omgittybits:

Not to worry you, but I think Bitty might be on the edge of a breakdown.  He hasn’t baked in like six hours, and he’s currently standing at the kitchen sink washing the same spoon over and over.  I tried to talk to him, but he just stared at me like he couldn’t understand what I was sayin’.  Basically, brah, someone broke your boyfriend.

Jack stared at the text, and thought about calling Bittle, but something told him that he might want to let his optional skate the next morning be optional, get in his truck, and make the drive.

It wasn’t that long, really.

And Starbucks still had pumpkin spice lattes available through the drive-thru.

He had a bag that seemed permanently packed with over-night stuff now that the Haus knew and impromptu visits were more on the table, so he grabbed it, threw his charger in, and hit the road.

Jack wondered if maybe the Universe was telling him it was a good idea since traffic wasn’t even a fraction as bad as it normally was this time of day on a Thursday.  He made it to the Starbucks queue, only three cars ahead, ordered himself a London Fog, and the latte for Bittle, then made the short drive to the Haus.

It came into view, and Jack was all-but overwhelmed by the old familiarity, the feeling of home, even though he hadn’t lived there in a year now.  But he still had a key in his pocket, there was still a place for his truck, and his shoes still made the same, cruching echo on the snow as he approached.

He kicked the door a few times with his foot, and Holster’s face appeared with a small grin.  “Bro, I didn’t know if you were gonna make it.”

“Is he still in the kitchen?” Jack asked by way of hello.

Holster shook his head.  “Took his blanket out to the reading room.”

“Crisse,” Jack muttered.  “Must be a bad one.  And no idea what?”

Holster shook his head, though Jack wasn’t entirely sure he believed him.  But he didn’t have time to interrogate the new SMH captain.  Right now he had a boyfriend to cheer up.

He took the steps two at a time, then stopped at the landing in front of Bittle’s door.  He tucked one of the cups into the crook of his arm, the knocked, just in case.  There was no answer, so Jack pushed on the door, and was relieved to find it open.

The window was cracked, and Bitty’s duvet was missing from his bed, so Jack walked over, shoved the window open, and crawled out.

Bittle was curled up in one of the shitty chairs, the blanket round his body like a cocoon, on his face peeking out.  He didn’t look over when he heard the footsteps, but he sighed and said, “I’m really not in the mood, boys.”

“Not even for pumpkin spice?” Jack asked.

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