Chapter Text
Carmy stares at the edge of the nub of his bitten fingers and murmurs a broken “fuck” from crusted lips. He’s still in the walk-in.
But that doesn’t matter.
What matters is the damage. His insufficiencies. This is what happens, he thinks. It’s not so much a self-fulfilling prophecy but an inheritance of dysfunction.
Richie even knew it: Oh, I’m sorry, Donna, I’ll get you out. Except there was no out, no sawing away at the seam, no breaking of yolk to do; it’s just there.
He rubs his clammy cold hands over his face with a spastic ferocity.
Around the bend, he can hear the ticket machine spewing out paper aggressively. He knows all too well what it reads.
Fuck you.
You should be dead.
Pathetic.
You’re worthless.
Repeat it.
The litany continues, loosely connected tickets cascading from the lip of the machine to meet the floor.
He shuts his eyes, but it makes the sounds louder, the erratic beat thrumming like a fucked heartbeat within him.
He’s trapped. Just like he always was. This is how it is. This is how it’ll stay.
.
The opening, on paper, though, was a success.
At least there’s that. Carmy’s proud of that. Despite his lack of involvement.
Sugar secured a proper plumber as soon as she rose that morning. Carmy gathers this when he breaks away from a dreamless sleep and decides to scroll through unread messages from their group chat, simply titled “The Bear.”
They made it to relay emergency meetings and needed updates after the tension rising from all the pre-open shit they experienced.
Plumber’s booked for 8:30. That gives them about one hour to fix the issue, I’m sure. Won’t interfere with us opening today. Come with empty bladders, please. Sugar’s blue bubble reads.
Carmy’s glazed eyes blink at his screen.
It’s finally registering that he still has to work today. That, somehow, he'll have to pull himself together, even though it feels like he's been run over by seven CTA buses back to back. Not to mention, he’s still reeling from the previous night. He barely can recall walking home. He knows he was checked out for most of it. The only thing that sticks is the fact that the tortuously cold Chicago wind caused him to throw up three times. Why? The chill on his skin replicated the exact temperature of the walk-in. It turned his stomach to knots. And with no tums to ease the rolling waves in his body, he succumbed to them, leaving a bright yellow bile trail on his walk back home.
Even now, he can feel the cold in his fingertips and the heavy feeling of ice blocks in his stomach, threatening to break apart and spill out of him in chunks.
He finds himself barely having time to lurch forward violently and rack up a rib cracking worthy cough, his body working, trying to churn something upward for him to barf.
“Fuck” he wheezes, sputtering to catch his breath.
He stumbles into his bathroom and slams his body down on his knees, bracing on the lip of the toilet, and oscillates between dry heaving and weak attempts to stop dry heaving.
Finally, Carmy thinks his body caught on that it’s empty from spewing the last squidge of bile from his system last night, so it finally eases off, and his coughs taper off to greet an uneasy quiet.
Like clockwork, his phone dings, and so he huffs up, sludges his way back to his dimly lit room, and grabs his phone.
A personal message from Sugar: I think it’s best to take the day off today, Carmy.
Then, another message pops in and slots into place as he opens their thread.
And although this reads as a suggestion, it’s not. Stay home.
His buggy, rubbed raw, bloodshot eyes stare at the messages until he feels them begin to dry out.
.
Funnily enough, he does stay his ass home.
He chain smokes cigarettes and lets the blue light of his television wash over him the whole day. Sometimes, he turns his head to the window and watches the shadows shift behind his curtains as the sun creeps above his apartment building. He watches the sunlight get caught in the fabric, creating funny shapes with the material.
He just lets the day bleed out in front of him because he knows that if he moves, he won’t stop, and then he’ll spiral straight into chaos. And he can’t take much more, he still feels so shattered from yesterday.
He needs the silence, this catatonic state, to envelop him and blanket his psyche for as long as possible until his brain comes back online.
Surprisingly, it serves its purpose. He folds in on himself, settles into the familiar indent of the couch, and stares at the television screen.
He wills himself not to absorb the words that float to his ears but instead imagines himself as he lays there, becoming the couch. He imagines his bones swapping out for shitty rigid wiring, his flesh becomes stuffing, and suddenly he’s not a person, but just a thing in front of a television.
Not observing, not fighting off nausea, not doing, not hearing the growls of a bear that doesn’t exist, just there.
And it’s good.
Okay, it’s not good. It’s actually not healthy at all, but for fucksake, it’s either him being a couch or him standing in front of a bunch of pots on fire.
So there’s that.
.
Carmy ended up sleeping the rest of the day and night. He jolts up to the alarm he doesn’t remember setting, throwing himself to his feet with a crackled, scared, pathetic “Yes, chef!”
Though he can’t remember, he must have been plagued by a cooking nightmare again, or he’s just eternally fucked, and will remain a spineless, slow slug, crawling from his oozing failures after another.
It floods him with so much embarrassment that throughout his routine of getting himself together, he doesn’t dare spare a glance at the mirror.
.
The air is tense when he comes back to the Bear.
He awkwardly shuffles in, but he presses forward.
Fucking cockroach.
It’s silent as he approaches the lockers. Folk are already shuffling through their roles. “The fresh meat,” as Richie lovingly calls them, aren’t aware of just how bizarre the restaurant they committed themselves to is, so it’s easier to feel their sideways gazes, curious eyes searching him. They’re probably wondering what the hell was his damage exactly.
When he crosses paths with some of the OG Beef crew, they give him a headier, cautious eye.
What’s going to hurt most of all is seeing Sydney. He let her go alone right after he said all that shit about giving her deserved focus. Putting in dedication. He failed her the most.
He lets his body dilapidate momentarily into a familiar rounded cave until he dives into his locker room and allows his body to be cloaked in the familiar white camouflage of his chef uniform.
You know this is what happens: people always leave. Or they die on you. Can you blame her? You’re broken.
He turns to face his team just after he fastens his last button and irons away invisible wrinkles in the fabric with the slide of his hand.
“Chefs.”
The team members sway to a stop and turn in his direction. “Chef.” they echo back to him.
“Uh, wanted to say- good job yesterd- the other day. It was crazy, it was hectic, but you guys handled it.”
Carmy looks in the corner of everyone's eyes within the room, making his way to each person.
It was his trick for connecting- just enough that they could barely register he wasn’t really meeting them eye to eye, but subconsciously, they felt the distance and were deterred from getting closer.
In his mind, the sound of a to-go order receipt being printed and snicked with a sure cut rang out and bounced around the walls in his brain.
Fucking cop out, the paper read in blood red ink.
Carmy shakes his head and begins again. “Now, listen- I know- I know it could have been smoother, and I” he breathes unevenly and rubs the corners of his mouth with his hand as he looks down at the floor.
“I was unreliable. Out of my own volition. Kind of. Fucking refrigerator. And I- fuck, what I’m saying is. I fucked up. And I’m sorry.”
He looks up and forces himself to look at his team.
For the most part, the faces that greet him are impartial. They stare and wait. But in the crowd of faces, he faces Tina’s sad eyes and furrowed mouth. The disappointed arched brow of Sugar. The puckered lips of Ebraheim.
Then sees the flash of a scarf peek through the spaces of the staff. And Sydney weeds through, with a container full of vegetables close to her chest.
She passes Carmy, eyes fixated in front of her.
Sydney places her vegetables down on one of the workstation spaces and then joins his side. Arms folded.
“Okay, riveting apology from our EC. Thankfully- I can’t believe I’m saying- anyways, thankfully, Richie got the fridge last night. Who knew that they were going to leave an entire walkthrough sautered open? Anyways… Thanks, Sugar, for lending us your deep freezer, and thanks, team,”
She raises her hand and gestures to folks out in front of her, “for moving shit around and making it work. We promise you that’s usually not this much of a shit show. I mean, not any more of a shit show that you’re used to. It comes with the trade, but this has been…” she sighs deeply, “horrible, to be honest. But! If you stick around, you’ll see it become less horrible, and it will be you guys that we thank for it.”
She pauses to catch her breath. Carmy could feel the violent boiling of her blood.
He wants to reach out to her. To touch her arm, to convey something beyond his stupid words, he knows Sydney would only be repulsed and draw away.
So, he just stands there, getting burned by the heat of her rage.
Until she decides to move on. “I’m going to help with vegetable prep, and then our Chef Tina will debrief us on our meetings and do checks. Uh, let’s rock it, guys.”
Sydney glides out just as quickly as she glides in, and everyone moves with her.
Carmy is the only one who remains and feels like a fish washed to shore, opening and closing his mouth, confused and disoriented.
Sugar click clacks away the distance between them, and shakes her head at him.
“Let’s talk in the office.”
.
When they sit down, Sugar lets him have it.
“Carmen, what the fuck?”
Carmy sinks into the chair and says nothing.
“Well, I don’t have to tell you that Sydney’s furious, and for good reason. I don’t even know what’s going on between you and Cousin. And this whole Claire thing? Like, what even happen- ugh, I don’t want to know.”
Carmy feels his face twitch; he totally forgot about Claire, fuck. The disgust builds back in his stomach. This was his first relationship, and he’s managed to screw over that royally, too. And somehow, he’s even disappointed people outside the relationship about their relationship? How is that possible? Why is it any of their business?
Should he fix it? Michael would have encouraged him to. Would have gave him some type of shitty, ultra machismo advice about getting back together with Claire.
He briefly thinks about texting her, but what would he say?
He can’t apologize; hell, even when she caught him venting on the other side of the walk-in, he never apologized.
And he knows that makes him an asshole.
But what's the use?
It would feel empty and fake. Because he knows that’s how he genuinely feels inside. He knows he doesn't deserve amusement or enjoyment, and he sure as hell can't dish it out. Not as he is. And what was the purpose at the end of it? He felt weird, fake, and rubbery every time he was with her.
But somewhere deep, he liked not feeling like himself, like he was reconfiguring himself with foreign parts. Sloughing away himself and creating something else.
Somewhere in the back of his head, he thought that maybe, just maybe, she could make him normal. That she could change the very atom of him. That if she liked him, could accept him, could love him, that meant he wasn't entirely broken.
And he knows that makes him more of an asshole too.
“I know. What’s the purpose of this, Sugar? Trying to make me feel worse? I get it. I’m a fuck up.”
Sugar glowers and points at him. “That! That’s what I’m getting at. You don’t get to wallow in self-pity now. You don’t communicate. You’re fucking insensitive, and then you pass off the emotional load to others. Newsflash, Carmy, you’re not special. Don’t you think I feel twisted? Don’t you think I fuck up? But I’m trying.”
Sugar raises up from her chair and turns her back to him, “I’m desperately trying to get better. I have a fucking kid growing in me that constantly reminds me to get better.”
At that, she grasps her stomach, and Carmy hears hints of a sniffle. He tries to look at her face, but the blonde curtain of her hair obscures it.
“We don’t need a fucking apology, and we don’t need to see you splayed out and empty to get that you’re hurting. We need-" She resurfaces, to cut him a sobering look. "Accountability! How many times did we tell you about the fucking walk-in? Jesus! We need you to try to make this shit right. To follow through, Carmy. Get your fucking shit together. ”
Sugar braces herself with one hand on the wall and huffs. Her eyes are suspiciously damp when she turns back to him, and her skin is splotchy. She tries to attempt a smile, but her face betrays her and crumples into a grimace.
“Okay, I’m done. let’s get you up to speed.”
.
Apparently, Sydney made some changes.
She’s appointed Richie as the expediter, and she’s everything else. She committed herself to help with cooking if hands were short. She still approves the appearance of the food and continuously manages the crew, but she’s stepped down from doing counts.
Carmy finds himself mad. How could she just give up like that? He knows she can do it. He has so much faith in her. And passing the baton to Richie wasn’t how he saw this going. “She didn’t even let me know it was that bad, Sugar.”
Sugar gives him the most ferocious, withering side eye she can muster, “She told me she tried talking with you about it, but you didn’t listen. That tracks to me.”
Carmy bristles but bows his head in defeat. Sugar didn't understand. He believed in her. In what way can he show his trust in her abilities? She didn't get it. Yes, he's an asshole. Yes, he fucks things up, but this was different. This was him providing mentorship. Carny's trying to forge her. Fuck, he’s given her reign on creative power and literally appointed her the team's voice, manning the ship they built together. How else can he encourage her? This was him trying.
What was he missing?
As if he conjured it, "Switch with me?" rings in his ears, and it’s like he’s just now registering how scared her eyes were at that moment.
And he brushed her off, not knowingly, but wanting to show her that he trusts her. That it wasn’t as scary as it was in her head. That she’s stronger than her fears. That he thinks she’s stronger than him.
But he read it wrong; it was the right sentiment at the wrong time.
What if I fail? What if I fuck up so bad?
I won't let you.
Fuck.