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ashlingiswriting · 9 months

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do i know you? chapter one

"that's mikey's girl." richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn chapter one, 3.2k words

two in the morning. he's on his stomach with moonlight fall through the window on his bare shoulders, the arch of his thick dark hair hiding his eyes in shadow. not even a gleam.

why do you keep calling me that? he says. used to be every now and then, like a joke, but now it’s just all the time.

it’s your name.

mikey’s my name.

michael’s on your birth certificate. that makes it your name.

everyone calls me mikey.

you lift an empty palm. and?

oh my god, don’t be so fucking mysterious, come here. c’mere. his hand's on your hip, clumsy. hey. talk to me.

let it go, michael.

when sweetness doesn’t get him what he wants, he reaches inside and produces more energy from god knows where.

don’t you ever get tired of being so goddamn mysterious? don’t you get fucking exhausted? from wheedling to kindling, you never tell me anything, just tell me one thing, okay? just one thing, what’s the big deal, straight shooter? huh? c’mere, hey. oh, now you’re not looking at me now? like what am i, a cop? i’m just fuckin curious, man, it’s my name, and if you’re—

okay! fuck! just. fucking calm down, i’ll tell you. i’ll tell you.

i am calm. he is. ruffled, but calm. he’s clean tonight, you can always tell the difference.

everyone calls you mikey.

he turns over onto his back and lets the light reach everywhere. doesn't have to say a thing. his face is deceptively open, waiting, the full weight of his attention on you, and that's more than enough.

you say, maybe i don’t want to be everyone.

his face melts into that expression you love and hate in nearly equal measure, a little pitying, a little tender, completely fucking magnetic. he stretches out one arm across the tops of both pillows in mute invitation, and you know that you’ll crawl into his arms in a second, give in the way you always do.

oh, baby, he says. you’re not everyone.

yeah?

you've never been closer to him than you are right now, with all the red lights sped through a long ways back, and yet. and yet. you still can't read him. maybe you never will.

you say, then who am i?

when you go to the beef for the first time, you set yourself some rules. first off, don't talk to the staff. don't talk to the staff. don't talk to the fucking staff.

don’t stare.

don’t say his name.

and as soon as you get your sandwich, you gotta go.

there’s rules. that’s your excuse for breaking your promise: if you act like any other customer, what harm can it do?

well, this.

you’ve done a decent job of pretending you don't know enough english to converse, but you’re still trying so hard not to look at carmy standing behind the counter that you let your gaze drift, go unfocused, as you anchor yourself by two fingertips barely grazing the counter. waiting for your mortadella like all the other schmucks. suddenly, your drift snags on a sound, a certain note in the voice of the guy behind you, and you turn before you have any idea what it is. your heart jumps. of course he’s got a gun, of course he fucking does, and carmy’s trying to calm him with shouting and everything else just happens.

you wedge yourself between the guy and the counter don’t you fucking touch him back the fuck up at least the crowd’s smart enough to scatter or hit the floor and you smack the inside of his wrist knock the gun to the side where at least the only ones who could suffer would be the wall or you. bang, stupid loud. flinch. the picture frame on the wall right behind you shatters and falls, sting in your arm don’t touch him but one more twist and the gun is yours now and the guy is running, running, gone. which makes you just a person getting gawked at by strangers while your mouth is running behind. don’t you fucking —

you thought you forgot how to get scared a long time ago, but that’s obviously not true. you notice it as you pop the magazine and shake them out with a metallic tinkle in your hand, then pull the slide to clear the chamber too. yeah, you're scared.

the bullets are slippery in your sweating palm, and it's early chicago fall and no enemies left, nothing to sweat about. you slip bullets in your pocket, don’t want to give anyone a loaded gun, especially not a fucking berzatto. the shop hasn't cleared, it's louder than ever, and you're not looking at anybody, just the gun, mind on autopilot. somebody's asking you if you're okay and you're pointedly ignoring them. you say, gimme the trash can, carmy.

he does.

do i know you? he says.

the gun lands in the trash with a thud, and only then do you realize your mistake. you can’t even look at him as your stomach drops. you just fucked it for yourself. this is gonna be the last time. you turn and try to leave quick as the line re-forms beside you. chicago, god bless, still wants their fucking lunch. what happened to the rules protecting you? what happened to—

she’s bleeding, don’t let her—

it’s richie who gets to you first, which is somehow worst of all. you don’t know how he does it, you were nearly home free, but now he's right here and you’re still not looking at him as his hand closes around your good arm. you’re not looking at him but you recognize the voice, matched it to his face on your first visit to the beef. the face you matched to many photos you've seen, most of them blurry.

hey, sweetheart, let’s just—

and that’s what breaks it for you. you lift your eyes and look at him dead on and bullshit with the ferocity you only get when you’re in the middle of losing something. you don’t want any of this asshole did you think i learned to disarm a guy in kindergarten what the fuck do you think is going on here unless you want this place to be fucking mob associated then get your hands off me wasn’t the c enough or do you really need cops up your ass too—

richie’s not as stupid as he needs to be, or he’s not as smart.

sure, yeah, he says. that’s very impressive and shit but we’re already kind of a mob joint, we owe a guy three hundred grand off book and that’s not even a joke, this is chicago, baby, and you’re bleeding. just come over here and don’t be a pain about it—i got it carm—don’t be such a fucking pain, come on.

it’s the voice that does it, and not the way he’s manhandling you back into the kitchen, it’s not the same but it’s a cousin and you just really fucking missed this shit. even though your heartbeat has slowed, you’re still dangerously stuck in that place where it might rain any moment.

you’re still fighting him but it isn’t much, kind of autopilot, run on. it’s fucking nothing don’t be a baby what do you think this is i’m not gonna die i’m not even gonna go to the hospital richie it’s like a couple pieces of glass who cares plus the cops are gonna show up and then what.

in the kitchen you look around hungrily. this is the place. those are the stoves, the knives, that’s the fucking mop and all. feels wobbly. you’re not used to being sentimental.

i mean jesus i just wanted a fucking sandwich, you say.

we can make you a fucking sandwich.

well i don’t want it any more!

what is your fucking problem, richie says, but he doesn’t say it right.

here’s the office door, here’s the office, here are the piles of paperwork that used to be the bane of his existence. god but you’re weak. and as richie reaches for a first aid kit hanging from a nail above the filing cabinet, you give in one last time and steal a photo that was taped just above the desk. swift swipe. first crime you’ve felt bad about in a long time, and also the first crime that’s felt necessary.

i don’t want a fucking sandwich, you say, without skipping a beat.

fine, richie says with the air of a martyr. sit down.

he all but shoves you onto a chair. you let him, but you’re not gracious about it either. you have to resist touching your back jeans pocket where you slid the photo in, to check that it’s still there.

ebrahim’s at the door now, bearing the first aid kit.

give me that and get me a trash can and both of your fuck off, you say, and you only get three out of the four things you asked for, go figure. richie stays.

you shouldn’t even be here, so you rush it, snap open the kit, go for the tweezers, pinch the first shard and yank it out with a wince.

richie, gore might be your top pornhub category but i don't see you tipping my onlyfans, so fuck the fuck off.

words having failed, you try ignoring him, but even once all the glass is out, he hasn’t fucked off. seriously, stop hovering, you say.

do i know you? he says, but not like a proper question. like he’s on the verge of making it a statement.

no you don’t, i’m just one very observant motherfucker. now fuck off, don’t you have salami to slice or some shit?

you’d straight up flee, leave it all behind, except now there’s carmy in the doorway running his hand through his mess of hair with those wide eyes, richie standing behind him, and god yeah you do see it. how could carmy ever be anything other than a kid brother?

you okay? carmy says.

it’s not like a scratch, it’s literally a scratch. it’s literally a scratch.

no, i mean. you know. he’s struggling for it, and bless him but you’re not helping him, not one bit. that is not your job.

richie says, if you’re fine, then why are you such a fucking creep, man. why do you know our names.

carmy smacks him without looking, back of his hand to richie’s chest. what we mean to say is thank you. thank you, and do you want peppers on y—

and that’s when he sees it, over your shoulder, the empty spot over the desk.

the regret crashes into you so hard and immediate you think you might be sick. you never should have come.

carmy says, slowly, did you take mikey? and there it is. you think with a slice of biting clarity that this is probably why he never wanted you to come here, he probably saw this one coming from miles and years away. you had one job. you fucked it.

sorry, you mutter, and you take the photo out and put it on the desk, one last look, and then you’re dodging them on the way out. you’d have shoved, but carmy just stepped aside as you charged forward, too taken aback to fight, just as innocent as ever.

but then there’s richie right behind you and he was never innocent.

you’re charlie, aren’t you, says richie.

as you try to navigate through the kitchen whirlwind, you can feel it behind your breastbone, like a detonation. that old game, that old thing. charlie and tommy, secret agents.

no, you say, too quick.

no but you fucking are, and there’s a note of triumph in it, he’s sure of it now, you can’t convince him otherwise. still keep trying, though.

that’s not my name, is just, how do i—how do you work here the place is a fucking maze i just want the door for crying out loud thank you marcus jesus christ.

behind you: who’s charlie?

that’s mikey’s girl.

fresh chicago air which means grimy smoke and wind and you’re in it and you’re gone, hands shoved deep in your pockets, bullets cool against your fingers. thank fucking god. just soon enough to not hear what carmy has to say about it. escape means you’ll never know.

it’s a real short story: you were two fucked up people with two fucked up lives and even worse sleep schedules. you liked smoking at the same spot, sheltered from the wind by a crevice of the apartment building where you both lived. talking shit. one thing led to another. he was good with your rules and you were good with his lack of anything to bring you except, occasionally, himself. and that was it. you liked that story. it was a good one. simple. very nearly clean.

unfortunately, it’s made you incredibly easy to track down.

when you come down for your nighttime smoke, half-hoping you won’t get called that night, half-hoping you will, there he is, waiting for you outside the double doors: richie.

at the sight of him, you try to retreat, but he's still got a key card, must've been a spare that mikey gave him. he yells at you, stupid loud for the time of night, HEY, and holds up the picture. he really can’t be the stupidest man in the world, not quite, because that bait you'd always fall for no matter the gleam of the hook.

wordlessly, you come back and you take the picture from him. you look at it for only a second before you realize you can't look at it anymore, not in front of him, so you just hold it in your hand, careful. the only photo of michael that you have, and a good one. he’s got a big grin in it, the classic, perfect, flop-haired and glowing.

my name's not charlie, you say.

yeah. you're a big top secret whatever whatever booty call, i get it, he says.

you can’t even muster the words to respond to that because everything feels too embarrassingly much, or too inadequately little. you just burn.

look, richie says, with what you might think is a pang of actual conscience if you haven't heard so much about him already. carmy just thought you would want the thing.

i do. there's a pause. neither of you quite expected you to say that, and neither of you quite expect you to say what comes next, either. or at least, not this simple. thank you.

i could text you some more if you want, he says after a second. not cool with silence, this one.

you shake your head. i cycle through old ass flip phones. because. you shrug and you make no effort at your lies. i'm just very clumsy and i tend to drop them and break them like once every two weeks, so there's no point in buying anything expensive.

uh-huh, he says dryly. makes sense.

the corner of your mouth lifts, and then you look away, willing him to fuck off your mind to fade out, or both. it doesn’t happen. he almost says something more than once, you can feel it, but whatever inside him hates silence, that thing isn’t as strong as his fear of saying whatever he’s got to say.

and your fear, it turns out, is not enough.

it's not my fault, you know? and now you're zero to a hundred, outright. why he...i mean, we broke up two months beforehand. so, like. i know you're all. i know everyone thinks.

and now richie’s still looking at you while you're talking, same as before, but there's a weight to his eyes on you that you don't quite want to squirm out from under. he's actually listening. that's the thing.

just, whatever it was, it wasn't me, you say.

there's a silence long enough that it starts to get bad, and then richie says, we never thought it was you.

what can you say to that? it's not believable but he's trying to be kind, so okay, you'll believe his blatant lies like he tacitly agreed to believe yours. it’s the type of kindness you give to a child and it sticks in your throat, but you force yourself to swallow. good manners.

you want to say thank you again, but you can't. you're not gonna thank him twice like some kind of asshole.

so you just look at him for a second, really and properly. he is michael, he's a piece of michael, he's a thousand stupid stories you both laughed over under streetlights for a couple years, annoyed and hated and felt for from afar. his hair is lighter than you expected and his eyes are bluer, he's a little shorter and there's a tiny mustard stain on the neckline of his navy shirt. this is it. another piece of the endless ending.

see you around, you say, when what you mean is the opposite.

but then he says, yeah, and you thought that was just a word, but you were wrong.

you were wrong and it’s actually really funny.

cause of course you go upstairs and you have your little whatever-you-call-it, up there with that picture, and then some leftover mac n cheese and the picture and the knowledge you can’t fall asleep, and the picture and going back downstairs because after all that a cigarette just makes sense.

motherfucker is chain-smoking in your spot. at least he has the grace to look vaguely embarrassed to still be there when you arrive.

jesus, you say, looking at the little heap on the flat-headed metal post that serves as the unofficial building ashtray. you’ve done worse than that, but that’s not gonna stop you from saying it.

ah, fuck off, he says in welcome, and then you pull out a pack and he pulls out his lighter. you, uh. you see the bulls the other night?

can we not talk? you say as the lighter goes click, withholding your cigarette like he'd give a damn.

he blinks, pauses.

yeah, he says. you hate the sound of his voice. it’s too raw weary, like he just came out the funeral wearing a borrowed suit. yeah, we can not talk.

only then do you let him light the cigarette.

no words after that, as promised. you’re very tired. he might be even more tired than you. you lean against the building, but he won’t do even that. every now and then, you look at him, and rarely—just a few times—you see that he’s glancing at you. but you always look away. at some point you become convinced that he’s gonna say something, or you are—something about the eyes—but weirdly that fear drains away after a bit and you’re back to comfortable silence, which feels different even if it sounds the same.

he runs out of cigarettes pretty early on, but you’re so self-absorbed that it takes you a while to figure out that he’s not gonna leave. he’s just not. so you’re gonna have to be the one to do it.

you push off the wall. night, fuck-o.

he laughs, and that’s it, that’s all, just a laugh, ragged at the edges. but you won’t forget it.

come to find out, neither will he.

[ chapter two ] [ the bear masterlist ]

@garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc — if anyone else wants a tag, let me know.

#readerfic #the bear fanfiction #richie jerimovich #richie jerimovich x reader #the bear imagine #the bear fic #the bear fanfic #the bear fx #mine #do i know you?#diky

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ashlingiswriting · 9 months

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do i know you? chapter two

[ chapter one ] [ masterlist ] "...but i know they love each other. that should be enough, yeah?" richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn chapter two, 3.2k words

five days later, you take the elevator down from your apartment and richie is there. by your building, in your spot, standing with his hands deep in the pockets of his big leather jacket, not even smoking.

when you walk towards him, he looks up at you through the glass of the double doors. he doesn’t even have the couth to look down, or away, or nod—to do anything that would modulate the feeling of his blue eyes resting on you for the whole time it takes you to reach him. for that unnerving behavior, he gets no courtesy, not even a scrap of hello.

you look like the world’s most obvious drug dealer, you say.

he smiles a little at that. you cannot be held responsible for what your body does then, the wash of wanting that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the deepening crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.

takes one to know one, right? he says.

i’m not—

i know, he says, too quickly, as if he’s startled that you’re startled too. it was just a joke.

it might not have been wholly a joke, but you can’t tell. you don’t dare ask him why he’s here either, cause he might answer and get what he wants from you and leave. so you head straight for an old standby, something that always used to work with the other one: nicotine and arguments.

you all smoked out? you say. it’s as near to invitation as you’re going to get.

he shrugs, but he can’t quite manage to look completely indifferent. hit me.

you hand him a cigarette before lighting up your own. he looks utterly disgusted.

this a fuckin menthol? he says, and the cadence is familiar. exactly what you wanted. you have to smother a smile hard to stop it from escaping.

why, you say, playing the innocent. you got a problem with that?

you knew he would hate it. that’s exactly why you did him the courtesy. it’s just that easy: he pulls a stupid face, you start, look, and you’re off to the races.

he talks shit and so do you and it’s comfortable. it’s so stupid comfortable and lazy and easy until he says in passing, it’s like mikey always says, and you have to stop him before he reaches the end of that sentence. you have to.

you say, mikey’s dead, right?

there’s that family echo in richie’s face. he’s not carmy, lost that quality of innocence, but he too has this trick of looking like you’ve just slapped him out of the blue. mikey’s dead, yeah, but richie can’t say it.

so then why are you digging him up, huh? you say, and it’s all michael, every last syllable of it: the michael you hated most and were never gonna quit, the warm, all-knowing, bullying, fundamentally loving little piece of shit.

it’s got to be michael that comes out of your mouth, cause if it isn’t him, then it’s gonna be you. and if it’s you saying what you really wanna say, you’re gonna say that you’re sorry, because you are, you really are, so fucking sorry.

it’s michael who comes out of your mouth, and then you shut it, final.

yeah, richie says after a second, and then he looks away, fumbling in his pocket for the lighter so he can smoke the much-loathed menthol. yeah.

somewhere far-off, there’s a siren. it's somebody else’s turn to save a life now, or somebody else who needs help bad, not you. but you won’t let him go.

you get out your own lighter, realize your mistake too late. he must see the smudge of blood on your wrist, just above where the glove stopped, but he says nothing. lets you cup your hands to shield his cigarette from the wind, perilously close to his face. lets you light it with one click.

there’s a crumb of something stuck just above his eyelid, just below his eyebrow, one brown speck easily lost in the .

you force the words past the lump in your throat. who gives a shit about daley anyway, is what i’m saying.

like an old horse who knows the way home even in the dark, he picks up the thread of your conversation and argues back even though you both know that neither of you really give a shit.

see, this is how i know you’re not chicago born and raised…

time is a hand dragging you away, and you just keep arguing past it. no victory in it, no defeat. just a holding pattern, you and richie, no more smoke and absolutely no sense, until finally you’re so restless and cold that he does actually start to piss you off.

how’d you get to arguing about tourism and local politics, of all things, when you don’t care about either? what is it that sets you off? maybe this is why michael didn’t want you meeting his people—you take things too personally sometimes, you get irritated and lose your sense of humor, which would be an embarrassment if you weren’t too irritated to care. or you can’t take losing, which given your entire life is a very unfortunate trait. or maybe richie was just put on this earth to be maximally annoying to you specifically.

god but he makes a kid of you when he hits sweetheart on a syrupy note of condescension, sends you stomping away to the doors with a you’re such a fucking man.

thank you! he yells after you.

weirdly, the next morning, there's still annoyance at him, but there's nothing else. none of the biggies, no hangover of loss, no dark movement of fish swimming under ice. which is nice, for once, if puzzling. why doesn’t it hurt?

tonight, you need michael. you’ve needed him more often than ever since he died, possibly because he died, which is fucking inconvenient.

tonight you also you earn your pay and then some. you don’t like making house calls, but for old caruso you would willingly drive for six hours hours, do three back-to-back surgeries, and drive all the way back home. luckily, tonight’s requirements are not so ludicrous: just save a life that, well.

he should be dead, old caruso says to you by the kid’s bedside, once the work is all over. the kid is twenty-eight and you are only thirty-three, but he is a kid and he will forever be a kid, thus the attempted robbery, thus the manslaughters and the whimpering and the hole in his gut. thus you sitting quietly on a plastic-covered chair while old caruso’s daughter in law hands you a cup of weak, honey-colored tea, and the confession from the father that the son does not deserve to live, right in front of the son’s wife.

you’re not paid to receive this type of confession, and you don’t want the intimacy. sure, you get along with old caruso as much as you can get along with anybody who blackmails you into putting your life at increasing risk, which is a lot—but, in the end, to know people is to like them, and to like the wrong person is to fuck yourself with a thoroughness that is not only ruinous, but worse, exhausting. you’ve had enough of that.

you look down at little caruso’s abnormally pale face. even unconscious, there is a hint of pain in it. he has none of his father’s features, but that same long face, which tends to give the wearer a comical aspect right up until the moment it is terrifying. he’s the last of his brothers left on this side of the bars, and given the way things have been going lately, you doubt that’ll last much longer.

you say, as long as he doesn’t come down with an infection, he’ll live.

the old man regards you with a hint of surprise. perhaps, surrounded as he so often is with women of only his own family, he’s unused to women rebuffing his attempts to use them as emotional trash bags, in which he can put unpleasant thoughts, then tie them up safely so the smell of rot doesn’t permeate his house.

i like you, chao, he says, unexpectedly. then he puts on his reading glasses and reaches for a book on the stack by the bedside. it is only then that you realize that this is not only your thanks for the night, but also a dismissal.

the car is a beautiful car, sleek and black and near-perfect in silence as it glides through chicago. it is a car meant to carry the likes of old caruso, not you. the driver must know this, because he swears at the gps once when it suggests a left turn he doesn’t approve of, and nobody swears around old caruso unless they’re family.

it’s only when you store up this one detail that you realize: there is nobody to tell. a full story, life saved, father loving and hating, weak tea, cursing driver. but there is no one left.

you let your head rest against the cool glass of the window, close your eyes.

no one left. fucking inconvenient.

you walk the last couple blocks to get your head right, only to find that richie is waiting there.

it makes sense, right—the beginning of your on-call night shift dovetails with the end of his, and your building isn't far from the beef. the schedules work out and just. there he is.

you shouldn’t be surprised, so why do you go still and quiet, why do you watch him tilt his head up, exhale smoke, and peer beyond it? why do you try to see what he’s looking at? it’s another apartment building, that’s all, just another one of those that’s too boring to even be ugly. he exhales so slow. he doesn’t notice you for a while. you feel like you’re watching him look at another woman.

when he does, you refuse to look down or away, refuse to nod at him, the same way he did to you last time. somebody’s gotta make the first move, and it’s not gonna be you.

except, at some point, you break.

what’s up, you say. can’t really help it. you’re surrounded by macho bullshit every day, and it’s the sort of thing that rubs off on a person.

i’m gonna fix you, richie says.

the laugh tears out of you, incredulous and loud and real. just when you think nothing’s funny anymore, along comes this motherfucker. it just about bowls you over, the idea of anyone fixing you, like a tsunami in the river or a sudden suspension of gravity, a constellation of pink elephants.

the way richie laughs, he’s in on the joke for sure. richie was never supposed to know you existed, but you always knew better than to expect michael to keep the secret of you to himself, especially from richie. men, you think, but it’s not angry. this part is convenient, that he knows what a wreck you are. you won’t have to explain it. you can’t help but notice: he came anyway. for that, you’ll let him laugh at you and then some. for that, you’ll let him do near anything he wants.

good fucking luck, you finally manage to say, laughter still coming out the edges of every word, near breathless with it.

richie throws something at you that you catch one-handed. it’s a small box.

we gotta get you off the menthols, is what i’m saying. you can taste in his voice that he’s pleased with himself for the laugh, and you look down at the box with your smile still warming your face, and then.

it’s a pack of sapphires, cause of course it is. you can’t remember which of them taught the other one to smoke. maybe they had their first together.

so now tonight’s gonna taste like michael, is that it? maybe you should be grateful for the warning.

you piss me off, you murmur, still looking at the box in your hand.

really? he says.

fuck it. you open the box. nah.

this time, he lights it up for you. there is no wind and still he cups the cigarette, care as a habit even when it’s no longer necessary. his nails are dirty, his hands are precise, and you’re grateful for the second warning that comes along, the glint of gold on his ring finger. it didn’t come a moment too soon.

so how’s your night, richie says.

you exhale slow. through the smoke, you can see michael watching you. he was always better at rules than you were: don’t go to the beef, don’t meet with his friends, don’t make shit complicated. you always believed in the rules, you really did, which is maybe why you waited till he was dead to start breaking them.

in other words, it’s too late when you say, so fucking boring. it’s too late, but you lie anyways. just bone-crushing, neverending boredom. what about you?

he shakes his head, leans against the building. all this new stuff carmy’s dragging in, man. it’s a pain in my ass. swear to god, sometimes it’s like he’s aiming directly for my head.

yeah? he glances over quick, but you still catch the surprise. guess you said it too close to gentle. you say, i mean, i’m sure you deserve it.

reassured, he picks up again. if you could see the fuckin mess he’s made of our…

you lean back against the building beside him, listening. actually listening. maybe you’re a trash bag and maybe you don’t care, cause you don’t want to go up to your empty apartment and now you don’t have to. when he loses steam on the rant, you pass him your cigarette. when he picks up a new rant, you take the cigarette back. eventually, you both meander onto the subject of past concerts you’ve been to, which are never the same, and it’s like talking about nothing at all.

the two of you are still going when your phone rings half an hour later—little caruso is awake earlier than you expected, something’s off with the pain meds, you need to go—but he gets in a few jabs before you leave, mostly on the subject of your blue nokia burner phone, which cost you twenty bucks and actually flips open and closed. you drive a horse and buggy too?

what can i say, i’m cheap. hey, if you keep hanging around, maybe it’ll keep down the rent, you say. it’s the most invitation he’s ever gonna get, and you’re almost nervous to hear the answer.

urban uglification, richie says.

you’re awash in relief. fucking exactly.

you don’t say see you later, because you know you don’t have to.

so i’m freezing my balls off, crouching behind this sculpture, trying to keep all these kids in their hiding spots. by now most of them want to bail. i mean, these aren’t even high schoolers, they’re fuckin middle schoolers, right? the sun’s basically set and it’s getting dark, so they’re getting anxious, i’m getting anxious, everyone’s anxious. so me, i start telling them the plot of die hard just to keep them from leaving. i kid you not, j, half these kids have never seen die hard in their lives.

michael looks at you, all animated and incredulous, gesturing wide with the hand that’s not holding yours. you’re in bed, naked in the summer heat, sitting face to face and cross-legged because he got so excited about this story he just had to sit up, and it felt weird for you to be lying there while he wasn’t.

never seen die hard even once, he says.

you shake your head, indulging him. it’s a fucking classic.

a classic, he echoes with satisfaction. so anyway, i’m at the part where gruber is about to kill mcclane, right near the end, and i’ve got like thirty middle schoolers eating from the palm of my hand. out of the corner of my eye, i see richie and tiff coming down the path, fuckin finally.

he’s so excited, it’s like he’s seeing the two of them for the first time. the man could power an entire factory with that smile. one of your hands is empty, so you hold onto his ankle, just because you can.

it’s pretty dark and the lights in the park aren’t great, but it’s definitely a couple, the woman’s blonde, and i’m like oh shit. game time. let’s go. we jump out, start singing. i’ve got the marry me sign, whip it out. and this woman screams, i mean screams.

poor tiff, you say, in real sympathy. you would've hated all this.

see, but that is not tiff, michael says. that is a total fucking rando that we just surprised for no reason at all.

you bust out laughing. from the cadence of his storytelling alone, you know it’s too early to laugh, but you can’t help it. michael’s all lit up like a christmas tree. he keeps going.

she’s screaming bloody murder, so of course my kids stop singing and a couple of them scream too, just to join in on the action i guess. the man, the guy that’s with her, he’s wearing a north face jacket. and you know what he does?

he calls the cops.

he points at you with his free hand. calls the cops. ten minutes later, cops show up, they call all the parents, it’s a mess. i am up to my neck in shit. it takes me like an hour to convince everyone that this is not the world’s stupidest human trafficking ring, and another hour to convince them that they don’t really want to throw me in jail for disturbing the peace. when it’s all over and the kids are safely heading home, i finally get richie on the phone and i’m like, where were you, man. what happened?

he chickened out, you guess.

see, i wasn’t even thinking that, i was thinking that tiff found out ahead of time, like sugar spilled the beans or something and she turned him down before he could even propose. i was all set to fish him out of bottle before he drowned in it. but you know what richie says? you know what he says to me?

what?

i forgot. he throws his head back, lets out great big generous peals of laughter. this wet motherfucker! ‘i forgot.’

it takes a while for michael to stop laughing, mostly cause somewhere during the middle of the comedown, he lets out a weird little snort that sets you off. but eventually, he goes back to his story, sated.

he goes, it wouldn’t have been right. like, what do you mean it wouldn’t have been right? a choir singing her favorite song, at sunset, you’re gonna ask her to marry you, i hand painted this fuckin sign, we’ve been planning this for like a month now, what could be wrong with that? he’s like, i just knew. i knew when we were going down the elevator that the speech i wrote was all wrong and i was gonna have to say some things i couldn’t say in front of a bunch of middle schoolers.

he’s shaking his head now.

so he proposed to her, i kid you not, in the elevator. he said whatever he was gonna say—he never told me what it was—and he went down on one knee, and that was it. by the time they hit the bottom floor, they rode it right back up, went back to her apartment, and i’m pretty sure that when i was trying to argue my way out of handcuffs, the two of them were sound asleep, all tired out from fucking like rabbits on speed. un-fucking-believable.

he’s so happy for richie, it shines out of him.

it’s a good thing it was only a phone call, cause i would’ve beat his ass. i’ve had forty-three chicago winters at this point, and that is the closest i’ve ever come to getting frostbite. hand to god, sometimes i think i still can’t feel the tips of my ears.

yeah? can you feel that? you trace the shell of his ear with one delicate fingertip. you’d make it prelude to a kiss, but you sense a faint shadow crossing over his face now, some darker thought about to rear its head. so you leave it at that, stay watchful.

he tips his forehead forward till its resting on yours. it’s so crazy, he says, like a sigh.

you cup his cheek in your hand. it’s a great story.

i mean, all that, and they still broke up.

aw, not the end of love. you didn’t want this. comfort’s not one of your strengths, but since there’s no one else around to do it, you play the optimist as best as you can. maybe they’ll get back together.

i mean, i hope so, he says, though not very hopefully. he thinks for a little while, and then he says, i don’t know why she…i mean he’s a good guy, you know?

his dark eyes flick up to yours. at such close quarters, it feels like a lot, but it’s an invitation and not an attack. you take it, carefully, but you take it.

he says, richie’s a good guy, and he loves her. sure, she divorced him, but i know they love each other. that should be enough, yeah?

he says it directly to you like he’s presenting an appeal, as though either of you are capable of fixing somebody else’s broken life.

i know, you say. you kiss him now, because there is nothing else to say.

there isn’t much you put your heart in these days, but you put it into this kiss, long and slow, and then you crawl into his lap, bury your fingers in his thick hair, and do it all over again. his hands spread warmth as they slide up your back. by the end of the night, your mouth will be sensitive and tender from his stubble, but he’s smiling into the kiss and it’s worth it.

he’s not wrong. it should be enough.

[ chapter three ] [ masterlist ]

@garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1 — if anyone else wants a tag, let me know.

#another very normal chapter in a very normal series of chapters :DDDDDD i love being normal!#richie jerimovich x reader #richie jerimovich #the bear fx #the bear fanfiction #the bear fanfic #mine #readerfic #the bear imagine #do i know you?#diky

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