#sorry i'm late on this one o///o i'll still have ch 5 up tomorrow

[strawberriemarswrites]

CHAPTER FOUR

Chapter Summary: You treat Bartolomeo to lunch, and you're pretty sure you're not reading too deep into how he interacts with you... Right? Pairing: Bartolomeo x F!Reader Rating: Mature (18+ for the story, SFW chapter) TW: None this chapter, unless you count misunderstandings. Or you're afraid of kitties. Ao3 Link: Chapter Four (3,411 words)

The place was a hole-in-the-wall diner near the subway station. You kept telling yourself that you’d try it sometime after work, given that it always smelled like fried food when you walked by. Now you had the perfect opportunity. Greasy burgers and fries weren’t the most romantic thing in the world, but you weren’t going for romantic. You were going for something that was cheap, filling, and within walking distance. Better to save anything ritzy or personal for when you knew for sure whether or not Bartolomeo was interested in you, or if you were even compatible. After all, you were trying to thank him, not scare him off.

The good news was that Bartolomeo was more than happy with the choice. He agreed to the location with all the enthusiasm of a kid being told he could get whatever he wanted from the toy store. With how quickly he showed up at your door, you had a feeling that he would have shown the same level of excitement if you’d picked gas station sushi. Even with the return of his cool and untouchable demeanor when you both stepped out the door, you didn’t miss how he kept glancing over at you during the whole walk to the diner. Like he was worried that you would fall behind with how big his stride was, or somehow get swept away by the moderate foot traffic.

Resisting the urge to hold his hand was easier said than done. Unbeknownst to you, he was thinking the same thing.

In fact, for Bartolomeo it was agonizing, but he already felt like he toed the line of “too much” when he showed up at your door less than thirty minutes after you asked him out. He was trying to play it cool, though internally he was about ready to throw you over his shoulder and take you back home. Who cares that you both just sat down for food — he wanted to find out firsthand if his fantasies could compare to the real thing. 

He vigorously shook his head, trying to focus on the menu. Slow down, Barto. It’s just lunch. With her. In public. Where anyone can see and assume we’re—

“Everything okay?”

He looked up then quickly back down. Nevermind. He wasn’t sure he’d make it through lunch. Surely, he’d die of cuteness overload first.

“Yeah,” he lied. “Just wonderin’ what to get.”

“Whatever you want,” you said, resting your cheek against your knuckles. “My treat, remember?”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to go broke or nothin’.”

You smirked. “Are you planning on having one of everything?”

He shook his head. Just you.

“Then don’t worry, lunch with you isn’t gonna break the bank.” You looked down at the menu yourself and gave an exaggerated wince. “Maybe don’t order the steak.”

Bartolomeo’s responding laugh was low in his chest, a stark contrast from his usual loud and boisterous one but no less full of amusement. A pleasant shiver went up your spine at the sound, and you wondered what you’d have to do to hear more of it.

Once drinks were ordered, you leaned forward again and smiled, kicking your legs. “So, last night, I never got an answer to the whole ‘something you’re passionate about’ thing.”

From there, it was almost seamless. Bartolomeo told you about his interest in motorcycles, how he was saving up for one so he could get out of the city every now and then. You chatted about different places you knew from growing up in the suburbs, and where the best scenic roads were. You mentioned your free time was usually spent watching movies or playing video games, which led to him to go on for several minutes about the Yakuza Kiwami series and how he could lend you his copies. Then he talked about how his own free time now was usually spent helping his best friend Gambia, whose grandmother owned The Sound Barrier. When you told him you thought it was nice of him to help, he shrugged it off — he wasn’t nice, he just knew it’d be shitty not to help out someone who was practically his brother. You decided not to argue that he was nice, considering he barely knew you when he had offered to look out for you. Better to let him have his way so he could keep up the whole devil-may-care attitude.

By the time the food came out, you were more aware of the fact that Bartolomeo’s legs were stretched out far enough for his feet to be touching your side of the booth. His knees were wide apart, leaving your legs dangling between his. Feeling a bit more bold, you lifted and dropped one leg, letting your calf brush against his and watching carefully to gauge his response.

“By the way,” you said after inhaling a few fries, trying to remain nonchalant, “my friends seemed to like you. Nami especially. She thought what you did was hilarious.”

Bartolomeo shrugged, his ears turning pink. “Guy deserved it. I’d be a pretty bad bartender if I let that kind of shit go unpunished.” He then cracked a smile. “You should’a seen him after the switch. Dumbass didn’t even realize his drink was suddenly cider instead of beer and just kept drinking it.”

You laughed, covering your mouth. “No way, seriously? How fucked up did he get?”

He shrugged again. “Last I saw him he could barely stand from the barstool. Gambia had to throw him out the back door when we closed up. I didn’t tell him about what happened ‘til after.” He tore into his burger to keep from going into detail about what he did in the alley, and hoped to whatever god was out there you didn’t notice him shiver when your leg touched his.

You lifted your other leg, this time letting your foot nearly touch the underside of his knee before letting it drop back down. More color spread across his face, and his posture seemed to stiffen. Was that too much? You crossed your ankles and dug into your grilled cheese, thinking it might be better to see if he reciprocated the contact.

“Robin kept calling you ‘Rooster’ all night, so I know she likes you,” you continued. “She thought what you did was funny, too — said it was ‘unorthodox’ but deserved.”

Bartolomeo relaxed now that you weren’t making his heart race, and tried to appreciate the flattery behind your statement, but then he remembered the fourth member of your friend group. He felt the same knee-jerk jealousy that crept into his mind upon seeing him last night, and he had to force it back down before it made his shoulders turn to stone with the rising tension. “What about the big guy?”

“Drake? He actually saw the initial slip, then saw you switch before he could step in.”

His brow twitched, and he tried not to let the bitterness creep into his tone. “Sounds like a nice guy, if he was willin’ to get involved.”

You shrugged. “Last night was the first time I’d seen him outside of work, so I wasn’t sure how he’d do. He seems kind of protective though, thinks you went a little far.”

Bartolomeo could care less what he thought. You were grateful, and you were still here without a scratch on you, and that was what mattered. He kept his promise to look after you, and he was going to keep looking after you. No matter how “protective” anyone thought they were being if they decided to get in the way of that.

You finished your drink and continued, “I think he’s just more of a stickler for doing things the ‘right’ way, since he was also really worried about Nami scamming drinks off your other customers.” Your eyes widened and you covered your face. “Oh my god — she’s gonna kill me for telling you that.”

The loud, boisterous laugh was back, and Bartolomeo shook his head. “She’s not the first to try, won’t be the last.” He grinned, leaning forward and resting his cheek against his knuckles, the tension finally leaving his shoulders some. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

Sweetheart. Your chest fluttered so suddenly it was almost painful. That had to mean something, for him to use it when it was just you two and outside of the bar. You giggled and smiled wide, unable to stop the floaty feeling in your chest from reaching your voice, “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”

He shrugged. “Hey, what’re friends for?”

A plate shattered in the kitchen.

You both flinched and Bartolomeo looked over his shoulder, meaning he missed your smile shattering to the floor. Friends. You were almost embarrassed, really — he just said his free time was spent helping his friend, so probably didn’t have the time for a relationship. He probably had no interest in one, either. 

It still stung like hell to hear it. Friends.

When Bartolomeo faced you again, something seemed different. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something seemed just a little less radiant about your smile. “Everything okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

Now why didn’t he believe that? He gave you a once-over, brow furrowed slightly. You had tucked your arms in a little closer to yourself, and he hadn’t felt your legs nudge against his for a bit. In the midst of his earlier euphoria over the gentle contact, it hadn’t occurred to him that maybe it was accidental, and now you were suddenly aware of how much space he occupied. While it hurt a little to think it wasn’t intentional, it made sense — maybe you didn’t want to rush things (even if he really, really wanted to). Not wanting to make you any more uncomfortable, he spread his legs a touch further. He already almost fucked up by letting his little guilty pleasure get out of hand, so he’d do anything to try and remedy it by getting to know you the normal way.

Even though doing anything the “normal” way didn’t suit him, Bartolomeo was determined to be at least a little bit good. Just for you. He didn’t want to scare you off.

You, however, were now certain you had spooked him. He had shifted his legs further apart, which in your mind proved that he didn’t reciprocate the earlier touches. Though trying to keep up the smile was starting to feel phony, you used it to hide your disappointment, slowly letting yourself sink into the seat. It was fine. This was fine.

You did your best not to let the walk home be awkward. You let Bartolomeo lead the conversation a bit more, listening to him describe other times he’d stopped creeps at the bar. Apparently, though infrequent, it happened enough that he and his friend had a system, and he’d technically gone off-script the night before. You considered asking why he’d done something different for you, before biting your tongue and considering otherwise. It was nice just to listen to him, and you were again reassured that regardless of whether you were friends or more that he’d watch out for you.

As you approached the apartment building, you paused, a very faint but familiar sound reaching your ears. Bartolomeo kept on for a few steps before stopping himself, turning to look at you. “You good?”

You nodded but said nothing, instead staring down the alley between the apartment and the neighboring building. 

He rejoined you and leaned to one side, his gaze following yours. “You sure about that?”

“I just thought I saw something,” you said, distracted.

Then you heard it again: a very faint, mewling sound.

With a gasp and no hesitation, you started down the alley.

“Ah — wait a sec!” Bartolomeo only had to take a few long strides to catch up, but he very nearly bolted out in front of you. “Where’re you going? The front door’s—”

You shushed him, putting up a finger and pausing to listen. The mewling came again, much closer and to your right. You turned and looked down, seeing a beat-up, damp box. The lid had been folded shut in a way that kept it closed without tape, but was clearly too much for the critter inside to break through. Falling to a crouch you shuffled toward it, ignoring the grit and grime of the concrete as you put your hands down on it to keep yourself balanced occasionally. 

Bartolomeo followed your lead, though you missed how his hands reached and retreated — something about the risk of you getting dirty made him nervous. To him, it was like you were reaching into a world you didn’t belong to. He wanted to keep you safe from it. He could get dirty all he needed, all he wanted, and if you were going to insist you do the same he doubted he could stop you. This was all sparked by what amounted to just gritty concrete and a dingy box, but he still couldn’t help but worry.

Carefully, you opened the box, and let out a high-pitched cry. “Barto, look!”

He peered over your shoulder, and nearly melted.

In the box was a very tiny kitten, black with orange speckles. It mewed, standing on its back legs and attempting to climb out of the box now that it was open, but it could barely reach the top edge.

You whimpered and reached in, letting the kitten sniff your fingers before petting its head. “Who left you here? Who’d be so mean?”

Bartolomeo leaned over you, trying not to let your bodies touch. He wanted so badly to pick you up and hug you with how you cooed and doted on a stray kitten, but he remembered how you looked in the diner, and that he was trying to be good. But goddamn, it was hard to resist. Instead, he reached past you and toward the kitten as well, mirroring your gesture and letting the kitten sniff his hand. 

“Poor little guy,” you said, before shrugging off your cardigan. “Barto, do you know if there’s a pet deposit?”

He was so distracted by the fuzzy, glittery bulbs he imagined around you that it took a moment to register that you asked a question. “What?”

“I’m taking him in. You think the landlord would mind?”

Bartolomeo blinked and struggled very hard not to get choked up. Of course you’d take in a stray kitten. You were so good. As you bundled up the kitten into your sweater, the fuzzy bulbs returned, and he felt like he was staring at a painting of a Madonna and child. How could he ever hope to measure up to that kind of goodness. The saint who’d given the sinner a chance — he was suddenly all too aware of how easily he could tarnish it.

He cleared his throat, regaining his composure with a shake of his head. “No — uh. I don’t know about a pet deposit, but it should be fine.”

You smiled, the light from it nearly blinding him. “Can you help me keep this little guy secret then? Between us friends? At least until I can either find a home for him or get him settled.”

Bartolomeo nodded eagerly, mirroring your smile. “Yeah, I can do that.”

And then it hit him. A secret between... friends?

Oh. Oh fuck. Friends.

Part of him? Ecstatic. Absolutely thrilled. Could not be happier to be considered your friend, and that was the honest truth. He was going to be the best damn friend you’d ever had.

Another part of him, however, cried out in anguish. How was he ever supposed to hope he could get close to you if you just thought of him as “friend”? Panic filled his veins. What could he have done different? Did he misinterpret the leg touching? Should he have reciprocated? Should he have let his body touch yours just a moment ago? Should he have told you the lengths he went to in order to ensure that creep from the night before never set foot in his bar again?

Oh fuck, oh shit, oh fuck—

“Oh no.”

Your voice snapped Bartolomeo from his thoughts. He looked down at the kitten in your arms, and noticed it, too.

There was a cut under its left eye.

You gently tipped its head back, trying to get a better look at the crusted over gash. The kitten protested, wiggling a bit and mewling louder. Your heart ached — did someone hurt it, then try to abandon it when they realized they couldn’t? Or was it hurt from the start and someone decided they weren’t going to keep something that might actually take effort to take care of?

With a huff, you pushed yourself up and looked back toward the street. “Come on, let’s sneak him in! I’ll get him all cleaned up.”

Bartolomeo nodded and stood, still reeling internally with the mixed ecstasy and despair. With another shake of his head he recomposed himself, taking the lead out of the alley. He could tear himself apart internally over the word “friend” later. Right now, he was going to get you past the landlord.

It wasn’t all that hard to get the cat through the door and up the elevator. The landlord didn’t even seem to be in his office. You thanked Bartolomeo for the help, and he thanked you for lunch, and you parted ways in the hall as you set to work cleaning up the kitten. 

It served to be a nice distraction from the crushing feeling in your chest, checking it for fleas, disinfecting the cut, what its parts were (you had said “little guy” as a diminutive, but it turned out to be accurate). Once he was all dry, you took a picture and sent it to the group chat, asking for name ideas. You know you’d said that you wanted to keep him secret from the landlord until you found someone else to take care of him, but who were you kidding — you’d always wanted a cat. It didn’t take long for the group chat to respond, your phone chiming in quick succession with messages.

From Nami, embellished with heart emojis, “WHAT A CUTIE!”

Followed by a message from Robin, simply reading “Cute,” with a single heart.

Then from Vivi, “He looks like Luffy. Look at that scratch!”

You cocked your head and typed, “Who’s Luffy?”

“An old friend of ours,” Robin responded. “He has a scar under his eye, too.”

Rebecca pitched in. “He has a kind little face. But also looks like he’ll get into mischief. Exactly like Luffy.”

You lifted the kitten up and cooed, “What do you think? Are you a Luffy?”

The kitten let out a loud mew and wiggled in your hold.

You texted, “Luffy it is, then.”

As you sat back on your couch doing the math on how much you could afford in cat supplies this paycheck, you could no longer ignore the twisting pain in your chest. With a deep breath, you finally let yourself cry.

“What are friends for?”

Swallowing the heavy lump in your throat, you decided were perfectly okay with being just friends with Bartolomeo, especially if he treated all of them with the same level of protectiveness and loyalty he seemed to naturally hold. It wasn’t like it was his fault that you misread the situation. You’d been too hopeful and reading too deeply into things, and so it was your burden alone to untangle your feelings. You could do that. Easily. It might take a few days, and a few tipsy, sad calls to the group chat, but you would be okay. At least you had the advantage of only knowing him for a comparatively short amount of time, as opposed to the crushes you had known for years and made the same mistake with.

It still sucked. So you cried. The release felt like a weight off your shoulders, even if it made you miscalculate your budget a few times.

That night, as you lay in bed wondering how to best ask for Monday off so you could take Luffy to the vet, there was a faint nagging feeling in your mind of being watched. But all too quickly, you were falling asleep, and didn’t think too much of it.

Besides. You weren’t being watched. Not technically.

Bartolomeo was just sitting next to the window. Not looking in.