Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s an off-handed right swipe, but when your profile pictures shift beside one another, you take a better look at the guy. You hadn’t actually read his bio, you’d just thought he was kinda cute. Now, though, you click on the profile, and you realize that it’s probably a fake—

im a fuckin knowitall jackoff that thinks cooking is better than sex i smell like onion and all of my tattoos are fuckin stupid

You snort. Amazing. Whoever’s running this, either as a joke or to piss someone off, knows what the hell they’re doing. You swipe through a few pictures. His tattoos aren’t that bad…Sure you have questions about a couple of them, but you’ve seen stupider tattoos.

You hesitate before you open the chat and type exactly that:

I’ve seen stupider tattoos.

And you leave it at that. You expect it to be left at that, especially if it's a joke account. But then you get—

did richie put you up to this? And then, you can drop it if he did

Your brow furrows at the question. You tap the chat open and reply: I have no idea who that is, dude

yeah ok

You scoff, shaking your head.

if you don’t wanna talk just unmatch

A solid ten minutes goes by. Then—

you really don’t know who richie is?

how do i know this isn’t richie

You don’t have anything but my word.

least you type better than he does

I’m swooning.

if you’re not trying to fuck with me why’d you swipe on me

??? You’re cute, dude

thanks

sure

you are too

I’m swooning again

alright

…okay. good talk

You close out of the app, tossing it onto the opposite couch cushion with a huffed scoff. This is just futile. You’re quitting dating apps tomorrow.

--

You wake up to a new message—one that you don’t anticipate, and that, based on your interaction the day before, confuses the shit out of you:

what’s the best meal youve ever eaten

You have to think about it—really think about it. All of the answers that come to mind sound pretty fucking lame. Your Papa’s gumbo? Your mom’s potato salad?—That’s technically not a meal, it’s a component. 

Tough question, You answer. Then, I don’t know

no idea?

Nope

youre definitely not richie

he would’ve told you to say spaghetti or balls, some shit

Oh, still on that, huh?

i gotta vet you, right?

Do you?

isn’t that what dating is? vetting people? to be part of, like….your life or whatever?

Sounds like you haven’t dated much, dude

how long are you gonna call me dude?

Til you stop acting like a shitdick

…

kay

So?

What?

best meal you ever had

I told you, I don’t know.

i’m not buying it. everyone has one

Well what’s yours?

i could make it for you

It’s your own food? Full of yourself much? Is that why you smell like onion all the time?

what?

Read your bio

fuck

i don’t

i mean, a little

sometimes

so?

You have to think about it for a moment. The conversation's certainly progressing in a different way than you'd anticipated yesterday. Hell, after that, you hadn't expected to hear from him again at all. But this conversation hasn't been completely unpleasant, and unlike 96% of the people you talk to, he's actually trying to make a plan to meet you.

Yeah, okay.

But only if we can do a video call first so that I know that you're the one in the pictures and that you’re not a murderer.

why would i murder you

I’m just vetting you, buddy.

jesus

fine

now?

Your heart leaps into your throat at the prospect, and you hurriedly get out of bed, half-running to your bathroom. You realize as you go that the nerves are probably unwarranted—if you gave the guy another time, he’d probably be cool about it. But as you hurriedly splash some cool water on your face to wake yourself up, you sort of feel like it’s now or never. You glance at the phone as you fix your hair to make it presentable, checking for a new message. Nothing. You finally type ‘Sure’ as you head down the hall to your kitchen. 

A moment later, your phone is buzzing with an in-app video call. You take a deep breath to quell your swirling nerves before you hit the answer button. 

You see a neck first. Then a cigarette bobs into view—and a voice mutters, “Shit, hang on.”

“...What am I looking at?” 

“I’m lighting up, I didn’t think you’d answer that fast.” 

You arch a brow, setting the phone on top of your breadbox as you begin to make coffee. Your eyes dart toward the phone, doing a double-take as the man’s face comes properly into view. The camera hold is a little shaky at first, but as he adjusts his grip, you get a better look at him. He’s definitely the guy in the pictures, that’s one box checked. 

“Where are you?” You ask, eyeing the bland wall behind him. 

“Uh…The alley behind my job.” 

“You’re not really ticking the non-murderer boxes.” 

“Where are you?” 

“My kitchen. Making coffee. Are you already at work?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I, uh—I work in a sandwich shop.” 

“Explains the onion thing.” 

He huffs, nodding as he draws on his cigarette. 

“Prepping for lunch?” You press. 

“Uh-huh.”

“You like it?” 

“Sometimes.” 

You glance over at the phone, arching a curious brow. 

“So is your name really Carmy?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s short for Carmen.” 

“Ah. So who’s Richie?”

He puffs out another long drag, eyes rolling to look at the sky. “He’s my cousin. I mean—he’s not my cousin, he’s like, a family…”

“Friend?” 

“—Nuisance.” 

You chuckle softly, tucking the coffee-filled filter into the machine’s basket. 

“You at home?” He asks. 

“Uh-huh. I just woke up.”

“Must be nice.” 

You slide your eyes toward the video. “You’re the one, presumably, that chose the exciting world of food service. That means early mornings and late nights.” 

“You work in a restaurant before?”

“Just waitressing. And I bartend now.” 

“That’s not nothin’.” 

The unexpected validation makes you smile, and you nod a touch. 

“That’s true,” You concede, “But things are different on the other side of the window.” 

“Where’d you waitress? Here in Chicago?” 

“Uh-huh. At a hole-in-the-wall diner called Benson’s.” 

“On the South Side?” 

“Uh-huh. Menu couldn’t decide if it wanted to be typical American food or pub fare.” 

“Some overlap there.” 

“Yeah, but the food’s gotta be good for that to be pulled off.” 

“Fair point. Best thing on the menu?” 

“Mm…The meatloaf, if the right person was making it.” 

“Worst?” 

“The Shepherd’s Pie, oh my god. It was like glue. Glue with rock-hard pieces of vegetables—on cardboard. Swear to god, you could hold that thing upside down like a meringue and it would just hang there. What about you guys, best and worst.” 

“I can make you the best if you come here.” 

“To the restaurant?” 

“Yeah. Could have the place to ourselves after closing. I wouldn’t kill you here, obviously.” 

“Not obviously,” You scoff a laugh. “Kitchens have a lot of knives. You could stab me and put me in the walk-in.”

“I value both my knives and my walk-in way too much to do that to you.”

You can’t help but grin at the bite in the man’s conversation. 

“Alright,” You nod. “When?” 

“Tonight?” 

“I get off of work at, like, four in the morning, so.”

“A little late.” 

“Uh-huh, a little. I’m off tomorrow night, though.” 

“Tomorrow, then.” 

“‘Kay. Where should I meet you?” 

Chapter Text

“...Holy shit,” You mumble around your mouthful. Usually on a first date, you’d be a little more concerned about appearing uncouth, but you can’t help yourself. When you look at Carmy, you expect a smug, shit-eating grin. But what you find is a pleased, warm look on his face (though there is a hint of smugness there, too). 

“Yeah?” He presses, dipping his head toward his own food.

“You kidding me? Oh my god. Holy shit.”

You’d recognized the shop when you’d arrived. You’d been there a time or two between shifts, but not for a long time. Now, you’ve got the dining room to yourself, sitting across from a guy you barely know, and you’re holding the best goddamn sandwich you’ve ever had in your fricking life. The arcade games blink behind his head, casting flickering colored lights over his mussed, golden brown hair. You watch as his diligent fingers pluck up a chip.

“You make those, too?” You ask, nodding to them. 

“Try one and tell me.” 

You narrow your eyes slightly, setting the sandwich down and dusting the crumbs from your hands before taking up one of the chips. You pop it into your mouth, eyes set on Carmy’s as you chew. You consider, chewing once, twice, then—

“These are Lays.” 

“Yeah.” 

You chuckle, looking down and poking at one of the crumbs of your sandwich. 

“So,” You look around, “You start this place yourself?” 

“Ah, no. No, it's…It was my brother’s.” 

Was. The shift in tense makes you curious, but you’re not sure it’s a good question to ask right out of the gate. Instead, you shift to, “You play a lotta Ballbreaker?” 

“Huh? Oh—” He twists in his seat, eyeing the machine. “Uh…Actually…Can’t remember the last time I touched that thing.” 

“Good. Then I can kick your ass at it later.” 

“Oh yeah?” He chuckles, turning back to you. 

“I got combos like you wouldn’t believe.” 

Carmy smiles, reaching for his sandwich as you take up your soda. 

“How long have you been uh, bartending?” He asks. 

“Uh—Jeez, what…Five years now?” 

“You like it?” 

“Most of the time. I mean, the hours are shit, but the money is good. The place I work at now, Barky’s, it’s uh—It’s kind of an antique.”

“Whaddaya mean?” 

“It’s just stuck in the 80s. It’s kinda frustrating. I wanna try new stuff, and when I have, it works, but the owner’s not too into it.” 

“He tell you why?” 

“Just that what he’s always done has worked, and it’ll keep working, aaaaaand,” You drag it out, shaking your head. “And he’s kinda a shithead, so, you know. I just grit my teeth and do my job.” 

“Barky’s?” 

“Mhm. You ever been?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“It’s down in Wicker Park. Good space, cruddy furnishings…Shit menu.” 

“They serve food there?” 

“Uh-huh—Basic stuff. Fries, onion rings, mozzarella sticks, burgers. 90% of it is deep fried to shit, so.” 

“Would you ever open your own place?” 

“...I don’t know. I mean, I like bartending, but it was going to be uh….An in-between step, like a placeholder. But I don’t have a next step right now. Not a clear one. I don’t think I’d wanna open my own place, though, now. That would be…It’d be a lot.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

You smile, watching Carmy take up another a chip and pop it into his mouth. 

“Okay, new subject,” You insist. “No more work. What do you do for fun?” 

“Lure people into thinking they can beat me at Ballbreaker.” 

“Oh,” You laugh, unable to help yourself. “Careful, Berzatto. Them’s fightin’ words.” 

-- 

It’s oddly exhilarating, being pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with Carmy as you stab the buttons on the Ballbreaker. You taunt one another, cackle when you make a good move, crow when the other makes a better one. You’re each tipping side to side with your avatars, working the joysticks ruthlessly. 

“Aw—fucking, goddamn, okay. Okay,” You shove your hand into your pocket and fish around for quarters. “Best two out of three.” 

“Seriously?”

“Seriously!” You drop the quarters in, one after the other, and slam the yes button. 

“Good to know,” Carmy comments, hitting the same button. 

“What is?”

“You’re into humiliation.” 

“Shut up!” 

“Nah, hey. I dig it.” 

-- 

“Want a water?” 

“Sure.” 

You lean against the front counter, looking around the counter space as Carmy grabs you glasses. You can feel him looking in your direction, and when you turn to meet his eye, you find him hurriedly looking away. You smile a bit. You’re not sure what it is about him and eye contact—if it’s first date nerves, or if it’s just some part of him, some little bit that’s used to focusing on what's on the table in front of him, and not who’s sitting on the other side. 

He walks over to you, setting down two tall plastic tupperware containers with water in them. 

“Thanks.” You take one up, giving it a cursory whiff before taking a sip. 

“Don’t trust me?” 

“No, it’s not that. Last time I drank outta one of these, it was the one we usually keep the pearl onions in for Gibsons. I took one sip and I almost spewed.” 

Carmy chuckles, nodding. “I’ve done that.” 

“Isn’t it awful?”

“The worst.” 

When you look at Carmy again, he holds your gaze for a moment. The streetlight slants through the window, brightening his already bright eyes. His gaze is warm, and curious, and you find yourself bashfully looking away first this time. 

“So,” You fold your arms on the counter. “Why didn’t you delete the app if you figured the mysterious Richie would just mess with you on it?” 

“Honestly? I kinda forgot it was there.” 

“Oh, wow,” You chuckle. “So you’re not the one who did the swiping?” 

“He probably did, a while ago.” 

“Well, hope you don’t mind me saying so, but he’s got good taste.” 

Carmy smiles, shaking his head. “I guess he did alright.” 

“Pictures he picked for you weren’t bad, either.” 

“I didn’t really look.” 

“I figured when you didn’t know what your bio said. You change it yet?” 

“Nope.” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s workin’ for me so far.” Carmy says so with a sly, shy smile, peering at you from beneath his lashes. You can’t help but smile, turning your head to peer out onto the street as your skin prickles with warmth. 

“It’s getting late,” You say. “I should get going.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Carmy nods, watching you straighten up and following you toward the door. 

“Thanks for not murdering me and stuffing me in the walk-in.” 

“Anytime. Gotta keep the place up to code.”

You turn back to Carmy in the doorway, searching his face. There’s an odd, nervous bubbling in your stomach. You sort of want to kiss him. You’re not sure if he wants to kiss you. 

“See ya, I guess,” You manage. Carmy nods a little, eyes darting from your face, over the shoulder, and back again. You finally dart in, pressing a kiss to his cheek and taking a step back. You only just manage to catch his stunned, slightly widened eyes before you turn away from him.

“You don’t smell like onion. You know,” You add as you step outside. “Just—For the record.” 

Chapter Text

It had started as Barkeep’s—a little bar that other neighborhood bartenders would go to to unwind. But with the thick accent many of the patrons sported, the sometimes slurred mumble of someone on the phone home to tell their wives where it was, it got shortened to Barky’s. The name change had been made official back in the 80s—which was the last time anything about the fuckin’ place had been updated.

The bartop is a dingy brown formica that’s probably always looked like shit. The stools are covered in red vinyl, peeling around the edges, and under around the seats turn. The booths are covered with the same material. The tables have crude messages carved into ‘em; the surfaces are ringed permanently from where people have ignored coasters, or used them as frisbees to whack at their friends across the bar. 

The patrons are mostly older guys, barfly regulars, but you and Frankie have been working to bring in more people—newer people. There’s room for growth in the damn place, you both know it. And tonight, you’re proving it.

It started with one of your friends coming in and asking for one of your favorite drinks—a Ramos Gin Fizz. It’s a finicky little recipe, but one that you can manage quickly enough. Frankie takes a video of you tapping the glass on the counter, and the rise of foam lifting above the glass’ rim before stabilizing around the straw, and posts it to their story, then their twitter, then the bar’s instagram. 

It’s only a few minutes before people begin to trickle in, asking for the foam drink. 

“How much is that?” One of them asks. They’re on the younger side for the bar—mid 20s, if you had to guess. You know what they’re probably paying at other bars—far lower than the menu’s average drink price of $6. 

“Special’s on the menu for $15,” You tell them. They don’t even flinch, just nod and ask for two. 

“On it.” 

You’re halfway through the night before you notice him. Well—Notice them. Carmy’s tucked away in a little booth, glancing between the two people he’s with, and you. You lower your eyes to the drink you’re making, trying to block out the glare of a few people filming you on your their camera, no doubt making a post for Instagram. You lightly tap the bottoms of two glasses against the counter, smiling at the slow, “Whooooooa—AYYY!” That arises from the group around you as the foam rises above the glass, and stabilizes. 

“Alright, alright,” You chuckle, passing them over to the people across the counter and taking the proffered cash. “Who’s next here, huh?” 

-- 

“Hey.” 

In the ten minutes since your break has started, you’ve hoped that Carmy might come over and say hi, but instead, you wince at the sound of your boss’ voice. 

“Sup, Mack?” 

“The hell do you and Frankie think you’re doing?” 

“Our jobs?” 

“Look,” Mack braces one hand on the back of the booth, the other on the table. “Lookit me for a sec.” 

You brace yourself, setting your water down before you do as he asks. Mack is a short man, with a square jaw buried beneath his bulging cheeks. His eyes are beady and small, and dark as he peers at you through his thick-rimmed glasses—Aviators that he probably got back in the 80s, wore through the period when they went out of style, and then came back in again. 

“We don’t do those things here. You wanna make your fancy drinks, you can find somewhere else on the avenue to do that.” He softens just a touch, though you force your expression to remain flat. “The people that come in here are good people. They like you. I know you like them.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with liking or not liking. You’ve got good space here, Mack, you could be doing more. Adding more stuff to the menu isn’t gonna stop anyone from getting their usual. If you treat the customers like numb-nut beer-swillers, then that’s how they’re gonna order.” 

Mack’s lips press into a thin line. 

“Watch it, alright? And don’t charge that much for a special again.” 

“They paid it,” You point out, turning back to your fries. 

“...Just don’t,” Mack sighs tiredly, straightening and wandering away. You pick at your fries, stomach twinging with irritation and inadequacy. You huff, standing and bringing the plate back to the counter.

“I’ll be back in five,” You lean over and tell Frankie. “Just need some air. You good?” 

“I got it,” Frankie reassures, waving you away. “Five minutes.” 

You smile, pursing your lips and blowing them an air kiss before heading out the front door. The scent of cigarette smoke catches on your nose, and you absently turn toward it. You freeze when you find Carmy there, cigarette in hand, brows raised in surprise. Neither of you move for a moment, each staring at the other like a deer in headlights. 

“...Hi,” You greet finally. 

“Hey.” 

You walk a little closer, shoving your hands in your pockets. 

“Come to check the place out?” You ask, nodding back toward the door. 

“Yeah. I didn’t uh—That is, I didn’t know you'd be working tonight. Just wanted to take a look.” 

“It’s only fair. I saw your workplace, now you’ve seen mine.” 

“Yeah.” Carmy nods, then lowers his head as he raises his cigarette to his lips. You’re ready to excuse yourself, to take a walk around the block to clear your head, but before you can, he says, “That drink, the gin fizz.” 

“Yeah?”

“That shit was fire. It’s actually why we um—Fak saw it on Instagram.” 

You smile, shifting from foot to foot.

“You all get one?” 

“Richie got beer.” 

“Mm.” 

“He was missin’ out. But maybe next time, right?” 

You smile a touch bitterly. “I doubt it.” 

“Why’s that?” 

You pull in a short breath, wincing. “Mm…Long story.” 

“...Wanna tell it to me tomorrow?” 

You brows raise. It’s been nearly a week since your first date, and communication between the two of you has been pretty scant. 

“Think you can wait that long without the suspense killing you?” You tease.

Carmy shrugs. 

“I can try.”

Chapter Text

Maybe you tried a little harder than you usually would. Maybe you wanna impress the guy, just a little. Maybe your pasta roller has been tucked in the back of your cabinet since you moved into your apartment—but it is out, and it is working, and your kitchen smells pretty fucking good, if you do say so yourself. 

You won’t pretend that making dinner for someone that cooks for a living has been a little intimidating—especially with how good the food he’d made had tasted. You just hope he’ll at least like what you make…Or pretend to, if he doesn’t.

-- 

“Got any notes?” 

“I’m not gonna give you notes.”

"But you've got 'em."

"...Yeah, I've got 'em," Carmy admits with a grudging smile. You can’t blame the guy—cooking is literally his bread and butter. You suppose it’s sweet of him to hold back—maybe him pulling his punches means he’s into you. He pokes into the bowl, spearing pieces of pasta, andouille, and some of the vegetables. “This is really fucking good, though.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Hell yeah,” Carmy nods. “This recipe yours?” 

“Something my grandma used to make a lot. The hardest part is making the pasta—once you have, it’s like plug and play with veggies and protein. It’s pretty malleable.” 

Carmy’s head lifts then, eyes a touch wider than they were just a moment ago. 

“You made the pasta, too?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Skills, damn,” Carmy comments, reaching into the bowl and picking out a piece. You watch, amused, as he squishes it slightly between his fingers, taking in the feel and texture before popping it into his mouth.

“I shouldn’t be so shocked,” He adds before sucking the buttery sauce from his fingers. You’re so stunned at the sight, taken with the way his lips wrap around his fingers, and the brief flash of pink tongue, that you nearly miss him saying, “You were really on your shit at Barky’s.” 

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll get to watch you at work next time.”

Carmy huffs a nervey little chuckle. “I don’t think either of us would like that too much.” 

“No?” 

“It can get crazy back there. If I had a nickel for every time I couldn’t find a fucking working sharpie.” 

“Oh my god, you’re telling me. I just bring in my own now, I don’t trust Mack to restock that stuff for shit.” 

“Mack your boss?” 

“Mhm.” 

“...He why that drink might be disappearing?” 

You smile ruefully, setting down your fork and taking up your wine glass. “I’ve shown him my ideas can work, but…I don’t know, he thinks bringing in a new crowd will completely obliterate the old guard, but there’s gotta be a way for the two to coexist.” 

“Dress up the beer menu, add some cocktails?” 

“Keep the beer menu for all I care. It works, the margins are good, people know what they’re coming in for. Throw in some cocktail specials like the other night—not all the time, maybe, like—A rotation? Add like…two or three healthier, low-cost things to the menu? Frankie made spicy buffalo cauliflower when our chef was out and they sold the whole fuckin’ batch. It doesn’t have to be hard, but Mack makes it seem like some Sisyphisian bullshit.” 

You meet Carmy’s eye again, and find him watching you curiously, a small smile on his lips. Your face goes hot with the full force of your attention, and the way that you’d ranted. 

“Or something,” You mutter. “I don’t know.” 

“No, you do know,” Carmy urges gently. “You’ve got good ideas—and you don’t have to back off of them with me.” 

You smile, reassured, with a mumble of, “Thanks.” 

“Shifting that shit can be hard—from a business standpoint, and for, you know, the people that still need to adjust. I get it.” 

“You do that? At your place?” 

“...Yeah.” Now Carmy lowers his head, pushes the pasta back and forth in his bowl. “Yeah, I switched the system. Took some getting used to, but things are running more smoothly now. It was closer to what I did in New York, you know, more…Regimented. Shifted to stations, adding matching aprons, alternated a few menu items. It didn’t click, like, immediately, but we got there. We’re getting there.” 

There’s something about the way Carmy talks about The Original—in this soft, tired tone with a fondness threaded through it. It makes you want to reach out to him—to take him by the shoulders and give them a squeeze, just to remind him that he’s still standing, and the business is still standing. 

“Those things take time,” You agree softly. Carmy’s gaze flickers to you, head bobbing in a nod before he drops his gaze back to the food. You slide a leg out under the table, brushing it against his as you look down at your own bowl. It’s just a second or so before Carmy’s knee gently knocks yours. You meet his eyes, and the two of you share a small, knowing, commiserative smile.

Chapter Text

“You hungry? You eat yet today? Family’ll be up in a bit, we can set another place.” 

You can’t help your smile at the staccato buzzing of Carmy’s questions. You just lean back against the wall and wait for him to stop himself as he raises his cigarette back to his lips. Since the two of you had your second date, your communication has been far more consistent. Both of you understand that the other has a hell of a schedule. You’ve had the odd Facetime call, coupled with bouts of robust, rapid-fire texting. 

You’re due at the bar in about an hour; Carmy is due inside in about…Well, now. 

“I ate,” You reassure softly. 

“You sure? ‘Cause that plate of fries I saw on your break was—” 

“Measly? Yeah, I know. But seriously, I ate, don’t worry about it.” 

“I’ll worry about it.” 

“Nothin’ for you to worry about, Berzatto.” 

Carmy opens his mouth to argue, but someone else’s voice cuts over the two of you: 

“Ay, couson! Less’go!” 

“Alright!” Carmy calls back, waving off the man sticking his head out of the doorway. 

“Bossy loudmouth, huh,” You tease once the man has disappeared. 

“That’s Ritchie.” 

“What!” 

“That’s Ritchie.” 

“Oh my god. I have to go shake his hand.” 

“The hell you do.”

“I’m here because of him, you ever think about that?” 

“No, and I’d rather not,” Carmy mumbles before raising his cigarette to his lips. You slouch back against the alley wall, glancing around.

“This where you called me from that first time?” 

Carmy waves over, a little further down the alley, muttering, “Over there.” You glance toward it, pursing your lips and nodding. 

“Hot. Not as hot as the uh—The walk-in, but hot.” 

“The walk-in would be cold.” 

“Shut up,” You laugh. 

“You shut up.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Carmen.” 

“The only one shutting the fuck up is you—”

“Is it?” 

“Yeah—”

“Really—”

“Yeah!” 

“You can’t tell me to shut the fuck up, Berzatto, you gotta make me shut the fuck up—” 

You’re only midway through the taunt before Carmen’s flicking away his cigarette and advancing toward you. 

“What, big man?” You tease, “How the fuck are you—” 

It’s faster than you thought it could be—more firm, too. Carmen takes your face in his hands, drawing you in closer than you’ve been before. You’re loathe to admit that you can smell onion, a little—but it’s muddled with the scents of cigarette smoke, his deodorant, his body wash. Carmy crowds you in against the wall, pressing his lips to yours. You don’t give it a second thought—you just loop your arm around his shoulders, drawing him closer. 

With the way Carmy hums against your lips, you figure that neither of you expected your reaction. Nevertheless, there you are: pressed sharply against the wall of the alleyway, sandwiched between it and Carmy’s chest. His hands drift lower inch by inch, from your cheeks, to your jaw, to your neck.

You slide a hand up into Carmy’s hair, reveling in the feeling of the strands beneath your fingertips. You squirm against him a touch, moaning softly as his tongue dips between your lips. You whimper as he pushes your hips back against the wall. 

It makes you forget. It makes you forget that you’ve just a little while before you’re due at work. It makes you forget that he’s got people waiting on him. Carmy moans softly, tongue swirling tenderly against yours. You give his hair a little tug, reveling in the twitch of his hips, the slick slide of his lips—

“Carmen, C’MOOON!” 

The yell shatters your illusion, your ease in being wrapped up in him, and you turn your head hurriedly, slapping your hand over your mouth to shield yourself and your embarrassed giggles. 

“Alright!” Carmy yells back, turning his head from yours. “Alright!” 

Your giggles swell, unable to help yourself as you press your face into his shoulder. Carmy groans softly, lowering his head and pressing a kiss to your shoulder. 

“Fuckin’ Ritchie,” He mumbles. 

“He seems…Attentive,” You tease. 

“He’s a blowhard jackoff.”

“Overflowing with compliments today, huh?” 

“Don’t start with me,” He murmurs, turning his head and brushing a kiss to your jaw. “Don’t.” 

“Not as adept at shutting me up as you thought, hm?” 

“I’ll show you shut up,” He groans, turning his head toward you. “I’ll show you—” 

You grin, catching Carmy’s lips with your own again for a long, toe-curling kiss. 

“Go on, Berzatto,” You urge softly, leaning away from him, tipping your head back against the wall. “You’ve got work to do.”

Carmy nods, lips brushing yours. 

“Can I see you later?” He mumbles.

“Shift ends at two.” 

“I’ll meet you at yours?” 

“Uh-huh. Go eat, chef.” 

“Heard,” He mumbles against your lips. He lays one more warm kiss to your lips before he finally draws back, taking a few slow, measured steps away from you. You lick your lips, eyes set on Carmy. You’re elated to find that his eyes stay on yours and dart to your lips now and again, even as he takes lazy, backward steps toward the door. 

“Go on,” You urge, laughing. 

“I still haven’t shut you up.” 

“If you could manage that, Berzatto, it’d be a miracle.”

Chapter Text

“Oh…My…God.” 

“What?” 

“I haven’t seen a freezer this packed since the last time I went to Costco.” 

“C'mon, it’s not that bad.” 

“Are you kidding me?” You scoff. You reach in, carefully dislodging something near the top and turning it over in your hands. “At least you labeled it.” 

“Course I labeled it. You pick something out?” 

“I picked something up.” You glance over to see Carmy’s lips pursed in irritation; you can practically feel the annoyance behind his lips. You carefully tuck the parcel away again and step back. “You know what’s in here, you pick.” 

He hums, taking the food from your hand before rifling through the packed freezer for another. He dislodges something, eyes the label, then holds it up for your approval.

“Mac and cheese?” 

“Sure…” Then, a thought springs into your head. “You got crescent dough?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Carmy watches, confused, as you pluck the frozen mac and cheese from his hands and turn to his oven. You crank it to 400, then turn to the counter. You unbox the tray, peeling the plastic off of the top.

“Gimme a knife?” You request. 

“What kind?” 

“Big knife. Sharp knife.” 

“And the dough?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

You reach out, grabbing a cutting board from where it’s leaning against the wall. You set it down, popping the mac and cheese free and setting the plastic aside. 

“Here.” 

“Thaaaank you.” You take the knife and the roll of crescent dough, and set the dough aside. “Can you gimme a little olive oil in a bowl, too—and some salt, and Italian seasoning?” 

Carmy huffs out a soft laugh, turning from you. 

“The hell are you doing to my mac and cheese?” 

“Something tasty.” 

“Do I get any hints?” 

“You’ve seen the ingredients, take a guess.” You lower the knife to the mac and cheese, cutting it into long, thin strips. You set the knife aside once you’ve finished, and reach out, taking hold of the container and unwrapping it. You wince at the pop!, then pry it from the packaging, setting it aside. You glance over as Carmy comes back with the bowl of oil, and the two spices.

“Anything?” You ask. 

“What, guesses? Nah.” 

You smile a little, unrolling the dough and flattening it out with your palms. You fight the urge to wilt under Carmy’s scrutiny, but he’s so close, and watching you so interestedly—you can’t ignore it. You take the knife up again, cutting the dough into long, thin strips. Then you take up one of the strips of mac and cheese. You raise both, beginning to wrap the mac and cheese in the dough. 

“...You’re awful quiet, Berzatto.” 

“I've never seen this and I’m perplexed.” 

You roll your eyes a little as you set the first wrapped strip aside. Then you take up the next. 

“How much salt and and how much Italian seasoning?” He asks.

“Half a teaspoon of salt, two teaspoons of seasoning.” 

“Heard.” 

You smile a bit as Carmy levels off spices into the olive oil beside you. You glance over as he steps away, and you arch a brow as he comes back with a sauce brush. 

“Oh, we’re being fancy about it?” 

“Fancy?” Carmy repeats, stunned. 

“I usually just drizzle it on.” 

“How do you spread it?” 

You raised your hand, wiggling your fingers. 

“Fingies.” 

“Christ,” Carmy mutters, preparing to brush the olive oil spread on.

“Thanks. Can you grab a sheet pan—and some parchment paper, if you’ve got it.” 

Carmy gives you a sidelong glance, one that tells you that he takes umbrage with If you’ve got it. You give a small, apologetic smile, chuckling as he turns to his cupboard. You finish wrapping the last of the mac and cheese and dough strips, and lean against the counter, taking up the sauce brush and dipping it into the mix. 

“Thank you,” You mumble as he sets the prepped pan down beside you. You set each of the sticks onto the baking pan, and take a step back as Carmy takes it up, turning and putting it into the oven. You move over to the sink, setting the cutting board, knife, and bowl inside before you wash your hands.

“How long?” 

“Like…Twenty minutes.” 

You glance back to find Carmy taking up a manual timer, and smile as he cranks the dial and sets it down again. You push yourself up onto the counter, kicking your legs just a little as he turns to face you. 

“You’ll be more full this way,” You promise, nodding toward the oven. 

“With mac and cheese and dough? Yeah, I think I’d have to be.”

“Make fun all you want, but it’s gonna be fucking tasty, Berzatto.” 

“I’m not makin’ fun,” Carmy insists, wandering closer. 

“No?” 

“Mm-mm.” 

Carmy comes to stand between your legs, setting his hands down on either side of your thighs on the counter. You go still at the warm, steadying touch. 

“And for the record,” He adds, nodding toward the sink, “That’s a chef’s knife.” 

“...You’re a chef, so aren’t all of your knives chef’s knives?” 

“No,” He chuckles. “It’s good for meat, vegetables—”

“Frozen mac and cheese—” 

“—It’s like a good—you know, multipurpose knife.” 

“For a chef.” 

“For anyone.” 

“So there are more knives?” You tease, tipping your head to the side. “I thought you all used one magic knife.” 

“You use a knife like that to cut fruit at the bar?” 

“Well, shit, Berzatto, you’ve got me there.” 

“I’ll teach you some time.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Mhm. If you teach me the other things you can do with mac and cheese.” 

“...Okay, that sounded weirdly filthy, but not in a fun way, in like in a gross, weird way.”

Carmy’s lips quirk with a smile, his hands sliding up your thighs. 

“Twenty minutes?”

"Mmm…” You lean to the side a touch, eyeing the manual timer, “Eighteen and a half now.” 

“Plenty’a time.” 

“For what?” 

Before you can question him further, Carmy leans up, pressing his lips to yours. You can’t help but smile into the kiss. You curl your arms around his shoulders, grunting as he slides his hands around to hook in the loops of your jeans, tugging you closer. You smooth a hand up over his nape, tangling in his hair. Carmy’s hands skim up your back, flexing in the fabric. His pinkies tease the band of skin between your top and your jeans. 

“This gonna hurt your neck…After eighteen minutes?” You mumble between kisses, tipping your head to and fro. 

“One way to find out,” Carmy murmurs in turn before nipping at your lip. 

-- 

“...Hot damn.” 

It’s muttered through a mouthful, and you grin as Carmy takes another large bite out of the mac and cheese stick. 

“Happy?” You tease. Carmy doesn’t answer, just gives you a smile and a thumbs up. You chuckle, shifting closer on the couch and reaching for the remote. It’s not long before the tray is whittled down between the two of you. In your post-heavy-snack haze, the two of you find yourselves laying on the couch, cuddled close. Carmy’s hand drifts along your back as you eye the tv through heavy lids. 

“...We should turn on Chopped or something,” You mumble. Carmy huffs out a chuckle, and you can feel his chin brushing your head as he shakes his. 

“I’m not ready for you to see me like that.” 

“Oh—Now I need to turn on Chopped.” 

“Next time, baby,” Carmy reassures. The ease of the pet name makes you prickle with flattery. You lean up, pressing a kiss to his jaw, then another. Carmy turns his head after a moment, nudging his nose against yours before dropping a gentle kiss to your lips. You lean up for another, but Carmy tips his head back against the pillows with a groan and a wince. You smile with smug curiosity, resting a hand on his chest, and your chin atop it.

“Neck bothering you, Berzatto?” 

“...Shuddup.”

Chapter Text

“Hey! Hey—I am so sorry to do this, but I can’t stop by later.” You lower yourself onto your couch to tie your shoes, tucking your phone between your shoulder and your ear. “Frankie’s got the ‘rona for, like, the fifth time, so I need to cover their shift.” 

“No, no worries,” Carmy reassures. “Have you—” 

“I’ve tested, I’m negative. They’re vaxxed, too, but like, point zero five percent of the dicks that come into the bar are, and Frankie’s down, like two more boosters than I am, so,” You spring up from the couch, hurrying over to your bag. “I just got the call like ten minutes ago and we’re supposed to open, like, now, so I’ve gotta go, but—” 

“Don’t worry about that. You eat yet—?”

You fumble with your phone as it slips from your shoulder, just barely catching it before it can clatter to the floor. 

“Sorry, I’m really—I’m so late, but I’ll talk to you later, okay? Mwah!” You push a kiss through the phone before you shove it into your pocket and reach for your jacket. 

--

You lean back against the bar by the cash register, eyeing the few patrons. There’s the cluster of knuckleheads in their usual place at the end of the bar, recounting their lives, crowing at their wins and cackling at each others' losses. You glance around to the couple of people in the booths, eyeing the fullness of their glasses. Unless someone comes in now, you may have a moment of downtime, to ask for something from the kitchen. 

…Of course, that is precisely when someone walks in. You slap a smile on your face, straightening. 

“Hi! What can I getya?” You ask as brightly as you can. The man comes closer to the counter with a smile on his sweet, round face. 

“Actually, I’ve got something for you.” 

You resolve yourself to give him a moment to explain, hoping it’s not a come-on—and it’s not. You watch as the man raises his hand, setting a takeout bag on the bar. 

“Uhhhh…” You frown, shaking your head, “I didn’t—” 

“No, no, Carmy sent it. I’m Fak,” The man holds his hand out, “I help out around the shop.” 

Your head buzzes with surprise and happiness, and you can’t help your grin as you shake the man’s hand. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Fak. Can I grab you something for delivering this? A beer, or—anything?” 

“Oh, nah, I gotta get back. There’s a faulty fan in the walk-in. Carmy wanted this brought over first, though, so I gotta, you know.” 

“No, of course. Thank you so much for bringing this, I really appreciate it.” 

“Sure! Have a good shift.”

“You, too, man. Thanks!” You call after him as he heads back toward the door. You look down at the bag, surprised, biting your lip. Carmy wanted this brought over first. There’s something wrong with the walk-in, but Carmy wanted this brought over first—

Your skin prickles with flattery and a giddiness that you haven’t felt for someone in a long time. You glance around the bar again, making sure no one needs a fresh one or a top-up before you unwrap the tied bag. The sandwich is still warm in the wrapping. You don’t expect a note—Carmy doesn’t seem the type. You’re right to assume, though. All that’s there is the food. But hell, the food is more than you’d expected of him. Carmy could’ve let go of the question of whether or not you’d gotten the chance to eat before you left. 

He didn’t. 

--  

“Hey,” Carmy greets, doing a double-take over his shoulder as he locks up the front door. You just watch and wait, leaning back against the lamppost. He turns to face you, finally. He looks tired; he’s already got a cigarette waiting to be lit dangling between his lips. He walks closer in measured steps, eyes set downward as he lights his cigarette. His cheeks sink with a drag a step away from you, lips pushed to the side to blow the smoke away from you, out of the wind. 

You reach up with both hands, plucking the cigarette from his lips with one hand, and cupping his cheek with another. He seems confused at first, eyes tracking his cigarette in your hand before he meets your eyes. You lean in, kissing him warmly. Carmy takes just a second, then he leans into you, pressing you back against the lamppost. You curl your arms around his shoulders, his cigarette between your fingers still. Carmy smooths his hands down your sides, resting them on your hips. You nuzzle his nose with yours as you tip your head just a touch, savoring the warm, sweet kisses. You tease your tongue between Carmy’s lips before drawing away. He grunts, chasing and pecking your lips. You grin, unwinding one of your arms and holding the cigarette to his lips. 

He draws in another puff, holding it to the side and pushing the smoke to the side again. You swipe your tongue across your lower lip, and grin as he tracks the movement. You smooth your fingers through Carmy’s hair. 

“Yours? Mine?” He asks. 

“Mm. Mine. I have a real bed.” 

“Hey, I have a bed.” 

“Really?” 

“...Couch pulls out.” 

You roll your eyes, unable to help it as you reach down, taking hold of his other hand, leading him toward the train station. 

“My place,” You insist. “Thai take out, Chopped reruns.” 

“Bossy.” 

“Don’t like it?” 

“It’s kinda hot.”

Chapter Text

Mack frames it as a trial—as if he’s never seen your specials bring in money. Still, it’s a step in the right direction—a show of interest, and a sign that he wants to bring Barky’s into the 21st fucking century. 

So you start fiddling with recipes when you’re home. You already know you’re going to put the slow gin fizz up for consideration. It’s a little time-consuming, sure, but considering how much it paid out the last time it was on the menu, you can justify it to Mack. 

The other three drinks you’re tasked with presenting have to be abso-fuckin-lutely on point. And for better or for worse, getting it right becomes a bit of an obsession. And you can go with a couple of standards that you’ve had, but you want one to be just yours.

– 

“Babe,” Carmy groans from your couch. 

“…What?” You call back after a moment. 

“C’mere, c’mon. Siddown.” 

“In a minute.” 

You hear Carmy sigh, then grunt again as he pushes himself off to stand.

“You said that twenty minutes ago.” 

Your eyes are set on the shaker as you add some vodka to the shaker. One…Two…Pop! You draw the bottle away with a jerk of your wrist, setting it aside and reaching for the cinnamon. Your hand hesitates over the container, eyes narrowing slightly before you shake your head a bit to yourself. Add that to the rum, if anything…Or you could try a cinnamon syrup…Cinnamon syrup, that would be better. You turn, crouching down and beginning to rifle through your cabinet for a small pot. 

“Babe.”

“…Yeah? No, this’ll only take me like, less than ten minutes,” You reassure, straightening up. “I’ll be there in a bit.” 

Carmy doesn’t answer. Or—well, maybe he does, but you’re in your head, getting down the cinnamon sticks and sugar. 

– 

It has been at least an hour. Your head is killing you, you’re tired, and your eyes are crossing—but you’ve got it down, you know you’ve got it down. 

“Can you come here and try this?” You call out. Your kitchen smells heavenly—sugary and light, with only a mingling of alcohol under it. You glance over as you hear the floor creak. 

“C’mere, take a sip,” You urge. Carmy takes a few steps closer. He takes hold of the proffered glass. You watch, stomach tingling with anticipation as he takes a whiff, processes, then takes a sip. You bite your lips, brows raising as he hesitates, then swallows. 

“Good?” You ask, nodding, “Right?” 

“…Yeah,” He agrees…But he says it in a way that doesn’t seem like he quite buys it. Your brows lower and furrow, a frown taking over your lips. 

“What?” You ask, immediately defensive. “What’s wrong with it?” 

“Nothing is wrong with it,” Carmy insists, peering down between the glass and your face. “It’s just…It’s too much.” 

“What?” 

“It’s too sweet.” 

“Oh—Please,” You scoff. “That’s such a guy thing to say. What, you don’t like it, ‘cause it’s a girly drink?“

“No! I did not say that. It just—It needs something to balance it. A few dashes of bitters.” 

“Oh, sure,” You scoff, turning from him, “Thanks, great advice from someone that’s not a bartender.” 

“I may not be a bartender, but I know how to create a flavor profile that fucking works.” 

“Yeah, you know what, great. Thanks for the feedback,” You agree dryly, beginning to clean your counter before looking at Carmen. He watches you with an almost blank cruelty, eyes searching your face.

“You don’t think I know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

“When’s the last time you drank a sandwich, Berzatto.” 

The two of you stare one another down icily before Carmy wordlessly slams the drink down on the counter, the remaining liquid sloshing over the side before he turns. He shakes the few drops that landed on his hand off as he heads for the door. You don’t stop him; you just stare at the back of his head as he goes, irritation roiling through you. “Some bitters ,” You scoff to yourself as the door slams shut behind him. “ Some bitters.” You take a sip of the drink, hesitate, then turn away. You start making the drink again, grumbling all the while. 

“Tell me to add some bitters, like someone made him the fucking king of fucking bartending— bitters . Guy learns one fucking thing at smart guy chef school and thinks he can do my job better.” You add bitters to the shaker before slap the top on it. You take it up, shaking it with a renewed vitriol. You strain it into a fresh glass. 

“Add some bitters, like he’s got a perfect fucking pallet, like he knows—” You pause in your rant to raise the glass to your lips. You take a sniff and go still, stomach flipping with fear. But—No. No. This is your area of expertise. You know what you’re talking about—he doesn’t.

You take a sip and you…Freeze. 

Goddamnit. Fuck. Fuck—

You spit it into the sink, pouring out the rest of the mixture and dropping the glass as you hiss:

“Son of a bitch!”  

Chapter Text

“You got a minute?”

You don’t turn away from your pour, and you only just manage not to flinch at the sound of his voice. You haven’t spoken to Carmy since the you bickered at your apartment. It’s been almost two weeks. You’ve been run ragged at work, but even in your few odd hours, you haven’t been able to bring yourself to call him or text him. You know you should apologize—but you want him to apologize. You smack a shaker down over each glass before you raise them, absently shaking them to the beat of the eighties music being piped through the bar. 

“….Does it look like I got a minute?” You ask as you lower the glasses, loosening the two shakers from the top and pouring the drinks into their proper glasses. 

“She’s got a minute,” Frankie pipes up on the other side of you. You turn toward your traitorous coworker, eyes widened slightly in dissent. 

“Shoo,” Frankie tacks on, waving you out from behind the bar.

You huff, muttering, “Hang on,” Before turning toward a lingering regular.  “Another Bud, Steve?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Alright, Frankie’ll get it.”

“Thanks, kid.”

“Sure.”

You pass the mixed drinks to the other customers, shoot Frankie another sidelong glance, and then grudgingly raise the hatch, stepping out from beside the bar. 

“C’mon,” You mutter, leading Carmy out through the side door of the bar. You curl your arms around your middle, glancing around the back alley for anyone lingering there. Carmy steps out behind you, his hands shoved in his pockets as he leans back against the opposite wall. Neither of you speak for a few long, anxious moments; you’re too busy pointedly not looking at one another. 

“...How’s the shop?” You finally ply. 

“It’s good.” Then, “Bar looks busy.” 

“It is.” 

You each nod a little before looking away again. 

“...I shouldn’t have, um—” Carmy clears his throat. When you look at him, he’s shaking his head. “You’ve been a bartender a long time. I shouldn’t’a tried to do your job.” 

Your insides go warm, melting some of the anxiety that’s spiked since he first spoke. 

“...I shouldn’t have asked for your opinion if I wasn’t going to take it. And—And I shouldn’t have popped off like that,” You offer before laughing a little bitterly. “You were right. It was, like…Tooth-rootingly sweet. I took it to Mack both ways and the bitters won.” 

“Really?” Carmy asks, brows raising.

“Yeah. It’s on the menu as a Bitters Pill.” 

Carmy huffs a laugh, and the two of you share rueful smiles. 

“I am sorry, Carmy. I really shouldn’t have—You know what the fuck you’re doing.” 

“So do you.” 

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have been so bullheaded about it.” You’re quiet for a moment before you nervously offer, “I’ve missed you.” 

“...Yeah?” He hedges. You nod, eyeing the ground. 

“Almost stopped by the shop.” 

“We could’ve used the business.” 

You laugh softly at his tease, eyes settling on the ground as you add, “I didn’t think you’d wanna see me there.” 

It’s a moment before you see Carmy’s feet step into your field of vision. 

“I missed you, too,” He murmurs. Your heart flutters in your chest. 

“What brought you over here, anyway?” 

“Richie told me to pull my head out of my ass.” 

“Because of me?” 

“He didn’t specify.” 

You smile as Carmy takes a step closer, your eyelids fluttering as he tip of his nose nudges against yours. 

“But he was on to something?” 

“Slightly,” Carmy murmurs, “But don’t tell him that.” 

“I haven’t met him. I’m not exactly in a place to tell him anything.” 

Carmy hums, lowering his hands to your hips. 

“Not sure you wanna be in one,” He grumbles. “He doesn’t even listen to people that he knows.” 

“Apparently, neither do I,” You point out, resting your hands on his forearms. 

Carmy chuckles softly. “You used the bitters, didn’t you? You listen.” 

“Mm, I suppose so. Grudgingly, but—” 

Before you can argue further, Carmy leans in, pressing his lips against yours. You sigh softly, leaning into him and sliding your hands up to curl around his shoulders. You grin as Carmy presses you back against the wall, his fingers beginning to tease up under your shirt. 

“Hey, lovebirds,” Frankie’s voice splashes over you like a bucket of cold water, “There’s a bachelorette party in and they all want Bitter Pills.” 

You groan softly, tipping your head back. “Be there in two, babes!”

You hear Frankie’s knowing grunt before they shut the door. You sigh softly before nodding toward the door. 

“Want one?” You ask. 

“I gotta get back to the shop.” 

“That wasn’t a yes or a no, Berzatto.”

Carmy smiles, pecking your lips. “Can I see you tonight?”

“Sure. I get off around midnight.” 

“And probably again a little after that.” 

“You should be so lucky.” You grin, leaning in and pressing another gentle kiss to his lips. “Text me, ‘kay?” 

“Will do.” 

“Have a good shift.” 

“Thanks—And thank Frankie for me.”