#running-rabbit – @whoacanada on Tumblr

Would love to know more about your #13 WIP!

Oh god #13 — okay, so, ‘(yeah it’s true) all i wanna do is talk about you’ is entirely about the Falconers signing a new/old hotshot player who’s wife immediately puts herself in competition with media-darling Bitty. What starts off as innocent backbiting turns into, like, anonymous complaints to the adoption agency Jack and Bitty are using. Also greatly inspired by UK footballer drama.

___________

“You know I’m going to be fat when I retire because of you,” Jack chides, snatching a white fudge, falcon-shaped cake pop from the stand as Eric tries to swat him away. “Hope you’re ready.”

“Ready? I’m expecting it.”

After seven years, Eric is old hat at welcoming the newest Falconers and their respective partners. The first Family Skate of the season is populated with elaborate desserts and dishes right out of Eric’s cookbooks. He spends days in the kitchen perfecting cake pops and truffles in the shape of the Falconer’s mascot, sweet and savory hand pies, gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free, and vegan options, he puts his whole heart into every season, even personalizing care packages for each new family. All of it a love letter to the Falconers, and, unsurprisingly, to his husband.

However, as Eric stares down the folding table near the arena entrance, there’s an unease he hasn’t felt since his first Family Skate, when a still-closeted Jack had introduced Eric to his teammates for the first time.

“There’s usually one every season,” Carrie sighs from behind Eric. “We’ve been lucky, but with all this young blood, we’re long overdue for a bitch.”

Eric turns away from his shame to find Carrie, Gabbie, and Vanessa showing varying levels of discomfort as they stare down the lone gift basket; the hang tag bearing ‘David and Emily Grant’ in Eric’s swooping hand, courtesy of a recent calligraphy class taken with the ladies — also, Guy, surprisingly.

“No need to be crass,” Eric defends. “Maybe they just missed it.”

“Nope.” Vanessa shakes her head, causing the arena lights to catch on her new diamond earrings. “She was on Real Housewives of Vegas when Grant had the C before Parson dethroned him. She’s been chasing that high ever since.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s going to be a problem. I haven’t even talked to her yet.” Eric understands the issue the moment the words leave his mouth. “Oh.”

“Three A’s, no C,” Gabbie cautions. “Which means there’s a prize to be won.”

“God, do you remember when Cavanaugh signed? His girlfriend was nuts, walked around here like he was the next Crosby.”

“Did she talk to any of you?” Eric asks, trying not to worry he’s the odd man out, figuratively and literally. “Emily? Did she say anything?”

The women fall quiet and Eric exhales slowly.

“Ah, well, guess I need to go on a full charm offensive, then.”

“No, you need to stay the hell out of her way.” Carrie insists. “She’s looking for a rival and you’re the only one of us with real star power. No offense, we’re all great, but you’re . . . you.”

“And Jack’s got an A.” Vanessa chides.

“I’ve never not been able to make someone like me,” Eric says, only to immediately remind himself of Whiskey’s standoffishness. “I’ll just need to step up my game, that’s all.”

Ashley, pushing her stroller past, slows her stride when she hears the content of the conversation. “Are you talking about Grant?”

“We aren’t talking about anyone,” Eric says diplomatically. “Emily just forgot her gift basket.”

“Oooo, word of advice,” Ashley says, keeping her voice low. “Don’t let any of this get back to the guys. WAG feuds can get you traded. That’s what happened to Victoria Rawlins last season, you know, with the Caps? She got into it with the owner’s wife and her husband got knocked down to a farm team. Can you imagine an argument about breastfeeding versus formula costing a career? My god.”

“That’s what happened? Jack said he was — Okay, okay, never mind, warning received,” Eric flits his hands to settle the conversation. “Now, I need everyone to remember that the adoption work interview for Jack is in a few weeks and I’ll give updates when I know it’s coming for sure, but please tell your men to not joke about our sex life, or anything, actually.”

“Eric, please,” Gabby smiles. “No one is going to fuck this up for you.”

#wip replies #zimbits #WAG drama #running-rabbit

whoacanada

running-rabbit asked:

Oooh, 15 for the fanfic asks. ❤️

“We’re not the ones stuck in this backwater reality where you play for a two-bit franchise and, my god, I bake — Listen to me Jack Zimmermann. We. Are. Champions. We are winners! They’re the ones who failed. Fuck them and fuck this reality.”

#asks #doppelgaanger au #running-rabbit

whoacanada

First thing, THANKS I LOVE YOU TOO, second, like most of my fics, there were two drastically different draft versions of 52-Hertz.

The one that ended up scrapped was a version where Jack attempts to come out to Bitty several times after he joins the Falconers, and the message never seems to take (miscommunication, the whale metaphor, etc.). Finally, he attempts a graduation-style kiss to declare his love and Bitty blows him off.

Eventually they get together when Bitty finally reveals he’s known Jack’s proclivities for years, but his Falcs contract has a no fraternization clause and Bitty can’t risk a relationship so he’s been trying to gently guide Jack elsewhere to protect them both. In the end, I figured this was a little too angsty so I switched it up! However, angsty reveal is below for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!

(Also here’s a link to the fic in question on Ao3)

__________

Jack’s had a few drinks, just enough to take the edge off, but not enough to incapacitate him, and he’s found the courage to pull Bitty aside, away from the handful of Blue Jackets and Falcs still mingling in the nightclub.

"Hey, what is it?"

He's going to do it. He's been waiting, and it's time. He has to say something or he's going to go crazy.

More crazy.

"Bits, I —” the kiss is gentle, as soft as Jack can manage, trying to convey as much as possible without the words that keep failing him. I miss you. I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.

Bitty leans into the kiss, returning it, curling into Jack like he’s wanted for so long —then there’s a soft pressure on his chest, a hand, pushing him away, and “Oh, honey, how drunk are you?”

This was supposed to be it. His big declaration. Except he hasn’t said anything and Bitty doesn’t understand. “I’m bi,” Jack forces, and Bitty’s smile is so blinding Jack thinks he might be having a stroke.

“Oh, honey, I know, you told me, remember?” Bitty presses a kiss to Jack’s cheek and winks at someone over Jack’s shoulder. Probably Tater. “I’ve been waiting for you to say something, god knows you need to get laid. If you’re horny, let’s find you someone…”

Jack tries to say he isn’t horny but the words won’t come. This is a rejection. Bittle doesn’t want him or he’d at least be pretending. How many times has he told Jack he’s slept with closet cases and bi-curious players just because he could? What does this make Jack, if he can’t even rate a pity-fuck?

Oh. A friend. They’re friends. Bitty’s his best friend.

“Oh, just wait until you’re sober, you and I are going to laugh about this.”

“I am sober —”

Bittle doesn’t hear him, already turning away, and Jack feels something he hasn’t felt in years: a depression that comes with the knowledge the people closest to him don’t really know who he is. And what’s worse, it’s entirely possible they don’t care.

Bittle doesn’t care.

He knows this is his anxiety running away with his sanity, but he can’t calm down.

He allows Bitty to push him away.

“Stay here, I’m going to get Poots and then we’ll grab an Uber.”

Jack nods, but watching Bittle walk away is difficult and he knows he's fighting a losing battle to stay calm. He can't be around people right now. He can’t wait for Bitty, he can’t let anyone else see him. He pushes past the crowd at the bar and when he hits the exit, he shoves past the bouncer and runs.

Just puts one foot in front of the other until the music fades and the lights dim and by the time he realizes he's hit the park near his apartment, he's miles away from the club.

He shucks off his sweaty blazer and drops onto a bench near the duck pond, trying to ignore how badly his feet are throbbing in his dress shoes and instead focusing on how incessantly his phone is vibrating in his pocket.

He knows before he taps the screen what he’s going to find: a slew of texts and missed calls, most of which are from Bittle.

2:17 - Where did you go? Are you in the bathroom?

2:26 - Tater said you left, but Poots says you just 'took off'? Did you get a ride?

2:30 - Jack?

2:46 - No one knows where you are please call me

2:58 - if this is about setting you up with someone I promise I won’t say anything just let me know you’re okay

3:12 - Seriously, this isn’t funny

3:28 - Jack Laurent Zimmermann you answer me right now.

Jack stares at his phone, listens to the frogs croak, texts back: phone died, caught a ride, sorry to make you worry

Bittle sends back a prayer hands emoji almost immediately, followed by ‘thank god you’re okay. don’t scare me like that again!’

Jack turns his phone off and sits in the darkness watching the moonlight reflect on the water, contemplating missed opportunities. When his vision blurs with tears, he pretends it’s raining.

The Falconers might take the cup this year, and Jack couldn’t care less. He just wants to stop feeling this persistent loss. He can’t keep his therapist on speed-dial. He can’t keep drinking and he can’t take more medication.

His coping methods are tragically familiar.

He’s up for a contract renewal at the end of the season. At some point between weekly calls with his agent he realized he doesn’t want to be here anymore. He thinks about his father’s outlandish offer. Getting his Masters. Maybe teaching. He thinks about Montreal, rehab, flaring out again; this time in Providence, living with Bittle, hiding, completely ruining what tenuous friendships he’s built in the last few years.

He’s miserable and alone and he can’t possibly make his life any worse, so he texts Bitty.

‘I’m in the park near the fountain. Please come get me.’

It’s almost four am when Bitty writes back that he’s on his way.

#52 Hertz #my fic #deleted scenes #zimbits #omgcp #running-rabbit #ask #angst #further reminder they got together in the end and everything was great #XD

whoacanada

running-rabbit asked:

I was just thinking of the ghost au, as one does, and now I’m curious: In the au of ghost au, are there rumors that Jack Zimmermann has been a little off since his boyfriend died? Have his players picked up on the fact that he *might* talk to a ghost? Is it a thing where people just silently agree to look the other way because he’s good at his job?

Jack gets his first tattoo the day after the Falconers win their second championship. Tater wants a tattoo of the cup and is persuasive enough to loop in every rookie and half the vets before rounding on Jack.

“What kind of captain does not stand with his teammates?”

Jack was always planning on saying yes but he plays along with Mashkov right until they all get to the tattoo parlor. It’s only when Jack’s watching Scooter get his bicep inked that he gets the idea.

“Here,” Jack tells the artist when it’s his turn, lifting his shirt to point at a patch of skin over his hipbone. “Can you do the number ‘15’?”

A few of the guys whistle, not quite understanding what’s happening. It’s understandable. They weren’t around those first few seasons. Alexei gets it, though. Toasts Jack with the beer he shouldn’t be drinking and bellows, “Fifteen!”

“Fifteen!” The boys yell like a drunken battle cry, still clueless.

Jack ends up with a pair of crossed hockey sticks over his right hip, each handle bearing the date of a cup win, the number 15 above. It takes a while to heal but it looks good, mostly because Jack catches himself touching the raised black numbers several times a day. A worry stone inked right into his flesh.

A small piece of Bitty.

Obviously, he tells the press it had been a mistake; the boys playing a prank on Jack and the tattoo artist, respectively. It’s a funny story. It becomes somewhat of an anecdote around the league, but anyone who knows Jack or the Zimmermann family knows what it means. Who number 15 was.

(Later, when the black outline begins to dull, Jack will have it redone. Fill in the numbers with a bright Samwell red so there’s no confusion.)

His pregame ritual is still a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, it always will be, but when he burns through his last reserve of Eric’s raspberry jam, he starts tracing the blocked '15’ on his hip in the locker room. At some point, he begins talking, wishing himself good luck. Get home safe. Have fun.

Things Eric used to say.

The boys chirp him initially, though the novelty wears off when they realize what Jack’s actually doing; and Jack’s thankful no one openly acknowledges the fact he talks to his dead boyfriend before games.

He has a good team.

#zimbits #ghost!au #cw: character death #my stuff #my fic #running-rabbit