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

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jack

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."

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It's less that I thought Jack hated my pies, I suppose, and more that I knew he hated how it messed with the team's healthy eating. No one else complained, of course, and I certainly never forced a single one of them to eat what I baked. But I think the temptation was enough.

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?"

"Oh. There's no rush," I assure him, feeling my cheeks go warm and I don't even know why. My hand goes up to rub at the back of my neck and I lean back against the fridge, shrugging one shoulder awkwardly. "I just-- I wanted you to know, I guess."

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?"

As much as I've tried to bridge the year between our memories, I keep inevitably making missteps, constantly reminding Jack over and over that I'm not the Eric Bittle he remembers, not quite the friend he's made over however many months. Admittedly, a lot of it is me trying to get over the Jack I remember, the one who never seemed to feel like I was good enough to be on his team, the one who would harass me day in and day out about what I ate.

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."

Edited 2016-02-06 20:02 (UTC)

"Does mine tell you that I'm Canadian? Heh." I watch him finish getting the pie ready and think about his offer. I am getting pretty tired as the pills wear off, but I don't really want to sleep just yet. Mostly, I don't want to be alone.

"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.

"Jack, almost everything about you screams Canadian," I tell him with a faint smirk. What I don't say is that his choice also tells me that he doesn't necessarily hold to tradition or popularity. He likes things that are a little bit different, despite what people think, but also things close to home. Likes it even more when those things are one and the same.

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."

"Je suis ce que je suis," I call out. The remote is on the table and I make a face at trash reality TV, not reaching out to grab it. "Mon petit!"

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.

"Jack Zimmermann, you're gonna to spoil my cat's diet entirely," I scold him before I got about cleaning up my dirty dishes. He hasn't turned on the TV yet, I notice and I have a feeling it's due to my suggestion. Something about that is oddly comforting though, just a slice of the Jack I remember.

"Do you want some chips, maybe? Or a sandwich? I can make you a sandwich."

"Oh, are you giving me shit about a diet now?" A huff of laughter escapes me, and I slide my hand down the cat's back. "My my, how the tables have turned."

Bittle keeps bustling around the kitchen and offering me things, and just listening to him is exhausting. I tip my head back against the top of the sofa, giving him a tired smile. "Bittle, I'm fine. Come sit down."

"He's a cat!" I argue, though I can't quite keep the smile out of my voice. "He has no impulse control."

The timer on the oven goes off a second later and peek in to check on the cookie pie. It looks about perfect and I test it with a toothpick real quick before pulling it out to cool and sliding the strawberry rhubarb in and re-setting the timer.

I glance over at Jack afterward, his head tipped back against the couch, heavy-lidded eyes fixed on me. With one more look around the kitchen, I decide the rest can wait. "We don't have to watch reality TV," I tell him, slipping out of my apron and draping it carefully over the back of a kitchen chair. "And there may not be ESPN, but there must be something."

"You have no impulse control," I shoot back, smiling sleepily as Elvis butts his head up under my chin and begins to purr. Bittle finally comes out of the kitchen and I pat the sofa next to me while my other hand curls around Elvis' back.

"I don't care what we watch," I mumble around a yawn. "Just sit down."

"Oh, sweetheart, your comebacks definitely need some work," I tell him with a fond grin as I head over.

Reaching down, I give the top of Elvis's head a good scritch and then take a seat next to Jack on the couch. He's clearly struggling to stay awake, though I don't know why. As far as I can tell, there's no real reason for him to not take a nap if he needs it. But I reach for the TV remote without a word and settle back.

"I know there are a couple music channels," I tell him, purposefully keeping my voice low in the hopes that maybe it'll lull him into sleep. "Maybe I put one on and force you to learn some culture."

Bittle's exaggerated drawl makes me huff out a laugh, and I look over at him with a fond expression as he sits down. The chirp has me rolling my eyes though, and I reach out to push his thigh with my bare foot. "Oh, haha. Zimmermann doesn't know what Instagram is. Hilarious."

I settle into the corner of the sofa and rest my feet in Bittle's lap, humming as Elvis settles on my side. "Of all the pop stuff you played incessantly, I think I like Taylor Swift the best."

In truth, Instagram is only one of the many things I know Jack Zimmermann doesn't understand, but I also know he's not feeling at the top of his game right now so I decide to cut him some slack for a bit and let it drop.

Jack sinks further into the couch after I join him, leaning into the corner and resting his feet on my lap. It's... more than a little surprising if I'm honest, and I feel my muscles tense up for a moment before I carefully rest one hand over his ankle. Jack has never ever been anything remotely close to touchy-feely with me or anyone as far as I've noticed, but it's possible things have changed in the year I missed.

Plus, he is heavily medicated right now. And tired.

"That's not a bad choice at all, Mr. Zimmermann," I tell him, lightly squeezing one ankle, my voice a little teasing now as I flip through the channels. "Do you have a favorite song or album? I'd be happy to get you a copy."

"Mm, not the shake it song," I murmur, stretching out a little and curling my hands up under my cheek. The channels flick by too fast for me to see what's on them, and I can't seem to help the yawn that I let out.

Bittle played so much music, and so loudly. There's a lot of it that I never cared for, but some of it did grow on me. "I liked the one about foxes."

Jack stretches out a little, burrowing himself a further into the corner with his hands tucked up under his cheek. It's actually incredibly adorable and I let myself relax a bit, confident that he probably won't remember much of this later so it's okay if I lightly rub his ankle.

Of course, that goes right out the window the second he mentions two T-Swift songs I know for a fact I've never heard.

I'm suddenly sitting up a lot straighter. "What song about foxes? Oh my god, Jack, did Taylor Swift put out a new album??"

I don't remember having closed my eyes, but they suddenly snap back open when Bittle straightens up. Elvis lets out an unhappy grumble and digs his claws into my side, making me wince.

"What?" It takes me a long moment to remember what he's talking about, and I nod as I cover a yawn with the back of my hand. "Oh. Yeah. You spent two full weeks talking about her complete evolution to pop. But I sort of like the country stuff better."

I feel instantly terrible for accidentally jostling Elvis, especially when she digs her claws into Jack, his face scrunching up for a moment before he starts to relax again.

As tired as he is, I know I shouldn't ask for more information, but this is important. "Full evolution? More than Red you mean? Jack. Jack, oh my goodness! You can't just say something like that and then fall asleep."

My eyes are slamming shut, even with the stinging claw marks in my side, and I let out a groan as I stretch out.

"You're so loud. Soyez tranquille, ma puce," I mumble, slinging my legs over Bittle's lap and rolling half onto my stomach, ass in the air as I get comfortable.

"Jaaaaaaack."

It's a quiet whine though, melting into a huff after Jack mumbles something I don't understand at all. It could be English or French; it's honestly impossible to tell.

His legs are still slung over my lap, his face burrowed into the cushions with that glorious bottom of his on full display. If I weren't so hung about the Taylor Swift news he so cruelly dropped, I'd probably be able to appreciate it more.

(Well, that's a lie. I'm appreciating it plenty. Honestly, no one could blame me.)

Elvis finds a spot for himself against Jack's back and I make a mental note to utterly grill Jack Zimmermann on absolutely anything and everything he can remember about pop culture that have occurred in the past year. I don't anticipate it being a particularly long conversation, but still.

For now, though, I rest my hands on Jack's calves and slump down on my side of the couch. I'm a little tired too, really. I could use the rest.

"Beyonce put out a surprise album," I murmur, half asleep as I sprawl across him in an attempt to get comfortable. My shirt rides up my back and I huff miserably, but I'm too lazy to fix it. "Or wait-- did that happen already where you come from?"

I let out a hum and let my hand drag on the floor, mouth slack for a moment. "She won some Grammys, but was apparently robbed for Album of the Year."

We all had to hear about how she robbed, loudly and often.

Just when I think Jack's fallen asleep, he shifts again, burrowing himself further into the couch cushions and disrupting Elvis enough that he jumps off, shaking his fur as he walks away in a huff.

Looking back at Jack, my eyes catch on the strip of skin low on his back and I can feel my face flush despite the fact that I know Jack definitely can't seem me looking.

"Honey, that happened months before I got here. It was only the greatest day of my life," I tell him, keeping my voice quiet as I lightly pat his leg. I didn't know about the Grammy slight though and I can feel my lips pressing into a thin line. I don't even need to know the other nominees to feel a curl of irritation.

"Did Kanye get up onstage to yell about it?" I ask, letting out a breath. "That might make up for it."

"I don't like Kanye," I tell him, wrinkling my nose without opening my eyes. Rap isn't my genre, but more than that, he just seems like a terrible person. He was mean to Taylor Swift, and apparently I have taken that as a great offense.

"Beck won," I murmur, halfway to sleep. Bittle's hands are warm on my calves, and I don't want to move. "Shitty was happy but afraid to say anything lest he incur your wrath."

"Since when do you have an opinion on Kanye??" I ask, not quite able to keep the surprised squeak out of my voice. From when I'm from, I'm pretty sure Jack couldn't name a single Kanye West song if held at gunpoint.

And-- "Beck? Beyonce lost to Beck? What-- Were there riots? Screaming in the streets? Did the entire music industry rebel? And I'd like say I'm surprised that Shitty Knight has terrible taste in music, but I'm not. He best have kept his opinion to himself or I'm guessin' he got no more pies for at least a week."

I don't really have an opinion on Kanye other than that he seems like a jerk. I couldn't name a single song of his, and probably wouldn't recognize his voice if I heard it. And then, as predicted, Bittle goes on a long judgemental rant, and I lift up onto my elbows and look over at my shoulder at him with a placid expression.

"You done?" I ask when he's finally done talking. "Judge not lest ye be judged, Bittle."

"But-- Beck!?"

Some part of me knows Jack's probably right. That not everyone is blessed to have exceptional musical tastes, but... well, honestly, it's just unfathomable. Maybe I can pretend he never told me. Maybe I can pretend if I never heard it, it never happened. And it didn't anyway. Not in this universe.

"Go to sleep and don't tell me anything else," I decide then, giving his leg a squeeze. "And I'm gonna pretend I'm dreamin' all of this myself. Let me have my illusions, Jack."

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