Chapter Text
She doesn’t quit.
That’s the first thing.
She thinks about it.
Every night, walking home with her hands still smelling like vinegar and garlic, with her shoulders curled like she’s trying to collapse into herself. With no money received.
She’s been a stage for two weeks.
But she doesn’t quit.
And she’s doing more now.
Not just cleaning.
Not just polishing floors till her wrists burn. Not just endless prep, slicing boxes of shallots so thin she starts dreaming in rings.
During service, Fields throws her scraps of responsibility — watching sauces, prepping microgreens for plating, sometimes even holding down a component on the pass.
It should feel like trust.
It doesn’t.
Every time he gives her something, it’s a test. A trap.
One wrong swirl, one micro-stem too long, and he’s already snapping for Berzatto to redo it.
“Too wet.”
“Over-reduced.”
“Color’s off.”
Doesn’t matter what she does.
Doesn’t matter how careful.
It’s always, always wrong.
And Berzatto — Carmen always does it again. No protest. No fuss.
Just slides in and fixes whatever it is Fields hates this time.
But before he does, every time — always when the devil isn’t close— he leans in, just for a second, and whispers something like:
“It was fine.”
or
“Smells great”
or
“That’s not on you.”
Just quiet, almost careless.
Like it doesn’t matter.
But it does.
It keeps her sane.
It reminds her she can actually cook.
It’s not just her hot delusions.
It keeps her standing.
So every day she wakes up sore and quiet and a little more careful.
Doesn’t laugh too loud when Fields is out anymore.
Doesn’t talk unless it’s about prep or plating or something neutral like weather or food cost or where to store the veal bones.
She watches how Diego flinches more around chef.
How Erica stops coming to her with a treat.
How Ray’s face looks like he never ever smiled.
Watches how Carmen sharpens his knives like he’s doing something sacred. Like maybe steel is the only thing he trusts to listen.
Fields, meanwhile, is a fucking monster.
She sees it all now.
He never yells. For a reason. Doesn’t need to.
His voice lands harder than shouting ever could. It’s controlled. Surgical.
If yelling is a punch, Fields is a scalpel.
He knows exactly where to cut.
He knows her mother is dead.
He is a fucking psycho.
He says things like “What’s this, Miss Adamu? An artistic interpretation of a brunoise?”
“You’ve confused confidence with competence.”
Or, once — after she nailed a prep list so clean she could’ve framed it — he glanced at it, handed it back, and said, “Adequate.”
That one stuck with her longer than the shouting ever would have.
Every day feels heavier. Like the kitchen’s got gravity turned up just a little more than the rest of the building.
And still — she doesn’t quit.
She’s not sure why. Maybe out of spite. Maybe because she wants to prove him wrong.
Maybe because it’s a fucking Empire and it can’t get better.
Or maybe because Berzatto gives her encouraging looks, like she doesn’t actually suck.
They don’t talk. Not really. Not beyond “yes, Chef,” or his whispers when he is about to redo her work.
But after the shift, when the last pan is hung and the walk-in is sealed and everybody is gone — they both end up outside.
Same wall. Same busted pallet. Same cigarettes.
Every night she walks out, sees him there, he nods — she sits down.
That’s very much it.
But it became something she is looking forward to. Every day.
A ritual.
He always lights it first. Hands it to her without looking.
They share it.
Never speak more than five words. Sometimes none at all.
But she breathes better with that cigarette.
That’s the second thing.
She doesn’t like the silence.
Not at this restaurant.
But she likes it just fine with him .
Because they don’t need to fill it.
Because he gets it — what it’s like to carry all your noise inside your chest and pretend you’re not drowning in it.
He never asks how she is.
She never asks if he’s okay.
But when Fields calls her out for slicing carrots too emotionally — whatever the fuck that means — Carmen’s the only one who doesn’t laugh under his breath.
And when she spills a container of herb oil and gets nothing but a glare and a “maybe you’re better suited for front of house,” Carmen doesn’t say a damn thing, but later that night outside, he hands her a pepto. And it almost makes her cry.
They’re not friends.
She knows that.
But something’s building.
Quiet and awful and real.
Once, during service, she caught it.
Fields leaning in to Carmen who was at the expo.
Whispering something to him, which is nothing new, he did that a lot.
Walked through the kitchen like a death cloud and dropped poison like it was a seasoning.
But this time she saw Carmen’s hand flinch. Just the smallest twitch.
Like someone had stuck a pin right through the bone.
She didn’t hear it.
Fuck, she wished she had.
She wished she could rewind it, mouth-read it, translate whatever venom Fields poured into him.
But all she had was the flinch.
That night, after service, outside again with the cigarette passed between them, she said it.
Not directly. Never directly.
“Today was something extra fucked, huh?”
He didn’t look at her.
Just hummed. A low sound from somewhere in his chest.
That was it.
They never talked about it.
But it was enough.
***
Prep is quiet. Focused. Knives tapping, pans clattering, someone’s timer going off in bursts.
That low hum of ritual — heads down, everyone moving fast, trying to beat the rush before Fields starts circling.
Carmen keeps his gaze on the cutting board. Mirepoix. Steady rhythm. Dice, dice, dice. Fast enough to keep up, slow enough to stay perfect.
He doesn’t hear him at first — just senses the shift.
The way the air stiffens around Diego’s station.
The way Erica stops wiping the counter and glances sideways.
Then Fields’ voice. Too calm.
“This is your third tray like this?”
Diego nods. “Yes, Chef.”
A pause.
Then, quieter — but sharp enough to prick skin:
“Looks like a toddler chopped it with safety scissors.”
Carmen doesn’t stop slicing. Just focuses harder.
“You want me to use this?” Fields says quietly but still loud enough for everyone to hear.
You mean, me to use this, Carmen thinks.
You barely cook shit on your own.
“You want someone to pay ninety dollars for a plate with this crap sitting underneath the duck?”
Diego says nothing.
Then it happens. Sharp. Deliberate. No yelling — never yelling.
“You know what your problem is?”
The whole kitchen freezes.
“It’s not just your hands. It’s that you walk in here every day with that man-bun like you’re heading to a fucking juice bar, not a Michelin kitchen.”
Carmen looks up.
“You’re lanky. Slouched. You look like you should be vaping behind a 7-Eleven, not touching my herbs.”
Ray’s knife slips. He catches it fast. No one breathes.
Then Sydney. Her voice cuts in like a match being struck.
“That’s not okay.”
It’s not loud. Just clear. Too clear.
Carmen’s stomach turns.
He looks at her — dead in the eye — and shakes his head once. Small.
Don’t. Please don’t.
But she doesn’t look away.
She straightens. “You don’t get to talk to him like that.”
Fields turns. Slow. A tilt of the head like a snake watching its prey breathe.
“You been here five minutes,” he says, soft as a blade. “And you think you get to tell me how to run my kitchen?”
She holds firm.
God, she’s stupid.
God, she’s brave.
“I think,” Sydney says, “humiliating someone’s appearance in front of everyone doesn’t make you a better chef.”
Silence again.
And then—Fields smiles.
Not a real one.
One of those tight, lip-stretched expressions that means violence.
“Oh,” he says, “so we’re moral now.”
He steps forward.
Looks like he is fucking thriving.
Sick bastard.
“You know, Miss Adamu, I’ve met a lot of people who think being loud makes them brave. But usually, it just makes them unemployed.”
Carmen feels his stomach twist — slow, nauseous.
Part of him — the small, dark, coward part — almost wants it to happen.
For Fields to just say it.
Fire her.
End it.
Be done.
Let her get out. Let her run. Let her fucking breathe.
Let him breathe.
Because if Fields fires her, she won’t be here tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that, looking like she’s been ground down to bone but still showing up with something sharp in her eyes.
If Fields fires her, maybe Carmen can stop watching. Stop waiting. Stop caring.
But he knows how it works.
He knows the asshole won’t just let her go.
He’ll break her first.
Make it hell.
Twist the screws until something inside her cracks in half — and then maybe fire her.
Or maybe not.
Maybe just leave her to rot here in slow motion.
And the worst part?
The worst part is that some stupid, stubborn, reckless percentage of Carmen — a few dumb fucking percent — actually want her to stay.
He doesn’t know why.
He doesn’t want to know why.
But probably because she brings something in here.
Something different.
Because she is not scared.
Then Fields turns. Looks right at him.
Stares.
“And you. Mirepoix.”
His jaw clenches.
“Why the fuck are you watching this like a bad soap opera? Prep your shit.”
No answer.
“Or are you waiting for your big brother to finally call you back? Tell you you’re doing a good job?”
The room cracks.
No one moves. No one breathes.
Carmen’s pulse roars in his ears. The whole kitchen tilts sideways for a second.
He wants to grab the knife. The hot pan. Anything.
To slam it into Fields’ face. To bash in his teeth. To shut him up permanently.
But he doesn’t.
He blinks.
Tries to swallow.
Fails.
Turns back to his board.
Keeps chopping. Hands mechanical. Like they don’t belong to him.
He doesn’t taste the air.
Doesn’t see the cuts.
Just moves.
Then he hears it.
“Miss Adamu,” Fields snaps, “you’re on walk-in duty. Floor. With a toothbrush. I want it gleaming. If you’re still standing when the prep is over, maybe you can come back.”
Diego tries to say something.
Fields cuts him off.
“You. Get out.”
A beat.
“You’re done.”
Fired. Just like that.
He’s been here for two months.
That’s not too bad.
Sydney stands frozen.
Carmen doesn’t turn.
But his throat tightens so hard he thinks he might choke.
He doesn’t look. Doesn’t speak.
He just keeps slicing.
Like a fucking coward.
He lingers in the bathroom too long after the shift ends.
Staring down the sink, splashing cold water on his face like it’ll shock his nerves back into place. Like it’ll carve out whatever’s scraping under his skin.
It doesn’t work.
His head throbs — a dull, full-bodied kind of pain, like something’s pressing inward from all directions.
His temples pulse with it.
He grips the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles bleach out.
He can’t stop thinking about Mikey.
About how fast Fields said it.
How casually.
Like it was just another tool in the drawer — like Carmen was just another fucking screw to strip.
It’s not the first time he mentioned him.
But it’s the first time Carmy actually think about it.
Who told him?
Who the fuck told him?
He doesn’t even care about the answer.
He just wants to break something.
Wants to dig his nails into the drywall and rip it out until it bleeds plaster and dust.
Fields always knows.
Always finds the crack.
Carmen’s seen him do it a dozen times now. Erica. Diego. Sydney.
Sydney.
Fuck.
He slams the paper towel dispenser shut harder than he means to.
The sound echoes.
His chest tightens.
He hates that this is what it is.
That this is where they are.
By the time he drags himself out to the lockers, the kitchen’s a ghost town.
He moves slow, like his body’s made of sandbags.
Fumbling with his shoes.
His hands don’t work right.
He leans against the metal locker, presses his forehead to the cool surface.
She probably left already.
He doesn’t want to go outside.
Doesn’t want to face anything, not even air.
He wants to sink straight into the floor.
But when he finally does walk out — shoulders stiff, stomach clenched — she’s still there.
Sitting on the same beat-up pallet like she lives there.
Her knee bounces.
Eyes flicking everywhere but him.
Until their eyes meet.
She doesn’t say anything.
Just reaches one hand behind her neck, rubs it like it aches.
Sucks her teeth.
He walks to her without thinking.
Sits beside her, heavy and silent.
They don’t speak. Not right away.
Then she says, low: “Can I have a separate one this time, please?”
He doesn’t answer. Just pulls out the pack, hands it to her.
She sticks it between her lips and leans toward him without a word. Waiting.
He lights his first. Then hers.
Swallows hard as her face tilts closer, all tired eyes and bruised edges.
Her cheekbone almost brushes his wrist.
The flame catches.
She leans back.
“I want to kill myself extra hard today,” she says, smoke curling past her lips.
“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry about the walk-in shit.”
“Nah, it’s okay,” she exhales. “Might get pneumonia later. Not too bad.”
“Sydney…”
“It’s okay,” she says again, softer. “I was in there like, what… hour and a half? People kept walking in and out.”
She shrugs.
“It’s okay.”
It’s not.
The way she says it — flat, light, like she’s already half-convinced herself — makes his throat ache.
They still don’t look at each other. That’s their rule, maybe. Unspoken.
But he keeps stealing these sideways glances anyway.
She looks small tonight. Not weak, not fragile — just… collapsed. Like someone deflated something inside her.
His chest pulls tight again.
This is so fucked.
And the worst part?
She looks like she’s starting to get used to it.
***
The next week is classic hell.
Nothing new, just the usual flavors: exhaustion, fury, knives dulling too fast, Fields sharpening too much.
Carmen half-dissociates during prep.
Fully dissociates during service.
The hours collapse into themselves, muscle memory doing most of the work.
Dice, toss, plate, burn.
Move, move, move.
It’s not living, exactly.
More like… remaining.
Fields is in rare form.
Whispering louder. Much louder.
He’s everywhere — behind their shoulders, in their ears, inside their fucking heads.
And somehow, in the middle of all this, he and Sydney start this thing.
He doesn’t mean to walk in on her.
Really.
He’s just grabbing some damn crème fraîche before service when he yanks the door open and there she is.
Forehead pressed to the shelf like she’s trying to psychically fuse with it.
Shoulders tense.
Breathing heavy.
Face all scrunched up.
She jumps. Actually flinches — eyes wide, scared, stepping back like she’s been caught stealing.
Like she thought it was Fields.
Fuck. This girl.
He closes the door behind him fast, like on instinct.
Keeps it casual. No big deal. Just two people illegally loosing it next to fermented produce.
“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “You can chill for a second. He’s not in the kitchen.”
She stares at him for a beat, then tips her head back against the shelf — eyes closed now, hands on her hips like they’re the only thing holding her up.
Then, dry as hell:
“You’re welcome to join my breakdown. I hear it’s a group special today.”
He huffs. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s close.
He looks at the crème fraîche in his hand. Puts it back on the shelf.
And then — yeah. He just stands next to her.
Shoulders not touching. Not speaking.
Just two ghosts on ice.
And it continues.
When one of them’s in the walk-in, the other slips in too.
Not always. Not on purpose. Not officially.
But it happens.
She’s checking for greens.
He needs butter.
Allegedly.
He’s grabbing thyme.
She’s “counting” eggs.
And they just… stand there.
No words. No looks.
Sometimes barely breathing.
But close enough.
Sometimes their shoulders almost brush. Sometimes they actually do.
And sometimes she just exhales hard and says, “Fuuuuuck.”
And he goes, “Yup.”
Or she mutters something like, “God, I hate every living soul.”
And he nods, “Absolutely.”
One time, she says, low and bitter, “I hope he chokes on a bone. Not enough to die, just enough to make it really dramatic and fucking embarrassing. To make him suffer.”
Carmen doesn’t even blink before replying, “I hope his favorite knife snaps in half mid-service, and he has to slice scallions with a goddamn soup spoon forever.”
She snorts. Quietly.
He adds, “I hope his gas gets shut off and he has to boil pasta on a fucking candle.”
She exhales slow. “I hope he gets a rash. A real nasty one. Like, peeling .”
He almost smiles.
They don’t say the name. They never do. But it hangs there anyway — like steam on their skin. Like rot in the walls.
They don’t laugh.
But they breathe a little easier.
Once, he hears it — hears him say it, say something so foul Carmen actually slices through his index finger without flinching — it sticks in his ears like rot.
“She’s not that bad. She just needs a man to finish the job right.”
That’s what Fields said to Ray.
Loud enough to sting, soft enough to pretend it wasn’t meant for her.
For Sydney.
Carmen doesn’t even look up.
Doesn’t need to.
He sees the way her jaw sets from across the kitchen. The way she swallows something that tastes like rust.
Later, when he finds her in a walk-in — she’s pacing in a tight little circle like a malfunctioning Roomba, muttering under her breath.
Braids pulled back into a bun in a way that makes her look very young and feral.
Her apron’s crooked, there’s a streak of sauce on her cheek, and she’s practically vibrating out of her skin.
Then she stops, checks that it’s him and bends over slightly, pretends to scream into the floor.
No sound.
Just full mime — fists clenched, shoulders shaking.
Carmen watches, weirdly frozen.
And then, for the first time in what feels like years, he laughs.
Not loud. Not even audible.
But his mouth twitches.
Something cracks open.
She sees it. Straightens up, eyebrows lifted like, Did you just feel joy?
Before he can answer — not that he would — the walk-in door opens and Erica steps in.
All three freeze.
Erica eyes them. Looks from Carmen to Sydney, then back again. Says nothing.
Just grabs a half-gallon of milk, nods once with a little smirk like, carry on , and walks out.
The door thumps shut behind her.
They stay in the silence. One beat. Two.
And then Sydney mutters, “I hope he dies.”
Carmen sighs, not even trying to fight it. “Me too.”
They don’t ever try to find each other’s eyes.
But both stay a little longer than they need to. Risking it all.
***
They’re down to the filter again.
Third cigarette each. His pack’s just a flattened box now, lying between them like some sad little corpse. Sydney nudges it with her shoe.
“That’s it?” she asks, brows lifting. “That’s your whole ration?”
Carmen exhales, long and ragged. “I don’t usually share.”
“Jesus,” she mutters. “You’re a terrible smoker. Amateur shit.”
He flicks ash off his knee. “You’ve had just as many.”
“I’m petite. You’re spiraling.”
He doesn’t argue. Can’t. His lungs hurt. His head hurts. The backs of his eyes feel bruised.
There’s a pause, the kind that tastes like cold brick and shame and tobacco.
“I feel like getting wrecked,” she says finally, dragging the words like they’re heavy.
He hums, low in his throat. “I don’t drink.”
She turns her head slowly toward him. “Seriously?”
He nods. Doesn’t look at her.
“Jesus,” she says again, with more feeling. “How the fuck do you survive?”
He shrugs, jaw tight. “Cigarettes. What—do you go home and get plastered?”
“Nah.” She pulls in her last drag, speaks through it. “I don’t do that alone. Ever.”
A beat.
“I’ve got a roommate. But she doesn’t drink either.”
Another pause.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t wish to.”
Neither of them laughs.
Neither of them moves.
Not right away.
The air smells like smoke and metal and the faint rot of whatever’s dying in the alley dumpster.
And it’s cold again.
That weird New York cold that shouldn’t be happening in early September, but does anyway — like the city just decides to punish you for staying out late.
Carmen sits with his back against the brick, elbows on knees, jaw clenched like it’s the only thing keeping his head from falling off.
He doesn’t want to think about it too much — whatever this is.
Whatever they’re doing.
It’s not anything.
It’s not nothing.
It’s just… there. Like a pulse under the skin.
Like they both need it. And they do.
He tries not to name it, but at this point it’d be stupid to pretend that it’s nothing.
During service, it’s become this thing too — not obvious, not loud.
Just the way her hand stills sometimes when he passes too close.
The way he finds her eyes in the mirror across the pass without trying.
The way they both look for each other—every time their interaction with Fields ends.
Like they need to make sure the other is still there.
And then after… after, sometimes they just sit like this.
Way too long.
Past midnight sometimes.
Smoking, not smoking. Phones out. Scrolling through nothing. Saying even less. They don’t talk about personal shit. Not really.
But they also don’t leave.
Like neither of them wants to go.
He doesn’t know exactly where she lives, but he knows it’s not home.
Not here.
Not in this city.
And fuck — he gets that.
Because he doesn’t have one either.
Her voice breaks through the quiet like it always does — soft but clear, knocking something loose in him.
“What do you eat?”
He blinks. Looks over. She’s staring at the ground, tapping ash into a crushed Red Bull can.
“You never eat family,” she adds.
“I smoke.” He exhales through his nose. Shrugs. “Sometimes I eat. Some bar. Something quick. I dunno. Usually just—“
“Something quick and nutritious,” she says, dryly. “Right.”
He gives her a look. Half amused, half exhausted.
She shrugs back. “No, I get it. I just feel like I’d fucking faint if I didn’t have family. And ours is pretty solid, honestly.”
He snorts. “Yeah, I know.”
“Usually you make it.”
“Yeah, well.” He rubs a hand down his face. “It’s the only thing I can make without him breathing down my neck.”
“It’s really fucking good,” she says simply. “When was the last time somebody said you’re good at cooking?”
He blinks.
Almost laughs.
But it doesn’t come out right.
Just a breath that sounds like it’s dragging itself uphill.
“I dunno,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Year ago, maybe. Definitely not here. I’m pretty sure some compliments have been thrown in my direction. But they probably got intercepted by him on the way.”
She lets out a low breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
He hums. Doesn’t smile. Just leans back against the wall again, eyes closing for a second like maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll dissolve into the brick.
There’s a beat. A long, quiet one.
Then Sydney says, soft and a little surprised, “This is the most we’ve ever said to each other. Without—you know… arguing and shit.”
He opens his eyes again. Tilts his head back to look at the sky, dark and wide and mercifully empty.
“Yeah,” he says.
And then—
“Do you mind?” she asks. Careful. Quiet.
He doesn’t look at her. Just lets a small breath escape, and smiles—more to himself than anything else.
“Not at all.”
They don’t say anything else for a while.
Just stay there.
Not going home