#pre zimbits

[justlookfrightened]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

This fills a Tumblr prompt from notenoughgatorade: "bitty and jack road trip to montreal." It was one of a series of prompts I've been working through and posting to Tumblr, but this one, needing a whole road trip to get through, got to long, so I'm posting here first.

[stufftippywrote]

in which jack gets hazed

Prompt list is here #36: "That was kind of hot."

"Zimmermann! You're next," Shitty says. It's mid Haze-A-Palooza, and Jack's shirtless on center ice at Faber, dutifully following the instructions of his teammates. It's all ridiculous, but Jack tries to stay good-natured about it. He's really trying hard to jell a little better with his team, embrace these guys who have had his back for three years. Shitty especially. The few beers in his system are helping, too.

"Choose any partner," Shitty instructs him, "and give us a nice little ice dance."

"We're not wearing skates," Jack says, trying not to chuckle.

"Zimmermann." Shitty fixes him with the death glare. "Sass me again, I dare you."

"Fine," Jack says, raising his hands in surrender. "Okay, I choose Bittle."

Bittle jumps. "Me? Why?"

Jack rises to his feet. "You're a former figure skater, aren't you?"

"It's not skating!" Bittle looks like he's about to flee, which in Jack's current state just amuses the hell out of him. He takes a few long strides across the ice to where Bittle stands, eyeing him warily. "Okay, okay, but no chirping me about this, all right? You're the one who chose me."

"I swear." Jack puts his hand over his heart. "No chirping."

"Okay." Bittle reaches out, takes his hands. "You let me lead, okay? You just put your hand here, and there."

And it's a dare, it's hazing, Jack doesn't think anything of it. He's definitely not noticing how Bittle's shoulder is warm and firm beneath his palm, or how sure and practiced Bittle seems as he lays Jack's hands on him. Or how Jack is shirtless right now, and how outside of the locker room, he hasn't been half-naked and close to a man like this for years.

He's not thinking about those things as Bittle leads him into a sure-footed waltz of sorts, pulling Jack backward across the ice in a simple one-two-three that Bittle counts out under his breath. It's easy to fall into that rhythm following him, and it's easy to drown out the whistles and shouts of the others -- especially with the sudden roar of his blood rushing through his body, and the pound of his pulse in his ear.

"Spin me," Bittle whispers, and Jack lifts his hand, lets him free. As Bittle twirls, Jack wishes he had a camera in his hands. He'd take a flurry of photographs -- each a different angle of Bittle's profile. Chin upturned, eyes now closed in a blink, now wide open, his mouth open in the beginnings of a laugh. Maybe it's the light, maybe it's the beer, but Bittle looks eminently photographable. Like something Jack wants to capture for posterity.

"That's it," Bittle says, coming back to him. "Nice job, Captain." He grins, and Jack finds himself grinning back.

They return to the waltzing, and Jack tightens his hold on Bittle's hand and shoulder. Bittle's radiating a little heat now, his shirt brushing Jack's chest, and Jack can feel it settle into his skin. Bittle was a good choice of partner, he thinks. Anyone else would have been a disaster. But this -- this is kind of nice. He wouldn't mind keeping going with this for -- for however long he could.

But Bittle has other ideas. "All right, I think that's plenty," he says, slipping out of Jack's grasp. Jack's hands are grasping air, and Jack forces them to relax, bring his arms back to his sides. He wasn't ready to let go.

Now the rest of the team comes back into focus, applause mixed with hooting and laughter. As he returns to his place at center ice, Lardo comes out to meet him, claps him gently on the back. "Dude," she says, "that was kinda hot."

She's right. It kinda was.

Bittle frowns at him. "No chirping, remember?"

"No chirping," Jack says soberly. Bittle's kind of cute, come to think of it. How has Jack missed that?

"All right!" Shitty shouts. "Chow, your turn." And the hazing continues into the night, but the warmth in Jack persists. Maybe he can do this, after all. Relax a little, enjoy being with his friends. Even enjoy being with Bittle. Imagine that.

He has a feeling that his senior year will be a really good year.

[garibaldifigroll]

My (reblog) for the OMGCP TBT...

A cute treatise from way back when in 2017, on the Management of Hockey Bros, Lardo passes on Da Knowledge to Ford:

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

By @hockeydyke

@17piesinseptember

[halfabreath]

prompt, if it's not too late: bitty teaching jack to bake, jack pov

Bittle has been talking about unsalted butter for seven and a half minutes straight and Jack, shockingly, isn’t annoyed by it. He’s not entirely sure why but he doesn’t hate the way Bittle’s prattling on and on about expiration dates and ingredient ratios. Jack’s been smooshing flour and butter together to make a pie crust for the entirety of his monologue, letting the tide of Bittle’s Southern drawl push and pull him in and out of awareness.

It’s nice. 

He makes a fist; the mixture clumps together in the shape of the space between his fingers and palm. Jack’s hands are covered in the crumbly mixture. He brushes them off, careful to let the crumbs fall back into the bowl, and makes his way over to the sink to wash the butter and flour off. 

Bittle sweeps past him when he moves, immediately taking his place in front of the bowl. His chattering picks up, brighter and happier than before as he praises Jack’s work. Jack’s not entirely sure why what he’s done requires praise but - 

It’s nice. 

Jack runs his hands under the cool water, letting the stream carry the last bit of flour down the drain. He cleans the butter off with soap and after he dries them off on a dish towel his skin feels smoother than before. Jack laughs, soft and sudden, and Bittle turns away from the crust to look up at him with his big, wide eyes. 

“Soft hands,” Jack says, and Bittle just blinks in confusion. “From the butter.” Jack explains as he holds up his hands. Bittle laughs, finally understanding. 

“Now you know my secret.” Bittle says with a wink. Jack’s not sure that’s true, because there’s so much about Bittle that feels undiscoverable, hidden away beneath layers of smooth meringue and bright yellow lemon curd. 

Still, when Bittle shows him how to press the crust into the pie tin, placing his strong, soft hands over Jack’s to teach him the precise motions Jack thinks he maybe knows him a little more than he did before. 

That’s nice, too. 

[transarchive]

I posted my gang AU

Title: Origins

Ship: Pre zimbits, Holsom, ShittyLardo

Summary:  SMH is well known through Los Santos as people not to be played with. A family first, a gang second, but where did they begin? Were they born into it, or did they stumble across this life? Each of them has a past, and a story.

Tags: Alternate Universe - GTA AU, Criminal AU, Organized Crime, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, morally grey everyone, Trans Character, Non-Graphic Violence, Gun Violence, Trans Eric "Bitty" Bittle, The hockey mafia, Blink and miss zimbits, implied shittylardo, implied Holsom, its all backstory so its all implied rn

on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14666709/chapters/33883332

                                                           _____

The thing about it is, Bitty could have a reason for being hateful. Nothing to justify it, but something to make people nod their heads and think ‘ no wonder’ .

It could be the school bullies, shoving and kicking him until he was a broken, mangled mess. It could be his parents, who said they loved him, then turned their backs and kicked him out the second he wasn't the sweet ‘girl’ they’d raised. Of course a boy scorned like this would turn dark and angry with the world.

These could be reasons, but they aren’t the truth. Honestly, Bitty isn’t actually hateful. Bitty isn’t angry, with the world or with anything. Bitty doesn’t have a burning need to hurt those who hurt him, or to senselessly destroy everything around him the way he was destroyed. Oh, no. Bittywishes it was something like a vendetta. At least vendettas are a cause and effect.

The truth is, Bitty’s just always been drawn to things he shouldn’t be. Fast things, dirty things. Things his mother tried to steer him from and raise him to be above. And Bitty tried so hard to be above it, to be the good child they asked for. He got good grades, he went to church like he was told, he did his chores around the house. It just never changed anything about him.

                                                          _____

Even when Bitty was on the streets, with every reason to steal, he tried to be good. Bitty only stole because he had to, and only when he had to. It didn’t matter that he was good at it, because it wasn’t something to be good at. It was a means of survival. Bitty kept his head above the water line, just barely, and didn’t let himself be lured into anything more. When the opportunity presented itself for a stable living in the form of a checkout boy, he took it.

Things start to look up. Bitty finds an apartment, he gets a promotion, he finds a nice boy at a coffee shop and starts to date him. Everything is set for Bitty to have a nice, quiet life.

Nice and quiet don’t sit very well with Bitty, and they sure don’t sit well with Los Santos. Los Santos is as glitzy as it is dirty as it is violent. Maybe that’s why Bitty ran there in the first place. As much as Bitty tries to live his honest life in a dishonest city, he gets glimpses of deals in alleys, sees the same boys arrested in the news who are always let go within the week, despite mountains of evidence against them.  

And he craves it.

                                                          _____

It’s almost nine months into Bitty’s Happy Home™ when Bitty ruins his life. Or that’s what anyone else would say. Bitty doesn’t feel that way - not really.

The first mistake started in the beginning, when Bitty didn’t run the second he found out his nice, sweet, coffee shop boyfriend—Brent—was a cop.

Not only was Brent a cop, he was a clean cop. A cop that was trying to make the city better for the people in it. Bitty should have run, because a cop was too close to everything Bitty was trying to make himself avoid, but Bitty stayed. Bitty stayed because he could listen to Brent’s stories in bated breath and fake concern.

The second mistake was thinking he could keep up a happy appearance at all.

Brent is sitting on the sofa, Bitty’s in the kitchen, cooking, when Brent says, “I made us dinner reservations at Patricia’s for next week.”

Next week. Their anniversary. Bitty forces a smile. “Sounds lovely.”

“Nine months,” Brent says, getting up, walking over to Bitty in the kitchen, wrapping him in a hug from behind. “Can you believe it’s been so long?”

The oven gets slammed a little too hard. “Nope! I sure can’t!”

“Three more, and we’ll be celebrating our one year!”

It sinks in, and Bitty thinks—really thinks—about having spent a year with Brent, and then another, and another, until they’re getting married and having a kid and living a nice little suffocatingly boring life with two-point-five kids and a dog and a house and a mortgage-

“I can’t- I can’t do this,” Bitty whispers.

And that’s how Bitty ruined nine months of his life in the span of two seconds. Or, that’s what anyone else would say. Bitty really can’t say he feels the same.

                                                          _____

Nothing changes. Not really, anyway.

Bitty doesn’t see Brent anymore, and that gets settled and forgotten within the span of a few weeks, because Brent wasn’t really tangled in Bitty’s life. Most of the work there is getting things from Brent’s apartment back to his.

Bitty keeps his job and his apartment, and he keeps living his nice life.

There’s one difference, though, and that is every so often, Bitty lifts.

Sometimes it’s from a homophobic patron who doesn’t shut up, or the store itself when his boss’ mood is taken out on the rest of them.

It’s not necessity - but it’s harmless, and it’s only every so often. Never anything that would affect them, either. Just a twenty here and there, or a pack of gum when no one's looking. Things that won’t be missed, anyway. It’s just to keep Bitty from slipping again.

                                                          _____

It takes six days for Bitty to make himself go to the bank to deposit a check. Not five, not seven. There’s no particular reason for the delay. Except, maybe fate.

Some things happen for a reason, after all.

Bitty spends so much time feeling connected to the darkness of the city that he thinks he’d know something was going to happen before it happened; a gut feeling, maybe. But Bitty doesn’t notice anything until the first guard goes down. And then the second. And then the third.

Immediately, there’s chaos all around, people screaming and trying to get out of the way. A few of them make it to the streets, but bitty knows they’ll be picked off in the openness of the streets. He’s seen all of this before, though never in person.

Bitty just stands there watching, then thinks maybe he should get down and hide somewhere, just in an effort to not get shot by a bullet.

He doesn’t have a chance to. An arm comes around his waist, pulling him back hard against their chest and doesn’t let up. A gun is put to the side of his head.

“Nothing personal, babe,” the voice says against his ear, a light accent that Bitty can’t place under the pressure, “don’t move, don’t do anything stupid, and you’ll get out alive.”

A few others start to flood in, all masked, all in black.

Bitty is by all means terrified, but another part of him feels more alive than it has in twenty one years. And then that part of Bitty decides to do something stupid, despite the warning.

Whoever the dude holding him is, he’s clearly in charge of the other masked people, because he’s too busy barking out orders to them (into Bitty’sear , which hurts ) to notice Bitty’s hand itching back slowly, and lifting his wallet, and sliding it into his own pocket.

Bitty makes a good captive, he likes to think. When his captor presses the gun barrel a little harder because the clerks aren’t giving them the amount they’re demanding, Bitty lets out a little sob, and pats himself on the back when the clerks start handing it over.

All too soon, the thieves take their money, and Bitty is tossed roughly to the floor as the man takes off, along with his crew. Bitty looks up to catch a glimpse of his assailant, but only sees the back of him, and can’t help but think ‘ lord, he’s got a good ass ’.

Between the police statement, and then the reporters, Bitty gets a little swept up in playing up his trauma to look realistic. He fake cries when he’s suppose to, thanks the police, says a few words the news can replay later that night.

When the police ask if Bitty managed to get a clear look at the face of the man who’d held him, Bitty finally remembers the wallet tucked safely in his pocket, probably with a fake photo ID.

“No,” Bitty says, truthfully, “I didn’t see his face.”

It’s a few hours before Bitty is alone again, in his car, where he can take out the wallet and really look at it.

There’s a few receipts, some cash, but Bitty’s mostly interested in the ID. He slips it out and looks it over. Blue eyes and floppy black hair, named Laurent Jackson. Bitty shakes his head. That can’t be right. Unless this boy is particularly dumb enough to carry around a real ID, it has to be an alias.

                                                          _____

For the second time that day, Bitty overestimates his gut feeling.

Bitty should’ve noticed an unfamiliar bike parked in the space next to his as he got home, but it was hours later, so late it was dark, and Bitty was exhausted. Nothing goes noticed, though, until Bitty closes the door to his apartment, turns on the light and he notices a man sitting on his sofa, lounging causally. In his hands, twirling, is a knife.

For the second time that day, Bitty has every right to be terrified, but some flame in him is ignited.

Bitty digs for the wallet in his pocket and tosses it to the man, who catches it easily with his free hand. “Nothing personal, babe.”

The man laughs. “You know, I thought you were moving around too much. I thought you were maybe just a squirmer.” The man flips open the wallet, closes it, and extends his hand.

Bitty blinks at him innocently.

The man sighs. “The ID. Where is it?”

Bitty bites back a grin. “I have no idea.”

“I don’t have time for this. Where’s the ID?”

Bitty makes a show of checking his front pockets, then his back pockets, meanwhile the man looks at him, thoroughly unimpressed. Finally, Bitty pulls out the card from the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. “Ah! This one?”

The stranger reaches for it, and Bitty tugs it away. “Hold it! This says your name is Laurent Jackson. I don’t think that’s entirely right.”

Bitty only gets a second to brace before he’s being knocked back onto the couch and pinned under the man.

“Well! Ain’t this a bit forward!”

This makes the man stare at him. “Do you have a death wish? There’s easier ways to die than being carved up, you know.”

Bitty’s well aware he’s practically playing with fire next to a waiting fuse in an oil refinery, but he can’t stop, now that he’s started. His mother did always warn him about bad behavior being a slippery, addictive slope.

“I just wanna know your name.”

The man shoots Bitty a filthy grin. “Why?” he leans in, close to Bitty’s ear. “Want to know what name to scream when you’re begging for mercy?”

Something in Bitty stirs, and he grins back. “Who says I’ll beg?”

A little—somehow still logical—part of Bitty’s brain screams that he’s currently under a much larger man who broke into his apartment, threatened to kill him, and he’s sitting (laying) here flirting with him of all things.  

The man just laughs. “You’re a ballsy one. So if I give you my real name, you’ll give me that ID?”

Bitty nods, and the man pushes up onto his knees. “Jack.”

“Jack,” Bitty mimics. “I’m Eric.”

Jack doesn’t respond, just watches Bitty curiously for a second. After a few moments, Jack breaks the silence. “You know, I’d usually just kill you, but I’m thinking that would be a waste.”

Bitty raises a brow. “Waste of-?”

“You,” Jack says simply, “Your skills. And I don’t mean the sticky fingers. I saw your interview on the news. It’s more than being a good actor. You know how to make people trust you.”

Bitty rolls his eyes and stands up from the sofa, making his way to the kitchen “It’s not hard to make people feel sorry for you after you’re involved in a bank robbery,” he calls back.

There’s footsteps following him, and sure enough, Jack’s just behind him. Bitty doesn’t acknowledge him, just starts digging through the fridge for something to make.

Jack continues, “most people can’t fake trauma like that. They don’t need to.”

“Maybe I am traumatized,” Bitty says, a little short, “Maybe I’m in shock.”

Jack hums. “Maybe. Or maybe you just don’t care like you should.”

That makes Bitty freeze. He stands in surprise for a second, and then closes the fridge and turns to face Jack, arms crossed.

“Okay. You caught me. What does this have to do with me being valuable?”

“Me and my crew aren’t exactly open enrollment,” Jack says, “but I think you’d be a good asset as a decoy. You’d scout places, talk to people, get information and report back.”

For a moment, Bitty waits for the punchline, for Jack to start laughing like earlier, but he doesn’t. He just watches Bitty, expectantly.

“Y-you’re serious?” Bitty says finally, “You want me to join your crew?”

Jack nods.

It’s everything Bittys ever wanted, served up on a plate, with a bow. It’s everything Bitty’s fought to stay away from, that would ruin what Bitty’s worked so hard for.

But what has Bitty worked for? A cheap apartment and some morals given to him by people he hasn’t seen in years?

Still, Bitty clings to some semblance of self preservation. “I’m not a criminal.” It sounds more like a question than a stance.

Jack snorts. “You lie like one.”

“I was trying to be normal, ” Bitty says between his teeth.

“How’s that working for you?”

“Fine!” Bitty snaps loudly, “It’s been fine! I have an apartment, and a job, and...” Bitty trails off.

Jack sighs. “And you’re satisfied with this?”

Bitty doesn’t reply.

There’s footsteps again, making their way to stand behind Bitty.

“I’m not going to beg, but you can’t fool me. You won’t be happy like this. I tried it too.”

They’re quiet for a moment again, until Bitty finally, quietly asks, “What would this entail?”

“Starts with a few tests of loyalty, training and initiation, and then a couple of small jobs, trial runs. Mainly, we run a bar, so we’ll set you up as a bartender, you keep an ear out for anything you think is suspect. Talk to people. You work your way up jobs. You get paid.”

“And...when would this start?”

“As soon as you’d want it to.”

Again, they fall into silence, and then Bitty turns to face Jack again. “Alright. I’m in.”

Jack smiles.

When Jack asks what changed his mind, Bitty doesn’t answer him. Maybe it was the reassurance that he’d be trained, or knowing that Jack had tried to be normal once, too.

Those could be reasons, but they aren’t.

The truth is, Bitty just wanted the knowledge that he tried to be good, one last time.

[justlookfrightened]

Any chance you could do pre-zimbits with 60?

No. 60: You look like you could use a hug

From this prompt list

Read on AO3

Bitty shuffled his feet into his slides and slipped out into the hall.

He should be asleep. It was past midnight and they had practice at seven and being tired clearly was not going to help.

It seemed like the rest of the Haus had the same idea; he could hear faint snores from the attic and, even from the second floor, the fan on the old fridge kicking on.

Maybe he’d only lived here for a few weeks, but he loved this old Haus. It was shabby and worn, to be sure, but not quite falling-down-around-the-ears yet. And it felt like home. It felt like home last year before he even lived here, what with having a functioning kitchen (at least after he deep cleaned it) and being filled with people who both liked him and accepted him for who was.

In Bitty’s experience, those things didn’t always go together. Plenty of people in Georgia liked him — relatives, friends of his parents, teachers, even some of his peers — but he didn’t dare breathe a word about liking boys to them. The ones who did think he was gay, well, to them he was only a target for abuse.

What would happen if he got kicked off the team? Would he have to leave the Haus? Would he be able to keep his scholarship to stay at Samwell at all? He was pretty sure that if he got injured his scholarship would be safe. What about a mental health issue?

He was perseverating or catastrophizing or one of those things the therapist in the Samwell counseling office told him about last year. He’d gone at Hall’s suggestion, and kept going for the maximum six sessions, but when they were up, there was no way for him to continue without getting insurance involved, and that would mean telling his parents and … nope.

Maybe he could go back for another six sessions this year? In the meantime he could make a pie. Maybe that would soothe him enough that he could sleep at least a few hours.

He pushed himself away from his door, tiptoed past Jack’s room, and made his way quietly down the stairs. There was still a flat of blueberries on the counter calling his name.

Bitty flipped the kitchen light on and took two steps towards the fridge before he realized he wasn’t alone. Jack was sitting at the table, apparently just staring at the mug in front of him. Or not, since it was dark until Bitty got there.

“Jesus, Jack, give a person a heart attack, why don’t you?” Bitty said, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal before opening the refrigerator.

Jack looked up and tried for a smile (maybe? He wouldn’t grimace on purpose). “Sorry, Bittle. Couldn’t sleep. What are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep either,” Bitty said, unwrapping the butter and starting to cut it into small cubes.

“You’re making a pie? Now?”

“It helps me think,” Bitty said. “Or not think, as the case may be.”

He worked in silence for a moment and then said, “You know Hall and Murray want to cut me?”

There. He said it out loud.

“I know they’re considering it,” Jack allowed. “I don’t think they really want to. They’re worried about you.”

“And threatening my place on the team is supposed to help?”

“They’re also worried about the team,” Jack said. “Would it help if we did checking practice again?”

Bitty considered while he cut the butter and flour together.

“Maybe,” he said. “I might go back to the counseling office too.”

“If you need help finding a therapist, I could ask mine for recommendations,” Jack said.

Because of course he probably had a sports psychologist on speed dial, Bitty thought. But that was unfair and he knew it.

He looked over at Jack while he filled a small bowl with ice and water. He was still slumped at the table, not actually looking at Bitty.

“We’ll see,” Bitty said. “What about you? What’s got you hitting the Sleepytime tea tonight?”

Jack shook his head, and Bitty thought that was all the answer he would get.

But then Jack said, “Did you ever work so hard to get what you wanted, and then when you got close, wonder if you really wanted it after all?”

He paused and shook his head again.

“That’s not right. You do want it — you really, really want it — but you don’t want everything that comes with it?”

Bitty knew he didn’t know everything about Jack, probably didn’t know the half of what brought him to Samwell to begin with, but thought Jack was probably talking about a professional hockey career. And yeah, getting close to achieving a dream could be scary.

“Oh, honey, you look like you could use a hug,” Bitty said, abandoning his dough to stand in front of Jack. “And I could use one too.”

Jack stood and stepped into Bitty’s open arms. It was the first time Jack had ever hugged him without hockey pads on, Bitty realized, and then tried to banish the thought. He couldn’t not notice how warm and firm Jack’s embrace was, or how good he smelled.

Bitty released him and stepped back before that became a problem.

“Get some sleep now,” he said.

“You too,” Jack said. “Do you have to finish that tonight?”

Bitty looked at his dough. It should chill before he rolled it out anyway.

“Not really,” Bitty said. “It can wait ‘til morning.”

“After practice.”

“Yes, Captain,” Bitty said with a roll of his eyes. “After practice.”

He tore off two sheets of plastic wrap for the dough and put the disks in the refrigerator while Jack rinsed his mug.

“You’re not going to bed until I do, are you?” Bitty said.

“Nope,” Jack said. “And you know how much harder practice is if I’m tired and cranky.”

[iboatedhere]

All Wrapped Up In You

Five times Bitty wears Jack’s flannel and one time he doesn’t. 

1

“Bittle?”

Bitty’s being gently shaken awake and he hates it.

He’s not sure where he is or what time it is. All he can remember is getting a pie out of the oven and then everything was hot and blurry and now there’s a hand on his shoulder and a concerned voice in his ear.

He groans and just barely opens his eyes. He has something warm wrapped around his shoulders and he clings to it.

Jack sits down on the coffee table and looks at him through narrowed eyes. He looks a little sweaty and flushed in that ratty, old sweatshirt that Bitty pretends to hate.

“Bitty. Are you okay?”

“No,” Bitty mumbles, voice muffled by a pillow.

“Why are you sleeping on the couch?”

He had no idea he was on the couch. He’s horrified and makes a series of noises into the pillow until Jack tilts his head away from the fabric. His fingers are cool against his own overheated skin.

“Got really hot and dizzy,” Bitty tells him, “needed to lie down.”

“You couldn't make it upstairs?”

“Too many stairs,” he whispers through chattering teeth. He remembers looking up at them and shaking his head before he crawled onto the couch. He remembers Jack’s shirt hanging over over the arm of it and grabbing it on his way down.

“Are you cold?”

“I was hot then cold and your shirt was on the couch so….used to be a blanket here but...I don't know.”

Bitty closes his eyes as Jack leans over him.

“It fell off the back. Do you want it?”

“No. I'll be too warm. This is okay.”

“You're shaking. I should get you upstairs.”

“Don't want to move. Too warm.”

“I didn't think I'd ever hear you say that. You get chilly in 65 degree weather.”

Bittle doesn't say anything and only opens his eyes when he hears Jack drop to his knees next to him.

Jack sighs. “You really don't feel well, do you?”

Bitty shakes his head and lets his eyes close. He can hear Jack shuffle a bit and then feels the brush his fingertips across his forehead, pushing sweat damp hair out of the way. Bitty hums like it’s the only thing that’s ever felt good.

“You really should be in bed, Bittle.”

“I know.” He thinks about the flight of stairs and the long stretch of hallway. It’s daunting but it might be manageable with Jack’s help. “My pie,” he says suddenly. “Make sure they don’t cut it before it’s cooled. It’ll be a mess.”

“I’ll take care of it, Bittle.”

“You don’t know how those boys are.”

Jack spreads his palm across Bitty’s cheek to calm him down. Bitty sighs. It just feels so good.

“I think I have some idea. I can handle it. Promise. I’ll stand guard if I have to. You’ll be more comfortable upstairs. You hate this couch.”

He does hate this couch. It’s uncomfortable and disgusting and there’s something crunchy by his left knee. The idea of standing is daunting but he has to do it.

Jack puts a steadying hand on his arm as the flannel slides off his shoulders. Jack grabs it before it hits the couch.

“Do you want this,” he asks and Bitty looks at the shirt then drags his eyes up to Jack’s hand then up his arm and finally to his Jack’s face before he nods and sticks his arms into the shirt.

Jack pulls it up his shoulders for him and his hands flail in front of it, like he’s trying to decide if he should button it for him. It’s not something Bitty would be opposed to.

But Jack drops his hands to his sides, only to have one of them settle on the middle of Bitty’s back as he guides him slowly up the stairs and down the hall, only removing it to pull back the covers on his bed so he can slide in.

He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Bitty sleeps soundly, only waking up when the front door slams. He can hear Jack’s voice, only slightly muffled by the pillow he has over his head tell whoever it is to shut the fuck up, Bitty’s sick.

The next time he wakes up it’s his own fault. He’s coughing so hard his eyes start to water and it takes him a few minutes to notice Jack sitting next to him rubbing his back.

“Sorry I woke you up,” Bitty says with a hoarse voice.

“I was up anyways.”

Bitty sinks back into the pillow, shakes off Jack’s attempt to tuck his comforter up under his chin in favor of pulling Jack’s shirt tight around him. “What were you doing up?”

Jack shrugs. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

Bitty doesn’t buy it. He has some vague, cloudy, memory of someone pulling the covers up his shoulders after he’d kicked them off and untwisting the flannel from around his body so it wasn’t choking him.

“Can I get you anything,” Jack asks with his hand still moving in small circles across his back. “Water? Cough syrup?”

“Do we have cough syrup?”

“No, but I could-.”

“Don’t you dare, Jack Zimmermann. I know you take your captain duties very seriously but you are not going out in the middle of the night for cough syrup.”

“If you need it I’ll go.”

“I’m fine, Jack. I feel better already.”

He ends the sentence in a cough that starts up another thirty seconds of hacking up a lung. Jack frowns and keeps rubbing his back throughout it.

“I’m really okay. You’ve already done enough.”

“I haven’t done anything. Chowder came by with six different thermometers because he didn’t know which one was the best and Dex showed up with a blanket he brought from Maine because you brought him soup when he was sick.”

“Oh,” Bitty says as he reaches behind him. He got tangled in the thick wool earlier in the evening and had no idea what it was. “That’s what this is.”

“So if you need anything you should tell me.”

“I think I just need to go back to sleep.”

Jack nods but doesn’t get up. If anything it looks like he’s settling in further.

“You should probably go to bed too. Don’t you have an early class?”

Jack startles and pushes himself up. “I do, yeah.” He tips his head towards the door. “I should probably go. Hope you feel better in the morning.”

Bitty’s right on the edge of drifting off when he feels fingertips against his forehead. That’s what pushes him over into a deep sleep.

He wakes up late in the morning. Someone shut the alarm on his phone off. There’s also a bottle of water on his nightstand. Bitty suspects Jack is responsible for both.

He stays in bed most of the day, napping and catching up on twitter.

Dex’s blanket is soft and warm but it’s got nothing on Jack’s flannel that he refuses to take off even when his fever spikes and he breaks out in a sweat.

Shitty talks him into taking a shower in the afternoon but Bitty refuses to let him in the bathroom with him.

“What if you pass out? What if you fall? What if you crack your head open? Jack will kill me.”

Bitty agrees to a compromise. Shitty stands outside of the bathroom but Bitty will leave the door open a crack.

When he comes out he’s still wearing Jack’s flannel and Shitty merely raises his eyebrows before leading him back to his room.

Jack doesn’t knock before he opens the door.

He’s got an armful of books and seems a little stunned to see Bitty sitting up in bed.

“Sorry. I thought you might be asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. Are you feeling better? Shitty texted me and said he made you take a shower. You gave him a hard time about it.”

“He wanted to come into the shower with me. Not just stand next to the shower, in the shower.”

Jack huffs a laugh and sets the books down on Bitty’s desk. “That sounds like him. I stopped to talk to your professors on my way home and got your make up work.”

“Oh. That’s very….responsible of you.” Bitty still hasn’t finished the work that was supposed to be due today.

“I didn’t want you to fall behind. I told them all you weren’t feeling well and got them to give you extra time so there isn’t a rush. But I’ll help you if you want.”

That makes it a hundred times more appealing.

“Thanks, Jack.”

“No problem, Bittle. Are you feeling any better?”

“I'll be back to making pies in no time.”

“Don't push it.”

“I haven't baked in 24 hours!”

“Is that a record?” Jack says dryly.

“Don't chirp me, I'm sick.”

Jack rolls his eyes and sticks a hand out to ruffle it through Bittys hair. “If you're so sick turn your phone off and get some more rest.”

“Wait.” Bitty wraps his fingers around Jack’s wrist and yanks him back. “I should give you your shirt back. Forgot I had it on.” It's a white lie that Jack doesn't call him on as he unbuttons the shirt and hands it over. “You might want to wash it. Who knows what kind of germs are on it.”

Jack laughs. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Bittle.”

“Oh yeah, much better. I think-.”

Bitty doesn’t know what he thinks because Jack’s reaching out again and covers Bitty’s forehead with his palm. He leaves it there for a moment then slowly pulls it away, fingers dragging across his skin.

“Your fever’s gone down.”

Bitty nods dumbly.

“You should still get some rest though.” He plucks the phone from Bitty’s hand and sets it on his desk.

Bitty crawls under the covers doing his best to pretend to put up a fight.

Jack flicks off the light then closes the door and Bitty falls back to sleep with the feel of Jack’s hand on him.

He dreams he’s still wearing the flannel.

Read more on Ao3

[stufftippywrote]

happy spring c morning

“HAPPY FUCKING SPRING C MORNING!”

Bitty wakes up to the sound of Shitty sprinting up the stairs, shouting his fool head off. Oh. Goodness. It’s nearly 11, and he’s slept in... at least it’s a weekend... but goodness, he’s groggy. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to get used to the nearly-noon sunlight streaming in through his window like nobody’s business. So bright. So much of it.

“JAAAACK. HAPPY SPRING C MORNING!”

mumblemumble “..what is...”

“Drink up, drink up, drink early and often, my man, today is a day to party! I’m goin out there--”

mumblemumble “...my chair...”

“--I gotta greet the world!”

Some scrambling, the sound of Jack’s window creaking open, and then a slightly muffled Shitty shouting “HAPPY SPRING C MORNING!” out on the roof. Bitty thinks he may hear some lax bro shout something back, but whether it’s celebratory or angry, Bitty has no idea. He sits up in bed and wipes the sleep from his eyes.

This’ll be his second Spring C, so he knows what he’s getting into at least. There’ll be a whole lot of noise, a whole lot of dancing, and more than likely a whole lot of substances to abuse. Bitty’s looking forward to it. Not for the substances -- or at least, not for all of them -- but because it’s one of those times when the whole campus comes together and celebrates as one. Spring C is one of those nights when a hockey player might hug a lax bro, where a journalism nerd might get more wasted than a jock. The lion laying down with the rather tipsy lamb. It’s an adventure.

TAP TAP. “HAPPY SPRING C MORNING, BITS! OPEN UP.”

Bitty jumps. Shitty’s outside his window. With a drink. Well. He certainly is in a celebratory mood, isn’t he?

Half-yawning and half-laughing, Bitty opens the window.  Shitty hands him the drink. “Free mimosa delivery! Start your alcohol abuse early, m’man. A little lubrication now makes tonight go that much smoother!” Bitty takes the glass and reaches for his phone. There’s no way he’s not tweeting this.

“Swawesome!” Shitty says, and slithers in through the small window, landing firmly on top of Bitty’s legs as he does. Bitty grimaces under the weight and nearly spills his drink. Shitty apologizes and is on the floor and out the door in another second. “Rans! Holtz! HAPPY MOTHERFUCKING SPRING C--”

Shitty’s voice fades away. Bitty reaches forward to make sure his legs still work, then eases to his feet. He takes a sip of the mimosa. Not bad. But probably best drunk with breakfast. He should head downstairs.

He opens his door and comes face to face with Jack, also in his doorway, also carrying a mimosa. (Also in his boxers. Bitty tries not to look.)

“Um,” Jack says.

“Hi.” Bitty is not looking at Jack’s sleep-ruffled hair or the faint impression of the pillow’s texture on his face. No way.

“I see the other glass was for you,” Jack says.  “I thought Shits was gonna go on the roof and get drunk himself.”

Bitty shrugs. “He says I should start drinking now.”

“It’s a tall glass for you, eh?” Jack smiles slyly. “You drink half of that, you’ll be tipsy all day.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty says, frowning. “You know exactly how much alcohol I can tolerate. Or you haven’t been paying attention.”

“I know, I know,” Jack concedes. “Couldn’t help myself. Excited for Spring C tonight?”

Bitty looks up at him. Last year at Spring C, Jack was... as relaxed as Bitty had ever seen him. Comfortable, having a good time, laughing as Shitty slung an arm around him and swayed to the music. This morning, Jack seems that relaxed and happy now, before the concert has even started. How very much he’s changed in a year. “Yeah,” he answers. “You?”

“You know something?” Jack offers him a soft grin. “I am. I’m pretty excited.”

The grin does things to Bitty’s insides. He tries not to squirm in place. “Well,” he says, raising his glass, “here’s to Spring C, then?”

Jack’s smile grows. He pushes his glass forward, clinks it gently against Bitty’s, and holds it there. “Cheers,” he says gently.

He’s still holding his glass against Bitty’s. Bitty stares at it, puzzled, his heart beating somehow. Spring C is a place of unexpected coming-together. Is it so wild a fantasy to imagine that a teammate -- now a friend -- could look at him with new eyes? In the midst of the magic -- the lights and the music and the drink -- is it possible, even for a second, that his eyes could meet Jack’s, and something could spark there besides the gentle friendship they’ve built together?

He shakes himself out of the fantasy. Straight boy, he reminds himself, straight as a hockey stick. And what’s he thinking, anyway? What’s wrong with the friendship they have? He should be grateful for that instead of wishing for things that’ll never happen. Jack’ll be gone from his life soon enough (and Bitty has to swallow the flood of sorrow as he reminds himself of that). Better enjoy it while it lasts.

That’s right. Enjoy it, enjoy Jack, while he can. Someday he’ll find someone who can return his feelings. Someday, when he’s finally mended the hole in his heart that Jack’s going to leave when he graduates. Oh, Lord. Graduation is so close now.

He withdraws his glass and takes a hasty gulp. The soft bubbles tickle the inside of his mouth.

“Well,” he says, “we’d better take this downstairs. I’m not starting my day by drinking on an empty stomach.”

“Looks like that’s exactly what you’re doing,” Jack says.

Bitty harrumphs. Jack laughs and follows him down to breakfast.