Work Text:
By the time Jack parked in front of the Haus, he was beginning to worry. Not a lot, but worry nonetheless. He’d sent Bitty a text upon leaving the apartment with an ETA, and an update ten minutes ago when he’d made better time than expected through the construction on I-95.
And Bitty hadn’t texted back.
Jack knew this wasn’t the end of the world – he personally had sometimes gone a couple of hours before even realising he’d received a text, let alone responded to it. But he’d known Bitty for three years now, and had only in the last 18 months perfected the art of separating him from his phone for more than ten minutes without the help of an ice rink.
The last time it had taken Bitty over an hour to respond to one of Jack’s texts it had been the middle of the night – in Massachusetts at least. (Bitty had eventually assured him that after three long OT games in a row, no one would blame Jack for forgetting that time zones were a thing.)
So while Jack definitely wasn’t panicking – yet – he was a little concerned.
He didn’t bother knocking. The boys living in the Haus this year had unanimously decided before the summer to give him back a key – because sometimes Bitty was too elbow deep in dough to answer the door, and they didn’t want to either disrupt the flow of pies or drag themselves away from their own pastimes to get the door themselves.
The muted sounds of Mario Kart drifted through from the living room the moment he opened the door. It was quiet, though, and the inevitable bickering he could hear seemed to be being done in harsh whispers and mutterings.
The kitchen was dark.
“Hey, Jack!” Chowder called softly, his head upside-down over the back of the couch as Jack paused to peer through the living room doorway. “Bitty’s in his room. Apparently he’s in mourning, or something? At least that’s what he said when he asked us to ‘play more quietly please’, and I mean…”
Chowder continued to talk, and Jack usually prided himself on not walking away from someone in the middle of a sentence without at least an apology, but… in mourning?
He took the stairs two at a time and nearly skidded into the wall as he rounded the corner towards Bitty’s closed door. Jack rapped gently on the edge of the door as he eased it open slowly. “Hey, Bits. You okay?”
Bitty was cross-legged on his bed, laptop perched on his knees as he typed angrily. Jack could see the moment when his words and presence registered because the laptop was summarily tossed to the mattress and Bitty jumped to his feet.
“Oh Lord, Jack, I’m so sorry. I totally forgot… I must’ve lost track of time. I…” He snagged his phone off the nightstand and winced when he tapped the screen on. “I didn’t mean to ignore you, I promise, I just…” He waved a hand behind him towards the laptop and sighed. “Sorry.”
Jack stepped closer and could see the faintest tear tracks still lining Bitty’s cheeks. “It’s okay,” he said, reaching out to wipe pointlessly at the traces with a thumb. “Bitty… Bits. What’s wrong?”
Bitty shook his head. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid…”
While he was relieved that that meant it probably wasn’t a death or something like that... he hated it when Bitty did this. Jack knew he wasn’t always the best at healthy methods of dealing with his emotions, but he was getting better – Bitty even helped. Yet convincing Bitty that sometimes prioritising his own issues above Jack’s – or anyone else’s – was also the healthy thing to do was still a struggle.
“Bittle,” he said firmly, crouching to meet him at eye level and framing his face in his hands. “Chowder said you were grieving. Even if it’s something I won’t really understand, you’re hurting. Please, let me help.”
Bitty held firm for a few seconds before crumpling just a little and swaying into Jack’s chest. Jack had barely managed to get his arms secured around him when there were several impatient sounding beeps from his laptop.
“Sorry,” Bitty said again, wriggling out of his embrace and swinging back towards the bed. “Let me just tell Holster you’re here so he doesn’t think I’ve just randomly disappeared on him.” He slides the laptop around to face him and starts typing.
Holster??
He must have said it out loud, because Bitty turned to smile thinly at him as he closed the screen over and stowed the laptop safely on his desk. “Yes, Holster. He... It’ll make sense once I explain. But he... gets it.”
Jack clamped down on the surge of jealousy that rushed through him at hearing that Holster had known Bitty was upset before he did. They were friends, and he knew that Bitty had shared interests with some of the boys that Jack – try as he might – just didn’t share. He should be glad that Bitty had someone who understood his pain, not hurt that he wasn’t Bitty’s first thought in every single matter.
When Jack blinked himself out of his momentary pity party for one, Bitty was crawling back onto his bed, settling into the corner between his pillows and the wall and holding out a hand.
Jack toed off his shoes and settled in next to him, taking care to move Señor Bun to the nightstand as he took over his spot. He had half a lapful of boyfriend a moment later, as Bitty curled into him, his cheek against Jack's shoulder in a familiar embrace. Jack wrapped his arms around him and let Bitty just breathe for a long moment.
“I don't even honestly know why I'm so upset,” he started eventually. “It's not like anyone died. Not even a fictional character. It's ridiculous, I...”
“Bittle.” Jack interrupted, tightening his arms in reminder.
Bitty shook his head, his hair tickling Jack's neck. “I know, I know. ‘Bitty, your pain is valid, your feelings matter, you need to stop dismissing them.’”
His impression of a Quebecois accent was, if anything, getting worse with time, not better.
“I wouldn’t keep saying it if it wasn’t true.” Jack pressed a kiss to the top of Bitty’s head. His therapist had drilled that particular lesson in too deep for him not to pass the wisdom along.
Bitty let out a long breath. “So. Do you remember last summer how I discovered that amazing amateur baking show on PBS?”
“…the British one?” Not that Jack could remember Bitty gushing about any other individual show in particular, but when it comes to Bitty and baked goods, he’d learned it always pays to be sure.
He could feel Bitty nodding. “The Great British Baking Show, yeah. The one where they actually care about pies and cookies and how things taste, not just making elaborately decorated sponge cake.” He sighed. “Not that decoration and presentation aren’t important, but...”
“I remember,” Jack interrupted, before Bitty forgets the point of his explanation and gets into another rant about the failings of the average American reality baking competition. (Jack may or may not have heard that particular rant half a dozen times, despite Bitty’s professed love of those same shows.) “I mean, it was basically all you talked about for months, so…” He jostled Bitty slightly, hoping for at least a bit of a smile.
“I’m not sorry,” Bitty said, sounding a little more upbeat as he accepts the chirp. “It was mostly Dex’s fault anyway. He was the one who found us a way to watch the whole thing from the start.”
Jack wasn’t sure that whatever Dex had done was entirely legal, but compared to the regular activities of the Haus, he hadn’t worried.
“Although now I almost wish we hadn’t watched it all so fast. Or that I’d waited for PBS to air the season they made over the summer instead of streaming it.” Bitty’s shoulders dropped again.
“So… did it get cancelled, then?” From the way Bitty was talking, that seemed like the obvious cause of the upset.
Bitty sat up and met his eyes. “Worse.” His brow furrowed. “They’re ruining it.”
“Oh?” Jack did not ask how it was possible to ruin a show about cake; he was sure Bitty was about to tell him anyway.
“I guess it started a few days ago, when they announced that it was moving networks in England. Or channels? I don’t know if there’s a difference. Anyway, all the British people I follow on twitter went nuts but, y’know, I didn’t think it was a big deal, really. Thought they were overreacting. And then today I find out that they’re changing the hosts and the judges and everything because they refused to go?” Bitty threw his hands up, clearly frustrated.
“And I take it that’s… bad,” Jack said slowly, still not entirely getting why this was such a calamity. Cooking shows changed hosts a whole lot, didn’t they?
Bitty just threw him a look. “Jack. I tried watching the versions they made over here, okay? Same set up, the contestants were just as adorable. But the hosts were just… different. And it was awful. The British hosts had found the perfect balance, and now the production company is ruining their own show because the other network offered more money. I’m just…”
“Upset?”
Bitty ran a hand through his hair. “No. Well, yes, I was. Now I think I’m mostly angry. Although not as angry as Holster. I actually had to talk him out of buying a plane ticket to London and finding people to literally yell at. But he’s been good to talk to today. Even if the frogs had patience to listen to me ranting, they’d have been clueless about why. Holster… well, I accidentally got Holster addicted while I was addicting myself, and he’s the only other person I really know who watches it.”
Jack blinked. “Not even your mom?” Suzanne was an even bigger fan of those things than Bitty, he couldn’t imagine…
“Oh, she refused to watch it,” Bitty said with a snort. “She has a whole one-sided feud going on with Mary Berry, over a recipe of hers we tried years ago that went badly wrong. I don’t even remember what it was for, but mama can hold a grudge. Even when it was probably our own fault – it was a British recipe, and I think we did some of the ingredient translations wrong.”
“Note to self,” Jack murmured. “Don’t get on the bad side of Mama Bittle, eh?”
Bitty leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I don’t think you could if you tried. Mama adores you. Even more now she knows how happy you make her – ahem – baby boy.”
Jack tightened his arms. “I wish I knew how to make you happy today.” He wracked his brain, trying to think of any avenues he might have access to that could help.
“Jack, you…”
“We could buy out the production company!” The plan was still forming in his brain as he spoke. “I’d have to call my parents for help, but I’m pretty sure between us we could free up enough money to…”
“Jack Laurent Zimmerman, you will do no such thing,” Bitty speaks over him, poking him in the chest. “Money is what caused this problem in the first place, more money isn’t going to fix it.”
“Sorry.” Jack slumped against the pillows. He was pretty sure if Shitty was here he’d have some strong words for Jack about privilege, and Jack knew they’d be right.
“No, it’s sweet of you to offer, really.” Bitty’s expression was soft. “But you can’t fix this. I’m pretty sure nothing can actually ‘fix’ this. Doesn’t mean I’m not mad and upset, but I’m not lookin’ for you to fix it.”
Jack stroked a knuckle down Bitty’s cheek, his heart in his throat. “I just… I love you, and I hate seeing you sad. I’m always going to want to fix it. Even when I know you don’t need it, I’m gonna want to help.”
“Oh Jack.” Bitty twisted over to straddle Jack’s legs. “You help. Just being here, loving me, listening to me rant even when you haven’t the faintest what I’m on about. It all helps.” He pressed a brief kiss to Jack’s lips. “And I love you too.”
Jack closed his eyes and clutched Bitty close on instinct. Maybe today not everything was entirely okay. But with Bitty in his arms, he realised that he finally believed they’d get there in the end.