puckandpie | a weighty request [dated for 1/22]

Of course Bittle is baking. The sight is almost comforting, soothing my trembling nerves in a way that the one and a half pills I've taken tonight couldn't quite manage. The bottle is in my back pocket, and thankfully it doesn't rattle as I make my way inside. I am moving pretty slowly, though, thanks to the pills.

"Hi. What kind of pie are you making?" I ask him, my voice quiet and slow, accent thick. "It smells really good."

I make my way to the sofa and sit down heavily, blinking and looking around for the cat. "Ici, minou minou."

Edited 2016-01-25 06:15 (UTC)

It's the tone of Jack's voice, even slow and accented, that makes me realize he's looking for Elvis even if I don't entirely understand the words. A part of me wants to chirp him for trying to call for my cat in French of all things, but it's honestly a little too adorable for me to say a word.

"Oh, he's in his pen. One second!"

As if on cue, or maybe in response to Jack's calls, Elvis lets out a woeful whine from his pen on the other side of the room and I hurry over to let him out. "Uncle Jack's here to see you," I tell him as I unzip the flap, grinning as he immediately trots out and heads straight for Jack, already purring as he rubs up against Jack's leg.

Jack seems... I suppose slow is the only way to describe it. Or maybe just 'off.' I can feel a frown tugging at my lips as I walk over to him again, watching as he pets Elvis. "Are you okay, hon?" I ask, wincing just a little when the endearment slips past my lips. It's not the first time I've said that sort of thing to Jack here, but I really need to not let it be a habit. He hasn't reacted badly so far, but he's been a little emotionally compromised and largely distracted. "Do you need something? Water or juice or something?"

I nod and watch as Bittle goes over to let the cat out, smiling a little as it comes over and rubs against, jumping up onto my lap. "Bonjour, mon petit."

The cat starts kneading at my chest and I slide my hand down his back, fingers tangling in his soft fur. It takes me a moment to realize that Bittle has asked me something, and I turn to look at him, shaking my head,

"Je vais bien. Er-- I'm fine," I tell him, though it isn't really true. I came here for a reason, but I'm a little scared. I have to work up to it. "Ça-- how are you?"

It maybe shouldn't worry me so much that Jack is speaking so much French. I mean, it's not like I've never heard him speak it before. But, it's... it feels strange right now.

Maybe it's less the French and more the slow way he's speaking and the somewhat glazed over look in his eyes.

Either way, it doesn't sit right. Not even when he claims he's just fine.

Still frowning, I take a seat on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. Elvis is curled up on his chest, eagerly soaking up every pet, his bushy little tail held high. "Jack," I say, careful to keep my voice quiet and gentle and barely refraining from touching his knee. "Jack, what's going on? You seem, well... you seem a little out of sorts."

Bittle looks at me, and his eyes are all chocolatey and big. I sigh and scratch the cat behind the ears, feeling my chest constrict. "I took some pills."

I say it quietly, like I'm not ashamed. Like I'm not terrified. I sit up, leaning in a bit closer. Elvis squirms out from under my chest and lays next to me instead, head resting on my thigh.

"That's, uh-- why I came over. J'ai besoin d'aide." I swallow hard and let my head hang, fingers trembling where I grip my knees. "Back home-- at Samwell, Shitty did something for me. He and I were the only ones who knew about it."

I lift my head and slide my shaking hand into my pocket, removing the bottle of Klonopin. The orange plastic is warm and hard under my fingers, and the pills rattle slightly. After a moment, I manage to look up at Bittle, eyes wet as I hold it out. "Shitty held onto my emergency meds for me, and he would only give me one if I really needed it."

Bittle is watching me, so warm and understanding, and I press the bottle into his had. "Can you do that for me here? S'il vous plaît?"

I suck in a shuddering breath, curling Bittle's fingers around the bottle, nodding and trying to give him a smile. This is embarrassing, and so hard, but I need Bittle's help if I'm going to get through this. "Please? I want you to do it."

Edited 2016-01-25 07:19 (UTC)

It's just four words at first, four little words that make my heart sink with worry. And guilt, too. Knowing what I do of Jack's past, I really should've guessed. I mean, I know he takes medication every day -- heck, I'd gone to pick it up for him when he first got here -- but I've never seen this side of it. Does this happen every day and I just don't see it? Is this what happens when he takes too much? Has he been drinking, too?

Are there other sorts of drugs he's been taking, the non-medicinal kind?

I manage to keep my mouth shut though, listening instead as he continues. He presses an orange bottle in my hands, his fingers warm and firm even if he's shaking a little and I stare down it.

Emergency meds. Oh. Goodness. I don't even know what's in this bottle. How many he should take. When he should take them. I don't know anything at all and I've never felt so unworthy of something in all my life.

"Jack." I can't stop saying his name, apparently. I look down at the bottle again and then back up at him again, heart still pounding. "Is this... Did you take some of these already? Is that why you're..." I give a vague motion with my hand, the one still holding the bottle, as I reach out with the other to squeeze his knee. I don't want him to think I'm judging him; I just need help understanding.

His eyes get all big and glassy, and I feel even more like a failure. Bittle isn't making me feel bad. He isn't trying to, at least. He's warm. He's always warm. That's how I know that I can trust him.

"I did," I tell him, wanting to be honest. I was always honest with Shitty. "I took one earlier, and then I had a few beers. Then I took another one and a half."

I swallow hard and lean forward, pressing my forehead against Bittle's and wrapping my hands around Bittle's and the bottle, looking down at it. "These are my Klonopin. They're different than the pills I take every day. They're for calming me down when I'm having a panic attack."

My eyes slip shut and I keep my forehead pressed against Bittle's. He smells like cinnamon and pie, like sugar, and I breathe it in. My voice is low and quiet, and I keep my hands wrapped around Bittle's and the bottle. "I want you to keep them for me, and just give me one if I'm having a panic attack. Okay, Bittle? Just one. I trust you to do that for me. I need you to do that for me."

I may not know much about anxiety medication -- and it's looking like I'll need to do some research here real soon -- but I know that mixing them with alcohol probably isn't a great idea. And if the way Jack is lurching a little, his speech slow and eyes still so glazed over as he leans into me, I know I'm right.

It's terrifying, honestly. I've never seen Jack anything but completely focused and in control of himself and this... I don't know what to do.

I've never been this close to him outside of the rink. Personal boundaries don't really exist in a game and, outside of cellies, I don't think I've even so much as received a friendly hug from Jack. And now he's close enough I can feel his breath against my cheek when he exhales, close enough to see how blue his eyes really are and how dark his eyelashes. He's... well, I've never found Jack unattractive by any means, but it's hard to really appreciate someone aesthetically when you're pretty sure they hate you.

I don't think Jack really hates me anymore and he's... he's very nice to look at.

Also, high out of his mind, obviously. Goodness.

"O-okay," I finally manage, trying not to sound as unsure as I feel. I move my free hand from his knee to his back, trying to soothe him as well as I can. "Just when you're panicking. Okay. I think I can do that." I squeeze the back of his neck lightly and pull away, ducking to see if he can meet my eyes. "Is there anything you need right now? It sounds like you've taken a lot and I'm sure the beer isn't helping. Do I need to keep an eye on you for a bit? Keep you occupied? Or should you sleep?"

However he answers, I'm going to check the internet just to confirm, I think. But it feels better to ask Jack what he thinks he might need personally. It's not like he's a child.

Edited 2016-01-25 17:06 (UTC)

Bittle agrees and I let out a sigh of relief, slumping against him a bit. It's selfish of me to put this on him, I know. But I need help. He's my teammate, and we have each other's backs. There may not be a team here, but I have to believe that the rest is still true.

His words, soft and nonjudgmental as they are, still make my cheeks flush with shame. I should be stronger than this.

"I'm okay. The beer was hours ago, and I've-- well, this is nothing compared to what I've taken before," I admit. He's looking at me, so goddamn warm, and I swallow hard. "I'm not just asking you this because I'm-- impaired. I was planning on it, but I just-- I really wanted to be able to trust myself. I guess I can't, not yet."

I let go of his hands but I stay close, staring into his eyes. "I will, though. I'll get through this. It's just-- it's so hard."

Tears well up in my eyes, because apparently I haven't embarrassed myself enough tonight. I take in a shuddering breath, fists clenched where they're resting on my thighs. "I don't understand why we're here. I want us to go home."

I shut my eyes tight, murmuring to myself in French before I find my words in English again. "I want to play again. I want you to remember me. I want so many things that I can't have."

"Oh, Jack. Sweetheart." The endearment slips out again, but I don't feel too bad about it this time. As high as he is, he may not even register it, much less be able to remember later on. And my chest hurts too much to try holding it back.

I set the bottle behind me on the table as soon as he lets go of my hand and immediately shift to sit beside him on the couch. The sudden movement startles Elvis, who immediately jumps away, but I don't think Jack even notices. He hands his hands on his thighs and he's struggling to breathe again so I sit as close as I can, resting one hand over his arm as I wrap the other around, holding him close. I'm not sure if physical comfort is even what he needs right now or if he'd rather I give him space, but I'm just going on instinct right now.

"I don't understand why we're here either," I tell him and, as much as thinking that has frustrated and hurt me before, it's all the worse right now. If there's anyone who doesn't deserve to be here, it's Jack. Not that any of us deserve Darrow, of course. I'm not sure it's even a punishment. It's just that Jack has so much for him back home, all of his dreams, absolutely everything he's worked so hard for. And none of it transfers here. At all.

It's not fair.

"You... you can still play," I continue, ducking my face against his arm as I squeeze his other shoulder and curl my hand over his wrist. I can feel my throat getting tight and I blink furiously to stave off the tears. I've never been a fan of watching people cry alone, but it feels especially painful right now. This is Jack. For some reason, I don't think it ever occurred to me that he even could cry. "It won't be the same, I know, but you can still play, Jack. And I do remember you. Maybe I don't remember the past year, but you can tell me all about it, okay? And I remember everything from before. I remember our practices together and the parties at the Haus. I remember doing my first keg stand and meeting your dad and getting to play on your line." That train of thought feels dangerous if only because I know Jack hadn't ever been exactly thrilled to have me on his line, but maybe that's changed, too. Either way, I shift gears a little. "I remember you being an absolutely amazing captain. The best I could ever ask for. I remember you, okay? I don't know why we're both stuck here and I'd give just about anything for you to go back, but... but you're still my captain. And I'll do everything I can to help you as much as you need. Whatever you need."

Bittle moves to sit next to me, warm all along my side. This sort of physical affection and comfort is pretty new to me. Shitty would sit next to me, shoulder pressed against my side, but he never put his arms around me and I never really wanted him to. He would hug me all the time, hang off of me and pull at me, but never when I was like this.

But with Bittle, I don’t mind. It’s actually quite the opposite, and I lean against him, my cheek resting against the top of his head as I let his words wash over me.

“I wasn’t just your captain back home. I was your friend,” I find myself saying, sniffling pathetically. I wrap my arm around his waist, sighing heavily. “But thank you, Bittle. Merci. I don’t know what I would do without you here. I hope you know that.”

A part of me isn't quite expecting him to lean into me like he does. It's nice though. And I guess I can't doubt that we really were friends if he's letting me hold him like this.

Then again, maybe this is just how he best copes when he's having these episodes. Maybe Shitty held him close too and pet his back like I am now. Maybe, by some miracle, I've actually managed to stumble into doing this correctly.

"Then we're still friends," I decide, the sadness in his voice still just making me ache all over. Keeping my one arm around him, I use my other hand to gently uncurl his fingers from his thigh and then my pinky finger around his, squeezing lightly. "Pinky swearin' it right now. You, Jack Laurent Zimmermann, are my friend."

I know it's not the same, I know it won't replace the memories I'm missing, but maybe it's a start.

I'm not sure what Bittle's doing when he takes my hand, and I frown down at our joined pinkies in confusion until it dawns on me. I have to laugh and I squeeze his pinky, smiling warmly.

"Pinky swear," I reply, sighing deeply. I do feel a bit better, and I keep my cheek pressed to his hair. "You know, the first time you ever middle named me back home was just after you moved into the Haus. You were in the shower, singing something-- I'm not sure who, loudly."

The memory makes me smile now. "I had been up late studying, and you woke me up, so I went in there to get you to quiet down, and you were not happy."

I still can't believe I moved into the Haus at all. I don't even know how that's possible. A part of me is a little appalled at the idea of living in what is, essentially, a frat house, but I can only imagine how happy I'd been to have full access to the kitchen at any time of the day. Even if Betsy wasn't the greatest oven, she was better than nothing.

"Oh, goodness," I laugh, easily imagining a grumpy Jack stomping into the bathroom. "I suppose that was deeply inconsiderate. But a man's shower time is sacred, Jack! No wonder I was upset."

In truth, I bet I was embarrassed. I'm embarrassed now, just thinking about it. It's not that I really have much to hide from anyone on the team, we've all seen each other in various stages of undress, we've all shared showers after practice and games, but it feels different when you take out of the locker room.

Then again, maybe that's just me.

"You did call me a blasphemer," I say, and the fondness in my voice is undeniable. I swallow hard and remind myself that Bitty doesn't remember any of this. He probably finds the way I act towards him weird, maybe even disconcerting.

"But, uh, thank you," I tell him, sitting up and reluctantly letting my arm fall away from around him. "For doing this. I know it's a big thing to ask."

Jack pulls his arm away and I feel a strange pang of disappointment. Strange only in that, despite the pinky swear, we're not really close at all. It shouldn't bother me that he needs a little space now, and it doesn't, I guess. Not really.

Still, the physical touch, however brief, had been nice.

"I'm happy to do it, Jack," I tell him, my voice quieter now as I duck to try to catch his eye again, make him look at me. "Honored, even, that you trust me with this." Taking a chance, I reach over to squeeze his hand again. "Do you promise you're okay? If you need to sleep it off, you're more than welcome to crash in my room for a few hours. I have some pies I need to make for a friend, but I promise I'll keep the noise down."

When Bittle reaches over to take my hand, I'm a little surprised. I had thought that maybe he wouldn't want to touch me, but this says differently. There's an urge to lace our fingers together, one I don't quite understand and don't allow myself to give into, but I do squeeze back.

"I do trust you," I tell him, swallowing hard and giving him a thin smile. The thought of being alone right now makes my chest clench, and I shake my head a little. "I could help you. I was getting pretty--"

Not a good road to go down. I lick my lips and shake my head a little. "I can just rest here on the couch, if it's okay."

I think it's maybe that, the squeeze of his hand around mine and that singular statement, that has me really believing what he's said about his being friends. Because the Jack I remember could barely trust me on the ice, much less off it. The Jack I remember had to wake up early some mornings just to train me into not making a joke of our team and remind me to eat my protein because he couldn't trust me to do it on my own.

But he says those few simple words this time and I believe him. And goodness do I not want to make him regret it.

The warmth I feel swell in my chest clenches a little when his voice falters. I want to ask him what he was about to say, but I have a feeling it's not really my business, and I don't want to push anything.

"You can help if you'd like!" I tell him, hoping he can read my smile as encouraging and supportive. "Or just keep me company, that'd be nice too. Or you can stay in here and keep Elvis wrangled. He likes to jump up onto the counters while I'm baking and run off with my ingredients."

"I was getting pretty good at helping before," I tell him, finishing my aborted thought. The smile on my face is shy, maybe a little sheepish, and I bite my lip. I don't know how much help I'd be right now, not with how slow my reaction time is. The pills don't seem to have quite a hold on me anymore, but still.

"I can do that." I bite my lip and look down at our still joined hands, cheeks flushing a bit before I let go. "I can impress you with my knowledge on the difference between baking powder and soda."

"Oh." It comes out as little more than a breath, my lips twitching into a smile.

As difficult as it might be to imagine Jack choosing to spend time with me, much less helping me in the kitchen, I don't doubt him. And it's a nice thought. Jack's a born team player and there isn't a single part of me that he believes that wouldn't transfer to areas off the ice.

"Then we've got a plan," I tell him, giving him a nod to follow me into the kitchen. "Let's go, Mr. Zimmermann. Time to show me what you got."

Bittle's small, genuine smile gives me a little ray of hope. He obviously isn't looking down on me for what happened tonight, and I never thought he would, but still. I get up to follow him, chuckling a little when Elvis hops up onto the counter with wide eyes. "I don't think he needs your help, mon petit."

I scoop Elvis up into my arms and then hop up onto the counter myself, chuckling a little when the cat headbutts me with a purr. "What are we making?"

"Right now, a salted caramel cookie pie," I tell him, grinning when he casually hops up onto the counter, Elvis tucked in his arms. I think about scolding him for taking up half my counter space with his big ol' hockey butt, but that feels a little... I don't know. Personal? Maybe that's something the Eric Bittle he remembers would joke about, but maybe it's not. And there's no real way for me to know.

"Here," I add, scooping a small bite of the batter from the bowl and handing it over. "Once I have this in the oven, I'll start in on the strawberry rhubarb. How's it tasting so far?"

"I feel like I need to go for a run just hearing the name," I say with a chuckle. He hands me a spoon and I reach out to take it, looking at the batter and then darting forward to try and catch a drop with my tongue. I'm still moving a little slow, so it lands on my lip instead. I lick it off and then slide the spoon into my mouth, humming in approval at the taste.

"This is amazing," I say, nodding and licking the spoon clean. There's one drop left, and I scoop it up and bring my finger down to Elvis, laughing a little when he licks it up with his rough tongue. "Délicieux, non?"

Jack is my teammate, he's my captain. And, as we've just discussed, he's my friend.

Of course, none of that makes me blind, and I can't say watching him lick off that spoon has me entirely unaffected. At least he can't smell it on me like I know Derek can so I'm relatively sure he doesn't notice when I have to turn away to pour half the batter in my cast iron skillet.

I only glance back when I'm fairly sure my cheeks are a little less pink, catching Elvis licking Jack's finger clean. "If he bites you, it's your own fault," I tell him with a grin before scattering bits of caramel over the mix. "And, you know, running isn't a bad idea. I have a friend here, Thomas -- I'll have to introduce you to him soon -- he likes to run. I kept promising him I'd join him a few times a week, but I've never been able to do it. But maybe you and I could start?"

"Oh, he wouldn't do that-- ow!" The cat does, in fact, bite down on my finger and I laugh, shaking my hand out. "Tu me trahis."

Elvis meows and purrs, rubbing up against me, and I find that I can't even stay mad. I never would have thought that I would be a cat person, but maybe I am.

"Oui, that'd be good," I tell him, grabbing a clean spoon and dipping it into the batter, giving Bittle an innocent look. "I go in the afternoon, usually. I wouldn't mind the company."

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