let light be light — richie jerimovich x reader
pairing :: richie jerimovich x fem!baker!reader
synopsis :: richie promised eva he'd help out with her school bake sale - translation? he's completely fucked. marcus is out of the country, carmy told him to fuck off, and tiff's going to give him so much shit if she gets wind of the fact he brought store-bought shit. luckily, a supply run for the bear's renovations lands him smack in front of a cutesy little bakery, and the even cuter baker herself might give him more than he bargained for. the bear fic masterlist here!
word count :: 2.9k
warnings :: swearing, i took heavy liberties with the bakery, mostly from richie's perspective, ONE use of y/n, very vague physical description of reader, potentially ooc richie, richie lowkey being a romantic (in his head), jen writing dialogue is a warning in itself, still not proofread because... have you met me, written with the intention of a potential series
Richie Jerimovich is no idiot.
Despite what literally everyone around him may suggest - Carmy, Sydney, Tiff, even Nat- he’s not stupid. He might do stupid things, sure, but who doesn’t? Surely everyone in Chicago has also taken a shower in black mold particles at ungodly hours of the morning after sticking a broom through the ceiling.
Surely.
Okay, so he’s not a genius. No kitchen prodigy like Carm or Syd, not some gajillionaire like Tiff’s boyfriend. But he’s not dumb. Which is why he finds himself standing in front of the most cutesy, decked-out, offensively charming bakery he’s ever seen in his life.
Tiff’s been not-so-subtly pestering Richie about Eva lately. Not that Eva is ever a bother to him – if anything, she’s pretty much the only sunshine in his life these days. With The Bear’s renovations sapping all of his energy, everything he’s hearing through the grapevine about Frank, and, hell, his own conscious breathing down his neck about purpose, he takes time with Eva where he can fit it.
Which, he guesses, is basically the problem. The past two times he’s called Tiff, she’s ribbed him about pulling his weight when it comes to Eva’s school events. He can’t pick her up from school, most days, so the responsibility falls on Tiff. Beyond that, Richie’s not sure how helping out in a first-grade classroom is exactly in his wheelhouse. But Tiff’s not backing down, and he loves his daughter, so he decides to bite the bullet and ask Eva if there’s anything going on at school she wants him there for. Beats walking back to Tiff with his tail between his legs to ask for information, he thinks. He figures it won’t be that bad. Parent-teacher conferences? Light work. Talent show or school play? A breeze. Low risk, high-reward type shit. Because what else did six-year-olds even do at school? He’d helped Eva with spelling practice before, and that was about it. His brain took a long moment to catch up to reality when, in response to his question, Eva excitedly told him that her class was putting on a bake sale with the rest of the elementary school in two weeks. It took him all of thirty seconds to realize how overwhelmingly fucked he was.
Every avenue his brain took turned into a dead end. His only potential savior, his knight in shining armor in the form of Marcus Brooks, is in the wind. Curse fucking Copenhagen and Marcus being a baby genius. Like everyone else around him these days, it seems like. He doesn’t even bother asking Syd and Carmy, knowing he’d only get sympathy from one and a fuck off from the other. No baked goods to save his ass from failure. He’s so, so close to just hanging his head and telling Tiff he fucked up, or worse, asking her for help. But that option goes poof too, because the next time he’s on the phone with her, she beats him to the punch with an upbeat recounting of how overjoyed Eva is to have her dad at school soon. And now that he knows that? He’s locked in. There’s no way he’s going to let her down, not without hurting her feelings and embarrassing himself in the process. He knows one thing for sure: he’s going to have to knock this out of the park. This means he needs to find a foolproof way to get something Eva and her friends will like for the bake sale. No box mixes - he could probably figure it out, but making enough for multiple classes of kids? More cupcakes would be burnt to a crisp than servable, he’s sure. No storebought shit, either. He just knows Tiff will somehow get wind of it and find a way to mention it one too many times in passing conversation. He simply refuses to be the dad who shows up to one singular school event and gets judged to death by the elitist moms for his Jewel-Osco cookies. It stumps him every time he tries to think about it, but Richie is committed to finding a solution.
Maybe committed is a little strong. Almost 100% of his brain power (and his patience) goes toward The Bear every day, and trying to come up with a source for Eva’s bake sale brings him nothing but additional stress the minute he ponders it for more than a second. He knows it’ll be worth it; the process is just less than ideal. And the deadline is starting to close in on him.
Which is precisely why Richie’s contemplating becoming a God-fearing Christian when the answer jumps out at him in the midst of a renovation supply run. Literally jumps out at him. He’s on his way back from the Ace Hardware ten blocks west of The Bear, walking because Carmy’s apprehended the van for god knows what yet again.
The shitty plastic bag full of spackle, caulk, and paint samples is slung over his wrist, tumbling down to settle in the crook of his bent elbow. He’s almost back to The Bear when the stupid 10-cent bag catches on something and rips wide open, sending all his supplies rolling out onto the sidewalk. Fuck, he’s muttering under his breath (read: loud enough for the entire street to hear), fuck me, literally fuck me. Stupid fucking bag, that’s capitalism at its fucking finest-
He manages to gather the strewn renovation materials haphazardly into his arms, ready to resume his commute back to the restaurant as he looks dejectedly back at the gutted plastic bag, still blowing in the breeze from its prison on the metal curve of a sign hook. Dough Boy.
Wait a fucking minute. Richie looks up, putting two and two together as he rips the bag remnants off the sign. Creamy white paint exterior, sky blue pinstriped awning, large windows underlined by overflowing flowerboxes. The words fresh-baked daily curl across one window in pink paint. Pastels affront his vision from every angle, his senses on overdrive before he’s even stepped inside. It was like he’d just stepped into a Gilmore Girls wet dream, but right now, it was the answer to all his prayers. It’s fate. It has to be, or at least Richie thinks so, and he’s sending a kiss up to the Big Man in heaven above just in case. Maybe he’s finally being done a solid after what seems like a never-ending cycle of wake up, work, lose his shit, sleep, repeat. He clumsily pushes the door open with his hip, refusing to let his armful of repair shit keep him from finally triumphing over the bake sale situation. A bell rings when he slips inside, tinny and high-pitched, something that would typically make him want to rip his hair out but sounds like music to his ears right now.
And damn, the minute the door closes behind him, he knows he’s made the right choice. The inside of the bakery matches it’s outside – all light colors and pretty, flowy designs. Most of the tables are filled, people of all ages talking and laughing at a volume that rises over the soft music lilting in the background. It’s precisely the type of place Eva would love, just like the “pink flower ice cream store”, an ice creamery with pink floral wallpaper she always begs him to take her to. More than all that, it smells fucking good, even from where he’s standing. Richie’s mentally floating toward the counter like the proverbial cartoon man levitating toward a pie already.
Arms still precariously balancing all the supplies, he sidles up to the counter, eyes appraising the countless types of baked goods in the case nearby. His brain is running a mile a minute, spinning with thoughts about which ones Eva would like and how looking at all this shit is making him hungry. There’s every type of thing he could imagine - breads and croissants, cookies, cupcakes, and a fuck-ton of stuff with French-looking names he can’t even pronounce in his head.
Wait, shit, he realizes suddenly, what kind of stuff do people even eat at bake sales?
“Hi! How can I help you?” A cheerful voice cuts through his internal monologue. He whips his head up, ready to explain his current dilemma, but instead finds that all semblance of coherent thought has promptly exited his head.
Your hair’s pulled back, a pink pen tucked behind one ear that wobbles a bit precariously from the force of your sweet smile. You look about Carmy’s age, but without any of the same stress signs – no frown lines dug into your cheeks or forehead. Everything about you matches the bakery to a T - milky white sweater rolled up above the elbow, a light blue apron that matches the awning outside, dusted with flour catching his eye first. There are little initials embroidered near the top hem, professional in the non-pretentious sort of way that makes him willing to bet money on the fact that you’re the top dog at this establishment. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, expression cheerful and expectant, clearly waiting for him to fill the silence with an answer.
Richie blinks a few times, as if trying to windshield-wipe his brain. Some light’s turned off up there, because all thoughts of his original mission seem locked behind some uncrackable vault. Holy fucking wow. Maybe he needs to get out more.
“Uh, yeah, um-” Jesus fucking Christ. “I, uh, hi,” The urge to parrot back your greeting overcomes him, and he’s mentally facepalming so hard when the stilted words leave his mouth. He’s suddenly keenly aware of the fact that he looks so fucking idiotic carrying all this home-improvement paraphernalia into his arms with no vessel to put it in. Fucking fuck.
You, for all his scrambling, are patient, waiting quietly for him to find the words, although he doesn’t miss the way your smile twitches wider when the returned hello tumbles its way out of his mouth. This is his own personal hell.
After what feels like years to Richie, he gets himself to utter a sentence with a decent amount of sense to it. “I’m, uh- my daughter has a bake sale at school comin’ up, and I’m looking to find something for her to bring.”
You nod as if he’d been that coherent the first time, not missing a beat. “Okay! What were you thinking? Cookies, cupcakes, or maybe an assortment–?” He’s struck by how happy you seem. Not in a fake, telemarketer sort of way, but like you genuinely really like your job. Unfortunately, that thought gives way to the fact that your question reminds him just how clueless he is about this shit.
“Uh… I don’t-” he responds clumsily, trailing off in a way he hopes conveys the sentiment help me, please. The hardware store supplies jostle in his arms as he fields the frustration of not being able to fidget with his hands.
Your smile softens a bit, like you’ve just read every single thought in his head word-for-word. “First one?” You ask knowingly, and there’s no pity there, but Richie still kind of feels like you might also think him stupid.
He finds it in himself to huff out a laugh, if only to fill some space. “Yeah,” he admits, “and I’m not exactly a whiz in the kitchen, so…” You smile wider at his laugh, which he greatly appreciates, the tension in his muscles dialing back a little. “No worries,” you say easily, “how old’s your daughter?” He’s surprised by the question a bit. He figures it makes sense, considering a six-year-old’s palette is bound to be different than a fifteen-year-old's, but the care with which you ask takes him aback.
“She’s six.” You nod, like his answer just unlocked the secrets to the universe. You slip the pen out from behind your ear and begin to scribble things on a notepad. Richie’s eyes are glued ot your hand until your voice once again snaps him out of his thoughts.
“I could do cupcakes? Most kids never turn down a cupcake, and I can do half chocolate and half vanilla for good measure. Or, if your daughter has any favorite desserts, I can do that too.” You look up from the paper, offering another smile, and he almost hates how much more at ease you put him each time you do that. He forces himself to think about your question instead. Is there anything specific Eva would want? Her favorite sweet treat was definitely ice cream, and he was smart enough to know that it was not a bake sale food. Besides, you were right. Kids love cupcakes. Everyone loves cupcakes.
“Cupcakes’re great, thanks.” He fills in, to which you nod again, turning back to the notepad. “How many did you want to order?” You ask, and once again, Richie’s floundering for an answer. There were twenty or so kids in Eva’s classroom, if he had to ballpark it. Probably quadruple that in the elementary school, at the very least, but every other kid was also supposed to bring an item as well. Guessing at the math was making his head hurt.
“Uh, maybe…thirty? forty? I dunno, her class is like twenty, but I guess everyone’ll want one, probably. And other kids are going.” He’s trying really hard to sound like he knows what he’s talking about. You nod again, and he’s not exactly sure if you’re just giving him the benefit of being an active listener or if you actually think his estimate has some merit.
“Three dozen feels like a good number,” you say as you continue to scribble on the notepad. He almost laughs at the way you say it – casual, with enough levity to make it feel like you’re figuring it out with him, instead of just gently guiding him toward the right conclusion. Once you’re done writing, you look up at him again. “When’s the bake sale?”
“‘Bout a week and a half from now. The 15th, I’m pretty sure.”
“Okay,”
you say, continuing to write on your little paper while maintaining eye contact in a way that’s kind of…scarily impressive. “I can just take your name and number down, and I’ll give you a call in a couple of days to confirm the order and get some payment information, and then I’ll call again 48 hours before so we can find a good time for you to come pick them up!”
Richie’s grateful for the fact you don’t ask for payment immediately – not because he can’t afford it, but because his wallet is currently buried somewhere deep in his jeans pocket and reaching for it right now would basically require him to immediately acquire the skill of juggling seven items at once. He nods, rattling off his name and number when prompted, and watches as you rip off the page from your notepad, fold it neatly, and slip it into your apron pocket.
“You’re all set!” You tell him cheerfully, and it takes Richie a couple of seconds standing there awkwardly to compute that means it’s time for him to leave.
“Thanks, uh...y/n,” he says again, your name slow on his lips as he squints to read your name tag from where he's standing, “for the help, and everything.” You smile wider, if that’s even possible, and he finds himself smiling too, a real one that stretches most of the width of his face. He’s just turning to leave when your voice pipes up once more, halting him in place.
“Richie?” You’re calling his name, and the sound of it sends a jolt of shock through him, even though he literally just gave you his name for the order. His head turns to look at you, and he’s equally as surprised to find your arm outstretched, a paper bag in your extended hand. It’s much thicker than the lucky stupid Ace Hardware one had been, and the thought makes him realize why you’re giving it to him.
“For your stuff. Figured you might need one,” you explain as he reaches the same conclusion himself. Again, there’s no sarcasm in your voice. No teasing, or judgment, or any of that, just an unfiltered attempt to help him out. After you already spoon-fed him plans for the bake sale he’s supposed to be participating in. He can feel the tips of his ears start to go warm, quickly distracting himself from the feeling by carefully dumping all the items into the bag you're holding open before taking it from your hands.
“Thanks,” he says again, his smile going a little bit sheepish. “Seriously. Wasn’t looking forward to three more blocks holding all that shit.” He internally cringes at the curse word that’s so easily integrated into his vocabulary. He doesn’t know what kind of person you are, if that’s the sort of thing that might bother you. Usually, he wouldn’t give a flying fuck – his sailor mouth is going to get him in trouble with people, stranger or not, but for some reason, the embarrassment is creeping its way back up his neck.
You take it in stride, laughing softly at his comment about carting all his unwieldy items back through the streets of Chicago. “Happy to help,” you say, and the words reverberate through his skull all the way out the door and down the street as he leaves the warmth of the bakery and resumes his walk.
There’s a bit more pep in his step after crossing off the most significant question mark on his list of to-dos, and his arms are grateful for a more efficient way to carry his purchases. He hasn’t checked his phone, but he’s sure Carmy’s going to be even more annoyed with him than usual for taking his sweet ass time to get back to The Bear. He doesn’t mind, though - he knows he’ll probably be busy replaying every word of the conversation he just had with you in his head while he gets lectured by Carm and Nat.
He’s no idiot, after all.
taglist :: @melonlovesthings @dumbbandpoetic @bigblueworld
a/n :: there was an ask in my inbox for this and idk where tf it went but hopefully whichever anon that was finds this!!
© written by @/fawnsfern: do not reproduce, alter, or share my work on other websites without permission! divider creds to @/bbyg4rlhelps
