Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sydney didn’t understand why, as an industry with very set, clear rules and standards that legitimately everyone followed, some people went out of their way to go against them. It would be like if, despite every football game classically, famously being on Sundays, the Super Bowl decided one year to take place on a Tuesday at 4pm. Or if Santa decided to put his mental health first this time and spread present-giving out over the summer months instead. In Sydney’s tragic, harrowing case, the set rule was that fine dining establishments are closed on Mondays, allowing for 24-hours of brief respite and semi-calmness in one’s life. The asshole was the Michelin star committee, who announced they would notify establishments of their Star status on a Monday.

Today.

Sydney has been staring at her phone for what feels like centuries. She’s stuck at home with no kitchen to run and obviously no outside activities to attend, because who does she think she is? Normally, she spends her Mondays sleeping, catching up on Netflix and Twitter, waiting patiently for her dad to get home from work, and generally doing everything she can to not think of The Bear. The restaurant, of course, not the person who goes by the same name. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep him out of her thoughts.

Sydney’s screentime has been regrettably jacked up to embarrassing amounts due to the ungodly amount of time she spends texting with her business partner the one day they don’t spend face-to-face each week. They text mostly about work, about new recipes and shortages and the dynamics in their kitchen. There had been a semi-constant flux of waiters and other employees since the restaurant had opened its doors last year and the pair loved to watch the drama of it all. Both Sydney and Carmy had seen and partaken in their fair share of restaurant relationships and melodramatic friendship fallouts over a bad night of service. In fact, they’d traded enough horror stories from their pasts to add a new level of respect to each of their perceptions of each other. Now, though, they were mostly grateful to be out of it all and focus on the calm, rhythmic chaos of their partnership and the crew they led.

They also texted about pop culture - though it consisted almost completely of Sydney introducing Carmen to new shows or movies or celebrity drama and watching his reactions via three white dots that would appear and disappear. Nothing had brought as much joy to Sydney in a great while as explaining the Don’t Worry Darling saga of 2022 to Carmen one Monday. He had surprisingly approved of the drama, commending Chris Pine and Harry Styles’ messiness while giving the movie itself a solid two stars.

On a few occasions, the pair had edged around deeper issues over the phone. On Donna’s birthday over the summer, Carmen had texted Sydney an ‘SOS’ paired with a picture of the dining room table. While they didn’t get into the details and Sydney didn’t make him recite “five things you can see, four things you can hear. . .” she felt the subtext and did her best to calm whatever battle he was fighting. She had let him in on the knowledge that her aunt was sick in the hospital and Carmen had gently forced her to take the day off to see her, giving her grace she wasn’t aware that she needed.

Right now, hunched over a pot of Annie’s macaroni and bouncing her leg through the sweatpants she hadn’t left all day, Sydney needed Carmy’s grace again. The star had always been her goal and Carmen had made that clear. He seemed so much older and wiser for not caring, not letting the flimsiness of such an accolade get to him. But he had supported Sydney’s goal for the entire year that she’d been in pursuit of it. Call her a former gifted kid who thrived on the recognition and validation of awards, but she felt like the star was mission-critical to cementing herself as a force in the industry. Over the past year, she’d read countless profiles and features on the restaurant where she was introduced simply as “Berzatto’s prodigy,” something she had come to despise. She was proud to be associated with Carmy, and told anyone who asked that she learned so much from him every day and that he had changed her as a chef and as a person for the better. And she truly believed that. But she resented that someone looking from the outside saw her as ‘his’ or lesser than. She was eager to get that air of youth and inexperience as far away from her as possible. She thought a star might earn her that legitimacy.

SYDNEY: u were right

SYDNEY: this is hell

SYDNEY: not even Annie’s mac and cheese can distract me

SYDNEY: pls help

She waits patiently for his text bubbles to appear, smiling to herself because she knows he wouldn’t be anywhere besides his phone.

CARMEN: actual hell

CARMEN: im worried for u

Sydney feels comforted by that. At the very least, Carmen is also uncomfortable. Whether it’s genuinely for her sake or if it’s because maybe he feels a little invested, she doesn’t pry.

SYDNEY: im a mess

CARMEN: you can tell me to fuck off

Sydney thinks back fondly to the first conversation they ever had about a Michelin star, in the warmth of Carmy’s apartment back before he shut her out and she shut him out right back. It had been a long road to get back to that level of comfort with each other.

CARMEN: but do you want to come over?

CARMEN: we could cook

CARMEN: as a distraction

Sydney’s stomach swoops at him inviting her over, even if its only to share their misery. It makes her feel giddy and drunk.

SYDNEY: oooh, inviting me over? How scandalous, Mr. Berzatto

CARMEN: fuck off

CARMEN: seriously, we’ll cook whatever you want

SYDNEY: ice cream sandwiches

CARMEN: wut

SYDNEY: ice cream always makes me feel better

CARMEN: see you in 20?

–

When Sydney arrives at Carmen’s apartment, heavy cream and other ingredients in tow and out of breath thanks to the five flights of stairs she had just braved, the warmth and safety of him immediately flood her senses. She's been so shaky and emotional all day that when she finally stows the groceries on his counter and shucks her coat and shoes off and he wraps her in a hug, she nearly melts and cries. She didn’t need to dissect any of it, not right now. She just knew that Carmen was the only person who understood her situation and he cared enough to let her feel that way and that was enough.

“Hi,” he whispers, his chin hooked over her shoulder.

“Hey!” Sydney exclaims loudly as they break away, schooling her expression back from the nervous jitters that rule her insides. Carmen looked a little surprised.

“So what’re we thinking? You wanna be on ice cream and I’ll do cookies, or -”

“Yeah, ice cream sounds good,” Sydney affirms, sorting the ingredients into the things she will need versus Carmen. Ice cream sandwiches had seemed like the most basic while still interesting option, though she was certain both of them would make it much more complex and extravagant than need be.

While Carmy tackles making the cookie layers that somehow border on a cake texture while still being definitively cookie (they discuss as much, and the answer is mixing white and brown sugar), Sydney decides on pistachio ice cream and gets to work on churning. The two work in companionable silence, for the most part, spare a comment every once in a while. It is wholly familiar to Sydney - the way they move around each other seamlessly even in a foreign space, how they communicate through small touches to the elbow or lower back and soft words. It strikes her that, from the outside looking in, Carmy’s suggestion of keeping her company only to be met with them working in near silence for the better part of an hour would seem rude.

To Sydney, much of her anxiety had dissipated in just the expected way. Carmen, while famously not immune to stress himself, had a steadying effect on Sydney. There’s comfort here, she thinks. Something totally different than cuddling up on the couch to watch Golden Girls reruns with her dad or how it feels to eat a childhood favorite snack. There’s something more here.

“Alright, time to ROY-G-BIV this shit,” Sydney announces, wielding green food dye in one hand. Yes, the pistachios had already made her ice cream concoction a color that could be perceived as green. She would be damned if she didn’t make it vibrant, though. She was feeling chaotic.

“Um, what?” Carmen asks, baffled by what she said. “What is ROY-G-BIV?”

“The rainbow, dumbass. Red orange yell-”

“Got it, Syd.”

“Hey, you asked.”

She giggles when he rolls his eyes playfully and she has nearly forgotten why she’s even in this foreign kitchen when -

Her phone rings.

Sydney’s heart drops.

Carmen’s eyes find hers.

A few rings pass before Sydney has the courage to dry her hands off and slide to accept the call.

“Hello?” Sydney asks, already knowing who the call is from.

“Hi, may I speak to Sydney Adamu from The Bear?”

“Hi, yes, that’s me,” she says, hands trembling as she ungracefully sits herself down on the couch across the counter. Carmy’s eyes haven’t lost her’s.

“Hi, Sydney, this is Amanda from the Michelin Committee. We’re calling today in regards to your star status,” the woman explains.

Sydney feels sick.

“Great, yeah, um, thank you, thanks for calling.”

“Yes, of course. Well, I’m really sorry to inform you tha-”

Sydney’s vision blacks out just a bit. She hears the words Amanda is saying, responds politely, and keeps her brain turned on, but she’s barely there. On auto-pilot, she cordially ends the call, putting down her phone and indicating to Carmen that they didn’t get it.

(Carmen, of course, had overheard the news from the phone. He was currently frozen in place, waiting for her to react so he could console, help, joke. Whatever she needed.)

“Um,” Sydney starts on a shaky breath. She had told herself she wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t be hurt by this rejection. She knew logically that this wasn’t a hit personally for her or Carmen, not even for the restaurant. The Michelin system was flawed and bureaucratic and thrived on nepotism and The Bear had only just been around for a year. Sydney felt angry and embarrassed, dumbfounded but not surprised. “We, um, we didn’t get it, Carmy.”

A single tear falls down her cheek and she feels so gross, so embarrassed, and small. How could she ever think she was legitimate, someone that was made for this industry when she couldn’t take a little rejection without feeling the need to go cry on someone’s shoulder? The restaurant world was never kind, never showed much compassion to anyone, and certainly hadn’t to her, so why was she expecting anything more?

Of course, there was also the guilt of bringing Carmy and the rest of the crew into this. They would now forever be known as The Bear, who decidedly didn’t get a star in their first year. If she had left it alone, not pushed so hard to get them in the talks while they were still in their infancy, they wouldn’t have this taint on their record.

“I’m so sorry, Carm,” Sydney says, her lip quivering and threatening to pop out into a true pout.

“Woah, hey now,” Carmen says, moving around the kitchen and into the living room area, squatting down so he’s at eye level with where she sits curled up on the couch. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Syd.”

He squeezes right around her knee as a form of support.

Usually, a touch from Carmy would make Sydney feel energized and solid. Sure, even. Now, the comfort and empathy radiating through that touch brings her nothing but to tears faster.

“It’s just that - I - I just wish that we. . . I -” Sydney is struggling to get the words out, hiccuping and fighting with her lungs which are forcing air in against her will. “I. . . Carmy, I - I can’t - ”

She’s cut off by warm, strong arms around her for the second time of the day. Carmen had shifted up to sit on the couch next to her, one arm grasped tightly around her middle with the other cradling the back of her head. He whispered little phrases to soothe her - “shhhh, you’re okay” and “just breathe, Sydney” and “I’ve got you, you’re okay” repeating in her ear as hot tears rush down her face and pool on Carmy’s polo.

They stay like that for quite some time. Carmen moves around so he can more comfortably fit Sydney in his arms and she can’t help but let her mind drift to just how right this feels. He’s the only person in the world who feels this pressure and drive the way she does, the only one who understands what that feels like on a day-to-day basis, let alone during the triumphs and letdowns this career brought with it. They celebrated the same, accepted praise the same, and hurt the same. At this moment, just like many others, Sydney took solace in the fact that she didn’t truly need to explain herself with words at all - she knew Carmen knew. Wrapped up in his arms, she felt wholly understood, and something closer to safety and quiet than she had felt in a really long time.

When Sydney had regained her composure enough to register the look of concern on Carmen’s face and accept that she would, despite their Jedi mind melding, have to explain herself in out-loud words, she leaned back just enough so she could meet his eyes, their still knees touching.

“Sorry about your shirt,” she sniffs. He chuckled lightly, waving her off. “I um, l think I just feel like, like you’ve done all of these great things and the Bear is the only thing that’s not been great and it’s because I’m there holding you back.”

Carmen looks ready to interject and fight every word she’s saying, but Sydney persists.

“And I just feel like I need to prove myself? I don’t know, I know that it shouldn’t matter but like - I don’t just want to be ‘that girl from the Bear’, right? I want to be ‘Oh yeah, Sydney Adamu.”

She looks up at him, feeling slightly frustrated that she wasn’t getting her feelings out the way she needed to, like her emotions weren’t in a form to be served out loud right now. She hoped he understood or at least accepted her explanation. Carmen places a hand on her own, squeezing lightly.

“You know you’re gonna change the world, right?” He asks, his blue eyes drilling into her brown ones with so much trust that she doesn’t know what to do with. “Because you are, Syd. Nobody’s gonna know what hit them.”

Sydney’s heart stings a little and her whole body feels warm. She feels just a little disgusted with herself for, even in such a state, preening under the warmth and sunlight of Carmen Berzatto’s attention.

“I know what it’s like to push for these accolades, Syd,” he continues. “Wanna know why I hate New York now? Because it cost me years of my life to push that hard and it still fucks me up. I cook in my sleep now, you know?”

He what? She wonders to herself, filing away that fascinating piece of Carmy lore for later.

“I just feel like I have to, though. Like, I want it so bad, Carm,” she challenges.

“I know, and I feel the same way, you know I do. It’s, like, in your soul to do good and be perfect,” he answers. “Awards and recognition are a necessary part of that in our world. I get it.”

It’s so clear that he’s been working hard on himself, she thinks. Going to therapy, understanding why his shit is the way it is. Sydney is simultaneously so glad that he’s healing from everything he’s been through and guilty for not being as far along. Carmen seems so much better, like he’s able to do this job without being a psychopath about it and Sydney feels jealous and embarrassed because it’s literally just a job, right?

But no, Carmen is right. This was undoubtedly, undeniably what Sydney was made to do, she thinks. And not just do it, but do it well - the best. Just like him, there’s something in her very being that was made out of the cosmos and stardust to do this very work.

(She will later wonder if maybe it was the same stardust that came together to create both of them.)

“How did you get past that?” She asks him, a cry for help buried underneath a thin layer of curiosity.

Carmen takes a big breath, blowing it out of puffed cheeks slowly. “Well, I’m nowhere near the clear yet.”

“But I think I needed something concrete to hold onto, you know? Like, in New York it was literally just me, Syd. I didn’t do a single fucking thing outside of that restaurant,” Carmy says. “And then I came here and it was a lot of things and I hated the chaos because it was disorderly and messy and I viewed it as “not legitimate” but I think that’s what saved me. Like, having something else to care for?”

Sydney thinks about this. Carmy was telling her to touch some fucking grass, she knew this. And he’s right - since starting at the Beef and forming it into the Bear from scratch, it had become every single aspect of her life. There were no friends outside of work, no television shows that weren’t watched only when she looked up from her Excel spreadsheet, and no Pinterest board that didn’t have recipe ideas. But she didn’t have any interest in a hobby, really. She wonders what the proverbial grass that Carmy was touching was.

“What’s the thing you’re holding onto, then?” She asks, genuinely wanting to know his secrets.

Carmen shifts around on the couch, coming to sit criss-cross with both hands in his lap.

“Well, Sugar, of course. And now Gia,” he starts, thinking fondly of Nat’s newborn baby girl. “I mean, everyone at the restaurant really keeps me grounded, and Al-Anon and my therapist help.

“And you, Syd. You keep me back down on Earth.”

Sydney purses her lips at that, struggling to keep eye contact with him because of the intensity. Her heart swelled and she pushed it right back down, not letting the feelings she’d been keeping at bay for more than a year come up now after all the hard work she’d done. Though she wondered what exactly Carmen meant by that. A little hope started to rise in her but she didn’t let it surface, not with him so close and so deep in conversation.

“Can you be that for me? Like, help bring me back?” She asks, the vulnerability shaking her to the bone.

“Of course, Syd. I’ll always help.”

He stood up, reaching his arm out to pull her up with him. Sydney follows him contently back into the kitchen, where their half-made ice cream sundaes and various utensils laid strewn about.

“You’re also going to get that star, okay? I’ll make sure of it, Syd.”

Chapter Text

Sydney did not feel comfortable with her current situation. She and Carmy had a full-size kitchen set up going, which was a relief given the stakes, but the hibachi-style display of it all made the whole thing rubbish. Natalie had agreed to and subsequently forced them to cater and live-prepare a meal for the 200 people attending food magazine conglomerate Artisan Appetite’s gala. While Sydney was aware of and thankful that she and Carmy both being out for the night showed the growth and competence of their staff at the restaurant, she was still weary of leaving the place out to dry. She was more weary yet of the fact that not only were she and Carmen purposefully on display for the evening but also that their audience was people in the industry who would assuredly judge them and pick apart their decisions.

So yes, Sydney was proud of the work she and Carmy were gearing up to do and was confident that the food would be good, but damn if she wasn’t also dreading this entire evening.

The plan was a chicken parmesan, something Carmen knew from childhood but was entirely foreign to Sydney. His gut had said go traditional - this was a banquet-type event, they didn’t need to go home to a bottle of pesto or to be writing reviews about their caramelized broccoli on the side, he said. Sydney’s gut said wow them, make it complex and interesting. She knows logically that Carmy wasn’t mailing it in at all. He was calculated, had his finger on the pulse of their audience, and generally knew what the fuck he was doing. But it sure feels like doing the bare minimum to Syd.

“What about an orange moment?” She asks as she and Carmen are preparing the chicken. They’ve got a nice little setup going, a full stovetop to sear their chicken on. Right now, their shoulders were pressed together, though they certainly didn’t have to be. With just over two hours until guests started arriving, they weren’t feeling the pressure of the clock or front-of-house staff breathing down their necks. Just them and the food. Just how Sydney liked it.

“What, like orange chicken?” Carmen asks, seemingly genuine despite the absolute ridiculousness of what he thinks Sydney is suggesting. She appreciates his full trust in her descent into madness.

“No no, like orange as a space. An accouterment, if you will,” she explains as Carmy “ah’s” with clarity.

“Accoutrement? So fancy, Sydney.”

“Thank you, thank you Carm. I really try,” she says back playfully. She supplies the oranges they had packed for the salads, immediately starting to brainstorm ideas for this new and improved flavor profile.

While she cooks up a storm, completely in her element and brain fizzing over with ideas and inspiration, she keeps a level, easy conversation with Carmy. They review his most recent foray into pop culture, John Mulaney, and all things that come with it, and she realizes how critical he is of humor.

“His storytelling, Syd,” he tells her. “It’s so funny. Mikey was like that, you know? He was charismatic and could make the most sad shit sound lovely. I’ve never been like that. I make sad shit sound sad.”

Sydney feels for him. She knew herself as weird and awkward and she certainly didn’t have the most robust friend group growing up. But she had had her father, who repeatedly told - still tells her - that she’s the funniest, brightest person in any room. She didn’t think Carmen had had the same unconditional love.

“I think you’re funny, Carm,” she admits. She thinks back to the awful, hilarious quips he sends back to Richie during prep, the little stories he tells when he gets in a groove. His weird, goofy side she has to fight to get a glimpse at. “You might not have a future in stand-up, sure, but I think you’re funny. I could listen to you talk all day. . . I do, actually.”

Before Sydney can be embarrassed by her little confession there (not that it really scratches the surface of what she really feels) he’s giving it right back to her.

“I could listen to you all day too, Syd.”

Sydney feels just a tad uncomfortable with the tension and vulnerability there and opts for a soft hum in lue of words before getting back to work in companionable silence. They fry and simmer and chop and roast for 20 some minutes, when Sydney gives her twist on the main dish a spin.

“Carm, this is fucked,” she declares, spitting the chicken out into a napkin with a pained grimace on her face. She finds him already looking at her, a worried expression dancing between her eyes and the dish in front of them.

“Wait, let me try, here,” he requests, shuffling around the table to get closer to the dish. If she weren’t in panic mode over her supremely messed up chicken parmesan, she would relish the hand that he places on her lower back as he moves by her. He grabs the fork from her hand, serving himself up a full bite that just barely makes it past his mouth before he spits it back out. “Oh, shit Syd.”

“Yeah, I know,” she replies, a little embarrassed. It was literally chicken parmesan. “Sorry, is it the orange?”

Carmen has his eyes at plate level, like examining the dish from an inch away will help him understand. Sydney felt defeated. Because in an hour there would be 200 people here to eat their food, and not just 200 regular people but 200 people in the industry that understood what made food good and just food. And now, because Sydney was a crazy person and ambitious and couldn’t just let it be, they were stuck serving the most fuckass combination of flavors that -

“Syd.”

She looks over to see Carmy already watching her, weary and careful.

“You’re fine, Syd. We’re gonna be just fine,” he continues, standing up so they’re shoulder to shoulder. “I think it is the orange, you’re right.”

“Fuck me, dude,” she laments, leaning back so her legs are straight and her head is braced by her forearms on the table. She feels a comforting hand move left to right on her back, squeezing gently at her side. Sydney’s skin tingles at the touch.

“The parsley is great though,” he adds, his hand not leaving her back. “You okay?”

Sydney nods her head, letting it bump against her forearms. It’s fine and Sydney knows they’re both smart and agile enough to fix it and it’s fine. It’s going to be fine. She trusts Carmen enough - more than anything - to know that.

Since Friends and Family night, since Carmen promised her that he wouldn’t let her fail and then immediately broke that promise, he’d worked so hard to make amends. Worked so hard to make himself better, for himself, for Syd, and the rest of the crew. His therapist had pushed him to have hard conversations with his employees, and Carmy had done the work. He sat down with Marcus, Tina, Natalie, Syd, and the rest of the key members in the kitchen and asked for deliverable, measurable things he could do better. It had taken a lot of vulnerability, asking for help and criticism in a way that went so far against his nature. Plus, Sydney hadn’t held back. She had given him an unfiltered, legitimate list of ways he could make their partnership more sustainable for the both of them. She was grateful that he had endured that for her, for all of them.

Because of those conversations and his continued effort - though not perfect execution - to make right on his promises, Sydney let herself trust him. They tip-toed around each other like trying to tame a wild horse. Sydney was flighty, and Carmy was flighty right back. Carmen had a bad day, Sydney shut the entire thing out and braced for impact. Carmen had a good day, Sydney didn’t let herself bask in the way they worked so well together out of fear of losing it all a second later. He had broken her trust over and over, in those early days, and it hurt. But he had done the work, showed up for her and the rest of the crew enough times to somehow, miraculously, win them all back.

Eight months ago, Sydney wouldn’t have felt confident enough in him to make a mistake at an event like this. She would’ve stuck to something simple, dependable that she could handle preparing all by herself if Carmy’s coping abilities crapped out at the last second. Now, though?

Now, Sydney felt safe enough to fail because she knew Carmy wouldn’t let her. Yes, it still felt shitty and exhausting and demotivating to mess up chicken parm but she knew it wasn’t the end of the Bear or her career because Carmy was there.

“Yeah, I’m fine, we just need to work quick,” she sighs, finally coming back up to a standing position as Carmen’s hand slid down and off her back. As she looks around at the ballroom and the kitchen space in front of them, Sydney racks her brain for solutions. The cocktail meatballs they were using as an appetizer, could those be a quasi-chicken for the parmesan? They could use bell peppers too, but that seemed too home-cooked, not enough Michelin.

“Remember when you told me about those Hawaiian rolls?” Carmen asks.

And there it was. Like it came to him through a God-sent prophecy, they had their solution.

“Think Richie could pick us up some?” She asks back, already on board. Richie owed them, though Sydney couldn’t remember what for.

From that point, it was back on. Sydney felt energized, in her groove with Carmy right alongside her. They resume right where they left off, mincing and mixing and eventually adding Richie’s Hawaiian rolls into the mix. They don’t give themselves any time to spare, still putting the finishing touches to the meal as guests arrive. But they do it. Dinner is received well. They accept compliments graciously and take a deep breath of relief.
With just a few patrons left in the hall, Sydney lulls herself into a false sense of calm and security. She starts focusing on cleanup and packing up leftovers to bring back to the restaurant. They had survived!

“Holy FUCK,” a voice announces itself, reverberating through the hall and Sydney’s ears. Her brain immediately runs itself into the ground, thinking they gave someone fast-acting food poisoning or another chef here was just disgusted by their use of store-bought, sugary bread. It’s a guy’s voice, like something you’d hear in a crowded frat house when beer pong goes especially well. Sydney listens as the voice carries itself effortlessly through the hall in the way only a man’s could, inching closer and closer to her.

“This is so good, bro,” the man says. Sydney immediately recognizes him as Farhan Musnick, heir apparent of Artisan Appetit. Five years her senior, they’d worked together in a kitchen right after Sydney graduated from CIA, and he’d “taken her under his wing” to save himself the embarrassment of underachieving in everything he ever did. His real skillset lay in connecting with people and making them feel bad for not doing him egregious favors but he had insisted on a fake ass, paved path career as a chef. Sydney despised him every day they worked together, with his unclean techniques bad attitude and smelly breath. Plus, he insisted that he had “made” Sydney, despite doing nothing more than giving her a ride to the restaurant one day when her beater car had broken down.

Now, here he stands, sauntering up to their table, with an arm leaning against their (previously) sterile working space. His eyes are locked with Carmy’s, who looks severely annoyed.

“Seriously, dude, there's so much genius in this. The parsley, the breadcrumbs. Ah! The Hawaiian rolls!”

Carmy and Syd make knowing eye contact from where they stand just inches apart. This guy, whose father Sydney used to marvel at and idolize for his cooking skills and tenacity, is exhausting like no other.

“Um, yeah thanks, man,” Carmen answers, a disingenuous smile plastered on his face as he reaches out to supply Farhan with his hand to shake. “It was actually all my partner, though. This is Sydney.”

“We actually go, um, way back, Carm,” she says through pursed lips, hoping her partner, as Carmy had introduced her, got the message. She wondered if he was being protective and territorial over her (because the situation was tense and a girl could dream) or if Carmy was just trying to get Farhan out of their hair in as few words as possible.

“Sydney! Oh, my darling, I didn’t even see you!” Farhan exclaims. Clearly, Sydney thinks. She didn’t think “darling” rolled off his straight white man tongue as well as he thought it did. Sleazy.

“Hey, Farhan, good to see you!” She exclaimed with fake excitement, coming around their table to give him a polite hug.

Farhan, after disengaging with Syd, goes into a long-winded explanation of their history to his new best friend and macho-male colleague, Carmy. The latter puts up a valiant effort in seeming interested and inspired by the pair’s history, in Farhan’s mentorship.

“I have to say, Syd, you’ve really outdone yourself with this. Shit is fire,” Farhan says. Despite her boiling blood and the bile rising in her throat out of disgust, Sydney feels a little twinge of pride. He was the heir to a multimedia conglomerate and she knew this was an important relationship to keep up, an important contact to keep on her good side. Plus, the food was fire. “I’m so proud of you, Syddie.”

“Aw, shucks!” Sydney played along. “It was so good to see y-”

“OH YES! I see a few people I should be chatting with. Great seeing you Syddie. Nice meeting you, Mr. Berzatto.”

After Farhan had turned on his heels and walked a safe distance away, Sydney pointedly scanned the empty ballroom, signaling to Carmen that there was not a single soul left in the hall for their new friend to be chatting with. What a douche.

“Syddie?” Carmen asks, clearly pleased with a new nickname to torture her with.

“Mr. Berzatto,” she echoes back, using the same mocking tone.

“Jesus, what a douche,” he says, echoing back to her earlier thought. He was packing up pots and pans right alongside her, the now absolutely still ballroom isolating them. “The food was fire though, chef. Truly”

Sydney knows it in her bones that when she looks up, he’s going to be staring into her very soul with those annoyingly blue eyes of his. The look that only comes out when they’ve reached a certain level of sincerity.

“Thank you, chef,” she answers, voice just barely above a whisper. She forces herself to stare back at him and finds herself squirming and wanting more plates to stack and utensils to sort under his gaze. It’s so strong, there’s so much pull in it that Sydney could faint or fall into him or curl up in his embrace, maybe all three.

Sydney has kept these feelings at bay, the magnetic pull towards Carmen and everything he encompasses. It hadn’t been too difficult when they were constantly at odds, fighting and avoiding each other and just trying to get through the day. Now, though, when their days were full of gentleness and understanding and working through it all together? Sydney struggled to not wonder what it could be like. Sydney struggled to not hope.

She often found herself thinking that if this was how it always is - their chemistry, their understanding, their success together - why couldn’t they make it - them - work? She felt like there was no other option in the entire world, like she and Carmy were inevitable, unpreventable.

After that intense moment, the two continue packing up, running the errands that hold them back from going home and going to bed. While Carmy goes to get the check from the event organizer, Sydney packs boxes into the back of their van, a headache pounding at her temple. It’s a lot like Tetris and normally that wouldn’t be amusing to her, but this late, after the chaotic, weird night they had, she giggles to herself over it. Once it’s all packed neatly enough to make the trek across town, Sydney lets herself sit, leaning against a box with the doors still swung open to the trunk.

“Gonna have to take it easy tomorrow after that one, I think,” Carmen declares as he appears in her field of vision, hands in the pockets of his denim jacket. Tomorrow - Monday - seemed like a gift under the tree Sydney hadn’t let herself get her hopes up for until now. It would be nice to take it easy.

“Dude, tell me about it,” she answers with a sighing laugh. “TikTok, Annie’s Mac and Cheese, maybe a bath?”

“I’m in,” Carmy says. Sydney is visibly confused, eyebrow cocked. Was he in for a bath with her? Because - “Er - yeah, relaxing sounds good.”

“Right. At my own apartment.”

“Yeah, yeah, right. Separate relaxing,” he affirms, red flushing up his neck and face. “I could use a movie rec, though.”

Sydney mulls over that. She thinks Carmy would like Princess Bride, though maybe that’s wishful thinking. She can’t see him really enjoying the Star Wars movies, though Rocky might be a good medium. If she could get him to sit down for an animated movie, WALL-E would be right up his alley.

“Unless you wanna come over, maybe?” He asks, his face turned away from her shyly. Sydney is floored by this. It’s not like she doesn’t spend most of their off days at his apartment anyway, what with the amount of recipe testing and back-end Excel sheets that need to be dealt with. This feels different, if only because of Carmy’s nervous energy. “I mean, I’ve been wanting to try that pork loin thing anyways, so. . .”

“With the gochujang? That sounds really good, Carm,” Sydney answers quietly. She’s still not exactly sure what this means. More than that, she’s not sure if she’s letting her own hope get the best of her and conflating what this actually is. “I’ll be there.”

Chapter Text

Sydney is having a crisis.

No, not an actual ‘call an ambulance’ crisis or even a ‘call my dad’ crisis. However, frivolous it sounds, in Sydney’s head, this particular crisis was terrible and catastrophic. It was out of her control, it was hopeless, and Sydney is on a time crunch, so...

Sydney is having a fashion crisis.

Because what does one wear to a Monday afternoon not-date? It is strictly professional business partner business that is to be had here. They’re testing potential menu items, something Sydney had partaken in many times at Carmen’s apartment before. Her gigantic, tragic, otherworldly crush on him hadn’t been a problem any of those times. She had barely batted an eye. That was before she had accepted what she felt, yes, but the feelings had been there. Just deeply repressed.

And so, Sydney’s choices were:

Straight leg, bright wash jeans, psychedelic knit sweater with a white collared shirt beneath. (Pros: cute, just her style, definitely what Gen Z is doing at the moment. Cons: warm as fuck, no option to de-layer, no skin showing)
Slim, boxy checkered sweater with itty bitty pajama shorts. (Pros: so comfy, so much skin showing. Cons: did it look lazy? Would she look like a crazy person showing up to her boss’ humble abode with her ass just inches away from hanging out?)

She wishes she was still in high school, where texting your best friend “hey if u guys wear a skirt i’ll wear a skirt” was acceptable. She wishes she could text Carmy and ask for his opinion, what he was wearing, and if he was in love with her. She settles for the next best option, her second most trusted confidant: his sister.

Sydney: (two images attached)
Sydney: Help
Sydney: Which one

Grateful (and subsequently guilty) for Nat’s current bedridden status, three dots indicating that Natalie is typing appear.

Nat: UR ABSOLUTELY STUNNING
Nat: I’M OBSESSED WITH YOU
Nat: what’s the occasion?
Sydney: lunch with a friend
Nat: How important of a friend?

Sydney thinks over that. She supposes that Carmy is her best friend at this point. Her cousin, Inaya, was probably closer to the textbook definition of the role, maybe even Nat. She could go to both of them with any problem and rest assured that she’d receive sound, thoughtful advice. There was a very innate, feminine bond between Syd and both of them that she was so grateful to have in her life. But with Carmy? It was something else entirely. She couldn’t go to him for advice about her love life, of course, but knew that she could trust him in every aspect of her life. Trusted him more than anything else in the world, really. (Maybe that was her infatuation getting the best of her, but alas). So yes, he was an important friend to her. But also - and Nat didn’t know this - was hopefully more. Sydney could feel it sometimes, in the small glances and quick remarks and soft, genuine words. Maybe that was what made this feel like higher stakes than anything else.
Sydney: very
Nat: option 2
Nat: ur so hot
And that confirms it for Sydney. As good as a done deal with Natalie’s approval, she pulls on the checkered sweater and her tote bag. She’s going full slutty for the menu development session.

That doesn’t mean there’s not a full pit of nervousness and regret and absolute panic in her stomach as she walks up to Carmy’s apartment door. Because as she reaches up to knock, her sweater rides up, revealing a sliver of her belly that she’s neither confident in nor sure is allowed at the function. The first part she can handle. She’d never been the most comfortable in her body, always embarrassed by its lack of athletic skills and deeply chiseled lines. She’s glad a profession where she didn’t need to have her body on display - in fact, it needed her to hide it from the elements actively - picked her.

The latter part, that she’s not sure how her outfit and herself will be perceived, is what Sydney was truly fretting over. There was no status quo in regards to fashion here, unlike in the kitchen where chefs' whites and clogs were given and normal. There also existed no established order of Sydney and Carmy together outside of the kitchen. Especially lately, as she regained her trust in him and he gave himself more fully to her. The walls they had built over extraneous circumstances throughout their time at the Beef and in the creation of the Bear were crumbling before their eyes. Sydney couldn’t help herself enough to care.

“Hi, Syd,” Carmy breathes as he opens the door. He sweeps a gaze over her outfit, lingering on the long expanse of her legs before rushing back up to meet her eyes again. She takes a moment to examine his look, a soft linen button-up that somehow still manages to cinch around his biceps and baggy jeans. His hair is as loose and wild as ever and his tattoos pop more vibrantly under the soft lighting here, sending a shiver down Sydney’s spine. Those tattoos could bring her to tears. She might actually cry.

“Woah, dude, what’s with the flowers?” She asks as she moves into the space, nodding at the comically large bouquet of wildflowers on his kitchen counter. Lined up next to the vase are ingredients they’ll plausibly be using for today’s experiments and more tools and utensils than she thinks they’ll need.

“Oh yeah, well I went to the farmers market yesterday,” he replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if they didn’t have a packed ass schedule yesterday and spent all morning prepping. How he managed to sneak off to a farmers market during one of his smoke breaks she isn’t sure, and she decides not to care. It’s incredibly endearing and wholly disarming. Because who is this man? Why does he have so many flowers?

“Ah, of course, just a chill mid-shift farmers market run, for sure,” she says playfully. He smiles back at her. “So what's on the docket, chef?”

“Um,” he starts, turning to the refrigerator to retrieve more ingredients and busy his hands. “Courgette flowers, I was thinking.”

Sydney “hmms” with curiosity, wondering to herself how to make it interesting. It’s, of course, not something you see every day, fancily shredded and arranged zucchini. But knowing them, knowing her, that wasn’t all they were bringing to the table.

“Ooh, maybe with goat cheese?” She asks, testing her ideas on him. He shakes his head from side to side, visibly weighing the idea.

“With a jelly, too? That could be fire, chef. I like it.”

They get to work. Carmy focuses on the jelly and goat cheese filling while Sydney prepares the zucchini and controls the playlist streaming through his Bluetooth speaker. They chat about Carmy’s most recent film endeavors: Barbie and Dolphin Tale. (What range, Sydney thinks.) He seems generally amused by Barbie, neither caught off guard by the feminist revelations nor turned off by them. Sydney takes this as a good sign. As much as she tries to pry into his deeper thoughts about the movie, he really seems more touched by the 2011 cult classic about a dolphin named Winter who got her tail cut off. He’s got a lot of pent-up thoughts about this one, God knows why. Sydney is amused and content to listen to him chat and pick up the slack in the conversation any day.

Their conversation twists and turns but the further into the process of making their meal that they get, the quieter Sydney finds herself becoming. She’s focused, is all. Usually, she’s able to keep up a steady conversation, be jovial, and create good food at the same time, but for some reason, this requires all of her attention. She doesn’t realize it, though, until Carmy hits her with a “Yo” bringing her back to Earth.

“You good, Syd?”

“Um, yeah, sorry, just focused on the. . . this,” she answers.

He hums in acknowledgment, letting her go back to her focused state. This makes her completely cognizant and aware of the silence, though. Sydney suddenly feels guilty for leaving him to work by himself and letting the conversation dry up, getting so lost in her food that doesn’t even really matter when he’s here. Carmy, who Sydney spends all of her time away from thinking about. Carmy, who is gorgeous and an amazing chef and finally opening up to her. Carmy, who she dressed cute for today. She feels herself snap out of it.

“Sorry, Carm,” she says as she walks behind him with a prep tray in her hand. “I just realized it’s not that serious.”

He laughs at that and she’s grateful he doesn’t need more explanation. They move back into their usual flow of conversation, easy and joyful and real and impossible not to fall in love with. It carries them through the rest of their cooking process until Sydney plates up two portions, decorated and arranged beautifully. She bites into her own as she slides Carmy’s towards his side of the counter. When he takes a bite, she feels herself waiting on bated breath for his reaction.

“So. . . what do you think?” She asks, looking hopefully into his eyes. She can tell he likes it, can tell that he accepts what she’s made for him and appreciates it. She knows it’s good, knows he knows it's good too. She just needs him to say it.

“It’s fire, chef, ‘course it is,” he replies softly.

“Really?” Sydney beams, smiley and giddy under his warm praise.

He rolls his eyes, scoffing. “No, actually, it’s shit. It’s so bad, it’s like a fourth grader made it,” he’s laughing, poking fun at her mushiness. “I think I’m probably gonna die right now. Not from food poisoning, from, like, excruciating tongue flavor sensations or something.”

Sydney’s laughing and rolling her eyes along with him and before she can consciously see what she’s doing, she’s throwing a puff of flour in his face from the bag sitting on the table next to her. When the powder hits his face, bullseye right on his nose, he stops and gasps.

“Oh yeah? That’s how you wanna play, Syd?” he asks, getting up from his seat.

Carmy throws flour right back at her, grabbing her wrist when she goes to block his throw. Carmen is a world-renowned chef, one who checks every box for standards, cleanliness, and professionalism. Sydney feels a tinge of pride at her ability to make him turn his kitchen into an absolute mess, flour everywhere it shouldn’t be. From there, it’s rough-housing and limbs being thrown around just like the flour, laughing and smiling and touching. When she doubles over to hide from his next offensive move, he picks her up in one fell swoop, carrying her stray limbs and all to the couch as she squawks and squeals. Her heart pounds.

When he lets go of her and she plops onto the couch, she’s hit with the potential energy in the room. The laughter and playfulness present just seconds ago have evacuated, left only by intensity and gravity, pulling them together. He’s leaning over her with his arms lying on the couch, panting and still recovering from her attack with flour in his hair while she’s sat with her legs in front of her, bracing her weight on her hands. She feels so close to him. Their faces are just inches apart and she’s searching his eyes for a sign, for a lifeline, for anything. So blue.

“Carm,” she whispers, and his hand comes to land on her knee in response, acknowledging.

“Syd. . .” he answers back, not breathing any less hard. “Can -”

Sydney’s phone dings, vibrating from where it’s tucked in the waistband of her shorts. She gasps and feels the spell break immediately, watching Carmy flinch away.

“Um, sorry. Lemme,” she says, scrambling to pull her phone out.

“Yeah, no, go ahead,” he replies.

Nat: R U WITH MY BROTHER RN

Sydney smiles to herself, making a mental note to fill her in later. Then, she gets back to the task on hand: repairing the now very awkward situation with Carmy. She clears her throat, sitting up so she’s just a bit farther away from him, not yet wanting to stray too far. Still yearning for this proximity.

“The dish was so good, Syd,” Carmy says softly. “You’re so good.”