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see-the-fandom-imagines · 1 year

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What’s in it for me?

Chapter 8

Chapter 1 Masterlist

Pairing: Kyouya Ootori x Reader Author: see-the-fandom-imagines Warnings: Kyouya in a bad mood, other than that mostly cute fluff, filler Author’s Note: I hope you will like it! One tiny question: I have been thinking about uploading this same fic with a few changes that would be required, but using male pronouns. I feel like our male readers get too little attention every once in a while, so let me know in case anyone would actually be interested in reading this with male pronouns! Tag List: @radical-bunny, @redsakura101, @ellouisa17

Link to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46325452/chapters/116633701

The next morning you awoke early. You needed a moment to realise where you were, but Haruhi’s steady breathing soon reminded you of everything that happened the day before. You groaned and stretched, before carefully sitting up. Bright sun light shone through the curtains, so you decided you might as well should get up and make some breakfast. You owed everyone as much for scaring them like you did. Quietly you walked into the bathroom. Looking into the mirror you noticed that your eyes were still a little puffy from crying, but that was nothing that a little cold water couldn’t save. You brushed your teeth and quickly washed your face, before slipping into your everyday clothes and sneaking downstairs. No one was there yet, and you enjoyed the short moment of calmness, a rare occasion when being anywhere with the host club. You had to admit you probably were relaxed for the first time in weeks, although you knew you also had to thank the six boys for that who were still sleeping upstairs. Silently you checked the fridge and the pantry for food and you actually found almost all of the basics – eggs, rice, flour, sugar … You could work with that. You had just finished heating the pan, when you heard steps coming down the stairs into the kitchen. You turned around to see who it was, after you had poured the first load of dough into the pan. “Mori-Senpai”, you greeted. “Good morning!” You smiled at him and he smiled back. “Good morning.” He stepped closer to see what you were doing. “I am making breakfast, I thought it was the least thing I could do after … after yesterday.” You carefully flipped the pancake, before turning towards him, as you noticed something. “I never really thanked you properly, but… well, thank you. Really.” You looked him in the eyes. “For saving my life. And everything in general, too.” You bowed down as deeply as you could without falling to your knees. He was quiet for a while, but then you felt the weight of his hand on your head as he ruffled your hair. Surprised you looked up into his smiling face. You knew this was his way of saying that it was alright. You smiled up at him. “If you want to you can sit down, I’ll bring the breakfast out in a bit.” “Let me help you.” “But…”, you started but he shook his head. “Please.” You chuckled and gave in. If he said he wanted to help, that’s what he wanted to do. You always enjoyed Mori’s simplicity in this regard. “Alright! You can make some pancakes if you want to? They’re mostly for Honey-senpai and the twins whenever they wake up!” Mori nodded and took the spatula from you. The rest of the morning was spend in a comfortable silence, only interrupted by you giving Mori some cooking tips and asking which vegetables and leftovers he wanted in the soup.

Proudly, Mori showed you the big stack of pancakes he had just made, and you gave him a thumbs up. “Amazing! Now we just have to wait for …” “I smell pancakes!” You almost flinched as you heard the older hosts voice behind you. When did he get up? Had he been awake this whole time? Slowly you turned around, looking into his happy face. “We made some for breakfast, I had a feeling you’d like them”, you said, trying not to be freaked out by his weird sense of smell for sweets. “Yay!”, he proclaimed, “Let’s set the table, so we can eat!” You nodded and handed Honey a stack of plates, when suddenly Mori stepped in front of you, grabbing your chin with one hand and lifting your head to look at him. You felt the heat creep onto your cheeks at his touch. “M-Mori-senpai”, you stammered, but then he lifted his other hand and gently wiped something of your face with his thumb. His fingers felt warm on your face and his touch was soft. A lot softer than how Kyouya had touched you yesterday. With wide eyes you stared up at him. “Flour”, he explained and immediately you understood and relaxed your shoulders again. “Oh”, you said, but before you could react any further, two very well-known voices appeared next to you. “Hey hey, are we interrupting something?” Immediately, Mori let go of your face as if he had been burnt by it. Hikaru appeared next to his brother. “Is there a secret kitchen party and we haven’t been invited?” You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, huge kitchen party, too bad, you’re late.” “Hey”, Kaoru started poking your cheek. “That’s mean”, Hikaru said, poking the other one. “You know me”, you shrugged, “mean to the core.” “Have you made breakfast?”, they realized at the same time. “Yes.” “But why? “Yeah, there’s maids for that.” “Well, there are no maids here as you can see.” “Well, then there’s delivery”, Hikaru shrugged, and you waited for Kaoru’s response but instead he smiled down at you. “Thanks.” Hikaru sent him an irritated gaze, but you beamed up at him. “You’re welcome, now go, go, set the table if you want to eat!” “Do we have to?”, they groaned in unison, but a raised eyebrow from you was enough to get them to move. You shook your head, watching your friends set the table and a weird sense of security and happiness washed over you. It weirdly felt like home. Just… safe. Although a few people were still missing. Smiling at the view, you saw Tamaki and Haruhi walk down the stairs, bickering again, but stopping as they saw the almost fully set breakfast table. “(Y/n) have you done all this?”, Tamaki asked, but you shook your head. “I had some help." You smiled at Mori. “You could have woken me up, I would have helped”, Haruhi protested, but you shushed her quickly. “That’s exactly, why I didn’t wake you! You deserved some rest.” You looked around. “Well, Kyouya-senpai is still missing.” You checked your watch. “I better go wake him up.” Suddenly you felt the gaze of all the hosts on you. “Better don’t do that”, Hikaru said. “Not if you want to live”, Kaoru finished. “What do you mean?” “Kyouya has the blood type AB”, Tamaki explained, but you still were a little confused. “So?” “Kyouya really doesn’t like to be woken up”, Honey said, while already stuffing his face with his first pancake. “You are not the one to talk”, Mori solely commented on his cousin’s utterance, but since you also could not really place this, you just sighed. “Ah, come on, guys, it can’t be that bad … right?” “Try it at your own risk”, the twins said, shrugging, while already sitting down at the breakfast table and you gulped. “Well, I think he is going to be angrier, if we let him sleep and we miss our car back, so I guess I’ll… try my best.” But you had barely finished the sentence, when you were already beginning to doubt your idea.

Carefully, you made your way up the stairs and turned to the left where you knew Kyouya's room was located. You knocked carefully, but didn’t get a reply. You knocked again. Still nothing. You gulped heavily and decided to go in. Once you had stepped inside your eyes needed a moment to adjust to the darkness and suddenly you weren’t so sure anymore of what you were doing here. You had entered Kyouya’s room without his permission, to wake him up, also without his permission. Even morning people would have every right to be pissed at you and he apparently was the complete opposite of a morning person. Biting your lip you questioned why you were here again and thought about simply turning around, it was not too late to just leave again, but then you remembered the feeling of seeing everybody help out in the kitchen. And how happy that had made you. And how much you had noticed Kyouya’s absence in this moment. A part of you really wanted him to be part of this memory. Maybe it was foolish, but now that you were already inside his room you decided there was no going back. You took a deep breath, and carefully stepped closer to his bed. You looked at his sleeping face and couldn’t help but notice how relaxed he looked. You smiled a little to yourself. His hair was messy from sleep and he seemed unusually relaxed. He was always so composed, seeing him in this state was highly unusual, but you had to admit that you liked it. The messy hair was weirdly attractive. You swalled down the lump in your throat and knelt down beside him. “Kyouya-senpai”, you whispered, but he still didn’t move. “Kyouya-senpai”, you tried again, this time a bit louder. You sighed. This was not working. You stood back up again, and carefully moved his shoulder. “Kyouya-sen…” But this was as far as you got, for in the next second you felt Kyouya’s grip on your wrist that had just tried to shake him awake. The sudden pull of his touch made you fall over. Your upper body collided with his and your faces were just inches apart from each other as you now stared into his eyes. The usual brown-greyish colour had turned black and you felt a shiver run down your spine as he looked at you. “First you won’t let me sleep and now you wake me early in the morning?” His voice was ice cold. Wait, not let him sleep, what have you …Oh no, you must have woken him up last night with your crying. Immediately your face went bright red, thinking that he had heard your absolute breakdown. Your mouth went dry and your thoughts went blank. How much had he heard? Had he heard you cry? Had he heard anything at all? You felt your cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. You felt his chest moving with his chest against yours, his fingers burning into your wrist and you were way too aware of the warmth radiating from him. You tried to think of something to say, anything. You wanted to apologize for waking him both yesterday and today, but you realized you were close enough to smell the faint scent of cedar and lavender that always seemed to surround him and it clouded your thoughts. All you could perceive was the warmth of his skin against yours and how close his face was. This was getting really weird, you had to say something, anything to make this better. Just apologise, (y/n), apolo … “I made breakfast.” You slapped yourself internally, but nothing else would come over your lips. You swallowed hard and looked down at him. His eyes seemed to regain a bit of colour, although, he had still gripped your wrist tightly and seemed slightly murderous. “You… made breakfast?”, he asked back. “Yeah.” “…” “…” “You wake me up ... to tell me you made breakfast.” “Yeah.” He seemed to think for a second, before you could feel his chest begin to vibrate with a low chuckle. “You made breakfast”, he repeated again and finally let go of your wrist. Right away you scrambled back up to your feet, although you were immediately missing the warmth. Kyouya sat up and looked at you. It was impossible for you to guess what he was thinking. He still radiated a slight murderous spirit, but at least he didn’t seem like he wanted to decapitate you on the spot anymore. “I’ll be right down.”

Trying to steady your breath you made your way back down the stairs, your legs a little wobbly from the second close call with death in the last two days and only now noticed that all the other hosts, including Haruhi had gathered at the foot of the staircase, looking up at you expectantly. Before you could react, you found yourself in Tamaki’s embrace. “Oh, (y/n), you can’t imagine how glad we are that you are alive and well!” You blinked a few times. It had been scary, but now he was overdoing it. “I am fine”, you tried to get out between him squeezing you, and it took the help of both twins to peel him away from you. “You don’t look fine”, they observed and you realized, that you probably still were blushing quite heavily. They seemed to mistake it for fear. “No worries, (y/n)-chan! You’re safe now!”, Honey assured you with a serious gaze. “And now sit down and have breakfast with us! A few pancakes will help you get better!”

It didn’t take long for Kyouya to come downstairs, neatly dressed and styled as always. It was as if he was a completely different person. “Good morning”, he wished everyone at the table and they responded. “Good morning, (y/n)”, he said to you in particular, his voice cold, and you knew he was still mad at you for waking him up. “Good morning”, you mumbled back. You had just gotten up to get Honey a few more pancakes, and immediately made your way back into the kitchen to grab another bowl of rice, a miso soup and some of the fish from yesterday you had been frying up again. You placed them one by one in front of Kyouya who looked at you with an unreadable gaze. “I said I made breakfast”, you mumbled, and shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “And I remember you once said you don’t really like sweet stuff, so I made something savory, too.” Kyouya didn’t reply and you didn’t dare to look into his face so you made your way back to your seat to finish your own breakfast. You tried to ignore him, but somehow you caught your gaze wandering back towards him, eyeing the food in front of him suspiciously. You knew it tasted fine, you had had some yourself and Mori had also told you it’s delicious, so you weren’t sure why you were so worried about what Kyouya might think about it. You chewed on a bite of rice, and acted as if you were listening to something Haruhi was telling you, but actually you were watching the dark-haired host from the corner of your eyes, curious about how he'd react. You watched him separate a piece of fish and put it in his mouth. He halted for a second and looked at you, almost surprised. Your gaze met his for a second, but he immediately averted his gaze and focused it on the food again. You had to turn back to Haruhi, so that she wouldn’t realize that you hadn’t been listening to a word she said, but you could have sworn that you had seen a small smirk on Kyouya’s face, as he took a second bite and somehow this made you irrationally happy.

Kyouya for his share did not remember when he had last eaten a homecooked meal like that. Trying to show as little emotion as possible, he nonetheless gladly realized that she seemed to be feeling better. A small smile played on her lips now and he watched her talk and laugh with the other hosts. That sight might have even been worth getting woken up for. Might.

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archadianskies · 5 years

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the shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn

@dbhrarepairs Sunday Day 7: Free Day; Fantasy + Supernatural; RK900/Simon

It is an unspoken rule: you are safe in Jericho. There are no ranks, no royalty, and certainly no witch hunters. Simon’s worked hard to keep it this way for five years now and strives to ensure it will stay as such in the years to come. It is, by all accounts, but a humble bakery in a bustling integrated town and it’s not the biggest nor the fanciest, not by far. But for Simon it’s home. Literally. He and his twin brother Daniel live upstairs.

Jericho’s reputation means it has its fair share of interesting patrons, most of whom Simon has eventually befriended. Most notable are those from the castle: Royal Scholar Joshua, Royal Protector North, and the princes themselves; Prince Leopold and Prince Markus. Not that Simon ever set out to sell to castlefolk but apparently no one makes berry loaves quite like he does or so Prince Markus says- something something his magic imbues baked goods with emotional properties.

The Autumn Harvest Festival is soon to be upon them and Simon is kept busy, so busy he’s enlisted the help of fellow baker Kara and her little daughter Alice. She even manages to ensnare her towering husband Luther to help by heaving sacks of flour freshly packed at the mill and bring them to the bakery. King Carl will throw a grand celebration that will last all week, and the town will near triple in size as visitors flock in from out of town. It’s exhausting work but incredible money and Simon knows he can’t pass it up. He’ll spend the next week deep in preparation.

It’s one sunny afternoon, tempered by a breeze carrying the chilling promise of winter, that a new customer wanders into Jericho. It’s too early to be tourists and it’s too late to be a regular patron.

“Hello, welcome to Jericho.” Simon greets the older, greying man. He has tired warm eyes, his face weathered by time but also slashed with curious scars. “What can I get for you sir?”

“I uh, I’m new here. Me an’ my boys just moved in, just outside of town by the forest.”

“Oh! You bought the hunter’s cottage.” Simon smiles warmly. “I’m glad. It’d been empty for so long now and it’s at such a lovely location.”

“Heard a lot about this place.” He mumbles gruffly, scratching his nape. “My sons, they’re…different. ‘Specially the younger one. I just wanted to suss this place out before bringin’ ‘em in.”

“They’re safe here at Jericho. No judgement, no hunters.” Simon vows solemnly. “They can eat here and my brother is a potions master so they’ll have plenty to drink of whatever their heart needs.”

“Hank Anderson.” The man introduces himself, and when Simon shakes his calloused hand he sees ropey scars all over it too.

“Simon Lambert.”

“I know I’m a bit late for the morning loaves but you got anything heartier? Meatier?” Hank looks around, curiously inspecting this and that.

“I still have a beef steak and peppercorn pie, how does that sound?” Simon offers, and Hank breaks into a grin.

“Sounds perfect.”

*~*~*

North perches up on the counter, plucking a blueberry tart and dropping a couple of coins into the till. “Saw that the hunter’s lodge was bought last week.” Her speech is muffled by her chewing. “A family?”

“Yes, a father and his sons.” Simon sighs and sweeps a few crumbs off the counter, trying to shoo her off to no avail. “I met him the other day, he seems nice. Curiously covered in scars though.”

“A soldier? A knight?” North guesses, expression piqued with interest. “Another hunter?”

“I don’t ask questions here.” Simon reminds her lightly, pouring her a glass of chipper tonic to boost her afternoon mood. “I hope to meet his sons soon. Maybe Alice will have a playmate, the dear girl’s been so lonely.”

“Hey, you got any of the cinnamon scrolls left?” She nearly tips over the counter in her attempt to peek behind, and Simon lunges to steady her.

“North!”

“Well do ya?” She grins at him, puffing a lock of hair from her face. Her magic emanates from her, an aura like wildfire, and sets her brown eyes ablaze. He rolls his eyes.

“I do. Two to go like usual?”

“Yeah if I don’t feed Josh he’ll just work til he passes out. Or try and eat his books, I dunno.” She drops more coins into the till as Simon carefully places the sticky scrolls in wax paper. “Tell me about the new family when you meet them, okay? I’m pretty curious. And y’know, doin’ my job. If he’s some shady guy then the Fam needs to know.”

“Will do.” He promises, handing her the scrolls and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Take care and say hello to Josh for me.”

*~*~*

When Hank visits the next day, there’s a huge dog at his side. It’s easily the size of Alice, and should it stand on its hind legs Simon knows it would probably see eye to eye with Luther himself. The bakery isn’t too full, but it isn’t empty either and the customers eye the canine warily. “This is err, this is Connor.” Hank gestures at the canine who immediately sits and offers what Simon thinks is a rather cute doggy smile.

“Can I pat him? PLEASE?” Alice pipes up, peeking from behind Simon. “He looks SO fluffy!”

“He is fluffy, little Miss.” Hank chuckles. “Go right ahead.”

Alice darts out from behind him and rushes to the dog, immediately sinking her hands into his fur. “Hiiiiii Connor! I’m Alice!” Connor responds by flopping down and rolling over, showing his belly as his tail swishes side to side happily.

“You know,” Simon comes around to stand beside Hank, arms crossed, “I thought you said you were going to bring your sons here. There was no mention of a very large but very cute dog. What breed is he? Goodness he seems like a hunting mastiff and wolf hybrid.”

“...We’ll go with that, yeah. I never really did know.” Hank shrugs, grin a little self-conscious. “I didn’t raise ‘em, I sorta...just...took them in. They needed a home and someone to care for them.”

“Them?” Simon echoes, brows raised. “There’s another?”

“Uh yeah, there’s two of ‘em. This one is Connor, the other is Ronan. He’s not too good with people yet he’s sorta jus’ hiding until he gets used to this new place.”

“Two sons and two dogs, goodness me.” Simon laughs. “Well, feel free to take a seat and choose something to eat. I’ll pour you some of Danny’s restful tea.”

He loses himself to the humdrum of work, occasionally glancing over to where Hank is sitting on a bench by the window, his dog becoming a bed for Alice as she naps then and there atop his fluffy fur. It’s a steady trickle of customers, and plenty of soft amused smiles are coaxed from them when they see the little girl and the very large dog. The afternoon passes by, mellow and golden like time trapped in honey, and all too soon he’s counting the coins in the till and Kara is sweeping the floor.

“Ah shit, I’m so sorry I guess I dozed off.” Hank chuckles, smile sheepish as he scratches his nape and stifles a yawn. “Guess that tea worked, huh?”

“I’m glad it did.” Simon smiles, bending to run his hand through Connor’s fur now he’s no longer handling foods. “You’ve been so well behaved, Connor, what a good boy.” He tweaks the tip of his ear playfully and the dog chuffs in response, squirming and wriggling until its sitting upright at attention.

“Connor! I got you a snack!” Alice’s voice calls out sweetly, and she hurries from the kitchens holding a tray of meat scraps left from the beef pies. All too late does Simon see the knife teetering on the tray, and how Alice’s foot catches on the broom as Kara sweeps.

“Alice-!”

There’s a blur, something dark and fast, inhumanely fast knocking Simon over and lunging for Alice and when Simon’s senses catch up to him, there’s a very naked young man holding her with one arm, and holding the knife in his other hand.

“Connor!” Hank nearly upends the table in his rush to cross the distance, and the very naked young man seems to belatedly notice he’s caught the knife blade-side in his hand. There’s blood running in rivulets from his grasp, there’s meat scraps all over the floor, and there’s a distressed girl in his hold who suddenly bursts into tears.

“Alice! Oh Alice!” Kara retrieves her daughter, and Simon still isn’t sure what is happening is actually happening.

“...Your dog is your son.” Simon manages at last. Hank’s shrugging out of his coat and wrapping it around the very naked young man.

“...Err, yeah.”

“...I’ll get some bandages and salve.” He declares, and just leaves for upstairs.

With Kara and Alice sent home, Simon closes the bakery more for his own sanity than to keep it from prying eyes. He just needs time to process this, that’s all. He’s a witch, Jericho has always been a safe haven for witches whose magic had been exploited by the humans for a decade before King Carl’s adopted witch son fought hard for the right to be equal. Jericho has seen all sorts of magic users, even those with daemons, but this? This is magic he’s never encountered before.

When the initial shock has faded, and Connor’s in a set of Danny’s clothes with his palm tended to and healed, Simon decides the right thing to do is pack some leftover meat pie and walk the Andersons back to their cottage and hear them out. There is no judgement in Jericho, afterall, and Simon likes to learn about his patrons.

“I uhh,” Hank sighs, scratching his beard and looking over at Connor. “I used to live in the neighbouring kingdom. My son Cole and I got into a nasty carriage accident in winter. He’d just turned six, love and light of my life. I rushed him to the closest healer but he’d been out with his friends, using red ice crystals.”

Simon winced. Red ice was a byproduct of common potion-making; red quartz that had its power depleted, but when heated by regular human flame and inhaled, could give the human user intense and vivid highs using the distorted remnants of magic. As much as the King tried to control it, especially since his own flesh and blood son was addicted to it, it’s still rampant in the kingdom. Simon remembers that well, and he also remembers befriending Prince Leo and listening to his sorrows and letting him weep and rage and just be. He recalls the withdrawals but he also recalls the bud of hope blossoming into friendship, friendship between a witch and a human. Red ice destroyed lives, but only if people failed to nurture those under its power.

“There was a witch who came to my aid and though they tried their best, worked for hours trying to heal Cole, he passed away.” There’s great sorrow there, a gaping chasm of grief Simon cannot ever comprehend. He reaches out and gently squeezes Hank’s shoulder.

“And then Hank found my brother and I.” Connor pipes up with a small smile. “We were being trained to become attack dogs by witch hunters.” The smile vanishes. “It was...a very cold, cruel upbringing. I was given to Hank as a trial to see if I could be weaponised by humans.”

“Didn’t sit right with me, seeing someone reduced to a dog meant to just obey without question.” Hank says gruffly, shaking his head. “I could see he was something more. When Ronan came along I just knew I had to give them a better chance.”

“It took us a while to find ourselves.” Connor confesses, his smile returning though it’s tinged with sadness. “We were mindless attack dogs for a while still, until we could break out of our conditioning.”

“And you’re more human than some sorry sods I’ve dealt with.” Hank grumbles, eliciting a laugh from Connor.

“Oh! I-” He smiles brightly, not bothering to finish his sentence before he breaks into a run and starts to strip off his borrowed clothes, near tripping flat on his face when he shucks off the boots. Connor leaps forward fluidly and then there’s the large brown shaggy wolf bounding ahead, playfully tackling an even larger, even darker wolf. The two roughhouse enthusiastically, oblivious to the way Hank rolls his eyes as he and Simon make their way down the path to the cottage, the abandoned clothes draped over Hank’s arm. When they’re close enough, the darker wolf sits bolts upright, Connor still pinned under him. He sniffs the air and then focuses his startling grey eyes on Simon.

“Ronan, this is Simon.” Hank says slowly, grasping Simon’s elbow to stop him. A sliver of fear pinches Simon’s spine as he realises his muzzle is stained with blood. Connor wriggles beneath him, managing to butt his brother on the underside of his jaw with his head. It breaks Ronan’s stare, and he nips at Connor to chide him. Hank’s grip on Simon’s elbow is strong, and he guides him forward very slowly. Ronan snaps to attention again, eyes locked on him. Simon takes a deep breath, uncovering the pie and holding it out.

“I’m the baker at Jericho.” A pause, voice soft. “And I’m a witch. I thought I’d come introduce myself, since I met your father and your brother earlier today.”

“You’ve been hunting, haven’t you boy?” Hank’s voice turns warm and fond, and he steps ahead of Simon to reach out and gently muss the fur between Ronan’s ears. The wolf noses his cheek affectionately, chuffing in reply. “Yeah you stink of raw meat. Did you leave some for your brother? Of course you did, I know you did.” He laughs as Ronan presses his nose to his neck before resting his large head on Hank’s shoulder. “Alright alright, round the back and wash up. Simon’s come all the way from town with a very nice pie for us.”

Where Connor is all warm browns and soft friendly smiles, Ronan is cold greys and reserved observations. He is, as Hank noted, wary and sussing things out. They share the pie, and they converse, with Ronan making the occasional comment. Simon keeps the conversation honest and light, giving as much as Hank had given. He talks about a loving family before their magic manifested and being turned out on the streets and becoming a kitchenhand. Of learning how his emotions could be infused into foods made with his own hands, of how Danny could do the same with liquids. Nights spent feeding each other hopes and dreams and comfort. Ronan watches him with interest, brows creased. To steer the conversation away from darker thoughts he tells them about all the early mistakes, how Danny had forgotten to feed the yeast so the dough didn’t rise enough and when Simon baked it it tasted of bitter annoyance. They all share a laugh, and Simon notes with amusement the Anderson brothers tip their head back to laugh just like their father only their teeth are far more sharp.

“Ah it’s late, I must head home. There’s dough to prepare before bed.” Simon stands to excuse himself, and Ronan stands immediately after.

“I’ll walk you home.” He falters a little when they all blink at him in surprise. “It’s dark, and the roads are dangerous at night.”

“Well.” Simon smiles. “I guess I’ll be the safest traveler in the kingdom tonight.”

It’s true. There certainly can’t be any traveler safer than he, not with a giant wolf padding by his side. Ronan is hyper alert, sniffing the air and looking this way and that, striding just a little ahead of Simon to scout the area. Where Connor can vaguely pass off as a large crossbreed, there’s no mistaking Ronan and his hulking form. They aren’t affected by the moon as told by those old tales, no their form is more akin to putting on another set of clothes, Connor had told him. It’s simply another way to be.

When they reach the town gates, Simon turns to his personal guard with a smile.

“Thank you for being such a gentleman, Ronan, I do appreciate it.” He reaches out without thinking, surprising the both of them when he gently pats his head. “I hope you visit Jericho soon.”

He visits him the very next day, in fact. Even as a human, he’s taller than most and cuts an imposing, intimidating figure. Ronan enters the bakery hesitantly, still unsure, still trying to find his feet amongst humans. A pair of young women dart him glances and smiles, giggling to themselves and whispering furiously as their cheeks pink with blush. Simon agrees that yes, Ronan is rather handsome, though he’ll never say it aloud.

“Hello Ronan.” He greets with a bright smile. “It’s good to see you.”

“I...wanted to see you. And Jericho.” He adds almost as an afterthought, and Simon ducks his head with a laugh.

“And here you are.” He gestures at one of the empty tables. “Take a seat, I'll bring you something to eat and drink.”

There’s a lull in customers so Simon takes a seat opposite Ronan, cup of tea in hand.

“You mention your brother working here but I haven’t seen him.” Ronan comments, looking around.

“Danny works for one of the court officials most of the week, so he just prepares the brews on the weekends.” Simon explains, taking a sip of his favourite warm and calming tea. “Most people come here to buy breads and don’t tend to stay and eat so it’s not like we really ever run out.”

“So it’s mostly you?”

“Yes. I love it here.” Simon smiles. “It’s my own little place. It brings me joy when people enjoy my food and that in turn helps me make more food for them to enjoy.”

*~*~*

It becomes a routine, having at least one Anderson, if not all three, visit him at least every second day. Simon ends up setting a large meat pie aside every time, so he can drop by after closing and off them the ‘leftover’, and once the pie is eaten Ronan will walk him home. He takes great comfort in his company, the large hulking wolf a warm presence at his side and Simon does indeed feel much safer even if Danny complains of him reeking of dog. With the festival drawing ever closer, Hank and Connor are employed by the guards as part of extra security measures meaning Ronan is often the only one at home after Simon finishes closing the bakery. Not that he minds, since little by little Ronan’s opening up to him and the conversation flows easier, is less stilted and hesitant. He finds himself looking forward to their time together, and revels in each little personal victory whenever he manages to coax a smile or an ever elusive laugh from the other man.

He sends Kara and Alice home just as the sun dips below the horizon. The festival is in two days time and at the end of each day the bakery is completely empty of goods as people stock up. It’s a good feeling, a feeling of pride and accomplishment that also translates into flavourful, rich foods with every new batch Simon makes. The regulars know that the sweetest, happiest pastries must be bought just before the festival when Simon’s riding the giddy feeling of anticipation and excitement. He can’t fault them; it’s true, after all. He makes sure to set aside a whole basket of goods for the royal family, and this time he also sets side a richly stewed mushroom and beef pie with spices baked into the crust for the Andersons. The bell above the door tinkles, and heavy footsteps plod into the bakery.

“I’m sorry but we’re closed!” Simon calls out, wandering back from the storage room. There’s a gang of broad muscular men led by a severe looking man in black robes.

“Oh we know.” He smirks, and his eyes are cold as ice. “So this is Jericho, hm? A filthy little rats nest for all the rats to scurry to.”

“Everyone is welcome here in Jericho,” Simon says firmly. “Even witch hunters. So long as you leave your prejudices at the door.”

They laugh at that, and the leader steps closer and closer to Simon. “You think you’re safe here? That just because you’ve made fancy rules we’re supposed to obey them? Your kind are meant to serve us.”

“And this bakery does indeed serve bread to humans.” Simon points out lightly with a faint smile. “As it does to witches.”

“Not anymore.” The man snarls and backhands Simon before grabbing him by the throat. “Just because the King adopted a filthy witch doesn’t make it all better. Your kind will never be equal to us.”

He claws at the man’s hand, trying to gasp for air. His henchmen laugh and begin to smash the chairs against the tables, against the shelves, against the windows. Simon manages to kick his assailant square in the chest, causing him to stumble back and let him go. It only enrages him further and Simon’s vision bursts into stars as the man punches him to the ground. A boot plants itself on his head, pressing him down onto the floor and Simon watches helplessly as the men ransack his beloved bakery and ruin the next day’s preparations. He thanks the Fates he locked the storage before stepping out, and that he’d sent Kara and Alice home already.

“Captain Perkins! We have to go!” One of the men shout, and there’s a commotion as they all rush to leave. Captain Perkins stares down at Simon like he’s stepped in filth, sneering at him before pulling his foot back and kicking him in the stomach.

“This isn’t over yet, vermin.”

It’s fine. It’s alright. No one else got hurt. The gift basket for the royal family is safe and sound, and for all the destruction the men didn’t even think to steal the money from the till. Though Simon supposes this wasn’t for monetary gain at all. He sits up gingerly and then properly vomits red, his head spinning and his stomach sore. His vision still pulses with lights, his jaw aches and his limbs don’t want to listen to him. It takes him four tries to get to his feet, and he only succeeds because he scoots ever so slowly over to the counter. His palms are shredded from the broken glass but he’s upright now, and somehow, somehow all he can think of is that he’s late and Ronan will be waiting. So he gathers his travelling cloak, places the pie very carefully into a basket, and leaves through the back door.

It’s fine, everything is fine and Simon’s not sure if it’s magic or just his own stubbornness that takes what just happened and locks it in a box, throws away the key, and buries it in a grave. He has a cemetery for events like these, like his parents throwing him out with Danny when their powers manifested, like being chased from their town, like the time Danny got sick with fever and almost died and said the most horrible things to try and get him to leave so he wouldn’t fall ill too. It’s fine. It’s gone.

A big dark wolf bounds out from the forest behind the hunter’s cottage, its gait springy and joyful before it turns into an urgent run as Simon limps down the path. He clumsily tugs at his travelling cloak as Ronan shivers back upright, his face a mask of horror as Simon hands him his cloak so he isn’t standing there naked.

“Simon-!”

“Ronan it’s cold, wear this.”

“You’re bleeding, you’re-!” He pulls him into his arms suddenly, sniffing and nosing him and Simon tries to batt him away in surprise.

“You smell like a hunter. A witch hunter-” Ronan decides whole sentences are too much for the moment and simply scoops Simon up into his arms and rushes him inside, ignoring his protests. He sets him down on a chair in the kitchen. “Wait, I’ll get Hank’s healing kit.”

Simon feels a little embarrassed. He’s fine after all. Oh and the pie is fine, he discovers triumphantly as he places the basket on the table and unearths the lovely creation still wrapped in a tea towel. Just needs a bit of time in the oven, and it’ll be ready for dinner.

“Simon what happened?” Ronan demands, reappearing with a small chest in his hands and proper clothes on his body. “You reek of witch hunters and blood and- and- something else. Something familiar but I can’t place it.”

The chest is placed on the table, Ronan glancing at the pie briefly before he opens the kit and fishes out a small bottle and some gauze. Gently, ever so gently, he daubs tonic on Simon’s injuries.

“Simon? Please talk to me.” There’s a plea in his tone, panic in those stormy grey eyes that Simon’s always fancied were beautiful.

“Oh um,” his tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth like he’s stuffed it full of flour. “Um. A band of witch hunters ransacked Jericho and destroyed all my furniture and they ruined my festival preparations but it’s ok I saved your dinner.”

There’s a moment, a pause, a long drawn out pause as Ronan looks at him in utter horror.

“What?”

“Oh and the gift basket I prepared for the Manfreds, that’s alright too. And the till. They didn’t take any money and no one was hurt so it’s okay. It’s fine.”

“You were hurt, Simon!” Ronan near shouts at him, panic leaking into his voice. “They hurt you!”

“I’m okay. I sent Kara and Alice home before they arrived. A shame about the bakery though, they really did just...break...everything…” It takes him far too long to realise he’s crying, that tears are running down his cheeks and he’s gasping for breath and his stomach still feels tight and raw. “They destroyed everything and I won’t have anything ready for the festival and we really needed the money, I was going to buy Danny a new cloak and a pretty bonnet for Alice’s birthday and-” He’s sobbing now, and the physical pain somehow feels right, too, a rightful mixture of heartache and a stomach ache and a jaw ache and a headache. Ronan’s still looking at him in horror, and then he’s leaning forward and wrapping Simon up in his arms and Simon nearly howls with sorrow as he cries and cries and cries.

He’s not sure how much time passes but the door is kicked open and Connor leaps through in his wolf form before scrambling back into a more humanoid form. His teeth are still wrong, his ears still a little pointed and tufty. “I smelled blood! I smelled witch hunters! Simon what happened?!”

“That’s exactly what happened.” Ronan snaps, though the anger isn’t directed at Connor at all. Simon manages some sort of noise, a confirmation of sorts as he clings to Ronan, cheek mushed on his shoulder. He’s tired but he’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Hank huffs and puffs into the cottage a short while after, throwing Connor’s clothes to the side the moment he sees Simon’s sorry self.

“Shit, Simon! What the fuck happened?!”

“Captain Perkins.” Simon recalls belatedly. “The witch hunters- one of them called the leader Captain Perkins.”

Connor and Ronan freeze, eyes wide.

“Perkins oh that sick motherfucker.” Hank curses, rage in his eyes. “He did this to you?”

“He destroyed Jericho too.” Ronan adds curtly, lips pulled back in a snarl. “And he made sure to do it a day before the Festival.”

“Um, I did manage to save dinner though?” Simon gestures at the pie.

“...Simon, that’s-”

“Very kind of you.” Connor says gently. “I’ll get the oven going. Dad, can you make tea?”

“Err, right. Yeah. I can make tea.”

“It’s best if you get out of these clothes and into some clean ones.” Ronan helps him up and Simon’s legs are as wobbly as a newborn foal. Spots wink in and out of his vision and he winces, clinging to Ronan tightly. “It’s ok, I’ve got you. I’ve got you Simon.”

They have pie while he wears Ronan’s clothes and they sip tea Hank made and all the while Connor and Ronan exchange venomous glances, seemingly having an entire conversation without words. Or maybe they did use words. Simon really can’t concentrate. He’s given something purple to drink and very gently guided to a large bed and heavy quilts are tucked over him and he thinks someone brushes his hair back from his face and kisses his temple but he’s not sure if that really happened or just something he wishes happened to him. Simon sleeps and he doesn’t dream of anything.

When he wakes it’s late, far too late for baking loaves and pastries, and it should horrify him but if there’s no functioning bakery then it’s really not a problem is it? There’s a bowl of fruits and a glass of juice on the bedside table along with a note telling him to stay here and rest. Alright. He can do that. What else is there to do, anyway? He nibbles on blueberries and some apple slices, drinks the glass of sweet peach juice and then slumps back under the quilts. He sleeps and dreams of picnicking under starlight with a large dark wolf curled at his side.

When he wakes again it’s late, so late the sun is long gone below the horizon and the nightly chill has filled the house. A wolf’s howl breaks through the quiet, joined by another a moment later. Simon smiles sleepily, testing his feet on the floorboards and finding being upright agrees with him again. Snagging his cloak from the stand, he wraps it around himself before stepping outside. He can see Connor and Ronan in the distance, heads tipped back as they howl in harmony. They turn to look at him, their movement as one, before Connor breaks away and runs back into the forest. Ronan remains still, unmoving, like a statue carved of granite. Simon sighs. He has to do all the work around here apparently. Closing the distance between them, Simon realises he may not have the nose of a wolf but Ronan reeks of blood. When he’s close enough, he can see the wolf stained in red, not just on the muzzle but all over his entire body as if he’s soaked himself in it. Which he has, probably, and a hysterical little giggle escapes Simon when he realises this is the fate of Captain Perkins.

“I see you and your brother went hunting tonight.” Simon reaches out slowly and runs his hand along the side of his muzzle, the fur wet and sticky with fresh blood. “Tasty?” The wolf pulls back its lips in a snarl of disgust, huffing his disagreement and Simon laughs. “No, witch-hunters probably taste foul. All that hate in their veins rotting them away. Best you didn’t feast on them.” He’s trembling- from fear or exhilaration he’s not sure. Maybe both? Quite possibly both. It’s the thrill of exhilaration that leads him to wrap his arms around the wolf’s neck and he doesn’t even mind the blood. “Thank you. Now he’ll never hurt anyone ever again.”

There’s a rush of magic, a thrum so strong he feels it in his bones and all at once he’s embracing Ronan in his human form. He wraps him up in his cloak. “You really ought to have waited until we were inside you silly dog.” He scolds lightly, lips curved up in a teasing smile.

“My brother and I run hot, it takes a lot for us to feel cold.” Ronan mumbles, his mouth still stained red. “It’s you who should still be inside.”

“I’ll go back in a second.” He takes a moment to fuss over him, to slick back his dark hair damp with sweat and blood so it doesn’t stick to his face. “Really though, thank you.”

“Hank has made sure to notify the King himself, and Jericho will be rebuilt. His Majesty granted you access to the royal kitchens so you can still bake while your bakery is reconstructed.” Ronan speaks so earnestly Simon feels overwhelmed tears prick his eyes.

“Does the King know what happened to Captain Perkins?”

“...He fell to beasts in the forest. He shouldn’t have tried to travel after nightfall.” Ronan says lightly, a grin twitching at his lips.

“It’s because he didn’t have a guardian at his side.” Simon quips. “Otherwise he’d have been the safest traveller in all the kingdoms.”

Ronan looks at him with such fondness, leaning in to bump their noses together in a gesture that strikes Simon as rather puppylike.

“I’ll protect you, Simon. If you’ll let me.”

Simon doesn’t answer right away, taking a moment just to admire Ronan Anderson under the bright moonlight naked as the day he was born save for Simon’s travelling cloak. He knows he should feel horrified. The brothers are, in some way, monsters to be feared. There’s something humorous about all this, though, about everything that’s happened, that’s led to where they are right this very moment. It’s a funny little turn of events, and he chooses to see it that way, chooses to bury another box and in that box is the fear that should have been felt.

He realises he loves him in a monstrous way, that all this feels right and sanctified and just. He presses his mouth to his, and their first kiss tastes of death and victory at all once.

“I’d like that very much.”

#dbh simon #rk900 #hank anderson #dbh connor #detroit: become human #dbh kara #dbh alice #tw blood #tw gore #dbhrarepairs #annie writes: dbh #sorry for the lateness fam i was at my parents' place this weekend #today's song is Shrike by Hozier

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cocoa-dragon · 6 years

Text

Something to chew on

When it comes to toast, my family has strong opinions. For breakfast, we’ll root around in the pantry and fridge, each of us cobbling together a different spread. My dad will chop hard-boiled eggs, mashing the yolks and bits of white into jam, delighting in my sister’s squeals of disgust. My sister’s topping is no less strange as she likes to scatter chunks of frozen salted butter on hers. Sometimes, when the salted butter “isn’t salty enough” or there’s only unsalted butter, she’ll take to the salt shaker zealously. My mother will try to stop her to no avail, but we all know not to get between her and the chocolate hazelnut spread. She’ll first trim the crusts, then slather the bread with chocolate until it forms a dense, toothsome layer.

Then, there’s the bread we choose to have for toast. Each of us are particular about the vehicle used for our chosen condiment. My dad loves bread that bear resemblance to stones, ones with a crunch and a chew. On the other side of the spectrum, my sister prefers hers akin to Wonder bread, something with enough fluff and absence of taste to accentuate the salt and fat of butter. My mom also prefers bread that is spun from air, but the local grocery store isn’t good enough. She will drive forty minutes to the nearest Japanese bakery to obtain a loaf of shokupan.

At this point, you’re probably wondering what strange toast fetish I have. One week, I’ll have Trader Joe’s peppercorn and asiago sourdough smeared with cream cheese. The next, it’ll be oatmeal sandwich bread. Or cinnamon raisin challah. Sometimes I’m so indecisive, I’ll spread my toast with a multitude of jams, making it sing with the sweetness of currants, blackberries, strawberries.

When my family devoured a focaccia at a restaurant for dinner, it seemed like we had found a bread that we could all agree on. As we licked the salt off of our fingers and stared at the loaves delivered to neighboring tables, I knew I had to try making focaccia at home. It had the potential to be the first loaf of bread we broke together.

Now, let me talk about this focaccia. Before you run away, perhaps with a scoff at bread making, or the thought of working with leaveners, stay for just a little bit longer. It’s easy to have good bread these days, but when was the last time you had bread straight from the oven? The kind that melts in your mouth? A crisp exterior that yields a soft, pillowy crumb?

This bread doesn’t demand much—you stir together flour, salt, yeast and water until they’re combined in a big, big bowl. It might be more shaggy dog and less loaf-of-bread-like, but don’t you worry. Cover it in plastic wrap and let it sleep. It will probably get more sleep than you—at least eight hours. If you do get more sleep than that, make sure to wake up at the twenty four hour mark to save your bread baby from ballooning out of control. (If you’re interested in what happens during those eight hours, Kenji Lopez-Alt breaks it all down here).

Perhaps after padding into the kitchen, the weak winter sun as pale and soft as butter on the tiles. Or maybe after your sister sneaks a peak, and tells you that “dough baby is very fluffy,” then, pour the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Plop the wobbly mass into a cast iron skillet, greased with a generous glug of olive oil. Roll the ball around until it glistens, then let it rest some more. After two hours, the ball will look like it sighed, its edges pooling outwards. If it doesn’t fit the pan completely, nudging it gently. When its stretched, dimple it so it can form pockets to hold the toppings of your choice. I scattered mine with shards of rosemary and freshly grated black pepper. I could imagine a version with Meyer lemons, bites of tartness and salt. Or one topped with slices of potato showered with cheese, a finish of caramelized crisp gold. But in truth, the focaccia doesn’t need anything. See I told you? It’s easy.

Give it another stream of olive oil and send it into the oven. The top will toast and char, bubble and brown, filling the air with a rich nuttiness. But the best part is yet to come. When I split the focaccia open, my family peering over my shoulders, it revealed a bubbly, tender crumb. Then, before I could even slice all of the focaccia, my family had beaten me to the punch. Tearing it, you can hear the delicious crackle of the crust.

I had hopes it would last until breakfast for us the next morning. It would have been good with milky mozzarella and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. Or with a poached egg nestled in soft avocado. Or some honey-roasted grapes mashed with peppery goat cheese.

But, really those things would be for toast fanatics of another kind. Even my family agreed that it was good simply naked. Chewy, salty, juicy. There was no need for hard-boiled eggs or three different jams or varied concentrations of salted butter. As my family fought over the breadcrumbs, it seemed like our opinions on bread had finally converged. Maybe next time it would last long enough for us to make toast.

Delicious graphic created by my talented sister, Floria Tsui.

Rosemary & Black Pepper Focaccia

Adapted from Kenji López-Alt’s “Easy No-Knead Olive-Rosemary Focaccia With Pistachios Focaccia” on Serious Eats

Ingredients:

500 grams (17 1/2 ounces, about 3 1/4 cups) all-purpose or bread flour

15 grams (.5 ounces, about 1 tablespoon) kosher salt

4 grams (.15 ounces, about 1/2 teaspoon) instant yeast

325 grams (11 1/2 ounces, about 1 1/2 cups minus 1 tablespoon) water

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil, divided

2 tablespoons of fresh rosemary

Black pepper grinder

Coarse sea salt

Directions:

1. Combine flour, salt, yeast, and water in a large bowl. Mix with hands or a wooden spoon until no dry flour remains. The bowl should be at least 4 to 6 times the volume of the dough to account for some dramatic balloon-ing action.

2. Cover bowl tightly with plastic wrap, making sure that edges are well-sealed, then let rest on the countertop for at least 8 hours and up to 24 hours. Dough should rise dramatically and fill bowl.

3. Sprinkle the top of the dough lightly with flour, then transfer it to a lightly-floured work surface. Form into a ball by holding it with well-floured hands and tucking the dough underneath itself, rotating it until it forms a tight ball.

4. Pour half of oil (1/8 cup) in the bottom of a 12-inch cast iron skillet. Transfer dough to pan, bath baby in oil, and position seam-side-down. Nudge the dough around the skillet, flattening it slightly and spreading oil around the entire bottom and edges of the pan. Cover skillet with a lid and let the dough stand at room temperature for 2 hours. After the first hour, adjust an oven rack to the middle position and preheat oven to 550°F. Things are about to get hot!

5. At the end of the 2 hours, dough should mostly fill the skillet up to the edge. Use your fingertips to press it around until it fills every corner, popping any large bubbles that appear. This part is probably more fun than should be allowed (like playing whack-a-mole but so much more visceral). You probably won’t want to stop, but when most of the air bubbles are gone and the dough is spread evenly around the skillet, you should call it a day. Sprinkle with rosemary and grate black pepper and coarse salt all over the surface of the dough and press down on them with your fingertips to give your baby lots of dimples. Drizzle with remaining olive oil and rub well. This might seem like a lot of olive oil, but trust me it’s what makes this toast, well, toast. We’re essentially pan-frying the dough.

6. Transfer skillet to oven and bake until top is golden brown and bubbly and bottom is crispy when you lift it with a thin spatula, 16 to 24 minutes (Note: 16 minutes was perfect for my oven). Transfer out of skillet, allow to cool slightly, slice, and serve. Extra bread (a phenomenon!) should be stored in a brown paper bag at room temperature for up to 2 days. For optimal toastiness, reheat leftovers in a 300°F oven for about 10 minutes.

#bread #warmth #toast #baking #focaccia #olive oil #rosemary #black pepper #salty #whack a mole #bubble #hot #skillet #bread baby #golden #yeast #cocoa dragon

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gutsybitsies · 7 years

Text

bakery au (oldie but a goodie)

Part 1

“He hates me,” Bitty moaned, flopping on his couch. Holster was raiding his kitchen, listening to his rant about Jack Zimmermann.

“I don’t even know what I did wrong! Maybe it was because I told him that he played a hard game last night the first time he came into the bakery? All he does is glare at me and say stuff like ‘Eric, the coffee is too sweet,’ or ‘Eric, you need more protein.’”

“Brah, maybe Zimmermann just has a total resting bitch face,” said Holster as he pulled out a leftover pie from Bitty’s fridge. “Guy seems fucking intense. At least he’s good for business.”

“He keeps on glaring at me! And he comes in, like, three times a week. Orders a coffee and just drinks it in his corner, ignores my attempts at conversation even though, mind you, he has already said some pretty rude stuff!”

“The guy’s a celebrity, he probably has his head so far in his ass and doesn’t care about shit, and also just wants some privacy. Bits, you haven’t been taking pictures of him and posting it on twitter have you?” Holster asked, alarmed.

Bitty gasped, “Adam Birkholtz! I would never!”

“Then just treat him like an antisocial customer, he can’t be the only one going to the bakery who doesn’t want conversation and just wants service and food,” Holster said, dropping down next to Bitty on the couch with two tins of pie.

“I know,” Bitty sighs. “He’s just...so handsome. And he was so nice to Nursey when that fool tripped. And he tips generously. And he’s just so gorgeous, even when he’s glaring at me and speaking in grunts whenever I ask him how his day has been. I just want him to like me!”

Holster navigated the TV to a rerun of Golden Girls and handed Bitty one of the pie tins. “I think that’s your problem. You’re an amazing person, Bits, but maybe you can be a bit too friendly for resting bitch face robozoid Zimmermann. Maybe stop asking him about his day and just let him chill.”

Bitty stayed silent for a while before turning to Holster. “You don’t think it’s because I look...you know.”

“What?” Holster asked, spraying pie over Bitty’s nice floor (it’s hardwood because he knew how his friends are like, and it’s so much easier cleaning liquor and other fluids off of hardwood floor).

“Gay,” Bitty whispered.

Holster considered that for a moment. “Nah, I don’t think so. Anyway, Ransom would’ve mentioned it.”

“You’re right,” Bitty said. “That just means it’s something personal with me.”

“Brah, you can’t make everyone like you, man,” Holster said.

“That’s easy to say from someone who hates everyone,” Bitty said.

“I don’t hate everyone, I’m just in a constant state of mild annoyance at a majority of the population. For example, you’re excluded from that demographic.”

“Thanks, I guess?”

Holster glanced at Bitty, shifting a little. Alarms started ringing in Bitty’s head.

“No. Holster. Bad boy. Stay there. No.”

“Too late!” Holster flung his empty tin away and tackled Bitty. “It’s time for bro cuddles!”

“Adam Birkholtz!”

“This is just to show how much I love you, brah!”

“I don’t want your friendship anymore!!”

Jack had a routine, usually governed by whatever calendar event Georgia’s assistant hands him and the rest of the team. Recently, his routine underwent a change the moment he first entered a small bakery around ten blocks away from where he lived. It had a homey atmosphere, but still managed to look adorable and modern. There were a few customers in line already, and a few more sitting down on cute tables and eating breakfast.

He had rushed out of bed that morning, upset about a phone call with his father the night before and hadn’t had any breakfast. Ransom had always said stuff about finding new places to eat at, so Jack figured he’d take a risk with the one shop that caught his eyes.

“Good morning! How’s your day been!” Before he knew it, Jack was at the front of the line and a handsome young man was beaming up at him. He had warm brown eyes and peeling skin on his nose, with a dash of pale, almost imperceptible freckles dusting his face.

“Um.” Jack replied.

“Well, what would you like today, mister?” The young man, Eric (and his name tag was also so fucking cute), asked.

“Coffee,” Jack spit out.

“Anything else with your coffee, sir?”

“Um,” Jack said again. His vocabulary was immensely impaired at the sight of Eric’s pearly whites.

“Very well sir, here’s your order number and it’ll be ready in a jiffy!”

Jack wondered if Eric recognized him, the other patrons certainly haven’t. They were either in a hurry or too tired and engrossed in their own business. Maybe Eric didn’t watch hockey? Jack knew that Poots would humble brag about being a hockey player to get dates, but he never felt comfortable about that sort of behavior.

“Number 45!” A clear voice called.

Jack turned and accepted his coffee from a tall, sleepy looking man. When he turned to leave, he heard another voice call out to him.

“It was a hard game last night, Mr. Zimmermann, but you played really well! We’re all rooting for you!” It was Eric, smiling and waving at him.

“Um.” Jack said. Think! Say something! Say anything! Do something!!!! “You should really wear sunscreen unless you want skin cancer.” What the fuck.

At the sight of Eric’s confused face, Jack hightailed out of the bakery and tried to push the whole embarrassing experience out of his head.

That was supposed to be the end of that. But Jack found himself standing at the entrance of the store a few days later. There were a few customers at the shop, but no one on line at the register. A familiar sleepy looking young man was manning it, and there were no signs of Eric.

Good, Jack thought. He just wants a cup of good coffee and maybe a croissant. No need to embarrass himself in front of a stranger.

He walked into the store, and browsed the pastry selection. Jack didn’t eat sweets often, or at all. But Nate said that today can be a cheat day, so he can have a slice of cake.

“Can I have a slice of key lime cake and a coffee, please?” He asked the man, Derek.

“Right on,” Derek replied. What happened next happened fast. One moment Derek was walking over to get a slice of cake out, and the next moment he’d tripped and smashed his face into the counter, fell on the floor, and was clutching his nose.

“What in tarnation is that noise?” From a door located behind the counter, Eric rushed out and gasped at the sight of Derek on the floor. “Nursey! Oh sweetheart, are you okay?”

A few of the other patrons walked over to see what was happening.

“Should I call an ambulance?” A kind looking old woman asked.

“No, no, I’m fine,” said Derek. “Think I just sprained my ankle and bruised my face.”

Eric felt Derek’s nose, the other man winced but stayed still.

“Good thing is that you don’t have a broken nose. I am so terribly sorry for this commotion, y’all!” Eric apologized to the customers. “We have this all under control. Derek, I’m going to call Chowder and have him pick you up, okay?”

“What? That’s bullshit, I can still work.”

“Honey, your ankle is the size of a tennis ball.”

“I can take him to the hospital,” Jack offered. Both Derek and Eric looked up at him in surprise. “I’m free this afternoon, I can drive him over. It’s partly my fault he’s injured, he tripped when he was getting my order.”

“You will do no such thing, mister. But I’m awfully touched that you offered.” Eric smiled at him, and Jack wondered if he himself needed a checkup at the hospital because his heart was acting strange. “No, I’m going to call someone and pick up this walking disaster-”

“Hey,” Derek complained.

“-this walking disaster, and he’ll be taken care of by his overprotective roommates. And unless you’re feeling miraculously fine later,” Eric said to Derek. “Take tomorrow off, too. Wait just one moment, Mr. Zimmermann!” He led Derek into the backroom and then popped back out. “What was your order again?”

Jack was back in the bakery two days later, this time a little down when he found out that Eric wasn’t in.

“Um, Eric’s not here today?” He asked Derek, who was moving with a slight limp.

“Nah, he’s visiting our flour suppliers. Gotta make that cake from something, y’know?”

“Oh.” Crestfallen, Jack took his coffee and cake and walked back to his apartment in a strange, morose mood.

The fourth time Jack was in the bakery was probably when he started mentally compartmentalizing the visits into his routine. Jack liked the way that Eric smiled at him and asked him about his day, even though Jack was usually too tongue tied to do anything but grunt “Mmhm” roughly and then turn tail to hide in a corner table of the place.

“Good morning! What would you like today?” Eric would ask him.

“Coffee and a ham and egg sandwich,” were Jack’s usual reply.

“Coffee and a Key Lime Cake,” were his responses when he was on a cheat day.

“Mmhm,” were used whenever Eric asked him how his day went.

Small throaty grunts were whenever Eric started talking about his own day and what he had planned for the bakery.

“Oh, sorry I must be always annoying you with this talk, it’s just me, I’m a natural born chatterbox!” Were variations of what Eric said, apologizing for talking too much, then proceeding to chatter on and on about the different types of apples and pears used in his pies.

The worst responses, however, were when Jack tried to say something witty and funny to Eric in response to whatever Eric said, and they would backfire so terribly and he would be so embarrassed he almost sprinted away from the bakery.

“You’ve never tried one of my pies before, you really should order one today!” Eric had told him one day.

“No thanks,” Jack said. Then, panicking at the fact that Eric was now looking directly at him instead of all those moments when Eric talked to him but was busy with making coffee and orders, he blurted out, “You need to eat more protein.”

“Excuse me?” For once, Eric seemed a bit offended at what Jack said.

“Um. It’s good for you.” Without another word, Jack grabbed his coffee and sandwich and dashed out the door. He didn’t know why his heart is beating so fast, maybe it was because of how he kept on embarrassing himself in front of Eric. He couldn’t help it. For some reason Jack was hyperaware of himself in front of Eric, afraid that whatever he said would be terrible, and whenever he said anything it became a self fulfilling prophecy of embarrassment.

The day of American Thanksgiving, Jack walked into the bakery after two weeks out on a roadie. He almost didn’t expect to see Eric, because he figured he’d be spending that holiday down in Georgia. But there Eric was, twiddling his fingers in an bakery unusually empty of customers.

“Good morning! How can I help you?” He smiled at Jack, and Jack knew it was a good idea to come here immediately after a roadie. Eric made him feel warm and stable, and like he’d come home.

“Coffee and a ham and egg sandwich please,” Jack said. He waited for Eric’s usual barrage of words. Maybe he’ll tell him why the bakery was so empty, or why he wasn’t home for Thanksgiving.

The words didn’t come. Eric stayed quiet the whole time, except for a perfunctory “Enjoy your meal!” when he handed Jack his order.

Maybe it was an off day, Jack mused, as he tried to catch Eric from the corner of his eye.

But it wasn’t just one off day. Eric stopped asking him how his days went, and stopped rambling at him about how his own day went and what kind of new recipe he was looking at. Jack noticed that Eric was speaking like normal to the other regulars, but he himself only had the standard customer service “Good day!” and “Enjoy your meal!” He still smiled at Jack genuinely, but the rest was. Short. Did he catch on to how terrible Jack was being? Did Jack say something wrong?

Well.

Jack remembered all the things he had said to Eric.

“This is too sweet.” When he tried to chirp him about a sweet tooth.

“I only listen to John Mayer and that’s it. Who’s Beyoncé?" When he tried to say something about music.

“You shouldn’t ask a professional athlete to eat so many empty calories.” When he tried to joke about his cheat day.

Okay then.

He said a lot of things wrong.

It was okay, since Jack only went to Bitty’s Bites because Eric was a soothing presence and their coffee was amazing. Eric doesn’t need to be talking to Jack. Eric can talk to other people and Jack can listen in like a creep and think about how good he looks in that apron and bask in his presence indirectly.

Jack groaned and let his head fall against his steering wheel. He glanced at the coffee in his cup holder and the empty sandwich wrapper.

Pull yourself together.

#omgcp #zimbits #jack zimmermann #eric bittle #bakery au #mywriting #part 1

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