Work Text:
He's out jogging on a Sunday.
Mostly, to clear his head. It's his only day off, and all he thinks about is work these days. Ever since Christmas and Cousin Michelle offering him a spot in NYC, he's wondering what might have happened if he'd taken her up on that.
Instead, he's thinking about having dinner with Claire later, and whether he said yes so Cousin would stop calling him Nomatard, or if it's because he really wanted to, and whether going out on a date should fill a person with this particular type of dread.
But of course, at least Claire already knows him and his whole family, so she knows what she's in for.
He's so up in his head, he almost gets whacked by the door to the parked van as it swings open wide towards the curb, and him.
“Whoa, hey, fuck!” he yells, jumping out of the way as he watches in slow motion as someone emerges from the behind the door holding a huge tray. Before he can clock them, it clatters to the street, spilling curls of pasta all along the asphalt like little universes spinning out of control.
It makes him pause because, shit. That pasta is dry as fuck. It's almost like a crime how they didn't even change shape when they hit the asphalt. But he hears a groan and looks down at the woman on the ground with the tray where it finally came to rest, glaring up at him.
And dear God, she's beautiful. Even in his head, his voice almost sounds like a prayer, like he should cross himself. Her braided hair done up. Huge brown eyes set on a perfectly composed face, and even her looking at him like he's a demon isn't ruining the effect.
“Shit,” he whispers, and wipes his hand off on his shorts and then offers it to her to help her up. “I'm...I'm-”
“So sorry?” she asks, frowning deeply now, ignoring his hand and helping herself to her feet.
He was gonna tell her his name, but, yeah. “I am,” he nods at her, crossing his arms over his chest. “I'm sorry for your pasta, 'cause it's dry as fuck.”
She sighs and slams the door shut and puts her back to it. It has what looks like a catering logo on the side of the truck he's realizing now. She looks like she's about to lose it. Like how he feels on a really bad day working the line with Shapiro while he tries to constantly sabotage his shit.
He guesses she's not amused, and he bites on his bottom lip. “God, I'm an asshole,” he mutters to himself.
Then she starts to laugh. Maybe a little too much, but she laughs and then covers her face with her hands and groans again. “No, you're right,” she mutters from behind them. “What am I even fucking doing here?”
He takes another look at the truck. “Catering, I think?” There's a church right across the road. Maybe he's seen this truck around town before? Sheridan Road.
She cracks a peek at him from behind her fingers covering her face to look at him. Like she's really trying to get a good look at him now. He realizes he doesn't even have a shirt on and she looks so classy, he feels kind of naked now.
“You're that chef. From Ever. You work with Chef Andrea Terry.”
“Oh. Yeah. How did you know-” he says, trying to smooth his hair down.
“Because you won that Food and Wine award pretty young. And you're still stuck here in Chicago,” she says with a sigh, turning to open the door of the van again and picking the tray up off the ground, waving off his help. She stares inside the back of the van with a sigh. “I always wanted to go to Ever. But the wait list is really long. Anyway-”
“Yeah, that's true,” he says with a nod, as she shuts the door again. “Hey. Let me make it up to you.”
“I can't serve pasta off the pavement,” she tells him with a roll of her eyes. “So, I have to pivot now, but thanks. Maybe Hawaiian rolls?” she mutters to herself, sounding on edge. He actually thinks that sounds awesome. “Who the fuck asks for fresh pasta to be catered at a wedding, anyway-”
“I can make fresh pasta.”
Her eyebrows come together as she leans back out of the truck to check him out again. “You're going to make me fresh pasta for an entire wedding in...,” she pulls her phone out of her pocket to check it. “Forty minutes?” She laughs at him derisively now.
He's going to get her to take him up on this. He can do this. She's never had Christmas at the Berzatto house while his mother melts down, forget about Ever. He's survived that. He can pull anything off.
“Yeah, I got you. You have an extra set of hands now,” he promises. Probably over-promising, but he feels like he has stakes here. “What's the main?”
“Lamb ragu,” she tells him. “Mushroom and walnut option for the filthy vegans. Shaved fennel salad. Raspberry honey panacotta. I'm sure I'm forgetting shit now, because I'm trying not to freak the fuck out-”
“Sounds fire, chef,” he tells her, watching her eyes brighten at the word. “I can do it. You don't think I can?” He takes his t-shirt out of the loop on his shorts and pulls it on over his head. Not much of an improvement, but she looks like she might take him more seriously now.
“Sure. Why not? Hop in the van,” she tells him with another roll of her eyes and goes to the driver's side. He gets into the passenger seat and watches her as she pulls away from the curb and heads towards the Jewel-Osco up the street.
“So, lamb ragu and fresh pasta. That's pretty amb-”
“It's a family recipe,” she interjects, glancing over at him. “How many eggs, how many bags of flour-”
“Uh, how many guests? Like, a hundred?” he asks her, watching her nod, as he looks up at the ceiling of the van. “Let's see...an egg per person for fresh egg pasta-”
“It's twelve bags of pasta and nine cartons of eggs. Are you sure you're up for this?”
“I'm just shit at math, sorry,” he says under his breath, feeling like he's failed a test. He stares out of the passenger window. “I can make fresh pasta all day, though.”
“No, it's fine. I'm just...this is kind of a make-or-break moment for me.”
“And you're?” he asks, realizing he never even got her name.
“Sydney. Sydney Adamu,” she tells him, pulling into the parking lot.
He thinks that he's probably never forgetting that name for the rest of his life as they run into the store together and grab a cart and pull all the ingredients off the shelves like they're in a mad dash. He makes her stop and go to the herb aisle and assures her he can chop faster than anyone she's ever seen in her life as he talks her into adding parsley to the pasta.
In his mind, he's picturing them working together side-by-side. The pasta might come out a little late, but he's not telling her that just yet. He'll make it work.
“Amuse bouche,” he tells her. “Parmesan chip.”
“Because it'll buy us time,” she says. “Because there's no way the pasta is coming out on time,” she frets, giving him a side-eye.
They get through the checkout line like the clock is ticking and jump back into the van, driving in silence like they're both preparing to be in the shits for the next hour. “Is this your first time-”
“No,” she tells him, giving him a look. “I tried restaurants, it's just...I wanted to do things different, you know?” she asks him, glancing over at him for a moment while she drives. "Yours?"
He laughs at that, feeling himself start to blush. “You ever been to Copenhagen?” he asks her, running a finger over his bottom lip. It just comes out. He's not sure why. It probably sounds like he's bragging.
“No,” she tells him, looking at him like he's a little mad. “But I'd love to go to Noma.”
She pulls back into her old parking spot, and they rush around getting everything out of the van and into the wedding to set up. The lady she's dealing with is awful. The woman looks him over really carefully, too, staring at his gym shorts, but he informs her she's about to get fresh pasta and that he’s Italian, so she zips it. He heads with Sydney to the church's kitchen and they get to work.
And the thing is, they work great together. He just met her, but it's like no one is staring over his shoulder, they just flow. Sydney can practically read his mind and she watches him, then gets her hands in the dough and between the two of them it's ready and into the fridge to set up in no time. He helps her prep the rest of her stuff and get it out to the guests and they never even stop to breathe, but it always feels calm and peaceful. Like rocking together in the same boat.
Their pasta almost comes out just on time, because she's that fast. Faster than he is at the cook, which fascinates him, pokes at his competitive tendencies. And when he tastes her lamb ragu while he hides out in the kitchen, it's kind of mind-blowing. He even goes back for thirds. It's better than anything he's had in the longest time, to the point he almost feels a twinge of professional jealousy.
He gets lost in the day and he offers to help her unload things and clean up after. When his phone buzzes he has to take the call and goes to a corner of her garage to tell Claire he won't be able to make it tonight after all. He feels a little guilty, but it's like he's exactly where he needs to be right now.
Syd, she's told him to call her that instead of Sydney, invites him into her house. It's a small one-story way on the South Side, but it feels like a real home, and he thinks about his sad apartment that doesn't even have art on the walls. Her place feels so alive, like she has a life and things going on, not just work.
“I still can't believe we pulled that off,” she says in the kitchen, smiling as he washes trays and bowls while she dries them. “I don't suppose you want to give up being a CDC for a low-paying catering job, by any chance?” she asks him, scratching at the back of her neck.
“I dunno,” he admits, glancing up at her. “You kinda nailed that pasta. You wanna come work at Ever? Andrea would love to have you.” He means he would, but they only just met. This felt peaceful. Like, work didn't have to always be awful and competitive. It could feel like being on that boat in Copenhagen, but with a person. Maybe it would make work feel a little more bearable.
“No,” she says, grinning at him now, pushing one of her braids behind an ear. “I...I don't want to do more of that Brigade stuff if I don't have to-”
“You shouldn't do this all alone,” he tells her, authoritatively, while she blinks at him in silence. He hands her over a dripping bowl. “That's all I'm saying here. It's too much for one person.”
“Fine,” she mutters, taking it from him and drying it slowly, stubbornness in her voice. “Doesn't your family have that restaurant. The Beef-”
“Yes,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment. He actually hasn't thought about his family once all day until now. The sharp edges start to come back just at the mention of that place.
“Is that, like, not your thing-” she asks with hesitation now as she undoubtedly reads his expression. “Making sandwiches?”
“It's my...brother's thing,” he says sharply. “We don't really talk much. I just...Let's finish this up, hey? I forgot to mention, there's a place I-I have to be later.”
It's like the warmth in the room has shifted now to something chilling. He doesn't know why, but he takes a deep breath, a kind of anxiety setting in. A sense that there's just some things he can't ever escape. Something he's been trying to outrun his whole life. And this was nice. It really was. But it's not real. She doesn't know the real him.
“Thanks again,” she tells him quietly.
“Sure.”
He leaves through the front door this time and glances back at her as she closes it. He turned down the offer for a ride home and called an Uber instead. He feels the phone buzz in his shorts, and he ignores it, until it buzzes all over again. Then again. It's Sug. He can't imagine what could be so damn urgent, and then he answers the phone-
“Oh god, it's Mikey. Carm. Carm, it's Mikey.”
His sister's sobs are still in his head, his heart pounds right through his chest as the phone drops from his hand onto the sidewalk like the clatter of a tray. He collapses onto the curb. He doesn't want to believe it. He doesn't want to feel anything. Even the hand on his shoulder doesn't really register because he feels numb. The voice speaking to him sounds so far away right now.
“Carm, Carm.”
He's shook awake, sitting up straight in bed, he can feel the sweat staring to cool while his heart races.
“Carm, you were having a nightmare. You were talking about Mikey.”
He closes his eyes and Syd is there. When he opens them, she's there next to him in their bed, her hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. He thumbs the scar on his hand and the tension starts to unravel like magic.
“Shit,” his throat is tight and dry, and he reaches over for the water on the bedside table and takes a sip.
“Hey. You okay?” she asks him, sitting up with him now to put her hand on his shoulder.
He sets the glass back down and then puts his head onto her shoulder, taking her hand in his.
“More than okay.”