Chapter Text
“Just let me take care of this one, Cousin, Christ.” Richie has a half-forgotten cigarette still lit in one hand that he remembers just a second too late, right as it drops ash on top of his worn out, mop-water soaked work shoes. He tries his best to stomp it off and keep Carmy’s attention (which has really started to feel like pulling fucking teeth these days);
But he’s glancing down at his shoes again.
They’re probably a million years old. Mikey bought them for him when he first started- said he couldn’t have the manager of his restaurant falling on his ass during lunch rush just ‘cause his shoes weren’t non-slip. And Richie told him he’d pay him back, but he never did, and it’s not like Mikey really cared anyways. It’s just what he did for his friends; took care of them when they needed it. Tried his best to be there.
Until he just wasn’t anymore.
So he knows he's gotta buy new ones. These shoes have been hanging on by a thread for about 2 years too long. He keeps saying he will, but then shit always comes up- like snacks or books or whatever else Eva takes to that fancy new school Tiff loves to remind him he hadn’t been able to send her to when they’d been together.
The point is; there are bigger things to worry about than the front of his shoe soles peeling off again, especially when duct tape exists.
"I'm not letting you do this pick up alone, Rich, alright? Leave it." Carmen lets out a long, tired breath and runs a hand through his honestly disgusting hair, leaving it even more fucked up than it'd been before.
Richie shakes his head and stands up from the flipped over bucket beside the dumpster he'd been using as a makeshift seat. "But fucking Syd? She’s stabbed me, if you don't recall."
"Oh my God, how many times do I need to say it was an accident?!" An annoyingly familiar voice interrupts them, almost giving him a fucking heart attack in the process.
Sydney stands there in the doorway, a trash bag lifted up between both hands, and a scowl plastered across her face at the sight of him.
God, she's so childish. It makes him want to do something stupid- like stick his tongue out at her or something. “Were you eavesdropping on us?”
She scoffs. “I doubt you’d ever say anything interesting enough that I would feel the need to listen in, Richie.”
"Seriously, both of you cut it out already! Syd, Richie, the two of you are gonna go together to pick up that new Swedish stove for The Bear. Fak borrowed a truck from a friend, and the guy selling it said he could help load it once you get there." Carmy stares them both down with that freaky, intense look he gets sometimes that makes him look like a serial killer. "You'll need to leave tonight if you're going to be back in time for that- um- that unofficial brunch we're getting paid for this weekend."
"Fak has friends?" "Tonight?"
He and Syd talk at the same time, but Carm just ignores them both and starts texting something out on his phone, and before Richie can fight to get his attention again, he feels his own phone vibrate in his pocket.
"I've sent you both the address, but you know Syd can't drive, Richie. You'll go together and you'll try your fucking best not to kill each other, alright?" His cousin points a hand at him when he speaks, but his eyes never leave Syd.
"I won't be the problem here." Sydney insists with her arms crossed primly.
"Oh, I highly doubt that." Richie laughs meanly. He can't help it; This girl just gets under his skin and digs in. It’s like she’s a fucking termite.
"I mean it guys; enough! I've had it! This is why you're both going, alright? You need to get your shit together, because we do not need this kind of thing carrying over to the new place." Carmen throws his own cigarette butt off to the side somewhere, and stalks back into the restaurant, leaving the two of them to stand there sharing a guilty expression in momentary silence, despite how badly he knows they both want to have the last word.
At least, he knows she does. Fucking baby, he swears.
"You will not fuck this up for us." Sydney finally says with a flat expression. Yeah, he called it.
Richie closes the distance between them, coming to a stop only inches away. "You know, you are such a fucking princess, Syd. I'm so tired of you acting like you're better than me just ‘cause you're jealous."
"Oh, really? And what exactly is there to be jealous of, Richard? Your outstanding criminal record and almost concerning nicotine addiction?" She says all syrupy sweet, big eyes looking him up and down in a way that says she wishes she could stab him all over again.
"You're jealous because Carm trusted me more than you to do this stove job in the first place, and it made you act like a fucking child until he decided to let you go along so you'd knock off your temper tantrum- this is your fault, Syd!" He shouts over her protesting, throwing both hands up in exasperation.
"Are you kidding me, Richie?!" She shouts back, braids swinging angrily around her shoulders. "I'm going with you because you fuck up everything you touch and getting this new stove is too important to leave to someone with fewer braincells than hands!"
"Wow, now you're just being cruel. That's uncalled for-"
"-Oh my God, you are the most irritating person I have ever met!" She interrupts and then stops just as suddenly, taking slow, deep breaths like she's in a fucking ad for online yoga classes or some shit. "Here's what we're going to do, Richie; I need to go home to pack. You're going to drive me there even though I know your license is still suspended, but you will not come inside because I plan on never introducing you to anyone I know outside of work, especially my Dad. When I'm done, we can go to your place, but then we need to leave immediately if we're going to get the stove back in time for the brunch, I’m serious! It's a three day trip and we are going to get through it without any issues or I think I'll lose what's left of my mind, and trust me; you do not want that."
"...You done?" He asks expectantly, raising both eyebrows just to watch her get that almost adorable, pissy look on her face. "Good. Then go get in Fak's imaginary friend's truck."
~~~
She bitches about the fast food trash filling the truck's floorboards. She bitches about Richie's taste in music when he puts the radio station on the 60's channel; "Sam Cooke is a fucking legend, Syd!" "You’re so old, man, Jesus." She bitches about how fast he's driving, and how irresponsible he is for getting his license suspended (he failed to pay one fucking fine), and she complains about how late it is by the time they pull into the parking lot of the worn-out looking Super 8 hotel Carmy booked them over the phone.
The point is; the girl can fucking complain.
"Do you ever fucking shut up for 5 seconds, Syd, Christ!" He groans, resting his forehead on the steering wheel after turning the truck off.
"It's 3am, Richie. I think I'm allowed to be tired after being stuck in a car with you and your frankly terrible driving for 5 hours." She puts emphasis on every word, mockery dripping off of them deadly as any oil spill while she slides out the door and grabs her suitcase from the truck bed.
"I'm gonna kill you, Carmy." He mutters to himself.
With an exhausted sigh, he maneuvers out of the truck, wincing slightly at the still-painful burn in his lower back;
Unfortunately, despite his dicey insurance situation, Richie did have to go to urgent care a few days after getting stabbed. They said his stress level was affecting the healing of the tissue, keeping it inflamed for longer than it should have been (he actually laughed in their faces when they suggested taking some time off work). Meaning his ass still kind of hurts sometimes- not that he's gonna give Sydney the satisfaction by telling her that.
With his luck, she'd probably tell him it's what he fucking deserves. And while he might agree that he can sometimes be difficult to work with, this physical violence shit is totally on her.
And she still hasn't apologized. Not that it matters.
Richie picks up his bag out from where it’s shoved in the floorboard of the cramped back seat and pauses before he can close the door. He’d almost forgotten the extra blanket he snagged at the house- one of Eva’s cheap, fuzzy Disney blankets (it’s her Mulan one, which, in his opinion, is the best and least stained of the collection).
He’d felt a little silly scooping it up off the couch, but it’s not like he has a ton of options in terms of extra bedding or whatever. He’s never had a need for it with the only person to come over anymore being Carmen, who can’t be bothered to sleep, much less care about if he has a blanket or not.
He shakes his head. It’s just a fucking blanket. So what if he noticed how cold Sydney always is? Coming into work every day with like, two whole sweaters on, and that green puffy coat of hers as if they live in the fucking North Pole.
Actually, he’s always kind of thought it makes her look like a little cabbage; not that he would ever tell anyone that- especially because he knows if she heard him say it she’d take it like it’s some kind of insult. And it’s not! She’s just so fucking…short and then she puts on those layers and it gives her these- these soft, round edges that makes you want to scoop her up to see if she feels like a giant freaking marshmallow.
But he won’t. Because she’s Sydney and he’s him and they both can’t stand each other and a million other reasons that he’s had to tell himself more than once these past few weeks, which is honestly becoming kind of a problem.
But it’s a problem he doesn't have to deal with right now. Right now, it’s time to pass out for a few hours until they have to get back on the road again.
By the time he makes it into the grimy check-in area, Sydney still isn’t holding a set of key cards, and looks more than a little exhausted by whatever process it’s taking her to get them. There were dark circles under her eyes from the drive already, but now the set to her shoulders could probably pass for that of fucking Napoleon after the march on Russia. The douche-y looking young guy at the desk, however, is looking at her with a little too much interest, and Richie doesn’t trust that shit for a second.
“Everything alright here?” Richie says, suddenly very fucking awake, and using every ounce of the Chicago-Bred, Italian-Influenced vibe he knows he’s perfected that says, ‘I am not someone you want to fuck with.’
Douche Guy, much to his satisfaction, is looking less eager with every step Richie takes towards them.
“Nothing, babe. Just trying to get us checked in.” The smile Sydney turns to give him is tight, her eyes pleading, and Richie gets it immediately. He may not get it get it, but he knows something isn't right here; he knows for a fact she'd rather gouge her own eyes out than ever willingly call him babe. Now, whatever bad blood they may have between them, it isn’t gonna stand in the way of him having her back with shit like this.
Despite what everyone else may think, Richie isn't a complete asshole.
So he comes to stand behind her, slinging a protective arm around her waist as he does (and yes, he feels her jump under touch, and Christ, if that doesn’t make him feel a little sick to his stomach about all this). “Oh, yeah, sweetheart? They have our room ready?”
“He says they don’t have a room booked for us.” Sydney tells him, clearly leaving something unsaid with the way her voice almost imperceptibly ticks up at the end.
“That’s funny, ‘cause I know for a fact my cousin called this place three hours ago. You mind explaining that to me?” The air between Richie and the concierge turns frigid; his stare cold and unmoving.
“I- actually- well, it looks like someone overbooked on our end.” Holy shit, this guy might actually be sweating bullets.
“That’s not-” Sydney stops and clears her throat. “Okay, fine. If that’s the case, are you going to at least give us a refund for the room?”
Douche Guy looks back and forth between them silently.
“My wife asked you a question.” He says sharply, almost immediately regretting it. The little intake of breath Sydney makes beside him says she probably also wants to object, but she bites her tongue, and keeps making that awful, tight smile that doesn’t belong on her face.
Wife? Fuck him, he could have just said girlfriend or literally any other proper noun that doesn’t come with 10 years of complicated feelings, but nope- he’d really chosen the most embarrassing option possible.
She’s never gonna let him hear the end of this.
At least for now Syd’s doing a pretty good job of keeping her neutral expression in place, but he knows- he just knows- this must be killing her inside, which just makes him want to lay this dude out even more. Whatever he must have said to her before he came inside had to have been bad enough that she’s willing to play house with fucking Richie of all people.
“The refund- it takes 3 days to return to whichever card was used…” Douche Guy explains uncomfortably.
The card in question would be Sugar's. Even for a night at a place like this, none of the rest of the guys could scrape up enough money last minute for a night at a hotel.
Which means he and Syd are now fucked.
“Nuh uh, that’s not gonna fly for us. We need that money back tonight.” He crosses his arms and risks a glance towards Sydney. Jesus, he didn’t think it was possible for her to look any more vaguely manic and Stepford Wives-y, but it looks like she's managing it just fine, especially after the news that they might not have anywhere to sleep tonight.
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do for you two except approve the return for its 3 day processing.” The guy says helplessly, his skin turning an unpleasant blotchy color.
Richie starts nodding like he understands before leaning in real close- close enough that Sydney is blocked from this asshole's sight, and close enough that when Richie speaks, there won’t be any room for misunderstandings. "Listen to me, bro. I don't like you. I don't know what your whole deal is, but I'm sure it's got something to do with your parents not loving you enough or whatever. Big whoop, get in fucking line. Now, I'll be honest; I want to hit you real fucking bad. But then she'd give me shit about it and I've had a long day. So instead, you're gonna do whatever it is you gotta do on your little computer, and then you're going to apologize to my- my wife. And then you're going to give me $50 as a thank you for not knocking your fucking teeth in."
"Richie-" Sydney hisses.
"-No, yeah, of course…of course! I'm… I'm really sorry." Douche Guy interrupts, already digging through his pockets.
"Say it like you mean it, not like I'm holding a fucking gun to your head." Richie says.
The imagery must be enough of a motivator, because the guy starts shaking his head quickly, holding out 2 crumpled up $20's and $10 that Richie snatches out of his hand. "I mean it, I swear! I’m really sorry; I didn't know she was married or else I never would have tried anything!"
"...Oh yeah? And what exactly did you try, huh?"
"Enough of this macho shit, Richie, we're leaving." Syd grabs him by the arm and practically drags him out of the lobby, keeping her eyes forward the entire time.
"Hey, your customer service was shit, by the way!" Richie calls one last time, flipping the dude off right as he gets jerked through the sliding doors.
She waits to say anything until they've made it back to the truck and by then she looks angrier than he's ever seen her. Maybe even angrier than the tablet incident, and that was some serious volcano-esque level shit. "What the fuck was that, Richie?"
Richie rolls his eyes and slides a cigarette out of a slightly crushed package. "What, no thank you for defending your honor?"
"Okay, well, I didn't need you to defend me! I just needed you to- I don't know- pretend to be my boyfriend for like 2 seconds just to make that guy back off, not- not whatever the fuck all that was!" She puts her hands on her waist and starts pacing.
He waits to respond until after he's got the cigarette lit and his bag shoved back into the floorboard of the truck. Only once the doors shut semi-securely does he close the distance between them again. "Tell me what he said, Syd."
"...What?" She pretends to look confused.
"What did that bag of human waste say to you?" He asks seriously.
Her big, brown eyes dart away from him, unable to even meet his gaze. "Nothing. Nothing! I…should have been able to handle it on my own, but I panicked, and then you walked in-"
He cuts her off. "That's bullshit, Syd! You're one of the toughest fucking girls I know- you stabbed me like two months ago. And A,” He begins to list off, “You still shouldn't have to put up with that kind of bullshit, even if I know you can handle it. And B, I know you. I know you wouldn't have looked that freaked out unless this guy said something real bad, so you need to tell me what it was right now, before I go in there and kill that guy!"
"Okay, that's exactly why I don't want to tell you, Richie! You. Have. An aggravated. Assault charge." She slaps the back of one hand into the palm of the other after each word for emphasis. "And I know it's because you were defending Carmy or whatever, but you're always doing things without thinking them through, and I refuse to be responsible for you going to prison just so you can look like a hero!"
"Oh my God, I'm not trying to look like a fucking hero." He groans long and loud in frustration. "Listen, can you just- can you just forget you hate me for 5 seconds so you can get it through your thick fucking skull that I maybe don't want anything bad to happen to you? That I don't exactly enjoy the idea of someone making you feel unsafe, huh?"
"What are you talking about, Richie, you make me feel unsafe all the time!" She regrets it as soon as she says it. He can tell by the way she jerks to a stop, and all the anger bleeds out of her at once.
But that doesn't mean she didn't mean it, and she doesn't move to take it back, just stands there looking all tired and small.
And he hates it. He hates her and he hates himself and he wishes he was back in Chicago in his freezing apartment right about now, so he could fall asleep in his own bed and pretend like she didn't just stab him all over again.
"Okay." He nods and drops the rest of his unfinished cigarette, crushing it underfoot before silently grabbing her suitcase and tossing it into the truck bed on his way back to the driver's side.
"Wait, Richie, I didn't-" Syd still hasn't moved from her spot.
"-Just get in the truck, Sydney." He says quietly from over the hood. And then he slides into his seat, leans it back as far as it'll go, and shoves the stupid Disney blanket into the backseat where he can hopefully forget all about it.
She eventually does get back in the truck, though it takes her so long he almost expects her to sleep on the asphalt instead. But no, after she's got her door locked, and her seat pressed back, she turns her head to face him;
It's a weird position, if he's being honest. The fluorescent light filtering in from the parking lot gives her skin a blue tint, and makes the braids fanned out around her head look like the waves of Monroe Harbor. For a brief moment, he thinks about how beautiful she looks like this, kinda like a mermaid from one of Eva's storybooks, but that only makes him feel guilty, so he lays there and lets her gather herself up to say whatever it is she obviously wants to say.
"You don't make me feel unsafe, Richie." She whispers. "You're an asshole, but…you're a good guy, and I shouldn't have said that. It was really shitty of me."
"We're good, Syd." He whispers back. "I pushed things too far. It's what I do."
"No! No. I was…freaked out, and uncomfortable, and you were there when I needed you to be, so that was- cool of you, I guess." She gives him a small, almost teasing smile before continuing, "Even if you did push it just a little too far. I mean; you told him I was your wife-"
"Shut up." He tries his best to keep a straight face. "We never speak of that again."
"Really, man? Your wife? You have to admit that's kind of unbelievable." Oh, she's really laughing now.
"Hey, I'm a fucking catch!" He insists.
"Oh, for sure, Richie." But she's still giggling when she says it, so it's okay.
They're okay.
"Goodnight, Syd." He says gently.
Something shifts between them then. He can feel it when it happens, like a current changing directions without warning. Usually there’s this raw, angry feeling running beneath their interactions- and if he’s being honest, he can admit that some of it comes from his own shit he’s still trying to figure out. But right now, with only the sound of the street lights buzzing outside to fill the air, things are starting to feel different in a good way.
At least to him.
At least a little.
She looks at him with her little bunny teeth smile, eyes shining with something new and assessing that he isn't awake enough to figure out, and speaks softly one last time before letting her breath even out, "...Goodnight, Richie."