I could talk about it more

He sits in the pilot's chair like he always does, spine straight, gloved hands resting easy on the armrests, helmet tilted just a fraction toward you, the dark T of the visor swallowing every flicker of light it catches.

He hasn't said a word in three minutes and neither have you, but the air between you has thickened to where you can cut it with a vibroblade. When you finally push off from the bulkhead and cross the metal floor toward him – bare feet silent, your tunic loose at the collar – you see the leather of his glove flex once against the armrest.

Just a twitch. A tell. Mandalorians aren’t supposed to have tells, but you've been studying him for months now, cataloguing every microscopic concession his body makes to your presence, and that little flex of his fingers tells you everything you need to know.

You sink to your knees.

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since the cell on Vane's facility, and in that time, you haven’t stopped sleeping with him, and he hasn’t stopped sleeping with you, and somewhere in the middle of all that sleeping-with the geometry of the two of you has quietly, irreversibly, changed.

It isn’t just the sex, though the sex is good. The sex is unhinged. The sex has taught you things about your own body that you have not, in thirty years of inhabiting it, suspected. He takes you against bulkheads and over crates and on the floor of the cockpit with the autopilot blinking placidly above your head. He takes you slow in the bunk in the middle of the night when neither of you can sleep, and he takes you in the refresher with the water running and the steam fogging the visor and his bare hands skating slick down your spine.

The helmet always stays on. You haven’t stopped wanting, but you’ve stopped asking, because the wanting is your problem and the not-asking is, you’ve decided, a thing you can give him.

But it isn’t just the sex.

It’s the way he starts making caf for two in the mornings now, instead of for one. It’s the way he sets his armour down in the order he always sets it down but pushes your half of the bunk smooth before he lays himself on it. It’s the way he says your name when he wants your attention from across the hold, low and unhurried, like a hand on the small of your back.

You know what it is. He knows what it is. But it’s clear that neither of you are going to be the one to use the word. He’s a man who’s spent his whole adult life saying as little as possible about anything that matters, and you’ve decided that you respect that – that you’d rather have his silence honestly than someone else's words pretending. And so, you carry the unspoken thing around in your chest like a small warm coal and you feed it kindling and you do not, blow on it, in case the smoke makes him bolt.

For three weeks you mould your body to his and sink to your knees and allow yourself to have whatever this is between you.

The deck plating is cold under your knees through the thin fabric of your trousers, but you barely feel it. You kneel in the narrow space between his boots, the worn leather scuffed and dust-pale, and let your hands settle very lightly on his thighs, right where the flight suit emerges from beneath the cuisse plates, where the dark quilted fabric stretches taut over muscle.

You feel him go still. Not tense, just still. The way a predator goes still when something interesting walks into its sightline.

"Din." Your voice comes out lower than you mean it to. "Tell me to stop."

He pauses for a long moment, the vocoder hissing faintly with his breath before he speaks.

"No."

That one word, filtered through the modulator, gravel-rough and warm at the edges, lands somewhere low in your belly and blooms outward like a struck match. You smile up at him, slow, and slide your palms upward, over the quilted dark of his inner thighs, fingers spread wide, taking your time, mapping the heat of him through the fabric.

You feel the moment his thighs flex under your touch, feel the way his breath catches and stutters out through the vocoder as a soft static crackle.

"Good," you murmur. "Then sit back and let me take care of you."

His head tilts in that maddening way, the visor angling down so that you know, you know, he’s watching every move you make. You've never seen his eyes, never seen his mouth go slack, never seen his jaw clench, never had the satisfaction of watching this man fall apart in the conventional way. All you have is the helmet, the dark immovable mask of beskar, and the small involuntary sounds the vocoder can’t quite scrub clean.

It’s enough, a delicious little game, dragging every reaction out of him by force, pulling each one through the filter of his armour like coaxing music from a closed instrument.

You work the codpiece loose first. There are clasps along the underside, hidden, fiddly things, and you take your time finding them, letting your knuckles drag deliberately against the swell already firming up beneath the plate. He inhales sharply and the vocoder catches it, distorting it so that it sounds like a low electronic rasp. You hum approvingly and finally get the last clasp free, lifting the codpiece off and setting it down on the deck beside you with a soft, careful clink of metal on metal.

The dark fabric beneath is obviously, undeniably tented. You let yourself look for a long moment, savouring it – the shape of him straining against the cloth, the small dark spot where he's already started to leak through. Then you raise your eyes back up to the visor and give him your sweetest smile.

"Look at you," you breathe. "All this control and you're already this hard for me."

The gloved hand on the armrest tightens, the leather creaking.

"I know," you murmur, working open the front of the flight suit, easing the laces loose with deliberate slowness. "I know, patience. I'm going to give you everything."

When you finally free him you have to take a breath. He’s heavy in your hand – hot and flushed dark already at the head, a bead of slick beading at the slit, the whole thick length of him twitching faintly against your palm as you wrap your fingers around the base. You've had him before. You know the shape, the weight and the way he fits in your mouth. But every time feels like the first time. Every time he pulls this particular reaction out of you – this nearly worshipful pause, this want that buzzes in your teeth.

You look up, holding the visor's gaze, and then, slowly, you lean in and press a kiss – soft, almost chaste – to the very tip.

His whole body jerks in a tiny movement that’s almost nothing. Just a flinch of his hips, the smallest involuntary buck, and then the iron clamp of his own self-control snaps it back down. But you feel it and grin against him, lips still pressed to the head of his cock, letting your tongue slip out and drag a slow stripe through the slick beading at the tip.

"Haar'chak." The curse hisses through the vocoder, half static, half breath.

"Mm." You lick your lips, tasting salt and skin and the faint metallic tang of whatever he's been wiping his hands on earlier. "Say it again in Basic, Din. I want to hear you in Basic."

A long, ragged breath comes through the modulator, and his hand leaves the armrest and settles into your hair, the rough leather catching at the strands. He doesn’t pull but rather just rests his palm against the back of your head like he needs to anchor himself there.

"Please," he says, and the way the vocoder bends the word, scratching it raw, making it almost a whisper nearly undoes you right there on the cold metal floor.

You reward him by opening your mouth and taking him in – just the head at first, sealing your lips around the flushed crown and sucking, slow and soft, the flat of your tongue working in small circles against the underside. The taste of him fills your mouth, salt and musk and something faintly metallic that you've long ago decided is particular to him, to the man under the beskar, and you let your eyes flutter closed for half a second just to savour it.

He makes a low, strangled, half-mechanical sound that the vocoder can’t quite categorise and his hand in your hair tightens, just barely.

You sink lower, agonisingly slowly, working him into your mouth inch by inch, your tongue pressing flat to the underside, your lips stretching tight around his girth. You feel the head bump the back of your throat and you pull back, breath catching, eyes watering already because he’s thick and you’re out of practice at this kind of patience. Then you go down again a little further, working saliva down the length of him with each pass until he’s slick and shining and your jaw is beginning to ache pleasantly.

His thighs tremble – tiny tremors, barely perceptible, but you can feel them under your palms where you've braced yourself against him. The Mandalorian – the man who can stand motionless in a firefight, who can track a quarry across three-star systems without losing his composure – is trembling under your mouth.

You want to weep with how good it feels to do this to him.

You pull off with a wet, obscene pop and look up at him through your lashes, watching as his chest rises and falls in shallow, controlled drags. The vocoder catches each breath and gives it back to you as a soft electronic rasp.

"Are you watching me?" you ask. Your lips feel swollen and you lick them deliberately, watching the visor track the movement. "Tell me you're watching me, Din."

"I'm watching."

"Good." You lean in and press your cheek against the inside of his thigh, letting his cock rest heavy and wet against your face, the slick head smearing against your temple and your hair. You turn and mouth at the side of his shaft, dragging your tongue in long, lazy stripes. "Don't look away, not for a second."

"I won't."

The promise scrapes out of the vocoder like a vow.

You take him again, deeper this time. You've warmed up to him now, your throat relaxing, your breathing falling into the rhythm you need. You let him slide back, back, back, past the soft resistance at the back of your tongue, into the tighter clasp of your throat, and you swallow around him and feel him judder. His hips lift off the chair an inch and slam back down. The gloved hand in your hair fists, finally, finally pulls, not hard, just hard enough to tell you he’s losing some thin filament of control.

"Slow…slow…"

You don’t slow. You set a rhythm, bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks, taking him deep on every third or fourth stroke and feeling your nose press against the dark fabric of his flight suit at the base. Your hand wraps around what your mouth can’t reach, twisting gently, thumb dragging beneath the head on every upstroke. Your other hand creeps up under the cuisse plate, scrabbling at the edge of the flight suit, until you find the soft pouch beneath and cup him there too, rolling him gently, playing with the weight of him, and feel him moan through the vocoder as a long staticky exhale.

The Razor Crest hums around you. The star lines streaked. The dim blue light catches on the curves of his armour, and you kneel at his feet with his cock in your throat and you think, dizzily, that you’ll never want anything else. That you’ll do this for the rest of your life. That if he asks you to live on your knees on this ship you'll do it without a second thought.

"Mesh'la." His voice is breaking up now, ragged through the filter. "Mesh'la, mesh'la, mesh'la... "

You don’t know the word, but you know the tone and you pull off, gasping, drool stringing from your lips to the tip of him, your eyes streaming. You take three quick breaths, then you go down again in one long swallow, your nose pressing flush to his stomach, your throat working around him, and you hold it.

You hold it until your lungs burn, until his hand is shaking against your skull, until you hear the vocoder spit out a long, broken sound that might be your name and might be a curse and might, in fact, be both.

When you come up for air, your mouth is numb, your eyes were streaming, your chin slick and you’ve never, ever felt so beautiful.

"Din," you rasp, your voice wrecked from the effort. "Tell me how it feels."

He can’t speak at first, the vocoder hissing static, breath after ragged breath.

"Like I'm going to die."

You laugh – a hoarse, delighted little laugh – and press a kiss to the slick head of his cock, tasting him afresh.

"Not yet you're not," you whisper. "I've got you, just hold on."

You start again, slower this time, but deeper, more deliberate, your tongue working tricks against the underside, against the sensitive spot just beneath the head that you know drives him to pieces. Both of his hands have now abandoned the armrests, one gripping your hair, the other fisted tight against his own thigh, the leather creaking and creaking. You watch the rise and fall of his chest as the visor stays locked on you, unwavering.

You feel him swell against your tongue, feel the tell-tale tightening, the way his thighs go rock-hard under your palms, the way his hand in your hair starts to push you down instead of just resting there. You let him guide you, let him take what he needs, let your jaw go slack and your throat go loose and your eyes close because you want to feel everything, you want to drown in this.

"I’m going to…I'm…"

You hum around him, long and low, a vibration that runs the length of his cock, and his entire body goes taut as a bowstring.

"Off…" he manages, urgent now, his hand trying to push you back, "you have to… "

You look up at him, his cock buried deep in your mouth, your eyes locked on the visor and shake your head minutely.

The sound he makes is a low broken groan, almost a sob, and then his hand is clamping down at the back of your skull, and he holds you there as he comes in long, hot pulses against the back of your tongue.

You swallow around him, your throat working, the salty bitter heat of him filling your mouth faster than you can take it down. You feel him shudder, feel the way his thighs lock up and his whole body strains forward, feel the helmet tip back as his head falls against the headrest of the pilot's seat. The vocoder rasps out a single long breath that stretches into something unrecognisable.

You stay on him as he softens. You stay until the last twitch, the last little pulse, until his hand loosens in your hair and his thighs unclench beneath your palms. Only then do you pull off – slow and careful, your lips dragging the whole length of him on the way up – and you sit back on your heels, breathing hard, your chin and lips slick and shiny in the dim blue light.

You look up at him, his helmet tilted back, chest rising and falling like he's just sprinted across a desert. The gloved hand that had been in your hair hangs loose at his side, twitching faintly with the aftershocks, the other unclenched at last from the meat of his own thigh.

You smile because you know exactly what you look like – flushed and wrecked and triumphant – and you let him have a long moment to take it in.

"You," he rasps finally, through the vocoder, "are going to be the death of me."

You laugh, lean forward and press a final kiss to the soft, spent length of him before you tuck him gently back into his flight suit, lacing it up with the same careful slowness you used to undo it. You retrieve the codpiece from the deck and refit it, clicking each clasp back into place. You smooth your palms up the front of his thighs, over the plates of his cuisses, up the dark quilted fabric to settle finally, feeling the slow steady pound of his heart through the layers of armour and underclothes.

"Mm." You rest your cheek against the cold metal of his chest plate. "Not yet, I hope."

His hand comes up slow, almost shy, the way it always is when he isn’t in the heat of it. He cups the back of your head, gentle now, fingers carding through your hair where he's just had it fisted, his other hand settling at the nape of your neck, his gloved thumb stroking lightly along the line of your jaw.

"Mesh'la," he says again, quieter now.

"What does it mean?"

He strokes your jaw again as the streaking blue starlight slides across the curve of his helmet.

"Beautiful."

You smile against the beskar and close your eyes, allowing yourself to stay there a long moment, kneeling at his feet in the dim cockpit, the Crest humming around you, his hand gentle at the back of your neck, the taste of him still warm on your tongue.

"Din?"

"Yes?"

The words form in your mouth, but you hesitate and push them back down again because you’re not sure if this is the right moment. Or if in fact there will ever be a right moment to tell him exactly how you feel.

The silence stretches, then his thumb presses, very gently, against the soft hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up.

You turn your face into his palm and press a kiss to the worn leather of his glove.

"Take me to bed."

And that’s how it goes for another three weeks.

Six weeks of sexual satisfaction which, you tell yourself, is all you need.

Then he takes the Tarvix job.

****

Tarvix is a jungle world out past the Mid Rim, hot and wet and full of things that want to eat you. The bounty is a Twi'lek arms dealer who’s taken his operation off-grid and underground and very specifically into a network of root caves that no sensible bounty hunter would follow him into, which is, of course, exactly why this particular bounty hunter takes the job.

"It's a stupid job," you say on approach.

"It pays."

"It pays because nobody else is dumb enough to take it."

"Which is why it pays."

"Din…"

"It's a clean grab, in and out. We've done worse."

"We have done exactly worse and the exactly worse is why I'm telling you it's a stupid job."

He turns his head, the visor settling on you, and you see – even through the beskar, even with no eyes to read – the small relenting tilt of the helmet that means he’s heard you. Reaching out, he puts his gloved hand on your thigh.

"Stay close to me."

"I always do."

"Closer."

It goes wrong the way these things always go wrong, which is to say slowly at first and then all at once. You find the Twi'lek, secure it and are on your way back out of the cave system with the Twi'lek cuffed and grumbling between you when the root caves turn out, surprise, to have a second tenant – a colony of something the Twi'lek has been paying off in ration packs to keep them docile, and whose docility runs out roughly thirty seconds after the ration-packer gets cuffed.

They come out of the walls, long pale segmented things, the size of small speeders, with too many legs and a mouth-part arrangement that doesn’t bear thinking about. Din shoots the first one in half. The second one takes a flame to the face and screams in a register that makes your back teeth ache. The third one comes up behind you while you’re dealing with the fourth, and you get your blaster around in time to put a bolt through its eye-cluster.

But you don’t see the fifth one, the one in the ceiling, the one that drops.

It hits you across the side like a falling girder.

You go down hard, sideways, off the lip of a root ledge that you haven't realised is a ledge, and fall a long way, a longer way than you should have survived falling, into the wet dark of a lower chamber. You land on your back on something that gives under you and the world goes white.

You come back to it in pieces, pain shooting across your whole left side, the sharp wrong kind, the kind that means ribs and you mouth fills with blood. You feel a long burning line down your flank where the thing's claw, or whatever it is, has opened you up through your shirt. You smell smoke from somewhere overhead and hear the high mechanical whine of a flame projector going and going and going.

Then you hear his voice through the helmet comm in your ear. It’s very close to you, somehow, even from up above.

"Talk to me."

"Din…"

"Talk to me. Where are you hit?"

"Side. Ribs. I…I can't…there's a lot of blood…"

"I'm coming. Don't move. Don't move. Don't move."

"I wasn't…"

"Just keep talking."

You do as asked, but you don’t remember what you talk about. You remember that your voice sounds thin and far away and that you can’t seem to take a full breath because each one turns into a wet stabbing thing in your chest, and that somewhere above you the flame projector keeps going, and the roaring stops one by one.

Then there’s the soft hiss of jetpack thrust, and his boots hit the chamber floor in front of you with a thud that you feel in your teeth.

He’s on his knees beside you before the dust has settled, gloves off, his bare hands on you, one on your jaw and the other under your shirt, finding the wound and pressing. You cry out, and his head snaps to your face, the visor so close to you that you can see your own reflection in it, wet and grey and not looking very alive.

"Stay with me."

"I'm here."

"Stay with me."

"I'm here, Din, I'm…"

"Look at me."

You look and suddenly see that his hand on your jaw is shaking.

You’ve never seen his hand shake in all the time you’ve flown together. Not under fire, not in the middle of a job going sideways, not when he’s setting a broken bone in his own forearm with his other hand and a length of pipe.

The hand of Din Djarin does not shake.

The hand of Din Djarin has been engineered specifically to not shake, and now it’s shaking against your face, his bare thumb skating across your cheekbone, smearing the blood there, and his voice through the modulator comes out a half-tone too high.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. Okay, I've got you. I'm picking you up. This is going to hurt, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, cyar'ika, I'm…"

He stops and you know he hasn’t meant to say that. You hear the small, choked silence where the word has landed and where he’s decided not to chase it, and you want to ask him what it means, but you can’t, because he’s sliding one arm under your knees and the other under your shoulders and lifting. You scream, and he makes a sound through the modulator that sounds very close to a sob.

"I know. I know, I'm sorry. Just…just hold on. Just hold on to me."

You get one arm up around his neck and fist your hand in the cape at his shoulder, pressing your face into the side of his helmet.

He carries you up through the cave system at a run. You have no idea how the jetpack works with the weight of you in his arms, and you have no idea how he’s navigating or how he’s fighting – because somewhere in the middle of it you remember the muzzle-flash of his blaster going off one-handed past your shoulder, and him swearing once, very quietly, when something rakes the back of his cape – but he gets you out.

He gets you out into the green wet light of the jungle, across half a kilometre of root and mud and up the ramp of the Crest, through the hold, and into the small alcove that served as a medbay. Then he sets you down on the cot so carefully, so impossibly carefully, that you barely feel the transition and starts hurriedly removing his beskar.

And then his hands start moving on you.

You’ve seen him field-dress wounds before. He’s good at it, efficient at it. He moves through a medical situation the way he moves through a firefight, which is to say with the calibrated economy of a man who’s been doing this for a long time and has learned, somewhere along the way, that panic is a luxury for people with other people to panic for them.

He’s not efficient now.

He’s fast, but there’s a roughness to his movements that you’ve never seen in his hands before. He cuts your shirt off you with a vibroblade and the cuts go in wrong directions, doubling back, his free hand pressing at your side to hold the wound closed while the other does the work. Twice you see him stop, just for half a second, just long enough to take a breath that the modulator turns into a stutter, before he keeps going.

"Din."

"Don't talk."

"Din, I'm…"

"Don't talk."

"I'm okay."

"You are not okay. You are not okay. You're…" His voice cracks mid-sentence, the modulator catching and amplifying the crack, and you hear the sound of his control failing. "There is a lot of blood. There is a lot of blood, and I need you to not talk so I can…so I can…"

"Din."

"Please."

You stop talking.

He gets the shirt off you and cleans the wound with bacta wash, the cold sting of it making you hiss through your teeth. Then he reaches for the cauteriser, his hand still shaking, and he stops. He sets the cauteriser down on the tray, pushes up the sleeves of the flight suit and presses both his bare palms flat to the cot on either side of your hips, bowing his helmeted head, breathing in and out.

You watch the whole bare expanse of his arms, the corded muscle, the scars, the little mythosaur on the inside of his bicep that you’ve now traced with your tongue more times than you can count, all of it locked into a posture of such absolute, white-knuckled control that you understand, finally, what it’s costing him to do this at all.

You reach up, arm aching, and put your hand on the side of his helmet – on the beskar, on the cheek of it. "Hey."

He doesn’t move.

"Din, look at me."

The visor comes up.

"I'm okay," you say. "I'm here. I'm okay. You're doing fine. Pick up the cauteriser."

The helmet bows lower, the brow of it coming down to rest against yours, beskar against skin, cool and hard and so familiar by now that it’s almost a kiss.

"You scared me," he says.

The modulator is barely there. The voice underneath it is barely there. It’s a thing he says directly into your skin, almost.

"I know."

"I thought you were…"

"I know."

"I can't…"

He stops himself from saying the thing he can’t let himself finish, and you want, with a fierceness that surprises you even now, to grab the back of his helmet, pull it off and look at the face he’s making under there, because you’re sure that whatever his mouth is doing right now you would die to see.

But you don’t. You put your hand around the back of his neck instead, against the small bare strip of skin between the helmet's edge and the collar of his flight suit, and you hold him there.

"Cauteriser."

He picks it up and works, the skin on your side sizzling. You bite down on the heel of your hand, hard, and you don’t scream, because he’s already as close to broken as you’ve ever seen him and you won’t give him a sound he can carry into his next sleep.

He works the long burning line of the gash closed, packs it with bacta gel, and then he puts a patch over it, and sets his palm flat against the patch, holding it there as if he can press his own steadiness into you through the bandage.

His hand isn’t shaking anymore. Somewhere in the last sixty seconds he’s taken all of it – the shake, the crack, the whatever-it-is – and has folded it down small and tucked it back inside himself. You’ve watched him do it, and know, watching him, that this is the price of him. That this is what it costs him, this discipline, this not-saying, this absolute refusal to let anything spill that he hasn’t first measured into a cup.

"Other ribs," he says. "Let me feel."

You let his fingers walk your ribs one by one, slow, professional now, the shake gone. Two of them are cracked, one might be broken. He wraps you, slow and careful, lifting you against his shoulder so he can pass the wrap around your back, his bare arm strong under you, his other hand passing the bandage from one side of you to the other across his own body.

You lean your forehead into his neck, close your eyes and breathe him in.

"Almost done," he says.

"Take your time."

"I am taking my time."

"Take more."

He finishes the wrap and lays you back down. Then he sits on the edge of the cot beside you, one hip against your hip, and looks down at you for a long moment, before reaching up and brushing a piece of hair off your forehead with the back of his bare knuckles.

"You're going to live."

"Optimistic."

"I'm the one with the medical training. Trust me."

"Mm. Lie down with me."

"I'm sweaty."

"I don't care. Lie down with me."

He hesitates, glances at the cot and at himself then makes a small sound of acceptance and eases himself down on his side, propped on his elbow, his hip pressed to yours. His free hand comes to rest, lightly, on the unbandaged side of your stomach, his bare palm warm and anchoring.

You watch the visor for a long time, he lets you, and somewhere in there your throat goes tight in a way that isn’t related to any injury.

"Din."

"Yes?"

"What does cyar'ika mean?"

He goes very still and doesn’t answer for a long moment. The hand on your stomach doesn’t move and the visor stays where it is, tilted down to your face. You watch the way his shoulders rise and fall once, twice as he decides.

"It means…”

The proximity alarm goes off, shrieking out of the ship's speakers in the high two-tone wail that means a ship has just entered scan range. His head snaps up toward the cockpit, his hand leaving your stomach, and the whole moment shatters.

He’s on his feet before the alarm finishes its second cycle. "Stay,” he says over his shoulder, back to his working voice. “Don't move, I mean it. Don't get off this cot."

"Din…"

"Stay."

Then he’s gone, up the ladder to the cockpit, three rungs at a time, and you hear him drop into the pilot's seat, and punch the alarm off. Then you hear him bring up the scanners, and swear, quietly, once, with feeling.

You put your bare feet on the cold deck, grab his cape from where he left it, pull it free from the vest, and walk, very slowly, out into the hold. You know you’re not supposed to be moving and that he’s going to have words for you when he comes back down, but you don’t care. You sit on a crate and listen to him work.

You can read him by sound, by now, the cadence of his hands on a console as familiar to you as his breathing. You hear him bring up the long-range scope, toggle through the bands and hear the small grunt through the modulator that means he’s found what he’s looking for and doesn’t like it.

You hear him flick the comm to passive, hear the navicomp wake up and hear him punch in coordinates without consulting the charts, which means he already knows where he’s going, which means he’s been thinking about this contingency since long before you took the job. Which means that you were right about it being a stupid job, and he’s known it was a stupid job, and has taken it anyway, and made a back door.

You hear the hyperdrive spool and the soft whump of the stars turning into blue.

Then you hear him push back from the console, slowly, before he comes back down the ladder.

He sees you on the crate, stopping on the third rung from the bottom, and looks at you – visor down, the whole long judgment of the T-shape directed at the place where you very obviously are not.

"What did I tell you?”

"You told me to stay."

"And?"

"I didn't."

He comes down the rest of the ladder and crosses the hold to stand in front of you. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and you watch his bare hand flex once, at his side, and then unflex.

"Why?" he asks.

"I thought I heard something."

It’s a lie and he knows it. He looks at you for a beat longer and then sighs, a real, tired one, the modulator turning it into a long mechanical exhale. Then he crouches down in front of you and puts his hand, very lightly, on your good thigh.

"You're going to make me grey," he says

"You're already grey."

"You can't see my hair."

"I'm extrapolating."

"From what?"

"From the way you sigh."

He huffs then tips his head down and presses the brow of the helmet to your collarbone – gently, mindful of the ribs and the bandage – and stays there a moment.

"Who was it in the scope?”

"A Guild ship, looking for us. We're clear now."

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere quiet."

“Like where?”

“You ask too many questions. Somewhere you can heal. Somewhere I can…take care of you.”

"What are we going to say about the bounty?"

"Screw the bounty. Someone else can pick him up, if he's still breathing."

You smile, in spite of yourself. He lifts his head off your collarbone and looks at you, and you can feel him cataloguing – the colour of your face, the set of your mouth, the way you’re favouring your left side, the way you’ve wrapped his cape around yourself without thinking – and you watch him add it all up and make whatever decision he’s making. Then he stands up, bends and slides one arm behind your knees and the other behind your back.

"Din…"

"You walked, now I carry."

"I can…"

"You walked. On the ribs I just set. You do not get to negotiate with me right now. Put your arm around my neck."

You put your arm around his neck and he lifts you, carrying you back into the medbay alcove and setting you down on the cot with you in his lap, your legs across his thighs, your bandaged side cradled in against the bare skin of his arm. Then he sits there with his helmet bowed against your temple and doesn’t move for a long time.

"You scared me," he says again, as if he needs to say it twice. As if the first time hasn’t been enough to set it down.

"I know."

"Don't do it again."

"I'll try."

"Try harder."

"I'll try harder."

His bare hand comes up and cups the side of your face, his thumb moving across your cheekbone, stops at the corner of your mouth and stays there.

"Cyar'ika," he says.

You hold very still.

"You asked me what it meant."

"Yes."

The thumb at the corner of your mouth doesn’t move.

"It's old Mando'a," he says, finally. "It means…it doesn't translate cleanly. It's what you call someone you…"

He stops.

"Someone you what?"

He doesn’t answer, so you wait. You can be patient. You’ve learned how to be patient with the long shape of his silences, how to let him build them and stand inside them and decide, in his own time, whether he’s going to come out the other side of them with a word in his mouth or without one.

The hyperdrive hums under the deck and his thumb stays at the corner of your mouth, his chest rising and falling against your good shoulder, steady now, the breathing of a man who’s brought himself all the way back from the edge he's been on in the cave.

"Someone you keep," he says.

It isn’t the word, you know it isn’t. He’s walked himself right up to the word and turned, at the last second, and offered you a different one – a smaller one, a safer one, a truer one in some ways. Because love is a word that everyone uses for everything and keep is a word that he, specifically, has probably never said out loud in his life.

You feel your eyes go hot, but you don’t cry because you know, if you do, he’ll think it’s the ribs, and will feel responsible, and he’ll close up around the not-saying again and the next time you try to drag the word out of him it’ll be even harder. So, you don’t cry. You take his bare hand off your face, turn it and press your mouth to the palm of it, hard, holding it there with both your hands, breathing against his skin until your throat lets go.

"Okay," you say, into his palm.

"Okay."

"Keep me, then."

"I will."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He says it the way he says everything, and you understand that you’re very probably, never going to hear the other one out of his mouth, but that you’re going to hear this one, in its place, for as long as he has a mouth to say it with.

You can live with that. You can live with that for a very long time.

He shifts carefully under you and lies back on the cot, slow, drawing you down with him, settling you against his chest with your bandaged side up and your head tucked under the chin of the helmet. His arm comes across your hips, the other one under your neck and he pulls the thin medbay blanket up over the two of you with one hand. Then he presses the brow of the helmet to the top of your head and exhales, long, the modulator turning the breath into a sigh that you feel all the way down your spine.

"Sleep," he says.

"You first."

"Together."

"Mm."

His hand spreads flat against your back under the blanket, the pad of his thumb tracing the line of one of your vertebrae. Up. Down. Up. The bacta is already doing its work, the throb in your side dulling, going far away, the way pain does when somebody you trust is holding you through it.

You close your eyes and you think, in the last clear moment before sleep takes you – He almost said it and he didn't have to.

And in the dark behind your eyelids, very quietly, in the secret place where you can say it because nobody can hear you, not even him - you say it back.

Then you sleep, whilst his thumb keeps moving on your spine. Up. Down. Up. For a long time.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

He loves your hand wrapped around him, but he can only deal with it for so long before he needs a break so it gets really frustrating for him. He loves when you guide his hand on himself too, which is easier most of the time, but it’s still touch, and he rarely comes because it just gets a little too overwhelming.

He’s heard about fleshlights from Kurt at work, so thinking about it one night after another failed attempt with you, he orders one online wondering if it’ll feel better than his own hand, if it’ll feel more like your touch, but manageable.

When it arrives he rips the box open, pumps some lube into it and then just… touches it for a while… his thick fingers tracing the shape of the entrance, wondering if that’s anything like the way you might feel. He’s touched you down there, sure, but briefly and only over clothes.

Swallowing hard, he slips a finger inside, pumps it a few times, the lewd sloshing sound and the wet feeling around his finger causing his cock to twitch. He pushes another finger in.

He wishes he could do this to you right now. The longer he plays with it, the more it starts to feel wrong somehow.

He unzips his pants, the slick opening pressed to his glistening tip, but he can’t bring himself go through with it. He needs you.

So he calls, tells you in a needy, husky voice that he needs to see you as soon as you can get to him — and of course you arrive within the hour, finding him red faced and a little shaky, unable to meet your eyes as he kisses you, intense but brief, and whispers, ‘There’s something I want to try.’

Handing the fleshlight to you, he sees your eyes light up as you look it over and dip an exploratory finger inside it yourself. You ask if he’s sure he wants this, and he nods desperately and whines out a desperate little Please-

You hold it still while he guides himself inside, relief relaxing him against you as you start to move it gently, careful at first, to let him get used to the sensation.

It’s not the same as your hand, and he imagines that when he’s ready to fuck you for real it won’t be the same as this either. But for now it’s squeezing around him just right, tight and warm and wet with lube, and you’re here, and all he wants is to chase the feeling.

After a minute or so he’s fucking into it hard, face buried at your shoulder, fingers gripping at your clothes, moaning and panting and whining so prettily until he comes so hard he cries out loud enough for the whole town to hear. You’re sure Karin’s curtains will be twitching at the very least, but you’re safe here, inside with the door locked and the drapes closed.

His chest heaves as he comes down, collapsing into you and whimpering a little at the sensitivity. But he recovers pretty fast. After all, he has years of this feeling to make up for.

And with that, he suddenly has the confidence to slide a hand inside your pants, tentative at the waistband, fingers pausing as he asks, ‘Is this ok?’

a funny question for him to ask you, when it's clear you just want to play. he's been in this awful study of his for the past two hours, working on something you don't care to fake interest in. you just miss him, and you want attention. you've gotten bored of sitting on his knee and holding his hand, so you've slumped under his desk to play with his cock.

"nothin'." you respond coyly, eyes shining with fascination as you watch him grow and chub up in his shorts. you're glad it's so hot today. he never wears them unless it's too fucking hot for anything else. these are the shorts that "air out m'balls proper" as he says himself. he grunts and reaches down to adjust the fabric around them now that it's clinging to his cock.

"look at what y'did." he mutters to himself, shaking his head and nudging your head gently. "can't focus with you here. be a good girl and do something until 'm ready to pay attention to you, hm? fix this problem you caused."

you huff and look up at him from under the desk, pressing your cheek to his bulge. "why can't i take care of it now, si? i promise it'll be quick..."

simon scoffs at your faux-innocence, seeing right through you clear as day. sex with you can never be quick. once you get him started, he'll need at least two hours with you until he's satisfied. if you attempt a quickie his cock won't go down even after he spills his load.

he pinches his eyes shut and shakes his head slowly, trying to avoid eye contact with you or he'll blow his load in his pants. there's no other way out of this, he knows it. even if you suck him off or keep trying to palm him while he works, he won't be able to concentrate. the level of restraint he has for you is low. he shakes his head and spreads his legs, freeing his cock and letting it slap up against his belly, drooling translucent rivulets of slick out of his slit and down his thick length.

"fine then. have at it."

your eyes sparkle as they land on his cock, admiring how swollen and mouthwatering it looks, and you make quick work of shimmying off your panties and climbing up into his lap, excited to ride him silly on his office chair.

He never expected to be sitting here, on a park bench, openly discussing him.

But that’s how it is with you. You make it easy. Easy to sit with, easy to talk to. You’re easy to love, and he’s afraid he’s halfway there.

“It’s hard on all of us.” He sighs, rubs the back of his neck. He hasn’t moved on from Johnny’s death, still feels like he’s kneeling there on cold concrete sometimes, looking for something that wasn’t there. A pulse. A sign of life. Anything. “But we’re gettin’ through it. We’re all on leave, currently.”

“Your team.” He nods, and you give him a soft, sad smile. “I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I’m saying I’m sorry. I know it’s… it’s not always helpful.” Experience rings in your words, and his heart squeezes in his chest.

“Who did you lose?”

“My mom.” Your voice is empty, flat lined. “I don’t really talk about her. It was a long time ago.”

“When you were young?” You nod.

“I was eighteen.” He burns with an impatience to touch you, hold you. Tell you he’s sorry as well, even though he knows how it feels to hear it, how hollow it can be.

Before he gets a chance, you let out a little gasp. He tenses.

“What-”

“Hold on,” you giggle, reach for his hand and splay it over the curve of your belly. “She’s barrel rolling in there, do you feel that?” He’s stunned. The baby moves under his palm, and he’s lost for words, stupefied by the blatant evidence of life inside you.

“Wow.” It comes out hoarse, and you laugh again.

“She’s usually asleep right now. Must like your voice.”

“I…” He doesn’t know what to say. He feels cold and hot all at once, floored. “That’s amazing.” You haven’t let go of his hand. Still under yours, it sits on your belly, his fingers spread wide, soaking up every second of contact. He should pull away, but he can’t. Your gaze is tender when he meets your eyes, little hitch in your breath as you nod.

“I know.”

“Fuck!” He hears it from the living room, where he’s painstakingly assembling a piece of furniture, trying to put your desk together so you’ll be ready to start working again.

The tools fall out of his hands.

He’s upstairs in less than five seconds.

“What is it?” He hones in on the sound of your breathing, sharp, ragged pants that have his anxiety skyrocketing.

When he finds you, in the bathroom, in only a t shirt and underwear, blood running down your thighs, he goes cold.

“Is this…”

“I think I pulled a stitch.” He freezes, heart stops dead in his chest. The sight of your blood knocks him off balance.

“Sit down.” His voice is steady, somehow, controlled but h needs help, needs Maisie, now. You hesitate, sway on your feet and he’s at your side instantly, wrapping an arm around you, slowly lowering you onto the closed lid of the toilet. You whimper as he shifts you. “Breathe angel, take a deep breath.” He grabs the hand towel on the side of sink and dunks it under the tap, looking away when you work it between your legs, one hand still holding his in a death grip.

“Ow.” Your voice trembles, his stomach twists.

“Jus’ hold that there,” he fumbles with his phone, “hard. Hard enough pressure to stop the bleeding.” He’s not equipped for this, has no idea where you’re bleeding from, internally, externally, and his field medic training is useless in this situation. He shoots off a text to Maisie, and then pivots, places a hand on your thigh.

“I don’t know… I felt something pop, or rip, I-” you shift, and hiss, and he squeezes above your knee.

“Easy. Let’s just wait for Maisie, yeah? She’ll know what to do.” He hopes.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper. Blood is starting to seep out from under your knuckles. He can feel his pulse jumping in his neck.

“Don’t say that. You don’t have anythin’ to be sorry about flower. We’ll get you fixed up.” He holds you there, holds you steady until he hears the front door, John and Maisie’s key in the lock. “Up here,” he shouts, pitch betraying his panic, but you don’t seem to notice, sitting with your eyes closed, one hand between your legs.

“Hey, oh no.” Maisie gives you a sympathetic look. “What happened?”

“I think I tore something, like a stitch.” Your mouth is set in a grim line, and Maisie nods, drops her backpack onto the cool tile of the bathroom.

“Can I take a look?” You nod miserably.

“Okay, let’s get you comfortable, Simon can you...” She motions to the ground and then he eases you down, settles your back against the tub, your legs pressed together at the knees. “Okay, got it from here.”

“Ollie.” You whimper when the baby monitor crackles.

“I’ll take care o’ her, you just let Maisie take care of you.” Your eyes are wide, trusting, and you swallow. This is the second time he’s left you in her hands, and it doesn’t feel any better. Not because he doesn’t trust Maisie, but because he can't stand being useless to you, helpless. Seeing you in pain, knowing he can't fix it, makes worry, anxiety, roll in his stomach, makes him feel like he's failing you. He hates it. 

Ollie is wriggling around on her back, waving her arms and legs insistently.

“Okay, alright, I’m here.” She’s so small, even after gaining weight, she’s still tiny, small enough he can hold her in two hands, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t love doing just that. Holding something so precious, so important, keeping her safe. It almost feels like what he was made to do. “Your mum is gettin’ patched up by Aunt Maisie, so you’re stuck with me. That’s not so bad though, right?” She’s stopped crying, seems to do that when he has her against his chest. Instead, she’s watching him with that tiny furrow in her brow. “You look jus’ like her, you know?” He adjusts his hold, brings her closer, breathes it in, the baby shampoo and powder and you. She coos, tiny hand flinging towards his chest and he slips a finger into it, sharp little fingernails pricking his skin.

He walks back and forth in a slow pattern she seems to like and it helps burn his brain, scrub his fear away.

He’s seen plenty of blood. Seen plenty of people suffering, hurting.

But this was different. This was you.

“Your mum is tough. She’s amazing, you got lucky.” Ollie stares at him. Watching, and he wonders if she knows, how much the two of you mean to him, how gone he is. “You two are gonna be just fine, I’m gonna make sure of it.”

“Simon?” Maisie calls, and he finds her washing her hands, a small trash bag tied up on the floor. You’re still slumped against the tub, and give him a weak smile, holding an arm up.

“Think you could give me a hand?”

“Of course.” Ollie starts to cry as he hands her off to Maisie, and his heart breaks a little bit, compounding when you struggle to your feet, your weight shifting at his side.

“She needs to lay down.” Maisie tells him firmly, and he runs a hand down your spine, gently pulling you closer so he can support you.

“We can do that, can’t we flower?” You nod, taking it step by step out of the bathroom and down the short hall to your bedroom, holding onto him the entire way.

“I’m sorry.” You say over your shoulder, and Maisie shakes her head.

“Don’t be. Just take it easy until Wednesday.” Wednesday. You and Ollie have appointments on Wednesday, a trip he’s reluctant to take even though it’s necessary. He doesn’t like the idea of you being out in town.

He’ll be there the whole time, at least.

“Thank you. Again.” He eases you down onto the bed, keeps a hand on your elbow just in case.

“Don’t mention it, seriously.” She says her goodbyes with a quick reminder that you need to stay in bed for the time being, and then he’s alone with you again, holding Ollie as you get settled against some pillows. Ollie grumbles against his chest, mouth open on his jumper, and he frowns. 

“Think she’s hungry.”

“Oh. Yeah, definitely.” You hold your arms out and he deposits her in them carefully, huge hand cupping the back of her tiny hand.

“There you go,” her onesie’s zipper curls up under her chin, still too big for her, and he presses it down. “Don’t want that gettin’ in the way do we?” When he pulls back, he realizes you’re staring at him, lips slightly parted. “What?”

“N-nothing. I um,” you look away, lick your lips. “Can you get the pillow? Please? The curved one that-”

“I’ll grab it.” He knows which one it is, easily. He knows everything about your routines now, has Ollie’s schedules memorized.

It doesn’t take him long to find it, and when he comes back up, you’re sitting against the headboard, shirt halfway up, feeding her with your shirt curled up so he can just barely see the soft curve of your breast.

It’s like he’s been hit by a bus, and he doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring. Watching you feed your baby, the little life you made, watching you give her everything she needs. You’re her sun. She doesn’t need anything, anyone except you, and it’s amazing. All she knows, all she wants, is you.

She revolves around you.

And he does too.

“I’ve got it,” the words are thick in his throat, and you lift your arms.

“Help me out?” He wedges it under your elbows and then steps back. He should go, turn around. But he doesn’t want to. He wants to stay in this moment with you, with her. He wants to soak up the sun.

“She’s gettin’ big.”

“Huge.” You stroke her cheek with your finger. “Cheeks are getting chubby.”

“She’s beautiful. Gets it from her mum.” You don’t answer, but he catches the widening of your eyes, the way your gaze dips down. The silence is heavy, air between the two of you thick and warm, and after a while, you clear your throat. 

“You can sit, you know. You don’t have to stand there.” He hesitates but only for a second before he’s settling on the bed in front of you, your leg shifting just enough that your knee is resting against his thigh.

Ollie unlatches with a sigh, her tiny mouth open, milk drunk and perfect. You adjust her, yourself, and then prop her up on your shoulder, methodically, gently, patting her back. The blanket pools at your waist, and he itches to fix it, tuck it in closer to ward off the cold.

She burps once, twice. And then-

“Oh no.” You groan as she poops, and he chuckles.

“Who knew somethin’ like that could come from someone that small?” You start to try to move, inch forward, but his palm settles firmly on your thigh. “No.”

“I can-”

“You can stay in this bed. I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to, I’m fine, I can-”

“Angel.” He cuts in, and you sigh. “I don’t want you gettin’ out of this bed for the next few days at least. Not unless it’s necessary. And changin’ a diaper isn’t necessary when I’m right here.” You still look like you want to argue, but he shakes his head. “You’ve been through hell, sweetheart. You’re hurting, you’re tired, and you’re tryin’ to do it all but you don’t need to. I’m right here.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.” You whisper, staring down at Ollie’s face.

“You and her could never be a burden to me flower. I want to help. Let me.” You’re mine now, he almost says. Your eyes have uncertainty in them, doubt he wants to wipe away, but you finally relent with a sigh.

“Thank you.” It’s hoarse, and he only nods. “She’ll probably want to be walked around too.”

“Don’t worry,” he assures as you transfer her to his arms, “I’ve got it. We’ve got it, don’t we Ollie girl?” You brush her cheek with the backs of your fingers, and then give him a small, soft smile.

Carmy doesn't want to encourage this, but it's impossible to tell you no— Especially not a nervous you. He nods, “Non-offensive, non-invasive dessert.” No mains, no apps, no fucking fish, he’d previously instructed. Dessert is fine. “It's good.”

Homemade, too; under Marcus' supervision and aide, but still. Pistachio cupcakes. No cake. No centrepiece dessert, are you insane? Finger food. Could set it up at the entrance, no one would bat an eye. A few topped with a thin slice of fig. Not too sweet, not too showy, but not not showy. It says, ‘I clearly tried and am being different, but not in an asshole way.’ 

It's a little unnerving, how hard you're trying just to get some level of approval from Donna, and the rest of Carmen's family— Pending anyone shows up to Christmas Eve dinner, that is.

“I will not help in the kitchen even if she asks for it.” 

“Left up here, shortcut.” Carmen points as he nods. “You will not ask if she’s okay— Ever.”

You take the left, “Can I compliment the food?”

“Yes. You have to.” Carmen’s gotta remember his house rules now too, regrettably. His own palms start to sweat now too, camaraderie. “And the decor. But you hav’t’do it after you actually take time to soak it in, but not so late she’s gotta ask for it.”

“See?” You tut, only half sarcastic, “This is why we review four times.”

“It’ll be fine, you're—” Carmy gestures to your form haphazardly as he tries to figure out the least offensive way to tell you you’ve got nothing to worry about, as you have no competition. “S’not like you're— …You're not—”

“You can just say I'm not Pete.” 

“...How'd you know I was gonna–?” He realizes before he even finishes the sentence. Answering his own question at the same time you do.

“Mikey.” 

You shrug, hands start to white knuckle the steering wheel. “Didn't exactly keep his feelings unknown. I assumed this was agreed as a family, too.” Whole family is gonna talk shit about you too, guaranteed. You're not even married in, you'd talk shit about you, too.

Carmy doesn’t confirm that everyone hates Pete, but he doesn’t deny either. “Well, y’have a charm, whether it works on her— Dunno, but I think your odds are okay.”

Speaking of not being married in, you would love to ask how you’re supposed to introduce yourself. Are you Mikey’s old friend? Carmen’s co-worker? Friend? Girlfriend? Just some Handyman he hitched a ride with? All of the above?

Oh shit, wait, spent too long in your brain, Carmy’s waiting for a reply. Just smile and nod, that’s fine. Yeah, that’s fine. Okay, back to thinking.

Christmas Eve dinner is already going to be a rough enough night, you don’t need to push it with the talk. Tonight, the mission is: Keep Carmen Stable. — And also, maybe, make DeeDee love you, if possible. Added bonus. Oh, who are you kidding, you need her to love you. But hey! DeeDee loving you will make Carmen happy, presumably, and thus, will keep him stable! So it’s really all the same mission, at the end of the day.

As you close in on your destination, the streets start to become uncomfortably familiar to Carmy. He rubs his brows back and forth, squishing new wrinkles in, soothing a tension headache that's grown from background thrumming to ear-splitting. The mission's already off to a rocky start, and you’re not even there yet.

“Can we uhm— Can we—” ‘Talk about something other than this?’ is what he’s trying to ask. You know him.

And so you oblige, “Cat finally came inside my apartment, after days of treat luring.”

“Bite at all?” Of course that’s his first question.

“Nah, she’s sweet. And also might be missing teeth. Can’t fully tell. Got an appointment booked for her after New Years, so, I’ll find out then.” If you can manage to get her in the carrier, that is.

“I had a cat once.” Carmen does not know why he words it like this; he immediately regrets it when you look at him with such an undeserved brightness. He corrects before you can start a line of excited questions,  “Not–Not really, though. When I was in Copenhagen I lived in an Air B-N-B that told me to put out a water dish every night for their cat, but I never saw one.”

You pause, but not for as long as most would. “...Did the water disappear?”

“It did.”

“Invisible cat?”

“Or it evaporated.”

“I’m stickin’ with invisible cat.” Unfortunately, your cat questionnaire is coming to an end as you pull into his Mom’s driveway. Donna’s empty driveway. “Oh fuck, is Sug not here already?”

Not thinking for a second, Carmen’s already twisting in his seat, looking around, “Where’s the Pepto?”

“I told you, you can’t keep drinking that shit like it’s Gatorade—You have a stomach problem—”

“I’m takin’ the chewable one, it’s better.” “I don’t think it works like that.” “What are you, a doctor?” “I mean— Like close to a doctor.” “Yeah but not.” “You’re so annoying; I’m gonna text her, hold on—”

You have a very calm and normal reaction, and definitely don’t jump when there’s a tap at your side window. A very perky woman is smiling ear to ear at you, practically hopping in place where she’s leaned over to greet you. Donna. Her breath is fogging up the glass, she’s just come out of the house, no jacket– Not even in a sweater. 

She’s not overtly stressed looking, like Carmen described her. Not half crying with smudged mascara, like Michael once described her. Not distraught and heartbroken, screaming outside The Bear, like you once saw her. She just looks like… A mom. Like a very classic mom. Like, if you could pick out and buy one, she’d be in the catalogue. She’s got a dirtied apron on, a button down with the most horrendous floral pattern you’ve ever seen, and very gaudy cheap jewellery decorates every part of her except her hands. You didn’t review four times for this Donna.

Carmy hesitantly, silently, reaches for your hand— And you’re not sure if it’s for his sake or yours. You take it regardless, rolling down the window with your other hand. You try to be the first one to talk, but you’re not fast enough. 

“Hello!” Her tone of voice is so melodic, yet piercing. Y’know, how moms do? “You must be—” She pauses, and she seems to be playing up her pause, almost theatrical about the whole exchange. Her eyes look upward, as she tries to recall. 

“Well, what should I call you?” Her head bobs as she asks. And you can tell, she isn’t asking in the ‘I don’t know what your name is’ way, she’s asking in the ‘I know you by many, so what do you prefer’ way.

Donna’s like a verbal MMA fighter— She’s got you off kilter in seconds. You can’t tell the parts of her that are sincere from the ones that aren’t. But you know they’re both there. 

You’d prepared the script in your head to introduce yourself, but she’s fucked up the whole routine for you. “Uh…Whatever you prefer…?”

You’re failing every part of the mission already— How are you going to get her love now? You start to give her nickname options, but she’s already speaking again.

“Mmm.” She nods assuredly, “Well, come on in, thank you for bringing Carmy with you, Natalie’s already cooking, Pete’s keeping the baby entertained, and I’m setting up beds for tonight! You both better be sleeping over, alright?”

She reaches through the window, over you, to poke at her son with a waggling finger. “Make sure my baby Bear sleeps over, even if he says he can’t, okay, Chip?” She does not give you a chance to answer, already pulling her hand back. “Okay, see you inside, it’s chilly!”

And she walks back inside, leaving the front door just slightly ajar so you’re forced to go inside soon.

But for the minute of reprieve you have, you both stare forward through the windshield, stone faced, hand in hand. You take a breath, “Nat parked in the garage.” Your field of vision has been focused in for so long that you didn’t even notice the cars parked on the street until now either. 

“She wants us to sleepover.” Carmen says it plainly, but shocked, like it’s akin to heresy.

“Sug is cooking.” You add. That’s definitely on the list of ‘No’s’. 

“Sug is cooking.”

“She called me Chip.”

With that, you both turn to each other. He swallows his spit and his eyes flicker.

“Can I get that Pepto now?”

“In the glove box; get me one, too.”

You weren’t sure what to expect in terms of decor. From what Mikey told you, typically, Donna went pretty hard when it came to the holidays. She made things beautiful for everyone. This year, despite the absence she no doubt feels, the place— By your standard, is still quite decked out. Each doorway is covered in faux pine leaves, string lights border every wall, bows and bulbs are strewn about with purpose.

But, if one was to look closely— Which you are— they’d notice there’s a gap in all the work she’s done, that sucks the life out of everything once you realize it’s there; it’s in every fixture, every string of tinsel, every wreath, every bulb.

Donna can’t reach the tops of things anymore— Not easily. She doesn’t have someone readily available to do it for her. Anything taped up on the tops of doorways or bookshelves is partially falling— She could get on a stool, but she’s older, she can’t do it well. 

It’s a lot to reconcile with; the little absences, they coalesce together into a massive void. Michael isn’t here to help, he’s not here to be him, he’s not here to greet you at the door, he’s not here to invite you into his own house for the first time. He can’t introduce you to the family– Tell everyone what a ball buster you can be. He can’t show you his room, you can’t make fun of him and suggest he probably still owns a race car bed. He can’t shake Carmen’s shoulders and congratulate him for nutting up and bringing you here. 

But some other guy is here to greet you at the door. And that’s enough to knock you— And Carmen, for that matter— out of your fugue states. He’s got glasses and he doesn’t immediately look like a Berzatto but frankly, no one does. He’s looking at you expectantly, hand out. Oh shit, he’s said something to you and you completely missed it. Son of a bitch. You hand him your plastic container of cupcakes.

“Oh— I was going for your coat but sure, I’ll never say no to– To green cupcakes.” He says politely, though every sentence in his candour sounds half sarcastic.

“Pistachio.” Carmen corrects on your behalf, taking your (his) coat off for you. 

“Ooh…” Says Glasses. “Showy but not in an asshole way.”

You blink, “Bar for bar.” and nod, impressed, if not a little scared. Is this guy a psychic or are you just that easy to read? 

You stick your hand out to him once Carmen frees it from the jacket. You tell him your name, “—But most call me Jack, or– Chip or Tony— Honestly, just call me anything, it’s fine.”

How sweaty are your palms right now? Some would say too sweaty. Some would say any sweat at all is too sweaty, but that’s a bit too high a standard. You shouldn’t have stuck your hand out but now it’s too late. You shouldn’t have given him just about every nickname under the sun, but now it’s too late.

“Steven.” Says Steven, shaking your hand. Kind of a weak grip, he might be doing that on purpose to not clam himself up with your wet hand. He gives you mercy in the form of a pithy reply. “With a V; or a P-H, if you’re nasty.” 

Your shoulders fall, relieved. This man might be your only saving grace tonight. “Oh, thank God you’re here.” Is he a Berzatto? There’s no way a guy this jovial is a Berzatto.

“Married in. My wife’s Michelle, I think she’s— I don’t know where she is, actually.” Steven answers your thoughts. That’s it. Stephen’s a mind-reader. “She’s real, I promise.”

After Carm puts your coat up in the closet, Steven gives him a firm handshake and a half hug. “Good to see you, Carmy. You uh, you still cooking and sleeping on couches?”

“Cooking, yes.” He removes his own coat, hanging it up next to yours. “Couches, sometimes.” Carm manages to slip the following words through like they’re normal,  “Is Lee coming?”

“Uncle Lee?” Steven’s chuckle feels sobering. “Are you kidding? I’m wearing my nice vest today, it’d be a motherfucker to get drywall out of this.” The regret of the half joke is immediate, but you and Carmen manage to laugh it off anyways. 

Carmy gently takes your case of cupcakes from Steven, looking to you. He’s doing that thing he did at the wedding. That look. Calm but small, a sycophant of sorts. “I’m just gonna plate these in the kitchen, n’ – n’ —”

“Do a temp check?” You relieve him by knowing him— Though, you’re not sure if a temp check is the best thing for Mission: Carmen’s Stability. But you’d be hard-pressed to say no to that stressed out face. 

“Yes, thank you, Che— Tony.” He sighs, a good sigh— You think. You hope. He gives you a prompt peck on the cheek before walking off. 

Steven watches Carmen leave, and once he’s sure the Chef’s out of ear shot, he whips his head to you at such a break neck pace you feel an urge to do an impromptu check up. 

“What’s the relationship?” Straight forward, this guy.

“With him? Jury’s out but strong romantic plotline so far.” Good thing you (usually) are too. “With the family… My dad's friends with Unc—”

“That’s fine.” Steven puts his hand up, he somehow manages to be gentle in telling you to shut the fuck up. “D’y’know Pete?”

“Slightly.”

“Thoughts so far?” Ah, his own ‘fellow in-laws’ temp check.

You take a beat, before shrugging. “...If he makes her happy.”

“Exactly.” He offers you his arm, and once you take it he guides you into the living room. He is just as thankful that you’re here as you are him. “It’s just you and me, compadre. Do you want to hear at length about the year in which Carmen slept on my couch?”

“I can’t imagine a better use of my time right now.”

It is so difficult for Carmen to tell whether his sister wants to hug or kill their mother.

Donna’s doing that thing. It’s a new thing. An over-compensating thing. She’d spent decades keeping Sug out of the kitchen for one mistake; so now to make up for it, she’s letting Nat make the beef braciole entirely by herself. However, she’s still commenting on every little thing she’s letting Nat do— “Colby Jack instead of Parm? What a treat.” — And it’s in that way that lets her know what she’s doing is wrong without ever actually disapproving it. 

Which, to be fair, Sug is doing it wrong. 

“Behind! Fuck you doin’?” Carmen sets your cupcakes down on what little free counter space there is, rolling his sleeves up in one swift motion as he grabs a box of raisins from Nat’s hand, just as she’s about to pour them into her tomato sauce mix over the stove. “Are we suddenly Sicilian?”

But it’s in that moment, when Nat half turns to face her brother, and the corner of her mouth ever so slightly upturns, that Carmen realizes she’s doing it all wrong on purpose. She’s doing her own temp check. She’s finding the limit, the line; because at the moment, there doesn’t seem to be one, and for some reason that feels worse. 

“Leave it to Michelin over here!” DeeDee jeers from the sidelines. It's not really a joke, yet she's laughing. 

It is such a bizarre sort of theatre, when a parent is trying to make up for years of what they lacked. Can never tell if they're trying to entertain their child or themselves. 

DeeDee lifts a wine glass to cheers the air, but notably, no wine. Apple Juice? Cider? It's something with no stink. When Donna finishes taking a sip, her wild smile sobers.

Plain faced, she asks unprompted, “What's the relationship?”

Carmen, blindsided, slams the carton of raisins down on the counter much harder than ever intended. “Oh, Christ—” 

Sugar's voice overlaps Carmy’s dismay, “Oh, thank God someone asked.”

And he hates to think it, but Carm much prefers his sister when she's not on their mom's side. 

…What is the relationship, though? ‘Girlfriend’ is still a stupid fucking word in his eyes. It sucks to even say outloud. ‘Partner’ sounds like you’re going to open an LLC together. ‘Lover’ is way too much. Well, is it really? Forget that thought. Plus, none of it really encapsulates you. Nothing really gets the idea of you across. You’re you. What else could he prescribe you as? Carmy stutters through a definition. 

“She's Tony, she's—” Oh, God. “She's like, a… Person of interest.”

“Per–?!” Sug relinquishes all her remaining control over cooking in shock, thank God, because it gives Carmen the chance to immediately step in and do something with his hands and brain during this interrogation. Sug repeats, eyes wide, her mouth is agape in a horrifically amused way. “Person of interest, Carmy? The fuck?”

“Yeah, what does that mean, sweetheart?” Asks Donna, still leant back, more relaxed than anyone's ever seen her in a kitchen. Maybe anywhere. She even chuckles, for God's sake. “Of your interest? What, are you a cop? What's— What's the big deal?”

“She's just— Like— She's Tony, alright? She's my guy and my co-worker and my repairman and my– My friend, and my—” Carmen stops stirring the literal pot to look up at his mother's blank expression. “Cut that shit out, why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

Donna shrugs, hiding her mouth behind the glass. “Don’t want to tell your mom shit, I gettit.” She’s hurt. Try as she might to perform, she’s still Carmen’s mother. She’s still offended by every misspeak. Correction, everything she considers misspeak.

“I’m new to modern relationships I dunno; what is this?” She wheezes out, half laughing, snapping her fingers, “the ‘talking stage’?”

The chef almost huffs. God, he really can’t help but regress in this house. At least his therapist will be proud that he’s self aware enough to see it happening.

Carmy pulls at his face with one hand. “Does it fuckin’ matter? She’s here because I want her here, is that fine? Is everyone cool with that? Or–or do we need an interrogation?”

And DeeDee's doing that weird bounce thing again. It's alarming and annoying. Carmy protests again, “Am I heard?!”

“I’m not interrogating!” DeeDee laughs, eyes almost closed sheerly by the height of her cheek bones. “Just a question, Carmy, gosh, every time I ask anything, both of you tell me to stop!”

All Nat can do is clear her throat. Yikes. Post-Wedding talk must’ve gone great for them. 

Donna refills her glass of apple cider, then cheers the glass to empty air, “Y’know what, I’m just gonna go formally introduce myself, alright? Did you even offer her anything to drink, Carmen?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, taking the bottle and an extra glass, Donna strides out of the kitchen, muttering all the way out. “Oh my God, she’s going to think we’re poor and impolite.” 

“Ma—” Carm sucks the air between his teeth, curling a fist into a ball, before letting it go. His family always ruins things for him. They always get weird and too excited. He does however, call out to her disappearing frame, “Don't say some weird shit t' her!”

He silently resumes his position in the kitchen; temp check only half successful, but at least there's peace— For now. Can only pray that it sticks. Natalie hangs her head by Carmen’s shoulder, watching him work.

“I'm glad you're here, Bear.” 

“I'm glad I am, too, Bear.” Replies Carm, he pulls off a piece of the tender roasting beef with a fork, offering it to Nat over his shoulder. 

“...It’s finished.” Nat mumbles, still chewing. Her voice isn’t much louder than a whisper. Maybe it’s out of gentleness, maybe it’s out of fear. “She’s sober.”

“I noticed.” He nods, lowering the heat. Oven knobs are the best fidget toy. “Is that a her or a you?”

“A her.” 

Oh, shit. Donna made the step on her own. Carm sniffs and scratches his nose, he knows to keep hope low. “You think it'll stick?”

“It's been like a month and a half, apparently, so—” She flattens her lips and shrugs, “maybe.” 

There's a beat of silence, it feels like when an actor forgets their line— Or, more specifically, when an actor is absent from the scene altogether. There's that missing third note, the punchline. Sug takes on the role of completing it. 

“Person of interest is crazy.”

Carmen scoffs, rolling his shoulder to shift her off of him. “Don't you have a fuckin’ kid to take care of?”

“Yeah, you.”

“...Set myself up—” “You did, you really did.”

Carmen sighs, checking on the steaming vegetables in the pot behind the braciole on the stove.

“...Is Tony my girlfriend?” “Why are you asking me this?” “Who do I ask?”

When she doesn’t answer, Carmen turns from the stove to look at her. Nat is looking at him like he’s grown three heads, each with a smaller brain than the last.

“...How old are you?” “Only fucking teenagers ask if they're dating.”

Nat considers hitting him upside the head, for old time’s sake— But holds herself back. Going with a verbal smack, as it were, “Then are you?” 

“...” Carmen’s eyes seem to glaze over, too much thought and also no thoughts at all in that brain. He turns back to the stove— Where his brain works. He wordlessly takes the steamed veggies off their heat, strains them without error, and returns them to the stove.

Sugar watches, shifting her weight onto one leg. “Carmy.”

He throws a healthy pad of butter in with the veggies, gently sauteing. “Nat.”

“She's here.”

“I'm aware.”

“You should ask her.”

“You can’t just ask someone on Christmas. That's fucked.” “What does that even mean?” “It's like proposing on Christmas, it's fuckin’ annoying.”

Nat takes a beat, leaning her shoulders back, arms crossing. “You remember Pete proposed on Christmas, right?”

Carmy has to stop himself from agreeing, turning the heat down on his veggies as a form of diversion. “Hmm?”

“...Whatever.” She shrugs it off with a roll of the eyes. “I'm just saying if I were her, I'd want to know what to introduce myself as.”

“She doesn’t have to introduce herself, I’m fuckin’ introducing her.” Carmen twists around to look at Nat, defiant.

And she doesn’t refute him— Not verbally, at least. Sugar just stares at her brother, arms crossed, waiting for him to put it together. Carmen’s logic is solid, until it isn’t. He’s left you alone for twenty minutes, more or less, by now. His shoulders fall.

“...I’m not introducing her.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. Honest to God, Dawn dish soap. Five in One was the compromise of growth I got out of him.” Michelle, Steven’s wife, the actual Berzatto, puts her hand in the air, saluting Scout’s honour. “I’m tremendously proud that you got him onto Old Spice.”

You are learning more about Carmen than he probably ever wanted you to know, and it’s only been like twenty minutes. You recall saying you would’ve been friends in highschool, which you still defend, but at the same time, it’s probably for the best that you did not know the war machine that he was up until his late twenties.

You’re learning that it’s a bit of a surprise that Carmen likes you and your home; because from what you’re hearing, he’s never been a big memories and knick knacks kind of guy. He’s packed light his whole life. Didn’t even have a bed for a good portion of it. Comfort, material, memorabilia, that’s kind of… your whole thing. The first time Mikey visited your apartment he said you were a ‘nostalgia pervert’. You still think that was a little uncalled for, but it’s probably the most apt way to define you. 

Ugh, it keeps coming back to Mikey. It’s hard to be in this house and have your head not come back to Mikey. You’ve never been here before, but every childhood anecdote he’s told you— Every adult story he– had told you, you’re seeing it in the bones of this house. It’s like being on the set of your favourite TV show of yesteryear. But it’s just a backdrop, without him. 

God, he should be here. God, your back hurts. 

Jesus Christ, talking about Carmen’s old life was supposed to distract you, and it did no such thing. You stand quite suddenly, getting up from the floor, where you and Michelle were sitting, and Steven just above you both on the couch. “I’m gonna just go to the bathroom real quick. Check if they’ve got five in one here, too.” 

Perfect, they laugh, they buy it, you’re the perfect house guest. The perfect not-girlfriend.

Maybe your bonus mission quest of getting Donna to love you is a flop, but you should have Steven and Michelle wrapped around your finger soon enough. What’s wrong with a good ol’ fashion pivot? Nothing!

So that means it’s totally fine to pivot and run the other way down the hall because Donna is approaching!

…Alright, don’t run. That’s frowned upon. Recall your lessons on her. Even if Donna’s a little peppier, she’s still at a base level, herself. She must be.

Don't show fear, be affectionate, touchy. As she passes you and you pass her in the narrow hall, you put your hands on both her shoulders.

Like a bear, be soft, but look straight at it. …That’s what you’re supposed to do with bears, right? “Everything is just so stunning, Donna.” 

Never call her Mrs. Berzatto, she'll talk about her long gone husband. Never call her ma’am, she'll take offense about her age. Never call her Miss, that's condescending about her age. Call her Donna first, she'll decide if—

“Oh, please. Call me DeeDee.” Mission back on? “And it's nothing, just threw it together, really.”

“Incredibly well ‘thrown’ together.” Always make sure credit isn't stolen. “Are you a big interior design fan?” Alright, you milked it too hard, now that's condescending.

Her head tilts back chuckling, “That’s a hobby for the rich ladies at Mass, not me.” She scoffs, but it's jovial. Mission back on! She lifts an empty glass and a bottle of non-alcoholic cider up to you, in offering. “Were you looking for a drink? I can’t believe my chefs didn’t get you a drink.”

You laugh, but it comes out strangled. There’s something about Donna holding a wine glass— Empty or otherwise— That sets some sort of trigger off, in your brain. You clear your throat in attempts to play off the strange noise. “Ah, maybe later. Right now I’m just trying to find the bathroom, actually.”

She directs you with her pointer finger, “It’s just down the hall, on your left, Chip.” 

Ah. She’s done it again. You’ve gotta ask this time, “You know ‘Chip’?”

“I know my son. I know his friends.” Donna shrugs. The following comment isn’t required, “Even if they don’t know me.” But she says it anyway. 

That was meant to be snide, right? There’s no way to take that well, is there? There’s an air of judgment to it. ‘Why didn’t you meet me?’ She’s asking, between the lines. 

You purse your lips to keep yourself from frowning— Trying to remain unphased— Perfect, as it were. “I knew you through stories, I guess like you did me.”

Donna hums, “All good stories, I hope? I beg?”

Absolutely fucking not. “Of course!” But more good than bad, which for any mom, is still a decent ratio. God, this conversation sucks. Let it end. “I’ll be back!” You quickly scurry off to the bathroom– Thankful for the kitschy holiday themed toilet sign on the door, because you’ve instantly forgotten the instructions DeeDee gave. 

Makeup looks fine, bladder is empty. Nothing to do. 

Should you call someone? Richie? No. He’s got a kid. He’s supposed to be having Christmas Eve with his kid right now. Sure, he told you to call, if shit ever hit the fan— But this isn’t that bad— Not yet, at least. You can handle yourself, you’re an adult.

What about Syd? No. She’s with her dad doing traditions. Ugh. Should you be with your dad, right now?

You were giving a brave face, when you said it's not that big a deal to skip out on the holidays to be with Carmen instead of your actual family. Are you an asshole? Skipping out on family to rescue a guy that you don’t even have a label with yet?

 Should you call your dad? Fuck no. Why did you even think to ask? Man, your back feels like shit.

Y'know who you can always talk to?

Under your sweater, the necklace remains. It's a tentative New Year's resolution of yours to take it off and keep it off. A tentative resolution to not rely on people that aren't here. Let the dead be dead. 

You open your mouth, to give in, and realize then how dry your throat is. Maybe you should’ve taken Donna up on that cider offer. You have yet to touch a single glass in this home, though. Something feels weird about it. You swallow your spit to soothe the acrid taste, before starting to speak. “Mi–”

There's one and a half raps on the door and before you can answer, it's already opening with no regard to your privacy. 

Fak. With a dumb looking slick back. He stares at your reflection in the mirror and you stare back at his.

“You're havin’ a panic attack.” He says. Since when did Fak know what a panic attack was?

“I'm not having a panic attack.” You say, unphased, more annoyed than anything. And it is true. This is more a stage two or three on your scale, if anything. 

“I can sense it. Like a bloodhound.”

“What does that even—” You finally turn to face the guy, ridiculing him. “What the fuck happened to ‘Hello’? ‘How are you?’ ‘Happy holidays’?” 

“Don't say fuck on Christmas Eve.”

“You’re—” You grimace, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Whattdya want, Fak?”

“Nah.” Neil says this like it’s a brave, warrior statement. He closes the door behind him, turning this bathroom into your shared secret chamber. “What do you need?”

You stare at him blankly for a good few seconds before lightly thwacking the side of his head with the back of your hand. “What the fuck is wrong wit’ you—”

“I’m being supportive–!” “Lockin’ yourself in a bathroom with me—” “You’re always hogging bathrooms—” “Why does now of all times seem like the moment to fuck with me?” “You need someone to talk to, don’t you?”

With a hefty sigh, you lean back against the bathroom sink. “I don’t even know what I want to talk about.”

“...Try starting?”

You tilt your head down, staring at your shoes. The one person you have right now, is fucking Fak? How far we fall.

“...This is exactly why I didn’t come to the fuckin’ funeral.” And though you didn’t think they’d come, the thoughts just fall out of your skull. “Just a bunch of assholes that treat me like a stranger— Because I am a stranger— But I’m not. I fucking know them, fuckin’ better than they know themselves, I’d bet—”

You cut yourself off, already sick of the argument. You grip the edge of the sink behind you. “Just— the one person that was meant to run my introductions and smooth everything out for me, wasn’t gonna be at the funeral, and he’s not here now, obviously.”

“You need me to get Carmy? He's just finishing up in the kitch—”

You shake your head curtly, almost rolling your eyes. “That's not who I'm talking about.”

“Oh…” Fak tilts his head down, realizing. “Yeah.”

There’s an awkward pause as he tries to muster up something to say. And he’s got a question you know you won’t want to honestly answer. “You don’t think Carm can—”

There’s a knock on the door. “Yo, Tony? Steven said you’d be in here, you good?” Speak of the Devil.

“Yeah, she’s good!” Neil gives you the thumbs up, he’s proud of himself for ‘covering’ for your less than perfect emotions. 

…

Again, you thwack Fak’s head, ruining his slick back this time. “Ow—” “Why did that seem like your moment?”

“Fak?”

“I’m good.” You answer Carmen, opening the door. “We’re good. You good?”

Carmy takes a beat, regarding you. Trying to coax out what you’re really feeling. He can't, and that's disquieting. You’re never difficult to read. You never hide it. You’re not the one in this dynamic that puts a wall up. Nonchalant is not a word in your vocabulary. It's got him off balance in an instant. 

He’s got your cupcakes on a tiered tray, in one hand. Cute. “I’m good. You wanna– uhm— Can I— Do you wanna hand out cupcakes—? Together?”

“Yeah, f’sure.” You swipe your nose, shaking off residual feelings as you step out of the bathroom. There’s a weird uncomfortable silence between you and Carmen. One that’s rarely occurred, if ever. 

Fak inches out of the bathroom, taking up the space between you two. He regards both of you, and gestures with his hands to the air. “Oh my God. Is this a lovers’ quarrel?”

“Don’t say lovers.” “Don’t say quarrel.”

You’re not in love with the way Carmen’s eyes dart to you, when you tell Fak not to say ‘lovers’. By anyone else’s standards, the look is plain and unexpressive. To you, you know it’s bordering on accusatory. 

Carmen slept on couches and frame-less beds. Carmen used dish soap and then five-in-one to shower. Carmen didn’t have a bookshelf but he has ninety-one books. The most Carmen’s ever taken care of was a ghost cat. Carmen’s not a guy that cares for frills or material or comfort. Carmen packs light. Carmen’s ready for take-off at any moment. Carmen didn't introduce you. 

Carmen’s noncommittal. 

That’s the dumb thing that’s sticking out in your head. Your stupid relationship status. Carmen’s noncommittal. Yeah, he gave you that whole romantic speech about keeping you around and having you in everything– But like, what does that really mean? There's nothing actionable. So, presumably, he'd hate to be called your lover, wouldn't he? You're just being the bad guy for him. Rip the band-aid, be nonchalant– Casual. Perfect Not-Girlfriend behaviour. Not really your thing, but you’re supposed to be of all trades, aren’t you? C’mon, Jack. Be perfect for him. You’re The Guy, you can do that much, right?

With a tight smile, you shrug off his look. “Cupcakes?” Carmen can only nod, still off-put. 

Without much of a goodbye, you foist a cupcake on Fak— He opens his mouth like you’re going to feed him for a second, but after you freeze just out of his range, he more politely takes the cupcake in his hand. 

Carmen opens his mouth, as you walk away together, so you interrupt before he’s got the chance to unwrap what’s going on with you. “How’s Nat?” Is the sidestep question you go with.

“–Hm? Oh, she’s… herself. Can never tell if that’s a positive.”

“Roast of the century.” You mumble, handing cupcakes off to Jimmy and his… wife? She’s certainly not the first one—

“Does he have a new wife?” Carmen whispers to you once you pass them, just as lost. “Definitely not his second wife.”

“Must be the third, unless we lost track at some point.” You shrug, “Let’s just avoid introductions all together in case we should know her.” Makes it easier for her and you. It’s a win win. 

“Tony!” Pete is nice because for the most part, he doesn’t stick his head in other’s business. No, rather, he sticks his business in other people’s heads. “You used to be an EMT, right? Super cool.”

“Yeah, I was, thank you, Pete. Cupcake?” 

He takes the cupcake in his freehand, the other busy holding Michaela straight on his knee. “Y’know, Natalie has been having this problem where when she—” Cupcake in hand, he gestures to his chest awkwardly. “–Y’know?”

Carmen pretends he doesn’t exist, for the moment. He tries to convince himself the fake snow on a hanging piece of tinsel is the most interesting thing in the world at the moment. You purse your lips, “For sure, Pete.” 

“Breastfeeds.”

“Yeah, no, I got it.”

“Yeah, she gets sad, like, in tears. What’s up with that?”

You put a hand over your mouth, trying to cover any possible expression that could leak through, “Right, okay, crazy personal thing to ask on behalf of your wife— Uh—” You pause, lost for words. “I was not a pediatrician, but that’s probably D-MER, uh– Normal thing, not really any cure, but that’s sorta how all reproductive healthcare works, eh?”

“Oh—” Ted Fak, manages to make a surprise appearance, yoinking a cupcake from the tray. He points at Pete with one hand, shoving the dessert in his mouth with the other, while speaking, mind you. “Dude— you should ask Claire-Bear.”

Carmen straightens up, knocked out of his dissociative fugue. He talks through tight lips. “Claire’s an Emergency Doctor, she’s not gonna have any more detail than Tony.”

“Oh, Claire’s a doctor now?” In comes Donna along with Sugar from the kitchen, like the cavalry. “Good for her, that’s a lot of school!”

Natalie’s got too many plates and cutlery stacked upon her singlehandedly. Her mom’s not holding anything at all, far too interested in gossip. Without hesitation, you leave Carmen to help Sugar. She’s very thankful as you take half of the weight out of her arms and set the table alongside her. Maybe you should be the one to thank Nat, really, because she’s given you the gift of something to do.

That doesn’t stop Donna from continuing on. “I really liked Claire, she’s a smart one, hm? Carmen you used to have a crush on her, right? So cute.”

Alright, is it just you, or does every statement DeeDee makes feel weirdly targeted against you? Like she’s doing everything she can to see you sweat, to get a rise out of you. Well, it’s not gonna fucking work. You’re the guy, and you’re perfect, and no passive aggression is going to get to you. 

…That said, who the fuck is Claire-Bear?

“That was in high school.” Carmen answers behind you. Ah, so Carmen did have things as frivolous as crushes back in the day. Good to know. 

“Yeah, but…” Fak hesitates, it sounds like he knows he’s about to put his foot in his mouth but can’t stop now. “You dated pretty recently…?”

And there’s curious hooting and hollering from everyone that wasn’t already wise to this— Especially Donna, and that’s probably a cute family moment. But to you it sounds like the most horrific cacophony of sounds. 

Ah, the girl with an even better medical background— And she’s still in the field, even. She can handle the patients and the families and the constant fear. The girl that everyone actually did know as a family friend, and wasn’t solely tied to the dead guy. The girl that has a seemingly long and storied history with Carmen— The girl who he lost a lot of his firsts to. The girl that’s just so perfect.

The girl Donna seems to love. The girl who the entire family is excitedly cooing about, instead of you, the person that’s actually here. Hm. Hmm.

Hmmm. 

That’s so interesting, that’s so cool. You do not feel bitter because that’s an imperfect emotion, and you are the guy. And  the guy is so perfect, so nonchalant, so cool, so casual, so happily unlabelled. 

You don’t realize you’re holding onto a fork with a white knuckle grip until Sugar’s hand covers yours. She slowly guides you to set it on the placemat, sympathetic. You take a breath—

“Oh!” Feigned delight, and everyone can read it on Donna’s face as she looks at Carmen’s tray of cupcakes. “Dessert before dinner, how nouveau.” 

No matter how many times you went over the rules, you’ve still fucked it up, eh?

You snap back up from the table, and with a flat-lipped look to Nat, pocket the fork as a fidget toy. Hey, it worked for Mikey, in a way. Maybe this is one of the ones he held at that dinner. Maybe. It feels good to say it was.

It’s stilted, like a choked out line on stage, the way Steven says, “Let’s have dinner!” But it works well enough.

One bite.

Two bites.

Three bites, now— 

“Everything is so good, DeeDee—” Add specifics, “–The salmon is so flavourful.” the specifics always need to be about a main dish, bless your fucking gravestone if you compliment the potatoes. Everyone hums and agrees in kind.

“Mm–” Steven pipes in between chews, “How’s the restaurant going? I got to try a bit at the wedding— really something, Carmy.”

“Thank you.” Carmen nods, more nervous than usual— So that’s saying something. “It’s uh– It’s goin’ well, yeah. Workin’ our way up, f’sure.”

He’s acting like the first version of Carmy you met, leg shaking under the table. You put your free hand on his knee. It seems to help.

“We’re booked through January, now.” Sugar boasts on his anxious behalf. 

“I saw!” Michelle laughs, she nudges Steven. “I was trying to get a reservation while we’re here. When can we come?”

The siblings speak in tow. “When it’s ready.”

“Tony’s been a huge help, with everything.” Ah, Jimmy. Trying to be nice and make you feel special but now you feel tossed into a spotlight that is really a reticle. 

Natalie and Carmen nod in agreement, mouths too full to vocalize it. Meaning, unfortunately, DeeDee gets to go in lieu of them. “Y’know what, that doesn’t surprise me! Chip, you’ve been helping out The Bear for some time right? You were practically a founder!”

You cough on your last bite of a gorgeous scalloped potato, unconvincingly hiding your surprise. Thankfully, Carmen has an even worse poker face than you. Or perhaps you should be unthankful? Who’s to say, just pick a God and pray for this shitshow.

Mikey didn’t tell you much about his mom, but it seems he did not have the same reservations when it came to telling his mom about you. That fucker's always setting you up.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” You take a sip of water, mostly to disguise your thinking time. You put down the glass and tilt your head back and forth. “I was there for Mikey’s pitch to Unc, but I wasn’t like a partner or anything. Just morale and a couple of sketches.” 

Steven and Michelle make their shock known immediately. Not in a vindictive or mean way, but the rug has been pulled from under them. Sonofabitch, have you lost their love so soon? Michelle speaks for both of them. “Oh, love, you didn’t mention you were friends with Michael?”

Steven nods, swiping sauce off his mouth, “Yeah, I thought you were here with Carmy.”

“She is.” Carmen speaks for you, eyes solely on his plate as he slowly saws into a tough piece of meat— with a butter knife. 

Carmen may not be the guy, but he is a guy. The type of guy that can suck the energy out of a room– good or bad– and make it go completely silent, without many words. A Grim Reaper for social gatherings. And you adore him for it. 

In the silence though, you can hear a very faint thumping noise– Sort of tinny, actually.

Where’s that coming from? Nobody else seems to be noticing it, so you pretend it’s not there. The sound groans for a second, after you decide to ignore it— It sends a sore feeling through your spine.

Jimmy’s third(?) wife tries to defuse what is developing into a thick and tense silence. Unfortunately, she does so by lying. “Oh, y’know what, sweetheart, I think you and I actually met at the funeral, that must’ve been when you and Carmen met, hm?”

Pete, wonderful stupid Pete, has to fuck you over double time here. Because he’s objectively a good dad, he’s far too zoned in on feeding sweet little Mickey to pay any attention to the social cues at this table and understand the general rancid vibe. He just hears something wrong and has to correct it. “Oh no, Carol. Neither of them were at the funeral, they didn’t go.”

Nat elbows his side, alas, the damage has already been done. Mickey bubbles with laughter at the slight violence. 

“Why didn’t you go?” Michelle turns her sights onto you, and it feels terrible, because Steven and Michelle were the only ones here you thought you’d earn the love of, and now you’re the asshole that didn’t show up for your best friend. The cutlery feels slippery in your palms.

God, okay, that thumping noise sounds like it’s getting louder, but still, no one’s paying it any mind. Your shoulders feel heavier with every rhythmic strike. Is it in your head? Is this Tell-Tale Heart? When is your life going to stop recreating famous tragedies?

In your clammed up silence, Carmen tries to speak for you again, but you tap his thigh, and he takes the signal to let you handle it. 

It’s Christmas Eve, so it's not exactly the right time to tell the truth and say ‘Oh, actually, I did go. But at the last second, as I walked up to a church I’d never known, that housed my dead best friend, I was overcome with an overwhelming irrational fear and paralysing grief. So I just sat on a curb two blocks down and cried into a sandwich.’ …Hearing that doesn’t exactly put people into a holly jolly mood.

So you stumble your way through saying a bold-faced lie, shrugging.

“Uh, y’know, we just– Just weren’t that close, so, it didn’t feel appropriate to take— uhm— to be a part of that moment.”

God, that hurt just to say. But that’s what the perfect you would be like, right? The perfect you never had weird dead friend trauma, right? The perfect you and Mikey just weren't that close.

Good Lord, just the thought of that makes you want to vomit. Your head feels like it’s boiling. Boiling? Boiler on the fritz? Maybe that’s what that fucking noise is—

That thumping noise that has now turned to hammering that keeps making your bones feel like they’re constricting, if that’s even fucking possible. Well, at least it’s something to focus on besides the disgust you feel with yourself.

You can see Uncle Jimmy out of the corner of your eye, opening his mouth already to call your bullshit. Your eyes snap his way, expression subtle but pleading. He zips his lips. 

DeeDee hums, cheery, smiling as she chews, “Well, that’s not true, Chips, I mean you were his sponsor, of course you were close!” swallowing, with no ounce of regret. “Ha, lotta good that did, hm?”

Carmen had to learn how to silence a room from someone; you should’ve realized that it’d be from her. All anyone can do is stare. What else can they do? All they can do is think about how anyone that sponsored Mikey must’ve fucked up beyond belief. Every wound you’ve worked on healing feels like it’s just torn right back open— It’s hard to stay unphased, when his own mother seems to imply you were no goddamn help. 

The thumping that’s become hammering has now become a sharp and distinct ringing. The tinnitus kind, almost. The kind that makes you want to slam your hands against your ears and sympathize with Van Gogh in a whole new light. 

Sweet darling Carmy, in the long silence, reaches over to take your hand that rests on his knee. But the second his fingers graze the back of your hand, you’re quicker than lightning to stand up, eyes trained on the ceiling. 

“It’s your heating pipes.” You say, with a cold confidence. That’s what the noise is. That’s something to do. That’s something to make you useful— Perfect. You look down to DeeDee. “You’ve got a water hammer problem.” You can’t help the way your eyes twitch for a second. “It’s distracting, can I fix it?”

She waves a hand, seemingly delighted, if not charmed, by your apparent discomfort. She’s still eating, unbothered. “By all means.”

Fak— Neil, points his hand up to offer. “I can help—”

“I don’t need help.”

You almost spit, eyes darting to him. But the guilt is instant when you see his genuinely worried expression, and you soften. Nodding as a form of an apology.

“Thank you, Fak.”

You tap wrap your knuckles against the walls as you follow the hammering noise, listening for creaky pipes to reply to you. The orchestra of plumbing leads you up the stairs. With each step the ringing gets harsher, like it’s taunting you. You can’t help but feel like a B-rate horror movie protagonist. 

It doesn’t help that once you get up the stairs, the noisy pipes seem to be concentrated in one specific room. But you need something to do; even if that is to get murdered by a mediocre slasher right now. So with little to no hesitation, you open the door. 

Ah. 

Maybe you are a nostalgia pervert. You are so immediately taken aback when witnessing Michael’s room for the first time. 

It looks utterly untouched.

In the sense that— It looks like a mess. A candidly photographed, captured in time mess. There’s that slight stink of old laundry— A light mildewy scent coming off of what must’ve been the towel from his last shower. It’s draped over the chair at his desk… his desk looks cleaner than the rest of his room– By comparison, at least. All the notebooks and pens are ‘neatly’ organized. His bed isn’t made, there’s clothes on the floor, rare baseball cards stuck in the frame of his mirror– They’re showing the effects of sunbleaching– The curtains are drawn open and they’ve been forced to bask all year in it, you imagine. 

He has posters that are taped up, wrinkled, crooked, and stupid. Blockbuster movie, 90s video-game, hot girl, blockbuster movie that stars a hot girl, band poster, heavily stained band poster… it goes on.

The blockbuster movie poster flutters in time with the hammering noise that brought you up here in the first place. The scotch tape on the poster seems a bit weak, like it’s been removed and stuck back on a thousand times. With an unsteady focus, you delicately peel the corners of tape off the wall to look behind it. 

A hole in the wall. It’s big, as far as holes in a wall go. From the looks of it, it started as a small hole from a strong punch, and then Mikey must’ve pulled and broken off pieces of drywall to make himself a cubby hole. In the middle of his cubby though, is a dented and rattling copper U-pipe. 

You’re not crazy, this wasn’t Tell-Tale Heart, nor are you the star of the next Friday the Thirteenth reboot. There really is a problem with the pipes. 

But who gives a fuck about a fix anymore? This was Michael’s secret stowaway.

There’s a ‘The Berf’ shirt tied around the pipe as a failed attempt to insulate the thrumming pipe. He lived here, it makes sense that he’d notice it too. On top of the horizontal wooden beam, there’s a few bills, ranging from twenties up to a hundred. An empty dime bag tucked slightly behind the beam, you pretend you don’t notice it. There’s a few photos nailed into the vertical beam. The miss takes from his sobriety photos; the ones where Richie’s thumb is taking up most of the frame, where for a split second the candle lit Mikey’s beard on fire, where Mikey pranked you by shoving the cupcake in your face and you’re covered in icing. 

You retake hold of the fork still in your pocket.

Fuck being perfect for Donna. Donna can fuck herself and her weird passive aggressive behaviour. It doesn’t matter what the fuck she thinks. Doesn’t matter what she was trying to imply. You were the first and final defenses, for Mikey. You were in everything he had. Everything he hid. You were his safe space. You were the one person he could rely on without any of the bullshit. You were the one he depended on. You did right by him.

Fuck Donna. Fuck this family. They don’t know anything about Mikey. They don’t know him like you did. Blood doesn’t mean shit. The womb doesn’t mean shit. You were there. You’re in here. There's no photos of Donna in here, hm? Mikey didn’t rely on her like he relied on you. You were there. You were there for the meetings, for the withdrawals, for the recoveries, for the breakdowns— You were there when it was hard.

Going to a funeral doesn’t do the dead any good. Sitting in a stuffy church with a formaldehyde soaked corpse in a closed casket, doesn’t mean shit. You were there when it actually meant something for Mikey, and that’s a fuck of a lot more than Donna can say. She certainly doesn't get to decide that you didn’t care about Michael— That you didn’t do enough for him.

You should tell her that.

Your grip tightens on the fork in your pocket. The prongs poke into your thumb, scattering dots of pressure along your finger tip. If you pressed the slightest bit harder, you’d pierce skin.

Tell her that. 

You let the poster drop to the floor and with a brand new mission, march to the door and throw it open. 

You don’t expect Donna to be on the other side, her mouth agape; clearly caught off guard as she was practicing what to say. She goes with what must’ve been a rough draft, voice frail. 

“How long were you sober?”

The question is so jarring that you can’t help but be honest. “I relapsed a handful of times, but I did a year and a month straight before I decided I was stable enough to have a glass once in a blue moon or so.” 

She nods, “I’m almost two months and I still feel like shit.”

You purse your lips, knowingly. “I always found the second and third month the hardest.”

As you meet her with an understanding and kindness that Berzattos are rarely given, her face goes tight with guilt, seemingly sincere for the first time tonight. “I don’t know why I do that. I don’t think I always did that.”

“Is this you apologizing?” Your eyes crinkle, brows ever so slightly raised at her shifting the subject. The woman is confusing but concise at the same time; you have to respect it.

She nods dumbly, “Did Mikey say I was bad at those?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, well—” She brushes past you, entering the room. “He was shit at it too.” She sits on the edge of Mikey’s bed.

“And God knows he’s got a lot to be sorry for.” She huffs, an indignant laugh. “Up and dies without cleaning his room, knowin’ full fuckin’ well I’d never clean it. Who could?”

She’s hiding it well, but you can still hear that tell tale quiver in her voice. Your eyes scroll across the mess of a room. The comparison’s already happened in your head, so you can’t help but say it. 

“He sorta did the same thing, to Carm… n’ me, I think. Left us all with messes.”

You swallow and step forward, back to the hole in the wall, not daring to look at her as you pass her by. “I think he got that people like us need somethin’ t’do, or we just go insane.”

Donna rubs a hand over her eyes, massaging her temples. That happy go lucky, passive-aggressive, gently bouncing woman is gone. Honestly, you much prefer this Donna, if that isn’t too terrible to say. At least she’s honest.  “Hmph. Well too bad for him, I was already insane when he met me.”

Your shoulders drop, though you keep your back to her; continuing to stare at the rattling pipes. All the anger you built up just sloughs off you, like a snake shedding skin. Humbled into a fellow mourner within a minute. You’re silent.

“...Do you have what you need to fix it?”

“W-what?” You stutter, turning your head to her in what feels like– Fear? God, she sees right through you. “I— I don’t know—”

“Heard you’re a repairman.” She quells your misguided concerns, gesturing to the rattling pipe in front of you. “D’you need anything special to fix it?”

Blinking, your eyes dart away from Donna once more. Desperate to look anywhere else. Duh, obviously she was talking about the pipes. “Y-yeah… uh—”

You turn your head back on the pipe, refocusing. “I need a thing called an ‘arrestor’, it’s just like a– A pocket for air to escape. You could— could also turn your water off and let it drain— That’ll also work– Probably. Just takes a while.”

You can hear her shuffling behind you, and soon she’s at your side, head hovering your shoulder, looking at the photos nailed into the wooden beams of Mikey’s cubby hole. She stares for a beat, but doesn’t seem surprised. Seems like Donna’s already familiar with these photos. With this hidden stash. “...Do you think he’d known?”

It’s weird. You know what she means without her making it clear. ‘Do you think Mikey knew what he was doing? Do you think he knew what he’d be leaving us with?’

You take a breath, dejected and unsure. You roll your shoulders, carefully grazing her chin. “I go back and forth a lot and go with whatever hurts less in that moment.”

She laughs at that, nodding. “That’s probably the healthy thing to do.”

“Is it?” You’re tempted to look at her, but your body won’t let you turn. Though, you cock your head, doubtful. “Speaking from experience, I don’t think I’d say the same.”

It’s silent for a long moment. You’d like to say you know what she’s thinking, but that’d be a bold fucking lie.

Donna’s unreadable. But she considers her words carefully, which is hard to believe, because she goes with, “I hated you.” 

You nearly laugh at the bluntness. “Yeah?”

“Hated who I knew. He’d talk ‘bout you— Never enough to get a good picture.” She huffs, “But he’d said enough for me t’ realize, he didn’t talk about me like he talked ‘bout you.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re dependable. A lifeline.” She presses her lips together, pensive. “Shit like that, y’know— They– It made me realize that my son never relied on me. And if anything, I relied on him. He always fixed messes, never made any—”

You finally twist around to squint at her, accusatory, almost amused. She corrects. “...Not that I ever got to see at least. Not that I ever looked. And— And that was so embarrassing. You did get to see. Some kid, who took better care of my kid than me.”

“I tried to be you.” She takes a deep inhale and exhales, slowly stabilizing her shaky breathing. “I’m trying. To be dependable, and sober, and– and not so fucked up. Not bring my shit into my kid’s shit.”

Oh. 

Oh, she’s just like Carmen. 

“But then you show up tonight… And it's just… I just… Lost my head. I— I wanted to welcome you in but there’s just– Just all this noise, and I don’t want to do what I do— I don’t like what I do— But I still fucking—”’

And Carmen’s just like you.

She winces. She can’t bring herself to say everything smart that she wants to say. She doesn’t even know where to start. ‘Sorry’, is where she should start— But if she can’t bring herself to say it to her kids, she certainly can’t say it to you. 

Everything you thought just minutes ago, everything you wanted to confront her with, throw a fork over— It was all something she’d already thought about herself ad nauseam. Donna was trying to get under your skin, that’s a fact. But it was a defensive maneuver— She didn’t think she was hitting first. Your existence is an attack on her— Or, at least, the perfect you that exists in her head is an attack on her. 

Honestly, the you in your head is kind of an attack on you, too. All night, you’ve been in your own head, demanding perfection— Demanding you put a veneer over everything.

You’re perfect, you bring dessert, you say all the right things, you’re casual, you’re not the jealous type, you don’t talk to dead people, you weren’t close friends with Mikey, you’re not a girlfriend— But you’re not not a girlfriend, you don’t feel like you can’t put your mouth on a glass in this house, you don’t have a fork in your pocket, you don’t feel a deep pang of pain in your back every time you think too much. You’re perfect. You wanted Donna to think you’re absolutely perfect.

If only you’d known at the top half of this night, that Donna’s always thought of you as perfect. And it didn’t make anything better. If anything, it made you both feel so much fucking worse. 

“Donna,” Your eyes feel wet, and you’re almost embarrassed about that. You scrunch your nose, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Can we just start over?”

Her screwed expression finally relaxes. She’s been running lines in her head, trying to come up with the right thing to break your silences. She’s relieved you’ve taken the job from her, nodding. “Please, let’s.”

With one hand still on her shoulder, you lift your other hand for her to shake. “It’s very nice to meet you, Donna. I’ve heard so much about you.”

She shakes your hand, “All good things, I hope?”

“God, no.” No bullshit, this time. You both laugh. “Almost all good, though.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you…?” Donna waits for you to fill in the blank. You shrug, not minding whatever she picks. She hums, daresay, happily, shaking your hand.. “Jack was one, right? I can call you Jay-Jay! And you call me DeeDee.”

You snicker, shrugging again. “Sure, throw it on the pile, DeeDee.” Your hands fall off her shoulder and out of her handshake. The playful smile on your face sobers into something sincere. “You do know now that I wasn’t perfect with Mikey, right?”

Certainly, there’s days and choices and words you regret. Donna wasn’t perfect, and neither were you.

She nods. “Neither was I.” Instead of that weird bobbing, she now tilts her head back and forth. “Still not. Still can’t clean his room. Still feels like he’s here, in the mess.”

“...I talk to him, sometimes. Pretend he’s the reason why stuff breaks.”

“I do that all the time—” She smiles, her breathing mimics laughter. “All his old duck tape fixes are probably why everything breaks on me now, anyways.”

You grin, but your eyes crinkle with a touch of concern. “Wait, do you need me to look at anything?”

“Oh—” She waves a hand, shrugging off the offer. “No, no. If I keep you any longer, Carmen’ll kill me.”

“Oh?” You tilt your head, nodding towards the door. “Is he…?”

“Yep, walked me up and everything.”

Your eyes flutter, before squinting at her too calm expression. Carmen came up here with her? Well, guess someone had to grant her the self-awareness and confidence to come up here. “...DeeDee, what happened?”

Donna has a series of micro-expressions that are practically impossible to discern. Pride? Fear? Sadness? Disdain? Embarrassment? Sympathy? It’s everything. She sighs, “Well…”

Carmen’s hand goes still, right where you leave it, when you suddenly stand up and excuse yourself to fix ‘creaking pipes’ that he can’t even hear. He wonders, for a moment, if him reaching for you is what actually made you leave so abruptly.

In your absence, though, he stares at his stupid hand tattoos and recounts to himself everything he did wrong today.

Number one, waking up. 

Scratch that one– Self-deprecating language isn’t helpful, even as a joke– Blah blah blah self-help books can go fuck themselves right now. He needs to be better. 

He shouldn’t have entertained you, when you kept asking him how to act around his family. He should’ve never coached you in the first place. He should’ve coached his mother, if anyone, on how to be normal for a few fucking hours. He shouldn’t have let anyone in his stupid freak family talk to you without him present. He shouldn’t have left your side for a second. You were already off, when he caught you in the bathroom. He should’ve taken that more seriously.

He knew something was off and he let it go. The last time he did that, a car went through the wall on his left. You wouldn’t go that far, but that’s not the point. He should’ve taken you aside and checked in without Fak being there to … be Fak. He should’ve pushed back when you said ‘don’t say lovers’ . He should’ve been better.

He should’ve introduced you to everyone. He should’ve introduced you as his. He should’ve had that stupid conversation before you got here. 

He should’ve decried the Claire-Bear talk immediately. But that would’ve meant he’d have to defend your honour by declaring to everyone— Including you— That you’re more than— Than something. More than a high-school crush, certainly. But that would’ve meant he’d have to have that stupid conversation in front of everyone instead of just with you– Which was already a mortifying concept. 

But no wonder you got up, no wonder you stopped him from defending you, seconds ago. He hasn’t been able to say anything of substance all day. How could you expect him to say the right thing? Trust him to say the right thing? He hasn’t spoken for you all night. All he said was that you were here with him. Is that something? Is that progress? If it is, it’s fucking slow. You deserve better. You need better.

But you haven’t gotten a better Carmen, so now, his hand is brushed aside as you rush out of the dining room. So now, the table is silent, par for Donna, continuing to sip at her cider jovially. So now, Carmen can feel the ground giving out underneath his chair. 

Carmen’s an idiot that can’t experience any growth without it being at your expense. He is the problem. The panic resettles into the grooves of his brain. The hole in his throat opens back up. The dread reappears over his shoulder, settling itself into its rightful home. His hand nearly spasms in the space you’ve left. 

He’s not getting better. 

And then, by some miracle, before Carmen falls completely into the black hole of the self-destroying void, he remembers. Carm remembers that he feels — something for you, more than he hates himself. 

He blinks for the first time since you left, his eyes remember they’re supposed to sting. He tries to speak, but his body is slower to catch up with his newly brave brain. The hole in his throat doesn’t close. It’s hard to speak in rooms as suffocating as this one is. As it always has been. 

He wants to be that guy for you. He doesn’t like what he’s doing— what he’s not doing, rather. But he’s never had to be the one standing up for someone; that was always done for him. God, what an insurmountable fucking task Mikey was given practically every night for years. 

He can’t get rid of that hole in his throat, it’s just not a talent that can be built in an instant— But Carmy’s smart. He knows himself. He knows what he is and isn’t capable of. Carmy’s gotten smarter—Better. He knows what talents he does possess, and he knows how to circumvent himself.

The chef stares at his plate. Scallop potatoes, seafood vegetable medley, shrimp stuffed cannelloni, a few clams casino, a sliver of baked cod, a piece of braciole, and amberjack linguini. He takes a smooth, methodical breath. It’s not exactly meditative, but it’s similar.

What a fucking mess. Absolutely no craftsmanship, no intention, no vision in this plate. 

His eyes narrow, and the hole in his throat thins itself into a veil. A very familiar weight presses on his shoulders, but for once, it’s not unhelpful.

A lower pulse doesn’t always have to be a bad thing. 

“Apologize.”

It’s faint, but it’s an order. It’s the most direct and aggressive Carmen’s ever been at this dining table. The room is still silent, but the energy around that silence shifts as everyone points their gazes to Carmen; all waiting with baited breath to see the infamous baby Bear finally care enough about something to stand up for it. 

Donna shakes her head, sighing softly— As though Carmen’s naive to ask. She shrugs, “Carmy, I’m sorry, but it had to be said— We don’t stand for people that don’t say the whole deal—”

“Not to me.” Still quiet, but firmer— Callous. He twists his fork into the linguine. Stracotto. Overcooked. It folds in on itself into mush without much effort. A waste. “Go upstairs, apologize.”

Carmen doesn’t see it, unable to peel himself from the plate, but he hears his mother scoff— Actually taken aback for a moment.

Exasperated, Donna puts her fork down. “Carmy, did you not hear what I said? She was—”

“His sponsor, yeah, she’s told me.”

Carmen tries to keep his cool, low pulse, but Donna just manages to push every button. “She’s my fuckin— I—” Still can’t say the stupid fucking word. “I came here with her. ‘Course I would know.”

“And you don’t have a problem with it?”

For a moment, the irritation takes control of Carmy, and he lifts his head up to Donna—Instantly regretting it. He knows if he looks away from the food, his resolve will break. 

So he lowers his gaze just slightly to look at his mother’s plate, instead of her face. Its composition is uneven; it’s basically just baked cod— Of which Donna hasn’t actually eaten any of, as far as Carmy can tell. She’s just slicing it with her butter knife, over and over again; the cuts getting thinner and thinner each time— practically macerated. 

“D’you have a problem with it?”

If Donna was planning on replying, Carmy interrupts her. “Finally meet someone that reminds you of Mikey, and your first instinct is t’ fuckin’ ruin it.”

He knows that, because it was his instinct too. Sugar’s instinct, too. Carmen notices Nat’s silhouette tense up in his periphery. 

He scoffs, anger on a roll, “Tony was so intent on getting you t’like her.” Brows creased so hard they'll leave permanent wrinkles, “Asked me a million questions 'bout you, made a dessert that— that you fuckin’ refused to even eat— Don’t think I didn’t notice that shit— Petty as fuck.”

Steven tries to interject with an awkward chuckle, “Carmy, why don’t—”

“I’m talking.” But Carmen doesn’t allow a moment of reprieve. Doesn’t even look in Steven’s direction, let alone his plate. “I shouldn’t’ve brought her here— That’s my fuckin’ fault. I should’ve known that you’d pull this shit—”

“Pull what? Do what?”

Now that interruption from Donna really pisses Carmen off. It irritates him enough to finally look away from her dish and actually look her in the eyes, with no fear, because there’s just no time for it.

“Don’t fuckin’ pretend, Ma.”

“I’m not fuckin' pretending!”

“You have been givin’ her the third fuckin’ degree all night.”

“I barely even said anything.”

“Oh my fucking—” And then, he pauses.

Carmen, for once, during an argument, pauses to think.

He stares at his mother, in silent contemplation— And frankly, everyone finds that much more frightening than him yelling. 

Carmen wants to tell his mom that if it’s her or you, it’s you. Carmen wants to tell his mom that if she doesn't apologize to you tonight, the likelihood she ever sees her only son again is almost null. Carmen wants to tell his mom that you are one of the few truly good things Mikey left them, if not the only thing, and he can’t lose that. Carmen wants to tell his mom that if you’re going to walk out of his life, he wants it to be his fault— He wants your loss to be deserved, if there has to be a loss. Carmen wants to tell his mom a lot of things. All of them are too revealing for his liking. Too much for the dinner table. 

Carmy’s nose twitches, his brows furrow further, his eyes twitch at the inner corners as they become glassy and red with irritation. He frowns, for better or for worse, his pulse has returned to normal. His voice is now quiet, dry, and nearly begging.

“Please, just go apologize.”

“Carmen.” 

Carmy’s gaunt expression stays unnervingly still as his head tilts to his sister calling out to him. “Natalie.”

The wind is knocked out of Nat, to see her brother like this— Possibly for the first time— No, certainly for the first time. She can’t remember a moment in history where Carmen ever truly pleaded for something like this. Breathlessly, “...I love you.”

He nods, “I love you too, Bear.”

And Carm tries to take a page out of your book, however unfamiliar he may be with the art of communicating with looks alone— He’s hoping, as he stares into Sug’s eyes, that some sort of sibling telepathy will activate, and she’ll understand how serious he’s being— How much he needs this. 

Nat has felt just as uneasy as Carmen has at this dinner table. She’s replayed that dinner in her head a million times, it’s a worn out VHS tape in her mind, at this point. That night, when she told Mikey she loved him, she looked at him— she was trying to defuse him— Not understand him, not defend him. Maybe things would’ve gone differently that night, if she had gone that route. Or maybe it all would’ve gone exactly the same; maybe it was just fated.

But at the very least, Mikey would’ve known for certain that his sister saw him when he needed her, and she was in his corner. 

Her eyes squint just slightly as she takes Carmen in—She ignores the tension of the dining room, only caring to silently communicate with the brother she has. Natalie isn’t the type to make the same mistake twice. 

Her gaze sharpens as it turns from her brother onto Donna. 

“You need to go upstairs and apologize.”

It takes a lot out of you, to not cry when DeeDee recounts her version for you. You wipe away at your eyes, just in case. You’re not sure what you feel, but the closest thing you can pin it to is a sort of concerned admiration for Carmy— And Nat, for that matter. 

“Holy fuck.”

“Yeah,” Donna just agrees. “D’you want me to get him—?”

“No!” You grab her shoulders the second she makes any motion to the door. “I’ll— I’ll talk to him— Uhm.” It already felt weird enough to talk to Donna in Mikey’s room, you don’t need to add Carmen to the mix. “I just need a second here, alone, is that alright?”

Donna nods. Unexpectedly, she goes in for a hug. You take it, though a touch gingerly— And perhaps to add some levity, she whispers to you another recounting of Carmen, when he said the dumbest thing any man could possibly say— Of which you will absolutely be mocking him for in a matter of minutes. You thank her for it.

Soon after, Donna steps out, and you can hear her quelling a concerned Carmen down on the other side of the door, while you have one last moment alone with The Guy. 

You sit on his bed, both appreciating and hating the still silence Mikey’d never actually give you, if he was really here. He’s not here. There’s nothing you can do or imagine to make that not true. 

You pull the necklace out from under your shirt and take it off your neck. You thumb at the chip. He’s not here. Maybe you’re finally ready to get comfortable with that thought. He’s not here, and that’s alright. It takes a while for your legs to agree with you, but when they do, you march over to Mikey’s impromptu cubbyhole. 

You undo and then redo and tighten the old knot of ‘The Berf’ shirt on the rattling pipe, and reinforce it with the cord of your necklace.

It’s not a permanent fix, but it’ll dull the sound for the moment.

You swallow and sniff, eyes glazing over all the hidden tchotchkes, including your newest addition. With a scoff, you talk to your old friend for what you hope to be the last time, reaching for his money. 

“Pipe temp hotfix, that’s forty.” You chuckle, pocketing the twenties. You know he’d feel guilty if he didn’t pay you for even the most mediocre job done. You pick the movie poster back up from the ground, and re-cover the hole; tamping down the weak tape.

You make an effort to not look over your shoulder, when you finally pick up the courage to leave. 

“Love you, Be—

The shoddily taped up poster falls to the ground, unsurprisingly. You groan, practically stomping over to put the poster back up. You grumble like you’ve just been lectured. “Fucking fine, I’ll text my dad about getting breakfast tomorrow, yeah yeah.”

You find a spare push-pin to stab the poster into the wall, adding a touch more stability. “Y’know, I learned the lesson without you having to butt in, y’know. I got it. Cherish the living while you have ‘em, not the dead when you don’t…Whatever.”

You scoff, but it soon turns into laughter as you make your leave.

“See ya when I see ya, you fuckin’ ballbuster.”

Closing the door behind you, Carmen waits before you, alone. You can tell by his stupid cute pensive expression that he’s gearing up to apologize and ramble on about not being good enough. He’s got some obvious tells- Well, at least to you.

“I need to—” As if on cue, he starts, so you interrupt him. 

“Wanna show me your racecar bed?”

He’s motionless for a second, before a small smile reveals itself. He walks to another door down the hall, expecting you to follow. You do. He mumbles, “I don’t have a racecar bed...”

“Don’t tell me you’ve had no bedframe since childhood?”

“My option's racecar or bust?” He scoffs. And you grin, because that pensive, small, constantly apologizing Carmen is gone once more— At least for the moment. 

You hum ever so innocent and not teasing at all, thinking back to what Donna mentioned. “‘Person of Interest’, is fuckin’ insane by the way.”

Carmy pauses, glaring at you like his identity’s just been exposed. He opens his bedroom door with one hand, and the other snakes over your back, shoving you into his room head first. “Shut the fuck up…” But it’s grumbled through a smirk, completely insincere. 

Carmen’s room is a pretty stark contrast from Mikey’s. It’s clean and much smaller. Everything is in its place, albeit a bit dusty.

He doesn’t have a racecar bed but he does have a bedframe for his twin-size, so that’s decent enough. There’s a stack of filled out sketchbooks and journals on his desk— Of which has clearly been well loved and used to the fullest. There’s a few rubbed in charcoal and paint stains that will never come out now. There’s even a bookshelf! An honest to God bookshelf that (probably) wasn’t pulled out of the trash!

It’s lined with classic literature (library codes taped on the spine, you notice), torn up comics, and ancient cookbooks. There’s a few typical Chicago boy things, like a signed baseball and glove to match, a bobble-head of a Bulls player you can’t recognize, a deck of cards, a long expired discount card to the Griffith museum, and a Chicago Bears teddy bear— That you think would go wonderfully with your Cubs bear at home. 

… Carmy does have things. Or, did. There’s all sorts of stuff on his walls, too. Photos from school, polaroids of old friends he probably couldn’t even name, bottle caps and cards that he at some point found beautiful or important. Winning ribbons for a few amateur art competitions, sketches that are haphazardly pinned up. Newspaper clippings with every time ‘The Beef’ had ever been mentioned. 

He is a knicknack guy. Or at least, he was. “You used to decorate a lot more, eh?”

“Yeah.” You hear him taking a seat on his bed behind you. “Still am, just been decorating The Bear ‘stead of my own place, lately.”

...Oh. 

You sort of, maybe, hadn’t taken a moment to think about that, at all. That he just hadn’t had the time to put up the frills and explore his comforts.

Come to think of it, why did you think Carmen wasn’t committed? Was it just the lack of decorations thing? No, that couldn’t have been it… You wouldn’t make that big a leap in logic… Right..?

Carmen mutters absentmindedly behind you, looking around at this old decor. “Should probably take some shit with me, now that ‘m lookin’ at it…” But you’ve tuned him out. Why did you think Carmen’s noncommittal?

He’s noncommittal because he was a couch hopper? He had to be, he was staging in New York– How could he pay rent? Noncommittal because he’s always used the barest essentials to take care of himself? Well, he takes care of himself now, he’s changed. Because he didn't introduce you properly? Not an unfair critique, but the man has been in fucking fight or flight since you got here, it might have nothing to do with you. Because he’s never taken care of anything but a ghost cat? Not true, he takes care of his restaurant, his friends. And he does care for the frills, the materials, and the comfort— But he’s always had to pack light, he’s always had to be ready for take off once he left home. It wasn’t his choice.

…Well, what about Claire? That’s a legitimate sign, right? He kept clamming up when you or anyone else tried to refer to her as a girlfriend. He clearly has reservations over the word. And he hasn’t officially concretely, really asked you out. He asked if he could ask. If Carmen’s not noncommittal, at the very least he hesitates.

But then again, you haven’t even been on a real date. There have been moments where it felt like one, but it was nothing on paper. Maybe he’s just feeling it out, moment by moment. That’s not unreasonable of him. Oh, God. Are you unreasonable? Are you moving too fast by even thinking about labels all night? Are you the problem?

…Oh no, how long have you just been standing around silently and aimlessly in his room? 

You’re quick to turn around once you remember any sense of decorum— And the fact that Carmen’s in the room with you. See, this is exactly why you have to stop talking to dead people, it makes you forget the living’s standards of conversation. 

Much to your surprise though, Carmen doesn’t seem phased by your silence. He seems to be caught in his own stupor, staring off into nothingness, fidgeting with his fingers. He looks… just as distressed as you must look.

“Carmy?” You take a step towards him, gentle, as if you’re trying not to frighten a cat. “Are you good?”

“Hm?” His stupid giant blue eyes flutter as he comes just slightly out of the void. He puts a fist over his mouth, biting at the skin of his fingers. “I’m good, I just— … Just need to be better.”

Huh? You blink, cocking your head. “You ‘need to be better’?”

He nods, then shakes his head, then nods again. It’s a little disorienting for you, so you can’t imagine what it feels like for him. “I just— should be better— I could’ve— Could’ve been better— I’m gonna do better.”

Alright, fuck the noncommittal debate, his head is so much worse. “Carmen—?” You take another step forward. 

He straightens up in such a way that makes it feel like he’s trying to back up from you. It stops you in your tracks. He stops biting at his fingers just to comb the hand through his hair.

Carmy rambles, “Everything— Everythin’ — It’s always at your fuckin’ expense— I— I— I didn’t introduce you, I didn’t fuckin’ say shit about Claire— Should’ve fucking known they’d say shit about Claire— They always ruin this shit for me— I don’t—” It's fairly nonsensical, it’s hard to pick a part what he means.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, interrupting himself— Sick of himself. He doesn’t even understand himself. He just knows that he hates that he’s still talking. “Oh my fucking God, I’m doing it again.”

Carmy takes a sharp inhale through his nose, it’s the least relaxing meditation prompt you’ve ever heard— Before looking back up at you, panicked yet kind eyed. “How are you?”

… Oh God, is this what it feels like to be on the receiving end of someone clearly drowning and yet they’re trying to save you first? Martyrdom looks terrible on anyone but you. Is that a toxic thought? Save that for later. 

Carm’s trying so hard to de-center himself— To focus on you— which is admirable, but it’s making you realize that you have been centering yourself, all night. 

You had a fucking mission. Tonight was not about you, not even about Donna, certainly not about your relationship status, and not about your feelings— It was about Carmen, needing you here. Needing help confronting his childhood home, face to face with his mother, with the absence of Mikey, with the always fucked up feeling of Christmas in general— He needed you to be here for him and you just kept squeaking by, avoiding all chances of vulnerability– Because it risked anyone noticing you being imperfect. It wasn’t just Donna you wanted to convince— You wanted Carmen to, too.

He didn’t need perfect. He didn’t need The Guy. He needed you.

You take a sharp breath, the very thought stabs at your chest. You furrow your brows, eyes shut tight as you tilt your head down. “Fuck, Carm, I’m sorry, I made a huge mistake.”

With your eyes closed, you don’t see the flash of alarm on his expression. It shifts into a solemn nod as he takes it the complete wrong way, “I know.”

You smooth out the crease in your brow with your thumb and forefinger, hand covering your eyes, a bit too embarrassed to look at him— Didn’t expect him to acknowledge your fuck up so quickly. “I’m sorry, Carmen.”

He shakes his head, exhales through his nose like the saddest laugh on earth, dejected. He shrugs, “I gettit, I wouldn’t wanna be with me either.”

Your head snaps up and your back straightens so fast you think you might’ve realigned your spine. 

“What?”

“What?”

Wait— “We’re dating?”

He blinks, his brain freezes up, you can practically hear the dial-up tones ringing in his skull. “Are we not?”

You lift your hands in the air, palms to the sky, waving them in stuttered confusion. “—Are— Are we?!”

He’s just as exasperated. “I— I— Well, no, right? That’s— That’s what you—”

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?!”

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?!”

“I–” You blink, taking a beat to calm down. “I—” You gesture to yourself, because right now, everything needs to be broken down into the simplest of terms. “—Was trying to say I made a huge mistake tonight, ‘cause I didn’t prioritize you, like I needed to.”

Carmen’s quick to shake his head, “You didn—”

You wave a hand to him like a red card. “Can you shut the fuck up for two seconds, Carm?” You close your hand into a fist, might’ve been a softer way to say that. “Sorry. You just, you keep doing this thing—”

He’s silent, giving you room to speak. You sit down next to him on his stupid childhood bed. 

“You keep making everything your fault, somehow, lately. Always trying to apologize for shit that didn’t start with you.” 

You continue. “I made you quiz me, even though I know it made you nervous. I clammed up as soon as I walked in. I avoided talkin’ to you. I fuckin’ — I got weird ‘n jealous hearin’ about Claire— When you probably felt more uncomfortable than I did. Like what’s it matter that she’s an ER Doctor and your first crush and your first girlfriend and—”

“Tony—”

“I’m hearing it and I’m relaxing and I don’t care at all, actually.” You finally notice your tight grip on his bed sheets, releasing them as you catch your breath.

“I panicked all night about being perfect for Donna— And you, and everyone. I made you go full Exec Chef mode to defend me— Which is kinda hot but also really bad. You don't ‘need to be better’, you needed me to be there— And I'm sorry I wasn’t.” 

How vulnerable should you be right now? Probably full on. You’re an all or nothing person. “And— An’ I dunno, I got this dumb idea in my head that you were noncommittal and I was doin’ too much and needed to like— Be all cool and casual— And that made me act weird, cause I’m not good at that— I move fast—Which like, we’re not even dating really, so— It’s— I dunno, it’s stupid— I was being stupid— I’m— I dunno— What I mean is... I’m sorry I was being weird.”

When you finally finish your ramblings, you find that Carmen is taking his time just looking at you, needing a second to register all that you’ve word-vomited on him. You stare back at him, head on. This might be the first time you’ve done that since you got here. Too terrified to give him the opportunity to see through you, all night— Because you know, a look is all it would take for him to read you like a book.

When he finally parts his lips to speak, you try to interject again. Too unnerved by the endless possibilities of what he could say. But for once, Carmen's body beats his brain and yours, he surges forward, grabbing your face in his hands before you can interrupt. 

You think you move faster than he does. You think he likes it noncommittal. Casual. Or at the very least, you envisioned that that's the case. It isn’t a terribly unfounded assumption. He’d probably think the same about himself, if he were in your shoes. He’s imagined that’s what you think of him— But you finally said the thought out loud— And whether it’s somewhat true or not, it feels like a fucking dare. Like you’ve offended his honour. Like it’s true, what Richie told him, weeks ago; that he never lets anything good happen to him. Like you think he’s not capable of being something serious with someone as good as you.

Like you think he couldn’t handle saying something so impossibly simple as— 

“I love you.”

How could you possibly disrespect him by thinking he needs to take things slow? Besides the fact that he almost explicitly asked for you to take things slow. Back then, when he asked if he could ask you out, he did it out of an overwhelming fear that he could lose the one opening he’d ever have with you. Now? Carmen’s not afraid— Scratch that, actually, Carmen’s so afraid. A rush of endorphins go through him when he says the three magic words, but it’s immediately followed with a stabbing pain in his throat. Everything in his brain is a schisming contradiction. It feels so good to tell you, it also feels like death by a thousand paper-cuts for each millisecond you don’t return the sentiment.

But then you open your mouth to reply, and he realizes there are worse things than you not reciprocating. You could say you don’t believe him — Which would probably be reasonable. Carmen’s not the most trustworthy source on himself. But it would crush him if you thought that. Maybe you’ll say he’s moving too fast— You said nothing about love, you just wanted to know if you were dating for fucksake. Or, maybe, instead of not replying at all, you may outwardly say you don’t actually fuck with him like that. Perhaps, you could say after seeing the way his mother behaves, you can’t possibly risk being more involved with this family than you already are. 

Carmy comes up with all these potential realities in about half a second. He fears them more than silence, easily. And fear is the one surefire way to drive this man into action.

So he shuts you up before you can even form a vowel. Sealing your lips to his. It’s a different kiss than his usual course. Not in the typical ‘Post-I Love You’ passion way though, it's more violent than romantic. Teeth hit yours— your back hits the mattress. He doesn’t ease up, doesn’t give you the opportunity to say anything— Trying to pull him back by his hair doesn’t curb his enthusiasm, but you’re free to do it anyway. You could call the kiss almost surgical, if that tracks. There’s a precision in the ways he bites your lip, his hands shift from squishing your face in his palms to holding your jaw to his bidding, he tilts your head further back into his mattress, to give you even less room to breathe. 

Unfortunately, while Carmen is a man of immediate action in the face of fear, doesn’t mean those actions are good or lasting. He’s quickly realizing that he cannot keep you quiet forever, as he tragically, like you, requires air. 

Well, maybe he can just talk over you. “I mean it. I do.” Maybe he can just stay hovering, lips still grazing yours— And if you try to talk, he’ll just pluck the thought out of your mouth. 

“I—” You try, but he gives you a quick peck. Carmy’s plan is working flawlessly, now all he has to do is stay here forever perpetually–  “Car—” –and you’ll never get the chance to reject him. You let out a truly angelic laugh— “C’mo—” —After you try to speak over– “Ba—” –and over, only to be thwarted by Carmen’s foolproof plan every time. 

Detrimental news, however, is that you know Carmen. With sweet upturned eyes, you gauge his internal panic. You know the thought process, you know the plan. Of course you do. He needs to get used to you ruining any attempt at secrecy he ever makes again. 

It’s your turn to press your hands against his cheeks, hard enough that he can’t try to eat your face again just to keep you quiet for two seconds. 

And here’s what’s really devastating, about Carmen’s ‘shut you up at any cost’ plan. It’s not just that it’s failed, and you’re able to speak— But it’s actually also backfired spectacularly. Because now, you’re on mussed bedsheets, underneath him, with bright eyes, adorably furrowed brows, skin hot, holding his face, out of breath, bitten red lips that you're using to form the words—

“I love you, Carm.” 

And that’s really not fair at all. That’s really brain dissolving. That’s really ‘reevaluate what I’m okay with doing in my childhood bedroom’ inducing. And it’s his own fault, really, but it’s not and it’s actually completely your fault. 

It’s really truly, honest to God, your fault that he’s suddenly grinning like he’s a stupid teenage boy. Your fault at how deeply embarrassing it is to be this happy. Your fault, he pulls one of your hands off his face to kiss your palm. Your fault, that he mutters into it,  “I can do it, I can be yours, I can do it.”

And your lilting reply of, “I know you can, I’d like you to.” Really isn’t helping you beat the allegations that it’s also all your fault that he has to kiss your cheek— And jaw, and chin, and neck, and—

“Boyfriend?” You test the word out, it sucks to say. He grumbles his discontent against your collarbone. You tsk, “It’s just such a fucked word, y’know?”

Carm hums his shared sentiments, “‘Person of interest’ sounds better now, doesn’t it?”

“Still no.” You attempt to deadpan, but he nips at your skin just light enough to make you laugh. “Don’t bite! Partner?”

Carmy tilts his head back and forth, considering the term, before inevitably denying it. “It’ll get confusing, Syd’s my business partner.”

“...Significant other?” “So wordy.” “Companion?” “Are we on a fuckin’ expedition?” “You’re deeply unhelpful.”

He shifts himself up again from his descent so he can look you in the eyes. If Carmen thought you were baiting him, he needs to take a look at himself when his face is pink all the way from his cheeks to his forehead, and his typically big bright eyes are half-lidded with no sparkle, and his lips are bruising by the second, and his gold chain dangles just above your face— And he’s just fucking pretty.  

“I’m yours. S’that enough?” 

Oh— “Jesus Christ, we need to get out of this house.” You’re quick to dig your elbows and hands into the mattress, lifting yourself up underneath him— His incoherent response to this sounds like a whine and it’s maybe possibly certainly going to be the thing that kills you.

“No, fuck, please—” “Carmen—” “Not in a car, s’not two in the morning—” “Angel, please—” “Not in a bathroom, no one’s waitin’ on us—” “Carmy, you’re not hearin’ me—” “Am I doin’ too much—?”

“Carmen!” You almost hiss, slapping each side of his face as you finally sit up with some stability despite his repeated attempts to pull you back down. “I meant like, not here— I’d like to do more, just anywhere but fucking here!”

“Oh.” It takes his brain a second, “Oh!” But he sits up straight, once he realizes that you’re actually the one that wants to do too much, so to speak. Whether it’s on purpose or not, you’re pulled onto his lap. “Yeah, that’s— Yeah.”

“...Yeah?”

“Oh, don't fuckin’ say it like that..” Is he pouting? Oh wow, if he can't handle one syllable's worth of your semi-sultry tone, he's going to be dead in minutes. “Your place or mine?”

“Mine.” You answer suspiciously quickly, it's almost offensive. 

“I do have a bedframe, y'know?” “Oh? How recent was that upgrade?” “It needs breaking in.” “—Holy shit?!” “—I— I don’t know where that came from.” “Awe, don’t lose that confidence already, c’mon.” “Don't do that thing with your voice.” “What thing?” “—Talking.” “What the hell?!” “Joking. Kind of. Why your place?”

“...I didn't know what to get you, gift wise.” You start, fingers wrapping themselves in the curls of hair on his neck. “So I got a bunch of stuff, and, wasn't sure how things were gonna go, so I — I got like – A nice thing of lingerie, y'know. N’ case it was like… A sex thing.”

He just stares at you blankly, so you ramble on. “And I didn't wear it here, of course– It’s real fuckin’ itchy— So we need to go back to mine, so I can put it on— And honestly, probably keep it on, cause it was expensive and I'll be pissed if it's only worth 10 seconds of dopamine before getting thrown off.”

The blank stare continues, and it’s almost like it’s a symptom that’s spread to the rest of his body; Carmy goes completely still, it’s tough to glean what that reaction means exactly. After a few more seconds of silence, he just nods, curtly. 

“Carmy?” You squint, cupping his right cheek, “You good? Too much?”

“I—” You swear his eye twitches. “I— Am— I’m— I don’t—” He purses his lips— Okay, now he’s definitely pouting. Carmy can’t possibly come up with the perfect thing to say with a brain as broken as his now is. So he kisses you, softer this time, and hopes that gets his point across. “Not too much.” He says, but he can’t manage to get anything else out.

You manage to snicker an appropriate amount in his face, instead of uproariously laughing at him. “What’s goin’ on in Charmin's head?”

A bit too bashful to manage looking you in the eyes, Carmen’s eyes look like they’re almost shaking as their gaze dances around your lips, cheeks, nose, lips again, and again, and aga— “Jus’ y’know… I have— I’ve thought about it alot, and— and— now it’s happenin—”

“You’ve thought about it alot?”

“Don’t think too hard about it.”

“I’m gonna exclusively think too hard about it, I’m thinking too hard about it right now.”

“Oh, you don’t wanna just see for yourself?”

“Oh my God?!” 

“You have to stop reacting like that.” “Like what?!” “Like— Like you’re a spectator.” “Listen— A smooth line is a smooth line, I have to give it props.” “If it was really smooth, you wouldn’t say shit, you’d be speechless.” 

“Not true, don't think I could even be speechless. I've famously always had a lot to say.”

“Yeah? You gonna talk me through it then?”

… “...Holy shit—?!” “So close.”

I have just spent like the last 5 hours answering asks, and when drafts get too long in tumblr, the lag becomes insane so i am going to GET OUT OF HERE ! BUT I AM EXCITED TO HEAR WHAT YOU THOUGHT AND I AM LOOKING FORWARD TO SPEAKING TO YOU ALL I MISSED YA SO DEARLY, it's been a pleasure to get reacquainted the past few days as i answered asks. it's really fucking good to be back guys.

I HOPE YOU LIKED IT !!! AND JUST FOR THE RECORD !! THEY'RE GOING TO FUCK !! OFF SCREEN !! IT'S BEEN A YEAR AND I STILL DON'T HAVE THE GUTS TO WRITE SMUT I'M SORRY I'M SPINELESS!!

Taglist: (send me an ask, let me know what you thought of the chapter, and remember to ask to be added!! p.s if you just comment asking, i might miss it, my notifications get a lil fucked sometimes)

You hope that he goes about his day with you on his mind as well, perhaps running into the most mundane things that now remind him of you, the sight of yellow flowers perhaps bringing a smile to his face

You hope he doesn’t work himself too hard during the day, a true ‘dad’ to his projects as he complains of achy knees and a back that sounds like milk being poured into Rice Krispies cereal each morning, the snap, crackle, and pops that come with such physical work

You hope he isn’t too tired to chat with you on the phone after work, something he says is impossible, though you can hear him stifling his yawns on the other end of the line as he tells you otherwise, asking you to keep telling him about yours and Rosie’s day

You hope that you give him butterflies, having seen that you can make him at least blush the most beautiful shade of crimson you’ve ever seen a man wear

You hope the butterflies swarming your own stomach each time you think of him aren’t going to end up eating you alive from the inside out

You hope he’s as sincere, as true, as real as he seems to be, as he continues to convince you he is

You hope this whole thing isn’t too good to be true like the nagging voice at the back of your mind keeps trying to convince you of

You hope you won’t regret letting him in

Right now however?

What you’re really hoping for, is for your sitter to show up already, so that you and Simon can go on what you hope is the first of many dates to come

He’d sent you a text not too long ago, letting you know that he’d just gotten finished with the job for the day, that he was going to head home to shower and change, and that he would come swing by to pick you up within the hour

You’d been looking forward to tonight all week long, ever since he’d asked to take you out on a proper date following the quick kiss in the kitchen, your heart rate feeling as though it’s been waiting to come back down to earth since then

You weren’t entirely certain what Simon had planned for the night, though he had mentioned you’d be grabbing dinner together at some point in the evening, the anticipation of both seeing him and the idea of this being the start of something new, had your stomach in knots

Not only that, but you couldn’t deny your nerves were also all aflutter thinking about leaving a now two and a half month old Rosie alone for the first time since she’d been born

It was a concept you were going to have to grow used to sooner than later, seeing as she’d be starting nursery up in not too long, but this was still uncharted territory for you, motherhood was something you were growing accustomed to, and the idea of leaving your baby alone for just a few hours was an even more foreign sentiment

Your best friend, someone who at least knew Rosie and her routine better than most, had graciously agreed to be the first person you entrusted your baby with alone, and though she wasn’t technically late yet, you were nonetheless surprised that she hadn’t shown up quite yet, knowing that she was always keen on extra time with the tiny baby who has finally starting to fatten up, her pudgy arms and legs getting softer and squishier each day

The little lady in question was currently hanging out in her bouncer, watching you flit and flounce around your room as you got ready yourself, listening as intently as a baby can as you spoke to her, doing your best to involve her in the process

“What do you think, babe? Red or pink for my lips?” You ask, holding up both lipstick tubes in front of her, smiling at the way she seems wholly engaged in the conversation, eyes flitting between your hands. “I think you’re eyeing the pink one. Is that your pick, hon? You want mama to wear pink tonight? Mhmm, I think you’re right. Maybe I should wear something pink too then, huh?”

Glancing down at her own little outfit of the day, an idea pops into your head, quickly out your phone and snapping a photo of Rosie, the onesie being one that your friend had gotten for her while you were still pregnant

You : ‘someone’s excited to show off her outfit to you’

You : ‘as long as she doesn’t spit up again lol’

You shoot off the texts along with the photo of Rosie wearing her corny ‘I love my godmom’ onesie before turning towards your closet, though it’s not long before you get a reply back from her

Sarah : ‘look at those cheeeeeeeeeeeks!!!’

Sarah : ‘i promise i’ll try not to eat your baby but like cmon look at her’

Sarah : ‘maybe just one bite’

Sarah : ‘love it! but you’re hoping to keep her in that til tomorrow? lol good luck with that’

Unsure if you’re reading her last message correctly or not, you quickly send her another few texts, hoping to clarify

You : ‘ikr and she still smells so good too’

You : ‘this is the first time the onesie finally fit her’

You : ‘but i have her jammies and her diaper all laid out for you on her dresser, she can wear that for bed tonight’

You’ve barely had the chance to shoot Rosie a glance that says ‘your godmom’s losing her marbles’ before the phone still in your hand starts to ring

“Uh, hello?”

“What day is it today?!” Your friend asks animatedly over the line

“It’s Friday…? Aren’t you on your way here already? Simon’s meant to be here soon.”

“You’re kidding me.” You hear her whisper to herself before she’s groaning in apparent defeat. “Oh my gosh girl, I- I’m so sorry, I could’ve sworn we were Thursday today! I’m literally in my parents kitchen across town right now. I am so sorry, I- I could leave now and try to make it-”

“Oh, no that’s okay. I know you don’t see them that often anymore, it’s okay. I’ll explain to Simon and we’ll reschedule or something.”

“Are you sure? I feel so bad. You were so excited for this date.” She says, and you know she means it. You don’t want to make her feel any worse than she probably already does, though you can’t deny that you’re disappointed, you were really looking forward to tonight

“Mhmm, I’m positive. You enjoy dinner with your parents, tell them I say hey.”

“Alright, only if you’re sure. But let me know if he wants to just push the date to tomorrow, I promise I’ll be there!”

“I’ll let you know. Bye.” You say before quickly hanging up, tossing your phone onto your bed along with a frustrated sigh. “Oh Rosie, what are we gonna do now?”

Rosie offers up her solution in the form of coos and whines aimed your way, her volume increasing with every second she deems a second too long not being held

You’ve just scooped her up into your arms when you hear a steady knock at the front door, your heart skipping a beat for a moment knowing that he’s here early, that maybe he’s been just as excited for tonight as you’ve been and that he couldn’t wait a moment longer to see you, but then your shoulders can’t help but to sag slightly, knowing that you’ve got to break the news to him

Making your way across the small flat, you cradle Rosie in one arm as you lean against the door, peering into the peephole just to be sure, when the sight on the other side forces you to clamp your mouth shut, god forbid you actually let out the ‘holy shit’ your brain is thinking right now

It’s Simon stood out there, that’s for certain

But you’ve never seen the man look so fucking good before

You’ve grown used to seeing him in his work attire, his dirty, sweaty t-shirts, old jeans caked in paint and plaster, plaid button ups so used and abused they’re practically see-through, hell he was even wearing the stereotypical white wife beater when you first met him across the fence, his defined biceps on full display that day (not that you were complaining), along with his muddy boots, you’ve only ever seen Simon wearing a hard working man’s clothes

Now however?

Well, he obviously must have been planning on taking you somewhere fancier than you expected tonight, seeing as the man is wearing proper dress shoes, dark slacks that hug his enormous thighs just right, and a goddamn button-up shirt that accentuates just how wide his shoulders are, how huge he is to begin with, a man who has very evidently worked hard for years upon years and has the build to show for it

Wanting to lay your eyes on the real thing, you try your best not to look too excited when you all but rip the door open for him

“Hi Simon.” You murmur to him as you lean against the doorway, glancing down at Rosie with a smile as she coos at him too, readjusting your hold on her so that she can see him better. “You- you look really nice tonight.”

You can’t help the way your cheeks heat up getting the full picture now rather than distorted through the lens of a peep hole, god how can someone actually be so tall? You can’t help but lean closer towards him when you catch a whiff of what you think is an enticing cologne or aftershave, your eyes taking in his clean shaven appearance, scars standing out more prominently without the stubble only adding to his already rugged charm

You see his own eyes go wide, gaze scanning you from top to bottom more than once, his lips falling open ever so slightly as he stands there, taking in the sight before him

“Simon?” You ask with a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips when he still hasn’t said anything after a moment, laughing softly when your words seem to snap him out a daydream, his eyes focusing more intently on your own now

“Sorry. I jus’-” He begins before clearing his throat, taking half a step closer to you as he speaks. “You’re so beautiful. Caught me off guard for a beat there.”

Your first instinct is to believe he’s exaggerating, just pulling your leg, because sure your makeup might be more done up than usual, and your hair styled a little nicer than it’s been recently, but you’re still just clad in simple lounge wear, never having had a chance to change properly before your friend called and you didn’t have a reason to dress up anymore

But looking at him now, seeing the way he’s looking at you, you can’t find a trace of insincerity in his gaze, can’t pinpoint any reason why he would be anything but sincere with you, the blush on your cheeks only deepening as you decide he means what he says

“Yeah well, you clean up pretty nicely yourself.” You mumble to him, pleased at the small smile he offers in return. “Though, this wasn’t what I’d been hoping on wearing tonight, obviously.”

“I think you’re perfect.” He answers instantly, tacking your name onto the end. “But there’s no rush, if ye wanted a minute to change? I can hold her, if y’need.”

“No, actually I- I’ve got some bad news.” You add solemnly, absentmindedly shuffling your feet, a nervous tic from your younger years that you never grew out of

“Y’alrigh’?” Simon asks, taking the last few steps closer until you’re within reaching distance, his hand coming up to land on your arm out of pure instinct, though he seems to catch himself at the last second as his palm hovers just above your skin

“Yeah, no, everything’s fine. It’s just that the sitter can’t make it tonight. She got the dates confused, thought I’d asked her for tomorrow.” You regretfully explain to him, unable to meet his eyes, as though this were somehow your fault, rather than a simple mixup that had you feeling just as disappointed. “I’m sorry Simon, I’d really been looking forward to-”

“D’you wanna bring her?”

“W-what?” You ask, momentarily befuddled by the question, unable to understand what he means

“D’you wanna bring Rosie wit’ us? Is tha’ alrigh’? Or if she’s still too little to go out we can stay ‘ere, order takeaway. Or I could cook for ye. Though the takeaway migh’ be less likely to come back and haunt ye tomorrow.” He replies casually, as though the answer were always so evident, the solution truly that simple, a problem easily solved at a moment’s notice

“I- she- wait, are you serious?” You question, only slightly bewildered by how nonchalant he is with the change of plans. “You- you don’t mind? You’d really be alright just staying in tonight?”

“‘Course.”

“But you- I mean you obviously had something nice planned for tonight- just look at you! I don’t want to ruin-”

“You’re not ruining a damn thing, love.” He cuts off your rambling, his heavy palm now landing on your shoulder with confidence. “Wearin’ my nice civvies, fancy food, s’all jus’ to impress ya. I don’ need none o’ it. Just want to spend time with ye, right ‘ere or anywhere else. Alrigh’?”

You can only bring yourself to nod in agreement with him, fearing that words might fail you if you dared to open your mouth now, a flood of emotions threatening to rise to the surface if you spend too long taking in what Simon’s just said

“Why don’t we go in then, and you start thinkin’ ‘bout where you wanna order from.”

Before you can even realize it, nearly two hours have trickled away, the brilliant hues of pink and orange and yellow shining against your windows as the sun sets cast a warm reflection throughout your flat, a sight that can only pale in comparison to the glow that’s emanating from inside

Because that really is how you’re feeling isn’t it?

As you and Simon lounge together on your couch with full bellies, contrasted by the empty takeaway containers and utensils scattered across the coffee table, some radio station or another softly playing music in the background, you feel as though the only way to describe this feeling growing in your chest is glowing, you feel like you’re glowing when Simon’s around

And based of the way he’s sunken comfortably into the cushions of the couch, an arm resting casually across the back with careful fingertips caressing your shoulder every so often, any and all traces of stress and work and life outside this bubble you’re caught up in have lifted off his shoulders, leaving him looking lighter than you’ve seen before, you’re inclined to assume he’s just as content as you are in this moment

“Hmm, dunno ‘bout that.”

“No, I swear to you, Simon! You’ll see, next time we’ll have to go in person, or we’ll just order dessert first.” You insist through your laughter, watching as he shakes his head in playful disbelief. The food you’d ordered was delicious, but as good as your dinner had been, you told him that it was really their sweets that had you coming back for more

“Well, if ye swear, s’pose I’m inclined to believe ye.” He teases with a knowing look in his eyes, ghost of a smirk painted across his lips. “Next time then.”

“Next time.” You agree easily,

“Like the sound o’ that. Next time.”

“Me too. That is, assuming you’d want to do this again, of course. Maybe a proper date?”

“This is a proper date, love. S’like I said, just like spendin’ time with ye. Look, we’ve even got a chaperone an’ everythin’. Proper date in my books.” Simon jokes, jutting his chin towards Rosie in your arms, her chubby little fists tugging at your shirt relentlessly

“Oh yeah, real proper.” You laugh, readjusting your hold on her, smoothing a hand down her back. “Speaking of which, I probably should try to lay her down soon.”

You’ve managed to avoid putting her to bed for as long as you could, the three of you hanging out contently together, bouncing her between your arms and her swing, but you also know your baby, and you don’t want to keep her up any longer, disrupt her routine any more. You weren’t expecting to juggle both Rosie and your fist date with Simon simultaneously, and while she’d been an angel for you two tonight, you knew better than to push your luck

“Ah right. Needs her shuteye, that one. I can head out, if ye’d like.” He offers, almost as though he doesn’t necessarily agree with the words he’s speaking, doesn’t want the night to end yet, but knows that they need to be said nonetheless

“No! I mean- it shouldn’t take me too long to get her down, I can tell she’s already pretty sleepy. If you don’t mind waiting, we could watch a movie together, or just keep talking. I- I’d really like you to stay, if you want to.” You extend the invitation to him, putting the ball in his court now

The idea of parting ways already leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, knowing how incredibly busy with work he is to the point that he told he he’d been working straight through the weekend to get this newest nursery finished, and because of that you’re left unsure when he’ll be able to see you next, your own days dragging longer as you’re left only with Rosie to occupy your hours, in addition to the very man who occupied your thoughts

“I’d like that. I’ll stay.” He answers simply, though his eyes tell you much more than his words ever could, the relief clear in his features

“Great.” You say with a genuine smile. “I might just run to the washroom quickly, before I put her down. Are- are you okay if I just- leave her here with you for a bit? It should only take me a secon-”

“You’re fine love. We’re fine. You go ‘head. We’ll be right here waitin’ for ye.” He tells you, gesturing down the hall towards your bathroom.

You can’t help but to search his face quickly for any chance he might change his mind, but Rosie’s safe in her swing, her whines and grumbles at a minimum for the time being, and so you nod to him before standing and turning the corner

But of course, your girl’s got some sort of sixth sense for knowing when her mum’s left the room, her cries reaching your ears through the closed bathroom door

You try to be a quick as you can, though at least a minute or two has passed by the time you’re jogging back towards the living room, apology already on the tip of your tongue for having left Simon with her, how you should’ve known she’d get upset, but the words die in your mouth as you spot the scene playing out on the couch

Still sat comfortably on your couch, Simon appears as though he hasn’t moved from his spot at all, which you’d be inclined to believe, were it not for the tiny bundle laying across his chest, his large hand rubbing small circles against your baby’s back

Her whines are already quieting down before you can process it, her coos softening the more Simon shushes her, soothes her, speaks to her in that low timbre of his, as if this were second nature to him, something he’d done a thousand times before and had mastered the art of

“Shh, you’re alright now. Your mum’s comin’ back, Rosie. No need for tears.” You hear him tell her as you step closer to the pair

“She- is she okay?” You ask, coming to sit back own next to him, your own hand instinctively coming to caress the back of her head, soft little wisps of hair tickling beneath your fingertips

“Tired. Like ye said.” He replies, his movements never faltering as he comforts your baby as if she were his own flesh and blood. “Think she’s almost out.”

And surprise surprise, he’s right

Rosie’s fighting to keep her heavy eyelids open, mouth parted in the tiniest little ‘o’ as she tries in vain to continue her protests, but in the end she can’t hold out any longer, and drifts off on Simon’s chest, fitting against him like a perfect puzzle piece, appearing all the smaller compared to his large size

“I can’t believe that just happened.” You whisper in awe, eyes locked on the sight of your baby safe and sleeping in the arms of a well-dressed Simon, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his muscular forearms, a vision that leaves you feeling warm all over

“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked before just pickin’ her up like tha’, you didn’t-” He begins to say, posture stiffening as though he’s about to stand

“Oh my gosh, Simon! Don’t even try to apologize right now. This is like, just about the hottest thing I’ve witnessed all year.” You reassure him instantly, relieved by how he softens up at your words, leaning back into the cushions once more, small chuckles being shared between the two of you. “Wasn’t expecting her to kick up a fuss so quick, and certainly never expected you to jump in and comfort her but, thank you, Simon. Really. I figured she was going to put up a fuss with the sitter tonight, she’s never had anyone but me put her to sleep before. But look at her.”

You both gaze at the sleepy little lump cuddled cozily into his dress shirt without a care in the world, her breaths coming out in soft, even little huffs

“Think she knows I’m trying to earn brownie points wit’ her mum. Helpin’ me out.” He teases his own hand coming lay atop your own, still cradling her back of Rosie’s head

“Already promised you dessert next time, didn’t I?” You say softly, returning his own cheeky smirk with a grin of your own

You hardly even recognize the way your head starts absentmindedly shaking in a mix of disbelief and awe, unable to fully believe the situation you’ve found yourself in, sitting on the very same couch you used to crash on after late nights out with friends, the same couch you’d bawled your eyes out on for hours after discovering you were pregnant, the same couch you’d fallen asleep on after one too many sleepless nights caring for a newborn by yourself, the same couch cushions you’d been digging through for loose change as money got tight

It’s the same couch that Simon Riley is sitting on now, as he holds your sleeping baby, as he looks at you as if there’s nowhere else he’d rather be right now even if this wasn’t the original plan for tonight, as he makes your heart beat faster than you’ve ever felt possible, as he challenges every notion and preconception and idea you’d built for yourself since becoming a single mum

Part of you wants to scream ‘How are you real?!’ just to see if the echo of your voice will ripple across the mirage he might have been all along, will reveal the smoke and mirrors and shed the spotlight on a stage that’s been empty this whole time

But you’re growing tired of holding up the weight of the walls you’ve had to build around yourself, you’re growing sick of making up excuses that never benefited you in the first place, you or Rosie, because a world kept at arms length might in theory be a safer one, but it’s undoubtedly a lonelier one, and while your new role as a mum means having to prioritize someone else’s well being before your own, having to take on the problems for two, you glance at Simon now and know for certain:

You’re not worried

He’s worried

It’s been too long now, almost a full week that he hasn’t heard from you

Not a text, not a call, not a goddamn carrier pigeon, nothing

He hates to admit it, loathes to acknowledge it as the truth, but he’s been so busy with work that he hadn’t even noticed the radio silence on your end until more than three days had passed

He’s been working practically inhumane hours as of late, fulfilling his guarantee to have the site finished and ready to open in exchange for a nursery spot for Rosie, and the work’s had him feeling more exhausted than he has in a long time, though the mental stress could never hold a flame to that of his time in the SAS, the physical toll is nearly comparable, especially considering his body getting any younger

Simon had been arriving at the construction site two or three hours before anyone else was scheduled, before the damn sun was even thinking of cresting the horizon, leaving him relying on an absurd number of floodlights to help get the work done

Not to mention that he wasn’t just the last man to leave the job every single time, Simon only allowed himself to head home when his body literally could not take any more for the day, the streetlights having turned on ages ago telling him to clock out

Arriving home and immediately collapsing into bed had been the routine each night, sleeps so short and restless that his brain never had the chance to conjure up a dream, not until that third night, when he finally slept well enough to dream of you

After all, he had left your flat that night last week feeling as if he was still waiting to wake up from a dream, to find out that was all just a figment of his imagination, in fact too good to be true

After having carefully transferred Rosie into her crib, the two of you had stayed up much too late into the night talking to one another, laughing together, and ultimately, as he’d been hoping he would have the chance to do again, kissing

He remembers how comfortable you were sat next to one another on the couch, how the more you spoke the more the space between your bodies slowly dwindled until he could no longer handle the look in your eyes, the one he knew had to have been reflected on his own face, and he’d taken the leap and reached for you, slotting his lips against your with a hesitancy that was quickly thrown out the window as he heard the deep hum of satisfaction reverberating through your chest into his

He remembers how soft you were, your skin, your hair, your lips, everything about you felt like something too precious for his sullied hands to touch, something too priceless for him to be stealing for himself, but your solid grip on his biceps gave him no room to question whether this was something you wanted as well, something you wanted just as badly as he did

It could have been five minutes, it could have been five hours, all Simon knew was that he was drowning in you and he never wanted to resurface again

Each little gasp you had let out as his strong hands gripped and squeezed your curves had his head spinning, every whimper and moan you didn’t mean to let slip had his own tether on the situation beginning to weaken, each press of your lips against his proved to be a test of his resolve, his willingness to do this right, to take things slow

But fuck, if you weren’t the most delectable thing he’d ever come across… your milk swollen tits pressed up against his firm chest, your soft thighs beneath his fingertips, your bodies arching into one another as though they already knew each other, had danced this dance before

Simon would have died a happy man that night, more than content with having you as his cause of death, a death certificate he could be proud of, but of course, he was only one of the two people in your flat that was vying for your precious attention

Rosie awaking from her sleep and demanding to be fed was the only indication that time was still ticking by, that your make out session had not in fact stopped time as your hearts may have otherwise had you believe

You’d walked him to the door, kissed him goodnight again just for good measure, promising to talk soon and plan another date, one where he might actually be able to take you out

But now, Simon’s left to grapple with the fact that you haven’t called him since, haven’t texted him, haven’t reached out once

He feels like a fish out of water

He’d never done this before, had never had something like this in his life before, something worth holding on to, and now he was left wondering what he was meant to do

Was this his fault? Had he been meant to call you first? Was that some unspoken understanding that he’d never gotten the memo for? Were you waiting for him to reach out first?

When his first text goes out to you the following morning, a simple message checking in on how you and Rosie are doing, he spends his entire work day eager to finish up so that he can check for your response

What he isn’t expecting however, is for his message to go unseen

Left puzzled, more than a tad confused, he decides to call you, wanting to hear your voice, to make sure everything is okay

When the call goes unanswered, your standard voicemail tone being the only thing to come through the phone, Simon has to fight against the familiar voices in his head telling him to jump to the worst case scenario, to anticipate the worst, and instead decides he’s not going to allow another day to go to waste

He’s pulling up in front of your flat and taking the stairs two at a time before he has the chance to talk himself out of it, to imaging reasons A through to Z as to why this may not be a good idea, why you might be ignoring him

Knocking on your door, Simon is steeling himself for whatever scenario he might be about to face, though what he comes face to face winds up being a situation his mind had not jumped to, a much more plausible explanation he hadn’t fathomed in all of his pessimistic worrying

It’s evident from the moment that you manage to crack the door open for him, that that alone took up more energy than you had to spare, the prominent bags under your eyes darker than ever before, the sweat seeping across your brow and upper lip contrasted by the way your body shivers involuntarily

“Love,” he says as softly as he can, though his tone is reminiscent to that of a young child being lovingly scolded, his brow furrowing in concern. “Should’ve told me you were sick.”

“D-didn’t want you t-to see me l-like t-this.” You barely manage to croak out, trying to correct the blanket that’s slipping off of your shoulders, though you barely have the strength to lift your arm and tug it back in place

“How long have you been ill?” He immediately asks, shutting the door behind him and leading you through your flat with a gentle hand between your shoulder blades, feeling the heat radiating off of you even through all your layers

“I- I don’t know. Few d- days?” You reply, glancing sideways at him as though you’re only now realizing that he’s here. “H-how - what are you d-doing here?”

“Haven’t heard from you, didn’t answer your phone. Had me worried, and apparently rightfully so.” He tells you, head on a swivel as he looks for your tiny roommate. “Where’s Rosie?”

“In her c-crib.”

“She sick as well?”

“N-no. Somehow sh-she’s been o-okay. I just- I feel awful, Simon.” You admit, frustrated tears beginning to pool in your eyes, fat drops sliding down your heated cheeks as you blink through them

“You’ve got to be runnin’ a fever, love. You’re not well.” He says with a hand pressed against your forehead, doing his best to school his features despite his displeasure with how warm you feel, your skin borderline burning up beneath his palm. “Let me help you.”

“S-Simon, I-”

“Please.” He iterates before you can even attempt to turn him down, the words quickly dying on your tongue, not a single ounce of energy left to spare for you to fight him on this. “Can we get you to bed?”

Nodding, you allow him to help lead you towards the door he can only presume hides your bedroom, pushing all other thoughts aside as he sees your intimate space for the first time

You hardly have the energy to climb into bed, allowing Simon to stack the pillows behind your head and to cover you with the blankets, exhaustion evident in every move you make, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that has him wondering as to how you’ve been able to manage these last few days by yourself, let alone caring for Rosie on top of everything

“You jus’ lay here, alrigh’? Let me handle things.” He instructs, smoothing the sheets over your legs, brushing your hair out of your eyes, fussing over you like he imagines his mother might have done for him decades and decades ago when he was too young to remember. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Uh- I um- I don’t- I don’t know.” You admit, closing your eyes as you lean back into the comfort of the pillows supporting you, the only thing keeping you upright at the moment

“Stay here, I’ll get things sorted.”

He knows you really can’t be feeling like yourself, based on how you put up no effort in telling him otherwise, hardly even acknowledging his words apart from the slightest nod of your head, your mind evidently in a fog that he’s worried has lingered too long already

Stepping out of your room, Simon peeks into Rosie’s nursery, if only to reassure his own wandering mind that she really is alright, his heartbeat calming down in the slightest when he spots her in the cot, her chest rising and falling in even, steady breaths, nothing appearing out of the ordinary as compared to her sick mum on the other side of the wall

Satisfied that Rosie is settled for the time being, he busies himself in your kitchen with preparing you something to eat, going back to the basics when he heats up some soup he managed to find in the cupboards, trying his best to straighten up the flat while your meal warms up on the stove, throwing wadded up tissues into the waste bin and tossing crumpled clothes into your washer

You appear as though you’re on the verge of sleep, if not already counting sheep, when Simon returns to you with a warm meal, a cold glass of water, and a generous amount of ibuprofen

You hardly protest when he starts feeding you the soup himself, barely blink when he drops the meds in your palm and instructs you to swallow them, only perking up when you overhear Rosie begin to grumble from across the hall

“I’ve got her.” Simon quickly reassures you before you try to move. “I’ll bring her, just wait here love.”

Despite having held her less than a week prior, Simon still can’t believe just how small she is, a true baby bird, how minuscule she feels in his hands, how light she is in his arms, how light she makes him feel when she tries to snuggle her way farther into his chest, as though she and her mum weren’t already burrowing their way directly into his heart already

Stepping back into your room, he watches the relief roll over you as your tired eyes lock on your baby, arms instinctively reaching for her as Simon transfers her over to you

“Oh Rosie g-girl, I know. I know.” You coo to her, sniffling in spite of the brave face you’re clearly trying to put on. “Thank you, Simon.”

“I should’ve come by sooner. Should’ve known.” He says, sitting next to you at the edge of your bed, arm coming up to help you hold Rosie steady should you need it. He’s beating himself up over this, in spite of all logic indicating he had no way of knowing you were feeling poorly, he still feels like he should have been here, should have been helping you sooner

“Y-you didn’t know. I didn’t s-say anything. S’my fault.” You mumble, rocking Rosie against your chest, leaning your cheek against the crown of her head. “I hate f-feeling like this. Feel like I’m useless to my own b-baby, feel like a bad mum, f-feel like a bad girlfriend f-for not talking to y-you, feel li-”

“Shh, none o’ that now.” He shushes your worries, leaning over to press a kiss to your temple, eyes closing as he lingers against you for a moment, begging the relentless beating of his heart to calm down before you’re able to literally hear it banging against his rib cage, itching to be freed and put directly into the palm of your hands where it belongs

He knows you likely didn’t mean to say it, didn’t realize you’d let the word slip, your fever and exhaustion taking precedent over your usually clever mind, but he certainly heard it

Girlfriend

He feels like a damn school boy, blushing the way he is at the prospect of you calling yourself his girlfriend, a term that feels too juvenile, too mundane for what’s been growing between the two of you

He brushes your worries aside, casts your discomfort out the window, taking your dishes to the kitchen if only to allow you a moment of privacy to feed Rosie, promising to return momentarily, though he doesn’t mind taking the time he needs for his cheeks to return to their normal shade, his body betraying the way your words affect him

He knows you likely won’t remember having said so come morning, though he’s hoping you’ll wake up faring better than you are now, that your slip of the tongue was truly nothing more than an honest revelation in your hazy state, an unintentional peek into the thoughts that have been swirling in your mind as of late, perhaps even an unspoken wish accidentally said aloud

But Simon? Well, he’s got no intention of keeping you waiting

If you’re wishing to be his, he’ll have to let you know soon enough that that’s fine by him, seeing as he’s been yours from the very start

Next chapter

Thank y’all so much for the patience with part five being uploaded, in true tumble fashion my first draft of this chapter got deleted right as I was preparing to upload it, and so this was my second time writing this out, tried my best to capture as much of the original draft as I could remember, so I’m really hoping it doesn’t come across as crazy as my brain feels right now

Appreciate all the suggestions people had for where to save drafts from now on, as well as the love you guys always seem to have an abundance of when it comes to my writing. Really does mean a lot

Anyways, really excited for the next few chapters as things are going to start getting messy, someone’s lies might start catching up to him, who knows

- M 🫶🏻