Every Second Counts.

So I'm a haggard fandom ancient who's been down this road more than once with plausible ships that seem so bloody obvious in terms of on-screen evidence but then never pan out.

From the very bottom of my heart: It doesn't matter.

The joy is in the fandom, the relationships, the art, the meta, the speculation. The joy is in the right now of it all.

Where I have gotten tripped up in the past is conflating what I see on the screen with what the creators have planned for the story arc. They may see the story and characters much differently than we do. Seeing a story differently, on whatever side of things, doesn't make anyone wrong or bad. They are just differences of vision and opinion, and not done out of indifference or ill will. People just...see things differently, and that's okay.

Listen, the last ship I was a part of crashed and burned in a manner so spectacular it has earned its own spot in toxic fandom lore. Five-ish years later, when I think about it all, I actually don't think about any of that. I think about the amazing fics and the inspired art and the cracked-out meta and the fact that I met my lifelong ride-or-die best friend in that fandom

We've been given the gift of a long, long hiatus where we can speculate, dream, and create without constraints. I can't stop anyone from using that time to fret over what the showrunners and actors are saying. But I'm going to live in the now, and be grateful for the journey.

I know how preachy this sounds, I do. But don't waste the now agonizing about a future we cannot predict or control.

"I really think you need to work on..." Jimmy gestures, somewhat vaguely, in Carmy's direction. "On how you handle things."

"How I handle things?" Carmy echoes, defensiveness rising in his throat.

"Yeah. How you, you know, respond to negative events."

"Respond to negative events?"

"You're just gonna repeat what I say? I feel like I'm training a fucking parrot here. All I'm saying is, this place is clearly stressful as fuck and I think you need to work on managing your stress."

Carmen huffs a mirthless laugh of disbelief and crosses his arms.  “Managing my stress. That’s rich, that's fuckin’ precious, Jimmy, coming from the guy who’s holding all the chits, the guy waiting in the wings for me to fail so he can get his mitts on this property so he turn it into a-- a--  I dunno, into a fuckin' Firehouse Subs.”

Jimmy doesn't reply at first. He stares at Carmy for a long moment, then closes his eyes briefly before exhaling audibly. He opens his eyes again, fixing Carmy with a level stare.

"Carmen," he says. His voice is low, controlled, cordial. Carmy, already knowing he overstepped, finds it actually way more terrifying than shouting could ever be.

"Jimmy," he replies, endeavoring if not quite succeeding in keeping his own voice equally calm.

“First of all,” Jimmy begins, “and I say this with all the familial love and loyalty in my heart, we’re only sitting here in your fancy-ass restaurant because of my ongoing and generous financial assistance. I know it’s lunch time but can you maybe not devour the hand that fucking feeds you?” 

Carmy opens his mouth to speak, to defend himself, but Jimmy raises a hand, eyes steely.

Carmy closes his mouth.

“Every single piece of overpriced fucking furniture in this room –”  Jimmy looks around. “-- what is this, Danish Modern?”

“It’s not Danish Modern,” Carmen mutters, feeling sulky and shitty and smaller with every passing moment.

“Well,” Jimmy replies evenly, “I think we can agree it’s Scandinavian-influenced, yes?” 

Carmy knows he’s not supposed to answer, so he doesn’t. He stares at the wall behind Jimmy's head, unwilling (unable) to meet his gaze.

“As I was saying," Jimmy continues, "Let us remember that every single thing in this room – every single thing this entire goddamn restaurant, down those fucking brushed nickel dimmer switches over there – is here because I have spent very close to a million fucking dollars of my money in order to help you succeed, against both my own better judgment and a veritable Everest of irrefutable evidence that statistically you are absolutely certain to fail, and spectacularly at that.

“And second of all, nephew, I want you to understand something very important.” Jimmy leans forward, serious, intent. “I promise you, from the very bottom of my blackened heart, that no matter what happens, no matter how all of this turns out, when I get my mitts on this place I will never, ever turn it into a fucking Firehouse Subs.” Jimmy sits back and shakes his head, mouth turned down in distaste. “Jesus Christ, Carmen, what kind of a monster do you think I am?”'

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