okay here's my prompt, bitty gets hurt on the ice and breaks his right arm. He's super upset because he can't play for a while but mostly because it makes baking near impossible. Jack, the worried boyfriend he is ready to protect his little bitty from the world, now does all his baking for him, just following Bitty's instructions and demands. Bitty hates it because he tells Jack to get the mixing bowl and he gets a souffle dish instead.
Bitty’ll be okay, I promise. That Zimmerman boy knows what to do.
“’Scuse my French boys, but Fuuuuuudge.” That was all Bitty had managed to say, through gritted teeth, before he passed out from the pain. All of Samwell Men’s Hockey had surrounded the sweet southern boy the second that brute from Yale had smashed him into the boards. Arms don’t bend that way, they were sure of it.
And they were right. After Bitty came to in the locker room, the team’s medic and his two coach’s by his side, it was immediately obvious his right arm would be taking a time out for a while. If it weren’t for the throbbing pain coursing through Bittle’s arm, he would’ve let himself start being annoyed at his luck right then. But for now, getting his arm ready for healing was at the forefront of his mind.
It didn’t take long however for Eric Bittle to become completely disenchanted with the quirky purple cast that covered his forarm. Yeah, glitter was fun, but the light specks didn’t quite catch the light like the rink in Faber, and the coarse material had nothing on the soft feeling of a fresh dough between his fingers. That’s right, for the first time in his life (excusing the first few years), Eric Bittle was unable to bake.
The first few days after his injury had involved a sizeable amount of Zimmerman-prescribed bed rest, and who was Bitty to complain that his handsome boyfriend had taken time out of his busy schedule to come and fuss over him. In fact, the second the group chat had blown up with pictures of Bitty’s injury, Jack was rushing out his own door in Providence and arriving at the hospital nearest Samwell to pick up his sweet southern peach. Jack wasn’t usually one to fuss, not this much anyway, but seeing even the smallest amount of that usually glorious sparkle leave Eric Bittle’s eyes had him acting like a mother hen (if a slightly ill-informed one).
But after two days of feeling lazy, and a little soft around the edges from the painkillers they had given him. Bitty decided it was time to kick himself into gear, no use moping when there’s a Haus full of ravenous hockey boys to feed. And if he wasn’t going to able to play for a while, he may as well make himself useful to the team in some way (the pie way).
Bitty’s cheeks were now tear-stained, as a chopping board of hacked at apples, and the half a bag of flour, that had been unsalvageable as it tipped onto the floor, sat beside him. He was resting his head against Betsy, her warmth providing some comfort, but more serving as a reminder that the one thing that calmed his mind and nerves, the one thing he could always do, the one thing that could make him part of this team whilst he healed, was unachievable with his right arm weighed down by plaster. The deep sparkling purple seeming now to taunt him.
His baking playlist had ended 5 minutes ago, and the silence in the Haus (all the boys were at training) was unbearable, but, so was the thought of moving to hit play. Even Jack had popped out of the Haus to collect some ingredients for Bitty and some protein-laden chicken noodle soup to aid the healing process. That was an hour ago now, so it wasn’t a shock when the door opened, and a distinctly French-Canadian accent found it’s way to the kitchen.
“Honey, I’m home. I’ve always wanted to say that, eh…”
Jack stopped short, now was not a time for joking he realised, Bitty was crying and he wasn’t sure why.
When he had left Bitty had been making progress with his sweet treats, he’d started the measurements for the fillings and was rocking his hips to Queen B (that’s right, Jack knows she’s more than just Beyoncé by this point, what kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t!?) in the way that always made Jack’s heart flutter just that little bit. Jack had thought it best not to disturb him whilst he was in the zone, but to grab some more butter from the closest store before Bitty burns his way through the measly 3 sticks in the Haus fridge.
But now he feels stupid for not staying.
“Bits…” he was waring as he made his way to Bitty’s side, slipping down to sit with him, screw that his perfect hockey butt would be covered in flour. Bitty folded himself into his boyfriend’s sturdy side and let the flood-gates open.
“I can’t bake. I can’t even bake. I- I can always b-bake. I can’t skate. I can’t bake, what next!? I can’t kiss you because this clumsy thing keeps getting in the darn way.” Bitty lifted up his arm, glaring at the offending article.
“Oh Bits. Put that down, I need to prove you wrong.” Jack Zimmerman, smooth talker that he never was, but for Bitty could be, grabbed Bitty’s face and placed a slow kiss on his lips, lingering there for long enough to taste the remnants of flour and salty tears that had gathered on Bitty’s lips.
“I suppose not, but kissing’s not baking Jack,” Jack pulled a face of mock offence, something that looked so unlike the Jack Zimmerman he first met, it made Bitty’s heart swell, “it’s certainly almost as good as baking, better when it’s you, but I can’t do it for five hours straight, not without loosing my breath, and it rarely results in a pie.”
“Fine.” Jack got swiftly to his feet. “Tell me what to do, I’m assuming floor flour is a no go, but from there I’m lost.”
“Actually I’m lost. What?” Bitty got to his feet now, making to leave the kitchen before the lack of fresh pie makes him cry again, Jack grabbed his good arm before he could even make it one step.
“I’m making the damn pie Bittle. But you’re going to have to tell me exactly what I’m doing, I’m in your line Bittle, what’s our play?”
“Oh you sweet Canadian man,” Bitty quickly pecked Jack’s lips before letting a grin break out across his own, “you’re going to need a mixing bowl.”
“Oh lord help me. That’s a ramekin Jack Laurent Zimmerman, and if you’re sweet gesture is going to test me this much we may as well quit whilst we’re ahead.” Jack slowly placed the smaller dish down and grabbed what was unmistakably a mixing bowl. “Better, now for the butter…”
They had been baking now for an hour, and Jack’s pie was looking more than serviceable, this was mainly down to Bitty’s use of at least one of his hands, and the extraordinary excuse for chirping that was his injury and Jack’s kitchen incompetence.
“I don’t know why you went purple with that cast Bits, you could’ve gotten Falcs colours, show a little support for your NHL boyfriend, eh?”
“But then the Samwell boys would be mad it’s not Samwell colours, I got the mixture of the two. It’s a good mix. Like us.”
“Bits, if you’re suggesting either of us is glittery we need to have words.”
“Do I not shimmer in the sunlight Mister Zimmerman!?”
“That you do, Bits. That you do.”
My sweet boys. Poor Bitty. Oh goodness, the mess… they cleaned it up I assure you. Jack doing all the manual labour whilst Bitty barked more orders at him, although it’s hard to sound intimidating with pie filling across your cheek and the biggest dopey smile. Anyways, Jack thinking of Bitty as his sweet southern peach is just a me thing, he totally doesn’t say it out loud for the longest time, but one time he slips up in front of Shitty and the chirping is yet to cease.
If you want send me more prompts. (I need to get better at writing all of SMH).
