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outshinethestars · 2 years

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These Beaten Paths, These Broken Words (Daredevil and Batman fic)

Matt Murdock was not at the circus. He didn’t watch the Flying Graysons fall, he didn’t hear the rope snap, he didn’t even hear the screams. He wasn’t listening. The circus wasn’t in Hell’s kitchen and Daredevil wasn’t out the night Graysons fell. For all the things Matt heard, could never block out, there was so much he didn’t. The world is a loud place, constantly drowning itself out.

So he did not hear the ropes snap, did not hear John and Mary Grayson die, did not hear a little boy, lost, alone, crying. Matt Murdock was a blind lawyer, he did not have the time, inclination or spare change to attend a show he couldn’t see. So he was not there when a child lost his parents, did not put a hand on the child’s shoulder, and did not tell him it would get better.

What he heard was a few days later while Daredevil was prowling Hell’s Kitchen, the sound of someone, terrified, begging for his life and the sound of someone else moments from taking it. That was not an unusual sound for Daredevil to hear in the dark of night on patrol, it was unusual though, that the voice begging was that of a grown man, and the voice that threatened him was a child’s. They spoke in Italian, and Matt didn’t understand the words, but he understood the tone perfectly. The child was scared and furious, and he was moments from doing something that couldn’t be undone.

They were close. Matt ran.

The man was on the ground, one broken leg, one broken arm, a lot of bruising. At a guess, Matt would say he’d just fallen from a nearby roof. The boy couldn’t be more than eight years old. He crouched over the man and held a knife at his throat, voice steady.

“Kid,” Matt said (presumably) emerging from the shadows, “What the fuck?”

The man flinched, the kid jumped.

“Are you allowed to say bad words in costume?” the kid asked, his voice was thick with an accent Matt couldn’t place.

Matt was very much out of his depth here.

“Small child,” Matt said, as calmly as he could manage, “You are literally holding a fucking knife to that guy’s throat.”

The kid went stiff, his hand trembled a little on the knife, and Matt smelled blood as it nicked the skin. The man made a scared whimpering noise.

“He killed my mom and dad,” the kid said, voice raw with rage and grief, fresh and suffocating.

Well, shit.

How to stop this child from making the mistake Matt almost made ten years early?

How to explain that feeling he’d had, Sweeney’s face bloody under his fists, that understanding of right and wrong, lines drawn in the sand, and God’s justice above it all, to a child still younger than Matt had been when his father died.

“Killing him won’t bring your parents back,” is what Matt said. He realized how dumb it was the moment it left his mouth.

The kid’s face went hot with anger. He kept breathing like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. At least his outrage distracted him a little from his parents’ murderer, the knife drifted slightly away from the man’s neck.

Finally the kid said, “Habla español?”

“Oh, sí,” Matt said.

The kid took a deep breath, “ That is the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” he said in Spanish.

“ I know, ” Matt said, “ I’m sorry.”

“ Of course it won’t bring my parents back! Nothing will bring my parents back. They’re dead and he’s not and I’m not, and I have nothing. Do you understand that? Nothing.”

“ I do. I understand,” Matt said quietly, even though it wasn’t really a question, because he did.

“ The circus couldn’t even keep me. The stupid American government wouldn’t let Haly have custody. I am going to live in this stupid ugly country, in this stupid ugly city for the rest of my life now, and I have no one. And I know that killing this bastard won’t change anything, but he deserves to die for what he did, and I deserve the satisfaction of killing him, and then at least he’ll be dead too. He is a murderer and a mobster and a bully and you can’t tell me the world wouldn’t be better off without him, you don’t have the right.”

“I know ,” Matt said. Because this was different from arguing morality with Frank Castle on a rooftop. This was a child standing in front of him, small and trembling and burning with a fury that Matt could only call righteous. He did not remind Matt of himself at that age. When Matt was as small as this child he wasn’t even blind yet. He did not remind Matt of himself after his father died. When Matt was ten years old, in those months between his father’s death and Stick’s training, Matt hadn’t had the mental wherewithal for vengeance, all he’d wanted to do was scream.

Matt didn’t doubt that the man had killed this child’s parents, the child was utterly sure, and Matt felt no reason to doubt him. This wasn’t something Matt could argue. This was a child, furious, yes, certain, utterly, and very small, and not despite but fueling everything else, scared, and very very lost. Matt hadn’t been there in person, but he heard about what happened to the Flying Graysons on the news later, heard they had left behind a son. It wasn’t hard to put together who this child was.

“ Kid,” Matt said, “Do you really want to see more blood right now?”

The child didn’t say anything. He looked down again at the man, head turning toward the leg twisted at an unnatural angle, and the neck where the boy’s knife had barely nicked him. It didn’t smell like the man was still bleeding, but Matt would guess the tiny trickle of dried blood was still visible there.

The kid swallowed, looked away from the man, all the fight draining out of him.

“ No ,” he said, soft, like a confession.

“Come here,” Matt said, as gently as he knew how. He stepped slowly, silently, around the man, crossing the space to the boy. He took the kid’s shaking hands in his own, took the knife from him. It was instinct, to pick the child up, and it seemed to be instinct in turn that had the boy lean into his touch, wrap his arms Matt’s shoulders and his legs around his waist, so that Matt barely had to hold on to bear his weight at all. Matt held on tight anyway, and the child sank into him, exhausted after what must have been hours of running on rage and adrenaline.

“What happens now?” The kid said, “ He can’t - I can’t - he can’t just get away with it.”

“This guy isn’t going anywhere,” Matt said, “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to call an ambulance, and then we’re going to go to the police precinct, and you will go in there and ask for Brett Mahoney. You’ll tell him everything you know and he will listen, I promise, and this man will be given justice. He won’t get away, okay?”

“Okay,” the kid said, and Matt could tell that he only half believed it, but it was good enough for now. And it would be true, Matt would make sure of it. The kid’s testimony wouldn’t be enough on it’s own, but he’d put Karen on the scent, they’d find the evidence they’d need. A part of Matt wanted to stay, to interrogate the man, but he was almost passed out now, and the boy was what was important. Matt would take the kid to the precinct, and then stay and listen to what he had to say to Brett, hear his story first. Like he’d told the kid, the man wasn’t going anywhere.

#fic and fic-like things #my stuff #daredevil (TV)#batfamily #Matt Murdock #dick grayson

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pongpalace · 7 years

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sorry to [the] unknown lover

so based on these posts by @alphacrone and @audiaphilios, here’s 4300 words of post mem cup shenanigans that holster carries with him till his first practice at samwell. cross-posted on ao3

Ending up at the same bar as the Rimouski team celebrating their Mem Cup is a complete accident and one that Adam’s trying to figure out how to reverse without bringing attention to himself as he leaves the bar. He knows from experience that 6’3” is pretty hard to hide (being one of the youngest on the team makes celebrating in bars a constant act of subterfuge), plus his black and gold Wheat Kings hat is an obvious beacon of a losing team among the blue and white of the champions. Adam hunches down lower in his seat in the bar, turning his hat so the logo isn’t as obvious and hopes no one wants to start a fight with someone on the last place team drinking a lukewarm glass of coke ‘cause his fake isn’t that good.

Adam had gotten here first, having left the final sometime in the third when it was clear the Wolves wouldn’t bounce back from a 4-1 lead. The goal that guaranteed Rimouski’s win came from a Wolves d-man fumbling the puck in his zone and hit a little too close to home for someone whose team was eliminated from the tourney on a similar goal. If Adam had had his way, he wouldn’t have stuck around Canada past the round robin, but he’d booked a flight right back home rather than going back to Brandon and having to double back on himself to get to Buffalo. He gambled booking his flight for the day after the final, hedging his bets on the fact they won had the WHL title and forgetting who they had to qualify for the finals of the tournament. Adam learned the hard way why the Zimmermann-Parson no-look is infamous across the league.

Adam startles when the stool next to him scrapes against the floor and someone drops heavily onto it, sitting a touch too close to him. He looks up out of his coke to glare at the person that ignored the “don’t come near me” vibe Adam’s been projecting. Piercing blue eyes meet his easily. Jack Zimmermann is apparently making a habit of walking through Adam’s defense.

“Que bois-tu?” Zimmermann asks, nodding at Adam’s glass. Adam knows enough French (you don’t play in Brandon without getting stuck in Immersion) to catch the question, but he’s also petty enough to stare blankly at Zimmermann. It’s a poor choice in retrospect; everyone has a crush on Jack Zimmermann’s hockey, but staring at him, Adam can admit he might have a different kind of crush too.

“What’re are you drinking?” Zimmerman asks again after a minute of staring back at Adam.

“Uh, coke,” Adam says slowly. Zimmermann finally focuses on Adam’s own and raises an eyebrow.

“Underage,” Adam answers the unasked question.

“You know the drinking age is 18 here, yes?”

“And in Manitoba, and Alberta too. I’m 17, not stupid.” Adam fights to keep from rolling his eyes and doesn’t do a very good job.

“You don’t look 17,” Zimmermann says, squinting at Adam. He shakes his head and gives Adam a once over and if he wasn’t a hockey player, Adam would be more certain that he was being checked out.

“Yeah, well…” Adam doesn’t know how to reply, doesn’t know why Zimmermann is talking to him. Doesn’t really want to talk to him either if he’s being honest, even if prior to losing 7-0 to his team, talking with Zimmermann would probably have made Adam’s entire month. But he’s vaguely embarrassed that he’s ended the season by being swept in the championship tournament and annoyed that out of all the bars he could’ve possibly gone to in the city, he found the one where the hockey team celebrates.

Zimmermann catches the bartender’s attention and leans over the bar, ordering in rapid French. Adam figures that’s the end of their conversation, he shifts so he’s not pressed so close to Zimmermann. He finishes the watery remnants of his coke and takes to glaring at the empty glass, debating between getting another one or just leaving to go back to his empty hotel room and stare at the walls there. Zimmermann takes the choice away when he slides another coke over to Adam.

“Uh.” Adam stares at Zimmermann, really out of his depth. “Shouldn’t I be buying you a drink for winning the Memmer?” Adam eventually asks.

“I’m not drinking a soft drink to celebrate a win,” Zimmermann says with an eye roll, assuming Adam knows what a soft drink is. His accent comes out thick around “celebrate,” enunciating the three syllables. He motions for Adam to take a sip and Adam does, again wondering who he’s pissed off to deserve getting judged by Zimmermann. There’s rum mixed in with the coke and Zimmermann’s mouth almost twitches into a smile when Adam chokes on the alcohol.

“Wasn’t expecting it,” he mumbles, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Zimmermann outright grins at that. He taps his glass against Adam’s and then drains his in one go with no grimace at the taste. Adam is torn between being impressed and turned on until he remembers he can be both. Zimmermann catches him staring again and he hopes neither are too obvious on his face, he’s made it without being hit in the face so far tonight. Their eye contact is broken when Kent Parson comes over to the bar.

“Zimms!” Parson makes himself at home in Zimmermann’s space. His face is as flushed as Adam’s feels for being caught staring, and the hat he’s wearing does nothing to control his wild hair. Adam learns away from Zimmermann again, wondering when he ended up that close. He drags a finger through the condensation on his glass.

“You gonna come celebrate or what?” Parson is asking Zimmermann, but Adam can feel his gaze on him as he speaks. Adam mets Parson’s eyes- oh, they’re pretty- and fills the awkward silence when Zimmermann is slow to answer Parson.

“Congrats on the Mem, man,” he says, nodding at Parson.

“Thanks,” Parson replies after a beat. He whispers something low to Zimmermann, who replies in French, too quickly for Adam to understand. He furrows his brow a little because that’s rude, and considers leaving again. He didn’t come here to be ignored. He didn’t come here to talk to hockey players either, but that’s not the point.

“You play?” Parson asks just as Adam decides he’s had enough of this bar.

Adam stands and points at his hat. “Defence.” He checks that his wallet and phone are still in his pocket. It’s a cheap flip razer knock-off but his mom’ll kill him if he loses another phone in a hockey player related incident.

“Number 26, right? Birkhaltz?” Parson squints up at Adam.

“Uh, -holtz, yeah.” Adam corrects, sinking back in the stool, more than a little mystified that Parson recognizes him off the ice.

“We watched your game against Hali. Your slapper’s a beauty.” Parson slaps his shoulder, squeezing before letting go. Adam’s whole body goes warm at the compliment: Parson may be a bit of an asshole but he’s projected to go first or second in June and no one can deny he knows his shit when it comes to hockey.

“Thanks.” Adam takes a sip of his drink for something to do. It goes down easier. “Uh, sick goal in the second today,” Adam replies. Parson has the good grace to shrug at the compliment instead of asking “which one?”

“Couldn’t’ve done it without this asshole,” Parson says, throwing an arm around Zimmermann’s shoulders and squeezing. Zimmermann looks pleased at the contact, grinning widely as he picks up the fresh drink the bartender dropped off.

“You guys are good together.” Adam’s been playing long enough that he knows that it’s your lineys as much as your own skill that get you points.

Parson and Zimmermann are staring at each other, long enough that Adam starts to feel like he’s intruding on something. He covers his awkwardness by taking another sip.

“You wanna find out how good we can be?” Zimmermann asks suddenly. Adam chokes on an ice cube.

“Um,” he says when he’s got his breath back.

“He’s asking if you wanna come to our room.” Parson’s voice is quiet but he’s smiling slightly, like this all an amusing joke. His arm is still around Zimmermann though. “Your choice man, no hard feelings either way. You’ve probably had a shitty day, we can make it better. Maybe something’ll rub off on you.” His smile widens into a smirk at that last comment, like he knows how ridiculous it is.

Adam waits for a “no homo,” but it never comes. In fact, if anything, Zimmermann and Parson press closer together. Zimmermann’s right hand, the one closest to Parson, is running up and down Parson’s thigh, inching closer to his inseam on each pass. Adam’s the only one who can see the movement from his corner at the bar. He flushes and he’s not even being the one touched.

“Um.” Adam wants to be touched like that, he aches for it suddenly. Parson’s right, if this isn’t some trick they’re playing on him, they could make his shitty day, no his shitty week, much better. “Sure.”

Parson and Zimmermann wear matching grins and Adam should find it creepy, but instead he finds himself chubbing up a bit.

“Give us ten minutes and meet outside?” Parson says. He nods back at the table he came from, where their teammates are still loud and celebrating.

“Five minutes,” Zimmermann says. His eyes are dark as he stares at Adam. Adam only nods. Zimmermann throws down a twenty and gets off the stool and Parson follows with a wink to Adam. Adam stares after them. He watches them for another second before finishing what’s left of his rum and coke in one swallow. It burns, but it gives him something to focus on while he wills his boner down and waits. He pays for his coke quickly and is waiting outside three minutes after Zimmermann and Parson first left the bar.

The two minute wait is the longest of his life. He’s jumping from foot to foot, convinced he’s misread everything and is the victim of a very cruel prank when Parson and Zimmermann come out. Zimmermann walks right past Adam and starts down the street.

“Eager,” Parson says. Adam shrugs, not sure if that’s a chirp about about him or Zimmermann, and they follow Zimmermann to the hotel that Rimouski are staying at. They hosted, but Adam understands the extra bonding that comes with spending a tourney in a hotel with your team, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to offer his room for this. A full season’s worth of shit is spread out from where he tore his bags apart looking for a lucky jock he thought he left in Brandon and having to move around that would probably be cause for someone to double guess this.

No one talks again until they’re behind the locked door of Parson and Zimmermann’s double room.

“Okay?” Zimmermann asks Adam as he crowds him up against the door. Adam would be impressed with how easily Zimmermann fits himself into Adam’s space, but he’s seen him on the ice before and how just makes space for himself there. Adam nods and that’s all Zimmermann needs. He presses his lips to Adam’s and kisses like he’s desperate for it. Who knows, maybe he is. Zimmermann moans and Adam would take that as a compliment on his kissing abilities if he didn’t feel Parson press up against Zimmermann’s back and start in on his neck. A hand sneaks between Adam and Zimmermann. He’s not sure whose it is until Zimmermann drops to his knees and the hand stays there while Parson steps in so Adam doesn’t go without kissing someone for long.

They eventually make it to the nearest bed.

Adam gets up once he comes down from his orgasms, untangling himself from the mess of limbs and goes to the bathroom. He washes his hands, watching himself in the mirror the whole time. His hair’s a mess, sweaty from the exertion of keeping up with two people and from hands running through it, and his lips are puffy and bitten. He’s got a mess of bruises starting low on his belly and curling around his torso to his neck. He knows the larger ones are from the three games he played that week, but the small ones, the ones in the shape of mouths, stand out starkly from the rest. They look angrier in a way, though they were given with a different intent. There’s an especially dark bruise starting on the hinge of his jaw, where his face meets his neck, but he doesn’t remember who gave it to him to give them shit for it. He can’t find it in him to be that mad about it the more he stares.

Once Adam’s cleaned his hands he gets a washcloth to wipe off any stickiness, paying particular attention to his chest. When he’s finished that, he rinses out the cloth before wringing it out and bringing it back into the room. He hands it to Parson; Zimmermann’s already passed out.

“Thanks,” Parson says, using it to wipe himself off. He’s sitting naked on the bed that Zimmermann is sleeping in, sprawling like he does this a lot. Based on tonight, Adam’s pretty sure he does. “You’re not bad Birkholz.” Parson finishes and considers Zimmermann and the cloth before sighing and using the part of the cloth not covered with come to wipe what he can off Zimmermann. “He always makes it so difficult.”

Adam finds his clothes easily enough. He dresses quickly to the tune of Zimmermann’s snores, Parson watching with half-lidded eyes, having tucked himself under the covers next to Zimmermann.

“You could stay,” Parson offers as Adam does up his belt. He sounds sincere but Adam’s skeptical of an offer that comes after he’s dressed.

“Early bus.” Adam’s not lying, it’s a 3-hour drive from Rimouski to Québec City where he’ll fly out of, but doesn’t think it’d be cool to call Parson out on his offer. He might not have practiced it much but he knows enough about one night things to not make it awkward by staying past his welcome. He’s fixing his hair under his hat as best he can in the reflection of the blank T.V. when Parson speaks again.

“Oh shit, Zimms really did a number on you, fuck.” Parson kicks the blankets off and gets up. He grabs Adam’s chin to look at the bruise on his jaw. “Yikes, that’s something.”

Adam shrugs and steps back, suddenly overwhelmed. Parson takes the hint and let’s go easily. He coughs and rubs a hand through his own hair.

“Um.”

“Give him hell for this, hey?” Adam asks, pointing at the hickey. Zimmermann lets out a loud snore and Parson nods, grinning. He follows Adam to the door, pulling him down for a quick kiss.

“Always do.”

“See you around Parson.” Adam lets himself out, hearing the lock click behind him before he can do something stupid like turn and ask to stay.

He flips the collar of his flannel up for the walk back to his hotel, but it’s late enough that he doesn’t see anyone other than the front desk person, who’s content to ignore him anyways. He packs quickly and sleeps on top of the comforter for an hour until his alarm goes off and he catches the early shuttle to Québec City for his flight. Muscle memory gets him through security and onto the plane to Buffalo. He ignores all of his sisters’ comments about the hickies when they pick him up in Buffalo but lets Annie try to cover up the worst of it before they get home and their mom notices.

Adam’s bruises are just starting to fade when he hears that Jack Zimmermann has dropped out of the draft. They no longer hurt to touch when he reads that Jack Zimmermann’s checked into rehab. The one on his jaw is the only one left when he watches Kent Parson get drafted first.

“You played with him, eh?” Adam’s dad asks as they watch Parson pull the Vegas jersey on over his head. His hair’s a completely mess and Adam does not think about the noise that Parson made when he took his shirt of.

“Against him yeah. Him and Zimmermann were a force to be reckoned with,” Adam says.

On and off the ice, he doesn’t say. His fingers press into the last of the bruise.

Adam goes back to Brandon in September after spending the summer training hard. Getting back on the ice with the team is easy and he finds a point streak with his new d-partner from Calgary sometime in November. Adam’s name gets whispered in the mid-season draft predictions and, after winning the Memorial Cup in a 2-1 final against Rimouski, he surprises everyone, including himself, by opting out of the draft. He realizes he should go to college first, just in case hockey doesn’t work out. He’s seen how unpredictable life can be.

So Adam plays another year in Brandon, upgrading courses he slept through the first time around between games and practices, and gets rejected from his first choice school, but is accepted to his second and third choices. He makes the decision by looking at hockey stats and because Samwell’s been on a hot streak lately, he accepts a place there. Adam stupidly doesn’t look too hard at why Samwell’s been winning, distracted by the cool sounding economic program that he wants to major in and all the extracurricular clubs the school offers. He’s not sure if his decision would’ve been different had he realized who practically carried the team to the Frozen Four in his freshmen year on the team.

Adam isn’t prepared to share the ice with Jack Zimmermann after two years of him being nothing more than a memory, a warning of what not to do. He’s even less prepared for complete lack of recognition from Zimmermann at Samwell’s first team practice in August and it pisses him off.

“Bro, you’re glaring.” Justin, Adam’s partner for the 2 v. 2 drill, says. They’re taking a breather while the senior d-pair is out against Zimmermann and a winger who is nowhere near fast enough to be on the same line.

“No I’m not,” Adam says, looks away from the ice to grab a water bottle. He squirts some in his mouth and does the same to Justin when he opens his mouth.

“If that’s you not glaring, I’m not sure I wanna see you’re glare.”

Adam doesn’t reply as he and Justin are called to replace the d-line. Adam beats Justin onto the ice and goes to take the face-off against Zimmermann. Justin’s cough sounds suspiciously like he’s saying, “that’s a glare.” But Adam knows that it’s a glare now, he feels his eyebrows drawn together. Zimmermann is just staring back mildly at him so Adam can’t help the glare. He’s a little bit bitter than one of the best fucks he’s ever had doesn’t seem to remember him, rules of junior hook-ups notwithstanding.

The whistle blows and the puck’s dropped and Zimmermann wins it, sending it flying back to his winger. Justin covers the winger, putting enough pressure on him that he’s forced to pass the puck back to Zimmermann but the pass goes wide so it’s a foot race between Zimmermann and Adam to get it first. Zimmermann wins that race too, doesn’t even look before he sends the puck to the wing, and Adam might be going too fast or he might have a lot of resentment built up so he ends up slamming Zimmermann into the boards with a clean hit that’s a he usually would’ve pulled in practice. The whistle blows and play’s stopped.

“He’s on your team once the season starts, what the fuck!?” another forward with a moustache shouts.

“Accident,” Adam shrugs, pretty sure that’s the truth. Zimmermann’s back on his feet, looking no worse for wear so at least Adam didn’t hurt him. He’s frowns at Adam for the rest of practice though, which annoys Adam even more than being ignored. Adam gets held back for a lecture on how to properly check teammates in the preseason and makes his promises about it not happening again that he mostly means.

When the coaches let him go Adam doesn’t storm down the hallway per-say to the locker room, but it’s not entirely a meander either. He sits down hard on the bench in the thankfully empty locker room to undo his skates. He startles when someone clears their throat. Of course it’s Zimmermann, hair dripping from the shower still but thankfully dressed.

“Do you have a problem with me?” Zimmermann asks. His voice is softer than Adam remembers, though his accent still makes the words come out clipped. Or maybe he’s more pissed than he’s let on. Adam doesn’t know, doesn’t care, he just wants to shower.

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Adam says, throwing his skates into his bag with little care for them. He’ll regret that later, but for now he’s pissed off for a reason he can’t quite wrap his head around, but probably has to do with the fact that his pride hurts a little more than he’s used to when faced with past hook-ups. Sleeping with your hockey crush should come with its own warning label: gives the best blowjobs of your life but will straight up forget it ever happened.

“Obviously,” Zimmermann replies with an eyeroll. He crosses his arms. “You were in the CHL, right? Did we fight or something?”

“Or something,” Adam snorts bitterly. He rips off his sock tape more vigorously than is needed. He balls up the tape and tosses it in the direction of the garbage can and misses completely. He huffs loudly.

Zimmermann watches him, hovering just on the edge of Adam’s personal bubble, looking extremely uncomfortable considering the last time they were near each other he had no problem pushing into Adam’s space.

“Look, I uh, I was dealing with a lot of stuff in juniors. A lot of it’s fuzzy.” Zimmermann’s voice is quiet enough that Adam actual has to strain his ears to hear the last of that sentence and when he does, his stomach bottoms out.

“You- what?” he croaks.

“You heard what happened.” It’s not a question so Zimmermann doesn’t wait for Adam to answer. “Like I said, juniors was fuzzy, and I was never really good with faces to begin with so if I insulted you, I’m sorry.” He shrugs. “I probably didn’t mean it.”

“Oh.” Adam takes a moment to process, considering. “You don’t remember me?”

Zimmermann squints at him. “Mooseheads?”

“Wheat Kings.”

“Fuck,” Zimmermann winces. “7-0, that must’ve sucked on that side.”

“Yeah.” Definitely not one of the highlights of Adam’s career.

“Sorry,” Zimmermann blows out a breath.

“Nah, not your fault. I’m sorry for that check. I didn’t realize…” Adam trails off not sure how to finish the sentence without putting his foot further in his mouth. Zimmermann nods like he understands, and Adam really hopes he does understand how stupid he feels. It was one night two years ago. Adam’s hooked up since then and even forgotten his fair share of names. Never faces though.

“Good hit though. Clean.” Zimmermann looks more comfortable once he’s talking about hockey. “I’ll be glad to have you on my team this time.”

Adam huffs out a laugh. “Same.”

Zimmermann nods and makes to leave the locker room.

“We hooked up,” Adam blurts before he gets far. He sees Zimmermann’s shoulders tense as he freezes in the doorway.

“Um.” Zimmermann turns slowly, looking like someone caught in a trap and Adam feels like shit for bring it up, but he couldn’t not tell leave it alone.

“You, me, and Parson.”

“Fuck,” Zimmermann mumbles under his breath. “You can’t, you can’t tell anyone!” He reaches out as if to grab Adam but abruptly stops. His hands go into his hair in what looks like a painful grip.

“I won’t- I haven’t-” Adam is quick to reassure. The panicked look on Zimmermann’s face and the way his breathing starts to quicken gives Adam a clue as to what Zimmermann might’ve been dealing with in juniors. He’s seen Annie’s anxiety work her up to a panic attack enough.

“Zimmermann.” Adam gets off the bench and gets closer, making sure not to make any sudden movements. “Jack, can I touch you?” he asks loudly. Zimmermann’s- no Jack’s, Adam finally lets himself think of him as Jack- Jack’s eyes snap to Adam and he nods, though his breath doesn’t slow. Adam grips his elbows and pulls gently to take his hands out of his hair.

“I’m going to put your hands on my chest, okay? Try to breath with me.”

At Jack’s blank look, Adam repeats what he said in French, pretty sure he’s messed up a verb conjugation somewhere but Jack looks comforted having heard French. Adam breathes loudly, exaggerating his chest movements so Jack has something to focus on. He’s not sure how long they stand there, Adam gripping Jack’s elbows until Jack’s breathing gets deeper and slower. It’s longer still before either of them speak.

“Sorry,” Adam says when Jack’s been breathing normally for at least three minutes. “I shouldn’t have sprung that on you like that.

“You’re good at that,” Jack replies, ignoring Adam’s comment. Adam lets him.

“My sister has attacks like that. Dad gave us all lectures of what not to do and what to do the first time she had a panic attack and my other sister hyperventilated.”

Jack scrubs a hand over his face, looking absolutely exhausted. “Thanks,” he says. “How do you know French?”

“Three years of immersion in Brandon. I graduated high school officially bilingual,” Adam answers. Jack makes a face.

“I always forget Manitoba speaks French.”

“Everyone does.”

They’re quiet again and Adam itches under the pads that he still hasn’t taken off. He steps back from Jack to pull off his sweater.

“I swear, I won’t say anything. I understand why it’s important not to,” he says softly when he catches Jack staring at him after he’s free of his sweater.

“Thank you,” Jack replies, equally as a quiet. He takes a step towards the door. “I’m gonna go eh, have a nap if I’m honest.” He huffs a laugh at himself.

Adam nods and waves. “See you around Zimmermann.”

And this time, he does.

Full disclosure: most of my understanding of the Mem cup comes from wiki, and I didn’t feel like sticking to the actual teams that were in the 2009 cup beyond Rimouski. Also, I wanted Holster to play in the WHL but i didn’t want him to be as far west as Kelowna so Brandon was the solution, with the added bonus of I’ve been there and Bilingual Manitoba isn’t referenced enough.

this also ended happier than i expected. i was looking for angst, came out with this so imagine it as the start of a jack/holster fuck buddy situation maybe. something like that. (i have half an alternative ending where jack and holster have locker room sex but it didn’t work for me the same way the grudgingly friends one did)

#omgcp #omgcheckplease #Jack Zimmermann #Kent Parson #adam holster birkholtz #Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann #Jack Zimmermann & Adam Holster Birkholtz #Jack Zimmermann/Kent Parson/Adam Holster Birkholtz #i writ i write i wrote

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