Eric Bittle (
puckandpie) wrote2016-01-24 05:54 pm
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a weighty request [dated for 1/22]
Not only have I been asked to bake pies for Dean Winchester's birthday, but I've been asked by Derek and Dean's husband, a real life actual angel. Derek asking me would have been enough for me to say yes, of course, but being surprised by an angel had made thinking of any other response absolutely impossible.
Again, not that it was really on the table to begin with.
I have two and a half days to get them all done and I'm not really worried, but I have work tonight and I'd like to film and edit something for my vlog at some point tomorrow so I need to get started. I'm elbow-deep in the mix for the salted caramel cookie pie when I hear a light knock on my door.
"Oh, one second!" I call out, quickly wiping my hands on my apron after I set the bowl aside and hurrying to the door.
I feel a smile break across my face when I see who it is, immediately holding the door wide to let him in. "Jack! Hi! Come in."
Again, not that it was really on the table to begin with.
I have two and a half days to get them all done and I'm not really worried, but I have work tonight and I'd like to film and edit something for my vlog at some point tomorrow so I need to get started. I'm elbow-deep in the mix for the salted caramel cookie pie when I hear a light knock on my door.
"Oh, one second!" I call out, quickly wiping my hands on my apron after I set the bowl aside and hurrying to the door.
I feel a smile break across my face when I see who it is, immediately holding the door wide to let him in. "Jack! Hi! Come in."
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"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?"
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"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?"
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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?"
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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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I slap at Jack's hand, though I can't help the smile on my face. "You've had enough there, mister. No more." I pop one of the caramel bits in my mouth though and give him a grin before lifting the bowl to pour the rest of it into the pan.
"Afternoon works perfect for me," I say through my mouthful of caramel. "You know how I hate mornings. Maybe we could do lunch sometimes, too. I don't usually start at Semele's til early evening so I'm free almost all day.
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When he smacks my hand, I can’t help but to laugh just a little. I do manage to pull the spoon away and I stick it in my mouth before he can take it from me, sucking the batter from the metal before setting it into the sink.
“I would like that,” I say quietly. As much as I would like to sometimes, I really don’t want to take up too much of Bittle’s time. But the thought of having a routine, even one as basic as lunch and a run with a friend, is comforting.
Bittle has the filling inside the crust and I peer over at it, hesitating for a moment before finally speaking. “Are you going to do a lattice top on that one? I could do it if you want to start on the next one.”
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"And no, this one's just a cookie a pie so I'm gonna just pop it right in and is," I tell him, arching an eyebrow over the fact that he actually just used the word lattice. He clearly hadn't been lying about that class we took, or helping me out in the kitchen. Not that I thought he had, but it's still interesting to see actual evidence of it.
"You can help with it on the strawberry rhubarb, though if you really want to. I have dough chilling in the fridge already so can get a head start if you'd like!"
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When he says that there’s no lattice, I can’t help but to deflate a little. I want to prove to Bittle that we work well together, on and off the ice. I want to show him what he’s taught me, maybe make him proud.
“Oh, oui.” I perk up a bit and nod, sliding off of the counter and washing my hands before getting the dough out. All of his supplies are laid out and I grab a rolling pin and the flour sifter, looking over at him with a smile. “Prepare to be amazed, bien-aimé.”
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It's an absolute lie of course and I'm sure Jack knows it, but still.
My face is still a little damp as I slide the cookie pie into the oven and I wipe at my cheek as I set the time before heading for the fridge. Jack actually looks legitimately excited at the prospect of working on the lattice crust and isn't that a kicker? I pull out the ball of dough I've had chilling and drop it to the counter in front of him, smirking at him again.
"You better not have just called me something rude in French," I tell him. "I'll find out and have your hide, you know."
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I roll out the dough until it's flat, and then I grab a knife. I'm still the slightest bit out of it, so I move slowly and carefully, cutting the dough into even strips.
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It's starting to look like I'll need to learn French here soon. I wonder if Barton has any individual courses on that.
I start working on hulling and having the strawberries as Jack works carefully on the crust, his tongue just peeking out from between his lips and brow furrowed in concentration. Aside from the tongue part, he looks just as he would in practice, wholly focused and intent. He's still moving a little slowly, a little carefully, but he doesn't look irritated to be doing what he is.
And it's nice, actually. This is nice. I don't bother hiding my smile as I finish up preparing the strawberries and then trim the rhubarb before throwing both ingredients into a large bowl and adding the sugar.
"You really have been practicing, have you?" I ask him, still smiling as I add the cornstarch and then sprinkle in the sugar and salt.
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The filling looks good, and I set about assembling the lattice with determination, fingers working carefully as I weave the strips together. "It's kind of relaxing, eh? I can see why you like it."
Baking will never be my hobby, and I'll never be good at it like Bittle, but this is nice. Helping him out in the kitchen has always been nice, even when I end up covered in flour from chirping Bittle too many times.
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"Can you roll out the bottom crust for me while you're at it? I'm just about done with this filling."
I still need to make the glaze yet, but that shouldn't take more than a few seconds and it's nice to just watch Jack work so hard on something other than hockey. He makes a pretty good helper, too. I'm not all surprised we did so well on that final.
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"There you go," I say, sounding a little like a third grader who just drew something for the fridge. I smile sheepishly, cheeks a little pink as I look over at him. "Told you we were good at this."
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"Never doubted you for a second," I tell him, setting my whisk aside so I can fill my pie pan with the crust Jack's so lovingly rolled out for me.
There's always something soothing about this step, something about filling it just perfectly and trimming off the edges that I've always enjoyed and I fall quiet for a moment as I get it all settled in there just right.
"Look okay?" I ask him, wiping my hands off on my apron before grabbing my filling and getting ready to pour it in. "I'll have to tell Dean you helped out with this. We can call it Jack and Eric's Strawberry Rhubarb Pie."
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"It looks pretty good," I assure him, stepping out of the way when he starts to move around. Bittle says he'll name it after us and my cheeks go warm for some reason. "Nah, I barely did anything. I'm sure he'll like it, though."
I bite my lip, working up the nerve to speak. "Maple sugar crusted apple. That's my favorite pie. You haven't made it since I got here, so I figured you didn't remember. But that's my favorite."
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But never really fond. Huh.
I'm busy pouring in the filling, smoothing it over with a spatula and then very, very carefully draping Jack's meticulously crafted lattice atop when he speaks again. Glancing over, I notice the slight flush to his cheeks, the awkward dart of his eyes, and something clenches low in my belly.
"Oh," I breathe, feeling my own cheeks warm as I look back at the pie, pinching the bottom and top halves of the crust together. "No, that's. You never told me back where I'm from. Or, well. It's not that I think you were withholding. It just never came up. To be honest, I always sort of got the feeling you weren't too big a fan of my pies."
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I know that isn't all of it. Bittle bothered me at first, truly bothered me for reasons that I don't even think that I could explain if I tried. He made me feel jealous and awkward, made my face flush hot at random times. He so easily earned my father's praise when it's all I've ever wanted.
Bittle changed things. He threw a cog into my perfectly organized life, but I learned to live with it. More than that, I learned to need it.
"But your pies are good," I assure him. Sure, I've never eaten as much as the rest of the guys, but it was hard for me to get into a mindset where sweets at any time was okay. Sitting on the roof with a pie and a fork wasn't something I ever had, not until Shitty dragged me and Bittle out there to have it.
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Jack's about as rigid and self-disciplined as they come and he expects the rest of his team to be, too. Or at least try to be.
His voice softens a little and I hazard a glance at him, still pinching my way around the edge of the pie. "Maple sugar crusted apple," I tell him as something in my chest goes warm and I wonder when exactly I started caring so much what Jack Zimmermann thinks of my pies. "I can make you one just as soon as I'm done with the order for Dean's party. How does that sound?"
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The moment hangs between us, quiet and a little awkward, and I clear my throat. The drugs are wearing off and I feel a little less sluggish, a little more aware of myself. I'm not sure that's a good thing. "Is there anything else I can do to help?"
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It's like we're meeting each other all over again, these slightly different versions. And sometimes we slip.
Jack looks sad, is the thing, and it makes my heart ache something awful, so I quickly paste on a smile and shake my head. "I'm glad you told me. I've always wondered, you know -- a favorite pie says a lot about a person. But no, we're about done here, I think." I'm just finishing off the crust, brushing a light glaze over the top. "As soon as the cookie pie's done, I'll slide this one on in. My bed's still open for a nap if you want one. Or we could watch some TV for a bit while these finish up."
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"TV is fine." After getting myself a glass of water, I head to the living room and sit down on the sofa, pulling my bare feet up under myself. "The history channel here is strange, and there's no ESPN."
That's all the TV that I watched back home.
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It's also almost a perfect mix of American and Canadian, but I don't say that either.
Instead, I nod toward the living room. "How 'bout you find us something to watch while I clean up in here. There must at least be some trashy reality TV we can watch."
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My voice is pitched high, and I smile triumphantly when the cat comes out and jumps onto my lap. There's a tiny piece of pie dough hidden in my palm and I hold it out, laughing a little as Elvis snaps it up.
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"Do you want some chips, maybe? Or a sandwich? I can make you a sandwich."
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