Chapter Text
“I already told you, we don't know anything,” Carmy said, smashing his fist down on the institutional table in front of him. He wonders who is watching him through the one-way glass of the mirror.
“You and your girl…we know you weren't involved, like I said. Repeatedly. To both of you. Calm down.”
Carmy huffs in response. As if calming down on demand was ever possible. He’s not sure he would even know how, if he wanted to. His shaking foot hits the bar of the folding chair he sits on, the metallic sound ringing out through the room. “She's not my…”
“Your so-called cousin on the other hand, he is involved,” the burly agent in front of him interrupts. “And that's where you're fucked.”
“So, Jimmy…and Richie?” Carmy asks. “This mob shit that went sideways and burned down my restaurant?”
“All them, and their cronies.”
“But they hate each other,” Carmy says, thinking about that random day when they catered Jimmy's kid’s birthday party, the screaming argument on Jimmy's front steps.
“Maybe they do. Or maybe they got over it, and your cousin got in too fast, too deep.”
“Fuck.”
“That's what I've been trying to tell you. And the other mobsters? They're out for blood, looking to hit Jimmy where it hurts. And they're going to keep doing that until they do.”
“So what, then?” Carmy asks. “And where's Sydney?”
“Separate interrogation, it's procedure. But we’ll bring her in shortly to talk about your options.”
“Options?” Carmy asks, blanching.
“The informants we have seem to agree that your sister and her family are far enough removed from the situation, what with her being on maternity leave and then dropping her hours and involvement in your restaurant way back for the last five months. We’ll get the beat cops to punch up patrols in their neighborhood, but there's no indication that anyone has,” the FBI agent flips through the papers on his clipboard to remind himself of their names, “Natalie Berzatto or her husband, Peter, anywhere in their sights.”
“How sure are you?”
“Very sure, because all the informants are hearing about, in terms of next targets, are you and your partner.”
“Syd had absolutely nothing to do with anything. I don't give a shit about me, but you need to protect her. Whatever you do.”
“We're hoping to be able to protect both of you, if we can help it.”
Carmy nods. The door to the interrogation room opens; a stone-faced Sydney follows behind a stern looking female agent.
“Take a seat, Ms. Adamu,” Carmy's agent says, gesturing to the folding chair next to him. She sits down, sliding her chair closer to Carmy's as she does. He can feel the warmth of her from the mere inches of space between them. The agent drops a heavy binder down on the table. “Mr. Berzatto, Ms. Adamu, let me be the first to welcome you to the Witness Protection Program.”
They are dropped off in a nondescript, mid-range hotel room somewhere close to O’Hare. There's an officer stationed outside of the room, and several others in and around the property, and three officers inspect the space closely before leaving Carmy and Sydney on their own. Sydney sits on the edge of the double bed closest to the door, hiding her face behind her hands.
Carmy walks further into the room, pulling the curtains firmly closed, lowering the temperature on the thermostat.
“Is The Bear really gone?” Sydney asks behind her palms, the words muffled against her skin.
“Yeah,” Carmy sighs.
“And Richie is mobbed up?”
“I guess,” he shrugs.
“And Nat and her family are apparently safe?”
“So they swear,” Carmy says, before letting himself collapse backwards onto the other bed.
“And we, somehow, now have the same last name? Because we are married? Or will be as soon as they produce the paperwork?”
“We should talk about that. And I'm sorry,” Carmy says, rolling over on his side. He watches her slide her hands down her face before wringing her fingers nervously in her lap.
Syd shakes her head. “‘S not your fault, Carm.”
“No, I know. It's just…our restaurant and my family and…”
Syd starts to laugh, the clear sound ringing out in the small room. “What did it used to say on the marker board in the office? Fuck my fucking life to death?”
“Don't even joke, Sydney.”
“Yeah, no. I know. I'm not.”
“I will do anything to keep you safe.”
“Hmm,” she says. “If only Sydney Adamu still existed.”
“You do, Syd. You're still you. I'm still me. We're still us.”
She rolls her eyes at the ceiling. “I can't wait to work towards that Michelin star while working some random business job in fucking Charleston or Cincinnati or Carson City or wherever they are sending us.”
“I know,” Carmy says.
“Shit. I can't think about it or I'm going to cry.”
“You can,” Carmy tells her.
She shakes her head. “If I start I might never stop.”
There's a knock at the door; Agent Miller sticks his head in. “Dinner’s here.”
“Yippee,” Syd says, as he hands over three greasy fast food bags before closing the door again. “If there's nuggets, they are mine,” she claims.
“Whatever you want, Syd.”
She sets the bags onto the slightly tilted table in the corner of the room. “Don't do that bullshit where you don't eat, Carmy.”
“Okay,” he says, weakly.
“Besides, it's our wedding night. I would hate for you to miss out on this miraculous feast and also miss out on the opportunity to keep your strength up,” she laughs again as she says it.
Carmy shakes his head, vaguely smiling. “You're funny. You always are…” he trails off wistfully.
“Laughing so I don't cry, my guy,” she says, pulling a long, thin fry from the bag. “Laughing so I don't fucking cry.”
One of the agents barges into the room a little while later, holding an iPad. He hands it to Syd with the Target app pulled up, and tells her to put what they need for the next couple of days into the cart for order pickup. Someone will collect it this evening when it's ready and bring it to them at the hotel, all on the FBI’s dime.
Carmy comes to sit next to Syd on the bed she's claimed as hers and watches the terrifying efficiency with which she adds things to the cart. A backpack and a water bottle for each of them, a couple of notebooks, pens, some snacks, a first aid kit, a deck of cards. She takes a little more time to decide on a few items of clothes and personal care items, but it's not long before she hands the tablet to him to do the same.
“I can already tell you they don't carry those bespoke t-shirts you wear,” she says with a smirk. “You’ll just have to figure something else out,” she tells him, and something warms in his stomach, that she's noticed. In that moment, Carmy is irrevocably pleased that it's her he's stuck with in this, over everyone else in the world.
“I'll figure something out,” he echoes, knocking his shoulder gently into hers. It takes him longer to build out his list; he keeps forgetting himself and tries to suss out things like fabric content and construction quality from the small pictures in the app, before giving up and randomly picking what feels like a serviceable selection of clothes. He frets again over the toiletries; they don't carry his usual brands and he's afraid he’ll get stuck with something that smells wrong enough to bother him to distraction. He gives the tablet back to Syd, who nods in approval over his choices before handing it over to the agent.
“Can I smoke?” Carmy asks.
“Not in here,” the agent replies.
Carmy pats his pockets. “Uhh…do you have any?” He looks at Syd, anticipating an expression of reproach for him picking up the bad habit he had been working so hard to move past. She looks at him, resigned and accepting.
The agent nods. “Unless you have a problem with menthol.” When Carmy shrugs, he continues, “I’ll take you outside. Do you need to smoke, too?” he checks with Syd. She shakes her head. “Ok. I will send in someone to sit with you while we’re gone. Don't go anywhere. Don't talk to anyone except Johnson.”
Syd’s response is another shrug, and Carmy feels compelled to reach out and grab one of her hands, squeezing it within his. She squeezes back, letting his fingers slide through hers as he stands.
A new agent comes in, and Carmy follows Agent Miller down the hall, past a pile of bags of housekeeping laundry and a painting of the Sears Tower that is cartoonish in the way it is weirdly out of proportion. Agent Miller leads him through a door that says, “Employees Only,” and then through a labyrinth of hallways that leads to a service entrance in the back of the building, the doorway obfuscated from view by a collection of large dumpsters.
“Thanks,” Carmy says, finally lighting the cigarette he's been carrying between his lips. It's been a month or two or more since he last smoked; Carmy almost shudders with the relief of it, of pulling the smoke deep into his lungs and being able to exhale out the weight of everything pushing inside of him. He looks over at where the agent is resting against the brick wall of the hotel. “Can you tell me anything about what comes next?” Carmy asks.
“Not really, no,” the agent says, frowning. “Still working on the official plan.”
“Do you know how long we’ll be at this hotel?”
“As long as we tell you to be,” the agent replies.
“Oh…kay. Is there anything you can tell me?”
“Not really,” he says, before changing his mind. “Oh, yeah. Tomorrow if things go to plan, we are going to bring in people to work on physical adjustments to both of you.”
“Physical adjustments?”
“New haircuts. Probably changing up some of your most identifiable tattoos. Stuff like that.”
“Oh,” Carmy says quietly. “I guess I didn't think about…”
“That knife in the hand on your hand is pretty memorable,” Miller says. “The letters on your fingers. And the Chicago area code on your arm.”
“Fuck,” Carmy says, grinding out one cigarette under his shoe, reaching for another from the pack, not knowing when he might get another opportunity.
“At least you've got your girl with you in this,” the agent says. “Your girlfriend, Sydney,” he replies when Carmy looks at him, confused.
“Girlfriend?”
“Is she not…you said you were partners.”
“Only in our restaurant,” Carmy says.
“Sure,” Agent Miller replies, smirking. Carmy is reminded of Richie for a split second, something about the upward tilt of his lips, and the commitment to shit-stirring comments. “If that's what you have to tell yourself.”
“I don't…” Carmy lets the rest of his unsaid sentence hang as he finishes his second cigarette. When he's done, he follows Miller back to their room.
The Target order has arrived by the time Carmy gets back from a second smoke break, and he finds Syd separating their items into piles.
“Need anything else for tonight?” Agent Miller asks from the doorway.
Syd looks at Carmy; he shakes his head. “Other than any more information you can give us about the plan, then no,” Syd tells him, peeling the label off of one of the water bottles.
“Okay. Don't leave, don't talk to anyone who doesn't show you their credentials first, no phone calls. No contact with the outside world.”
“Heard,” Carmy says. The agent raises his eyebrow. “Understood, I mean. We understand. We won't.”
“Your lives are at risk, not mine,” Miller reiterates. “We’ll start early tomorrow. Be ready.”
“What's early?” Syd asks.
“Not later than 7.”
“Okay.”
The door closes. They both look at it, expecting it to open again, someone else to rush in and give them instructions.
Syd sighs. “Something tells me we should pack our bags and keep them that way.”
“Smart,” Carmy says. “Let me help.” Syd gestures to the pile of his new things she's been making on his bed.
“Help yourself,” she tells him. “Did you find anything out on your smoke break with Officer Friendly?”
Carmy rips the tag off of one of the shirts from his pile, losing the end of the plastic strip on the carpet. He can already tell from the feel of the fabric in his hands that inspecting the quality of the seams would disappoint him, so he skips it in favor of carefully folding the shirt into a tidy square.
“Just that they are going to start ‘physical adjustments’ on us tomorrow.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Syd asks, holding up a pair of jeans to her waist to assess the sizing without trying them on.
“Haircuts, presumably. Also they want to ink over some of my tattoos,” Carmy says to the inside of his new backpack.
“Wait, seriously?” she asks. “Which ones?”
“My hands. The 773. Maybe more, I don't know.”
She drops the jeans onto her bed, and moves over to where Carmy stands at the foot of his bed. “What are you going to do?” she asks. When he shrugs, she picks up his left hand in hers, inspecting it. “Well…” she begins, tracing a finger over the U on his ring finger. “Cover this one up with a wedding ring,” she teases, catching his eyes, noting the flush that runs up his neck. “I don't know…plants are good,” she tells him. “Pretty and interesting, but maybe not as memorable as a knife in a hand on your hand, you know?” She drops his hand from hers, turns back towards her pile of things to organize. “Not that I don't love it…it's actually similar to mine…but you know what I mean?”
“Wait…you have a tattoo?” Carmy asks, intrigued.
“Several, actually,” she says.
“Can I…where are they?”
“My back,” she tells him. “And I guess, if you want, sometime.”
“I do want,” he says, before turning to stuff his neatly folded pile of clothes into the main compartment of his new backpack.
Carmy jolts awake. It's a familiar feeling but he immediately knows he's not in his apartment. It takes a second for everything to sink back into his consciousness and, once it does, he realizes that something more than the anxiety roiling through his system woke him up. From the other bed he detects the sound of muffled cries, likely smothered under a pillow. He debates with himself for a second, and then another, but knows as much as he would like to give Sydney the space and privacy to have her own reaction, the situation they are in doesn't really afford it for either of them. And more, the sounds manifesting her sadness and overwhelm burn in his own stomach. He can't think about anything else, his lack of answers or the fact that the shoulder seams of his new t-shirt rubbed so uncomfortably against the skin of his shoulders that he flicked his shirt off after Syd turned off the lights. He hears her gasp quietly and he primes himself to move. He can't help himself.
“Syd?” he asks, gently. When she doesn't answer after several beats, he asks again, this time climbing out of his bed to kneel on the floor next to hers. “Sydney?”
“I'm sorry,” she says through her tears.
He shakes his head, knowing full well she can't see it in the black of their room. “Don't be.”
“I didn't want to wake you up,” she sniffles.
“I'm glad you did.” He reaches out and touches her shoulder under her blankets, giving it a soft squeeze. Her hand reaches up to pat his where it sits. “Scoot over,” he tells her, surprise and delight swirling in his stomach when she complies without comment. He crawls behind her, encircling her in his arms as best as he can.
“Did you just…?”
“Extenuating circumstances,” he says. “Tell me to move and I will.”
“No,” is her only reply.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
They are quiet as they adjust to the proximity of each other. Carmy can't deny the way that settling her into his arms feels even better than he had imagined. Can't deny the realization that this was something he had imagined before, probably more than once or twice. He wonders why he hadn't noticed that the idea of holding her had been in his head all along.
“I know that everything is wrong,” he says against her shoulder. “But is there anything you want to talk about? Is there anything I can do?”
He feels her shrug. “I don't know. I guess I just had too many things happening in my head to stay asleep.”
“Yeah,” he says, settling a splayed hand across her stomach, her oversized T-shirt bunching underneath his fingers.
“And then I got sad about my dad. If this is forever,” she says, before pausing. Her voice is noticeably thicker once she begins again. “If we are gone forever, it's gonna crush him to have lost me, too.”
“I know,” Carmy says. “I'm so sorry.”
Her tears start again in earnest, and Syd turns in his embrace, tucking her forehead into his neck, winding her arms around his shoulders. Carmy tries to soothe her by running his fingers up and down her back. He doesn't try to tell her that everything will be okay, that everything is fine. He doesn't want to promise a future he can't control, and he has the sense that his presence and his touch are enough to soothe her. It's not long before her sobs quiet, and he finds she has fallen asleep in his arms. Carmy doesn't question it, but instead finds it's not so hard to allow himself to slide, following her into a quiet, dreamless sleep.