Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jack had stepped to the door to turn the sign to “Closed” when it flew open, nearly hitting him in the face. He stepped aside and saw a small blond man stamping his feet on the mat, pulling off a snow-covered cap as he gave a visible shiver.

“I’m sorry,” Jack started. “We’re closed.”

“But the sign —”

The man looked up at Jack, cheeks more pale than pink. His big brown eyes would have looked warm if they didn’t have such a pinched look, and his coat was soaked through.

“I was just about to change it,” Jack said.

The man glanced around the empty shop, with its floor swept and mopped and the chairs upturned on the tables. Most of the lights were already off.

“Oh.”

He turned and started to pull his wet knit cap back on.

Jack sighed. The snowstorm had kept customers at home this evening, and the shop had been empty for an hour or more. Jack wanted to be home, too, but this guy didn’t look ready to face the weather just now.

“Wait,” Jack said. “I haven’t dumped the coffee yet, if you want a cup. I still have to finish cleaning, so you can stay a few minutes.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” the man said, a drawl becoming evident once he strung more than a couple of words together. “And your floor — I don’t want to mess it up. Maybe I could just stand here, on the mat?”

“No,” Jack said, maybe more vehemently than he intended. But he’d offered to let this guy — man? boy? drowned rat? — stay. The least he could do was accept the hospitality.

The man flinched a bit before straightening his posture.

“No, I can’t stand on the mat?” he asked.

“No, you should sit down,” Jack said. “It’s fine.”

“Your boss won’t be mad?”

“I’m the boss,” Jack said. “I mean, the owner. And it’s fine. I can do the floor again.”

“I can take my shoes off,” the man offered. “My socks are wet, too, but there’s not so much salt and muck.”

Jack shrugged. “If you want. The floor’s clean.”

“Yes, I know,” the man said. “I thought we settled that.”

Jack went to retrieve a to-go cup and fill it with coffee. “Cream and sugar?” he called over his shoulder.

“Yes please,” the man said, still from the area of the door.

Jack turned to look, and found that his late-arriving guest had removed his whole outer layer — shoes (why was he wearing sneakers when there was eight inches of snow outside and more coming?), hat, gloves, coat. How long had he been outside, with his coat wet through and dripping like that? Too long for the way he was dressed. The idea that there was no bad weather, only inadequate clothing, had long been a northern truism, but this guy didn’t look — or sound — like he knew much about the north.

When Jack turned again, this time with the coffee liberally laced with cream and sugar, the guy was seated at the table closest to the door, his arms wrapped around his torso, hiding whatever was printed on the old hoodie he wore. His wet socks left damp streaks on the floor.

“Thank you so much, sir,” he said, hunching forward and wrapping his hands around the warm cup.

“Sir” sounded a little ridiculous, Jack thought. The guy was probably younger than him, but not by more than a few years, for all he was a half a foot shorter and probably at least seventy pounds lighter.

“Jack,” Jack said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Jack,” Jack said again. “That’s my name.”

“Oh, pleased to meet you Jack,” the guy said. “I’m Eric Bittle. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“I have to —” Jack gestured toward the counter.

“Of course,” Eric said. “Don’t let me keep you from your work.”

He stared down into his coffee, letting Jack observe the dark smudges under his eyes and sharp cheekbones that glittered with what might be the beginning of blond stubble. But Eric looked like his face should be rounder, like it had been a long while since he’d had enough to eat.

“Are you hungry?” Jack said. “I already bagged up the leftovers, but I can get you a scone and heat it up in the microwave. Cranberry.”

“A scone in the microwave?” Eric said, a note of disbelief in his voice.

“Sure,” Jack said. “It’s no problem to heat it up.”

Eric looked at the coffee again and said, “Well, the coffee is good, and I am hungry. Very much so. So yes, please, if you can spare a scone, that would be lovely. How much do I owe you?”

“You don’t,” Jack said. “I already closed the register, and the coffee was going to get dumped and the scone was going to get donated.”

Eric nodded. “Thank you all the same.”

Jack put the warmed scone on a napkin and set it on the table before returning behind the counter, restocking napkins and sugar, checking the inventory of cream and milk. He found his eyes turning again and again to Eric, who still looked like nothing so much as a waif blown in in by the storm, for all he wrinkled his nose before he bit into the scone and ate with in air of soldiering on.

By the time Jack had his mop water emptied, his rags in the laundry bin and everything set to rights for the morning, Eric had finished. Jack could hear his deep sigh from across the shop as he stood up and made his way to the little heap of wet outerwear.

“You have somewhere to go tonight?” Jack asked. “And a way to get there? Forgive me asking, but you came in soaking wet, like you walked a long way.”

“Don’t you worry about me,” Eric said, giving a smile that didn’t look genuine. “You’ve been very kind, but I’ll be alright.”

“Are you sure?” Jack said. “I’m getting ready to leave. I could drop you somewhere. A motel or something, if you don’t live around here.”

“Really, I couldn’t,” Eric said.

Jack suspected that had more to do with how much money Eric had — or didn’t, as the case may be — than with his reluctance to put Jack out.

“Then where are you going?” Jack said. “Tell me where you’re going and how you’ll get there. Because you can’t just wander around in this weather, not with those shoes and that coat.”

“I’ll be fine,” Eric insisted. “I came in on the train, and there’ll be another train in the morning. I can rest at the station.”

The train station was a good three miles away. And not well heated, and patrolled by security who would roust people sleeping without a ticket for an upcoming trip.

“Come on,” Jack said.

“You’ll give me a ride to the station?” Eric said.

“No,” Jack said. “I’m taking you home with me. If someone’s out, you can have their room for the night, or you can sleep on the couch. You’ll be able to come up with a better plan when you’re warm and dry, and you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

Chapter Text

Bitty woke to weak sunlight illuminating a bare room.

The corners were dusty, but the sheets on the bed were clean enough, if a little scratchy. The T-shirt Jack had given him to sleep in was plenty soft, and so big it covered Bitty down to the thighs.

He crawled out of bed and to the radiator, where he’d draped his wet clothes the night before. He prodded at them with a finger. His underwear was dry, thank the Lord, and his jeans were only a little damp around the waistband. His own T-shirt, rinsed in the bathroom sink with his underwear and socks, had also dried.

His shoes, though … maybe he could get away with stocking feet until he actually had to leave the house. Haus? Jack had pronounced it kind of funny when he welcomed Bitty inside the night before and showed him the living room with its truly disgusting couch. If the living room was his only choice, Bitty had decided, he would sleep on the floor. It was still miles better than trying to find shelter outside.

But then Jack had gone upstairs for a few minutes. When he came back down, he said, “Looks like Johnson’s away again. You can have his bed for the night.”

Jack had shown him the bathroom, which was also gross, but had hot water, and given him a clean shirt that fit Bitty like it was meant to be nightclothes anyway.

Bitty had reveled in the feeling of the shower raining down on his shoulders and back, and he uttered a silent apology to whoever owned the soap and shampoo he used. Once he was clean, he washed his smalls as best he could. He was just wringing them out when Jack knocked on the door and called, “I don’t know if you have a toothbrush, but there should be a new one in the drawer on the left if you want it.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Bitty called back, and lost no time in cleaning his teeth,

“No problem,” Jack said. “I have to be up early, so I’m going to bed. Good night,”

“Good night,” Bitty replied through a mouthful of toothpaste.

Jack really had turned out to be a godsend after a less than auspicious beginning. Bitty had felt the tears coming when he turned to leave Jack’s shop after hearing it was already closed; he didn’t know how far he he had walked in the snow already, and he just wanted a chance to get warm, even if the cost of coffee or tea would have put a dent in the meager funds in his wallet.

Maybe his magic had somehow summoned Jack when he needed him? Or if not summoned him, given him a change of heart?

No, probably not. Bitty’s magic didn’t usually work without him making an effort, and he had never tried to work it on people. That seemed wrong, somehow. Besides, if he could have used magic to change hearts, he would have used it on Mama and Coach and stayed in his old, comfortable life.

At any rate, it was way past early, judging by the winter sun, but Jack hadn’t woken him to send him on his way. He wasn’t even sure which room was Jack’s, and he didn’t want to wake up a stranger by mistake, so he couldn’t look for him.

Once dressed, Bitty folded Jack’s T-shirt over his arm, picked up his shoes and padded down the stairs. He wasn’t exactly sure how many people lived here, or what their relationship was to one another, but Jack didn’t seem to think they’d mind Bitty crashing for the night. He could at least do some muffins to thank them, assuming there was a working kitchen.

The living room with the disgusting couch was empty of people, and so was the kitchen just beyond it. Well, kitchen, if he used the term loosely. There was a refrigerator, and a stove, and a sink and cabinets. Maybe the appliance that got the most use was the microwave, judging by the food spattered on the inside of the door.

The floor didn’t look like it had been mopped this year, the refrigerator was full of beer and convenience foods and the cabinets held boxes of protein bars and at least a case of sriracha.

How had Jack made such good coffee yesterday? If this was his kitchen, it was really no wonder that he thought it acceptable to microwave a stale scone. The wonder was that the scone was edible at all.

No matter. Bitty could make his muffins and get this kitchen set to rights. It was really the least he could do for the people who took him in last night, even if most of them didn’t know it yet.

Bitty wrinkled his nose as he stuffed his feet into his damp shoes and made his way to the counter. He pulled his old recipe book from the pocket of his hoodie and turned the pages, looking for what to make when ingredients were scarce. Soon, he had a batter mixed with eggs, flour, oil and milk that all came to hand at just the right time. So did blueberries. They were frozen, but Bitty supposed he couldn’t be too picky when it was February.

The oven was ancient, and it took ages to heat, but it did get hot. While Bitty was waiting, he made a start on the cleaning. Once the muffins were baking, he looked at the ingredients he had left and made a start on a pie. Muffins were good, but it really would take a pie to show the depth of his gratitude. Besides, he couldn’t even think of leaving until it was done and the kitchen was set to rights. It didn’t hurt that he found apples for the filling as soon as the dough for the crust was chilling.

The muffins were out and the pie in the oven when he was interrupted by two men, both at least Jack’s size, maybe bigger, standing in the doorway.

“What the fuck is that smell?” one said. “It smells like my aunt’s house, but with more love and innocence.”

“Bro, no offense, but I’ve been to your aunt’s house,” the larger one said. “Compared to this, her house smells like a shithole.”

Bitty stood stock still. He was pretty sure they meant the food smelled good (because really, it did), but the way they expressed themselves …

He was still standing and staring when the first man who spoke noticed him.

“Uh, who are you, little dude?”

“And what are you doing in our kitchen?” the bigger guy said. “Are you like some kind of an elf out of a fairy tale?”

An elf? This man was mistaking a full-grown man for an elf? Sure, he was a kitchen witch, but you couldn’t tell by looking.

“I’m not an elf,” he said. “Jack let me stay here last night, and I figured I’d make y’all some food to thank you for your hospitality.”

“Jack’s gone already, bro,” the not-quite-as-large one said. “Sorry if you were expecting to see him this morning.”

“Imagine that,” the other one said. “Jack bringing a guy home, and then sneaking out of his own room while the guy’s sleeping. Sorry for his lack of manners, uh —”

Bitty knew his face was burning at what the man was implying. He would never, not just after meeting someone at least. Not that he hadn’t thought about it a little before falling asleep, wearing Jack’s T-shirt. Jack was … very attractive, and kind, even if his manners left something to be desired. Bitty had laughed at himself then, for thinking his life could be like one of Mama’s romance novels, with a hero with a chiseled jaw and six-pack abs coming to his rescue.

“Eric,” Bitty finally managed to sputter. “Eric Bittle. And if you were implying what I thought you were, it wasn’t like that. I took shelter from the storm in Jack’s coffee shop last night, and he let me stay in — I think he said it was someone named Johnson’s room?”

“Johnson,” the blond snorted. “Dude’s never here. Anyway, I’m Adam. You can call me Holster. This is Justin, but he goes by Ransom.”

“Okay,” Bitty said. “Y’all can call me Bitty, if you want. Sit, and have some muffins. The coffee’s probably not as good as Jack’s —” Bitty glared at the crusty old coffee maker “— but it should do.”

Ransom and Holster sat and ate. They ate so much that Bitty had to keep a close eye on the basket, especially after another man, this one in nothing but a mustache and Wonder Woman briefs, wandered in.

“Hell — holy shit, what is this?” he said, seeing the basket of muffins that the first two hadn’t quite been able to finish off. Probably because Bitty had multiplied them when no one was looking.

“Breakfast,” Ransom said, taking another bite. “Thanks to our new best friend, Eric Bittle.”

“He’s ours, Shitty,” Holster said. “You can’t have him.”

“That’s not how friendship works,” the new guy — Shitty? — said before Bitty could protest. “Where’d you find him?”

“In the kitchen,” Holster said.

“Actually, Jack found him,” Ransom said. “Brought him home and put him in Johnson’s room last night.”

Bitty took the pie from the oven and set it on the cooling rack before clearing his throat and saying, “‘Him’ is standing right here.”

“Sorry,” the new guy saud. “Shitty Knight at your service.”

“Shitty?”

“Long story,” Shitty said. “How do you know Jackabelle?”

“I don’t,” Bitty said. “I just stopped into the coffee shop, and he realized I was stranded and took pity on me.”

“That — kind of sounds like something Jack would do,” Shitty said.

“Anyway, I made the muffins and the pie to thank him, and all of you, for your hospitality,” Bitty said. “My name is Eric, but call me Bitty.”

“I guess I can see how you got that nickname,” Shitty said, standing up to pour his own coffee.

“I’m not that small,” Bitty protested. “It’s a hockey nickname, ‘cause my last name’s Bittle.”

“Right,” Shitty said.

“Wait, dude, you play hockey?” Holster said. “We played in college.That’s how we all met.”

“Used to play,” Bitty said. Because that was in high school, back in Georgia.

“What do you do now? Besides turning out wicked muffins?” Shitty said. “Where did you even find blueberries? Did you go to the store?”

“Did you remember the part where he was stranded?” Ransom said. “How would he get to the store?”

“That’s right,” Shitty said, and helped himself to another muffin. “Holy fuck, these are good. So what’s your plan?”

“Um, maybe someone could direct me to the train station?” Bitty said. “I walked from there last night, to Jack’s coffee shop, but he drove me here, and I don’t quite know how to get back.”

“Dude, you’re not gonna walk there,” Holster said, eyeing Bitty’s sneakers. “It’s too far. And the snow’s like a foot deep. Streets are mostly plowed, but it’s messy.’’

“Maybe you could tell me how to get to the coffee shop then?” Bitty asked. “I did want to leave that pie for Jack and if I leave it here …”

“Yeah, no,” Holster said. “It’ll definitely disappear. How’d you make it so fast anyway? I thought pies were, like, hard.”

“Not really,” Bitty said. “And sometimes when I’m in a kitchen, pies just appear.”

“Cool superpower, brah,” Shitty said. “But you don’t want to carry that pie all the way to the shop. I can drive you in a little bit. I was headed that way anyway.”

Ransom and Holster left, off to do whatever kind of work it was they did (consulting, they said, but what did that mean?). Shitty disappeared upstairs, presumably to put some clothes on, and Bitty cleaned up the kitchen. And made two batches of cookies: chocolate chip and ginger snaps.

He made sure to hide the cookies and the leftover muffins under clean dish towels on the counter, in hopes they would be discovered later, when he was gone. Shitty had already been looking at him like there was something strange going on, and he had no wish to explain his magic.

Well, really, he had no ability to explain it, either. It started when he was small. When he was just a tyke he could produce pies and cookies and cakes better than bakers ten times his age. Back when he was five, he didn’t question that there were always chocolate chips in the cupboard when he needed them, always eggs and butter in the fridge, and the flour canister was never empty.

It had been going on for a matter of months when MooMaw noticed there was something more than unusual baking talent there. She pulled him aside and said she was the very same way, and he must never tell anyone. Not even his parents. Apparently, the magic skipped a generation.

Over the years, she told him what she had learned. She was always able to bake good food, but some of the magic only seemed to kick in if she was baking for other people.

“If I wanted to make a cupcake, just for me, and I needed some almond extract, do you think I’d find it in my cabinet?” she said. “Never. But if I was baking a whole batch of cupcakes for your class at school, it would be there, sure as there’s a nose on my face.”

“But MooMaw,” he’d asked. “Why would you ever bake just one cupcake?”

Over the years, he’d found that he couldn’t always get exactly what he wanted. There were no in-season strawberries in December, no matter how much he needed them. Some recipes seemed to work better than others when he needed to put his magic to use, and they were usually the ones he copied by hand from MooMaw’s book. But his cakes and pies and cookies seemed to bake faster than most people’s no matter what recipe he used, and once baked, they wouldn’t run out during a meal or a party, not as long as he kept watch and willed the serving basket or plate to stay full.

No matter how harmless his magic seemed, he knew MooMaw was right. People didn’t like somebody who was different, and he was already different enough. Mama and Coach hadn’t kicked him out, precisely, when he explained that the kids who tormented him for being gay weren’t exactly wrong, but his relationship with them had grown strained overnight.

Best to find somewhere where he could be himself, by himself, and bake for people who didn’t know who he was or question why it tasted so good. It was already far too late for that here. He would take Jack his pie and be on his way.

Chapter Text

Jack heard the bell on the door jingle, then Shitty’s voice boom “Lardo!”

He tried to focus on his orders instead of listening to hear if Eric had come back. By the relative silence, he kind of thought Eric was there. With the shop in its mid-morning lull and no one to disturb, Shitty would usually be far louder.

And when Shitty called him earlier, he said his plan was to bring Eric with him.

“He made you a pie, man,” Shitty had said in a stage whisper. “Who is this guy? He just showed up and started baking. Good shit, too.”

“Baking?” Jack said. “I looked in on him before I left and he was sound asleep. There didn’t seem to be any reason to wake him. He looked spent last night.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Not like that, Shits,” Jack said. “He was cold and wet and tired, and he didn’t have a place to stay.”

“So he batted his big brown eyes at you and said, ‘Take me home, Mr. Zimmermann?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Jack said. “I just couldn’t send him back out in the snow, okay?”

“Well, lucky for you he doesn’t seem to be an ax murderer,” Shitty said. “He made muffins for breakfast in addition to the pie. Ransom and Holster might be in love. I’ll bring him with me when I come.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Jack said, suddenly flustered. He hadn’t expected to see Eric any more. “Just take him to the train. That’s where he wanted to go.”

“No can do, Jackaroo,” Shitty said. “He made you a pie. He should bring it to you. Besides, I want to see Lardo before I head to Cambridge.”

But Eric might have handed the pie to Shitty and made his own way to the train. There was no reason he had to come back to Jack’s shop.

On balance, it would be better if he didn’t. Eric said last night he wanted to be on his way this morning. He didn’t seem to know anyone or have anything to do in Samwell; if Shitty brought him, would he end up just sitting in the shop all day, making faces at the food?

Not that Jack didn’t want Eric to come back. He’d been polite and appreciative last night, despite his obvious misgivings about the scone, and he must have more than paid for his keep with cleaning alone if he made breakfast in the Haus kitchen.

And after seeing the muffins delivered from the catering bakery this morning, well, Jack couldn’t blame Eric if he made a face.

Jack closed his laptop and went to peer through the door. Yes, Eric was there, talking to Lardo. He seemed to be standing a little far away from Shitty, though.

Jack pushed the door open to see what was going on.

“Nice to meet you,” Lardo was saying. “Jack mentioned you this morning, but I don’t think he expected to see you again.”

“I couldn’t leave without thanking him properly,” Bitty said, nodding at the still-warm pie in his hands.

“Dude, that smells awesome,” Lardo said. “Can I get you anything while you wait? Coffee? We got a delivery of muffins, but …”

Eric’s expression clearly said he didn’t think much of them.

“Yeah,” Lardo said. “That pie is almost definitely better.”

“I guarantee it,” Shitty said. “You should have tasted the muffins he made at the Haus this morning.”

“You cooked in that grody kitchen?” Lardo said. ‘Props, man.”

“It’s, uh, not as gross anymore?” Eric said. “I did clean first.”

“Bittle.”

Jack stepped out of the back, stopping behind the counter.

“I didn’t think you’d still be around. Didn’t you have a train to catch? Or something?”

Eric shrugged. “Doesn’t matter which train,” he said. “I made this to thank you for your hospitality.”

“You didn’t have to,” Jack said. “It’s not like I went out of my way for you.”

“Still, I wanted to,” Eric said. “So, here. Enjoy. I’ll be on my way.”

That was exactly what Jack wanted. So why did he find himself saying, “Wait. Stay for a cup of coffee at least. I can’t believe you got anything good from the old coffeemaker at the Haus.”

“Well, it is sort of decrepit,” Eric said. “Needs more than a good cleaning, and I don’t think the water ever got hot enough …”

“What’ll it be?” Lardo said. “Cappuccino? Latte? Caffe mocha?”

Eric paused to check out the chalk menu board behind the counter. Today’s offerings were a Rwandan light roast, a Guatemalan dark roast and a Blue Mountain medium roast, plus espresso and cappuccino and all the offerings they could make from those. There was also green tea, chai and black tea, but Bittle probably wouldn’t want those.

“Wow,” Eric said. “Um. just a regular coffee? I don’t have much money.”

Lardo glanced at Jack before she said, “On the house. You did just bring in a pie.”

“To thank Jack for the coffee last night,” Eric said. “And the room.”

“C’mon, Bitty,” Shitty said. “It’ll give Lardo an opportunity to practice her foam art.”

Shitty turned appealing eyes at Jack.

“Really,” Jack said. “Have some coffee. Sit a while.”

So he took the stool nearest the register, the better to chat with Lardo, and Jack found tasks that kept him mostly in the front.

First, Jack brought Shitty to the back to help carry plates, and took the opportunity to ask, “What’s his problem with you?”

“I may have ridden him a little hard about being small," Shitty said. “I wanted to get him to tell me how old he was.”

“How old is he?” Jack asked.

“Twenty, or so he says,” Shitty said. “Went to a couple years of college while he lived at home in Georgia.”

When they brought the plates, Eric sliced and served the pie.

With Lardo’s quiet questions, Eric told them about leaving Georgia weeks ago, after it became clear that he didn’t belong there. Taking trains and buses from town to town, even an occasional ride in someone’s car or truck if he decided they wouldn’t hurt him.

“That’s risky,” Shitty said.

Eric shrugged and said it had been fine so far. He hadn’t found a place like home yet, but he’d seen some pretty countryside and impressive cities and no one had shoved him into a locker and shut the door laughing about putting people like him where they belonged.

Well, that explained some things.

The shop was still quiet; Jack and Lardo had served a couple of customers while Bitty told his story, but for now it was just the four of them, and it was silent.

“People like what?” Lardo finally said.

“They thought I was … gay,” Eric finally said. “Always did, since I was a little boy, what with the baking, and I figure skated before I played hockey, so I must be gay.”

“That sucks,” Lardo said. “People making assumptions like that.”

Eric took a deep breath in and released it, then looked around to see if anyone else would hear.

“It’s not like they were wrong,” he finally said. “About me, I mean, not the stereotypes. And when I told that to Mama and Coach, well ... Coach said he thought maybe I was all right when I started playing hockey. Guess the joke was on him.”

Jack snorted.

“Not like you have to be straight to play hockey,” he said.

“Did you play too?” Eric asked.

Jack nodded. “With Shitty, and Ransom and Holster. And I know for a fact that there are queer players in college, in juniors, even in the NHL.”

“Thanks for trusting us with this moment,” Shitty said solemnly, like it was part of a ceremony. The door dinged as someone new walked in. It was Chad, the sales rep for the catering bakery. He wanted his order for the next month. Before inviting him back to the office, Jack asked, “Where do you plan to go?” You said it didn’t matter which train.”

“I’m counting on fate to take me where I should be, y’know?” Eric said. “I always thought I could make a living baking, but it’s kinda hard to do when you’re always on the move and don’t have access to a kitchen.”

Eric looked at the sad muffins in the display case and shook his head.

“People shouldn’t have to eat things like that,” he said sadly. “It’s just wrong. I thought the scone last night wasn’t right because it was stale and microwaved, but it probably didn’t start out any better than those. And I am grateful, Jack, because I was hungry, and something is better than nothing, but your shop would do better if you had better food.”

“Better food?” Chad chimed in.

“Yes, wouldn’t you like it if you get something fresh baked?” Eric said. “A muffin that’s moist and tender, or a flaky pastry turnover with fresh fruit?”

“What’s wrong with what’s here?” Chad said. “It’s fine, and the price is right.”

“Nothing’s wrong with it, if you don’t care about flavor or texture,” Eric said. “There’s some pie left. Have a slice. Tell me that isn’t better than those muffins.”

“Uh, Bitty?” Lardo said. “Maybe stop talking.”

“Who is this guy?” Chad asked.

“Just a guest,” Jack said. “Eric, this is Chad. He supplies our baked goods.”

Eric’s face heated.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “To be saying that to you.”

The man shrugged.

“I can’t say I care that much for your opinion,” he said. “As long as Jack here pays for them. I’ll put you down for an extra batch of scones next week, shall I? You can pay in advance.”

‘Fine,” Jack said. “Come around to the office.”

“I can’t believe I did that,” Eric was saying as the door swung shut.

“Sorry about that,” Jack said. “He’s a house guest who bakes.”

“Well, you know how home bakers are,” Chad said. “No idea of the economics of baking to scale.”

“I don’t really know that many home bakers,” Jack said. “But he does know his food.”

“And you know no one around here can supply you at a better price,” Chad said. “You’re not taking him seriously?”

“Maybe,” Jack said.

“But you’re keeping your order the same?”

“For now,” Jack said. “Not adding to it.”

He ushered Chad out, then turned to Shitty, who was putting his coat on.

“Listen, I’ve got to get going,” Shitty said. “I have class in a while. Bitty, want me to drop you at the train?”

“Uh, I want to talk to Jack a little more,” Eric said. “You know, apologize, make things right. I can walk. I did it last night in the storm.”

“Suit yourself,” Shitty said. “Lards, see you tonight?”

“Sure thing.”

Once he was gone, Eric turned to Lardo.

“I thought you guys had all graduated,” he said.

“He did,” Lardo said. “He’s in law school. Ransom and Holster got jobs, and I’m trying to make it as an artist, while Jack pays me for doing this.”

“So Jack, you bought this place right out of school?”

Jack nodded. “My parents helped,” he said. “But I figured I could help out some friends like Lardo, and supplying caffeine to college students didn’t seem like a bad business.

Eric looked at the empty tables.

“We do okay,” Jack said. “Especially in the afternoons.”

“So are you two — or you and Shitty?” Eric said to Lardo, then shook his head. “Sorry, not my business.”

“Me and Jack? Never,” Lardo said.

Eric looked a little pink, but he turned to Jack and said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you like that.”

“You didn’t know,” Jack said

“But I shouldn’t have been talking down the food you serve, even —”

“Even if it’s true?” Lardo said.

“Anyway, Jack, let me make it up to you. If I can go back to the Haus, I can make you some pastries to sell tomorrow,” he said.

“To make up for the bad ones?” Jack asked. “Are they really that awful? I guess I don’t really eat sweets, so I didn’t worry much about them.”

“To make up for what I said,” Eric said. “I think I can find my way — I’ll leave them there and you can bring them in tomorrow morning.”

“They’ll never be there when Jack gets home,” Lardo said. “Not if Ransom and Holster get there first.”

“Stay here a while,” Jack said. “I was going to get some food for Lardo and me for lunch, and I’ll get something for you, too. You need to eat more protein.”

“I couldn’t —”

“Yes you could,” Jack said. “Then if you want to look around town, walk around the campus at Samwell a little bit, I’ll run you home before dinner, and you can bake then. I can come back and close. Sound like a plan?”

“It sounds like I’m putting you out, but sure,” Eric said. “If that’s what you want.”

Chapter Text

Jack left shortly after Shitty did, leaving Bitty alone with Lardo for the moment.

“You’re sure he doesn’t mind?” Bitty said. “I can go back to the Haus and make something real quick and bring it back, then get out of here. I mean, he doesn’t seem to like me much.”

“Dude,” Lardo said. “What makes you think he doesn’t like you?”

“He leaves as soon as he can after I show up,” Bitty said. “He hardly talks to me, and he barely had half a slice of my pie. Maybe I should have just gotten out of his hair. Sometimes I can’t help putting my foot in it.”

“You don’t know Jack,” Lardo said. “He talks more to you than most people, especially people he just met. I mean, he owns this shop, and he hardly talks to anyone. He only works the counter when no one else is here, and he’d actually prefer to run the errands than be left to talk to customers. He invited you to stay last night, and probably tonight too, it sounds like. I think he likes you fine.”

“I don’t know,” Bitty said. “It seems like he asked me to stay against his better judgment, like he couldn’t bring himself to send me away. It’s not like I can complain — it was great to have a warm bed last night — but I don’t want to be in the way.”

“In the way of what?” Lardo said.

Bitty shrugged, then stepped aside as a gaggle of customers came in.

He moved to look at the bookshelves that lined the walls while Lardo took care of them.

He stopped at the sight of an old copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Holy cripes. It was a 1961 copy, first edition, but in anything but mint condition. It had been well loved by someone, with food stains on some pages and penciled notes on others.

Bitty was still absorbed when Jack came back, carrying some kind of a salad with nuts and fruit for Lardo, chicken tenders and a grilled chicken sandwich.

“Which one do you want?” Jack said, holding up the tenders and the sandwich. “I’ll take the other.”

Bitty thought Jack looked a little relieved when he chose the sandwich, which was still hot. The lettuce was a bit wilted and the tomato was watery, but the bun was toasted and buttery and the chicken wasn’t dry.

“How much do I owe you?” Bitty asked, rooting in his pocket and coming up with nothing but his recipe book.

“You don’t,” Jack said. “I said I’d get lunch.”

Then Bitty was watching Jack walk away again. He was heading to the back, probably trying to find yet another country to order coffee from.

He finished his sandwich and returned Julia’s master work to the shelf where he found it.

Lardo was free again for a moment, so he approached her and said, “D’y’all know you have a first edition Julia Child on the shelf where anyone can get their grubby fingers on it?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “Jack might. He got all the books. But really, if it’s not about history or coffee, he probably doesn’t care. Or hockey. He still cares about hockey.”

Bitty raised a questioning eyebrow.

“He’s good at hockey, like really good,” she said. “Everyone thought he’d go pro, including all the teams who sent scouts to his games. But when he and Shitty finished their last season, and he had like four offers, he turned them all down, immersed himself in the lore of coffee and bought this place.”

“Which serves as a hangout and place of employment for his friends,” Bitty said. “See, I’m pretty sure it’s just me he doesn’t like.”

“No,” Lardo said. “He just has this thing about — I don’t know if protecting people is the right word. He likes to keep people safe. And he did invite you to hang out here.”

Well.That was true, but Jack was probably just being polite. But in Bitty’s experience, boys — men — like Jack didn’t much want boys like Bitty hanging around them, and Jack had already more than satisfied any obligation he had to keep Bitty from freezing to death.

Besides, Bitty wasn’t doing himself any favors by drooling over someone he couldn’t have. He’d take Jack’s advice, wander the town and maybe even the campus for a while, then go back to the Haus and bake. Maybe he could stop at the station and find out what time he’d have to be there to catch the last train out.

He reached in his pocket for his phone before remembering that he didn’t have one anymore. His parents paid for it, so he’d left it behind. Maybe as soon as he stayed somewhere long enough to get a job, he could get one on a pay-as-you-go plan.

No phone meant no map, but Samwell wasn’t so big that he got lost. After an hour of walking, he’d decided that Samwell was a cute little town. Or medium town, but not a city by any stretch of the imagination. The university campus looked like it had been designed to look good in college brochures, and Bitty found all the rainbow-colored signs and flags a little disconcerting. He’d commuted from home to Athens for school for two years, and he’d never seen anything like it. He even had to try not to stare, first at two girls holding hands as they strolled by, and then at a boy kissing another boy on the cheek before heading into a building. Instead, he watched the other people to see how they reacted and … they didn’t. They didn’t even seem to notice.

His life would have been different if he’d come somewhere like this right after high school. Sure, he’d have to tell Mama and Coach the truth eventually, but maybe by then he’d have friends, and a place to go if they didn’t react well.

He did make his way to the train station, which was further than he remembered, and discovered that the last train left at 8:32. That should be enough time to make muffins, scones, cookies … maybe even some mini-pies. If he got back to the coffee shop to ride back with Jack soon.

“Ready?” Jack asked, as soon as Bitty returned.

“Sure,” Bitty said.

“Oh, you left this.”

Jack was holding out Bitty’s recipe book, his only real connection to home.

“My gosh, I can’t believe I didn’t miss that,” Bitty said. “Thanks for keeping it safe.”

“No worries,” Jack said. “I wasn’t sure it was yours, so I looked inside. Those recipes are pretty old, aren’t they? Lots of them don’t even have amounts or anything.”

“I got most of them from my MooMaw,” Bitty said, like that explained everything.

Bitty didn’t get the quick start baking that he wanted to. First Jack insisted on stopping at the grocery to get fresh vegetables and fish for dinner. (“You can’t tell me you usually cook. I saw your kitchen.” “I don’t usually have guests.”) Then he wanted to know what ingredients Bitty needed to bake. Bitty wasn’t really sure, not without consulting his book, but he didn’t want Jack thinking too much about it.

“Um, flour,” he said. “Butter and shortening. Baking powder. Sugar. Maybe some chocolate chips?”

Anything else, well, it would be there if he needed it.

Jack headed upstairs for a nap when they got back to the Haus, and Bitty started baking. He’d only just got the muffins in when Jack clattered back down the stairs to say, “I called Johnson. He’s not sure when he’ll be back, but it won’t be tonight. You can have his bed again.”

“Really, I couldn’t,” Bitty said.

“What?” Jack said, looking at the ingredients spread on the counter. “We didn’t buy vanilla, did we? Or this cinnamon. Where did this come from?”

Bitty shrugged. “It’s your kitchen,” he said. “How about I get some biscuits going and we make dinner?”

That worked, for the moment,

Jack ate as soon as the food was done.

“Shitty’ll be back after he drives Lardo home at eight,” Jack said. “Maybe later, if he stays there. Ransom and Holster usually get back by seven, but they won’t expect dinner.”

“I’m sure there’s enough left,” Bitty said.

“Anyway, I’ll be back about the same time as last night,” Jack said.

As soon as Jack was gone, Bitty worked as fast as he could, turning out enough pastries, muffins and cookies to supply a full bakery counter. He put them on trays, covered them in plastic wrap, and wrote “For Jack” in big letters on paper towels that lay on top. He made a sign that said “For the Haus” to put on the cookies he made that morning, then put on his jacket and slipped out the back door as Ransom and Holster were slipping in the front.

He was pretty sure he could find his way to the station after his afternoon rambles, even if it would be at least an hour’s walk. In the dark, too.

But no one would notice he was gone until Jack, or maybe Shitty, got home, and he should be on the train by then.

Bitty arrived at the station with minutes to spare before the last train. Which was headed south, not where he wanted to go, but needs must. He bought a ticket, spending most of the money he had left, and sat on a bench to wait.

And wait. Because of course the one time he cared how fast he got out of town, the train was late.

Bitty had zoned out staring at the wall, fantasizing about what it would be like to live in Samwell (to even go to school at Samwell University …) when he was roused by pounding feet on the stone floor.

“Bittle!”

It was Jack. But he should have still been at the shop. It was later than this when Bitty made it there the night before.

“Jack? What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Jack returned. “I thought you were going to stay at the Haus.”

Bitty shrugged, looked at Jack, looked away.

“I was done with what I promised,” he said. “And there was no reason to trespass on your hospitality another night.”

“But … there was no reason you wanted to leave?” Jack said. “No one made you uncomfortable or anything, did they? Shitty told me you seemed a little mad at him this morning.”

Lord. This boy. Lardo was probably right — Jack was just awkward,. He really seemed to be trying.

“No,” Bitty said. “I mean yes, Shitty was a little pushy. But it’s not really his fault that I look twelve. And y’all have done more than anyone could expect to make me comfortable. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Then why are you leaving? And you must have spent so much to buy the ingredients for the food you left at the Haus.”

“I really didn’t,” Bitty said. “And I’m sorry, Jack, but I just don’t think it’ll get any easier to leave if I stay longer. Maybe y’all’ve been too nice. But I need to find a place to call home, and delaying it by staying here … It’s not a good idea.”

“Please stay over,” Jack said as the train finally pulled into the station. “So we can talk about it. I’ll drive you here myself tomorrow if you really want to leave, but it sounds like you want to stay.”

“I can’t,” Bitty said. “I don’t have the money for another ticket.”

“I’ll buy one if I have to,” Jack said. “To pay you back for the food. Just, please come back to the Haus with me? Or to the shop for now. There’s something I want to show you.”

Bitty gave a high giggle, because really? Jack had something to show him? Certainly not what Bitty wanted to see, though.

“Not another first edition classic cookbook?”

“Haha, no,” Jack said. “The kitchen. I was thinking — maybe if you stay a while, you could bake there? Make the food for the shop? We haven’t used it since we moved in. You can stay at the Haus. It’s not likely we’ll ever see Johnson again. He said he fulfilled his role in this narrative, whatever that means.”

By the time Jack stopped talking, the train was leaving and Bitty was still on the platform.

“Looks like I missed my train,” he said.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “But maybe … you found a home?”

“I wish it could be,” Bitty said. “But I’d always be wanting what I can’t have.”

“What?” Jack said. “If I know what it is, maybe I can help.”

“Jack, you know I’m gay,” Bitty said.

“Yeah?” Jack said, sounding almost offended. “Did someone give you a problem?”

“No, not here,” Bitty said. “But I learned a long time ago not to fall for a straight boy.”

“Straight boy?” Jack said, looking around like someone else had materialized next to them. “Who?”

Good Lord, Jack was really going to make him say it.

“You, Jack. You’re the straight boy.”

“No, I’m not,” Jack said. “Not straight, I mean.”

He paused.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “You have a crush on me?”

“See, I knew it would be awkward,” Bitty said.

Jack shook his head.

“Come closer,” he said, staring at Bitty’s face.

Bitty took one step closer, then two.

“Can I kiss you?” Jack said. “‘Cause I kind of have a crush on you too.”