Bitty sets up a patreon with a low monthly goal to offset the cost of his baking supplies, offering rewards like early video access, Skype cooking lessons, and personalized recipes. At higher tiers Bitty will actually cook for you: $75 gets you an overnighted dessert, etc.
His normal viewers snatch up the rewards quickly, but it’s still not quite enough now that he’s baking for SMH and several Falconers.
Jack himself has been banned from pledging, but that doesn't stop him from telling his teammates about the site; wealthy, young, hungry teammates who promptly start trying to one up each other to get the ‘best’ rewards.
But the Falconers pledges are soon dwarfed by an anonymous donor who’s French and French-Canadian dessert rewards must be delivered by courier to an unknown destination. Since these requests seem to coincide with Jack’s home games, Bitty is sure the donor is actually his boyfriend and he plays along, dutifully handing off secret packages several times a month.
At least, Bitty thinks this is the case until a few months later when Alicia comes for a visit and asks that Eric please stop sending food because Bob’s been cheating on his diet using Eric as a middle-man.
“But you lost,” Eric says gently, afraid Jack’s about to realize he’s made a mistake. “And you won,” Jack counters, just as gently, cupping Bitty’s face. “And you have no idea how proud I am. Six years ago you’d pass out if you got hit. Tonight you ran me into the boards twice!” “Cause you were being an asshole, Sweetpea,” Eric defends, fighting the warmth rising in his cheeks. “And it was great, but you know who helped you through that? I did,” Jack grins. “Checked you so many times you forgot you hated me. So, it’s a bit like I won too, you know? I got to see the man I love, the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, fearless.” Oh. That’s. Eric grabs a handful of Jack’s jersey and pulls him down into a kiss, heedless of the flashing lights and screaming spectators. When they separate Jack’s expression is dazed. “So you’ll marry me?” Jack cradles Eric’s sweaty face and peppers kisses across his cheek. “Please say yes. Make it official.”
Just thinking about Jack and Bitty spending that first night truly alone in Providence really makes me smile?
Imagining them going about their evening routines and just learning more about each other through small everyday things.
Like Jack leaning against the bathroom counter, watching Bitty put toothpaste on his toothbrush and he goes “You wet your toothbrush before putting the toothpaste on?”
And Bitty just raises an eyebrow and replies, “Yeah, why?” Jack shrugs in response and gives him a small smile, “Just wondering.”
Or like Jack is loading dirty dishes into the dishwasher and Bitty is like, “You put the forks in tines down?” And Jack just nods and carries on loading dishes.
“Yeah.” He replies. “Maman was always worried that I’d stick myself with a fork or knife when I unloaded dishes as a kid. Guess I never grew out of it. Haha.”
Just the idea of them learning the stupid, little things about each other really makes me happy.
Please imagine, Bitty playing against Tater (casual falcs scrimmage? NHL Bitty AU?). Bitty, partly showing off for Jack, goes in for a check on Tater. It goes approximately like the time Johnny Gaudreau (5′8 150lbs) famously checked Dustin Byfuglien (6'5 260lbs)
Bitty signs with another team and no one on the Falconers wants to be the guy to check Zimms’ boyfriend; the problem is Bitty’s a quick little fucker and if you don’t stop him somehow he has a tendency to score. They’ve already lost one game because Guy hesitated a half-second too long and god-forbid they end up in a cup series with him.
Solution? Falconers bring back the patented Horton ‘bear-hug check’; initially just for Bittle, but it spreads league-wide because straight up lifting guys off the ice for a few seconds is hella effective and the linemen haven’t seen it much so they don’t really know how to call it.
There are three minutes left in the second period and the Schooners are up by one; Bitty spins to avoid Thirdy, shoots a look to Avery, ready to pass and –
“Miss you, Itty Bitty!” Mashkov crows over the roar of the crowd, his massive chest stopping Eric’s momentum full force. Bitty knows what’s coming next, wrapped up in Mashkov’s arms, squished by pads and misplaced affection, he watches helplessly as the puck slides away, immediately picked off by Thirdy. “Miss your pie!”
“Let me go –” Bitty growls, struggling against the hold even as a linesman skates by to examine if what they’re doing constitutes a fight.
“Aww, Bitty not enjoying my hugs,” Mashkov tells the linesman, squeezing tighter, bumping his helmet against Eric’s, “rather I knock out pretty teeth instead.”
Jack is…big. With time and distance and schedules that refuse to cooperate, Bitty forgets this sometimes. Jack is diminished on the computer screen when they Skype, or through the phone when they call. Bitty sees him and hears him and forgets, sometimes, the exact dimensions of Jack’s broad, broad shoulders.
And, oh, they’re broad. And solid. And strong and smooth and hot beneath Bitty’s hands.