As the stiff pleather cushion exhales from the weight of his body when he sits, his right foot starts bouncing against linoleum, his fingers worry his cupid’s bow like bricks very shittily falling into place. The Faks are the first (and only) to greet him, boisterous as ever, to which he reciprocates with a nod and a small “hey.” He can’t peel his eyes away from the dove-with-olive-branch pattern on Sydney’s scarf. He wants to kick himself, run for the hills, maybe go and give the third rail of the L a real big hug. He wants to be anywhere other than here. 

He has to be here. He owes it to Nat. He gets that feeling at the nape of his neck, cool and foreboding, the very same that made him observe Mikey’s funeral from the driver's seat of his car. He can’t watch both death and birth from the sidelines. It’s unfair, plain and simple.

Carmy screws his eyes shut and takes a breath, letting the smell of hand sanitizer and the sound of monitors beeping in the distance grab hold of him and yank him toward something more grounding. His eyes open to stare at the fabric wrapped around his chef de cuisine’s braids. It helps. He fucking sucks. God, he sucks. He feels guilty all over again for something he’s not sure of. Familiar voices get distant as they meander out of glass sliding doors for a cigarette. He’d join if he wasn’t absolutely sure he’d book it as soon as his shoes hit concrete.

Somebody coughs. He sits across from his penance, beautiful, wrapped in silk and down-packed pine green polyester. Linoleum walkways split them apart like the Red Sea, a testament to his obsession for perfection. He wants so badly to get a star, to get three, to scoop Michelin galaxies from the fucking skies if it means she’s happy. If it means she’s inspired, if it means she won’t leave. It’s all for her, and that makes things infinitely worse, knowing all he’s done was push her away and make her feel small. 

The consequences of his own actions taunt him, because he loves her, and she does not deserve that. She does not deserve the pollution he brings with everything he does, she does not deserve to be tainted. Barolo Chinato splashes across marble. The setting is ironic considering how fucking sick of himself he is. 

Sydney is running. Sydney is scared, and when she gets scared, she trips over her own feet fleeing. 

The sound of her father’s CPAP machine always made her feel like a coward. Maybe– no, she is definitely one, because even now she’s running. Is there a difference between feeling disrespected and being a quitter? The answer should be obvious, you’re not quitting if it’s out of self preservation, but she always has to make things infinitely more complicated. She digs herself into a hole and then gets mad because she didn’t think she’d need a ladder. Carmy is the same way, she thinks, and gets pissed all over again because he’s been such a dick lately. Like, seriously, she can only pretend to know what’s crawled up his ass and died. She wants to grab him by the ears and shake his head around like a jar of loose pennies. She’s running because she’s scared. Scared of him, i.e., how she feels about him. Scared of what will happen if she stays. Scared of her suspicions being right, that this is more than it really is. 

This is the thing, baby. 

Sydney doesn’t remember her mother very well, but often finds herself looking to her for guidance. It’s innate. The misty words of a lullaby, the only proof Mom ever existed beyond, well, Sydney’s own existence and Polaroids of her smiling face, ring in her mind: Will you carry the word of love with you? Will you ride the great white bird in together?

She constantly has to ask herself if every little thing she does, every choice she makes, are actions of love. The fact that she’s at this hospital at five forty seven in the fucking morning is definitely an action of love. Though, to be honest, it wasn’t like she was sleeping anyways, and newborn babies are kind of the cutest things ever, so it’s not like she’s turning down that opportunity. She has to face the music sometime. 

Her shoe scuffs across white tile and nudges Carmen’s own bouncing foot, willing it to stop. Is this an action of love? He looks up like she’s God and he’s a man that’s lost his faith. He’s always got these big, sad puppy eyes, like he’s surprised that people want shit to do with him. He never looks at her with vitriol, even when he’s over her shoulder during service telling her she’s too fucking slow. Even when he’s blowing up like one of those vinegar and baking soda volcanoes, all red-faced and flailing arms. He doesn’t always look at her soft, but he never looks at her hateful.

Right now, he looks at her like she’s the only thing in the world. It makes her gut tighten, the bile inside it curdle because it’s making it so hard to run. Maybe she wants to stay. Maybe it’d be self-sabotage. Maybe it’d make her a better person in the end. She can’t help wondering if Carmen’s confession under the table was entirely truthful. Sydney doesn’t know if he’s even capable of the truth, considering he’s been lying to himself since he left New York. 

A realization in the form of what feels like her heart growing three sizes just about knocks her off her metaphorical feet, bringing them to a halting stop. She cares about Carmen. Of course she cares about him, she’s cared about him since Eleven Madison Park, but like, she actually fucking cares. She wants to pour all the golden light from deep inside her to her palms and press it into his chest. She wants to free him from his burdens, or at the very least, offer him two extra hands to hold it all. She’ll forgive him over and over again, and it’d be like breathing. She wants to tell him the truth. 

That everything she does with him in mind is an action of love, even if it’s leaving.

“Uh,” She fumbles out instead, in an embarrassing excuse of a peace offering. “I’m doing the Mini. Do you have any ideas about sports organizations involving octagons?” 

Carmen blinks once. Another time. He’s completely thrown for a loop. He’d expected her to just quietly apologize and look back down at her phone. Sydney can tell from his face, once again disbelieving that someone’s making an active effort to talk to him.

“... What?”

“That’s the clue. Sports organization with an octagon.” Her jacket rustles when she shrugs and it’s music to his ears. Carmy sits back and interlocks his hands in his lap after rubbing his brow in thought, like the crossword was life or death. He reels his mind for any sports logos that are shaped like an octagon, and he thinks of ADT for some fucking reason, which is not at all related unless you count home security as a sport. 

Sydney waits for his answer. She’s so patient, and he doesn’t deserve it. If he was her, he would’ve bolted out of the Beef the second he saw his own face. 

“UFC.” He blurts, and a jazzy jingle plays quietly from her phone, and she smiles. He could have a coronary right now and die happy. 

“Nice.” Sydney praises quietly, her foot drawing back across the aisle to hook around the leg of her chair. It’d be insanely childish to play footsie with her, but it’s all Carmen wants to do if it means she’ll smile again and he gets to know it’s his fault. That he’s done the world a good service for once. He refrains, unworthy. 

Once the initial silence has broken, the next one that falls is horrid, so Sydney keeps the conversation going– for her own sake. She shifts, wincing briefly from the ass pain thanks to cheap hospital seats. 

“Uh, what– what do you think Nat’s kid is gonna call you?” 

Carmen was so caught up in the joy of Sydney’s presence that he entirely forgot the reason they were here in the first place. He picks at the dry flesh around a fingernail, growing afraid on his sister’s behalf. She’d called him one night in tears. I don’t know if I can do this, Carmy. Like, I don’t know if I can be a mom.

He didn’t know what to say. When someone is scared, and you don’t know what to say, it’s a good rule of thumb to tell them it’s gonna be alright, you’re gonna be alright, even if you feel like you’re lying. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Sugar wouldn’t be a good mom. There was not a doubt in his mind she’d be a good mom– Hell, she mothered him when Donna failed to. But the fact that he’d turned out how he did made his stomach churn. It wasn’t Nat’s fault, and he feels like a dick that his uncertainty even implied that. It was just… a lot of pressure.  

“Probably just.. Uncle Carmy.” He shrugs, finding solace in the space between Sydney’s eyebrows, which wrinkle when she furrows them in incredulity. Her cheeks dimple to accommodate a correspondent, disbelieving smile.  

“Not even, like, anything fun?” It was so easy to fall into banter with Carmen, even if the right thing to do was be furious at him for how he’d been acting these past few months. She’ll find time to pace in her apartment and scream into her hands about it later. 

Carmen makes a face like he’s being interrogated for a crime he didn’t commit.

“I– I don’t know. Maybe Uncle Bear. Maybe.” 

“Mmh.” Sydney nods and pushes her lips to the side, the digital pattern game she’d occupied herself with now abandoned in her lap. “I don’t even know if I’ll get to be an aunt. I just hope, like, the kid doesn’t say my name wrong, and then I’m stuck as, like.. Bibby for the rest of my life.”

“That’s..” Carmy lets out a soft breath of a chuckle. “I– I mean, okay.”

Syd sits up better and leans toward him briefly, her face almost accused. “What?! Don’t laugh, it’s a genuine concern to have!” 

She can’t help laughing, either. Maybe because it really is silly. Maybe because Carmen is contagious, sticking to her brain like beautiful Tuscan algae to the bottom of a pool. Sydney doesn’t think she ever wants to scrub it off. She’s sick in the head, she ultimately decides. 

Eight A.M. finally rolls around and the Bear's inner circle walk in a cluster down the halls of the maternity ward to Natalie’s room. Tina and Sydney chat quietly, the Faks loudly, both harboring excitement at the new addition to the family. Richie is quiet for once in his fucking life, hasn’t regarded Carmy the entire time he’d been there, aside from brief sidelong glances. He jolts when Richie’s shoulder bumps into his, barely playful. Still mad, but out of love. 

“You nervous, cousin?” He mumbles, perhaps out of respect to new, sleeping mothers. Anyone who knew him could tell he was thinking about the last time he walked down this corridor. 

Carmen shrugs because it’s the safe thing to do, running his fingers across closed lips. His eyes glitter when Sydney rolls her head back in laughter at something stupid Neil had said. “I mean– I dunno. It’s weird, ‘cause it’s like.. Real. Now. I guess.” 

“Yeah, I get that.” Richie nods, unable to restrain himself from tickling Carmen’s face with the “It’s a girl!” teddy he’d bought in the hospital gift shop. Carmy bats it away, muttering “fuck off,” even if he’s smiling. 

He knows the anger won’t go forgotten, and that doesn’t upset him because Richie has a right. But they’re happy for Natalie, and that feeling seems to permeate throughout the entire hospital, full to bursting as his sister says his name and dubs him "Uncle Carmy" like he'd hoped. Doubt completely goes out the window when she asks him if he wants to hold the baby first, fixes his arms to support her head. Sydney briefly peeks over his shoulder, face contorting like she’s hurt by how adorable Baby Bear is. 

“Holy shit,” Carmen mutters, as a newborn fist grasps his finger. Her fingernails are so small, he thinks. Do not fucking drop her, for the love of God, he thinks next. He’s sure his worry is palpable, because Nat takes her back within seconds and sets her in the warmed bassinet beside the hospital bed. 

“She looks like a ham.” Sydney coos endearingly, her grin nearly face-splitting as she curls a finger in front of the baby’s sleeping face. “What color are her eyes?”

“Blue, but I think they’re gonna get darker like Pete’s.” Natalie relays softly, squeezing the hand of her husband. 

The conversation melts in Carmen’s ears, distant and muddled. It’s pleasant, for once. He doesn’t know the last time he’s felt this good, and he finds himself staring at Syd’s profile while she speaks. He doesn’t know if the resentment will return once the little welcoming party ends. He hopes that it doesn’t, not out of worth for Sydney’s care, but a yearning for it. Morning light pours through the room filled with sweet words and laughter, swathing the only important thing in Carmy’s life with rays of sunshine. It pools on her face like honey, and her eyes crinkle when she turns back to meet his gaze. Carmen doesn’t know if it’ll get better.