#gotta love zimmerparents

[zimbites]

Montreal was beautiful in the winter. A storm had passed through the week before, dumping snow that piled up on the sides of the street. Christmas lights hung from storefronts, casting shoppers and tourists in a pastel glow.

Jack had planned to start on the readings for his spring semester classes, but the printouts remained in his backpack in favor of staring out the window of the cab.

Mostly, he was just relieved to be home.

His parents were waiting on the front doorstep when he pulled up, looking frozen but happy. They bustled him inside quickly before they each gave him a hug, his mom pulling him close and petting his hair, and his dad seemingly unwilling to let go of his wrist.

Alicia beckoned him over to the couch, and he curled up next to her under the heated blanket, her hand finding its way to his hair again. His parents put on the season of Top Chef they were currently marathoning and opened a bottle of wine, and Jack only spoke to poke fun at their investment in one chef’s storyline. Eventually, Jack drifted off to his mother’s deep breaths and the drone of the television.

His dad shook him awake a short time later, the blue glow of the TV casting dark shadows over the room. He felt like he was a kid again, trying to wait up for his dad after the game ended.

“Envoye, va te coucher,” Bob said with a smile in his voice. He collected his and Alicia’s wine glasses from the coffee table and tapped Jack’s knee with the foot of one. “I can’t carry you up the stairs anymore. I’m an old man now, I’ve got to keep my back in semi-decent shape.”

“You say that like you don’t play full-contact shinny whenever you get the chance.” Bob chuckled and pulled Jack up by the hand. They climbed the stairs together, Jack’s legs still a little asleep, and Bob hummed a country tune under his breath as he pushed Jack into his bedroom.

It was the same as he left it in August, besides a Samwell banner over the desk and his Samwell jersey on the wall where the old Rimouski one once hung. Bob caught Jack squinting at it, wondering where his old jersey went, and tilted his head to look at it.

“Figured it was time we updated it, eh? We can put Rimouski up with my old jerseys downstairs, but in here--.” Bob thunked the glass with his knuckle. “I think we should focus on the present.”

“...good night Papa.”

“Night, Jack.”

- Not Like Them 

[justlookfrightened]

Butter My Biscuits

Prompt from @ noelfieldingisprettierthanme:  Remember when Sally Field kept trying to hook her son up with Adam Rippon? Alicia Zimmermann is just as gungho about setting up her openly bisexual son Jack with famous tv chef Eric Bittle 

Prompt from @cyn2k:  I am so down with the Zimmerparents attempting to set up Jack with Bitty in any incarnation - chef, TV host, dancer, vlogger, skater, friendly neighborhood baker, anything. Because you know Bob would be just as bad as Alicia.

Edited to add: When I wrote this, I forgot the lovely and talented @wrathofthestag already wrote a fic where Bitty has a different kind of baking show called “Butter My Biscuits.” You should read it. We’ll wait.

Alicia huffed a breath, trying to dislodge the strand of hair that was dangling into her right eye. When that didn’t work, she rubbed at it with her forearm, trying to keep her butter-and-flour-covered hands from her face.

“Siri, stop the video,” she said, and the image on her iPad screen went silent and still.

She wiped her hands on a towel, breathed for a moment, and thought about pouring a drink from the bottle of vodka she’d pulled from the freezer to use in the pie crust.

Eric Bittle, host of “Butter My Biscuits,” had acknowledged the temptation when he mixed his dough on the screen.

“I have to tell y’all, drunk baking can be fun, but I wouldn’t recommend it for your first — or even your fiftieth — pie crust. Save the good vodka for while the pie is in the oven, or when you’re making zucchini bread or something like that.”

Alicia knew from watching every episode of “Butter My Biscuits” ever produced that Eric thought the best thing to do with zucchini bread was not to make it at all.

With her hands slightly cleaner and a renewed commitment to follow Eric’s instructions precisely, she restarted the video and concentrated on rolling the dough in smooth, even strokes. When her crust was the proper size and thickness, she watched Eric fold his crust gently around his rolling pin and lay it in the pie plate. She stopped the video and watched it again before trying it herself.

Not half bad, even if it wasn’t as pretty as Eric’s.

Now for the top crust.

“Hi, Maman.”

Crap. She’d pressed down too hard and ripped it.

“Siri, stop the video. Hello, Jack. How was your walk?”

“Good,” Jack said. “It’s less boring if I take my camera.”

“What did you get pictures of?” Alicia asked as Jack pulled the camera out of its bag, no doubt in preparation for showing her several dozen artfully framed photos of geese.

“Just some stuff by the river,” Jack said, lifting the camera and clicking the shutter before she was aware he was about to take a picture. “You look like you’re having fun. Is that the baker guy you’re always watching? The one with the accent?”

“Eric Bittle,” Alicia said. “And yes. I like his voice. He always says anyone can learn to make a homemade pie crust, so I’m putting his theory to the test.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Jack said.

He stood and watched for a few moments when Alicia started the video again, only leaving after Eric did a little victory shimmy after he got his pie in the oven.

Alicia put hers into bake as well, then made herself a martini to drink while she cleaned up. Jack would have helped if she asked — he really was a lovely man, and she and Bob had every right to be proud. He’d been home for three weeks now, almost recovered from the knee injury that ended his season. He’d be leaving soon, as he was about ready to transition to more serious training.

Alicia was glad he’d come to spend time with her and Bob in Montreal instead of moping around his condo in Providence. Jack really needed to get out more. After he’d come out as bisexual — part of the whole mess when Kent got outed by Deadspin — he hadn’t dated anyone, male or female. At first, he just wanted to let the story die, she had thought. But Kent had brazened it out, seen with a different guy on his arm every month, it seemed like. Once that got old for the paparazzi, two more players had come out.

At this point, she was pretty sure no one would care if Jack stepped out with a nice boy.

A nice boy like Eric Bittle, cute and blond and just Jack’s type. Eric Bittle, who had giggled on camera when he said, “Now, some of y’all have asked how I learned to bake. It was my MooMaw who taught me. She always said the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, and that sounded like a good plan to me.”

She took another sip of her martini and pulled her iPad towards her. She didn’t want to start anything if Eric was happily coupled, but she was pretty sure he wasn’t.

Nope. He had broken up with someone six months ago and was quoted several times lamenting his single status, most recently only two weeks ago. The boyfriend -- caught on camera cheating with a dancer in the Boston Ballet -- was bigger than he was, although Eric was kind of small, so that didn’t mean much.

The timer went off and she pulled her pie from the oven. It wasn’t as pretty as Eric’s -- and she hadn’t even attempted a lattice or those cute cut-outs -- but she thought it was pretty good, especially for a first effort.

She snapped a picture and opened Twitter before she could think better of it.

if the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, does that go for you, too @ButterMyBiscuits? Asking for @jzimmermann1!

And she uploaded the picture.

Alicia served the pie for dessert, to the general approval of Jack and Bob, and didn’t think any more of it.

Until the next morning, when Jack sat across the breakfast table with his phone out.

“Are you really trying to set me up with that baker guy?” he said. “Etienne called me. My Twitter is blowing up, he said.”

“Etienne?”

“He handles my Twitter account for me.”

Of course Jack didn’t tweet for himself.

“Ah. I may have suggested that Eric Bittle take an interest in you.”

“The baker on TV?” Jack said. “With the accent?”

“Yes,” Alicia said. “The cute one.”

“I’ll tell him to disregard it,” Jack said. “I love you, Maman, but I don’t need you to find me dates.”

“Really?” Alicia said. “How long has it been since you had a date?”

“I’ve been laid up.”

“And before that?”

“What are we talking about?” Bob walked in, still in workout clothes, from the gym in the basement.

“How long since Jack here went on a date,” Alicia said.

“Been a while, eh?” Bob said.

“Maman tried to set me up with TV chef,” Jack said. “On Twitter.”

He paused while he tapped at his phone.

“There. I apologized for you and asked him to disregard your message.”

“Um, Jack, how did you do that?” Bob asked.

“I sent him a message,” Jack said.

“Yes, but how?” Bob asked.

“On Twitter?”

“You two follow each other?” Alicia asked. “I had no idea you liked baking that much.”

“No? I just found his tweet and replied.”

“Oh, Jack,” Alicia said. “You’d better call Etienne and tell him what you did. Before everyone who follows you and Eric loses their mind. But first, show me his tweet.”

Jack held out his phone wordlessly.

The tweet on top said, if @jzimmermann1 can make a pie like this, I’ll be impressed. Almost as impressed as I was by his goal in Game 7 last year. But tell me the truth, @AliciaActs -- who made the pie?

Jack’s reply was underneath

My mother made the pie after watching your show. I’m sorry she bothered you. Please ignore it. But the pie was delicious.

A hundred likes and fifty replies already. At least Jack had notifications turned off. No doubt her own mentions were exploding as well.

“Why don’t I set this so you follow him?” Alicia said. “Then maybe he’ll follow you and you can communicate in private.”

She followed Eric Bittle, and noticed that he already followed Jack. Which meant Jack could have DM’d him. Now he would think Jack didn’t want to talk privately.

She opened a direct message and handed the phone back to Jack.

“When you replied to his tweet, everyone could see it,” Alicia explained. “You might want to apologize for that -- in private. In a direct message.”

“Need help?” Bob asked. “Gotta work that old Zimmermann charm.”

“No,” Jack said. “Please. No.”

******************

Alicia checked to make sure Jack’s room was ready and set the table for dinner. He was coming to spend one last weekend before training camp started, to celebrate the fact that he had been cleared to start camp with the team.

“I should be there around six p.m.,” Jack told her when he called the week before. “It would be better if we just eat at home that night.”

“You have a workout in the morning?” Alicia guessed. “I’m sure you’ll be tired. Your father can make something on the grill.”

“Fine,” Jack said. “But I’ll bring dessert.”

Alicia sliced peppers and zucchini to go on the grill when the meat came off, and put together a green salad.

“Bob?” she called. “Is the grill ready? Jack should be here soon.”

“Just about,” Bob said, stepping in from the deck. “I’ll put the steaks on after he gets here. Did you make a pie for dessert like you’ve been practicing?”

“Jack said he’d bring dessert.”

“Jack? Dessert? Are you sure he’s not just bringing a bag of fresh fruit?”

“He said dessert.”

The door opened, and Jack poked his head in.

“Maman? Papa? Do you mind if I brought an extra guest?”

Following Jack was Eric Bittle, dressed in neatly pressed slacks and a crisp shirt with a red bow tie. In his hands was a white pastry box.

“Hey, y’all,” he said. “Jack here said you liked my pie?”