#also let's just pretend bitty is jack's age in this universe

[appalamutte]

you chose 🔴! ship: zimbits, word: road

“You on the run or somethin’?” The guy’s no taller than Jack’s car and is eyeing Jack down with something resembling…intrigue, maybe. Skepticism, more likely. His wayfarers make it hard for Jack to read him, but he hasn’t kicked Jack in the groin and run off with his keys yet, so he’s no more of a threat than the signage saying the next gas station isn’t for another fifty miles. “No,” Jack says, carefully, crossing his arms in some lame attempt to come off threatening himself. He flexes them in the process once or twice, and from the way the guy's eyes linger before skirting away, it must work. “Just going for a drive, is all.” “A drive, huh.” The guy clasps his hands behind his back and leans against the pump, no longer looking at Jack, instead staring off across the prairies to where the looming mountains break the horizon. “Headed anywhere in particular?” Jack peers at him for a long moment, wondering why he’s here, why he’s in the middle of Montana talking to a gas station clerk when he should be in Montreal shaking hands with the Aces’ GM, before he tears his gaze away as well. “No,” he eventually says, again. “Billings was the plan, but now I’m just following the open road. I guess I’ll know it when I get there.” It’s nearing evening, the dying light washing the pavement in a warm orange. A lone truck sputters along the highway, coming and going, and in its echo the guy asks, “Aren’t we all?” It’s a subdued question, really, a far-off voice caught fluttering in diesel smoke and wind. Jack doesn’t give an answer.

Or – Jack doesn’t overdose. Instead, he packs a bag and grabs his keys and starts driving, thinking that if he could just get away for a bit, he’ll be able to come back and handle the pressure, the press, the somewhat damning reality of being Bob Zimmermann’s son. He doesn’t anticipate reaching Detroit, crossing the border, driving past the lakes and across the plains. He doesn’t anticipate shucking his phone into a trash can in Wisconsin after it rings for the three-hundredth time.

He just drives and drives, listening to whatever local radio station he can find and thinking about all the ways he officially, royally fucked up.

Somewhere in Montana, he stops for gas and meets Dicky (read: Eric Richard “Bitty–that ain’t a play on my size, y’know” Bittle). He’s a low-lying, gaudy gas station clerk with big eyes and the tendency to talk with his hands, who drawls his vowels out like he’s supposed to be much further south than where Jack finds him, who grates on every one of Jack’s nerves, who somehow just gets Jack on a fundamental level that no one has ever done before.

On a whim, the two end up driving together to Billings, in part because Dicky has been needing to go to the city and mostly because Jack’s just tired of driving alone. Dicky fills the car with nonsensical chatter, pries into why Jack is taking a cross-country trip outside of his country ("Hon, your accent ain't foolin' no one"), and maybe Jack slowly finds himself wanting to lean over the center console to kiss the toothy grins right off Dicky's face as he gushes over lemon meringue pie.

He doesn't, but he wants to, and that's enough for him to book separate rooms in the tacky motel they stop at that night.

They don’t know it yet, but they need each other, moreso than Jack needs the NHL and Dicky needs…whatever the hell it is he needs in the city (read: a plane ticket home that he can’t afford). It’d be a clichéd fic chronicling their story of acceptance and healing and “finding love on the open road” and whatnot, and if I had the willpower to write it in its entirety, I’d do so in a heartbeat.

[garden-of-succulents]

omfg gay island and timeslip both sound incredible (also hi big fan of ur fic, A+ omgcp blog)

(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.

“Uh, Monsieur Bob?” the Hall of Fame man calls at the door to the kitchen, an edge of uncertainty at his voice.  When Bob looks up, Mr. Larocque makes a hasty Come here gesture.  Bitty follows the prompting of some sixth sense and puts down his dishtowel to follow hard on his heels.

Jack is sitting on the fireplace ledge, the face he lifts up when they come into the room sick and scared. And different, all awkward angles and floppy hair, gangly uncertainty instead of muscled calm.  "What--?" Bitty gasps, aware only that Jack is changed and miserable.

Behind him, he can vaguely follow the discussion going on in French. "--Is why we encourage caution for the champions to touch, because they--"  "--Permanent?--"  "--No, not at all, as little as--"

"Jack," Bitty says, sliding to his knees in front of--in front of a panicking teenager.  Oh god.  He takes a deep breath, takes Jack's hands.  "Jack, it's okay. You're gonna be okay.  I know it's weird right now. I just need you to breathe with me, okay?  Big deep breaths, in and out.  All right?  Good, let's breathe in..."

More voices, English added to the French.  "Bro, what happened to Jack?" and "Back up, boys, give them some space," and "Shit, he looks different," and, "Is it true? The Stanley Cup is really magic?"

"Hey, don't worry about them."  Bitty squeezes Jack's hands.  "You don't need to worry about them.  Your mom's handling them. Just keep your eyes on me, okay?  How're you feeling?  Breathing okay?"

Jack nods, looking at Bitty with confusion and unfamiliarity and a dawning expression of gratitude and wonder.  "Yeah," he says.  "Who are you?"

Bitty wants to reach up and cup his hand over Jack's face, rub his neck and tell him it's gonna be okay, but he's afraid to invade the personal space of this person who's now a stranger.  "Oh, honey," he says.  "How old are you?"

Jack swallows, and says with a voice that cracks to prove it, "Nineteen."

"Whoa," Bitty hears Holster say, "is this time travel?" and Ransom demands, "If he learns anything, is he gonna go back in the past and change the future?"

"It is not, strictly, time travel," Mr. Larocque cuts in, in English.  "It is a visitation.  The enchantment may end without further effects, or it may be remembered by the younger self like a dream.  There are no paradoxes--yesterday, Mr. Zimmermann did not remember having a vision of his future life when he was young; if he is back to himself by tomorrow, then tomorrow he will remember always having it."

"You mean in our universe," Ransom says.  "It could create an alternate universe where--"

Bitty stops listening; his MooMaw always told him that so long as you kept your feet planted, you could leave other universes to shift for themselves.  "Around here," he tells Jack, "you're twenty-six.  Wait, twenty-seven, you just had your birthday yesterday."  He smiles.  "I'm your fiancé.  Call me Bitty.  Comes from Bittle."

"I have a fiancé?" Jack asks incredulously, looking at him in a way that's honestly really flattering, then looks above his shoulder.  "Papa, I have a fiancé?"

Bob comes over, and Jack gets up to meet him, one hand still clinging to Bitty's even as Bob enfolds him in an embrace.  "Oh, my son," Bob murmurs in French, something about the moment so tender Bitty's tempted to pretend he can't hear to save Jack the embarrassment, even if Jack's hand is holding his tightly.  "Yes.  Yes, you do."

"And who are all--"  Because the team are all still crowding in the kitchen door, especially when Alicia moves forward to lay a hand on Jack's arm.

"They're from our hockey team," Bitty says.  Jack's glance this time is a little less flattering, given how much vertical height it implies: You? Are a hockey player?  "We met playing college hockey. I was your left wing."

Jack wets his lips, and they silently form the word, 'Hockey'.  "Division I?  Was I any--good?"

Bitty squeezes his hand.  "Bless you, you put up an average of 2.3 goals a game, so--"

"Brah!" Shitty breaks in.  "You get to find out your future, and you just wanna talk hockey?"  He bears down on a bewildered teenager, folding him in a hug and smacking a kiss on his cheek.  "I'm your best friend.  Look for me when you move into rez, it's gonna be epic."  In the middle of the hug he presents his hand for shaking, and Jack, looking dazed, does offer his in return.