monsieur bob

gamzeletovah  asked:

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(meme link)

Aww thank you!

Here’s what I’ve had sitting in my “Cup Age Regression” doc since September, and never added to after the original brainstorm passed: 


The morning of August 4 Jack goes into the living room to say goodbye to the Cup.  The kitchen is a noisy jamboree of plates and forks and voices, and Eric periodically calling, “Pancake up!”  He slips away from it just for a couple of minutes, looking for a little bit of quiet.  So it’s back to the living room, the morning sun coming through the window sheers, the faint detritus of yesterday’s party–paper napkins on the table, wine glasses on the fireplace mantle, a pair of high-heeled shoes kicked behind a chair, the silver gleam of the Stanley Cup.  There’s a man from the Hall of Fame in the front entry hall, fussing with the cup’s travel case, waiting for Jack’s 24 hours to expire.

Jack sets his hands in his pockets and looks at it, his thumb seeking the still-new weight of the engagement ring on his hand.  He can’t help smiling.

I wish my old self could see me now, he thinks, and reaches out to pat the cup fondly.

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Things Not Considered
Word Count: 1300
Rated: T
Warnings: Drug overdose
Read it on Ao3

“Monsieur Zimmermann! Monsieur Zimmermann!” 

Bob Zimmermann took a lot of things for granted. 

He worked hard every day of his life. He had made it to the NHL on nothing but his own merit and gave 100% of everything he had for everything that he did. Bob Zimmermann was not the type of man to believe he could have missed something along the way. 

When he first held his son in his arms he had known it was over, no going back. No Stanly Cup win or League trophy was ever going to feel like anything more than empty metal now that he knew what this feeling was. 

“Monsieur Zimmermann! Call 911! Call 911!” 

Jack had been, right from the very first breath he took, the most important thing in the world to Bob and Alicia Zimmermann. Before he even took his first steps the world was talking about him. Everyone was speculating about what a great hockey player he would grow up to be, and Bob was bursting with pride. His son was going to be the greatest hockey player the NHL had ever seen, and was going to break every record. Bob knew it. 

“I do not know! I do not know! He was just laying there!” 

The day Jack stopped needing his father to lace up his skates for him was the day everything had really begun. Jack trained hard and he never complained, even as a child. He did every drill and every workout that was sent his way and, more than that, he excelled at them all. Jack Zimmermann ate, breathed, and lived hockey and Bob knew his son was nothing less than hockey royalty, destined to take the throne from him one day. 

Nothing would stand in his way. 

“Bobby he’s not breathing! Oh god, he’s not breathing…” 

The anxiety had been, admittedly, a set back. 

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