Tell Me When It Kicks In

(don't know if I'll be writing other fics from this one, but I just wanted to start putting all my links tg in the same place)

Actus reus, mens rea (Carmen Berzatto x OFC)

After Richie gets arrested for aggravated assault during a bachelor party hosted at The Beef, Counsellor Lara Khoury, public defender, takes over his case. She gets to know the crew of The Beef, and more specifically, one grief-stricken emotionally-constipated chef.

AO3 link

FIC PLAYLIST

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

One-shots:

A/N: holy shit 20 chapters deep. Thanks for coming along. Buckle up.

shoutout to @juniper-is-in-the-house for editing and quite literally collaborating on this chapter with me, your writing elevated this text!!!

Masterlist

tags: @ximehs, @cocaine-sideboob-choke-her, @lordhuronns

CW: angst (ish?), panic attack, avoidant attachment, swearing, smoking, typical canon mental-health issues, Carmy being a menace in the kitchen.

Years ago, when Lara was starting law school, she began seeing a therapist to manage her anxiety. There, she learned what acute stress responses were. 

She was told that in particularly stressful situations, humans resort to their basic instincts, fight or flight. At the time, she would often react by fighting: she was confrontational, unwilling to back down from a challenge, wearing her anger like a badge of honor, telling herself this was a trait that’d be useful to her in the future as a lawyer.

This wound up wearing her down, chipping away at her strength day-by-day. Being known as the angry girl, the fighter, created this wall between her and others, rendering her impenetrable. She knew how she came across to others, but she didn’t care. She wanted to be seen as harsh, as tough, and wanted people to leave her alone. At least then, she wouldn’t get hurt.

When she left Montreal, her family, the world she knew, she thought – naively so – that her issues would be resolved. That it could undo almost three decades of anger, of trauma, that she’d be starting new.

Unfortunately, that’s not how things work.

Running away became her specialty.

The kitchen was buzzing with anticipation, the staff preparing for the most important night of their lives. Tina was sharpening her knife, Sweeps was preparing the wine list for the night, Natalie and Richie were looking over final details in the dining room, and Carmy was going through a final dessert check with Marcus and Sydney.

Marcus had worked so hard on those desserts, and it shows. He poured time and care into every one of his creations, and watching his eyes sparkle while explaining each one made his heart swell.

“Looks tremendous, chef,” he says, his voice low, but a genuine smile on his face.

Marcus’ face lights up, before he notices the small box in his mentor’s hands. “What’s that?” he asks him, his chin pointing towards the object.

Carmy blushes, fidgeting with the box. “Oh, it’s uh, a dessert I made myself, for a guest. It’s called knafeh. Like semolina dough over a blend of cheeses with orange blossom and sugar syrup on top of it.”

Sydney and Marcus look at each other, then at Carmy.

“What?” the head chef asks, feeling his face heat up.

Marcus smirks. “This, uh, guest of honor, is she a brutally-honest lawyer, by any chance?” 

Carmy looks down, biting back a smile. “Fuck off,” he mutters, feeling like a child being questioned about a crush by his parents.

“Ha!” Marcus exclaims, turning towards Sydney “you owe me twenty bucks!”

Carmy raises an eyebrow. “What the fuck?”

Sydney plays with her headband, an almost sarcastic smile on her face. “We had a bet going on whether your little girlfriend would show up tonight or not.”

Carmy’s eyes bulge out of his face. “Girlfriend?”

Sydney raises an eyebrow. “What, you invited her to friends and family, so she’s clearly a girlfriend.”

Carmy’s face flushes even more, his face turning red. “I, uh, I mean, not yet. I was kinda planning on taking care of that tonight…”

He looks up, seeing his friends looking at him. “What?”

Marcus thinks for a second, before speaking up, his voice low. “You really think tonight’s a good idea?”

“W-what’s wrong with doing that?”

Sydney rolls her eyes. “Dude, this is the biggest night of our lives, and you’re gonna derail it to basically declare your love for this girl?”

“No one said anything about love!” Carmy blurts out, a bit too quickly.

Sydney rolls her eyes again, a smirk on her face, shaking her head. “Right, right.”

“What?” Carmy asks again, his tone becoming more agitated.

The young woman sighs. “Tonight is a big deal for the restaurant, for us,” she gestures to the rest of the staff, who are busy with prep. “We need your full fucking focus. Don’t turn this into something else, especially when you don’t know what she’s gonna say.”

“What does that mean?” Carmy asks, his fingers tapping nervously on the counter.

Sydney raises her hands defensively. “I don’t know her, but she might say no. And then you’ll get angry, spiral, and turn this night, which is supposed to be about all of us, into Carmy’s Reckoning: Part 2.”

“Part 2?”

Marcus nods. “Yeah, like a sequel to the time the preoder machine fucked up. You were a fucking maniac, remember?”

Carmy sighs, his hands tugging at his hair. “This, this isn’t gonna be like that time, okay? It’s all, it’s all gonna be fine.”

“Or not,” Sydney presses, “and I’m just saying, maybe save the surprises for another night.”

Carmy rubs his thumb across his forehead, his eyes scrunched shut, before he nods, his head moving in a jerky motion. “Fine,” he concedes. “Fine, no asking her anything.”

When Lara was younger, she believed in fate. She’d look for signs from the universe to help guide her path. She used to stay up late, watching cheesy rom-coms, focused on the stories, wanting so badly to have a meet-cute with someone, to find the person who complemented her, her missing puzzle piece.

Every coincidence shared with a stranger made her heart glow, opened the door for possibility, for an opportunity to find true love.

But the problem with keeping an open heart is that it can be crushed, over and over again.

So Lara stopped believing in fate, in signs from the universe, shoving every inkling of hope down every time it’d surface.

Tonight, this was harder than usual.

The lawyer had been swamped with work for the last few weeks, almost living in the courthouse, napping on the couch in her office during all-nighters. The work was thrilling, but extremely taxing on her mind and body, creating a perpetual pile of files on her desk that only seemed to grow, day by day.

But today, surprisingly, the rush had died down. She had finished a few cases, the trials hadn’t run off, the judge was giving verdicts quickly. By 6 pm, her desk was cleared.

It felt like the universe was sending her a message, giving her its blessing. A few years ago, Lara would’ve taken that as a sign and ran with it. But tonight, she was staring at the blank wall opposite her desk, frozen in place, stuck between listening to her heart and her mind.

The door to her office opens, Rachel standing there.

“Hey, I’m gonna call it a night.”

Lara nods, her expression blank, her gaze still fixed on the wall.

Rachel’s eyebrows knit. “You okay?”

Lara turns her head towards her coworker, rubbing her face, before grimacing, realizing she probably fucked up her makeup. “You ever feel torn between two choices, like you know picking one or the other is gonna change the fucking trajectory of your life?”

Rachel raises an eyebrow. “I think if you’re having these kinds of existential crises at work, maybe you should go home and rest, girl. Feels like you’ve been running on empty.”

The lawyer lets out a tired chuckle. “Won’t help to ruminate at home.”

Rachel looks at her colleague, then sits down across from her. “Ah, so it’s not a work issue.”

Lara shakes her head. “Fucking wish it was. Would be easier to deal with.”

“So what’s got you feeling like Robert Frost?”

Lara chuckles again, hiding half of her face with her hand. “Fuckin’ stupid,” she mutters, “I spent years working so fucking hard towards being a lawyer, spend my days trying to keep people out of jail, and a guy has got me spiraling.”

Rachel gives her a knowing smirk. “Damn. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you mention a guy.”

The young lawyer groans. “This is so fucking stupid, so fuckin’ stupid!” She cries out.

Rachel takes Lara’s wrist, guiding her hand away from her face. “Hey, you’re not stupid. It’s okay to have feelings, you’re fucking human.”

Lara’s hands start to shake, and she laughs nervously. “I’ve spoken in courtrooms packed with people, and the idea of going to this guy’s restaurant opening makes me want to throw up.”

Rachel looks at her friend, her gaze laced with concern.”Why? It seems like fun.”

Lara sighs. “Cause, we weren’t supposed to be serious. We were just hooking up. How the fuck did this get so…messed up?”

Rachel gives her a sympathetic smile. “What’s wrong with you guys becoming more serious, though?”

Lara opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, fear flooding her veins, gripping her heart, coating her throat, restricting her.

“Look, do you like the guy? I’m not talking about love, or marriage, or anything, but do you like spending time with him?”

The young woman takes a deep breath, then nods, slowly.

Rahcel gives her an encouraging smile “Then go for it! You’ll have a great time, and if you don’t, you can leave. You’re an adult, you can do that.”

Lara smiles hesitantly. “Yeah, you’re right, it’ll be fine.”

Rachel pats her shoulder lightly. “There you go! Have fun tonight, and give me a full debrief tomorrow!”

Months of preparation, of hard work, have led to this very moment. The staff of The Bear was working like a well-oiled machine. Carmy stands in front of his crew, calling out orders, making sure the dishes are perfect before letting Richie take them out to the dining area.

His heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest but in the best way. He’ll never admit it to anyone but he loves this, loves being in the eye of the storm, controlling everything like a skilled conductor. He feels like a god. 

Occasionally, he turns around, looking through the pass, trying to see if Lara made it, but he falls short every time. He meets his sister’s gaze, who gives him an apologetic smile. He clenches his jaw, taking a deep breath, before calling out orders, his voice louder now.

“Chefs, seventeen, two people.”

“Chef!”

“Can I get an all day on seven fishes, please?”

“Five seven fishes, chef!” Sydney calls out. 

“Alright, I’ll walk those,” he says, grabbing a plate. 

Sydney stops in her tracks and blinks. “Um, why?”

Carmy can’t tell her why. Because the real reason’s stupid. He wants to bring the dishes out so he can look for Lara. So he does what Berzattos do best: lie. “I’m done plating and they’re behind. Just go. I got this.”

His sous chef cocks her head to the side. She doesn’t fully believe him but the servers are behind, so she has to let it go. 

“Chef,” she says before walking away. 

Carmy takes the plate of seven fishes to a two-top in front of the bar. His eyes scan the restaurant as he lists the contents of the dish. No sign of Lara. 

“Enjoy,” he tells the couple, then turns on his heel and walks away. She’s on her way, he tells himself. Probably stuck waiting for the L. 

Something he catches in his periphery makes him stop. He turns and sees the star of his nightmares. 

Chef David fucking Fields. He’s sitting on a four top, wearing a black turtleneck like a blond Steve Jobs. The asshole smirks at him. 

What the fuck? What the fucking fuck?

Carmy rushes to the kitchen and bursts through the door. “Who the fuck is that?” He hisses at Sydney, pointing at Fields’ table. 

Sydney’s brow furrows. “Who?”

“T-the guy, the guy in the fucking corner! What the fuck’s he doing here?” He bellows. 

“That’s Dr. Robby, he was my mom’s doctor. He’s like, my Uncle Jimmy, except he’s not in the mob.” Sydney explains. 

Carmy turns around to look at the four top. It’s not Fields. This guy has darker hair and a more pronounced nose. 

“Jimmy’s not in the mob,” Richie argues. “Mob doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Suuure. What’s his job again?”

The older man blinks. “Real estate… and other ventures.”

“Other ventures?.”

“Chefs, focus, please!” Carmy demands. 

Sydney and Richie go back to their respective stations. 

Carmy spends the rest of service with an eye on the guests. He searches for anything: long, curly hair, a glimpse of olive-toned skin, the black and white of her keffiyeh, but nothing.  

Lara’s on her fifth cigarette of the night, bringing the stick to her mouth mechanically as she watches the scene in front of her. Her hands shake from the cold, ashes coating the toes of her boots. She doesn’t notice the snow piling on top of her hair, framing her eyelashes, the wind scraping her cheeks. Her gaze is zeroed in on the scene in front of her.

Gone was the “Original Beef” insignia, the torn-down leather booths, the chaos at the counter. Instead, there’s a shield with an outline of a bear’s head at the entrance, and through the front window of the restaurant, she can see the atmosphere is drastically different. The booths are replaced by bistro tables, the lighting is dimmed, it all looks so…elevated. Fancier. More…official. 

Where would she fit in all of this? What message would it send, dining at Carmy’s restaurant on friends and family night? They’re more than friends, but she’s definitely not family. 

Does she want to be family?

 If she went in, there’d be no turning back. She’d be stuck in the quicksand that is the Berzatto family. 

She spent the last few months being there for Carmy, not just physically, but emotionally. What would happen when he saw her? Like, really saw her? Not just the parts of herself she likes, not just her body or her intelligence but all her ugly bits: her insecurity, her shame, her irrationally avoidant attachment? What if he didn’t like what he saw? What if he felt cheated? She’d shown him some parts of herself, parts she’d hidden away from everyone else, but not all of them. What if he didn’t like all of her? What if he didn’t show her the kindness she’d shown him?

Maybe it wasn’t a question of ‘what if’ but ‘why’? Why would someone like Carmy, attractive, talented, passionate, want to be with a mess like her?

Why would anyone love someone who couldn’t even love herself?

The courses fly by, the restaurant almost done with their first service of the night. Carmy should feel calmer. They’re doing great, the place is starting to gel and feel alive, everyone’s working together, but he doesn’t feel calmer. 

He feels like a fucking failure.  

Sydney picks up on it, noticing how his fidgeting increases, how his answers get drier, how he continuously clenches and unclenches his fists, how his breathing gets louder.

“Chef,” she says, her tone calm, but stern. “Focus, please. We’re okay. We’re good.”

Carmy doesn’t meet her gaze, but he nods.

Marcus emerges from his station. “Chef, 86 cannoli.”

The CDC whips his head towards the chef patissier. “What the fuck do you mean, 86 the cannoli?”

“Chef…” Sydney warns, but he doesn’t listen.

“No, you were supposed to have them ready, Marcus, what the fuck?”

The pastry chef winces. “I had them ready,” he protests, “but the cream’s all wrong. I-I think it curdled or something-”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Carmy huffs, stomping over to Marcus’s station. 

He takes some cream with his emotional support spoon, tastes it and immediately spits it out. “Fuck,” he curses. “These are dead. Refire.”

“We don’t have time-” Sydney argues. 

“Fucking refire everything, now!” Carmy bellows. 

“It’s one fucking dessert, we can just skip it-”

“No, we fucking can’t, Syd, because Jimmy hasn’t gotten his yet and if he doesn’t get one he’ll break my fuckin’ knees. Y-you know what mob guys do? That’s what they do, they break your fucking knees.” 

Sydney sighs, scratching her forehead. “We still got that Middle Eastern pastry, right? We’ll just give him that instead.”

“No!” he exclaims. “No, t-that’s for Lara.”

Marcus and Sydney look at Carmy, something like pity in their eyes. 

“That’s for Lara?” Sydney calls out, her voice going up multiple octaves. “That’s for Lara? Are you fucking serious right now? We’re gonna fuck up service because your fucking girlfriend stood you up?”

“She didn’t stand me up! She’s coming!” He yells out, the vein in his neck bulging.

Sydney’s eyes widen. “Carm, we’re serving dessert. It’s over. If she wanted to be here, she would.”

“Syd!” Marcus chastises her. 

“What? It’s true! I don’t why it’s such a big deal, honestly, good riddance, she fucking sucks.” The sous chef declares. “Fucking performative-ass bitch.”

“Performative?” Marcus asks with a raised eyebrow.

“She called us out for ‘gentrifying ourselves’ or whatever and then she stood up a neurodivergent man! She’s a fuckin’ hypocrite,” Sydney points out.  

Carmy doesn't have time to figure out what the hell ‘neurodivergent’ means. His ribs feel like they’re about to collapse and he needs air now. 

“I’m taking five. Hold down the fort, please, chef!” He yells out before pushing past the crew to run outside. 

Carmy fishes in his chef’s coat for his pack of cigarettes, lighting one up, leaning his head back against the cool brick wall. 

The nicotine is somehow not fast enough. He feels like a bomb about to go off. He’s outside and yet he can’t get enough air, he’s vibrating, almost levitating off the ground.  

His mind flashes with memories of family dinners, full of yelling and fighting, of chaos, his mother threatening to shoot herself, slapping him when he tried to help her, his chef in New York telling him he was worthless, Richie acting like an asshole when he took over The Beef, Natalie calling him, crying, telling him Mikey died, Mikey’s body in the morgue, him, frozen, outside of the church, not attending his brother’s funeral. Yelling, shouting, fighting, chaos, the car crashing into their living room.

Chaos, chaos, chaos, following him around like a curse from birth, like a permanent stain, something he can never get away from, never able to find peace.

Peace.

Peace.

Lara’s hands on his chest, telling him to breathe.

Lara’s voice, whispering that he’s okay.

Lara’s soft smile, reassuring him after a hard day.

Lara’s touch, her fingers tangling in his hair, singing under her breath in Arabic.

Lara’s voice, her touch, her hair, her smile, her moans, her kisses, her laugh. 

Lara.

He feels his heartbeat slow down, his vision unblurring, his hands steadying.

“Lara,” he murmurs, taking his phone out of his pocket, calling her. Lara can help. Lara will help.

Lara’s here for him. She’s been here for him.

He hears the phone ring on his end, but it gets sent straight to voicemail. 

“Fuckin’ do not disturb,” he mutters.

She’s probably had a long day, he rationalizes. Still stuck at the office, working on her cases.

He calls her again, pacing back and forth, until he freezes.

She’s there, standing on the other side of the street. Cigarette in one hand, phone in the other, facing the restaurant, her feet planted in the ground, a layer of snow on top of her clothes.

Hope rises in Carmy’s chest until it dawns on him: she’s been there the whole time. She wasn’t late, she was there. 

She didn’t go in. Why the fuck didn’t she go in?

Before he can ponder further, Lara turns her head and stops as she meets his gaze. The pair stare at each other, feeling like time has frozen, just for them. Cars stop passing by, snow stops falling, everything quiets down.

Please, Carmy thinks to himself. Please, just cross the street. Please. 

But she doesn’t. She just stands there like a deer in headlights. 

Carmy does something he never does: he gives up. He breaks eye contact, walks back into the restaurant, then slams the door shut behind him.

He walks straight to Marcus’ station, ignoring him, taking out the knafeh, and throwing it against the wall. The plate shatters in tiny pieces, the pastry crumbling all around them.

“Chef, what the fuck?” Marcus asks, shielding his face from the broken pieces of ceramic. 

“Bullshit fucking dessert,” he mumbles to himself.

He walks back to the front of the restaurant, yelling out orders, urging his staff to work faster. 

“Why are you pushing us so hard? We’re fine Chef,” Sydney reminds him.

He looks at her, his gaze hardening. “Yes chef.”

She steadies herself. “Look, I don’t know what happened out there, but in here we’re doing really fucking good–”

“Yes chef,” he repeats his voice louder.

“Okay, great. So then you can calm the fuck down-”

“Yes chef,” he says again, getting closer to Sydney, his stance almost threatening.

The younger chef backs down. “Yes chef.”

She hands him a dish for review. He barely takes a glance at it, before pushing it away. “Cook’s off.”

“But they–”

“If it’s not perfect it doesn’t go out. Got it?”

Sydney gulps, and nods.

Carmy raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, Chef,” she says begrudgingly.

“You want a fucking star?”

She ignores him.

“I said do you want a fucking star?” He repeats.

She huffs. “Yes, chef.”

“Then stop fucking up ” he spits out, going back to yelling out orders.

You wanted to be great. You wanted to be excellent. So you got rid of all the bullshit, and you concentrated, and you got focused, and you got great. You got excellent. It worked.

Get rid of the bullshit, he thinks, over and over again, the phrase playing on a loop in his head.

Syd’s right. She’s performative, she’s bullshit. Fuck her. I’m the best because I can focus and I can concentrate, that is how I operate. I don't need to provide amusement or enjoyment. I don't need to receive any amusement or enjoyment. I'm completely fine with that. Because no amount of good is worth how terrible this feeling is. It's just a complete waste of fucking time.

Fuck love, fuck girlfriends, and fuck her.