heard before. You’ve got the blood of people who’ve had to take care of people. “Well, being the only sister kinda made me the oldest sister.”
You pad your hand around the floor, searching, before looking up to Michael, again. “You see the fuckin—?”
He tosses you the chair leg cap, before you can finish asking for it. “You’d like Nat. Similar ideologies.”
“I would love to know how your younger sister fuckin’ survived you, that’s for sure.”
He laughs, at that. “She’s a trooper. Surrounded by some of the worst men Chicago has to offer.” He looks at the coffee that you painstakingly crafted for him, this morning. “This is actually kinda fuckin’ good, Jack.”
“Do you have to add actually and kinda?”
He rolls his head back, neck straining. “For what you had, it’s fuckin’ perfection, alright? Happy?”
“Fuckin’ delighted.” You throw the chair up onto its legs, and it stands. “You?”
He gets up from his seat to try out the chair. He takes the coffee with him. There’s a split second where you’re scared that actually this was too hard a job for you and Mikey is going to fall and the hot coffee is going to careen everywhere and fucking scald him and you told him he needed to get a first-aid kit in here but he hasn’t gotten around to it yet—
Mikey sits, and the chair works. He takes another sip of your chai coffee blend, like a vote of his confidence. He never had any doubt you could get the coffee machine to work, never had any doubt you could make a good coffee, never had any doubt you could get the chair to stand strong. Mikey has always always believed in your capabilities, even when you haven’t, and has always been happy to prove yourself to yourself. Mikey is really good at being an older brother, you think. And forget that he never texted back the real baby of his real family.
“Fuckin’ delighted, Jackie.”
“Never fuckin’ call me Jackie.”
“Heard.”
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Two executive chefs stand in front of a restaurant, there’s probably a joke in here somewhere. Carmen doesn’t care to find it. He watches your car drive out onto the road, out of the corner of his eye. That’s it, then. You’re gone. He fishes a pack of cigarettes out from the chest pocket of his chef’s uniform. 
“You should quit.” Says David, so high and fucking mighty. As if he doesn’t house a bottle of wine daily.
“I’m aware.” Carmen lights it anyways. You don’t smoke. Did his mouth taste bad, every time he’d kiss you? Probably. You probably just bore it for his sake. Maybe that’s why you so rarely went for his lips. He takes a puff, it doesn’t calm him down. 
“Your hair is fucked.” 
“And the food?”
“Busy. You can lose the basil and eggplant. You’ll re-learn.” David tilts his head, thinking, smarmy. “Someone got in your head.”
“Someone other than you, yeah.”
“Awe.” David smiles, something he so rarely did in the kitchen, but perfected in public. His tone is so perfectly pouty, like it’s disappointing he’s not the only one living rent free in Carmen’s brain anymore.
Carmen steadies his eyes forward, to the street. He cannot look his own personal nightmare in the eyes, but he can say what he’s always wanted to say. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”
“How am I an asshole?” “Can you stay ‘til after close?” “You’re welcome.”
Carmen turns his head to face him now, eyes wide like plates. “I— I’m welcome? For—For-for what?”
“You were an okay chef, when you started with me.” David doesn’t fear eye contact. David’s probably never had a bad day in his fucking life. “And you left an excellent chef, so you’re welcome.”
Carmen’s never even heard the fucking word excellent come out of this man’s mouth. Let alone to describe him. It doesn’t feel good, for some reason. It still doesn’t feel good to receive praise from him, despite the fact that he’s everything. 
“You…” Carmen needs a second, to catch his breath. He probably should quit smoking. “You gave me ulcers, and panic attacks, and— and nightmares— You— You know that? You understand that?”
“Yeah.” David’s entirely unfazed. All he’s heard is a list of benefits, in his head. “I gave you confidence and leadership and ability— It fucking worked.”
Is this what it working is supposed to feel like? Is this what it feels like to function? Is this what it means, to make it? If it is, then what the fuck does not making it feel like?
“I’m— I’m, I’m— I’m actually fuckin’ stunned, right now, I—” Carmen rubs his hands over his eyes. “My life stopped.”
“That’s the point.”
“That’s the point?”
“You wanted to be excellent. You got rid of all the bullshit, you concentrated, you focused— And you got excellent. And it worked. You’re here.”
You’re not bullshit. You’re not bullshit and he shouldn’t have done whatever he did to make you leave. Carmen is anything but excellent, without the people behind him, and he’s realizing that now. He’s an idiot, because you told him this, the second day of knowing him you told him this. He has a wonderful team— A family— A family he now considers you a part of. And he tanked all of it, everyone— Why? Because he had a bad fucking day? Because a dish got sent back? Because he fucked up tremendously? Boo-fucking-hoo, Carmen. It takes an idiot like David, who thinks he’s a genius, for Carmen to realize they look exactly the fucking same— And that is the actual thing that’s mortifying, tonight.
The real mortifying thing, isn’t that you were so fucking sweet and considerate of his stupid fucking brain and his stupid insane aspirations— It isn’t your dish. The mortifying thing is he prioritized the man in front of him, in any regard. It’s mortifying that Carmen made you feel like you had to prioritize the man in front of him.
“I just— I just made the—The only fuckin’ good thing in my life leave because— Because you got in my fucking head.”
David just raises his brows, like Carmen’s fucking stupid. Like there’s not a problem here. Because to him, there isn’t. And once again, the stupid fucking Exec repeats. “You’re welcome?”
“I’m—” The door opens, and for a moment, despite the fact that he watched your car disappear minutes ago, Carmen still thinks there’s a chance it’s gonna be you; begs a higher power that it’s going to be you. It’s not. It’s Richie. 
“Hey asshole—” Richie stops, when he sees David. “Ah. You’re needed, Chef Carmen.”
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“Cousin— You’re needed, pronto.” 
“Not your Cousin.”
“Heard and resented.”
Richie’s had a habit of calling you cousin, lately. You pull your head out of the back of the Ball-Breaker arcade machine. Its controls are allegedly on the fritz, but you’re pretty sure Chi-Chi just sucks at this game. “Whaddya need? Do I have to run front a-fucking-gain?”
That was a fun out of nowhere three hour shift with zero restaurant experience— Par for bar. It will not be the last.
“Nono— Just a cuppa coffee? More like six.” 
You kiss your teeth, tutting him. “You know how the fuckin’ machine works—”
“Want your coffee?” He corrects, like stroking your ego will make you fold. It does. You stand up, stretching your legs.  
“Fine. Just get me a list of everyone’s—” He slaps a folded note against your forehead. “Orders.” 
“Fucker.” You take it off your head to read. “Whatta ‘bout Mikey’s?” He’s missing from the list.
Richie shrugs. “Surprise him, he’s out back— In one of his moods.”
You don’t know how uncommon it is for Mikey to be so out of it. You’re meeting Mikey during his slow but certain downward spiral, but you don’t know that. No. How could you? No, so you think it’s normal for Mikey to occasionally leave rooms and turn inward. 
“Aye aye, Rich.”
He kisses your temple as you pass him, making an all too aggressive ‘muah’ noise, because that’s what fake Italians do, as a form of thanks, and lets you go work your magic on the coffee machine. 
You’re pretty integrated into The Beef, at this point. How long has it been? You don’t really need this list of orders, but it’s good to visually ingrain in your brain. You’re thankful to Mikey for investing in a bunch of Torani’s syrups for your coffee dreams. You’re here enough for it to be worth it, anyways. 
You’re probably gonna start being here a lot more, soon. Well, maybe.
You haven’t told anyone yet, about what your dad told you this morning. That he’s gotta retire, soon. Like soon, soon. Now, you’re faced with a decision— Keep going with this EMS thing until your body fails and you need to be wheeled out by your own coworkers, or take on ownership of a small family business directly after the fucking pandemic. Really good options, here.
You’re leaning towards the latter, at the moment. You’re leaning towards being called here, for half your jobs. It’d be hard to make ends meet on just whatever crack change Mikey is able to pay you— But you used to bartend in college— You could work dailies whenever you’re short. Probably. It probably won’t be that hard. Could it be harder than what you’re doing now? Could it be harder than watching someone flat line? Probably not.
Ebra, watered down black coffee. T, two sugars, one milk, cinnamon and chocolate syrup. Marcus, spiced coffee. Sweeps, water in a deli cup— A delicacy. Richie, two sugars, cinnamon syrup, ideally boiling hot. 
But to be fair, people need someone like you. People need paramedics. Is it selfish for you to decide you can’t handle it anymore? Should you let your body break before you let yourself go on one? Fuck. Fuck. Where’s Mikey? You’re feeling the knots build up again. 
Out back. Richie said he’s out back. You pick up your coffee, and Mikey’s— cinnamon and caramel, this time— And head out back. 
And you see a sight that you’ve actually seen plenty of times.
You’ve just never seen it in the back alley of The Beef. You’ve just never seen it happen to a friend. You’ve just never seen it happen to Mikey. You don’t drop your coffee cups in some sort of dramatic shock, or anything like that. Because that would take time. It’d take too much time to be shocked. You just turn around, immediately, partially crashing into the door as you run back in, breaking the mugs and spilling scalding hot coffee over your hands and chest— You don’t feel it, you don’t give a fuck. 
“Cousin!” 
You’re a mom friend. That’s what Syd used to say. You carry Tums, painkillers, cough drops, pepto— All in your purse or pockets. You keep a lighter on hand. You keep safety pins— All ranging in size, just in case of a clothing mishap. You keep kid’s band-aids in your wallet. You’re a mom friend. Everyone used to find you also carrying a naloxone kit a bit dramatic, like you were overdoing it. You always hoped they were right; that it would never be used. Regardless, you'd always replace it when it expired.
“Cousin get my fucking bag, now!”
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“Right.” Carmen’s honestly kind of surprised, to be needed. But it’s probably just cover, to talk. People don’t typically need people like him, especially not Richie. He nods to David. “Chef.”
“Chef.” David nods back. He looks at Richie. “Where’d your translator go?”
The fuck? Richie does not look phased, at all. He also looks like he’s been crying— So it might just be that nothing phases him, right now— But at the very least, Carmen would expect some surprise. So this disrespect must not be new. Why didn’t he tell him?
Maybe he did, actually. Maybe that’s what happened forty minutes ago? How’d that lead to you leaving? 
“My what?” Richie knows exactly what David’s getting at, but he asks anyways, to embarrass the fucker.
But David doesn’t feel embarrassment, it’s just not in him. “Your somme.”
“She had to leave early.”
“Ah,” He nods, “You’ve got her number, by chance?”
A deep and sharp exhale, through Richie’s nose, as he desperately tries to be a good host. Tries to be star material. But he runs his tongue across his top teeth and he just can’t bring himself to bite it. Richie hates both of the men in front of him right now. “I do, I do, actually— I’ve had her number for three years, memorized, y’know why?”
David shrugs, delighted to upset someone. “She your wife or something?”
A sharp, terrifying chuckle, honestly— One that hides any sign of a smile. Rich steps forward. “Oh, I should be so lucky. I would be so fucking lucky, if a woman like that—” And he pivots his head, to speak very deliberately, to Carmen. “Decided for some Godforsaken fuckin’ reason, that I was worth an ounce of her precious time— Let alone her hand.”
“If only, truly, David.” Still looking at Carmen, squarely in his face. “If fuckin’ only. If I had someone like that— I’d be on hand and fucking knee, for her.”
“Chef.” Carmen’s talking to David but looking at Richie, but that might also be because he can’t look anywhere else. 
“Chef.” David shrugs, whatever fight here is beyond him. He doesn’t fucking care. Carmen knows the Michelin thing was bullshit—Certainly David can put in a good word, but inspectors are anonymous, that’s the whole point. But his stupid fucking Exec wanted to see if Carmen would stoop so low as to take the bait. It also wouldn’t hurt to get your number, you’re perfect. Carmen doesn’t think he’d have taken the bait, but the fact that he’s not sure speaks volumes.
David steps back into The Bear, and an Executive Chef and his dead brother’s best friend stand outside their restaurant. There’s a joke in here somewhere, and it’s probably Carmen.
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“I’d fucking kill him.” You shake your head, when Mikey tries to brush off the end of his story like it’s no big deal. “I can’t believe no one fuckin’ said anything.”
“They might’ve.” He sniffs, arms crossed— Guarding himself. He sits opposite of you, both sitting on the floor of his office, backs against either wall. “But I couldn’t fuckin’ hear anything but him— And then the fucking car, obviously.”
You can tell he’s trying to move on. He wants you to ask if his mom was okay. You don’t honestly care, and you don’t care if that makes you a bad person, either. 
“You’re not nothing, Mikey.”
It’s close to midnight, a humid but cool August midnight. A week or so, since Mikey’s overdose. You’re finally christening your jumpsuit with a patch from The Beef, on the left shoulder. You do keep stabbing yourself with the sewing needle— If you were sleeping beauty you’d be fucking dead. 
“I know.”
“Mikey, you’re not.”
“Don’t fucking Good Will Hunting me.”
“Yeah, that’s fair.” You both laugh, but you’re still stuck with him, at that dining table, in your head. You’re still hearing Uncle Lee screaming, despite never actually hearing it. “They should’ve said something.”
“It’s different when you’re there.” He shrugs, again. “Hard to speak in those rooms.” 
Your lips stay tight, for a moment. There’s a long silence of just staring at each other, because you want him to know that you’re completely serious when you say— “I would’ve said something.”
“Sug tried to say somethin—” “She told you to stop, that’s bullshit.” “She was mediating—”
“And why the fuck were you the one that needed to calm down, exactly?” You frown, deeply. You don’t have anything against Sug, but this story just rubs you the wrong way. The way no one was on his side verbally. “Just cause you’re the guy, means you can’t stick up for yourself? I hate that shit.”
He thinks on that, for a moment; because no one has ever said the thing out loud, never acknowledged it. He nods, tucking one knee up to rest an arm on it. “It sucks, being the guy.”
“It fucking sucks to be the guy!” You shout back, emphatic, practically jumping to agree— You jab yourself again. “Fuck, ow— Yes, it sucks.”
“And—” You’ve really opened a faucet for him. “And no one wants you to acknowledge that you’re the guy— Like you can take the compliment, but you can never say ‘I know, I’m doing it on purpose.’”
You poke at the tip of your nose with one hand and then to Mikey with the other, bang on. “No one wants the guy to know they’re the guy!”
“We always know!” “We always fucking know!” “We’re the guy on purpose!”
It’s rare for people like you two to talk and actually get along. The typical stereotype is that two sweethearts will always end up butting heads, too intimidated— But instead, you’re both just able to honestly commiserate over being who you are. The Guy. The Dependable One. The Head.
“You shouldn’t have to always be good and—and like, understanding of every single fucking person— Especially when they’re a dick!” You yell, exasperated. “You are allowed to fucking stick up for yourself!”
He tightens his lips in a line, because he agrees, but he has been so trained to lay down and take it. To take the teeth; it’s one of the many many jobs of being the guy. You know it just as well. He sighs, “I know.”
“You’re worth standing up for, Mikey.” You emphasize. They should’ve said something. It shouldn’t have been on you. You shouldn’t have had to defend yourself. They should’ve protected you, like you did for them. Like you always do for them. 
His eyes flicker, a bit. He clears his throat and punches his chest, shaking his head out of it, because if he doesn’t, he might actually fucking cry, and that’s not what the guy does. “Okay.”
You nod. “Okay.”
He kicks your foot with his. “Now tell me some fucked up thing that happened to you, Jack.”
You laugh, and it quickly turns into a groan as you try to come up with something. “I uh… Oh! I fuckin’ hate the nickname ‘Jack’, that’s something.”
“Oh?” He leans forward, teasingly intrigued— You’ve thrown him a bone, because you’re the guy, too. He’s able to focus on this in lieu of himself.
You nod and continue. “My dad gave it to me, when I was really really little, like five or six— And it was ‘cause I like— For a kid, I was really into uhm, like— Like everything?”
“Like a nerd?” “Like a nerd.”
You chuckle. “I liked helping him go on jobs, and barely being able to hold flashlights. And I liked learning what all the wires and the pipes do— I liked doing chores and like— Making shit for people, or doing shit for people, if it made ‘em happy.” You’re a little too zoned in, on your sewing. The motion helps keep you grounded. “And so he would go like Awe, my helpful little Jack of all Trades, you can do it all.”
You pull the string up and out of the fabric, taught, dramatically high. “Which like, of course he was trying to be like, a good dad and hype me up— But my kid brain just garbled it and translated ‘you can do it all’ to ‘you have to do it all.’”
“Damn.” He cringes but laughs, sympathizing. “You got ‘guy’d’ at fuckin’ five?”
“Well, when did you get ‘guy’d?!” You snap back, he takes a moment to think about it, sighing.
He shrugs. “Probably five.” “Exactly!”
You both laugh, a bit too aggressively, honestly; compensating for the sting. Mikey sniffs, adding. “So that’s why you hate it? ‘Cause of the weight?”
“‘Cause of the weight.” You nod. “Like a constant reminder, that I need to be like— constantly at service.”
“Yeah.” He nods, eyes looking down. Thinking about far too much, and though you have become his closest confidant, there are still parts of him that he won’t show. “Drinking helped?”
“Drinking helped.” You close the last stitch on the patch. “Which is funny, because that whole thing started from wanting to be helpful.”
“Oh yeah? How’s that?”
“There was uhm—” You can’t help but laugh a little, at the ridiculousness of it. “There was this girl, and she was my best friend, and she fucking loved— Or I guess still loves— Cooking. And even as a dinky little highschooler, she’d have me try shit, and it’d be like— So luxe.”
“Right.” Mikey smiles, thinking of all the dishes that have been foisted on him by the precocious cook in his life.
“And I wanted to be like… equally impressive. So I started doing research on wine pairings and shit, so I could have something to talk to her about, have somethin’ to say other than wow great job— Because I could tell she always wanted more.”
“And so you became an alcoholic?” “I haven’t gotten there yet!” “Well stop burying the lead!” “Oh don’t you point a finger when it comes to burying a fucking lead.” “Oh, fuck you.”
“Anyways!” You clap a hand on your knee, casting aside the completed sew job. “I’d give her pairings based on research— still teens, so we couldn’t drink yet, but she appreciated the thought. And then I went to college and she went to CIA and we were talking and then we graduated and suddenly we weren’t…” You knock your fist against your hand a couple times. “We weren’t talking, anymore.” 
“And so you became an alcoholic?” “Kinda.” “Oh. I was being sarcastic.” “Yeah, dontchu feel guilty as fuck now?” “What happened?”
“It was easy.” You shrug. “I started working at pubs in college, I was getting free drinks all the time, I was trying more wines for her— I didn’t really see it as a problem, because like, I didn’t do it to function, I never reached for anything like ‘oh I fucking need this.’”
“That’s how it starts.”
“That’s how it fuckin’ starts.” You nod. “Then suddenly we weren’t talking and I became an E-M-T, and then suddenly I was watching people y’know, live through the worst moment of their lives or die, and I— Suddenly I did need that drink.” You should’ve just called her. She would’ve done a lot more for you than a bottle could. But you were stupid and tired, and still are.
“Who coulda thunk it?” “I know! Ridiculous.”
“How long you been stable, again?” 
“Six months, four days… But who’s counting?” You laugh, and so does he.
You’re both very literally counting. And the buzzer of a timer going off on your phone reminds you of that. You both stare at it, in a daze, as it officially hits Twelve in the morning. Once you silence it, you look to Mikey. 
“Michael The Bear Berzatto, you have officially been sober for twenty-four hours.”
He smiles, no teeth, but he smiles. “Gimme.”
“Be patient!” “I am being the most patient a person can be.” “Yeah that’s fair.”
You opt to go for the cupcake first, a big One candle sticking out of it. “This is stupid.” Says Mikey. “Have some fucking whimsy in the face of adversity.” Says you, pulling out your disposable camera. 
“Do we need photos?” “What the fuck else are we gonna put in my folder?” “I dunno, write me sonnets.” 
“Do you want sonnets?” You ask, and the worst part is Michael can tell you’re being sincere. You would write him sonnets, if he only asked. You would do anything, if he only asked. You quit being an EMT, immediately after seeing the state he was in, last week. You are here for Michael, and he only has to ask.
He shakes his head and blows out the candle when you lift the cupcake to his face, and he makes a wish to whatever higher power exists, that he won’t drag you down with him. 
You thread a 24 Hours in Recovery chip onto the embroidery thread you were using and tie it off. When you present it to him, he bends his head down. “Chip me.”
“That’s not what chip me means.” “It means something?” “I’m pretty sure chipping someone means shooting someone—” “Well Google it, Chip.” “Well, fuck, ok— Chip?”
He shrugs, “Better than Jack, no?”
You throw the necklace over his neck, like you’re knighting him. You grow a great degree softer. Even when he’s deliberately not supposed to be The Guy, when he’s supposed to be working on himself, he’s still your guy. Still looking out for you just as much as you look out for him. He will never realize that you consider the exchange equal.
“Yeah, better than Jack.”
“This sobriety thing is going to be easy.” “ —Okay, so— The thing is, everyone kinda says that after twenty-four hours and then a week or two in, it actually hits—” “It’s gonna be so easy.” “I love that you think that and I want you to keep that hope up, I also think maybe let’s just be easy on ourselves if it gets hard—” “It’s not gonna get hard.” “That’s what she said—” “Fucking gross!”
He throws his arm over your shoulder, a loving noogie, but a noogie nonetheless. You try to hit him from below, it’s a failed flailing. You both start laughing and he stops, opting to just hold you there. You hold his forearm with your hands, and sigh.
“...Even when it’s not easy, we’re on the same team, okay? Don’t forget that. That we’re on the same team and I love you.”
He squeezes you a little, bicep curling. In fifteen seconds you will complain that he’s choking you, but right now, he says, “I’m not gonna forget you love me, Chip.” and neither of you know this is a lie, yet.
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“I’m sorry.” Carmen sniffs, is he actually going to cry? Holy shit, he might cry. “I don’t know what I said—”
“You don’t know what you said?” Richie scoffs, he can’t help but laugh. “You don’t know what you fuckin’ said? Ah— It’s— It’s all good, man. You don’t know what you said, so it’s all good—”
“I’m apologizing—” “Nonono— No— It’s all good, I don’t need a fuckin’ apology. I know how you feel now, so it’s all fuckin’ good.”
“I love you—” “You love me? You love me? Oh, that would’ve been nice to hear half a fucking hour ago.”
Has it really only been thirty minutes?
“No— No, you know what?” Richie takes a choked breath, pressing his index finger over his nose and mouth, then points it to Carmen. “If that’s what your fuckin’ love is— I don’t fuckin’ want it. And I don’t want that shit for Chip, either— So leave her the fuck out of your fuckin’ love or whatever the fuck you think that is, too.”
That one hurts, because it’s true. Carmen can’t say anything to that; the silence just eggs Richie on more. “Oh, was that a low blow, to you? Cause I’d say saying it was her fault was a pretty low fucking blow— Kinda below the belt shit, if you ask me—”
“What?”
A silence louder than anything either of them have ever heard hangs in the air.
“Fuck you mean what?”
“I said what?” Carmen’s spit still feels like glass, he is destroying his throat. “What—What did I say?”
Stunned, Richie is stunned. And he can’t tell if Carm’s lack of cognizance in the situation makes him more or less angry. He’s pretty sure it’s more. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Cousin, what the fuck did I say to her?”
“You said she failed him.”
Yeah, Carmen’s gonna cry. Carmen is absolutely going to cry. Not weeping, but a tear. Just the one. Just the one, and the dry heaving. The dry heaving and just short of falling over, managing at the last minute to fall onto his rear. He slides his back against the full length window of The Bear. All the guests will get to witness his full blown meltdown. Who fucking cares. He cards through his semi-matted hair, again— It’s not fucking working. It’s not working and he might as well tear his hair out because there’s no reason for it anymore if you're not in it.
“I am a monster.” Not said like a question, not said with emphasis, not choked. Completely monotone. Zero pulse. Said as a fact as simple as the sky is blue. And it is. Because now that he remembers that one thread, he can follow it back. “I am bullshit.”
It’s hard to kick someone, when they’re down. It’s hard to say all the things you want to say to a person, when they’re just saying it about themselves. Richie just stares, debating his options. He could so easily choose to destroy what’s left of Carmen. Frankly, Carm’s sitting at the perfect angle to kick his fucking teeth in. Richie came out here with full intent of throwing Carmen through the window. Came out here with the full intent of proving he’s a fucking problem.
“...I don’t know how to fix it.” But Carmen looks up at him, with a never before seen level of humility. “How do I fix it?”
His best friend loved this guy, and unfortunately you also seem to be on the verge of loving this guy. And even more regrettably, Richie loves this guy. He shrugs, and to any onlookers, his response would seem to be lacking any level of empathy. 
“Stop being you.”
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“You don’t love me!”
“Of course we fuckin’ love you!”
“You don’t fucking love me!”
Like tidal waves, Richie and Mikey crash against either side of the walk-in freezer door. Mikey desperately trying to escape the freezer; you and Richie desperately trying to keep him in. 
Your phone rings, in the middle of this. “Ah, shit, she’s calling back, hold on—” You slide your back off the door slowly, giving Richie time to place extra weight where your body was to keep it closed as Mikey relentlessly slams. He’s pivoted to screaming like— Well, a bear, now. 
You move just a few feet away— Enough to fog up the yelling, but not enough that you couldn’t run back to Richie if his arms start to numb. 
“Yo, T.” You answer, thankful that somebody has finally returned your fucking calls. To be fair, it’s painfully early— But how is no one awake an hour before they have to clock in? C’mon.
“We’re doing this because we love you, fuckin’ numb nuts!” 
“Don’t be fuckin’ mean when he’s in a vulnerable state!” You kiss your teeth, yelling to Richie behind you, just as Tina tries to say hi. 
“I am not a fucking patient, Chip!” Another slam, another violent jiggling of the door handle. You’re pretty sure that shit is going to break off one day, if he keeps doing that. You don’t know how right you are now, but you will in a year or so. “Open the fucking door!”
You only remember you’re on the phone with Tina when she pipes up, vaguely hearing the yelling on her end. “...Two week milestone going well?”
“Just fucking peachy, T.” You grimace, rubbing the space between your brows. “You think it’s healthy to lock him in the freezer? I feel like we are fucking this up.”
“Why’s he in the freezer?”
“Guess who was—” You turn your head to Richie, when you speak into the phone. “So fucking stupid— And left his fucking xanax just out in the open with his unfinished breakfast?”
“I apologized—” “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong, Cousin! Now open the fucking door!”
“Yeah, I think freezer is the right call.” Says Tina; you’re both not sure if that’s true, but at the very least when he’s in there he can’t hurt himself or either of you. But fuck, he must be cold. Maybe that’s good for his nervous system? Every yell just mounts with guilt— But you’re his sponsor now. You are not his friend right now, you’re his mentor and you’re meant to do this. This is definitely— slam— the right thing—scream—to do.
“Yeah, probably.” You nod, to no one. “Well, basically, if you can let everyone know to just— Not fucking come in, today, or at the very least not come in for like— At least three hours. Maybe six. It’s not like you can work anyways, the freezer’s off limits until further notice.”
“You sure you don’t need us to come in?”
“Ah, T, that’s a nice thought but—” You wince, as you hear a crash from inside the walk-in. “I don’t know if it’s better or worse, for more people to witness this.”
Richie can tell what the crash is, because he himself has dropped shit an innumerable number of times in that walk-in before. “—Did you just knock over the fuckin’ stock—” “Fuck yourself! Fuck yourself! This is my fucking restaurant! Let me the fuck out, Richard!”
“Let’s just say call me back in three hours.” Is what you settle on. You don’t want to see this, and you don’t want anyone else to have to see this. And when Mikey eventually comes out of his rage state, he will be glad that the only two people that actually saw him like this, are his two closest friends. “Can you let everyone else know?”
“Yeah baby, I’ll let ‘em know.” First time Tina’s called you baby with sincerity instead of sarcasm, you wish you could savour it, but you’re so distracted with everything else that you really don’t even notice it. “Keep yourself safe too, alright?”
“Okay, Mama.” You reply with what is really only half sarcasm, and let her go. You sidle up to Richie, back on holding the door closed duty. Backs against the walk-in door, holding Mikey in, despite punch after punch after punch. He’ll wear himself out, eventually, but you’re terrified about how long that’s going to take. So is Richie.
He nods to your phone. “How long?”
You don’t need to check to know. “In six hours, he’ll be at two weeks.” You wince as one of Mikey’s hits against the door very directly targets your back, putting it in knots. “But it’s not like he’s suddenly going to go, oh well it’s been two weeks so I’m normal now, though.”
Richie just nods, pensive. “M’sorry.” 
You shake your head. “I was just bein’ a bitch, we’re all getting used to it, I gettit, just try to be safer.”
He nods again, looking down at you as the beating seems to slow down. Richie tries to imagine a world where you two aren’t here right now; for some reason, he finds that universe more miserable. “We’re so fucked.” Because here it’s you two. You’re so fucked but it’s you two. It will take more than a year for you to figure out that’s how Richie feels.
“I know.” You punch back against the door, alerting Mikey— Not that he wasn’t already alert, and speak to both of them. “Same team, though!”
One last resounding body slam into the door, with everything Mikey has— It moves, just a bit, but not at all enough to open it. And then, a long silence. To the point where you and Richie look at each other, worried if Michael has somehow just died in there. But then a quiet voice speaks, like a white flag being raised. 
“Same team.”
You look to Richie for permission, he’s just as clueless as you are here, as to what the right call is. With the most trepidation one could have, you put your hand on the handle and just start to pull on it, not even close to opening it. But Mikey notices the way the hinge moves by a hair, on the other side. 
“Don’t open it.” You know he’s up to the door, just opposite of you. Not capable of looking at you; not capable of looking at him. “Six hours. It’s just six hours.”
But you can hear each other. And maybe that’s all you really ever needed. To be able to hear each other, even when he’s not here. 
“Six hours. Same team.”
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“I don’t know how.” Carmen’s nose twitches. “I don’t know how to stop being fucking—Garbage— I’ve tried—” “Have you?”
It’s a bit knife twisting, from Richie, but necessary. “Have you done the work? Cause it’s— I don’t think you have, Carm.”
“...What the fuck kinda work can I do, to fix me—?” Richie snaps his fingers, pointing at Carmen, interrupting him. “That— That is the exact fuckin’ problem with you, Cousin.”
Carmen almost rolls his eyes, putting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. “What, that I’m self-aware?”
“That you just fuckin’ give up.” “I don’t just give up—” “You do! You give up and you go wah, I’m a Chef with issues and I’m gonna make it everyone else’s fucking problem—” “I am asking for help—” “Are you? Because the last person that helped you just ran out crying.”
Richie exhales, eyes closed. There’s a long forced silence, as a few tables full of patrons exit The Bear, awkwardly shuffling past what is clearly a crisis between the people that have been serving them tonight.
“That was below the belt, I’ll admit.” Says Rich, once they’re out of earshot. 
Carmen just shakes his head, though he cannot look at Richie, though he can’t refute anything. 
Richie steps next to where Carmen sits, and like an olive branch, Carmen lifts up his arm to offer his cigarette. Richie accepts, thank God— Thank you, for softening him up, because if you hadn’t, again, Carmen would be going headfirst through the fucking window right now.
“Don’t yell ‘t me—” That honestly hurts more than getting thrown through a window. “But I don’t think you got Andrea, at all.”
Andrea? Oh. “Chef Terry?” The Ever’s owner, Richie means. 
“Andrea.” Richie nods, taking a puff. “Every second counts— I don’t think you got it.”
Carmen just shrugs, shaking his head, sure, he worked there for years and Richie worked there for days, but sure, he’s the one that didn’t get it. “Yeah? What’d I miss?”
“It’s not meant to make you fuckin—” He gestures to the general form of Carmen. “Tweak. It’s not about speed or— or— like firin’ off on all fuckin’ cylinders.” 
“Then what is it?”
“It counts because it counts.” Richie hands the cig back to Carmen. “It’s— The fucking—” He kisses his teeth, trying to figure out the best way to explain. “When you took like, a million goddamn years to make that fuckin’ mont— Mont— What was it?”
“Montmorency.” Your cherry sauce. Carmen spent too fucking long reducing it, yesterday. He redid it like five times. He’d redone it so many times the autopilot in his brain fucked up that fucking plate yesterday, and it threw his entire life into a spiral. No. That's not what happened. He threw his life into a spiral.
“That was worth it, cause it— Cause it took time. Does that— Am I making any fuckin’ sense? Terry did this shit better, fuck.” Richie rubs a hand over his face, you’d probably be able to explain this better too. “It’s not the thing you’re doing that makes it count, it counts because you’re doing it.”
The value is in the time, not what is delivered. It does not need to be the most special, hyper condensed, hyper focused, upper echelon second to count. It will count because it counts. Time spent is worth it, no matter what was bought. Every second you spend, will always count. All the work and the not work and the love and the not love— It all counts. It counts because it counts. You care therefore you care. Any effort made is good effort. 
Why does Carmen keep taking eons to learn what you are always trying to tell him?
The door opens, again. Instead of more patrons, Syd steps out— Wondering where the fuck her Exec and Host have gone. “Are we good?” 
“No.” Says her Exec and Host. She nods, that’s good, cause she’s not good either. 
“Who’s runnin’ house?”
“No one.” Lies Syd, Tina’s running the back, Sweeps is running the front, but she wants to freak Carmen out a little. She grabs the cigarette from Richie. “Burn the money, I say.”
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“So, what you’re asking me to do— If I’m understanding, correctly, which— I might not be— You want me to take all my money, okay, and place it in a fucking furnace? Is that right?”
“So I’m sensing—” You curl your hand in the air. “A touch of hostility, which is fair.”
Bargaining with Uncle Jimmy isn’t the easiest thing in the world— Especially when this is your first time meeting him— And you’re begging him for money. Well, helping Mikey beg him for money. 
“Listen, Uncle, please.” Mikey swallows, leaning in, elbows on the table. It’s nearly the end of January. New year, fresh start. No better time to pitch a half-baked pipe dream in the middle of The Beef’s dining room. “It’s not like I’m brand new to the restaurant gig— We turn profit, here, we can fuckin’ pay people.”
“Can you pay me?” “We will—” “Or you could just let me cut my losses—” “I wanna do something real, Uncle.”
“Why’s she here, again?” You shrink, when Cicero points at you. You swallow. 
“I’m here as… Proof… That he wants to do something real.” You have to stop yourself from doing jazz hands, doubling down on the awkwardness will not make it go away, that is sadly not how that works.
Jimmy stares, for a moment, the cogs in his brain almost audibly whirring, as he stares at the space between you and Mikey, where you sit, at the other side of the booth. “Are you having a fuckin’ baby or somethin?”
The visceral reaction from your side of the booth is immediate. The worst part is he’s not even the first one to ask something like this— No, the manager at Wells Fargo was.
“What the fuck!” “Come on, Uncle…” “Do I— Do I look like a Milf, what the fuck is going on—” “She could be my daughter!” “Alright— So that is a little far, but the sentiment—”
“Alright, shut the fuck up, what is so fucking real that I’m suddenly going to hack up—”
Mikey tosses his necklace onto the table. It shouldn’t be physically possible, because it’s on a string, but it still manages to roll for a comically long time, like a coin, over to Jimmy. To thine own self be true. One Month.
“You will not be giving your money to some fucking junkie, Uncle—”
You wave a hand, interrupting Mikey. “Verbiage.” 
He swallows and nods, taking the note. A hard lesson to learn. “You will not be giving your money to— To— You— You’re gonna give your money to someone who is trying, alright?”
Uncle Jimmy hasn’t looked up from the chip since it landed; Mikey continues. “And— And I’m gonna bring Carmy on, and we’re gonna do like—Like high level shit. Like a real fuckin’ Michelin level—”
“How many times have you gotten to a month?”
“First time.”
Jimmy frowns, crossing his arms. “How many times have you tried getting to a month?”
“Five.” Michael says, “Six.” you correct. Christmas was hard. Christmas was extremely fucking hard. You weren’t with the Berzattos, upon Mikey’s request— And neither was Carmen, upon Mikey’s ignoring him completely. And that made things a little fucking hard. 
Jimmy just nods, arms still crossed. He’s forming some sort of plan, in his head, you’re just not sure what it is yet. He looks to you. “So you’re his sponsor, then?”
“Yessir.” “Do you feel qualified to do that?” “No-sir.”
Mikey kicks you under the table, your proclivity for honesty is not doing a great job selling this whole restaurant idea. You kick him back. “I don’t think it’s possible for me to feel qualified.”
“You sober?” “Not really.” “Well that’s kind of a key factor, I’ve heard.”
You sigh and lean forward, putting your hands in your lap. This is Mikey’s Uncle— Well, is he, actually? Unsure. But he gives as much of a fuck as you do, so you spill your guts, because you know he’s poking because he’s worried that some kid is taking care of Mikey and it’s the blind leading the fucking blind. 
“I’m stable. I drink, sometimes— But never more than one glass, and never multiple days in a row. I’m coming up on a year, I still attend A-A— Though not as often as I’m told I should— And I’ve told Mikey that turbulent month long benders and a full blown decade long opioid addiction are not the same thing and I really shouldn’t be his sponsor.”
Mikey leans forward as well, then, meeting your level. “And I told Chip— And our coord— That I won’t do the program without her.”
After a long moment of silence, taking his time to digest every bit of information, Jimmy nods to the folder on the table. “N’ this?”
“It’s like a… Proposal?” You look to Mikey for help, he shrugs. This motherfucker— You’re not even a stakeholder in this, why are you talking? You turn back to Jimmy. “It’s like a promise.”
You open the folder, there’s loose sketches you’ve put together of The Bear’s signage, plus Carmen’s original piece— It was fun and weird, to work off of an artist you’ve never met before. There’s also cut outs from the New York Time’s and Food and Wine magazine showing off his award winning talents. 
“We make money now.” Mikey finally chimes in, crossing his arms. “Imagine what we could do with him.”
“It would be cool!” You wingman. A little too excited for someone who’s never even breathed in a Michelin restaurant. “It’d be cool to have, like, a fine-dining establishment on North Orleans.”
“Or you’d completely cut out the audience that already likes The Beef.”
Mikey defends, “The people don’t know what they like, yet.” while you spread out some more papers across the table, showing off screenshots of food Carmen’s texted, that Mikey has never replied to. “They will like this shit— It’s— It’s art, Uncle. When they see this, they won’t give a shit about sandwiches.”
“They’ll give a shit about the price.”
“Uncle, I’m the guy.” Mikey uncrosses his arms, straightening up his posture, because now it’s serious. “I can— We can do this.”
As you continue to spread out papers, Uncle Jimmy stops you, seeing a peculiar page in the pile. He points to it, so you fish it out and hand it to him. He squints. “Joint bank account?”
You nod. “It’s so I can keep an eye on his spending and withdrawals.” Mikey tries not to wince at the fact a kid is in charge of managing his finances. You try not to wince at the fact that despite managing his finances, he's still reset six times.
“Y’know banks are a fuckin’ scam, right?”
You do not entertain Jimmy for a second, finally losing your whimsy. Your leg is shaking underneath the table— Thank God these tables are bolted. “I know that this is the first time in twenty years that my best friend is keeping savings.” 
Not just living paycheck to paycheck, anymore. Not spending every penny on painkillers, anymore. Mikey is saving up because now there is a future to spend it on. Cicero swallows, nodding, eyes looking down, thinking deeply. 
When he speaks again, it’s to say the most insane thing you’ve ever heard. “Ten grand a week.”
Your reply is in sync with Mikey, both jumping forward in your seats. “What?”
“Every week.” Jimmy pushes the chip back to your side of the table. “Every week that you keep going, that’s ten grand.”
You flail your hand under the table, grabbing for Mikey’s— He does the same, and it’s like a contest for who’s going to break who’s hand first, with how hard you’re holding each other. 
Mikey’s first to ask the question, “Is that… Starting now or starting since I—”
“I’m so glad you asked, fuck no, that’s starting now.” He points to you, now. You flinch. “You’re gonna piss test him every fuckin’ week. I’m not fucking around about this.”
“Right. Heard.” You can only nod, because if you express anything else, it might just be screaming forever and ever. He pivots back to Mikey.
“And it’s gonna be cash— It’s not going in that fuckin’ joint, aright?” “Heard.”
“...Alright. Deal.” Cicero comes forward in his seat, and shakes Mikey’s hand. And despite not being a stakeholder, he reaches for yours, too; you shake it, and after a moment, he ruins this excitement stirring in the room, moving out of the booth. “I gotta piss, now.”
When he leaves for the bathroom, Mikey leans his head to you, putting his chin on your shoulder, whispering, “Art of the deal.”
You push his face away immediately, laughing. “Shut the fuck up! Why did you make me lead that shit!?”
Tomorrow Mikey will relapse again, and you’ll reset his necklace for the seventh time, but you don’t know that yet. Carmen’s gonna be so excited, when he finally comes back to Chicago and gets a sober brother and his dream restaurant. You’re excited to meet the guy, one day. Fingers crossed he likes you. 
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“That was fucking nuts.” Sydney decides that’s the best way to surmise it. “Like more than usual.”
“I’m aware.” Carmen can only nod, and despite the fact that he’s just going to lie down and take this, it does not remove the bitter feeling in her heart at all. Syd’s fucking mad, and she wants him to know. 
“I’ve— I’ve literally only ever seen her cry like, like during Pixar movies or when we graduated. Like she just— That’s not a thing she does. I, I’m so— I literally don’t know what the fuck to do, right now.” For a second, she thinks her vision is flickering. “Oh my god, am I finally having a stroke?”
The three restaurateurs look up to see their neon white logo of a bear’s head, flickering and occasionally buzzing out. Richie’s the first to speak, as they all blankly stare at it. “Who are we gonna call, f’this?”
If this was yesterday, or maybe even if this was an hour ago, it wouldn’t be a question as to who they’d call. Carmen scratches the back of his head, the flaking hair gel is getting itchy. “Ted?”
“Who’s Ted?” Asks Syd; that’s not Tony, Terry or Tommy.
“Ted Fak.” Richie and Carmen answer at once, she almost gasps. 
“They’re multiplying?”
Richie rolls back into his memory. “There’s eight— No, fuck, nine of them— I always forget Avery.”
Sydney just nods and hugs her shoulders for warmth. They all keep staring at the flickering bear, like moths.
“I don’t—I don’t have anyone, except her, y’know?” Syd sniffs. “Like after my dad, it’s— it’s literally just her. She’s my best and only friend.”
Carmen presses the palms of his hands over his eyes, “Heard.” 
“I don’t want to choose between her and my career.” Carmen thinks she’s pausing, so he waits, but she’s not talking. That was the end of the sentence.
“Heard.”
“If that’s what getting a star takes, I don’t want it.” That’s huge. That’s a big statement, from Syd of all people. That gets the men to turn their heads from the light to her.
Syd continues to stare at the flickering bear, which lights up the two single straight streams of tears perfectly. It’s silent. She’s not snivelling or anything, she just shakes her head in tight swivels, biting her inner cheek. “It’s just— it’s just not worth that.”
“How can I fix it?” Maybe Syd will have a better answer than Richie did, something a little more actionable. She finally flits her gaze from the light down to Carmen, where he sits. 
“Can you stay after close?”
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“—Nobody in this motherfucking city knows transit etiquette— Why does everyone get on and go ‘wow I love standing in the walkway’— I’m so— There was so much seating just ahead of the blockage, Mikey, I’m so pressed, I’m literally—” You massage your brows, finishing up your rant from this morning’s commute. “I can’t. I can’t.”
“If you weren’t a little passenger princess, this wouldn’t be a problem, Chippy.” “I have my fucking license! I just don’t have a car!” “Then buy one!” “With who’s money!?” “Mine?”
A terrible running joke, from Mikey, is telling you to spend his money— The money he gets from staying sober. The money he’s saving for The Bear. The reason why he thinks this is funny, is because you have no fucking idea where he’s been putting it. But you know he hasn’t spent it, so that’s all that really matters.
You just huff, leaning back against the wall of his office as you watch him work, arms crossed and cringing as he futzes with the wiring. “You’re going to light us up like a Roman fucking candle.”
“It’s Jewish lightning—” “Top twenty-thousand reasons we do not say that— Number One—” “It’s gonna work! Just trust me!”
Mikey’s office looks a lot more lively, lately. He never cleans up the mugs of coffee you give him, every morning. He says it’s his way of tracking which flavour is his favourite, since you’re always switching up. It will never change from the chai spiced blend, and you both know that. It’d be more accurate of him to say he likes the sticky notes you tack on to each mug, saying you love him and saying he needs to keep going.
“I could fix it, y’know.” At that, Mikey turns away from his distressing handiwork to look at you. 
“I know. But I wanna prove I can, too.” 
That hits you right in the chest. You want to tell Mikey that he never has to prove anything, with you; never has to lift a goddamn finger. But he would hate to hear that. “Okay.”
You hear from outside the office, the back door opening. “Child incoming, no expletives please!”
“What the fuck is an expletive?” Mikey asks you, whispering.
You whisper back, leaning forward off the wall to close in on him. “It’s what you just did.”
Eva runs in, the way that kids do— The way they kinda waddle. Immediately up to you and Mikey. Uncle Mike and Aunty Chip, she calls you both. Sometimes Uncle Jack— Because she hasn’t completely grasped the concept of gender yet— Good, no one should.
“Watch!” You have yet to even say hi, before she immediately attempts to do a cartwheel in the middle of this very small office. 
“Good job, Evie!” You clap, after she just barely lands safely on her shins.
She nods, “Can you do that?”
“Honestly? I don’t think I can.” You look up from her to Mikey. “Can you?”
“Can I cartwheel?” He stumbles back, slapping his hand over his chest. Gutted. “Can I cartwheel? Eve— She doesn’t think I can cartwheel.”
“Insane, Uncle.”
“Not what I said!” You can’t hold back your laughter, what a shining this kid has taken to her dad. “I’d love to see it, I really would!”
Mikey just shakes his head, kissing his teeth. How dare you offend his honour, in this way? This forty-two year old man can absolutely cartwheel with the best of them. In five minutes he definitely isn’t gonna eat shit in the dining room of his restaurant. He pats Eva on the shoulder. “You go with your dad and clear out some tables out front, I’m gonna need space.” 
“You’re gonna break your neck, Mike.” Richie chimes in, standing in the doorway now, waiting for Eva to return to him. “I don’t wanna plan your funeral.”
“Please, you would plan a terrible funeral.” “That’s bull—”
“Expletive!” You cover Eva’s ears. She just laughs, looking up at you with that cute and bizarre blank kid stare. What a little patoot. 
Richie looks to you, forgetting the bit for a moment, “Y'need a grocery run, tonight?”
You nod, removing your hands from Eva, but then she holds them there. Goddamnit, kids are an awful idea but she's fucking cute. “Pay you gas money in the form of Wendy's?”
“Marone!” Richie exclaims, poorly, grabbing your face by the chin and top of your head to kiss your cheek just short of a million times. “The perfect woman—”
“Not Italian!” is the synchronous reply from you and Mikey.
Richie rolls his eyes, “Not Italian— Fu—”
Eva interrupts him, taking as much as a shining to you as she does her father. “Exp—Expultive!” She looks at you for approval and you nod in delight.
“Just go set up front, would ‘ya?” Mikey brushes Rich off, the man just rolls his eyes, picking up his daughter from you to fly her off like an airplane. 
“Let's set the stage for your Uncle’s neck injury, sweets. Bwwwwrrr—” Richie makes good airplane noises. Richie’s a good dad. You will never find a good time to tell him this. You watch Mikey’s back flex, as he cracks back into the hole of wires in the wall. He's been working hard on a lot of little things lately. 
You will not realize he is trying to make things clean and square, until it is too late. Right now, you’re just happy, because, “You’re already at three weeks again, and you haven’t even noticed.”
“Oh, I fucking noticed.” He doesn’t face you, when he says it, but it’s with a hearty chuckle. He’s noticed it violently, he’s just getting very good at the first month, now— Well acquainted with the burn out. “But now there’s money on the line, I can’t lose.” 
It’s not that money’s on the line. It’s that his brother is on the line now. And Mikey couldn’t do this for himself— but the guy could do it for his brother. So he’ll just be the guy, that’s what the guy’s do. Six hours, same team. Nine weeks, Mikey, come on.
“Well you’re doing good, I’m proud of you.” 
“You believe in me?” He says it like he doubts your conviction. You nearly punch him in the back of the head.
“Of course I believe in you.”
Mikey bites his inner cheek, though you can’t see his face. “...Why are we keeping the candles?”
Ah. You’ve still got the one and two candles in his drawer with a lighter, ready for the next cupcake. They’re slowly but surely melting with each reset, eventually they’ll be incomprehensible. Do you believe in me? If you do, why are you saving them? Do you think we’ll need them? That’s what Mikey’s asking. You scoff. 
“You’re so stupid.” “What the— I confide in you and I get this—”
You interrupt him, arms crossed. “One day, one week, one month, one year, fuckin— When we get to double digits? Ten months? One decade?”
He’s mum, at that. You add. “We’re getting our fucking mileage out of these candles, Mikey. I believe in you.” You think Mikey has a future, still. Mikey knows he doesn’t. He changes the subject because if he doesn’t, he’ll tell you everything and you will stop it.
“I want you to start talking to Carmen, when he comes back.” You should’ve asked Mikey why he was so certain Carmen would be coming back. But you weren’t smart enough. 
“What the fuck?” You snort. “Okay, out of literally nowhere—” “You’d like him.”
“He sounds very nice.” “He’s not. He’s a—” “Ball buster, yes, you’ve told me.” “He’d like you.” “Why?” “Cause you’re you.”
“Wow, pretty inarguable there.” You can only smile, unable to see the wheels turn in Michael’s head. “Guess we’ll be besties.”
“I meant talk like talk—” “Are you trying to hook me up right now?” “He’s a virgin, so it’s definitely not a good deal for you—” “And— And why are we talking about your brother's sex life— Did we already explode and this is hell?” “I just want you to be prepared for what you’re getting into, he gets performance anxiety so—” “Mikey!”
“You’ll talk to him?” Mikey turns away from the wall, wanting you to look him in the eyes and promise him.
You shake your head and roll your eyes, but stick a hand out for the Berzatto to shake. “Yes, Bear, I’ll talk to your virgin Michelin star ranked brother.”
“Thank you! I ask for so little.”
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After close, after everyone but Carmen, Sydney, and Richie leave, the three make plans to meet in Michael’s office. Carmen will go in ahead to hide your folder because he doesn’t want to see it himself and he absolutely doesn’t want anyone else to see it. Even if one of them could very well explain it, because he’s fucking in them. It’s fine. He looks at your wrapped up painting in the corner of his office. Carmen considers for what feels like a decade, whether or not he should open it. But he hasn’t earned a gift from you, so he doesn’t— Not for now, at least. He hasn’t earned your art right now. 
Underneath your ICE folder is his notepad— The one he was scribbling recipes for his Exec into, the one he scribbled your recipe into, and underneath all that torn up paper— His list, from this morning. The non-negotiable rules he wanted— Wants? To add to The Bear. There’s twenty-seven. Half of them are spelt wrong as he wrote them while absolutely losing his shit, this morning. This list did not go over well, when it was proposed during family, at two in the afternoon. Some of these could still work though, right? At least the technique and the boxes and the—
Richie comes in, not knocking, and immediately spots the list. “Oh good.” He grabs the notepad and rips off the twenty seven points. Leaving only the title, NON-NEGOTIABLES. 
“Come the fuck on—” Says Carmen. Richie rolls his eyes, tossing the list onto the desk. Richie can tear him and his stupid fucking list a new one another time— Richie and Carmen can sort out their own part of the fight in a week, when they take a twelve hour road trip. Right now though, they are both completely focused on you. 
Sydney comes in with two labelled deli containers of coke. Time codes and everything, she can't turn it off. She hands one to Rich, the other one is for herself. That’s fine, soda on Carmen’s shredded throat really wouldn’t be great right now anyways. She takes a sip, looking over Carm's shoulder. “Oh, we’re doing a real list, now?”
Carmen just sighs, letting the dig go, because he deserves it. He clicks his pen, sitting down, ready to write, without hesitation. “Go.”
Richie leads, “You need to fucking relax.”
“Lay off her,” Sydney waves her hand over her neck. “Leave her the fuck alone, for like a week, minimum.” 
“No— What? No— You should call her like now—” “Absolutely not the right move—” “Solve it hard and fast—” “Why hard—?”
“I’m just gonna wait.” Carmen decides, typically Syd is the right one, anyways. Plus if he hears your voice right now he might throw up and he doesn’t have your tums, anymore. “Next?”
“An exorcism.” Richie doesn’t laugh, when he says it. “Also read fuckin’ Runnin’ on Empty— By Doctor Webb.”
The two cooks just look at him, like Richie’s grown five thousand heads. He groans before they even say anything. “I’m fuckin’ well read, shut the fuck up— It’s—” He snaps his fingers, pointing to Carmen’s list, “It’s an audiobook, too, on fuckin’ Spotify— Listen to that shit on your commute you have no excuse.”
“Yes, Chef.” Carmen writes it down, he also writes down under things to look into, catastrophizing, while he’s at it. Richie watches over his shoulder, and adds, “Look into sublimation and behavourial dysfunction.” 
Syd’s still reeling over the sudden character growth. “You need to relax with the self-help books.”
“Yeah, well you need to read Mark Wolynn’s ‘It Didn’t Start With You.’” Richie’s got lists of books now, instead of zingers. They somehow hit harder.
She’s got no come back for that other than a surprised pout and nod, taking her own phone out to write it down. “Yes, Chef.”
Carmen pipes in, not looking up from his list of to dos “Should I also read that one—” “Yes.” “Heard, Chef. Next?”
“It cannot be on Tony to be your fucking punching bag. If you’re tweaking— Keep that shit between you and your therapist—” Syd switches from her notes app to search, “We’re finding you a fuckin’ therapist.”
“Is that covered in our contract?” Didn’t he write it? Carmen doesn’t know.
“Doesn’t matter. Also I don’t know, but doesn’t matter.” Syd hasn’t read it yet. She also doesn’t know.
You are worth a couple out of pocket fees. Well, more importantly, Carmen is worth a couple out of pocket fees— Well, alright, he’ll discuss his weaknesses of self-prioritization with the therapist. 
Before Carmen can even say next, Richie adds. “Also you smell like shit.” The hair gel is pungent in a bad way.
And before he can defend himself, Sydney adds, not looking up from her phone, “We’re going to fuckin’ Kohl’s after this and we’re getting you a skincare— And haircare— routine. You’re seconds away from breaking out, I bet you use fuckin’ Palmolive dish soap.”
“Well— I’ve been using Tony’s, actually—” “We know.” It’s a completely synchronized interruption. 
“It’s been her signature scent, since highschool.” “Who do you think took her grocery shopping when she didn’t have a car?” “I thought I was having a flashback everytime you walked by in the kitchen, this past week.” “You should go back to it.”
“I know. I will.” He’s got every intention of re-upping on your shampoo and conditioner, when he’s taken on a shopping spree to get his shit together. Hopefully you won’t mind him copying you. “No more Five in One.”
“You’ve been using fucking five in one!?”
Carmen thought, yesterday, naively, that he would do right by you on Friday. He didn’t, he did the very opposite— But even if he did, that’s weak shit. Carmen’s not gonna do right by you for just one single fucking day. Carmen’s gonna do right by you, for the rest of his life. The three get to well over twenty seven points, and he has every intention of showing up to it. He’s gonna be your man, and he’s going to fucking earn that title. He’s going to prove it.
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“Okay. So can you tell me what happened on February 22nd?” She’s a shit therapist. You’re imagining both you and her dead in your head. You’ve been imagining a lot of people dead in your head, for the last two weeks. Every time your dad comes to check on you, you imagine that he’s a ghost. 
You imagine having a passing conversation with someone, maybe catching up with Syd, one day. And she’ll ask you ‘Meet any interesting people?’ and you’ll say ‘Yeah. But he killed himself.’ That’s gonna suck. You didn’t prepare for that one. So you need to prepare now. Look at all of your friends and family, and imagine they are dead— And introduce them as such. ‘That’s my friend Richie, he died.’ Make it hurt now, so it doesn’t hurt then. 
You didn’t prepare enough. Didn’t do enough. Countless little mistakes and moments you missed. The therapist is looking at you, oh right, it’s your turn to talk again. You’ve told her all these cute little stories but now she wants to hear how the sad shit went. Or maybe it was all sad shit. Maybe it’s all coated in a film of grief, now. 
You’ll tell her that Mikey was very thorough, with his plan that you didn’t know about. He waited until he thought you were out of the city— When he knew you’d be out of the city. When your sister in law delivered your nephew and you went to Oak Park to visit. 
Just days before, you celebrated three months of sobriety with him and Richie— You’ll tell the therapist, excitedly, that this was his longest streak so far, it took him a year to reach three months— It was a big fucking deal. You were beaming all day. You didn’t realize, however, that days after Uncle Jimmy had made his deal with you two, that Mikey did the math. Figured out exactly how many weeks he’d have to be sober, to get three-hundred grand. 
Thirty weeks. Roughly seven months and two weeks. He did it. Not in sequence, but he did it. You’re still not sure where that money is. Uncle isn’t either. Maybe Carmen will figure it out. It’s meant for him anyways. You’ll say that Carmen will figure it out in such a way that she asks— “And do you hold animosity? Towards his younger brother?”
You look at her like she’s a psycho, because she is. Replying incredulously, “I don’t fucking know him.”
‘My best friend Michael is dead.’ ‘My best friend, Mikey, is dead.’ Doesn’t sound right. Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue. 
“Do you wish you did?”
“I really couldn’t say I give a shit, ma’am. Can I tell you about the guy I did know, though?”
She nods, you roll the fuck on. You tell her that the morning after you got to your brother’s place— February 22nd, you all decided instead of staying for the week, as you’d planned, as Mikey planned, you’d instead go home early. Because as much as you wanted to be helpful, having more people in the house was stressing the new mom the fuck out. Understandable. So you took a train back to Chicago early. 
You got home, and you found that you’d gotten some mail, waiting for you on the floor, shoved through the mail slot of your door. Bill, bill, invoice, spam, coupons, handwritten envelope— Ah. Mikey’s handwriting. A deep unsettling feeling burrowed its way into you. It just says For Chip. There’s no letter inside. No. There’s a debit card, his, of your joint bank account, there’s a key, yours, a copy of your key to this apartment, and a necklace, his— With his three month sobriety chip hanging off of it. 
You call him, immediately. He doesn’t answer the first time. You call him again. He answers on the last possible ring. 
The inciting incident, the thing that pulls you in, and permanently alters the trajectory of your life—                Is honestly quite boring, because it’s just a phone call with an old friend.
“Yo, Ice-y!” A classic nickname, reserved purely for phone calls with Mikey. Because in his phone, you’re 0ICEChip, so you’ll show up at the top of his contact list, if he’s ever found unresponsive. Typically a pro-tip reserved for those in hospice care.
You don’t entertain him. “Where are you?”
“I’m just out for a walk, sweetheart.” “Shut the fuck up out for a walk— Where the fuck are you?”
He hums at your snarky tone. “Nephew didn’t take a liking to you?” “I came home early.”
The silence is long, and you can hear the heavy wind coming through his phone. He’s outside. He’s somewhere outside. It’s a cold night. It’s usually not this cold at the end of February, but it really fucking came down, this morning. 
“Oh.”
“Why did you leave this shit at my door? Where are you?” You thought of 0ICE but you didn’t think to have him turn his location on? Fucking idiot. Fucking idiot. You didn’t do enough. ‘My friend, Bear, is dead.’ You didn’t prepare enough. “Bear, c’mon, what’s going on? I told you, if we need to reset, it’s two steps forward, one step back, it’s okay—”
“It’s not.” “It is! We will get there!” “I’m not. You’re gonna get there, I’m not.” “That’s not true!” “I love you but we both know this was a pipe dream.”
“Mikey—”
“Chip, I’m not going anywhere. You’re— You’re fucking going somewhere. I can’t— I can’t let— We both know where I’m going and it’s nowhere you should begin to be.”
“You don’t get to make that choice for me. You don’t get to make that call. I decide what I bet on— Mikey, where are you?” You’re walking out of your place, you hadn’t even closed the door before leaving again.
Fucking idiot, you should’ve bought a car. How are you supposed to get to him on foot and train? Fucking idiot. The snow is beating down, the wind is cutting into your face. ‘My best friend died on February 22nd. On the State Street Bridge.’— Why didn’t you get a fucking car? You didn’t do enough. You can’t remember any of your training, right now. What are you supposed to say? “Are you using?”
“No. No. I’m— This is me, Chip.” “No it’s fucking not, Mikey! Shut the fuck up, where are you!?”
“I love you, I didn’t want this to be— I-I—I’m not killing myself, Chip.”
“You’re not?”
You shouldn’t have believed him. You should’ve just kept walking. You would’ve figured out where he was, eventually. You should’ve called the coast guard, or some shit. Should’ve just figured it out.
“I’m not. I’m— I’m okay, I’m really just going for a walk— I-I just— I had a… I— I don’t want you to be my sponsor anymore. That’s it.” It made sense. He didn't want you to feel hurt, so he was hesitant. It made sense.
“Why?”
“Cause you’re a kid, and I can’t make you responsible for what I do.”
“I’m not a kid.” “To me, you are.” “Then we’ll find you someone else.” “Yeah, okay.”
You pause, for a good bit, listening to the shakiness of his breath. “You’re cold, Mikey.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re just cold.” That’s all that’s wrong. He’s just cold and he doesn't want you to be his sponsor anymore. “Go inside, soon. Come home.”
“I will.”
Mikey always had that way of making you think everything was going to be okay, even when it wasn’t. “Okay.”
“I want you to start treating our joint like an advanced payment, by the way. A million things are always fucking breaking at The Beef, there’s no point in wiring all the time.”
Mikey wants this to be clean and square, too. Because he couldn’t figure out the wiring by himself— He needs to make sure his baby brother is taken care of, he needs to make sure his restaurant is taken care of, he needs to make sure that you have something to do because Michael fucking saw you. 
“Yeah, that makes sense.” You nod to no one. “I think your toilets fucked, speaking of.” You laugh, everything’s okay. There’s a long silence, and you think he’s hung up. 
“Good. Okay— You should— You should come fix it, sometime soon… Love you, Chip.”
“Love you, Bear.”
You will tell your therapist that after that phone call, you went back inside, cleaned yourself up, unpacked unused toiletries, changed out of your borrowed brother’s sweats into your nice pajamas, because Mikey said he would come home. He said he would come home and you believed him because he never lied to you before. You set up the things he left for you in your handmade clay dish tray; so he can take them back. Just because you’re not his sponsor, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t keep his chips. 
You will tell your therapist that you fell asleep on the couch, waiting for Michael. You will tell her you woke up to a phone call from Richie, and all he said, wavering, was, “You should come over.” Richie doesn’t ask things. Richie will always say, come over. You don’t know why that’s the signal you get, since you seemingly must have missed so many other obvious signs, but you know then that your— Your— Your best— Fuck, the knots are fucking debilitating, fuck fuck fuck. 
You will not come over. You will walk, in the cold, to your dad’s place. You will not bring anything with you. You will stay there and rot for two weeks, as will everything in your apartment. He will force you to go to this several hour long therapy appointment because he can’t keep watching you do this, and you will resent the woman you are telling all this. 
You will continue to see her, for five more sessions, because the first six are covered under your insurance. She will help in a lot of ways, she will hurt in others.
Wells-Fargo will ask if you want to close your account. You don’t want to, but it’ll accrue monthly banking fees, so you take the money out and close it. You buy a shitty maroon 2004 Dodge Intrepid off Facebook Marketplace with the two and a half grand. It barely functions as a car. But it will drive. The next time someone needs you. You can drive. Next time you’ll think of everything, next time you won’t fail.
You stop paying the phone bill, for your business line. It goes defunct. You just don’t think you should be trusted to be helpful, for the next little while. You will blame your father for this, when people ask about it.
On the day of his funeral, you will go. You will go, and you will sit on the curb across from the church, and you will not go inside. It's just not possible. You will buy a pork chop-cheese sandwich from a bodega nearby and you will eat it on that curb and it’s only then, after shoving it down for so long, that you will scream and cry.
You will leave before anyone sees you, and you will go to State Street Bridge, and you will set up a small vigil. You will finnick with the candles and the flowers until you feel they are perfect. They will never get perfect. You just don’t want to leave. You have a tendency to do that. 
You will stare at the little stuffed bear, the roses, the picture frame of him, and you will finally say it aloud. 
“My best friend, Mikey, died.”
When Carmen shows up, two hours later, not honestly that long after you finally left, he will add a bouquet and a prayer candle. He will readjust all of your work, to his preference, and then readjust it again and again and again— and he will finally say it aloud. 
“My brother, Mikey, shot himself.”
No matter how you say it, it won’t roll off the tongue.
And about thirty-nine weeks from that day, you will be in New York, at a wedding, talking with the virgin Michelin star ranked brother, as you promised.
You will have abandoned your bar after making confessions under the counter, and have instead co-opted the single stall gender-neutral bathroom to have ample time and space to tell each other everything you’ve told your therapists. Even now, neither of you can get the words to roll off the tongue. 
But Carmen manages to make “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry— I will never be able to surmise, how sorry—” roll off well enough. Alas, he’s interrupted, by a knock on the gender-neutral bathroom door, made by the only fuckers that knows you two are in here. 
“Guys I— Guys I don’t know how to run bar, and I don’t think I should’ve been trusted, with this.”
Carmen will not look away from your bleary-eyed face, he will not break his focus even when you laugh at the sudden tension break. He will just tell the Faks to fuck off and figure it out.
“I’m gonna fix it.” Carmen will tell you, and you will nod and say, “I will too.”
Because it’s not just on one of you, anymore. It can be both. The shared burden. The shared grief. No more fucking shoes, because it's all out now.
It’s not negotiable.
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I love when tumblr drafts fully start to lag and my macbook lights on fire because the post is too fucking long. I have so much to say about this chapter but I think I will just make a separate post entirely about this. Because I’m. I’m really proud tbh not to toot my own horn but I think I kind of maybe a little bit ate with this one. 
Fun fact, that you may or may not believe: The Carmen scenes? Not planned. Fully did not plan to do any of that. This was going to be entirely Mikey flashbacks, originally— There might’ve ended up being more honestly, if I didn’t add Carmen, but after Something to Do when I started writing I was like,,, these cats aren’t cooking, Carmen’s side is missing a second beat before the third. And so, here it is. 
I know everyone was expecting a depression week for Carmen— And to be fair, I also kind of was. But I then thought, nah. They’d done too much work, and I don’t think Rich/Syd would allow him to wallow. Like get your shit together, not for you, for her. Ugh. 
Speaking of Rich and Syd— FUCK man my heart. The way their scenes from the past and present meshed together in such a deeply painful way I’m sooo SICK WITH IT!!! WHAT DID YOU THINK?!?!! Just fuckin— The way Tony was too scared to reach out to Syd but it’s SO FUCKING OBVIOUS that Syd was on the other side of Chicago thinking the exact same shit i’m SO SICK!!!!! I’M HACKING UP A LUNG HERE!!
Anyways it’s my birthday send me well wishes and an essay on what you thought I’d love to hear it. I know this was a tough one. Thank you for getting through it with me lmao. Tag list! Hope I didn’t forget anyone, pwease note i ownwee add pweople who swend theiw twoughts— It also may or may not hurt my feelings when people don’t read this text at the bottom. It might. It might a lot.
@anytim3youwant @navs-bhat @whoknowswhoiamtoday @gills-lounge @slut4supersoldiers @sinceweremutual @itsallacotar @catsrdabestsocks101 @popcornpoppin @renaissance-painting @lostinwonderland314 @v0ctin @ashtonweon @sharkluver @fridavacado @hoetel-manager @mrs-perfectly-fine
Next Part
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love-quinn · 2 months ago
Text
— PARTIAL CREDIT
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summary — when a new member of the waitstaff starts undermining you, you worry that your job might be in jeapordy. carmen knows you better than you think.
warnings — swearing, i think that's it
pairing — carmen berzatto x fem!waitress reader, semi (?) established relationship
pronouns — she/her
word count — 2.2k
note — i know i fully dropped off the face of the earth but unfortunately i was too busy channeling waitress reader a little too hard, i actually have to leave for work in a few hours but i really wanted to get something out. this 100% isn't inspired by true events or me projecting in any way, anyway i hope you enjoy!! <3
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Being the only waitress at a successful restaurant is hard. During the dinner rush, between wiping tables, grabbing drinks and running food, you’ve slowly learned to be more adaptable to the Bear’s new clientele base. That’s not without its struggles, of course. 
Fortunately, Carmy and Natalie seem to understand that it’s a major handful to simply do your job. Which is why Richie thought it appropriate to call you in two hours early to meet the new waiter.   
Liam’s nice from what you’ve gathered. He’s been working with you at the Bear for about two months at this point, most of that has involved you and Richie training him, and he’s been very receptive to your instruction. 
Sure, sometimes he mutters under his breath when a customer asks him for something, but hey, they’re annoying sometimes. And sure, sometimes you find him in the walk-in on his phone, but you’d be lying if you said you were never on your phone at work. He’s had no complaints, and the work is always done to a standard that’s expected (he is still in training, you’re not delusional). 
You’ve worked at the Bear since they were still the Beef, right after Carmen took over. He realised Richie couldn’t keep up with the stuff at the front by himself, so he’d gone with the cheapest option available and thanked god every day that you weren’t awful at your job. You had just graduated from UofC and if you didn’t get a job when you had, you would have been pretty much out of options. You had no work experience outside of being a TA in college (which apparently didn’t have a lot of transferable skills, according to most of your potential bosses). You hadn’t been able to score an insane internship, you didn’t make super stellar grades, you’d been too busy being desperately poor and struggling to keep up.
You’d been really lucky that Carmen had taken a chance on you when he had, and you had been desperate to show him you were aware of that. Liam didn’t seem to have the same sentiment.
He was the same age as you, and he’d actually gone to UofC as well. He’d gotten a pre-med degree but wanted to take some time off before he went for his MD at Rosalind Franklin. 
He picked up on the work fairly easily, remembered when you showed him where the cleaning supplies were, showed him how to work the buttons on the till to ring in orders, and introduced him to all the staff. They were nice to him, nice enough. It took them a while to warm up to him, just like it took them a second to warm up to Carmen, to Sydney, to you. 
But now, several months in, they all got along enough that work was going well. You didn’t have to work six days a week if you didn’t want to now that Liam was there to lighten the load (you did, you made sure Natalie knew that). Now, you could actually take your lunch break without worrying they were being completely overrun. 
On the whole, things seemed to really improve. 
Until, of course, they didn’t. 
You started hearing whispers, soft remarks of “Oh, I did that for her,” to Richie about greeting table seventeen. Small “I wonder why that wasn’t done, I’ll just do it quickly.” 
“Not to be that person, but I noticed that a lot of the straws haven’t been stocked up. I feel like I have to do it every time. I just wonder what she’s doing when she’s back here…”
You do your best to not let it get to you. He’s never worked in the service industry before, he’s probably just doing his best to make sure that his efforts are being noticed. You were almost lucky, in that way, that you were the only real waitress they’d hired. 
It’s an unusually warm day as you slide in through the back entrance to work. You’re your usual twenty minutes early, lucky that there’s enough work to do that Carmen often encourages punctuality (and thus, fairly compensates for it). 
Liam is scheduled today, but he’s leaving after the lunch shift. You get your break while the kitchen does prep-work for dinner, and then you’re coming back for dinner as well. 
Marcus is in his corner, kneading bread dough with a concentrated look on his face. You brush past him with an airy hello that he returns with a half-hearted wave, not looking up from his task. 
Tina is on vegetables, and she stops you for a moment to ask about a shipment arriving. You assure her that you’ll check when you get to the other side of the kitchen, making your way to the front.
The chairs are already all down, table cloths clean and freshly washed. Sydney went down to the laundromat to get them all clean that morning; she’d texted you and asked if you wanted to come but you told her that you really, really didn’t. 
Your first job is a pre-opening sweep, then a restock, then a menu review. You have 87 minutes until service, and Liam should be here in the next fifteen minutes or so. You have just enough time to go and bug Richie into showing you more pictures of Eva’s last birthday party. 
You stick your head into the office just in time to catch the tail end of a sentence that you definitely weren’t meant to hear; “...doesn’t even stack the chairs? What is she doing here?”
Your work anxieties - the idea that every time something goes wrong it was your fault, that one missed drink or late appetiser would have you fired, that every time a customer berated you it was actually your fault - had definitely eased some in the six months you’d been working there. You’d stopped thinking that every time someone was complaining it was about you, but that meant that when they really were talking about you, you knew. 
Liam’s standing there, leaning up against a pile of papers that Carmen is staring roughly at. He looks tired - when doesn’t he? - and like he doesn’t really want to hear whatever it was that Liam was saying. 
“A lot more than you do,” Carmen grumbles. He runs a hand over his face from the bottom up, coming to a rest when it’s gripping onto his curls. 
“I’m always covering her sections,” Liam groans. “The amount of time that Rich’s given me her table’s drinks, it’s insane. We should start pooling our tips.”
Carmen wants to say a lot back to that. That his name is Richie, and calling him Rich doesn’t make him any more like the finance frat bros that Liam is so desperate to associate with. That tip pooling would be insanely unfair to you considering Carmy’s pretty sure Liam’s made less than what you make in a day. That he stacks the chairs because he likes to, and you know that. 
Instead, he settles on “you’re always covering her sections because she’s always covering up for you when you screw up.”
Liam looks like he’s unsure whether or not to go ghostly pale or beet red at the statement. “Wh- has my performance not been up to scratch, sir?”
Carmen stands. “I didn’t really notice it, at first, cause everything was going so well. She’d never tell on you, she knows what it’s like to struggle at a job.” He looks disdainfully down at Liam’s too-new dress shoes. Professional but impractical as a waiter. From what Carmen’s noticed, this is the second pair he’s ruined. “She’d never tell me that your silverware is never rolled, so she’s been staying late and rolling every single one of them. She’d never tell me that your tables are never cleared away. She’d never tell me that you had six meals comped in your first month because you couldn’t be fucked writing shit down.
So yeah, maybe you get her tables a refill when she’s too busy telling one of us one of your guests was coeliac because you forgot to, but that does not give you the right to look down your entitled fucking nose at her.” Carmen gets close, not close enough to the point where it could be uncomfortable, but much closer than he’d ever get to Liam if he could help it. 
“You don’t like picking up her slack? That’s fine, that’s fucking fine, because to be honest, it seems like you’re creating more work for her anyway. You’re done.”
He looks pointedly towards the door to the small office. 
Liam knows exactly what Carmy’s telling him. “Sir, I-”
Carmen raises a finger and points. “You’re fucking done.”
Liam scampers away so quickly he doesn’t even see you eavesdropping. 
Carmy knows, though. He seems to have a sixth sense for when you walk into a room. If you’re not planning on coming in to confront him about firing Liam then he has no intention of bringing it up with you. He sits down, putting his forehead on his fist. “Sir.”
You’re standing right in the door, it’s practically impossible for Carmen not to notice you. But he pretends, allowing you the chance to slip away and act like you hadn’t just witnessed him firing Liam for being slightly mean to you. 
He opens his eyes to see you standing there still. 
“You didn’t have to do that,” your voice is soft. The collar of your shirt is tucked underneath on one side, and Carmen has to resist the urge to reach up and smooth it out. He’s not quite sure why and he doesn’t feel like unpacking it. “He’s still learning, I don’t mind helping him out.”
Carmen doesn’t mince his words. “He’s a dick, don’t defend him.”
He swivels away from his desk and gestures for you to sit. After a second of hesitation, you perch yourself on top of the small surface. You’re not sure who moves first, Carmen to reach up and take your hands or you to reach down to let him. Neither of you have ever spoken about it, like a lot of things. How he always makes sure you get extra food and you make sure Carmen isn’t bothered while he sets up the dining room. 
You hadn’t realised how much Liam had been heightening your anxiety while he was there. “He’s not allowed to do that to you.” Carmy sounds genuinely pissed. “You do fucking everything out there, he’s not allowed to come in and treat you like some sanctimonious fuck. You… you should’ve come to talk to me about it.” He gives in. “You could’ve.”
“I didn’t want to be a problem.” You admit quietly. “You have enough without me.”
Plenty goes unsaid between you and Carmen. You don’t talk when he drives you home in the dark, in the snow. But he’d be naive to believe that the same rules applied to everyone else. The kitchen staff talks, none more than Richie. Carmy is surprised he hadn’t decked that pre-med asshole already. 
“You’re not a problem, honey,” he says gruffly. You stay silent for a moment before realising that’s probably all you’re going to get out of him. 
“I need to go prep dining for service,” you say after a moment, not wanting to speak too loudly. 
Camry’s grip on your hand tightens and for a brief second he feels panic set in. You clearly are feeling okay, so it’s not that he needs to check on you. You’re well ahead of schedule. There’s no reason for Carmen to keep his hand enclosed around yours. And yet he does. And yet you let him.
“Liam was just in here bragging about how dining room prep was already done,” he says after a short while. “You’re well ahead of time.”
“He is,” you point out airily. “I’d never want to take credit for his work.”
Carmen squeezes your hands once, eyes crinkling at the sides. You both know you need to go over everything Liam did in an attempt to make himself look better, not one hundred percent trusting him to have done it properly. There’s 56 minutes until service before Carmen finally lets you go (and only because he has prep he needs to get done).
Plenty goes unsaid between you and Carmen. You don’t say anything when he cracks his office door open for you when you need a breather. You don’t say anything when his station’s been cleaned for him miraculously while you’re waiting for him to finish paperwork.
Luckily for you, the rest of your coworkers seem to understand this time. Nobody mentions Liam or his absence. No one mentions the stars drawn on the band-aid on Carmen’s wrist. And, most surprisingly pleasant, no one mentions how Carmen has started calling you honey more than perhaps your real name.
It makes it even nicer when everyone heads out, leaving you and Carmen alone in the restaurant for the night. They seem to have miraculously developed tact over the last 24 hours, but you’re pretty sure nothing could have stopped Richie from telling everyone about the way that Carmen holds your hand the entire way to your apartment. 
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