Work Text:
you’re lucky that bad days tend to be few and far between; how could they not be when you have the privilege of waking up next to carmen berzatto every morning? he, of course, denies the effect he has on your life, says if anyone’s making a difference here, it’s you. but you really can’t downplay the warmth and light that sharing a bed with him, sharing a life with him brings to you. seeing him first thing in the morning is always the best part of your waking hours, a nice pick-me-up before you go to work; you have never taken that for granted.
but there are days where even seeing your boyfriend isn’t enough to wipe the slate clean, to erase that familiar sense of dread that makes its home in the pit of your stomach for you to carry around all day. having carmen with you, body or spirit (through text, of course), always momentarily eases the pain, but when he’s gone, when you have to stop texting, it comes back, agonizing and sharp like a blade twisting in your gut. all you can do is count down the hours, minutes, seconds until you get to go home and see him again.
today, it seems, is one of those days. regardless of the fact that you woke up feeling well, sharing a few soft kisses with carmy in bed before he made you breakfast and left you to your own devices so he could get to work, it seemed like the universe was working against you: you got to the train late, meaning you made it to work late, meaning you started the day off behind and if that wasn’t enough, you just couldn’t seem to get anything right. time has moved by at a snail’s pace, almost like the world is taunting you, wanting to drag this torture out for as long as fucking possible.
and it is. it is torture in all the worst ways, excruciating and harrowing. you didn’t have time to slip away and text carmy the whole day, barely had enough time for a lunch break, and even when you had taken your lunch break, typically a reset for you, things still were entirely awful. you’re astounded you even made it through the day without breaking into tears.
in public, at least, because the second you get home, it all comes rushing at you. the door closes behind you and the tears will not stop, no matter how hard you will them to just go away. you can’t even be bothered to hang your bag up on the coatrack, letting it drop to the floor instead on top of your different pairs of shoes left stranded at carmy’s front door. you trudge through the apartment into the bedroom, change into comfier clothes (a pair of shorts and one of carm’s sweaters), and lay down. it’s the only thing you can think to do after a rough day while you wait for your love to come home to you.
he does, eventually, though much later than you do; with his hours at the restaurant, it’s not often he comes home any time before eleven pm, and even that, that’s pushing it. it’s maybe closing in on half past eleven when you hear the door open and carmy’s voice, your name sounding as perfect as ever (nobody says it like he does, you maintain, your name has never sounded prettier than it does coming from him), and you become acutely aware that you have completely wasted the evening.
carm’s footsteps draw closer and then you hear him again at the door, a sweet lilt of “baby? you doin’ alright?”
and that, for some reason, just sends you over the edge. you’re not facing him, which is lucky, but you shake your head and close in on yourself, drawing your knees to your chest and making yourself smaller. you’re trying not to cry, not again, but it feels like the only way to react, the only way to get all of this out.
“sweetheart…” his voice is quiet and then he’s crawling up the mattress to lay beside you, shoving himself in the small space left between you and the wall his bed is pushed against. when he sets his gaze on you, all soft and clear blue sky, you fall apart, not sobbing but not holding back the tears anymore.
for a few moments, carm doesn’t know what to do. even though he’s seen you like this before, he still hesitates because you aren’t communicating what you need from him right now. still, the best bet, as always, seems to be wrapping you up and holding your pieces together.
so he does. he scoots in close, tucks your head under his chin, and wraps his arms around you. and he doesn’t say anything else, just lets you cry into his shirt, no doubt staining it with your tears, but if he cares, he doesn’t show it. you’re sure part of the lack of speaking is from him just being a little awkward about it, but still, you’re thankful that he isn’t pressing you on it.
when the tears finally do stop, he waits for you to pull back, waits for you to make the first move. he meets your gaze head on, the arm that isn’t pinned under your head moving so that he can wipe away stray tears caught in your eyelashes or on your skin.
“what’s all this about?” he asks softly, tipping his head so that your foreheads touch. “what’s got you all worked up?”
you shrug with one shoulder, casting your eyes down, letting them focus on the neckline of his shirt. “i don’t know. today was just… a really… really bad day, carm.”
he nods, brushes hair out of your eyes, lets his thumb stroke your cheekbone. “you can tell me about it. i’m listenin’.”
so you do. you recount the whole day to him, every gritty little detail, and he listens intently, like what you’re saying is the most important thing in the world to him. and maybe it is because he treats everything you do and say like that; he takes everything to heart and turns even the smallest things into something big and monumental.
you realize as you’re talking that all of the bad things that happened are so inconsequential and it makes you feel kind of stupid. carmen comes home and complains about much bigger issues all the time, and you listen, of course, offer advice when he needs it; but his issues are always so much bigger than yours, there are things, lives, that ride on his decisions going over well. not like yours, not like this. and it gets you worked up again, laughing when the tears burn at your waterline again.
“hey, hey, what’s all this?” he asks, ducking his head to look at you when you try to turn away. “why’re you cryin’ again?”
“i really don’t know, carm,” you answer tearfully, shaking your head like the movement will get rid of it all. “guess i feel kinda stupid. i’m not strong like you are.”
he mimics you, his turn to shake his head, curls falling into his eyes. “you don’t need to be, alright? you don’t have to be strong like i am. i can be strong enough for the both of us. that’s my job.”
“are you sure? i just-”
his hand, rough and warm, comes to rest on your cheek and you look up at him. his gaze is gentle in a way that he reserves just for you. “i’m positive. i can’t do much, but i can do this, so let me… ‘kay?”
you nod, closing your eyes and muttering back an “okay.” he leans to press a lingering kiss to your forehead before tilting back down, his nose brushing against yours. you lay like that for moments that stretch into forever, his breath hot against your mouth and his arms warm around you, your own personal weighted blanket.
“i’m not that strong, by the way,” he says quietly, breaking the silence. when you make a noise of confusion, he clarifies. “you said i’m strong, but i’m not. not really. i got a lot of fucked up shit goin’ on ‘n half the time, i’m spaced the fuck out… y’know, and i worry that you’re gonna figure that out one ‘a these days, but… i wanna be strong for you. i try really fuckin’ hard it almost scares me. so i mean it when i say i can be strong for us both because i want that to be the truth, y’know?”
you wrap an arm around him and nod, pressing your face into the soft material of his tshirt. the thank you you say into his shirt is wet and thick with tears, but he doesn’t seem to mind all that much, wrapping his arms tight around you and holding you against him; he doesn’t seem to mind a lot of the things you do, just takes them in stride and adjusts, which is sweet.
“you don’t need to thank me for anything,” he says into your hair, rubbing your back. “it’s my job to take care’a you, so that’s what i’m gonna do, alright? now… you eat dinner yet?”
the scoff he lets out when you tell him that no, you haven’t, might come off as mean to anyone else, but to you, it’s anything but. this is, for all intents and purposes, what he was made to do and this is proof of that.
“‘course ya haven’t. alright, what d’you want, hm? i’ll make whatever you’re cravin’, so just tell me what it is.”
you rattle off your order and when you pull away to look him in the face, he’s got a smile that belongs solely to you. he kisses you all soft and gentle, lips warm against yours, the one thing you’ve really wanted all day, and it dismantles that dread you’ve been feeling, takes its house apart piece by loving piece until it’s razed.
“you really gonna make me a grilled cheese right now? it’s almost midnight.”
carm lets loose a breathy chuckle, kisses you again, quick this time. “yes, chef. not letting my baby go to bed on an empty stomach. you know i don’t play around like that. what kind of cheese you want?”
you know he doesn’t play when it comes to making food for you, so you tell him to surprise you. you’ll eat anything he makes anyways because when he makes it for you, it’ll always taste good.