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Carmy gets out of the walk-in, throws a plate against the wall, and storms out the back door, nearly taking Sydney down on her way inside.
“What the fuck.” She stares after him as he disappears into the alley. “Carm, what’s up?”
He ignores her, which, honestly, tracks. She turns to the kitchen, where stations are being meticulously scrubbed down and there are now shattered pieces of a brand-goddamn-new plate strewn across the floor. She thinks, idly, that she’s glad they didn’t go with the expensive ones.
Richie moves past her with a broom already in hand and begins to silently sweep up the broken ceramic. His jacket and tie are discarded somewhere, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“Richie?”
He ignores her, too.
“Hey.” Her voice is firm, but it's only when she steps into his personal space that he looks up and acknowledges her. “Richie. What happened?”
Straightening, he shoves the broom handle forward and it smacks hard against the metal countertop and falls over. He vaguely registers someone making a comment, but it’s all white noise at this point.
He screws the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fucking… Carmy.”
“Yeah, I saw he’s – he got out.” Her eyes are wide. “Is he okay?”
He laughs, like it’s funny, because if he doesn’t he might cry. “Is Carmy okay?” He kicks at a chunk of the broken dish, watches as it skitters across the floor and into Marcus’ station. Another comment in the background. “I don’t know. Probably not.”
Before she can ask another question, he puts a hand on her arm. “Can we go get a drink?”
Ten minutes later, they’re at a hole-in-the-wall down the block, sitting side by side at a long, polished wooden bar. Richie orders them each a beer and a shot of Jameson for himself. Sydney watches as he slams back the shot with a grimace and chases it with his beer.
“So?” Her eyebrows are raised and she makes a hurry up gesture at him.
A long pull of his beer, and he scratches at his ear, a nervous tic. “So everything’s wrapping up, right, and I come back into the kitchen, and I guess Carmy had said something to Claire while he was in there… I don’t know what, but he made her fuckin’ cry, and she left. Like she fuckin’ left, left.”
“That’s… shitty.”
“So I got pissed, because what the fuck, right? I asked him what he said, it got heated. Ended up with us fucking… screaming at each other through the goddamn fridge door.” He sighs, sounding absolutely fucking drained.
“About Claire?” She tries and fails not to wrinkle her nose, because if she’s honest, she’s kind of sick of hearing about Claire, sick of the ripple effects her presence has caused in their kitchen. Mostly, she resents the way Carmy used Claire as an opportunity to bail on his responsibilities and ditch her when she needed him.
Richie shrugs. “Not really, just… we both said a lot of fucked up shit we probably didn’t mean. Like below the belt, burn bridges shit.” He blows out a ragged breath, and she can tell there’s more to it – a lot more – that needs to be unpacked at some point. He picks at the label on the bottle. “And before you say anything, okay, this wasn’t me being… me. I fuckin’ tried, Syd. I swear, I tried.”
He doesn’t look at her. He keeps working his too-short nail under the label, and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, and she’s afraid for a moment that he might cry. Of all of Richie’s moods and emotions she’s borne witness to, she thinks sad, defeated Richie, sitting in front of her with tears threatening in his impossibly blue eyes, might actually break her.
“Hey…” She reaches for the hand on the bartop cautiously, like she’s trying not to spook a feral cat, fingers fluttering undecidedly, anxiously, before settling on top of his. His hands are rough, but so are hers. She squeezes gently. “Richie, whatever he said… you know you killed it tonight, right?”
He allows himself the ghost of a smile and finally looks over at her. “You fucking killed it,” he deflects. “Fuckin’ rock star.” He curls his fingers around hers and presses a quick kiss to the back of her hand. Her eyes widen, but she lets the moment pass.
“Dude, you’re doing great,” she says, her voice gone quiet and sincere. “I mean it, I couldn’t have – we couldn’t have done this without you. Any of it. Not just tonight, I mean.”
“All right, Syd,” he says quietly, and she kind of wants to shake him.
“No, listen, fuck Carmy, okay?” Those words – coming from her, of all people – actually grab his attention, and his eyebrows jump into his hairline. “You stepped up when we needed you. And, like, I respect the shit out of that. And you should, too.”
He nods, taking her words in, and scratches at his ear again. He feels itchy under her intense focus and praise. He’s not used to it; if he’s honest, he never has been. More than that, he suddenly can’t stand the heavy tone the night has taken. Friends and Family was a success, all things considered. Why aren’t they celebrating? They fucking deserved to celebrate.
“All right,” he says with a groan, an attempt to reel in the feelings threatening to spill out all over the bar. His eyes flash with mischief. “Come on now. I don’t need you getting all soft on me, Chef Sydney.”
Rolling her eyes, she pushes at his chest. “Fuck off, Richie,” she laughs. It’s exactly the reaction he’d hoped for.
“Yo, why are you so violent?” He rubs dramatically at the spot where her hand was, and he definitely doesn’t think about how he’d maybe like her to touch him again. “You don’t have a knife on you, do you?” He makes a show of picking up a fork on the bar and moving it away from her.
“Um, okay,” she says, screwing up her face. “How many times do I have to say that the stabbing was an accident!”
“Uh, the stabbing was not an accident–”
“Richie, if I really wanted to stab you–”
“--you announced your intent, madam–”
“--do you think I would have stabbed you in the ass?”
“I don’t – that’s the part you’re focused on?” he shouts, eyes wide. He notices that he’s drawn the attention of a couple behind Sydney and says, “What’s up? She stabbed me one time. Chicks, right?”
“Fuck you,” she scolds, but she’s laughing. This is better, she thinks. Having him riled up, yelling and making vaguely Italian hand gestures at her, is so much better than watching him sulk and beat himself up.
“It’s true.”
“Simmer,” she says, and lays a hand on his forearm. “You are so much, man.”
He covers her hand with his and leans in. “Sweetheart, I am so much, you couldn’t even handle it.”
“Sure.”
“I have a scar, you know.”
She smirks. “I bet you do.”
“You want to see it?”
“Come on, dude.”
“You come on!” He levels his gaze and a finger at her. “Tell the truth, Sydney.”
She tries for a straight face, but can’t help but grin at him. “I mean, okay, I kind of do.”
“Yeah, you do! Knew it.”
“I want to see my handiwork.”
“You want to see my ass, is what you want.”
She scoffs, loudly. “Yeah, you’re right, my end game this whole time was to get a glimpse of your skinny white ass.”
“Yeah.” He looks her over, but it doesn’t feel gross. “You know, all you have to do is ask.”
There’s a warm, heavy feeling in her gut, and she tries to shake it off. “You’re ridiculous,” she says.
He tips his bottle toward her. “Another?”
“Um…” She chews her bottom lip. “Yeah. Sure. Why not?” She shrugs. “Big night, right?”
“Fuck yeah, it is.” He gestures to the bartender for another round and Sydney digs out her cell phone. He watches her until she senses him there, staring.
“Sorry,” she says. “Just texting my dad. You know, don’t wait up, or whatever.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Don’t wait up, huh?”
“Get fucked.”
“I’m trying.” He watches as her cheeks flush and changes the subject. “Hey, what’d Emanuel think, anyway?”
She grins, a full-wattage smile that wrinkles her eyes. “He fucking loved it.”
“I’m glad.”
“And thank you, you know, for taking care of him tonight. Good looking out, with the mostarda.”
He waves it off. “Oh, yeah, of course. That’s the job. Unreasonable fuckin’ hospitality.”
She eyes him. “Yeah, but like… I don’t know if you really get what a big deal that is. To be good with people like that.” She shakes her head. “I mean, fuck, I wish I had that. I’m like… super awkward, if you haven’t noticed.”
“You?”
She flips him off. “And I mean Carmy has his moments, but he could never do Front of House. He doesn’t have that in him.”
He snorts a laugh. “Yeah. Fuckin’ A right he doesn’t. Couldn’t fucking talk his way out of a paper bag. Dickhead.”
“Richie…”
“Yeah, yeah.” He groans and drops his face into his hands. “Jesus. Can we just go back to a couple minutes ago when we were flirting with each other?” he begs. “I just – I can’t talk about Carmy and his fucking issues any more tonight.”
She blinks at him. “Oh, uh, I’m sorry, that was — you were flirting with me, just now?”
He smirks. “You were flirting with me too, babe. Game recognizes game.”
“Richie, you have no game.”
“Oh, really?” There’s a challenge in his voice that’s been present in about ninety-percent of conversations they’ve ever had. “I have no game, that’s what you’re saying?”
“Did I stutter?”
His eyes scan her face, and it feels almost like an intrusion, like she almost wants to look away, like his blue, blue eyes can see right into her soul and know the truth: that she actually likes being this close to him, laughing and joking and fighting and flirting. When did that change, she thinks, and she knows deep down that it happened long before he started wearing suits.
He nods slightly. “Okay,” he says.
“Okay? That’s it?”
“Hey, listen, I’m evolving, all right? Maybe in the past I would’ve tried harder to make you realize how wrong you are, but that’s not me anymore, babe. No G and R.”
She groans loudly.
He makes the sign of the cross like a priest. “Go with God.”
“You’re going to hell, you know,” she says, and he drops the persona and laughs.
“Yeah, I’ll save you a seat, sweetheart.”
He takes a long pull of his beer, and she watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and then traces her eyes down, down, along his now-wrinkled dress shirt, loose at the collar, to his rolled sleeves and wiry forearms and the fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle.
“My eyes are up here,” he says, and she realizes she’s been staring at him.
“Sorry.” A pause, and then she can’t stop herself: “So… you were flirting with me.”
“Uh…” He coughs once, nervously, and scratches at his ear. “I mean… yeah. Yeah. I guess I was.”
“Oh.”
He lowers his eyes to the bartop and taps his fingers anxiously. “Is that cool?”
She’s quiet, her mind and heart racing. Is it?
“Yes,” she decides.
His eyes dart back up. “Okay,” he says. “Cool.”
For a few long moments, they just stare at each other, because what even is this development? They flirt now? This is a thing they do? What does that even mean? What happens next?
And then, without taking his eyes off of her, Richie leans in closer, invading her personal space, his arm snaking around the back of her barstool. His knees press against her thigh.
“What are you doing?” she breathes, eyes wide.
“Just trying something.”
He lets his fingertips ghost over her shoulder, watches as she shivers, her eyes never leaving his.
“Can I kiss you?”
She sucks in a breath. “Um… Yeah. Yes.”
“Yes?”
Instead of answering him, she leans in and presses her lips to his. It’s soft and awkward and tentative and new, but when she feels him respond, the racing thoughts in her head die down and then she’s not thinking at all as he curls his arm around her shoulder and pulls her in. She sighs, and he licks into her mouth, lips slanting over hers.
Her fingers grab for his shirt and she drags him closer, shifting her knees to either side of his as he scoots her forward on her barstool. She slides her hand up, listens to the soft sounds he makes when she touches his skin, the way he grunts softly when she nips at his bottom lip. His stubble scratches her face when he moves to kiss her jaw and down her neck, and she brings one hand up to tug at the short hair at the back of his neck.
He pulls back then and looks down at her with soft eyes, his mouth hanging open. His hand slides up her back, pausing at the hooks on the back of her bra, and she shivers again.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey.”
“Listen, uh…”
“Yes,” she says.
He blinks. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“Richie...”
“Sydney…” They stare at each other, and he shrugs. He lets out a heavy breath, trying to calm himself down. “You have to say it, Syd. Or else I’m not gonna…”
She leans forward and kisses him again. “Take me home, Richie.”
“Yes, chef.”
Richie speeds back to his apartment, but she doesn’t yell at him.
He’s got his left hand on the wheel and his right on her leg, fingers dancing along the inside of her thigh. They keep sneaking glances at each other, little grins in the shadows of his front seat, but they don’t talk. Sydney just sits and squeezes her thighs together, trapping his hand. Richie keeps opening and closing his mouth to say something, but he’s as hard as he’s ever been and his brain is fuzzy and he doesn’t trust himself not to say anything stupid and/or crash the car.
When they get to his apartment, he grabs her hand and doesn’t let go; into the lobby, the elevator, to his apartment on the third floor. He opens his front door and pulls her in after him, and as soon as the door is shut, he spins her around, pressing her against it.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low. Checking in. He cups her face with one hand, the other holding her waist.
“Hi.”
She surges up, on her tiptoes, and he meets her halfway. He tongues into her mouth and she moans in the back of her throat, spurring him on. He moves in even closer, pushing his hips into hers, and grips under her thighs to lift her and wrap her legs around his waist.
“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck.”
He’s breathing hard against her face; she can feel his heartbeat against her chest, jackhammering, matching her own. Sydney kisses his jaw, nips at it, moves down his neck leaving wet marks on his skin.
He puts her down and drops to his knees in front of her. His hands go to the zipper on her pants, and before he pulls it down, he looks up at her. His chin rests on her hip bone, and he raises his eyebrows in question.
“Yes,” she breathes.
A quick kiss to the skin at her waist, and then there’s the sound of her zipper unzipping, and his big hands pull her pants down her legs. He moves in and mouths at her through her underwear, until she’s begging, and then he strips her of those, too.
She can’t think, she’s barely breathing, she’s outside of herself. She can hear the blood rush in her ears when she comes on his fingers and his mouth, his stupid, smart mouth that she thinks, in that moment, she will never complain about ever again.
He wipes his mouth on his undershirt. It’s hotter than it has any right to be.
“Richie.” She pulls him close again, and this time she unbuttons his fancy new black shirt, carefully, so she doesn’t ruin it. He hangs it on a hook by the door and then strips his undershirt off, too.
“Bedroom?”
She nods, licks her lips. “Bedroom.”
She kicks out of her pants and underwear, and he walks her backwards toward his room, her arms around his neck as they kiss. When the back of her legs hit the mattress, she stumbles backwards, bringing him with her.
He sucks on her neck while he works her shirt up and over her head, her bra following after. She puts a hand on the back of his neck and pulls at his short hair, forcing his head back. His eyes are blown out and confused, looking down at her.
“No marks,” she warns.
He laughs. “All right, all right.” He kisses the spot again, once, and moves on. “I don’t mind if you want to do it, though.”
“Ugh, what are you, in high school?”
“Bragging is timeless, babe.”
“You’re ridiculous.” She goes for his belt anyway.
After, after, they lie next to each other in the dark, thoroughly fucked out and only just starting to remember that, oh shit, they’re Richie and Sydney, and they have work in the morning, and is this is something they do now? He lights a cigarette and offers her the pack; she shakes her head.
“So,” she says. “We did that.”
“Yeah we did.” He blows out a puff of smoke. The cherry-red tip stands out in the dark room. “Regrets?”
She’s quiet, thinking; about him, about their jobs, the mess that is their kitchen. Long enough that he gets nervous and finds he can’t help but stare at her, waiting. Moonlight coming in from between the venetian blinds illuminates her face.
“Syd?”
She looks at him, and shakes her head. “No. No regrets,” she says.
“Yeah?”
A smile stretches across her face. “Yeah,” she says, and elbows him in the ribs. (“Ow,” he protests weakly.) “What about you?”
He blows smoke toward the ceiling. “Are you fucking kidding?”
“Richie…”
“Absolutely none.” He leans over and kisses her shoulder. “That was fucking…”
He searches for the words and doesn’t find any, to her amusement.
“That was fucking,” she laughs.
He laughs, too. “Heard, chef.”
They’re quiet for a minute, Richie smoking, Sydney staring up at his ceiling, before she shifts to look at him.
“What are we gonna do tomorrow?” she asks aloud.
He looks down at her and waggles his eyebrows. “I got this one trick, where –”
“Fuck off,” she laughs.
He stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray on his side table and twists to lay on his side, facing her. “With us?” he asks quietly. He feels his pulse speed up, anxiety suddenly threatening to burst through the surface.
“Yeah,” she shrugs, and it’s only part of what she means.
“Uh…” He reaches out and runs a finger down her arm. “You know, I’m good with… whatever you want to tell people. Or not.”
She nods, teeth sunk into her lower lip. “Maybe we keep it to ourselves?” Off his concerned face, she adds, “Just until we know what the fuck this is, right?” and he visibly relaxes.
“Hmm.” He shifts and slips an arm around her. “Secrets could be fun,” he says, planting a kiss on her collarbone, and she laughs.
After a few quiet moments, she says, “And, uh… what do we do about Carmy?” She’s surprised to realize that it’s Carmy, not Richie, that she’s most concerned about fucking things up at The Bear. When did that change?, she wonders, and she thinks it was probably far earlier than tonight’s dinner service.
Richie sighs heavily. “We go in, and we act like fuckin’ grownups, I guess. And if he wants to be a fucking baby, then fuck him.”
She considers this, frowning, still worrying her lip with her teeth. “We can’t let this all fall apart over dumb shit when we’ve barely even started.”
“I know.” He blows out a breath, pulls her into him. “Listen, me and Carmen… we’ll be alright. Tonight sucked, but we’ve got a lot in the bank.” Off her still-concerned look, he adds, “I promise I’m not gonna let this take us down, Syd. After everything…” His pause is loaded, and she touches his chest. “I’m not gonna lose anyone else. Okay?”
She studies him for a long moment, and she must find what she’s looking for in his face because she says, “Okay,” with a firm nod. “I trust you.”
“Holy shit,” he says, exaggerated disbelief in his voice. “Chef Sydney says she trusts me. Who could’ve seen that shit coming?”
She elbows him again, hard, and laughs when he yelps (“Fuck!”). In response, he shifts himself on top of her and moves her arms above her head, pinning her at the wrists. She grins up at him and tests the hold he’s got on her, just because she can. He slots himself more firmly between her thighs, and she can feel him ready again against her hip.
“Stop fuckin’ doing that,” he says, staring down at her. “So fuckin’ violent.”
She stares right back. “Make me.”
He kisses her.