Tony, Terry, Tommy?
synopsis; You get an unexpected call from an old friend in need of an emergency repair. Good thing: that's kind of your whole gig. Bad thing: You've been avoiding the Berzatto family for the past year.
tasting notes; hurt comfort? idk man, he's in a fuckin' freezer. this is gonna be a long slow-burn series. We don't use Y/N here and we've got a very preestablished storyline going on babes. Eat up.
portion; 3.1k+
possible allergies; SEASON 2 FINALE SPOILERS, I've started writing this before Season 3 comes out in June so we're going WAY off canon (unless I'm an oracle), Mikey is gonna be central baby, any tw you require for the bear-- you require for this.
pairing; Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto & Fem Reader (No pronouns!)
I have not written fanfiction in 5-6 years and once again some goddamn pretty boy just YOINKS me back in. I'm making up my own season three here so I'm kinda flying by the seat of my pants with this series, hopefully it turns out. If it doesn't... C'est la vie, I had fun.
The inciting incident, the thing that pulls you in, and permanently alters the trajectory of your lifeāĀ Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Is honestly quite boring, because itās just a phone call from an old friend.
You stare at your screen for what feels like eons but itās really just a few rings. Itās enough time to frantically search through blankets on your couch for your remote to pause your showā Which might as well be like 10 years of time. Youāre heavily debating not answering; what if itās something heavy? What if a mutual childhood friend died? What if itās a love or murder confession? What if itās about the money you owe her? The money she owes you?
Do you really want to take that kind of call? On whatās been a peaceful Friday night? Thatās a rarity in your part of Chicago, cāmon. If itās important, sheāll leave a voicemail... Who are you kidding, she doesnāt leave voicemailsā Frankly, itās bizarre and concerning that sheās calling in the first place instead of spam texting. ā¦Alright, sheās let it get to the fourth ring, sheās probably dead or dying. You need to pick up.
āā¦Syd?ā
She sounds infinitely stressed, but relieved to hear your voice.āHey, hey, uhāā
Thereās a cacophony of yelling, banging, and what you imagine are kitchen noises in the background. Guess she kept to her guns after Sheridan. Thatās nice. Or maybe itās not. Hard to tell.
āAre you good?ā She canāt see the concern on your face or your free arm crossing over your waistā But she can imagine it in the worried lilt of your voice.
āYeah, yeah yeah, yeahā I-Iām goodā Well actually, no, Iām not good, thatās why Iām calling. Actually. Sorry. I know itās been a minute, itās fucked up to call only when I need somethingāā
āSyd.ā
āIs your dad still a handy-man?ā
Ah. Goodbye peaceful Friday night. Hello emergency hotfix services.
You click your teeth, āOh, no, he retired. Got a case of⦠Getting fucking old disease.ā But a part of you is relieved itās a thing thatās broken, and not her. This is at least manageableā Whatever it is.
āFuck. Okay. Fuck. Ha, yeah, my dadās got that tooā Well, okay, then Iāll talkāā
Youāre quick to jump in. āI took over the business though. So, if youāreā" āWe need help so bad right now.ā
You canāt help but laugh at the speed of it, but immediately feel guilty hearing the desperation in it. āYeah? Whoās we?ā
You stick the cellphone in the crux of your neck, already walking across your apartment to throw on your jumpsuitā Dark navy blue, elbow length sleeves, dadās old logo embroidered on your right breast pocket.
CHICAGOāS KINDEST ā FIXERS & CO. Itās managed to grow on you.
Thereās an egregious number of patches ironed or sewn onto the back and shoulders of it. All from businesses you and your father had either worked with or done odd jobs for. A NASCAR jumpsuit, but for nostalgia and small businesses. Something something āit all starts with your neighbourhoodā. Your dad would say.
Syd continues, she hasnāt changed much. You hear her sharp dicing in the background, the rhythm seems to calm down into an actual flow instead of erratic speed. You figure either the dinner rush is starting to slow down or sheās relieved youāre coming. Who are you being humble for, no shot itās the former.
āSo, you know how Iām likeā Like a chef and shit?ā
Ā You hum the affirmative, putting her on speakerphone so you can pull out your tool kit with both hands.
āSo like, I actually co-own this restaurant opening tonight.ā
āOh nice!ā
āYeahā Yeah, yeah, itās really nice, but actually, itās not, because itās bad.ā
āIn the way I can fix?ā
āIn the way you can fix, yeah. Hopefully.ā
āWhatās the damage?ā
āSo, my co-owner uh, Carmen, he got locked in the walk-in. Like trapped.ā
You take a beat, a confused one. Half-stepping, almost tripping. You stare at your tools, picking out what youāll actually need for thisā How the fuckā āHow is he trapped in the walk-in?ā
āSo, he meant to call to get it fixedāā āAnd he didnāt?ā āAnd he didnāt.ā
āWhat was broke about it in the first place?ā
āThe doorknob on the inside, broke off. And right now, or, more like, 5 minutes ago, the handle on the outside broke off too.ā
āFuck.ā
āYeah, fuck.ā
āDo you have the outside handle, still?ā
āYeah. Yeah, laying around somewhereā It snapped off though, likeāā
āClean?ā
āUhā¦. Yāknow, I would check, but Iām actually kindaā"
āCan we run table 36, please, Chefs?!ā Now thatās an uncomfortably familiar voice.
āYes, Chef! ā¦Iām kinda busy.ā
āRight. Restaurant. Oh, what fucking restaurant? You said Carmen, thatās that fuckinā Michelin guy, right?ā Berzatto. It has to be. The smallness of this world is a personal prank on you.
āā¦How do you know that?ā Son of a bitch.
āā¦I try to remember what you like.ā Itās a good save, but that was too intimate for 3 years of no contact besides Happy Birthday texts, fuck fuck, recoverā āAhem, uh, Restaurant?ā
āThe Bear. Formerly The Beef. You do still live in Chicago, right?ā
Berzatto. Confirmed. Bleh.
āFortunate for you, I do. I know The Beef, Iām not far, Iāll be there in ten. Tell him to not have a panic attack, if you get a minute.ā
āI will not get a minute. But I love the dream.ā
And youāre off. Jumpsuit half zipped over what was supposed to be a sleep shirt but is now posthumously a work shirt. Nobody has to know youāre wearing pajama shorts under this. Carhartt jacket thrown over your shouldersā Your dadās, so, a bit oversized. Toolbox in hand, utility belt onā Though youāre mildly sure if your hypothesis is right, you will only need your threateningly long sledgehammer.
Thank God for your car. CTA would not like you right now.
You pull up front. Oh boy. The sign change is making you feel a type of way that you were not expecting. Pride? Envy? All seven of the deadly sins? Maybe. No time to stew on it because thereās an older woman smoking and having an emotional spat with who you assume is her shivering son out front. So. Definitely going through the back alley instead of getting in the middle of that shit.
Alas, itās not any better, because thereās Syd, vomiting next to a dumpster.
āBetter to ignore or acknowledge you in this moment?ā Is the response you decide is best, despite the question, youāre already by her side. You put your tools down (out of the splash zone) and rub her back with one hand, holding back straying braids with the other.
āI couldnātāā More vomit. āFuckinā tell ya.ā Syd takes a few deep breathes before standing. She considers going in for a hug, but remembers, the vomit. āGood to see you. I want to catch up, fāreal, butāā āThe bear in the walk-in?ā āThe bear in the walk-in.ā
You nod, fishing through your pocket. You hand her a mini container of Tums. She waves it off, of course, and you double down, of course, āWho you acting tough for?ā
āFuckin⦠No one.ā She grimaces, taking the box. She makes a show of taking one, like a fussy kid.
You refuse to take it back. āKeep it.ā
āNever stopped being the mom friend, eh?ā
You laugh, picking up your tools again. āListen, thereās no telling what the night and your stomach holds. Lead the way?ā
The Bear is pretty, or at least the kitchen of it is, so far. Itās clean. Cleaner than it used to be. The death trap walk-in is really the only eyesore for you. You stare at the broken-off handle in your hand, twisting it back and forth to look at all the angles. Itās honestly a pretty clean break.
Sydneyās left to talk to her dad, as she should, and the rest of the kitchen is either too busy to pay you mind or is just silently relieved to see you.
Tinaā Who has thankfully opted to not say āHey, good to see you, itās been a year, what the fuckāāTaps the walk-in door and says to this elusive Michelin Carmen that sheāll be right back, that helpās here. He does not seem to register this at all. She gently slaps your cheek before rushing back to her station, regardless.
āMaybe Iām just not built for this, maybe, maybe thatās okayā Maybe that just is.ā
Youāve never said his name to him, it feels heavy on your tongue. āCarmen.ā
āRight? What the fuck was I thinking?ā
Alright, heās too far gone. You flag down one of the cooks that are just shadowing for the night. āHey, can you hold this in place for me?ā
You stick the handle into whatās left of the hinge still attached to the door, which is, not muchā But hopefully, again, if your hypothesis is correct, itāll give enough leverage. The cook holds it in place, a little terrified as your sledgehammer comes into view.
āNot gonna hit you, promise.ā
āāIām a fuckinā psycho. Thatās why. Thatās why Iām good at what I do.ā
You tap (bang) the hammer on the door, enough to stop his train of thought. For a second, at least. āSweetheart, I need you to stand up for me, Carmen Chef Sir.ā
āā¦Tony?ā
ā...Who the fuck is Tony?ā
The meek cook beside you speaks up, āHe means Tommy.ā
And Tina is quick to yell from across the kitchenā hearing how? We donāt know. āItās Terry!ā
āI am none of these people.ā You sigh, readying the hammer. āCarmen, can you stand up, and just tuck your fingers in the wedge of the door? If there is one?ā
āHeard. Yeah.ā Thereās shuffling from in there, getting into position. Though the steps and the words seem dazed, as heās forced out of a mental fog. āHere.ā
āThis isnāt a fix by the way. Your whole door is fucked after this. Not that it isnāt already, but, yāknow.ā You back up, teeing yourself up before running forward.
āWell, waitāā
You slam the mallet into the tip of the handle perfectly, forcing it way too tight into the gap of the hinge. You push the cook aside with your hip, now using the long handle of the mallet to stick between the knob and the door, using it as further leverage to pull it open. It is incredibly straining.
āCarmy!ā Is it okay to say that nickname before youāve even seen his face? Eh. Youāre moving the boulder, heāll forgive you. āYou feel air?!ā
āHoly shitā Yeah, yeahā Push?!ā āOf course fucking push!ā
And it becomes apparent in this exchange of force that this Head Chef must be significantly stronger than you, because itās opening a lot faster now. Though, fast is a strong word for the snail pace this is happening at. But itās more than the nothing that was happening a minute ago.
āAye⦠Cousin?ā Richie, in a⦠suit? Runs up to you, coming from front of house. He immediately grabs a free spot on the sledgehammerās handle to help pull. He was shocked to see you doing, well, this, right now, but then upon registering, heās just shocked to see you. Period.
You clock his wistful gaze and wry smile at The Beefās logo still patched onto the shoulder of your jumpsuit. Worn, but there.
You can only groan in response, sticking a leg up and putting your foot on the wall as if itās gonna add meaningful leverageā Oh wait, it kinda is. āY'clean up good, Richā Opening goingāFuckā well?ā
āOh yeah, fucking peachy.ā He can only manage to wheeze in reply. Investing his strength in yanking rather than reintroductions; thankfully it pays off.
The hinge shoots open, you would have absolutely fallen on your ass if Richie was not ready to stabilize you. The walk-in door cracks open. Just a bit. Itās not dramatic, itās just a breath.
Itās so anti-climactic that Richie doesnāt mind walking off to cheer before Carmen even comes out. Clapping your back as he does. āLetās what I like to fuckinā see, Cousin! Ingenuity!ā
Though, to be fair, heās moving to intercept a very sweet looking, worried girl. You look up at her, wheezing as you keel over slightly to catch your breath, hands on your knees. Sheās saying something along the lines of āWhatās going on?ā āIs he okay?ā Girlfriend? Probably. Richie seems to be coaxing her accordingly. You turn your head back to the door. Carmen hasnāt come out yet. Thatās a red flag. With another wheeze, you stand up right, opening the door further, peeking in.
He's standing there, catatonic. Not looking at you, but straight forward, beyond you. He mustāve been by the door to push it open but now heās stumbled against the back shelf. Every time his girlās voice manages to ring into here, his eyes crinkleā Wince. His breath keeps hitching. He looks afraid. It is better to be caged right now than it is to be out there, doing whatever he could be doing, right now. Talking to anyone might be a death sentence, right now.
āI donāt need to provide amusement or enjoyment. I donāt need to receive any amusement or enjoyment. Iām completely fine with that.ā He mumbles repeatedly. You can barely hear it over the buzzing of the freezer.
Whispering it just for himself, like some sort of fucked up mantra. Like itās a state of inner peace to feel this bad. You doubt he even sees you right now.
You know you donāt know Carmy personally. Mostly just through hearsay.
Heās never met or heard of you, thatās for sure.
But you know Berzattos. Or. Knew the one.
And you know a downward spiral. Intimately.
And you know that right now, heās fucking cold. He is shivering and making no move to leave that state. You think he thinks thatās the state he deserves to stay in.
Nothing to lose but a good first impression, right? You drop a screwdriver in the doorway as a doorstopā Because how fucking dumb would it be if you both got stuck? And. Extremely slowly, you approach him not unlike approaching an actual captive bear. In your eyes, you might as well be.
Standing right in front of him doesnāt stop his mantra. You slip your jacket off, half hugging him to drape it over his shoulders. āYouāre just cold.ā
āIām aāā āYouāre just. Cold.ā You cut him off before he has the chance to self-deprecate again, smoothing out the sleeves on him. His eyes readjust to actually look at you rather than somewhere beyond.
You sniff. Youāre already cold and itās been 30 seconds. This poor thing. You rub your hands together, breathing hot air into them before touching them to his frigid fucking face. āFuck youāre really cold. Like danger cold.ā
Never being one for boundaries or hesitation, you hug yourself to him. Itās the fastest way to warm him up. You slip your hands under the jacketā Your jacketā And just engulf the Italian Popsicle Man before you.
Shockingly, he doesnāt push you off or suddenly reawaken to his senses and tell you to fuck off. He doesnāt flinch, if anything he leans in. His body doesnāt really have time for surprise, right now, it just takes what it needs. And what it needs is warmth and oxytocin. His breathing slowly but surely self regulates, and once you start to remember decorum you lower your armsā But. He opts to place his chin on your shoulder, like the worldās most gentle hook, and that alone is enough to keep you there.
It's a long, silent, liminal spacey moment before he speaks again. Both of you speak just above the decibel of the freezer's buzzing.
āYouāre not Tony.ā
āTerry.ā
āYouāre Terry?ā
āNo, Tina said Tonyās Terry. I donāt know who the fuck Terry is.ā
āTerryās the fridge guy.ā
āYouāre still going to need to call him; I did just make it worse.ā
āThatās fine.ā He swallows. āWho called you?ā
āSyd.ā
āShouldāve called you earlier.ā
āShouldāve called the fridge guy earlier.ā
āYeah.ā He sighs, but he makes no move to move, so you donāt either.
āYou know Mikey too?ā
Ah. The patch. The Beef. Your heart tightens and so do your shoulders.
āYeah.ā You sigh. Itās shakier than youād like it to be. āDad knew him, so then I knew him, so then I occasionally fixed shit for him. Shit that āFak couldnāt?ā I think his name was?ā
āHm.ā He hums. āHe ever got locked in the walk-in?ā
āYeah, he really fucked it up, like waayy worse than whatever happened with you tonight. Like whatever happened. At least 10 times worse.ā Your voice is coated with sarcasm, but itās not entirely untrue.
Youāre relieved, when Carmen laughs at this, a touch maniacally, but itās something. Right now, any emotion from him besides regret and anxiety feels like a trophy. He straightens up, pushing his hair back, so you remove your arms.
āYouāre fuckinā funny, Tony.ā
āStill not Tony.ā
āOh my god!ā A blonde, very pregnant woman cracks the door open, relieved. āAre you okay, Bear?ā You step aside so she can hug Carmen, holding his cheeks to look over him. Oh, this has to beā
āIām good, Iām great, Sug.ā He says this incredibly unconvincingly, hanging one hand on her wrist.
But what matters more in your brain right now is: Thatās Sugar. Natalie.
And now you can put a face to both siblings youāve been bitched about to.
Chain-smoker, means well, cringeworthy husband, too good for her family, incredibly judgemental, cares too much and worries more, loves to fight, her motherās daughter, pushy, sticks her foot in her mouth, canāt take no for an answer, would lay down her life. Natalie Berzatto. Little sister.
Michelin Star retaining, big shot, sensitive, definitely a virgin, ball buster, sweats the small stuff, sweetheart, asshole, incredibly smart, flighty, coward, deeply loyal, whiny, screamer, show-off, fantastic drawer, shell, mister new york, annoyingly humble, undeniably the most talented. Carmen Berzatto. Baby brother.
Mikeyās words. Of course.
Nat turns her gaze over to you, āThank you.ā You can only bring yourself to nod in reply, a bit awkwardā Lost in your rolodex of memories of the people youāve never actually met until right now. Itās weird to feel parasocial about a normal person. Ā Ā
āOur toilet, exploded.ā She says.
Now that pulls out you of it, and gets a laugh out of you. You put your hand over your mouth. āYeah?ā
Sugar shakes her head, eyes widening like sheās just stepped in it, āI didnāt mean likeā Like, you just did a job, right, thatās like tacking on another last-minute serviceāā
āThatās fine.ā You put a hand up stopping her from continuing, still chuckling. āIāll take a look at it tonight and try to fix it tomorrow?ā
She nods, smiling bright, āThank you, Tommy.ā
Who needs to use Y/N when you have the fridge guy?
I so desperately hope you liked this first chapter. I've been stewing on this for like a week so I beg of you to reply/reblog/send me an ask (anon or not!!) telling me what you thought!! Unless it's mean!! In which case, do NOT!!!
And just a forewarning, as we step into uncharted territory where the walk-in meltdown was cut short, I need you to hold my hand through it bb. We're making this man's life better or we're gonna die trying.
In a move absolutely no one saw coming (including me), that dbh writer you followed 4 years ago has folded for a Bear Man and is back at it.
If you're also a fan of FX's The Bear and would like to catch up with me/my writing style, fuckin' here it is, man. Come hang out with... coin... I need a new nickname now...















