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carmenized-onions · 2 months

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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.

“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.

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.

“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.

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?”

“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.”

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.”

“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!”

“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.

“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.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.

“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?”

“—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.”

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.

“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.

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

#carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto imagine #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen x reader #carmy berzatto #mikey berzatto #michael berzatto #carmen x oc #carmy x reader #the bear fanfiction #the bear x reader #the bear #the bear hulu #the bear fx

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nolita-fairytale · 8 months

Text

bad moon rising | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x fem!reader

summary: in another lifetime, you meet mikey berzatto by chance one halloween night in nyc.

or, the fic based on this headcanon

warnings: angst, use of she/her pronouns, no use of y/n, second person pov, drug usage, high mikey b, swearing, family drama, depression, not a happy ending

wc: 3.7k

a/n: i wrote about grief again. shocking, i know. thank you all for your interest based on the headcanon it came from and thank you for your patience. i wanted so badly to post this around halloween and have been sitting on it since the better part of last year as one of my wips. finally, finally, it's here!! i took a slightly different approach than the headcanon, but i think it still does it justice. let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the carmy taglist.

this what-if fic takes place october 2021 because it's make my heart surrender-canon that mikey and reader never met; reader x carmy are best friends and colleagues but it has not gone further than that.

masterlist

Halloween, in another lifetime:

“Can I get hands, please!” Carmy shouts out to the entire kitchen, only to be met with a strong chorus of ‘hands’ in response.

His team works together like a well-oiled machine; a tight run ship, led by a captain near-suffocated under the weight of the chip on his shoulder.

“Chef!” you hear the sound of your general manager’s voice ring through the kitchen, causing many a-heads to turn. She rarely comes into the kitchen during dinner service unless it’s serious. Her eyes lock with Carmy’s as he looks up from his expo, as if she’s about to deliver bad news.

His mind races through the possibilities, preparing to solve the next oncoming crisis. Could it be an undercooked steak? An overcooked duck breast? Another complaint of ‘too salty’ or ‘underseasoned?’

“Chef, you uh… you have a visitor,” she says instead–the last thing he expects to hear.

A visitor?

“Wh-?”

“Someone’s here to see you. Says he’s your… brother??” Carmy’s ears begin to burn, as he searches for your face amidst the chaos, your gaze there to catch him even from across the kitchen. Your presence feels reassuring, like a strong man in a storm. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s knee deep into service and he cannot get the sound of tickets being added to the expo out of his head. He opens his mouth to say something but he’s uncertain any words come out of his mouth, unsure of what he’d even say. You send him a reassuring nod, and it’s as if in one look, you’ve made the decision to go.

“Chef, you good?” Carmy hears you ask the head pastry chef.

“Yeah, we got it. But don’t take too long,” she answers with a curt nod of approval.

He watches as you nod again, this time in recognition of your boss’ answer, as you pull the food-grade nitrile gloves off of your hands, discarding them in the nearby trash can. Without a word, you follow Kate closely behind, exchanging a few words with her as the two of you disappear to the front of house. There’s a war inside of Carmy as he watches you go–a pang of guilt and a feeling of relief–that whatever it is, you’ve agreed to take care of it.

In all of the years that he’s been in New York, no one’s come to see him–the possibility of it happening now, let alone as a surprise, feels improbable.

Must be a prank or some shit….

It couldn’t really be Michael, could it?

As you seek out the answer, your feet carrying you faster than you anticipated, you realize that you’re searching for a face you’ve only seen in photographs. Kate follows closely behind while you push through the front door of the restaurant only to find a man pacing just outside of the restaurant, a ghostface mask in hand. You can tell he’s been sweating, the circles under his eyes just as dark as the ones you’ve become so familiar with in Carmy, with an anxious look in his eyes as his gaze turns towards you.

He’s certainly not the larger-than-life older brother you’ve seen in the sparse amount of pictures that Carmy’s shown you.

“I got this, Kate,” you mutter over your shoulder with a confident nod, letting your general manager know that you’re good on your own. “You sure?” she asks you quietly.

“I’m sure,” you answer, watching as a disappointed look spread across Michael’s face as soon as he sees that:

“You’re not Carmen.”

“Uh… no. I’m not,” you reply, hearing the front door to the restaurant close behind you. The man swears under his breath, and you watch as face changes from disappointment to annoyance quickly, as you try your best to come up with an explanation that may satisfy him. “He uh… he can’t come out. Not right now. So he sent me.”

Michael scoffs with a shake of his head, his eyebrows quickly rising and falling incredulously as he takes another drag off his cigarette.

“Shit... the guy can't even make time to see his big brother?" he asks, the annoyance obvious in his voice this time.

You take a step towards him, your arms folded across your chest.

“I’m sorry. I-, I don't think he was expecting you,” you answer, much more compassionately this time.

“Right,” Michael mumbles, barely loud enough for you to hear. You watch as he throws the butt of his cigarette down on the pavement, before stamping it out.

“It’s just-. He would if he could. I know it. It's just a busy night. I-... we're doing 200 covers tonight and uh... well, he runs the kitchen so,” you try again, and you can practically feel the disappointment (and resentment) burying itself deeper in Michael.

“Yeah, no thanks, lady. You don’t need to explain it to me. Jagoff can’t even make time to say ‘hi’ to his brother. Sends you to do his dirty work instead,” Michael dismisses you, bitterly.

He takes a beat. And then another, as if he’s accepted that he’s not going to see Carmy after all.

“Why don’t you come inside? I’m sure-,” you offer, taking another step towards him.

“‘S alright, sweetheart,” he dismisses you again, this time gentler. “You don’t need to make up for his bullshit.”

You open your mouth to say something—anything in defense of Carmy—but you’re certain that nothing you have to say will be enough for your best friend’s older brother (save for Carmy coming out here himself).

With a nod, you accept defeat, turning to go back inside. But there’s something that stops you—like you just can’t just go back inside without trying to remedy the situation one last time. This time all you say is:

“I don’t know how long you’re in town for but… we should be off by midnight.”

Michael only offers you a sympathetic smile before you slip back inside.

—---------------------------------------

It’s not until you and Carmy are packing up your things to head home that he brings it up—his mysterious visitor—hesitant to ask the question that’s been eating at him all night.

“So uh… was it really him? Michael?” he asks you, cautiously, as he watches your face carefully for any kind of reaction.

“Uh… yeah. I mean, at least the guy I recognized from your pictures,” you reply, hoping that the answer (or the fact that he missed his brother) won’t break his heart.

A beat.

“What’d he want?” Carmy asks, trying to mask his curiosity as best as possible.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “Seems like he found himself in the city. I didn’t ask. I didn’t… know if you wanted me to.”

Carmy tries again.

“Oh no. It’s-, no I didn’t-, no, it’s okay.”

He takes his time, making up his mind about what he wants to say next.

“It’s weird, right? Guy can barely pick up the phone to say hello but… he can show up unannounced and just like-, expect me to drop everything?” he asks you—the look in his eyes telling you that his mind is miles away.

“I- I don’t know, Carmy,” you reply, heavily. “Are you… do you wish you had gone instead of me?”

Carmy’s quiet as he follows you out of the back door of the restaurant, thinking his answer over.

“I don’t know,” he answers slowly, a lack of confidence as the words fall out of his mouth. “Maybe?”

He’s not sure how he’s supposed to feel and right now he just feels… ambushed, which only makes him want to shut down.

Instead, Carmy changes the subject back to your post-work plans, the two of you debating what kind of post-shift late night meal you’re going to have before settling on a few slices of pizza on the way back to your place. You and Carmy cut through the alley to the front of the restaurant so that you can begin your late-night sojourn, and it’s only when he spots something odd that he stops you.

“What the fuck?” Carmy cuts you off, holding an arm out in front of you to stop you from walking any further.

You follow his line of sight right over to a figure moving towards the both of you. In the brief glimpse you’ve gotten of the person moving towards you, all you can see is a quick flash of the ghostface mask they hold in their hands as a bus drives by, obstructing your view.

Carmy’s heart stops, fear filling his chest as the bus speeds by, the person getting closer and closer until…

“Michael?!” Carmy shouts, squinting as he sees the man approach. His expression of pure shock leaves his jaw agape, rendering him speechless as he scrambles to try to find better words that:

“What-, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Shit,” Michael scoffs playfully, with a chuckle, his breath uneven from the light jogging pace he’d kept. Michael takes note of the arm his younger brother’s extended, shielding you from him. “What? Can’t your big brother come surprise ya in the big city?”

Carmy shoots him a look that says, ‘when have you ever done that’ and Michael nods knowingly, his eyebrows quickly raising, then lowering as he makes peace with the fact that he’s never been that guy.

“Me and Deb… we came up for the weekend,” Mikey admits with a heavy sigh. “Tried to do something nice for her but, you know, broad’s been a real bitch-.”

“Mikey,” Carmy warns, taking a tone you recognize—the kind he uses when he’s going to yell at the saucier for a broken mornay.

“Right,” Mike course corrects at the volume of a mumble, heaving a heavy, yet disarming sigh.

Carmy nods slowly as he allows some part of him to relax, his arm falling away from you as the two of you exchange a look.

“We uh…. Got into another fight. She’s on her way back to Chicago now,” Mikey explains, the disappointment evident in his voice this time, almost as if it were an apology.

“Sorry,” Carmy mutters quietly, as you exchange a look with him.

“Nah it’s-, she’ll get over it,” Mikey brushes off with a shrug, his tone shifting as he extens an arm out to you.

“Fuck, where are my manners? I never properly introduced myself earlier. I’m Mikey. Mikey Berzatto,” he grins with a charm and confidence that’s been absent in both of your interactions with him till now. The smile that spreads across his face is contagious as he looks from you to Carmy, then back to you. “Shit. I’m sorry. ‘M fuckin’ jagoff, interupting your night like this. I should probably get-.”

“No!” you protest, almost too quickly, earning a look from Carmy. “We weren’t-, we were just getting off work and were gonna grab a bite. Maybe even… a drink?” you suggest, a hopefulness in your eyes as you turn towards Carmy.

“Yeah?” Michael asks, his interest piqued.

“Uhm. Just gonna grab a bite actually,” Carmy forces out, sending a glare in your direction.

“You know what’s crazy? I know a spot. With food. And drinks,” you challenge him, silently begging him to just go with it.

“You cool with that, Carm?” Mike asks this time, looking from you to his younger brother once more. It’s the first time that Carmy thinks Michael’s ever looked to him for approval.

Carmy’s quiet for a moment, torn between wanting to burn it all down or declare a gleeful ‘yes’ because at least Mikey wants to spend time with him.

“Um. Uh. Yeah. Yeah okay,” Carmy finally agrees.

“Alright, let’s fuckin’ do it!” Mikey rallies.

And as he turns to go, your voice instructing him that it’s only a few blocks from here, you and Carmy fall into stride, just a few steps behind Mikey.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Carmy threatens you—though there’s no weight to it—through gritted teeth.

You shove him playfully, bumping your shoulder against his side as the two of you walk, answering with a promise that: “You’ll thank me later.”

—---------------------------------------

You sit on one side of Carmy, Mikey on the other, and you can see why Carmy looks at his older brother like he hung the sun, the moon, and the stars above. There’s something different about Michael—something different than when you met him just hours ago outside of the restaurant—as he corrals the three of you into a round of shots.

As the shots of tequila arrive at the bar, Carmy dismisses his, his attention fixed to the still-full whiskey on the rocks he’d ordered earlier, just to appease his older brother. He watches you carefully as you and Mikey clink glasses before throwing back your own respective shots.

“Carm?” Mikey asks, nodding towards the third, untouched shot glass.

Carmy hesitates.

“It’s fine. I’ll take his,” you jump in, half as an attempt to give Carmy the out he so desperately desires, and half because, admittedly, meeting the great Mikey Berzatto makes you a little nervous.

Before anyone can protest, you reach out, picking up the shot glass, before tapping it down against the bar top, fearlessly throwing it back. Michael watches you with a sense of amusement, as your face crinkles in response to the sting of the liquor and the bitterness of the lime you chase it with.

He smirks, sharing a knowing look with his younger brother that says, “I like this girl,” which in turn only causes Carmy to blush. Before Mikey can say anything more, the song that blares through the speakers changes, earning his attention as he hears the familiar words:

“I see the bad moon a-risin' I see trouble on the way I see earthquakes and lightnin' I see bad times today”

“Alright, alright. Think it’s a little too on the nose if I admit that I love this song? On Halloween? C’maaaaaahn,” Mikey asks, almost as if it’s a confession in reference to the easily recognizable Creedance Clearwater revival hit.

“No! No, I love this song,” you’re quick to assuage his hesitation as your eyes light up in response to his recognition.

“You got good taste, kid,” Michael notes confidently, winking in his brother’s direction. “I like this girl, Carm.”

Only this time, he says it out loud. Carmy only shakes his head, the blush already running across his cheeks taking a deeper shade of red.

“Yeah, yeah. Uh. You both uh.. Like music,” Carmy smiles, gesturing from you to his brother. At least this is going a lot better than he expected it to, he reminds himself.

“Oh yeah?” Michael asks, clearly intrigued.

“Oh that’s right!” you exclaim, simultaneously. The excitement that brews within you has you stumbling over your words as you manage to get out:

“You’re-, oh my god! The Lennon jacket!”

“What?” Mike asks, shooting you a funny look.

“I’m sorry. I just-. I realize I’m not-,” you stammer over your words, trying your best to explain your earlier exclamation over your own excitement.

“You gave Carmy the denim jacket – the 1950s selvedge Wrangler!”

“Just like the-,” Michael starts, the two of you finishing his sentence at once with:

“... just like the one John Lennon had!”

“Marry this girl, Carm. Marry her right now. Tonight! Or I will,” Michael encourages, slapping his hand down against the bar. He speaks with so much bravado and conviction that you can only imagine that there was none left for Carmy. “Fuckin’ christ. I never should’ve let you two meet,” Carmy groans on an exasperated exhale as he shakes his head once again.

“Oh c’mon, Carm,” Mikey rouses him, with a playful eye roll.

“It’s totally my favorite jacket of his! I-, well, it’s a long story but we actually became friends over the jacket because he spilled a drink on me and-,”

“Ahhh real smooth.”

“No! No, it was okay, I promise. I-, I don’t know if we would’ve gotten to know each other if he hadn’t so-. Call it a lucky jacket, I guess,” you smile, stealing a look in Carmy’s direction. He shoots the smallest smile back to you, cognizant of the fact that Mikey’s observing the entire interaction.

As you begin to tell Michael the story about the aforementioned Lennon jacket, it could be minutes, hours, or days that pass, once you and Mikey finish trading facts about music like they’re trivia cards. It’s almost as entertaining as watching Mikey and Carmy go at it, bouncing facts about the history of denim like you’re at the French Open.

You excuse yourself to the restrooms—partially because you really have to pee and partially because it seems like this evening is going well—wanting to give both brothers some time alone. And as soon as you’re out of earshot, Mikey’s on Carmy like an FBI Investigation.

“This your girl, Carm, or what?" he asks with a casualness to his voice that sets off alarms in Carmy’s head.

"Mikey, stop it,” Carmy dismisses him, hoping more than anything for this to be the end of the conversation.

Instead, Mikey scoffs, shaking his head as he downs another shot.

"Then at least tell me you're hittin' that."

“Michael!" Carmy hushes his brother, a warning and protectiveness in his voice this time.

"Are you fuckin' serious right now, Bear?” Michael pushes further. “What, you're telling me you're not when she’s walkin’ around in your jacket, talkin’ about wearing your clothes to your big brother and I’m supposed to think-?"

"She's not!” Carmy cuts him off. “She doesn’t do-, she’s.... my friend. Jus’ give it up alright.”

"Shit. Wish I had a friend like that. Ya friends, kid, or are ya... you know... friends?" Mikey smirks, earning a venomous glare from his younger brother.

Carmy shakes his head in response, jaw clenched, as he stares down at the bar top, a feeling inside of him that he doesn’t like when he even thinks about Mikey looking at you like that.

"Shit, I thought I taught you better than that, Bear."

There it is again.

That feeling.

He’s not sure how to name it, but it’s enough to make Carmy want to deck his brother right then and there as it rises inside of him.

"I'm serious, Mike. We’re just friends,” Carmy spits out. He’s much more serious this time. “Cut it out."

But Michael’s too quick, his voice growing louder as he interjects on the tail end of Carmy’s insistence.

"Oh come on! The chick's smokin' fuckin' hot. And I can tell that you like her. I'm not blind, Carm. I see the way you-."

And if it’s as if something snaps inside of Carmy as he exclaims:

"Don't talk to me like you know what's going on in my life! Fuck!"

"Carm-."

"Can't even pick up the damn phone and then you just... waltz into town acting like everything is okay?!” he fumes, standing up out of his chair.

His face grows redder with each word, and it only confirms Mikey’s suspicions: that his little brother is absolutely a goner for you. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Carmy like this and he’s torn between feeling proud of his kid brother or pissed that the kid’s turning this around on him.

"Well, if you ever bothered to come home. You know mom's been askin' about you since you never fuckin’-,” Mikey roars, eager to relinquish the hotseat here.

“Oh don't bring mom into this!" Carmy protests.

It’s your voice that snaps him out of it—brings him back to earth as he hears you ask:

“Everything okay?”

Carmy can practically hear his heart pounding away in his ears; can feel the blood rushing through his head as he takes a deep breath. He swallows, takes a beat, then turns to you.

“Yeah uh. I think we should go,” he states, his voice uneven and tense as you try to get a read on either brother.

“Uh… yeah, I guess we can-, um,” you stammer out, wondering how things went from good to hell in a matter of minutes. Carmy mutters something about getting your stuff as you try your best to put the pieces together.

“It was uh, nice to meet you, Mikey,” you say softly, as soon as you get your coat on.

“Yeah. You too, sweetheart,” he nods, something distant in his voice. Carmen scoffs at his brother’s usage of the word before tugging on your arm.

You wait a beat, in anticipation of some kind of goodbye between the brothers, but there is none as you follow Carmy out of the bar.

—---------------------------------------

Halloween, again — in this lifetime:

When Carmy comes to, he can hear the faint sounds of an episode of Pasta Grannies in the background, uncertain of what time it is.

“Hey, you. You fell asleep on the couch and I didn’t have the heart to wake you up,” you say, as he begins to sit up. Carmy blinks his eyes a few more times, watching as you make your way from the kitchen island over to the couch, taking a seat at his feet.

“Did you still want to watch a scary movie? You know, in the spirit of the holiday?” you ask him with a soft chuckle.

All Carmy can remember before falling asleep was what he was thinking about: what it would be like if you had met Mikey. It’s something he thinks of often, especially as the two of you grow closer—as your relationship gets more serious—and it’s something he hates that he’ll never be able to give to you.

“This was his favorite holiday,” Carmy manages to get out, the sleep heavy in his voice.

You’re not all that surprised. Carmy’s been on edge lately and you assumed it was because Mikey’s birthday’s coming up. But this… this makes sense too.

“I wish I could’ve met him,” you smile, reaching out for one of his hands.

Carmy nods.

“Yeah. Uh. Yeah. Think he would’ve loved you.”

Maybe a little too much, he thinks to himself.

“You think so?” you ask with a vulnerability and a desire for reassurance that catches Carmy off guard.

He nods with much more confidence this time, offering you a soft, sympathetic smile.

“Yeah, sweetheart. I know so.”

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soulc-hilde · 3 months

Text

Prologue - Bizcocho

Pairing: Carmen Berzatto x OFC! Caden Woods

Warnings: Family trauma, mental illness, improper coping methods, cursing, implied sexual scenes, mentions of suicide, drug abuse

Synopsis: Caden was never a sociable person, preferring her pastries and cemeteries to the human world. Carmen, on the other hand, is drenched in chaos; his need to be perfect in life, echoes his work ethic in the kitchen. Desperate to prove his brother's spirit and former boss wrong, he forges his family's restaurant into his own image. Is it possible for bears to get lost in the woods? Or do they just make it their home?

divider by ... I forgot, but if y'all know who created this please tag them in the comments!

Loneliness. Is it as grim as people make it out to be or is it just a misconception? Can one really drive themselves into madness or is it all just an illusion? A trick of the mind?

A series of questions that required a list of answers remain, floating in the back of Caden’s thoughts like some mystical prophecy waiting to be fulfilled. Conditioned to live life in her own way, viewing the world through a third eye and abandoning any emotion outside of the usual deadpan. Even in the unruliest moments, that’s all she’d appear. Dead. Cold. Unwilling to process anything.

Escaping to Chicago wasn’t supposed to be as successful as it was. She believed that within the first week of her settling in, police would kick down her door and drag her all the way back home to her oh-so worrisome mother. Yet, nothing came. No texts, no calls, no police. Just silence, and she welcomed it until it became unsettling. So, she searched for a job.

It wasn’t like she was a walking Jeopardy of career experiences, but it’d be a lie to say that she wasn’t well-rounded. She could cook, clean, sell, fix, and paint just about anything in record timing. Anything to get some money in her pocket and keep her bills covered. Although, there was a skill of her’s that was a bit personal, a reminiscence of her life that didn’t involve a stonehearted girl and her shit of a family.

She lived to bake. Never bothered to attend proper schooling for it outside of vocational school nor could she afford it, but it was where she was at peace with herself. Drawing the different pastries and their ingredients before bringing it to life, it was like she was in her own Wonderland.

It was how she met her neighbor, Tina Marrero, who designated herself as the girl’s Tia. The woman and her son, Louie were walking past the open apartment door when the familiar smell of Bizcocho Dominicano. Leaning inside, the older woman knocked on the metal frame of the doorway, watching the small, curved figure appear from around the corner with a pan in hand.

“Oh, uh, hi,” she stutters, lifting the recently baked cake as a wave. Tina nods, “hi. Sorry to barge in, I’m Tina and this is my son, Louie. We were walking by and smelled Bizcocho.”

Caden sends a small smile her way, setting the pan down on the closest table nearby. “Ah, yes. Yes, bizcocho Dominicano. Are you?” Tina nods, a small smile growing across her freckled features, “yeah. Yeah, I am. It’s good to meet you,” she trails.

“Oh, Caden. Caden Woods,” she answers the unspoken question. “I was in the middle of making the second cake and it got really hot in here, so I propped the door open. I’m sorry if that caused any trouble.”

Tina shakes her head, “no. No, no problem at all. I’d rather deal with this for a neighbor than some baboso.” Caden chuckles, nodding in understanding, “I don’t blame you at all. Uh, would you like to take a cake home? The first one I made has already cooled, I just have to frost it.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to. I’m the one who trespassed into your home, there’s no need.” Caden stops her, “no, please. I kind of came to Chicago on a whim and didn’t see what areas were had the highest Dominicans, if any at all, so it’s been kind of lonely at times. I want you to have it.”

Tina smiles, “thank you.” Caden simply nods, walking back into the kitchen. Within a few minutes, the girl returns into the kitchen with a round sage green cake carrier.

She sets it on the living room coffee table, pulling the lid off with a small ‘tada.’ The older woman’s jaw drops, eyeing the blinding white traditional merengue frosting and tiny sage green hearts lined the top and bottom of the cake.

“Anda el diablo,” she gasps. “This looks amazing, kid.” She looks down, hearty cheeks pushing up against her almond shaped eyes. “Thank you, Miss. Tina.” She places the lid back on, locking the cake away. “It has the traditional pineapple jam inside; I hope you enjoy.”

Tina stands, holding the carrier to her chest. She gently pats the girl on her shoulder, “Gracias, mija. I’ll return this to you when we finish the cake.”

“No, it’s yours to keep,” she laughs, leading the woman back to the hallway. “I have way too many of those.” Tina just looks at her with a soft gaze, “welcome to Chicago,” and leaves with Louie following behind.

Stepping inside her own apartment, Tina sits the cake down onto the dinner table. Louie sits down, eyes wide and focused on the dessert. “Can I have some?” He asks, drool nearly dropping from his lips. “I got you, papito.” She smiles, opening the case. She grabs her kitchen knife, slicing it into the airy dessert.

Carefully serving the slice on a blue rimmed, white porcelain saucer. The golden center contrasts beautifully with the ivory white merengue that seemed to melt into the white center of the plate before bleeding into a deep blue ocean. It was the picture-perfect definition of baked with love. Her son digs his fork into the triangular tip, the pineapple magma slurs onto the plate.

His lips wrap around the slightly sharp edges of the fork, humming as the sponge melts against his tongue. He swallows the remnants of jam and cake, nodding with content. “That good?” Tina asks, eyes watching with surprise.

“That good,” he nods with a grin. “Let me try some,” she grabs a fork. Taking her own dive, she inserts the tip full of cake into her mouth. It melts perfectly, the taste of vanilla and pineapple working together as it warms against her tongue. The merengue was as soft as the cake itself, smooth and sweet yet not too much that the taste of sugar was strong.

She nods, humming, “damn good.”

The next morning, Tina walks out her door when she sees Caden leaving out of her’s. “Hey, kid,” she greets. The girl turns, sending the older woman a small smile, “mornin’, Miss. Tina. How are you today?”

“I’m pretty good, gotta head to work. You?” Caden shrugs, “as good as I can be. This’ll be, well, I lost count how many times I went out for a job.”

Tina raises an eyebrow, “is there a certain job you’re looking for?” She shakes her head, “no. I’m a Jack-of-all-trades and I’m desperate, so if you know anyone or anything, please let me know.”

“Oh, I do. Come with me,” she walks off. Caden follows the woman, confused.

After a few moments of driving, Tina pulls outside of the The Beef of Chicagoland. Caden’s eyebrows raise at the familiarity at the restaurant. “Have you tried getting a job here before?” Tina asks, stepping out of the car.

“Uh, no, actually.” The young woman scoffs, “I’ve only been here for a quick bite. Do y’all have a bakery in here?” Tina shrugs, walking through the back, “somethin’ of the sort.”

“I need two honey rolls, three cannolis, a chocolate cake,” Carmen calls off the receipt during the lunch rush.

It’s been a few years since Caden first stepped into The Beef and got the job thanks to Tina. Getting the job on the spot, she became their residential baker, replacing their old one who turned out to be a junkie, selling meth out the back of the restaurant. Working in the tiny square space was something to get used to, for sure, but the workload wasn’t abnormal for her as a freelance caterer.

Within The Beef, a family-oriented team created a space of joy and familiarity. Tina was, of course, her mother-figure while Richie was like the funny yet annoyingly drunk cousin, Mickey was the cocky, overzealous older brother that you love but wish he could shut up. Marcus, a recent hire under Caden’s watch, was a sweetheart and there was Ebra, who reminded her of her uncle.

As usual, once life believed that things were going just a little too good for her, things had to fall apart. After Mickey committed suicide, things began to change. The days at The Beef seemed long and pointless, her pastries were bland and commercially appropriate. In his will, he left a part of the restaurant to his little brother, Carmen.

She’s heard a lot of things about him. Good, shy, kid with a passion for food who gained acclaimed success within the culinary industry. Unlike his little sister, Sugar, Carmen never attended his funeral. Richie complained, ranting about it whenever Berzatto was mentioned. A part of her believed he was mad that he was never mentioned in Mickey’s will, but she knew Richie wasn’t that shallow.

She wouldn’t lie, though, Mickey could’ve at least warned her that man was like a fucking siren. “Chef, I need three more cannolis,” he barks. “I need to hear you, do you… understand me?!”

“Yes, chef.” Caden barks back, serving out the fresh Sicilian pastry without a blink. “Hey, don’t shout at her like that, what the fuck is wrong with you? What the hell got caught in your ass, Bear?” Carmen keeps his focus on the service, sending out plate after plate.

“I wasn’t shouting at her, Richie, I just needed to know that she heard what I said.” Richie leans over the window, ignoring the crowd of customers in front that watched the chaos. “Well, I’m just sayin’, you could act like you’ve got manners. Alright? Okay? She’s a lady, this is Honey, we’re talkin’ about.”

Carmen clenches his jaw, “shut the fuck up, Richie, alright? I got it, okay? Look,” he turns to Caden, “Caden, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

She simply shakes her head, not bothering to pay mind to either one of the two. “It’s cool, I got two dozen honey rolls comin’ out the oven, Chef.” Watching her, his wide cerulean gaze follows her around that tight corner.

For Carmen, his take on Caden was fresh and a journey he had to partake on his own. There was no forlorn voicemails or letters from Mickey that told him about her despite the constant reminder from Richie that she was like the star in his eyes. Coming out of hiding, he was told at the last minute that his brother left a portion of the restaurant to him. The same restaurant he refused to let the younger Berzatto work in for unspoken reasons.

There was a lot of shit Mickey left behind that just didn’t make sense. From the amount of debt he was in down to who owned the other 50%. It was all too much. If Sugar wasn’t trying to spam his phone in hopes he’d respond, he was playing fucking Sherlock Holmes. A bad one at that.

After the final rush of the day, The Beef was closed, and the kitchen was as spotless as the staff was willing to do. Carmen holds the back door open for Caden, the two being the last to leave. He watches her all black form walk across the gravel, heading for the green and black Kawasaki Ninja with a matching skull designed helmet in hand.

“I’ll see you, tomorrow, Chef,” he calls after her. She simply raises a hand in return, keeping straight before straddling the leather seat. She starts the engine, its roar echoing through the quiet neighborhood. The smell of exhaust takes over, replacing the one of grease and beef.

He takes quick, timid steps toward her side. Praying that she doesn’t back over his toes. “Uh, Caden,’ he clears his throat, cigarette bouncing between his lips. “I wanted to, uh, I wanted to apologize, ya know? For, for my actions today. I, it, it was really shitty of me to, uh, act like that, especially put, putting you on the spot.”

Impulsively, she lays a gloved hand on his chest, shaking her head. “Dude, you’re cool. Richie’s just acting like an asshole, like usual. Especially towards you. If I was insulted, everyone would know, but it takes a lot for that to happen.”

Her lidded eyes stare into his wide ones. Anxious gaze clashing with the nonchalant glare. His fingers twitch, the spot her fingers touched was warm and taking its time to leave. God, she was beautiful. Short, honey blonde afro fluffy and glistening paired with a round, oval face and dark features. The center of her face was painted with dark freckles, like Tina’s, but her skin was darker. Her brown skin always glistened, ignorant of the feeling of being ashy.

Despite her work in the kitchen, her hands were void of blemishes and cuts. They weren’t perfect, but they were soft and small. Her right arm was tatted from her wrist to the top of her shoulder, a blended sleeve of cartoon characters and designs of a panda bear and thorns. She was a small thing, taller than Tina yet smaller than him with curves that whined for days.

Snapping out of his mind, he nods, stopping his jaw from biting on the head of the cigarette. “Goodnight, yeah?” She nods, “Goodnight.” She slides the helmet on as he watches, backing out of the parking slot and down the Chicago streets.

Baboso: Dominican adjective term for a liar or an idiot

Anda el diablo: Dominican phrase for Oh My God or like, Wow

Bizcocho Dominicano: Dominican style sponge cake made with a fruit jam and vanilla merengue.

I decided to make Tina of Dominican descent since I'm also of Dominican heritage. I also wanna practice my Spanish, so I'm kind of living through Caden. Other than that, I hope you enjoy our intro.

Taglist: @spiderstyles04 @lostinwonderland314

#Carmen Berzatto x Oc #Carmen Berzatto x black!reader #Carmen Berzatto x reader #Carmen Berzatto fanfic #Carmen Berzatto #The Bear #Carmy Berzatto #Sydney Adamu #richie jerimovich #Jeremy Allen White #Jeremy Allen White x reader #Michael Berzatto #ayo edebiri #soulc.hilde writes #soulc.hilde series #black fanfic writers

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strawberryalicia · 1 year

Text

I was rewatching s01e04 (The Bear) and at the party someone says to Carmy "how does it feel to be a fucking loser?" because he works at a restaurant. That's how they talked to Michael? Imagine not being in a good moment i your life and then being called a fucking loser with your entire family listening. No wonder he killed himself

#carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto #carmy the bear #carmy x oc #syd x carmy #the bear #jeremy allen white #the bear fx #michael berzatto

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in-my-feels-probably · 2 years

Note

Hello!! I would like to do a request for Carmen Berzatto.

Like imagine Carmy x introvert!shy!sunshine!florist!OC (I picture her like Emmy Rossum in TPOTO and with the name Maria, but at the end is your desicion)

Like she's a florist and works in a flower shop in front of the restaurant of Carmy, and he see her everyday and starts having a crush on her and everyone in the kitchen notice that and tell him to go to talk to her but he's really nervous and scared of being rejected. She also filled of flowers the funeral of Mikey as a "present?" for the family, even though she doesn't know them

Then one day she enters into The Beef and everyone tells Carmy to take her order and he's a ball of nerves

Then one day everyone from the kitchen are watching through the windows him asking her for a date

It can be series or just a one shot, whatever you like. Thank you!!

Good Fortune

Request: Hello!! I would like to do a request for Carmen Berzatto. Like imagine Carmy x introvert!shy!sunshine!florist!OC (I picture her like Emmy Rossum in TPOTO and with the name Maria, but at the end is your desicion) Like she's a florist and works in a flower shop in front of the restaurant of Carmy, and he see her everyday and starts having a crush on her and everyone in the kitchen notice that and tell him to go to talk to her but he's really nervous and scared of being rejected. She also filled of flowers the funeral of Mikey as a "present?" for the family, even though she doesn't know them Then one day she enters into The Beef and everyone tells Carmy to take her order and he's a ball of nerves Then one day everyone from the kitchen are watching through the windows him asking her for a date It can be series or just a one shot, whatever you like. Thank you!!

Hi! This is my first time writing for Carmy! I do try and write as neutrally as I can, so I’m not gonna describe the reader physically that in detail, and I’m using “Y/N” since it’s an x reader, but you can picture whoever you’d like! Bear with me while I try to get the hang of Carmy’s character. I hope you enjoy it!

(Warnings: swearing, mentions of suicide, death, negative thoughts, insecurity, mentions of carmy’s trauma, let me know if i missed anything)

—

You met Michael for the first time when you were trying to unload a truck delivery to bring into the flower shop.

You were the only person working that day, and of course it had to be the day shipments were delivered. Crates of potted flowers and plants had been dropped off at your front door, and you could barely lift most of them. By the time the last two were all that remained, your arms were aching and your back was making a sound it definitely shouldn’t have been making.

Michael had been working across the street, and he could see you through the window. It was a slow day, and he figured it would be alright if he left his employees alone for a few minutes.

He whistled, getting your attention before he ran across the street. “Need some help?”

You smiled at his kindness, but were a little wary of him. Quite a large man on a quiet street, and you were working alone. He seemed to understand your wariness, giving you a friendly smile.

“Sorry, I’m Mikey,” he said, offering his hand for you to shake. “I own the Beef’s across the street, I saw you through the window. You looked like you can use some help.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, I can handle it—”

“I can see that,” he smiled. “But seriously, these two look heavy, and I spend most of my day here lifting heavy shit. I can help you out with these last two.”

You finally relented, opening the door for him. He bent down and lifted the last two in each arm with ease, thanking you as he walked through the door.

“You can put those right over here,” you pointed as you led him to a shelf in the back. “Thank you.”

“That’s no problem,” he nodded, brushing his hands off on his apron. “Does your boss really make you do all this on your own? Asshole.”

“They didn’t use to, but they changed delivery days from Friday to Tuesday. I’m normally scheduled on Tuesday’s, and lately I’ve been the only one on staff. I guess it’s my responsibility now.”

“That’s bullshit,” he said, making you laugh. “How about I come help you out on delivery days? Or I’ll send someone else from the shop, Lord knows it would help getting them off their asses every once in a while.”

You shook your head. “That’s too much trouble, I can’t let you do all that for free.”

“My Mother would skin me alive if she found out I was standing around without helping you out. Seriously, Tuesday’s are slow for us too, I’m just standing behind the counter doing fuck all anyways. And I am still afraid of my Ma, as any sane man would be. Please, let me help you out. For the sake of saving my skin.”

You hesitated, but finally relented, giving him a grateful nod. “Fine. But you’re letting me give you something in return.”

You walked over to the crate on the back shelf, opening it up and pulling out a potted plant.

“That crate you brought in, it’s full of Crassula Ovata. Commonly known as the Money Plant. It brings good fortune…and nobody ever fucking buys it. I don’t know why they keep ordering them. I end up taking them all home because I feel bad about letting them die here. Please, take one. I can bring another over whenever it starts to shrivel up.”

Mikey nodded, accepting the plant from you. “Thank you. I’ll see you next Tuesday, then. Come by the shop if you’re ever hungry, we’ve got the best sandwiches in town.”

“I just might have to take you up on that,” you smiled, thanking him again before he left.

—

As promised, Michael stopped by every Tuesday to help you unload the deliveries. Every few weeks or so, he’d take a new plant from you, and occasionally ask about how to take care of it.

You’d grin every time you could see it sitting in the windowsill when you looked across the street.

For months, you carried on like that. And then one week, Michael didn’t come. The restaurant was closed for two days. You figured maybe he was sick, or on vacation. You didn’t think much of it.

But on the Thursday of that week, Richie came over to introduce himself. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked stressed and overworked.

“Do you work at Beef’s? I think I’ve seen you before. You’re Richie, right? Michael talked about you when he’d help me out.”

“Yeah…yeah, that’s me. Listen, um…Mikey isn’t gonna be helping you out anymore.”

You furrowed your brows, trying not to sound rude. “Can I ask why? He seemed alright with helping me out a week ago.”

Richie frowned, handing you a newspaper. He pointed to the obituary section, and you gasped when you saw Michael’s name and photo at the top.

“He died Monday night. I don’t know what kind of arrangement you two had, but he isn’t here anymore. I came to tell you. I could send over one of my guys if you need the help—”

“No,” you interrupted, eyes wide. “No, he was more than enough help, I don’t want to trouble you anymore. I can handle it, it’s my job to do so anyways. I…I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. “No offense, but I don’t know how to take care of that fucking plant of yours he kept bringing in. And I don’t think I can watch it die, too, so would you come take it or something?”

“Of course! Do you want me to come get it now? I know you’re closed.”

“No,” he shook his head, moving back to the door. “I don’t have the key on me. I’ll bring it over when we reopen, I guess. Anywhere you want me to leave it?”

“I’m here most days, so you can leave it with me. If that’s too much trouble, you can leave it outside my door, or yours, whatever is easiest for you. I can come to you if that’s better.”

Richie listened to you ramble about the plant, hearing the desperation in your voice. He had heard a lot of condolences in the last few days, but yours was the first one he actually believed was genuine.

“You’re nice,” he muttered. “I can see why he liked you.”

You felt an ache in your chest at his words, and you knew your face had fallen when fresh tears welled in his eyes.

Richie cleared his throat. “Uh, I don’t know where I’ll be. We’ll probably reopen on Tuesday or something. I’ll do something with the plant then. Thanks.”

And then he was out the door.

You let out a deep sigh, unable to hold back your tears once Richie left. You looked back down at the newspaper in your hand, reading through the full obituary.

“Michael Berzatto died on February 22, 2022. He committed suicide on the State Street Bridge, age 42. He would have been 43 this November. He was the owner of The Original Beef of Chicagoland. He is survived by his parents, as well as his sister Natalie, and his brother Carmen. He was loved by many, and will be deeply missed. His funeral arrangements are set for this Saturday amongst his close friends and family.”

Tears landed on the page before you could finish reading.

Suicide? You knew it was stupid to think that you should have noticed the signs. Apparently, no one noticed the signs, or at least didn’t put the pieces together fast enough to stop him.

Still, you berated yourself for not noticing anything. He seemed so happy around you, always chatty and smiling. He was such a good soul. You couldn’t believe he was gone.

And his parents? His siblings? The restaurant? They were all expected to move on, past one of the worst things imaginable that could happen to a family.

You looked over to the restaurant across the street, seeing all the lights turned off. Through the shuttered blinds, you could see the last plant you had given Mikey. You fought back your tears, willing yourself to be strong. You hardly knew him. There were people grieving who knew him far better than you, and you wished there was something you could do to dull their heartache.

The information about the funeral said friends and family are welcome. But you couldn’t bring yourself to muster up the courage to go. It wasn’t your place.

But you could do something for them. You could do something for him.

That Saturday morning, fresh bouquets and plants were sent to the funeral home where Mikey would be. It was a closed casket, so you had an arrangement made to sit on top of his coffin. It wasn’t much, but it was something you could do for his family.

You hoped it was beautiful.

—

That Monday, you returned to work. Beef’s had yet to reopen, but a woman came rushing into the shop just minutes after you clocked in.

“Are you Y/N?” She asked.

You nodded, coming out from behind the counter. Suddenly, she pulled you into a hug, squeezing you tight.

“Thank you,” she whispered, clutching the back of your shirt. “For the flowers. He would’ve loved them.”

You put it together that the woman hugging you was Tina. Mikey told lots of stories about here while he helped you around the shop. She sounded like a good person, but a person whose bad side you never wanted to be on.

Yet here she was, holding you like you were her own child.

“I’m so glad you liked them. It was the least I could do, after all he did for me.”

—

The next day, the restaurant reopened. You watched through the windows as the employees returned to work, one by one going in. Everyone was familiar to you, at least vaguely.

Except one.

Later that day, Richie came by with the plant. You took it from him, and he followed you outside as you carefully placed it in the passenger seat of your car.

“I thought you were going to throw it out.”

You turned around, quickly shaking your head. “Of course not! I never throw away my plants. You should see my apartment, it’s a fucking nightmare with how many I have. I just can’t seem to give them up.”

Richie grinned and nodded, moving to cross the street. Before he could go, you caught his shoulder.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. But who is that? I don’t recognize him,” you asked, pointing across the street.

Richie turned to look, sighing. “That’s Carmen. Mikey’s little brother. Mikey left the fucking restaurant to him.”

You looked back over across the street.

Carmy was handsome, that was for sure. He didn’t exactly look like his brother, but you supposed if they were next to each other, they may have looked more alike. He carried himself similarly. Except, he looked tired, and stressed beyond the level any man of his age should be.

You wondered why Mikey had never mentioned him. The rest of his family, you had heard bits and pieces about. But Carmy? He was a mystery to you.

“We should be up and running again soon. Do you want to grab something to eat? It’s on the house. For the flowers.”

You shook your head, giving him a grateful smile. “No, that’s alright, I don’t want to bother you while you’re getting adjusted. Maybe another time.”

Richie nodded, clapping your shoulder. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He moved to yell across the street, whistling at Carmy. “Cousin! Be a fucking gentlemen, say hello to the nice florist. She’s the one who sent the flowers.”

Carmy looked up, stopping in his tracks when he saw you looking back at him. You gave him a small smile, waving. He raised his hand in return, before heading inside.

Richie scoffed. “That little shit didn’t even see them. He wasn’t at the funeral. Showed him a picture, though. He said they were nice.”

“That’s alright,” you said, reassuredly. “I’m glad he liked them.”

—

You kept Michael’s plant in your apartment.

You took care of it better than any other plant you had, refusing to let it die. A plant like that can live for years and years if well taken care of. It was silly, but to you, you felt like the plant was an extension of Michael. You may have not been able to help him, but you could help his plant.

And you would be damned if you did anything but save its life.

For the next few days, you arrived at work early. Carmy was usually already there, and you could see him walking around through the window.

You tried not to watch him, but the shop was incredibly boring during slow days. Beef’s had plenty of slow days too, and you wondered how the business was doing without its previous owner. You wondered how Carmy was doing, filling in for his brother.

You had plenty of days to watch and figure it out.

—

The days went on, and days turned into weeks.

Across the street, Carmy was shuffling around the kitchen. Richie clocked in, putting on his apron while Carmy started cleaning the grill.

“Cousin! You wanna tell me why I keep catching you standing in front of the window like a fucking deer caught in the headlights?”

“I think he’s washed those windows at least four times this week,” Marcus grinned, loading trays into the oven.

“Shut the fuck up,” Carmy snapped, scraping away at the grill. Everyone laughed, continuing with their work.

“Got a little crush, Jeff?”

“Want me to go over there and see if she feels the same?” Richie asked, and Carmy stopped what he was doing to look up, glaring.

“Don’t start. All of you, don’t start.”

“He is crushing!” Marcus grinned, coming over to wrap his arm around Carmy’s shoulders. “Look at him blush.”

Carmy groaned, shrugging Marcus off of him. “What are you, five years old? I’m not crushing.”

“He’s totally crushing,” Sydney said, not looking up from the vegetables she was chopping.

Richie nodded, agreeing. “Come on, it’s not a big deal. She’s a pretty girl, it’s good to know that the dumbass culinary school of yours didn’t fuck up your taste. So, why don’t you go do something about it? Go over there, talk to her.”

“Nah, she's not looking at me. I’m too busy, anyways,” Carmy sniffed, completely avoiding everyone’s words as he continued to work.

“I’ll gladly take over for you—“

“Cousin…drop it,” Carmy said stiffly, clenching his jaw.

Richie nodded, putting his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, calm down. Jesus, she’s dodging a bullet with you, isn’t she?”

Carmy could hear everyone snicker, and he sighed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’m gonna go smoke. You all better be acting like semi respectable adults when I get back.”

“Yes, Jeff,” Tina smirked.

The second he was out of ear shot, everyone turned to each other, laughing.

“He’s totally crushing.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

—

Carmy took his smoke break just outside the side door. You could see him from the window, pausing what you were doing to watch.

He sat on the curb, staring off into the distance.

It wasn’t like they were wrong. From the few times he had seen you close enough to get a good look, you were beautiful. There was no denying that.

But his track record with girls in the past didn’t exactly inspire confidence. He didn’t know how to talk to you. He didn’t understand why you would look at him, if you really were even looking at him at all. What did he have to offer you? Other than a rundown restaurant that he’s barely holding together, and a shit load of trauma he refused to acknowledge that quite literally wakes him up screaming.

Why would you be interested in that?

But then he heard a noise across the street, and he looked up to see you opening the door, carting the trash around the side of the building. When you came back around to the front, you saw him still sitting there on the curb, shifting his gaze back and forth from you to his feet.

The final time he looked up, you were staring back at him, your eyes soft on his form. You gently smiled, waving, before going back into the shop.

You internally berated yourself the second you rushed inside, leaning against the door. You couldn’t even muster a hello. Just a wave, and then you dashed inside.

Idiot.

Although, Carmy didn’t look weirded out by the interaction. He just watched you, with intrigue on his face.

You decided that later that day on your lunch break, you’d finally take Richie up on that offer and eat at Beef’s.

You had never actually been inside before. Michael had offered a few times to have you over, but you always politely declined, figuring it was too much trouble. When he died, you couldn’t bring yourself to go in.

It felt like you’d be stepping into the home of a ghost.

When Richie offered next, you thought he was just being polite, since you sent the flowers. He didn’t really mean it. But then again, he had offered more than once when you’d pass each other on the street heading into work. So, maybe he really did mean it.

Either way, you were going to figure it out. Even though the idea of seeing Carmy up close and personal, and in his place of work, made you physically ill.

You decided you shouldn’t go empty handed, and you picked out yet another Money Plant, acknowledging that you’d make the time to come check on it if nobody else could.

When lunchtime hit, you mustered up the courage to grab the plant, march yourself across the street, open the door, and step inside.

At the sound of the door, Richie turned your way, eyes widening. “Y/N? No fucking way. Look at you, you made it all the way across the street.”

“I did,” you smiled, placing the plant in the windowsill. “And I brought this. Don’t worry, I’ll come over and take care of it, if you’ll let me. Or I’ll teach you how. It’s a good luck charm. When this place is booming, you can credit me for it.”

Richie laughed, closing the register and motioning for you to come forward. “I just went on my break, but wait right here. I’ll send someone out for you.”

You nodded, patiently waiting at the counter while Richie went through the doors and back into the kitchen.

“Cousin!” You heard him call, and your heart dropped. “Customer! Get your ass out there, I'm going to smoke.”

“Heard!” Carmy called from the kitchen, and you debated bolting out the doors right then and there.

But you weren’t quick enough, the doors opened, and Carmy came through them before you could get yourself to move. He stopped in his tracks as he saw you, eyes widening.

“Hi.”

Your voice seemed to snap him out of his haze, and he quickly approached the counter. “Hey. Y/N, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” you nervously smiled. “And you’re Carmen, right?”

“Yeah. But you can call me Carmy, if you want. Everyone back there does. Uh…what can I get you?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never actually eaten here.”

He let out a small laugh, pointing to the board above him. “This is the new menu. Well, newish. We’re still fixing it.”

You felt overwhelmed at all the options, finally tearing your eyes away from the board back towards him. Carmy was looking at you with soft eyes, nervously gripping the counter.

You cleared your throat. “I’ll have whatever your favorite is. I trust you.”

“That’s a lot of pressure,” he said, scrunching his nose up as he ran a nervous hand through his disheveled hair. He had clearly already done that a few times that morning.

“It shouldn’t be,” you said. “I’ve heard of you before. You know what you’re doing. Pick anything you like, I’m sure it’ll be good.”

“Alright,” he said, ringing you up. The second he was done, Richie peeked his head back through the door.

“On the house, Carm. She’s earned it.”

“That was a quick smoke break, Richie,” you mused.

“Well, what can I say? I’m more efficient than these morons back here,” he said, before turning to Carmy. “I’ll entertain her while you’re gone, go make her food.”

Carmy nodded, brushing past Richie before looking back over his shoulder to you. “Don’t listen to anything he says, I guarantee he’s lying.”

You laughed as the two began to squabble, smiling at their bickering.

Within a few minutes, Carmy had returned with your food, handing it to you with a small smile. You nodded in thanks, telling him you’d see him later, before rushing back across the street so you could finally breathe again.

“Cousin!” Richie grinned, high fiving Carmy. “You won her over. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I think I’m having a stroke,” Carmy groaned, walking back into the kitchen. “That was terrible.”

Tina cooed at him, squishing his cheeks between her palms. “It was a good effort, mi hijo. You’ll get her next time.”

Marcus and Sydney were in the corner together, snickering at his emotional turmoil. They couldn’t hold in their laughs, grinning at the flush that had crept up to Carmy’s cheeks.

“Fortunately for you, she seems just as enticed,” Sydney noted.

Marcus agreed, nodding. “You’re line cook hot. Her type, apparently.”

Everyone else in the kitchen looked between each other as Carmy sulked all the way to his office, ignoring their teasing. Tina leaned over to Richie, lowering her voice.

“What the fuck does ‘line cook hot’ mean?”

—

As promised, you returned in a few days on your lunch break to take care of the plant. You minded your business, hardly listening to the chatter you heard coming from the kitchen.

“Hey, hon,” Richie called from the window, making you turn towards him. “How was your food?”

“It was good,” you smiled, turning back to the plant. “Good to see you haven’t killed this yet.”

“Marcus has a green thumb, apparently. Googled what to do. Between the two of you, that fucking plant is probably gonna outlive me.”

You laughed, finishing and coming to stand over by the counter. “It’s a surprisingly hard plant to kill.”

“I bet I could manage it,” he laughed, nodding back to the kitchen. “Give me a minute, someone wants to talk to you.”

You nodded, albeit nervously, remaining in front of the counter. You rocked back and forth on your heels, straining to listen to bits and pieces of the conversation in the kitchens. It was hard to decipher who’s voice was whose.

“Just do it, Jeff! Man up.”

“She won’t say no, look at the way she smiles at you.”

“If you don’t do it, I will for you. That’s a promise, cousin.”

That seemed to be enough to light a spark in Carmy. “Richie, shut the fuck up. Everyone, shut the fuck up. I’ll fire you all if you embarrass me.”

“Jeff? Even me?” Tina asked in a voice that made you stifle your laughter.

You heard footsteps shuffle, shouts from multiple voices, and then a loud smack. You furrowed your brows in confusion, unable to decipher what was happening.

“What the fuck!” Richie exclaimed. “That’s my chopping arm.”

“Shut up,” Carmy spoke through clenched teeth. “Shut up. I’ll go, but you’re all staying in here. I swear to God, if I see a single one of you out there—“

“Yeah, yeah. Go!”

There was more shuffling, and finally, Carmy broke through the door. He stumbled to a stop on the opposite side of the counter from you.

“Hi,” you smiled, tapping your fingers on the counter. “Did I just hear your slap Richie?”

Carmy nodded, letting out a laugh. “Uh…yeah. He deserved it, though, I promise.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

Carmy looked at you with soft eyes, a small smile on his face. It was quiet a moment before he shook his head, clearing his throat.

“So…would, uh…would you maybe wanna go out sometime? You know, somewhere other than the restaurant or the flower shop one hundred feet across the street from each other?”

“Like, away from the people currently staring through the window at us right now?” You asked, glancing over at the faces peering from the kitchen.

As you both turned to face them, their heads quickly dropped from the window. You heard them scramble for their work stations, coming up with random conversations to pretend like they weren’t just watching and listening to your every word.

Carmy stifled a groan, clenching his jaw at the sight. His cheeks flushed a rosy pink.

You laughed, turning his attention back to you. “It’s alright, I don’t mind. It’s sweet they care.”

“Yeah, they care,” he mused, nodding. “Enough to want me to die of embarrassment.”

With a bolt of courage, you laid your hand on top of his, giving it a squeeze. “You’ll just have to take me somewhere they’re not, then. If that’s alright with you?”

Carmy smiled, a genuine smile. “Yeah, that’s definitely alright with me.”

Suddenly, a chorus of cheers erupted from the kitchen. Half of them high fived each other at their stations, while the other half came bursting through the doors.

Richie came over to you, squeezing you around the waist as he picked you up. “Yes! Way to go, Y/N.”

“You had it in you after all,” Tina grinned, patting Carmy on the chest.

“Jesus, get back in the kitchen, both of you. Tell the others to calm the fuck down, it wasn’t a marriage proposal. They’re gonna break something back there.”

Tina finally relented, coming around the corner to grab Richie before pushing him back through the doors to the kitchen.

You smiled fondly at them, before turning back to Carmy. “They’re enthusiastic.”

“Yeah,” he grinned, leaning his shoulder against yours as he watched them continue to celebrate through the window. “But they kick my ass into gear when I need them to. Worked in my favor this time, didn’t it?”

You nodded, trying and failing to fight the heat rushing to your face.

“It worked in mine, too.”

—

A/N - Hi! Got a bit carried away with this one. I hope you enjoyed it, though. I don’t completely love the outcome, but it was my first try with his character, so hopefully I did alright. Let me know what you think!

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

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janicekao · 1 month

Text

No, Fuck You!

Pairing: Richie Jerimovich x Black oc (dark smut) Summary: Based off of season one of the series "The Bear." Carmen Berzatto, a culinary expert has to put his career on hold after his brother Michael's su1c1de being that Michael left the family's restaurant in Carmy's name. The restaurant is busted, in debt, and the staff is hardheaded. Carmy's "cousin" Richie is especially hardheaded. He's 45, doesn't like change in the restaurant, dabbles in illegal side hustles, thinks he's Italian, acts ghetto af, his attitude sucks, he's always cussing, and he is just a lot to deal with it. My addition to the story is an OC young lady who is hired at the restaurant to help with the finances and how badly her And Richie bump heads... until of course, they don't! Warnings: age gap, profanity, vi0lence, smut, fan fiction, public s3x,cr3am pi3, office siren aesthetic, submissive male, toxic, bwwm, fanfic, the bear, quickie, etc. 4038 words I also recommend viewing the story in Wattpad where I was able to use 20 photos in the story instead of tumblr's 10. Wattpad link:

Enjoy my babies <3 ------------------------------

It's a chilly winter morning in Chicago, and instead of sleeping in snuggly in his warm bed, Richie Jerimovich pulls into his job smoking an early morning ciggie with his suspended license in the pocket of his jeans.

Having trouble sleeping at night pure usual, Richie decides to pop into his job at a restaurant called The Beef two hours early before opening... Before there is even daylight. Although he yawns, he'd rather work instead of staring up at his bedroom ceiling thinking about how his wife is divorcing him, his daughter is growing up without her dad, and how he hardly has enough money to make his own rent next week... Richie enters through the back door of the restaurant and takes off his favorite leather jacket as he places it in his locker.

He grabs his uniform, a white apron and his favorite Tshirt with "The Beef" plastered across the right corner of the fabric.

Staring into the tiny and incredibly dirty locker sized mirror, he takes his gold chain from the inside of his shirt and dangles it on the outside of it. He smooths down his uncombed hair and prickly beard as he begins to chuckle cockily at his reflection. "You suave motherfucker you."

As Richie closes the door of his locker, he nearly jumps out of his skin... Spooked suddenly by the new girl who quietly stands behind his locker.

"Fucking hell!" He complains. "Lexie? Do I need to put a fucking bell on you or something? Don't ever sneak up on me! Make yourself known when you walk into a building!"

"Or what?" She instigates. "You'll pop me with that stupid fucking gun you lug around the restaurant with?"

"Yeah, maybe!" He scoffs. "Maybe I fucking will! And before you start, don't give me shit about the fact that I carry heat on me! If you were smart, you'd care a little pussy-pink magnum in your purse... walking around Chicago like you're untouchable, are you fucking insane?"

Lexie rolls her eyes.

"All I'm saying is make yourself known when you walk in here." He continues. "You got me?"

Lexie widens her stance as if Richie who is nearly a foot taller than her couldn't bench press her weight if he felt like it. "No, fuck you! You are the one who should make yourself known... I've been here long before you have."

He becomes even more short-tempered... "Sweetie, I've been here before you were even born!"

"I am speaking of this morning!" Lexie continues. "I thought you were some hobo breaking in through the back... But, it seems that I wasn't too far off."

"Fuck you. Why are you even here?" Richie wouldn't be Richie without furthering an argument. "You can't count the receipts up during your shift?! O-Or complete the payroll from your own fucking house!?"

Lexie's fists tighten. "If it were up to me, your greasy ass wouldn't even be on the payroll."

Richie chuckles... a laugh that fills Lexie with rage. "Well good thing it isn't up to you!"

"Now sign my check and hand it here." He grabs at her arm full of paperwork.

"Not until Friday!" Gritting her teeth, Lexie snatches away with all of her might. "If you're so broke, try being more charming to the customers and maybe you could take home some nice tips at night!"

She continues. "—BUT! Welcoming a customer inside by calling him 'the man with the golden dick' will get you nothing! I mean, seriously Richie?!

Richie had no idea Lexie pays so much attention to how he speaks to his regulars everyday... He feels that the people of Chicago love his charm and personality... Hell!— Arrogantly, he even believes that they come to The Beef just to see him!

Richie becomes offended. "Okay, first off— fuck you, and secondly— that's the best compliment a man could ever get!"

Lexie rolls her eyes once more before she turns to leave him.

—But, Richie just doesn't know how to quit. "Listen princess you're not here to teach us etiquette okay!? I seriously don't get why they hired you, Carmy's sister Sugar does all the paperwork here anyways!"

Lexie turns around, coming back to the argument as she reddens and continues to shout. "Because Sugar has a full time job and a husband, Richie! She can't spend all her time in this dump going through paperwork full of dust mites!"

"Fine, then why are you here at 4am?" Richie folds his arms, leaning against the lockers to stop Lexie from walking away. "I can't believe they gave you a fucking key."

"The feeling's mutual." Lexie nudges his forehead with her fingertips. "Giving you a key is as responsible as handing it to a bum on the metro. Now get out of my way!"

"You don't need to get nasty young lady." Richie's jaw clenches. He becomes terribly annoyed that the new girl can actually keep up with his banter— and the fact that she might just be better at it. "Take it back."

Lexie grins sarcastically. "Fuck you."

He flips her off. Using his fingertips under his chin, his favorite gesture when he's already said 'fuck you' enough.

She rolls her eyes. "As if I don't see you do that a thousand times a day. Grow up Richie! You're such a fucking child."

Wanting to leave the locker room, Lexie can't help but become curious as well.

"My turn." She insists, placing her items in an opened locker. "Now, why are you here?"

...

Richie gulps... He rather not talk about the stress of his life with a girl he swears is the worst investment the restaurant has ever made...

He came to work to clear his head, not to express to some chick that he feels like a forty-five year old deadbeat with no purpose in life.

"I dunno— checking... supplies and shit." He lies.

"No..." Lexie doesn't buy it. "I am here checking supplies for a list of our expenses and doing some budgeting—"

"BUDGETING!?" Richie explodes on his last straw. "Okay fuck this, you twenty-something-year olds have already changed the budget ten times!!! How much more money do we need to save!? The restaurant has already cut out so many classic dishes from the menu and now you're gonna cut back more!?"

"Yes! And if you're so concerned about how much money we bring in, try selling more sandwiches instead of eating them all fucking day!" Lexie blinks her long lashes sarcastically, making Richie fume even more and lose all of his patience.

"Damn it! I've had it with you!" Standing over Lexie, Richie begins to threaten her with a strong finger point into her face. "I have tried to be a gentleman, but you've taken me up to here!" He hovers his hand high above his head, expressing that her attitude has got him through the fucking roof.

"First of all..." Richie continues as he immaturely picks at her looks. "—You look fucking ridiculous! Coming into The Beef looking like a fucking principal in a tight fucking pencil skirt! Put on a Tshirt, and get elbow deep in some fucking grease! That's what we need! Not some Mary Poppins-fucking-secretary!"

"It's called business casual." She chuckles. "And as if we need some forty-five year old washup who leaves cigarettes everywhere, and smokes a pack a day!"

"You can't cook, you can't clean, and money comes up short every time you work the registers!"

"Fuck you, liar!" Becoming so unbelievably heated, strained veins of tension stands out of his neck each time he shouts. "I'd never mooch from this place! This place is my home, my family!"

"No?" She tilts her head in curiosity. "Well, what about you selling coke out of the back alley too! What would you call that!?"

"LABOR AND INVESTMENT." He shouts. "I'm making ends meet for this shit-hole because someone has to do it when the money gets fucking low! Tell me sweetheart, how the fuck do you think this place survived during Covid??? ME!"

...

Richie begins to insult her under his breath. "Maybe if your brains were half as big as your fat ass you'd understand better."

"EXCUSE ME!?" Lexie loses her calm.

For a moment there, she was able to keep up with Richie's attitude in a professional manner... However now, her fist down his throat would look pretty good to her.

Richie doesn't repeat himself...

"No! Fucking go ahead!" Lexie argues and begins to push against him, antagonizing a coming fight and nudging him for more. "You want to talk shit, then let's talk shit!"

"What are you doing? Now you wanna fucking fight me tough guy?" Richie rolls his eyes. "Listen, you're pressing your tits on me, you need to back off before we have a problem"

"YOU ARE THE FUCKING PROBLEM!!" Lexie lets out her true feelings of hatred towards him. "Do you know how smoothly this restaurant could run without you constantly aggravating someone!? You stress Carmy out every fucking day! I don't understand why he doesn't just fucking fire you already!"

She continues. "Name one day Richie, ONE DAY that you haven't aggravated someone over their limits with your constant bullshit?"

He scoffs. "It's because you fucking Chicago-gentrifying-fucking-millennials are pussies!!! No backbone!! Upset over everything. You, Carmy, and Sydney!"

"For someone who isn't good at shit, you sure are good at pissing people off!" Lexie continues to bark. "For Christ sake! Sydney stabbed you the other day in your ass for being such a prick!"

Embarrassed with his known behavior, Richie refuses to meet Lexie in her dagger like dark brown eyes.

"Syd said it was an accident..."His voice becomes meek like a baby.

"I wouldn't blame her if it wasn't!" Lexie shouts.

So used to being the one who annoys everyone else, Richie gets a taste of his own medicine as he continues to be annoyed by Lexie's presence. "Why the fuck were you even hired Lexie!? To keep up with the books and money because you're in Chicago's fucking community college taking up a finance class?"

He laughs. "We don't need you here! You're probably just fucking Carmy, aren't you!?"

...

The insult goes too far... Lexie winds her hand back and slaps Richie clean across the face.

His cheek heats red, yet he was raised to never lay a finger back on a woman. "Fine." He gulps. "I probably deserved that."

Her large brown eyes eat away at his heart as Richie notices the comment humiliated her into making tears form and glass over at the surface of her eyes.

"God damn right you deserved it." Lexie holds back her tears and ill intentions to cause Richie serious bodily harm.

Little does she know, in Richie's own sick and twisted way, he only brought it up because he's curious if she's already been snatched up by some other guy on the staff. Because if he had the chance, maybe he'd even be interested in her himself...

But he's sure no uppity bitch like Lexie would even look in his direction.

"This is what I mean." She scoffs. "You're disrespectful, and you're a piece of shit who just causes arguments."

Richie rolls his eyes. "And I always finish them too! So what the fuck do you want to do about it?"

...

The wrong thing to say to a woman who is suddenly about to lose herself. Lexie instantly shoves him against the locker... causing the metal material to ring and bang out loudly.

He gulps, fearing that the young cutie has been pushed far past her limits and that he's about to get his ass kicked.

"Okay, that was all you that time. I didn't say shit to you to deserve that!" Richie argues, attempting to strike fear in her heart. "But you listen... If you put your fucking hands on me again, I swear to god—"

"That you'll do what?!" Lexie entices.

Although comically smaller than the large man, she yanks him down to the wooden locker bench before them. "Sit down!"

He surrenders with his hands held high. "Okay baby chill, you're losing your shit right now, you need to take a chill—"

She grips his face as she stands over him. "DO YOU EVER JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!?"

A question that Richie knows not to answer...

Lexie finds herself staring at the pink puckered lips within her grasp and her thoughts become insane.

A glimmer in both of their eyes immediately changes the tension in the room into something far more worth the adrenaline.

Lexie slips out of the panties beneath her short pencil skirt...

"What— what are you doing?" Richie mumbles as his middle-aged heart beats harder than it ever has.

"Occupying your mouth to keep it from running so fucking much." Her panties slip down off of her heels and into Richie's lap as she tugs a brutal grip onto his short strands of hair... With her grip, Lexie forces Richie's head back and his mouth open as she places her cunt across his tongue.

Shocked and confused, Richie puts in work anyway. His tongue glides through her folds that surprisingly have slicked during their entire morning spent arguing and he begins to devour her pussy... A cunt so fresh, fat, warm, and half of his age.

The baritoned groans of his voice heat her core like nothing she has ever felt before. Lexie instantly grabs hold onto Richie's shoulders before her weakening knees begin to fail her.

Her eyebrows furrow as she begins to sweetly complain. "Oh fuck Richie..."

Glad to see that Richie's mouth has a better use than just arguing, Lexies squeals lightly as her eyes roll backwards in pleasure. She continues to fuck his face and be teased sweetly by his prominent nose, prickly unshaven face, and wildly fat tongue.

Richie becomes painfully aroused within his jeans. He moans into her cunt as his strong fingers grip at her waist tightly, bringing her closer across his face so his tongue can explore the depths of her flesh even further.

Blessed, yet confused, he begins to pause during his every word from suckling and gently kissing on her tasty mound. "What—the fuck—" He continues. "Are we—doing?"

Lexie squeezes her eyes tightly shut, almost orgasming each time she notices his sky-blue eyes staring up at her.

She bites her lip. "Just don't stop."

Richie hums through her pussy. "Mmm, Okay baby, I won't not til you tell me too."

Hands beginning to reach up her hips to cup at her waist, Lexie's mouth hangs open ajar... infatuated with how his strong fingers nearly double over the tiny measurements of her waist. Richie's grip on her is so powerful, forcing her not to run from his probing tongue and the lewd suckling and squelching that sound sloppily between her thighs.

Her legs begin to shake... Richie feasts on her as if his job depends on it.

She drags her full bottom lip between her teeth, begging for mercy as her core tightens with butterflies. "Mmmm'oh my god!" She whines.

Looking towards the dusty clock in the kitchen that hasn't been cleaned in years, Lexie realizes how close it is to the beginning of everyone's shift... morning prep.

Although time is almost out, she refuses to finish without having Richie put in more work and hammer her with cock.

"Get up. She demands. "Fuck me."

Lexie watches as Richie stands and tears off his apron to get to his pants.

Inside his trousers, Richie reveals a handsome ten inch cock. Veins protruding and swollen hard as it stands erect towards his belly button, Lexie can't wait to have the peach toned dagger deep into her guts. She begins to grin, glad to have trusted her instincts about skinny, tall men, who aren't worth shit. Although maybe not material for a husband, always trust that they'll have a cock big and gorgeous enough that it makes it worth the price of dealing with the constant bullshit that comes along with it.

Lexie wraps her legs around Richie's waist as he unbuttons her top and kisses at her neck and the fullness of her breasts that bulge from out of the top of her bra.

He lifts her against the lockers with clear impatience as he reaches beneath her to direct his cockhead into her flesh.

She coos sweetly. The tip of his erection, bulbous and hot as it lubes itself through the lips of her cunt, sliding backwards until it meets her tight, however inviting opening. She hisses as Richie slowly bucks forward, sheathing himself into her body.

"Jesus, Lexie."He groans out. His member being choked perfectly by her tight pussy.

Richie's many inches continue to dig forward until his hips are flushed against hers. She winces in pain as she tucks her forehead into the crook of his neck.

Richie softly hushes her stress, kissing sweetly at the parts available on her pretty little face. "Just hold onto my neck, okay?"

Lexie agrees through a quickened nod. She wraps her arms around his neck, wincing as the strokes begin.

Richie pulls out half way and slowly returns back fully into her core for his first impale. The two synchronize in a lewd and guilty first moan.

Richie picks up his speed, hips beginning to snap against her spread opened thighs as her pussy sops sticky and wet for him.

Lexie weeps soft tears as she gets railed by someone that she loathes with her entire being.

As her breasts bounce and spill from out of her dress shirt, hair tangling from what was a perfect blowout this morning, she soon realizes that nothing could be more delicious than early morning hate sex.

Richie watches beneath them at how well the little minx can take his cock, her sweet begging and the banging of the old lockers up against them encouraging him to go stronger and make her take his cream.

He stares at her lips, trying his best not to kiss them being that he still is so confused on where they stand... not even fifteen minutes ago, he was a second away from getting his ass kicked by her, and now suddenly... he finds himself balls deep between her legs.

He gulps. "Tell me what you want."

"For you to shut the fuck up." Panting for air, Lexie's brain becomes mush and only wanting to think about their sex.

He chuckles softly, complimenting her under his breath. "You're so fucking beautiful..."

"Yes mama, I'll shut the fuck up." He obeys. "Now what else do you want?"

"Drill me." Her eyes become low and sinister like a siren, full of sinful desire and without any shame. "Fuck me harder."

He nods. "Whatever you want."

Lexie clenches tightly around his shaft as Richie suddenly picks up a dangerous speed, spasming and slapping into her cunt as if she needed to be disciplined.

Now fucked out of her heels, her toes curl within her stockings. She begins to push on his slim and toned stomach for space between them.

—but Richie won't allow it. "Move your fucking hands." He shoves them away.

Her cunt pulses around him. Brain circuit-shorting as she gets embarrassingly used like a cock sleeve by one of the most unrespectable men of this job.

Yet, she wouldn't have it any other way.

Her whimpers become strangled, lips wet with drool.

"Look at you." Richie teases as the corners of his mouth begin to quirk. "Talk so much shit all morning long, but get real quiet with a cock in you."

"Mmm." He continues, skin hot and flushed as he tries to talk himself away from cumming. "You like this shit baby?"

A sudden slow pace blows Lexie's mind as Richie's lower abdomen knocks into her sensitive pearl. The feeling sends her to the moon.

Her nails dig into Richie's forearms as her walls contract around him, pulling his cock deeper inside awaiting to drain him of all his cum.

Richie's jaw goes slack, hips locking in place as he lunges further into Lexie's pussy until their bodies are flushed together.

A choked groan exits the depths of his throat. "Oh my fucking—"

Lexie covers Richie'a mouth as she hears keys and morning conversation outside of the restaurant near the front entrance.

Richie's cock twitches as it sputters out with hot cum. Filling Lexie's cunt with his spend until it begins to web around him.

His pleads and moans are terribly loud as she uses a second hand over the first to silence him.

Lexie's eyes roll backwards as she bites her lip, enjoying the thrill of being stuffed with cum as he throbs and becomes limp inside of her.

"Richie..." she gulps, whispering tiredly. "You'll have to keep quiet."

...

Eyebrows furrowed as he becomes hooked on the sound of her soft and tired after-sex voice, he'll do whatever she asks him to.

He nods, obeying as a good boy does however nearly biting his tongue off to silence himself as she takes her hands away. "Fucking hell Lexie... Goddamn baby."

He finally calms from his explosive climax, helping Lexie to her feet as they quickly begin to redress.

Stunned, Richie can't help but to watch her (mostly in love) as she places the heels back onto her feet to continue about her day.

Still alone near the lockers, they hurry to prep themselves before the crew comes inside in a few seconds.

"Jesus!" Richie laughs in excitement. "That was the best fuck I've had in—in, well fuck! In my whole fucking life."

Lexie rolls her eyes as he becomes giddy like a schoolboy.

With romance on his mind, Richie nearly begins to plan a day for her to meet his mother, hell— a day for them to marry! "Listen, babygirl, there's this incredible Italian spot on West Avenue, let me take you out—"

"Richie, please. Just shut up." Lexie ignores him as she quickly rebuttons her top and grabs her belongings from the locker.

...

He frowns, suddenly becoming furious.

"Alright wait a minute!" Richie refuses. "I just gave you a raw fuck in the back of the locker room and now I'm getting the cold shoulder? Are you my girl or what?"

Lexie scoffs.

"Fucking old guys..."She sighs in a quiet whisper, speaking mostly to herself. "Give em pussy once and they get all clingy."

Their arguing comes back at full speed. "It's not old guys you little fucking slut! It's called class, and respect! I wanted to take you out. Lexie, what the fuck do you even want with me?"

"Exactly what we had." She shrugs.

"What?" He lashes back. "I piss you off and then you go all horny she-devil on me and fuck my brains out?"

Lexie freezes in thought. "...yes"

Richie can't believe what he's hearing.

He scoffs, beginning to laugh in disbelief. "You're bugging. You're fucking insane, you know that?"

Lexie sighs as she continues to hurry from what they just committed. "I like things to be simple, okay? Did you enjoy it or not?"

Richie rolls his eyes. Pissed as if he's been used like a two cent whore. "Of course I did, fuck you Lexie.Don't ask me no stupid shit like that, you know I did."

Out of breath as the door chimes begin to ring up front, Lexie smiles softly. "Good! So you just be Richie, I'll be Lexie, and maybe we'll do it again sometime."

"Understand?" She questions, setting boundaries with Richie who is clearly a romantic.

...

He pauses.

Lexie sighs. "Do I need to ask again?"

"No." He pouts, spoiled from a taste of good pussy.

"Good." Lexie nods and grins tightly as if they just shook hands over a business deal before she begins to walk away.

"Hey." Richie grabs her. "Wait. —Kiss me."

"I'm not going to kiss you." Lexie tugs at his grasp, yet she isn't able to get out of it.

He bears over her... forcing her eyes upon him as he demands for what he wants. "Damn it Lexie, I'm not asking. Kiss me before I start making a fucking scene in here."

...

Lexie rolls her eyes, knowing that denying him of this isn't worth outing what they've done together.

"Fine." She gives in.

Placing his hands at her waist, Richie pulls her against him. His right hand reaches towards her face where he watches her closely... sweetly brushing her baby hairs out of his view. The hand softly cups the side of her face... wide enough to caress her jaw and neck as he forces her unto her toes to meet his lips.

Their lips finally meet... And the kiss is unbelievably tender... Quickly expanding into something more as their mouths open and tongues tangle.

Richie presses her tighter towards him, hand now trailing from her waist to a smack and grip onto her ass. The other hand leaves her cheek to his digits pulling tightly at her long black tresses.

Their eyes continue to stay closed as their moans heat each other's mouths. Tongue fucking each other with more heat than their actual sex...

Lexie finds herself breath taken and begging for more as Richie pulls away with an intoxicating sexy bite and pull to her bottom lip.

Her eyes soon flutter open.. She gulps, unsure to why it was the most romantic kiss that she has ever had.

Richie grins as he notices the stunning blush that begins to heat her face.

"Now..." Richie bites his lip as he continues to stare at her beauty, smoothing her hair and tucking it behind her ears. "Now you can go."

Unsure of the butterflies in her stomach, she stares into Richie's eyes and slowly nods.

Slightly mad at herself for feeling a growing crush, she can't believe that it is what she's thinking it is... Hell!— She'd even have to beat her own ass if she were to begin falling for Richie Jerimovich...

"I-I have to go now." Lexie gulps.

"Mhm." He nods. "Have an excellent day, sweetie."

She stumbles lightly over her feet, still high off of Richie's kiss and he quietly begins to chuckle.

He's got her right where he wants her. Although Lexie claims to not want anything serious, he's determined to convince her otherwise.

The crew finally begins to pour inside and Richie wishes everyone a good morning.

He loves his job... He loves his family here.

A team of hard working Chicago locals, just trying to make it through day by day. Real people working real jobs.

The Beef is Richie's home. And if things go right... One day, Lexie could be that too.

As Carmy readies himself for the day and prepares himself to run a business he never expected to own... He shouts, wanting a minute alone with his cousin Richie as they dap each other up while they greet.

"Aye good morning, talk to me for a sec Cousin..." Carmy begins. "Listen Richie, when you and Michael began hiring for the restaurant, you hired people who quickly became like family. You have a knack for this Richie, and I trust your judgement."

Carmy continues. "I wanted to ask you, what do you think about this new girl on the books? Yeah, she's saved us a lot of money and things are running smooth as shit... but is she one of us? Can she keep up with the crew?"

Richie shrugs.

Reaching into the pockets of his jeans, his fingers rustle the lace fabric of Lexie's thong that he kept as a souvenir from their early morning quickie before the break of dawn.

The thought of their morning together alone suddenly makes Richie's heart flutter and eats wildly at his soul...

"Yeah." He gulps. "She's a fucking bitch... but yeah, she's one of us. She's part of the family."

"So fuck it... she stays?" Carmy asks.

Richie chuckles. "Yeah.. if we're lucky."

A delivery man pops inside the restaurant as they continue to chat and Carmy signs a form on the man's clipboard before the man leaves again.

"What was that for?" Richie yawns. "Ordered more napkin supply or some shit."

"Nope! All good on supplies." Carmy pats Richie on the back. "Just signing the invoice on the security cameras we had installed last week."

...

A chill suddenly falls down Richie's spine.

He looks up at the ceiling, noticing the new cameras installed in every corner of the restaurant. The entrance, the counter, the kitchen, and the fucking locker room.

Richie freezes in absolute horror. "Oh fuck."

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inklore · 3 years

Text

— 𝐅𝐀𝐐 ⋆ ˚｡

this blog is strictly multifandom, but that does not mean that i don’t play favorites for certain fandoms/characters. so there will most definitely be more writings for certain characters and fandoms.

requests: are closed, but thots are always welcome!

in no way shape or form should minors be interacting with anything on or posted to this blog. this is an 18+ space. anon hate and celebrity discourse also has no place here, so please respect that. if you are racist, homophobic, bigoted, zionist, islamphobic, judgmental to what people enjoy writing/reading, can’t depict fiction from real life, you will be blocked.

𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞…

rpf, necrophilia, incest, pregnancy, daddy/little play, age play, spitting, kitten, bimbo!reader, foot fetish, animal play, race play, watersports, underage scenarios, alpha/omega, domestic violence, kid fics, male!character x male!oc, i hate the word ‘doll’ as a pet name so i avoid it like the plague.

𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞…

smut (refer to the above list when it comes to this), fluff, age gaps, poly/threesome+, reverse harem, dubcon, noncon, yandere, toy play, cheating (to a certain degree), blood play, knife play, some bdsm, breath play, violence, gore, capture x captive, hunter/prey, praise and degradation, power imbalance, step siblings, supernatural, villainary, choking, mommy/daddy kink (to an extent).

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒.

marvel ↷

miguel o’hara, hobie brown, marc spector, thor odinson, loki laufeyson, peter parker (all variants), yelena belova, joaquin torres, doctor strange, wade wilson, carol danvers, eddie brock, scott lang, hope van dyne, kate bishop, hela, pietro maximoff, logan howlett, wanda maximoff, steve rogers, kraven, cable, druig, makkari, thena, blade

dc universe ↷

dinah lance/black canary, diana prince, clark kent, pamela isley/poison ivy, arthur curry/aquaman, harley quinn, adrian chase, pattinson!bruce wayne, edward nashton/the riddler

top gun: maverick ↷

jake 'hangman' seresin, bradley 'rooster' bradshaw, javy 'coyote' machado, mickey 'fanboy' garcia, natasha 'phoenix' trace, beau 'cyclone' simpson, reuben 'payback' fitch

star wars ↷

poe dameron, finn, kylo ren/ben solo, bo-katan kryze, din djarin, young!han solo

scream ↷

ethan landry, stu macher, billy loomis, chad meeks-martin, mindy meeks-martin, amber freeman, tara carpenter

bridgerton ↷

anthony bridgerton, colin bridgerton, benedict bridgerton, kate sharma, simon basset, phillip crane

house of the dragon ↷

ser harwin strong, daemon targaryen, aemond targaryen, rhaenyra targaryen

american horror story ↷

cordelia goode, tristan duffy, michael langdon, harry gardner, madison montgomery, kit walker, xavier plympton, ally mayfair-richards

etc shows ↷

villanelle, lip gallagher, tommy miller, carmy berzatto, luca (the bear), kate parks, daisy jones, billy dunne, warren rhodes, geralt of rivia, love quinn, max wolfe, olivia benson, roman godfrey, dream the endless, lucifer (sandman), jonathan pine, mira phillips, the salesman (squid game), hwang jun ho (squid game), kim geon-woo (bloodhounds)

movies ↷

john wick, finnick odair, peeta mellark, johanna mason, han lue, cipher, walter de ville, tangerine, dave lizewski, thomas sharpe, james conrad, neil (tenet), edward cullen, millie / molotovgirl, dante reyes, thrandull, steve kemp, charlie swan, marquis vincent de gramont, keys (free guy), akira (john wick), beverly marsh (it two), ben hanscom (it two), keith (barbarian), frank (don't worry darling)

adam driver ↷

kylo ren/ben solo, adam sackler, flip zimmerman, phillip altman, charlie barber, henry mchenry, commander mills, rick smolan, officer ronnie peterson, matt the radar technician, clyde logan, paterson, jude

oscar isaac ↷

santiago garcia, poe dameron, nathan bateman, jonathan levy, william tell, blue jones, rydel keener

pedro pascal ↷

din djarin, javier peña, frankie morales, javi gutierrez, joel miller, dieter bravo

chris evans ↷

ransom drysdale, lloyd hansen, andy barber, ari levinson, frank adler, steve rogers, jake wyler

#faq #who i write for #guidelines #fandoms #dni

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maaarine · 3 years

Text

MBTI Typing Index: Fictional Characters — ISTP ESTP ISFP ESFP

Fictional characters: NF, NT, SJ, SP. Real people: index.

—

ISTP

Better Call Saul: Mike Ehrmantraut, Nacho/Ignacio Varga

Breaking Bad: Mike Ehrmantraut

Brokeback Mountain: Ennis Del Mar

Drive: Driver

ER: Abby Lockhart

Friday Night Lights: Tim Riggins

Game Of Thrones: Sandor Clegane, Osha

(The) Girl with the Dragon Tattoo: Lisbeth Salander

(The) Good Wife: Kalinda Sharma

House of the Dragon: Rhaenyra Targaryen

(The) Hunger Games: Katniss Everdeen

Jessica Jones: Jessica Jones

(The) Last Kingdom: Brida

Malcolm in the Middle: Reese

Mindhunter: Debbie Mitford

Money Heist (La Casa de Papel): Marseille, Bogota

Nana: Nana Osaki

(The) OC: Ryan Atwood

Ozark: Ruth Langmore

Skam: Isak

Skyfall: James Bond

Taxi Driver: Travis Bickle

(The) Tunnel: Elise Wasserman

(The) Wire: Kima Greggs, Michael Lee

X-Men: Wolverine

Y: The Last Man: Agent 355

—

ESTP

(The) Bear: Richie Jerimovich, Michael Berzatto

Better Call Saul: Jimmy McGill

Black Swan: Thomas Leroy

Breaking Bad: Saul Goodman

(The) Crown: Philip

Dallas Buyers Club: Ron Woodroof

Downton Abbey: Jimmy Kent

ER: Gregory Pratt

Fight Club: Tyler Durden

For All Mankind: Molly Cobb, Tracy Stevens

Friday Night Lights: Smash

Game Of Thrones: Bronn, Yara Greyjoy

Gilmore Girls: Logan Huntzberger

Gone with the Wind: Rhett Butler

(The) Good Wife: Will Gardner

Industry: Harper Stern

(The) Last Kingdom: Uhtred, Finan, Leofric

Malcolm in the Middle: Francis

Marvel Universe: Star Lord

Men In Black: Jay

(Les) Misérables: Thénardier

Money Heist (La Casa de Papel): Berlin

(The) Mummy: Rick O’Connell

(The) OA: Steve Winchell

One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest: McMurphy

Queer As Folk: Stuart Jones

Rome: Mark Antony

Rush: James Hunt

Scarface: Tony Montana

Sister Act: Deloris Van Cartier

Sex and the City: Samantha Jones

Skam: Chris

Skins: Cook, Liv

(The) Sopranos: Tony Soprano

Sound of Metal: Ruben

Star Wars: Han Solo, Poe Dameron

(The) Wire: Jimmy McNulty, Avon Barksdale

(The) Wolf Of Wall Street: Jordan Belfort

—

ISFP

(The) Bear: Carmy Berzatto

Blue Is The Warmest Color: Adèle

Boyhood: Mason

(The) Bridge (Bron/Broen): Henrik Sabroe

(The) Crown: Diana Spencer

(The) Curious Case of Benjamin Button: Benjamin Button

Downton Abbey: Daisy Mason

ER: Luka Kovač

Friday Night Lights: Matt Saracen

Game Of Thrones: Jon Snow, Gilly

Harry Potter: Harry Potter

Jessica Jones: Malcolm Ducasse

Money Heist (La Casa de Papel): Helsinki, Moscow

(The) Last Kingdom: Osferth

(The) OC: Marissa Cooper

Skam: Yousef

Skins: Freddie

Star Wars: Anakin Skywalker

(The) Wire: D’Angelo Barksdale

—

ESFP

Bloodline: Danny Rayburn

Breaking Bad: Jesse Pinkman

(The) Bridge (Bron/Broen): Martin Rohde

Bridget Jones’s Diary: Bridget Jones

(The) Crown: Margaret

(The) Curious Case of Benjamin Button: Daisy

Downton Abbey: Mrs. Patmore, Rose MacClare

Dragon Ball: Goku

For All Mankind: Gordo Stevens

Friday Night Lights: Tyra Collette

Friends: Joey Tribbiani

Game of Thrones: Arya Stark, Ygritte

(The) Good Wife: Veronica Loy

Harry Potter: Ron Weasley

Hope Gap: Grace

(The) Hour: Verda Rowley

House of the Dragon: Aegon Targaryen

Malcolm in the Middle: Hal

Masters of Sex: Betty

Money Heist (La Casa de Papel): Tokyo, Denver

My Mad Fat Diary: Rae

Ozark: Ben Davis

Parenthood: Crosby Braverman

Rome: Titus Pullo

(The) Secret History: Bunny Corcoran

Se7en: Mills

Skam: Eva, Eskild

(The) Sopranos: A.J. Soprano

Squid Game (Ojing-eo Geim): Seong Gi-hun

Titanic: Molly Brown

(La) Vie En Rose: Edith Piaf

Winning Time: Earvin “Magic” Johnson

(The) Wire: Namond Brice

—

Fictional characters: NF, NT, SJ, SP. Real people: index.

#mbti #mbtiindex #mbtichar #mbtitv #mbtifilms #istp #estp #isfp #esfp

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nolita-fairytale · 1 year

Text

what it would be like meeting mikey berzatto as the most important person in carmy's life:

a/n: ok so it is in fact canon in my 'make my heart surrender' series that the main character never got to meet mikey. however, i've been thinking a lot about what it would be like if she had met him when she and carmy were working together in new york so i wrote a lil somethin' about it. it can absolutely be read as a standalone piece with a pastry!chef reader.

takes place october 2021; reader x carmy are best friends and colleagues but it has not gone further than that.

trigger warnings: drug usage, high mikey b, swearing, family drama, depression

how you end up meeting mikey:

halloween weekend of 2021. mikey ends up in new york city for the weekend because he followed a weekend fling for a party. they got into a huge fight over who knows what, and he finds himself in new york city, figuring he might as well go see his brother.

it's a busy night at the new-york-city-fine-dining-establishment-that-shall-not-be-named, carmy is knee deep in expediting while the pastry side just happens to be overstaffed.

your general manager, kate, comes in, letting them know that there's a man outside who's asking for carmy. "he says he's your brother." "my brother?" while carmy doesn't think he can step away, in one shared look, you decide to go since you're his best friend -- the only one he trusts to handle it anyways.

you head out to the front of the restaurant to address the situation finding michael standing outside of the restaurant, pacing on the sidewalk. you recognize him from photos, but he looks different, and it's not hard to figure out that he's kind of strung out -- high on something, though you're uncertain of what.

"you're not carm." "no, i'm not. sorry, but carmy couldn't come out. so he sent me." "shit... the guy can't even make time to see his big brother?" "i don't think he was expecting you." you watch as michael's eyebrows rise in reaction to your comment. "he would if he could. it's just... we're doing 400 covers tonight and uh... well, he runs the kitchen so." disappointedly, as if he's accepted that he's not going to see carmy after all, he says, "yeah yeah okay... i didn't know i'd be here either. i just, i -- i gotta catch a flight anyways. will you let him know that mikey stopped by?" "of course."

by the time you get back in the kitchen, you want to protect carmy from the state michael was in so you don't mention the fact that he was high. "what did he want?" "just wanted to stop by. i think he uh... found himself in the city. surprise trip or something." but carmy doesn't completely buy it, instead, focuses, head down on finishing dinner service.

at the end of the night, carmy offers to walk you home, so the two of you head out of the restaurant, eager to unwind from a long night. as you're leaving, michael's still waiting outside of the restaurant and he doesn't look great -- looks like he's coming down from whatever you assume he took.

"michael, what're you doing here?" carmy asks, in shock that he's even here in the first place. "thought i'd come surprise you." "i mean, what're you doing here? in new york?" mikey sighs, a smirk on his face as he answers with: "never trust chicks on motorcycles, carm. they'll leave you high and dry in a brooklyn loft for a few good lines of coke. he chuckles. and while he doesn't exactly find it funny, carmy makes his best effort to try and laugh too, it coming out more like a dry exhale. mikey pivots, as if he's putting on a well-practiced happy face, though there's a sadness in your eyes that you think may haunt you for the rest of your life.

"i'm sorry. where the fuck are my manners? i'm mikey. mikey berzatto. i'm this jagoff's brother." you introduce yourself, and mikey's enthusiastically corralling you to grab a drink with him. carmy keeps looking over at you as if he's checking in, trying to get a read on you as he hesitates to answer. cautiously, you agree, wanting carmy to spend time with his brother. "one drink," he warns mikey.

the three of you make your way to a bar across the street that's open late, and as soon as michael has his first drink, it's like he's a completely different person. he's charming, larger than life, quite the storyteller and you see a side of carmy that you've never seen before. as you watch him listen to his brother, you can see just how much he admires his older brother. while you know carmy is hurt that michael barely calls or makes an effort to keep in touch, sitting here with him now, you can see the way that carmy looks at him -- like he put the stars, the moon, and the sun in the sky. there's a deep admiration and he's almost childlike in the way that he looks up to him.

after the first round, you head to bathroom, wanting to give him and mikey the time. carmy had promised one drink, but you're open to staying if he wants more time with his brother.

"this your girl, carm" "mikey, stop it." "then please tell me you're hittin' that." "michael!" carmy hushes his brother, a warning and protectiveness in his voice as he does. "are you fuckin' serious right now? what, you're teling me you're not?" "she's.... my friend." "shit. wish i had a friend like that. ya friends or are ya... you know... friends?" carmy just shakes his head, jaw clenched, glaring at michael, wishing he'd stop. "shit, i thought i taught you better than that, bear." "just friends. i'm serious, mike. cut it out." "oh come on! the chick's smokin' fuckin' hot. and i can tell that you like her. i'm not blind, bear. i see the way you-."

it's that sentence that pushes carmy in a way that he doesn't like at all. "don't talk to me like you know what's going on in my life." "carm-." "can't even pick up the damn phone and then you just... waltz into town acting like everything is okay?" "well, if you ever bothered to come home. you know mom's been askin' about you. never fuckin' call her-." "oh don't bring mom into this!"

when you return from the bathroom, there is a palpable tension between the two of them that you're not sure how to navigate the thick silence stewing with things left unsaid.

"everything okay?" you ask.

"i think we should go," carmy grits out, clearly upset over the conversation that just transpired between them. "uh... yeah, okay." "it was nice meetin' you sweetheart," mikey grunts, an empty shot glass that wasn't there previously on the bar top. carmy noticeably rolls his eyes at mikey's comment as you grab your things and close out your tab.

on the walk home, you ask: "you wanna talk about it?" "not really," carmy answers. he's quiet on the way home and you can tell whatever was said between the two of them really hurt him. as you finally get to your place, carmy sighs, as if he's ready to get something off his chest. "thank you. for doing that." "for what?" "for comin' along. even though it like... colossally blew up." "you ever gonna tell me what happened?" he shrugs, "i don't know." "okay... well, while i wait for you to burst like a pressure cooker, then inevitably spill the beans," you begin, and he smiles, because you know him too well. "wanna come up for a movie or something? get your mind off of it? it's halloween. maybe i'll even let you talk me into a scary movie this time." you finish asking him. and it's the moment that carmy realizes that you're such a breath of fresh air, especially in contrast with his earlier encounter with mikey. "uh.. yeah. think i'd like that."

the two of you go up to your place, put on a movie, and end up falling asleep on the couch together, only to pretend the next morning that it's not that big of a deal (it is, in fact, a HUGE deal).

647 notes · View notes

darlingshane · 10 months

Text

Salt of the Earth ~ Part 1

Pairing: Michael Berzatto x OFC

Summary: She was Carmy's best friend growing up, and Michael never looked at her as anything other than that until years later when she comes back to Chicago to start over. In the process, she turns his sorry excuse of a life upside down.

Content/Warnings: Friends to lovers, Fluff, Angst, Family Drama, Dysfunctional relationships, Implied/referenced drug addiction, Alcohol mention, Divorce, Pets, Pet names, Dialogue heavy. Undisclosed age gap (in my mind Michael is late 30s and OC is late 20s, but it's really up to your interpretation).

Word Count: 6.8k // 4 chapters // AO3 link.

A/N: This is set in the year of the Fishes episode on season 2. It starts in summer and slowly builds up to that Christmas.

— This was an anon request that I got a few months ago, I hope you're still around. I tried to fit all the ideas you sent as best I could. There's a bit of info dump on the first chapter, but I hope it isn't too off-putting.

Chapter 1: Best thing since sliced bread

Seconds stretch into minutes, minutes elongate into long hours on slow days like this at The Beef. Especially in summer when the air conditioner stops working for the second time in the middle of August. Any living soul that crosses that door must have a dying wish or be the devil themselves to adventure themselves to what has become Michael's personal hell.

It's been a testing year, and there's so much he can do to fix this place right now. While he waits for Fak to come check the damn AC unit, Michael tends the front while Ebra takes his lunch break.

Turning the paper's pages on the counter, he comes across an article about the extensive fires eating different parts of the country. A wretched thought crosses his mind as he reads – maybe it'd be better to burn this place to the ground and start over. He entertains the idea for a second until the door swings open, inviting more heat into the boiling pot.

He lifts his eyes from the words to find a familiar face approaching the counter. It's not Fak, but a much better vision of someone he used to know.

“Mayhem Maya.”

“Magic Mikey.”

That former thought of burning down this place disappears somewhere in the midst of that beautiful aura that saunters with her big brown eyes, long raven hair, nervous smile, and firm steps.

“It's been a while, Maybird.” Almost ten years since she set foot in this establishment. “What brings you to this hole in the wall?”

“Came to collect that meatball sub you promised at uncle Teddy's funeral, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

Ever since she moved to a different state, he only had seen her a handful of times when she came back for the holidays. Last time he saw her was at the beginning of spring, when her uncle, Ted Silva, passed away.

“I also had an interview at the new vet clinic on the next block.” She places her cross-body bag on an empty stool while she perches her ass on the one next to it.

“How's that going? Did you get tired of California already?”

“No, I love California. But I needed a change of scenery. It's been rough after… you know…” the divorce. She wasn't married for long, but she still can't bring herself to say the word.

“I’ve heard some of it.” He’s pretty much aware of how everything went down. Well, he’s got grapevine’s juicy version of the story, but he never heard her side directly.

Though Michael and Maya know each other as if they were related, they were never close confidants. She always thought he was the coolest guy in Chicago. And he always thought fondly of her, given their families association, and Maya’s close friendship with his brother.

Michael places an order for her sandwich and grabs a soda for her, while she explains she has two more job interviews later.

“Does your mother know you're back?” He folds the paper and props his elbows on the counter.

“She probably does.”

“Still not talking, huh?”

“It's not my fault she made me the black sheep of the family. She’s like vitriol on steroids.”

“Yeah? What happened at the wake? You left before I could say goodbye.”

Michael recalls the tension at the funeral, particularly at the wake when Angela Silva grabbed Maya by the elbow and took her youngest daughter outside the house as if she was still a child that needed to be scolded.

“Nothing. I barely said a word that day. Guess everything I do feels like a personal attack to her. I can admit that I'm not perfect, and that sometimes I've acted up just to get a reaction out of her, but that day she just went off again…” She pauses without finishing that thought to take a refreshing sip of her coke. “And that wasn't nearly as bad as the day I told her I was getting…”

“Divorced? Why can't you say the word? It's not Voldemort.”

“What the hell do you know about Voldemort?”

“How do I… Who took you and Carmy to buy those damn books? Have you forgotten?” Maya shakes her head. “You even tried many times invoking his name, so I was haunted by eaters or something like that. You two were real potterheads.”

“And you were just a pothead,” she laughs, stirring the ice cubes in her drink with a straw. “I totally blocked that out. We were just a couple of nerds.”

“I’d say!”

“Meatball sub!” Richie calls from the pass-through window and takes a second look when catching Maya in the joint. “Maya Papaya?!”

“Please, don’t call me that.” She scoffs while Richie promptly abandons the kitchen and goes around the counter to give her a welcoming hug.

“Did you know she was coming?” He asks Michael, as he props his ass on the bar.

“Had no idea. She just showed up.”

“Did you tell her about Carmy?”

“What about him?”

“He’s in Copenhagen.”

“Oh, I knew about that.”

“You two talk often?”

“Sometimes, I guess.” Barely more likely. They don't even text anymore. She's tried but there's been nothing but crickets at his end for months.

While Richie grills her about Carmy and what she’s been up to, Michael can’t help but look around the shop to notice, from every corner and wall, memories bouncing all at once in his direction. It takes him back in time to those days when she and Carmy were as thick as thieves.

Their shared history goes back to that same street their families have lived on for over thirty years… It’s still clear in his mind, like it was yesterday, when he was forced to babysit them when they wanted to go to the movies or trick-or-treating or the bookstore. That was a little annoying back then, now he fondly remembers all those times in summer, when they’d go to the convenience store to get ice pops on their bikes. Then they’d ride back and sit in the middle of the swanky rug in their living room and watch TV for hours. More than once they were yelled at by Mama Berzatto when she would come home to find melted colorful stains in the fabric. She would lose her shit. Carmy was used to it. Maya wasn’t, but the girl never flinched once cause Donna and her own mother were cut from the same unstable piece of cloth.

Maya and Carmy were really close up until they went separate ways for college. Their bond was something to admire. They had something so special that inevitably, Carmy fell in love with her. She was his best friend and confident. They kept each other's secrets, and Carmy thought she'd feel the same in return. It wasn't a crazy notion. They spent so much time together, everyone thought it'd lead to something more, but that never happened.

Mikey and Richie used to tease the youngest cub relentlessly. They tried multiple times to encourage him to ask her out, but he never found the guts to do it. Especially if it could potentially end their friendship. Carmy didn't want to lose that. Though he never confessed his feelings, Maya always knew. Even in her teens, call it a woman’s intuition, part of her already knew. Maya wished she'd felt the same toward him, but the heart wants what it wants, and she couldn't change that.

What was really fucked up was that she had the most ridiculous crush on the older Berzatto when she was a teen. While she knew he'd never look at her as anything other than Carmy's annoying little friend, that didn't stop her from daydreaming about it for years. It was a secret that no one ever knew and that was placed in a drawer at the back of her mind after she left Chicago.

After graduating, Maya and Carmy stayed in touch for a long time, until their calls and texts became less frequent. They followed different dreams that required a lot of attention and sadly their friendship got hurt in the process.

While she attended Vet School on the west coast, he became a chef on the east.

Maya thrived at school and work. She really went out on her own, and became the woman she always wanted to be. Unsheltered, confident, outspoken. She outgrew her shell and opened herself to new experiences and people. She loved it all. It wasn’t smooth sailing, but for the most part she was pretty happy with her choices.

And now she's back in Chicago, set on a new path and awaiting to see where it takes her.

She’s living in a house in Oak Park with her dog, Coco; Richie fishes out of her. Apparently, she got some money from uncle Teddy, and she’s invested it in a home for her and her beloved staffy.

“Does Carmy know you’re here?” Richie circles back.

“No, I haven't talked to him in months.”

“Why? Did you two have a fall-out or something?”

“There's no why. We're just busy.”

“Mike, help me out here. Weren’t these two fools supposed to get married?”

“Yeah, everyone thought you'd ended up together.”

“Man, I don't know what to tell you, we just didn't,” her head sinks between her shoulders.

“Just get over yourself and hit him up. The kid has been hung up on you since forever. It looks like things didn’t go so well with your marriage and all. You should take that as a sign, you’d never find anyone better than Carmy. The boy could really use some excitement in his life. And so could you.”

“C’mon, leave her alone. Go back to work, Cousin.”

Michael throws her a lifeline, noticing how miserable she looks every time Richie opens his unfiltered mouth.

“He’s not wrong, you know? You and Carmy… it looked like you two had something special.” Michael offers once Richie is back in the kitchen.

“It’s called friendship. You should look it up.” She points out.

“I have Richie.”

“Exactly. You have Richie. Why don't you two marry the other and leave me alone? If you think about it, you were as close to Richie as I was with Carmy. Even more. Should everyone assume you are in love with him? Cause that's what you're implying.”

“Touché. I'll drop it.”

“Look, as hard as it is to believe, there was nothing else between us. I was aware he felt something for me, but I didn’t feel the same.”

“You should give him a chance sometime. He might surprise you.”

It’s not the first time these two have been trying to play matchmaker between Maya and Carmy, and it’s bizarre to see they still do at any given opportunity.

“Okay, if I give Carmy a chance, you have to give Richie a chance. Those are the rules, Berzatto.”

“Oh, I've tried. He's not into me,” he remarks, amused, and leans closer to confess something in a lower voice. “Do you wanna know a secret?”

“Uh, sure.”

“He and Tiffany are having a baby. He just told me a few days ago.”

“What? You let him reproduce? I'll pray for Tiff.”

Chapter 2: Cool as a cucumber

Everything falls slowly into place as Maya settles back in Chicago. She secures the job at the clinic near The Beef, which is a huge relief after her rushed decision of moving back to her hometown without securing a job first. It was part of the plan all along to practice what she loves but never thought this would be the year. As much as she loved California, once her divorce was finalized she felt like something was trapping her there. And the money she got from her uncle gave her some leeway to improvise, get away from all that, and start over.

Maya is spending her morning going through the stack of unpacked boxes, finding a good place for everything, making it feel more homey. It's not a big house, but spacious enough for the two of them. The big selling point was the backyard for Coco to zoom around and cool down in her wading pool, which she loves. It didn't take long for the five-year-old pup to get used to her new neighborhood. They've even made a couple of friends at the park nearby.

A moment before the doorbell rings, Coco whines from her spot by the window, where she often sits to watch passers in the street.

“Who is it?” Maya playfully asks her dog as she makes her way to the front door.

Through the peephole, she sees Michael's profile as he inspects the porch.

“Hi,” her eyes widen as she opens the door. “Didn't know you were coming.”

“Yeah, I would've called, but I didn't get your number the other day.” But he got her address from Richie's intense questioning when she visited the shop.

“I knocked on two different houses until I got the right one,” he explains as Coco curiously circles around his feet, sniffing his pants, hitting his crotch with her nose in the process.

“No, Coco. Sit. How many times have we talked about no nut-tapping?” Maya glances at her with amusement as the dog sits on her haunches.

“It’s fine,” he snorts. “All dogs do that.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. But she’s not any other dog. I thought I had taught her better. So what brings you here?”

“This.” He offers the paper bag hanging in his hand. “It's just a little house-warming gift.”

“You didn't have to.” As she takes the bag from his hand she ushers him inside before closing the door.

“It's nothing, really.”

He glances around as Maya takes out the box from the bag.

“Wow, a set of knives? That's not nothing.”

“Everyone needs one good set of knives. But you can exchange them for something else if you want.”

“No. I like these. But I gotta warn you that I'm not much of a cook, and I'll probably use the same one for everything.”

“That's fine I can show you sometime though. Is she friendly? ” He points at the dog that keeps staring at him. “Can I pet her?”

“Yeah, she loves everyone. Go ahead.”

Michael cautiously pets the brown coat of her head as her floppy ears lower at the passing of his hand.

“Never pictured you with a pit bull.”

“Me neither. I always thought I'd be a cat lady. But I met her at this adoption drive when she was one, and she stole my heart.”

“I can see why.” Michael crouches down, and pets Coco with both hands. “She's really sweet.”

He lets her lick his chin a couple of times before standing back on his feet. Then they go on a tour around the house.

“It's still a work in progress. I'm thinking of painting a few walls, but we like it so far.”

“Yeah, it has good bones.”

“So you don't have to work today?” Asks Maya.

“No, we've had some trouble with the gas line, and we've been shut down for a couple of days.”

“That sucks. Now where am I going to get my sandwiches and coffee on my way to work?”

“Heard Starbucks is pretty good.”

“Shut up. Don't even joke about that.” She playfully shoves his shoulder as they go back to the living room.

“Are you doing something later?”

She shakes her head. “Why?”

“I don't know, thought you were having a comeback party or something.”

“I don't really have any friends here. And I don't feel like inviting my family yet. As you can see, I still have a lot to unpack.”

“Physically or mentally speaking?”

“Both,” she scoffs.

“Let's do something then? Just you and me. We could grab some pizza, or go out for a drink for old times’ sake?”

“Old times’ sake?” It's amusing, surprising and confusing his sudden interest in her. Maybe he can see how pathetic she thinks she is, and he's taking pity on her. Although, that was never Michael style.

“Yeah, c'mon, Mayhem. You look like you could use some fun.” He picks up a book that's sitting on top from the box opened by the couch that's titled — Dating Again with Courage and Confidence: The Five-Step Plan to Revitalize Your Love Life after Heartbreak, Breakup, or Divorce. “And maybe a rebound or something. You don't need a fucking help book. You only need me to show where to get the best guys, or girls. Whatever you're into.”

“Give me that. I don't need a rebound, a help book, or you for all matter finding me a date.”

“No? Then why do you have that?”

“My friend Paige thought I should give it a try.”

“Maybe she was onto something there.”

“I'm perfectly fine. Just want to finish organizing everything, focus on work and this handful I have right here.” Her hand gestures at Coco. “What are you so interested in my love life anyway? First you try to play matchmaker with Carmy, and now you want me to do what, exactly? Hook up with the first guy I see?”

“No, I'm just asking you to go out and have some fun. I know Carmy was the only friend you had here. And if I was in your shoes, I'd feel pretty lonely.”

“I'm not lonely, Michael. Do I miss my friends in Sacramento? Sure,” she admits. “But I don't wanna force anything. I'm just taking it slow. When the time comes I'll jump right in but for now, this is all I need. Really. Stop pitying me.”

“I'm not pitying you, sweetheart.”

“No? Then what is it? Where is this coming from?”

“I don't know… I've always thought you were the salt of the earth. And though we never really hung out together, I thought you could use… But I can see now that you're different, and that you know what you need right now, so I'll just shut up and back off. Let you do your thing.”

“Thank you. I do know what I'm doing, by the way. You don't have to worry about me. I'll be fine. But I appreciate you coming here anyway.”

“Yeah, of course. And I can help you unpack if you need.”

“Hm, if you don't have anything better to do, be my guest. We could grab a pizza later, if the offer still stands. Or just order some food.”

“Sure.”

Michael helps Maya unpack all the boxes and put everything in place in half the time it'd have taken her alone. They order some food for lunch and spend half the day talking and laughing until late in the afternoon when they decide to go out for some drinks to keep the good vibes going.

At the end of the night, she offers to drive Michael back to his apartment as a thank you for inviting her.

“Did you have fun?” Michael asks from the passenger seat as she pulls up in front of his building.

“Yeah, I did. I'm glad I changed my mind.”

“Me too. I didn't know you were this fun. You're nothing like I remember.”

“Yeah, I was kind of weird growing up. You guys probably thought there was something wrong with me. ”

“Nah, don't be so hard on yourself. We were all weird in our own way.”

“Uh-uh. No Michael Berzatto. You were the coolest guy back in the day, and you still are.”

“I don’t know about that,” he scoffs. “For the record… I never thought there was anything wrong with you.”

“You were probably the only one… Anyway, thank you for today. I know I said I didn't need this, but I guess I did.”

“You're welcome, Maybird. I'm glad you’re back.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Thanks for bringing me home,” he softly squeezes her arm before reaching for the handle to open the door.

“No problem.”

“You know you can call me if you ever miss your friends, y’know?” he throws casually.

“I uh…sure. I will.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she echoes back as he pulls the handle and the door opens.

“Have a good night, Michael,” she says as he gets one foot on the pavement.

“You, too, sweetheart.”

He closes the door and vaguely waves as she sets the car in motion and watches her drive away.

Chapter 3: Don't cry over spilled milk

In the few weeks he's been spending time with Maya, Michael has found himself enjoying her company more than he'd like to admit. Being with her grounds him. She makes him forget for a little while all that's wrong in his life. She's like a beacon in that immerse darkness that his sorry existence has become. Despite having her own set of problems, he's watched her rise above all that with poise. He wonders what it's her secret to her steadfast determination, even when her own family has disavowed her.

After closing shop, he dives into his stash to tame that brewing headache before driving to Oak Park to pay her a visit. She told him earlier via text that she was at Home Depot buying some paint to update the color of her bedroom and asked him to come over to hang out after work.

For some reason, he couldn't say no. Not even the storm in his head is strong enough to deny her request. He has a pull on him, tugging him hard like a dog tied to a leash in her hand, he can’t help but follow her lead.

When he arrives at her house, she's halfway done. Two of the walls shine bright new in a lavender tone as she starts working on the next one.

After having beer and playing a tug of war game with his new friend, Coco, Michael offers his help to finish painting the walls. He uses a brush to paint the corners, while she gracefully uses a roller like a pro with her denim overalls over a tank top, and her raven hair pulled up in a ponytail sprinkled with lavender paint beads. When she lifts one of her arms, he catches a glimpse of a tattoo on the side of her rib cage, leveled to the roundness of her chest that looks like the outline of a dog paw.

“What are you looking at?” She asks after catching him staring.

“You have paint on your chin.”

“Oh.” She wipes it with the back of her hand, but she just spreads the stain along her jaw. “I made it worse, didn't I?”

“Yeah.”

She shrugs it off and continues with the task ahead until the whole wall is covered.

“Is everything okay, Bear?” Maya puts down the paint roller. “You're quieter than usual.”

“Yeah, everything's alright.” It sounds so honest, he almost believes it. “It's just been a long day.”

“I'm sorry that I put you to work.”

“Don't be. This is relaxing.”

“Yeah?” She takes a step back and surveys how much brighter her bedroom looks already after covering most of the former downcast grey. “Is the color right? Do you think it's too girlish?”

Giving the room a once over he says, “it's a good shade. I dig it. It doesn't matter what I think or if it's too girlish, as long as you like it. Do you like it?”

“Yeah. I do.”

She dips the roller on the tray to cover another section of the wall.

“You never told me what happened at the funeral with your mom,” Michael leans on the stepladder, taking a short break.

“Do you really wanna know?” She glances over her shoulder.

“Yeah. Everyone does. I’ve heard some crazy stories about it. Thought I should get it straight from the source.”

“I never pegged you for a gossip girl.”

“I’m not. I’m just making conversation.”

She mockingly narrows her eyes, drawing a lopsided smirk, “liar.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t wanna. But yeah, can’t help being a little curious about it.”

“I don’t mind telling you, but it won’t be as entertaining as those crazy stories people have made up.”

“I’m not here for entertainment. I just wanna hear your side of the story, Maybird.”

Maya lets out a heavy sigh and while keeping her focus on the wall she shares with him what really happened. She’s right to say that is not the best story she’s ever told, though when it comes to her mother, all her stories tend to have a surreal element even she can’t fathom sometimes.

That day at the funeral, she was taken outside during the wake by Angela Silva to get scolded about her imminent divorce. It wasn’t finalized by then, and her mom invoked one last Hail Mary to convince her to stay with her husband, who was also currently dating someone else. It was a messy situation that Maya couldn't wait to get out of, and the fact that her mother never offered an ounce of support wasn’t surprising, but still devastating. Somehow, Angela found that the reason for her separation from her husband was that Maya didn’t want to have kids, and that really vexed Angela. All she wanted for her three kids was to follow the same traditional path Angela was forced into, no matter how miserable she was. Her two older sisters followed her mother’s narrowed traditional values. But Maya, ever-the-nonconformist, swore she would never follow anyone’s drum beat but her own. Her husband thought she’d change her mind eventually. He was wrong. She knew that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, which led her here, to this moment.

“Is your mom ever happy?” Michael has always wondered.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her happy, except when she’s drunk. That’s why she has to make everyone else miserable.”

“Yeah, but she’s always had a fixation on making you miserable.”

“Like I said, every family needs a black sheep, and I’m it.”

“Is that why you became a vet?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“So, it's true, you don’t wanna have kids? I’m not judging. I’m just curious.”

“I honestly don't know. I just knew that when he told me he wanted to have a baby right away, it didn’t feel right. I said that maybe in six or seven years I’d be okay with it. Told him I wanted to travel and just be us for a while, and he said that was too long to wait. I don’t know… he stopped talking to me, and it was clear that he wasn’t changing his mind, and I wasn’t changing my mind, so. At some point I got tired of trying… He got a girlfriend as soon as I filed for divorce and I got a text from Paige the other day that said he got her already pregnant, like… that was never me. I guess it served me right… I married him on a whim, an impulse without really talking about what we wanted…”

“Hey, don’t feel sorry for yourself. You dodged a bullet there.”

“You really think that?.”

“Yeah, I do. You stood up for yourself and knew when to step back when it didn’t feel right. Not everyone has the balls to do that. Think how miserable you’d be by now if you had tried to please him or your mom. You seem happy now. That's what matters.” He means that with all his heart, and wishes he had the same drive to follow those same steps. As much as he loved the restaurant, he chose to run it to please people within his family. And that love turned into a nightmare he couldn't escape.

“You know… I liked you better when you were quiet,” she quips.

Michael huffs a soft laugh, picking up his brush to resume painting.

When the room is finished, she plugs a couple of fans and closes the door to keep Coco away.

Maya washes her hands and face in the bathroom sink. When she comes out, she catches the motion of Michael's arm as he shoves what looks like a pill into his mouth before taking a gulp of water from one of her glasses.

“What was that? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. It's just a headache,” looking down, he runs a palm over his short growing beard.

“Is it the fumes?”

“No, I had it before coming here.”

“Michael,” she sighs softly at his name. “You should've told me. I wouldn't have let you help if I knew.”

“Would you stop that? I wanted to help.”

“Okay, c'mere. Let's sit down.”

“No, I think I should get going.”

“Nonsense. I'm not going to let you drive until you feel better.”

He yields with a long exhale, and follows Maya into the living room, where her bed is settled askew in the middle of the space.

She takes a seat on the edge of the mattress and waits for him to sit next to her.

“Give me your hand,” she shows her palm up, as his eyes narrow. “C'mon, don't be a baby, give me your hand, Berzatto.”

“When did you become so bossy?” He slowly lifts his hand and as he lays it on top of her palm, his fingers tremble upon contact with her skin. Maya then uses her opposite hand to clip the webbing between his thumb and pointer fingers with her own and begins massaging that spot.

“My friend Sierra is really into acupressure. She says this is a pressure point that helps with headaches.” She explains while slowly increasing the force. “Does it hurt?”

“Not one bit. Is that like acupuncture?” His voice comes as a whisper as he focuses on her diligent fingers.

“Kinda. I think. I’m not really sure.”

“You don't have to fix me, you know?”

“I'm not trying to fix you, Bear. I just wanna make you feel better.”

“Admit it. You just love a good wounded animal.”

She smiles softly, placing his hand down on his knee and picking up the other. “Does it feel any different?”

He’s not really sure, it wasn’t truly a headache that led them to take that pill but the annoying rambling of his thoughts. She shouldn’t have seen that. And he shouldn’t have lied. But having her hands on his like this is straight up lovely. Inside of him, it truly feels like something is broken, wounded, and missing, and this is giving him a sliver of relief as he waits for the pill to kick in. If he was a better man, he’d tell her the truth. But he’s too far gone for saving. All he can do is keep that facade up.

“Does it?” She insists after not getting an answer.

“A little.”

“Do you wanna lay down?”

Swallowing, he responds with a nod, and they both lean back on the mattress at the same time. Looking at the ceiling, she keeps kneading that pressure point, unsure if she’s even doing it right.

They stay in comfortable silence for a good five minutes and when she finally places his hand down, Maya glances to the side and sees that his eyes have closed, and his chest gently rising and falling. She calls his name softly, but she can see that behind the sharp edges of his face and the ever-growing shade of his beard, he’s truly exhausted, so she doesn’t insist. She extends her hand to turn off the lamp, and curls on the other side of the bed without disturbing his sleep.

“Good night,” she says softly and closes her eyes.

From a dusty corner of her mind comes crawling that little forgotten part that used to harbor a lot of feelings for Michael. Though a few weeks ago he seemed practically the same Michael she knew, over the past month she’s keenly noticed little changes here and there. His eyes sometimes cast a dark shade tainted in nothing but sadness, it’s barely noticeable for other people. It comes and goes, but it tells her he’s not truly as happy as he pretends to be.

Michael wakes up disoriented at the crack of dawn.

It takes him a few seconds to remember he’s still in Mayas’ bed in the middle of her living room and that the weight that has his arm pinned is her body pressed against his. She’s warmly snuggled on his side, with her arms tucked between his chest and hers, and a peaceful expression on her beautiful face. She’s so awfully close, he can smell the scent of her hair, and feel the heat of her breath every time she exhales.

It's such an odd moment for him to have her that close. He's unsure of whether it would be better to slip out of bed unnoticed before she wakes up, or just stay there and watch her sleep for a bit longer. Either option would make him look like a creep, he thinks. So he opts to gently wake her up. His free hand reaches to his forehead to move a stand of hair away. Her brow scrunches as his light-feather touch grazes her skin. His lips curve up as he traces the shell of her ear to see her stir awake. She blinks slowly a couple of times until her focus shifts onto him.

“Hey, Maybird.”

“Hey.” Her lips move, it's barely audible.

“Sorry, I fell asleep.” His fingers absentmindedly massage her earlobe.

She's so stunned by waking up to that level of intimacy, she simply nods, as her mouth softly draws a smile.

“It's fine. Does your head feel better?”

“Much better. That pressure thing really worked.”

“I'm glad.”

“Listen, I gotta go open. Maybe we could do something later?”

“Okay,” she swallows nervously, hoping that waking up with him like this isn't just a dream. “Can you do me a favor first?”

“Sure.”

“Can you stay five more minutes?”

“I uh… I think I can,” against his better judgment, he decides he can stay for a few minutes more holding her.

The way her lips pull up timidly at the corners, revealing the dimples framing her mouth, completely disarms him. He’s always felt a certain affinity towards her, but being this close to her awakes a longing within that feels dangerous. He can’t bring someone new into his life. Not while everything around him is falling apart. It’s already hard enough having to pretend around other people.

He couldn’t do that to her. He won’t.

Michael will have to fight harder because when her arm tucks around his waist he can’t help but press his lips against her forehead.

Chapter 4: Hard nut to crack

Four months later…

After that initial moment of weakness when he fell asleep on her bed, he fought hard to elude that odd longing that has only grown into a big mass of love toward Maya. To anyone else in the world, a feeling as big as that would be a blessing, especially when it's reciprocated. To Michael, it's a weakness he can't afford right now.

Spending all that time with Maya has been like discovering a whole new planet Michael never thought existed. She's all vast, uncharted territory that fazes him more than it should. Despite his best efforts, he’s fallen into her alluring orbit and can’t find the way out into his own universe.

Far gone is that moody teenager that would mumble a few words here and there. And now there's this tragically stunning woman that looks you directly in the eye, says anything that crosses her mind, and laughs without a care in the world.

Though falling in love with her wouldn’t be completely wrong, it's not quite right either. It fills him with guilt to think about her in that manner. Moreover, it feels like a betrayal to Carmy, who’s far away in a different continent, prospering in his craft.

Michael tries to fool himself into believing that this is just temporary infatuation. He’s even attempted several times to convince her to get in touch with Carmy but hasn’t succeeded. It’d be easier for him if she were to put her focus on someone else instead of him. He has nothing to offer to her and has deemed himself unworthy of her, or anyone for that matter. If she only knew what’s really going on with him, she wouldn’t want Michael nearly as she believes she does.

Layer by layer, she’s tearing all his walls and defenses down. And after all the back and forth, he's absolutely sure she wants more than he can offer her. She’s been giving him the right signals. She doesn't shy away from it. Maya is direct and impulsive, and everything about her is fascinating and intimidating.

It’s time to either cut her loose, or accept that he’s madly in love with her and do something about it.

Amidst coming to terms with a final decision, he's lured into a surprise party she's organized for his birthday.

Michael is left speechless by her determination. And a little annoyed too for reasons he can't explain. To be honest, he’s never been a fan of surprise parties, but the main problem is that this would make things much harder for him to let her down easily. She’s carved herself into his life and the longer he drags this out, the worse this is going to hurt.

He’s aware that it’s selfish and obtuse of him for being that ungrateful that someone who cares that profoundly about him, that they would go all out to prove that. He feels like an asshole, but the train has already left the station.

Using the same tiring self-defense mechanism, he draws his best smile and brings out the Michael everyone seems to love. Not without help. There's always that crutch tucked in his wallet in the form of a pill. Being high numbs him enough to deal with the situation.

The cherry on top comes at the end of the night, when he walks her up to her car and asks if he's had a good time. He lies through his teeth and for the first time, he can tell Maya is not buying it. Perhaps she never did, but he's well-versed on her tells by now, and he can clearly see she's fed up with all the bullshit that comes out of his mouth.

“Look, it's not that I didn't like the party. It's just that I hate surprises, and I was exhausted today. But it was a nice thought, sweetheart. I just… I wasn't in the right mood.” It's seemingly convincing the second time around, but her face shows nothing but regret. “I love the jacket you bought me, though.”

Michael has never been interested in fashion, but he's always loved vintage jackets, and the one she picked it's a perfect addition to his collection. It's a bomber jacket, aviator style, in brown leather with a couple of patches and fur collar.

As they reach Maya's car, they come to a stop. She turns to him, “I know I can be a little too much sometimes. But I promise no more surprises from now on.”

“You and I both know, you won’t be able to keep that promise even if your life depended on it. That's part of what makes you– you, sweetheart. Don’t let my bad mood ruin that.”

“I’ll try.”

After a beat, without hesitation she leans in to leave a goodnight kiss on his bearded cheek and on a whim, she decides to press a second one on his lips.

It takes him completely aback. He wants to dive so badly into her mouth, but he freezes on the spot. And when Maya attempts to deepen the kiss, he finally reacts by placing a placating hand on her shoulder as he pulls his head back.

“I'm… I'm sorry we can't do this, Maya.”

“Wait, I thought… Did I misread something?”

“No, you didn’t misread anything. I just can’t do this.”

“Why?”

“I can't.”

“You can't or don’t want to?”

“Guess I don’t want to.”

“Can you at least tell me why? Did I do something wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong, sweetheart.” He wants to spill out the old – it's not you, it's me – excuse, but he refrains. Every thought and action go against every good instinct he's ever had. He hates himself for making her feel insecure. And yet, he can't backtrack now.

“Stop calling me sweetheart. You see how misleading that is?”

“Sorry. I think I gave you the wrong impression.”

Her eyes narrow, and he can see the gears turning for a long moment before opening her mouth.

“I don't think you gave me the wrong impression, Michael. I think you're too chickenshit to admit that there's something between us and, for whatever reason, you're just taking the coward's way out. You've been weird the whole night, especially with me. I just threw a party just for you, the least you can do is tell me why.”

“I didn't ask you to do that. And I don't owe telling you shit! I was trying to let you go easy, but nothing is ever easy with you. So I'll just say it. This, you and me, is never going to happen.”

It sounds ridiculous as it comes out of his mouth, but he stands firm on that statement as her heart breaks in front of him.

In the end, it'd be better for her, he believes.

#michael berzatto x ofc #michael berzatto #the bear #the bear fanfiction #jon bernthal fanfiction #jon bernthal #original character #michael berzatto x reader #angst #fluff #darlingwrites #sorry i used the reader tag #it's the only way to get my fic seen #salt of the earth

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