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whoacanada · 3 years

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Zimmerbro AU

Summary: Andrew Phillip Rowe could skate before he could walk, and it wasn’t until he was almost twenty and well on his way to becoming a Las Vegas Ace before he knew why.

a/n: that’s right we’ve got a secret zimmermann brother au based on the fact that Bob was an active pro athlete for almost 15 years before Jack was born and almost definitely had relationships before Alicia. This particular one resulted in a secret love child.

When the call finally went out that year — a request for players willing to billet the incoming draftees — Andrew had been the first in line.

His already sparsely decorated guest room had been primed for a new tenant since he’d learned Las Vegas’ abysmal season had earned them the first pick of the 2009 draft. In his mind, Andrew had envisioned a tearful confession. A family reunion nineteen years in the making where he’d finally get a chance to connect with a half-brother he’d grown up learning about through news articles and stats pages.

He wasn’t ready for Jack to pull out of the draft days before the ceremony; wasn’t ready for the claims of an overdose or speculation about suicide attempts. He certainly wasn’t expecting to have to open his home to a young man with limp blonde hair and deep circles under his eyes with the same enthusiasm he’d promised he’d offer to a son of Bob Zimmermann.

Andrew was hoping for a little brother.

He got Kent Parson instead.

______

“You remind me of my boyfriend.” Kent slurs one night, completely gone on Johnny Walker Blue borrowed from Andrew’s wet bar. “It’s your . . . face.”

“Shouldn’t talk about things like that,” Andrew cautions gently, covering his own surprise. “Never know who might be listening.”

“Who fucking cares? He won’t talk to me,” Kent continues, ignoring him and sniffing like he’s on the verge of sobbing or puking, both options equally unwanted. “They wouldn’t tell me if he was even alive.”

Another unwanted puzzle piece locks into place.

“Jack?” Andrew suggests softly, and Kent begins to cry.

“You won’t tell right?”

Andrew shakes his head no, long enough for Kent’s bleary eyes to focus on the gesture and take it seriously.

Things are different, after that conversation. Not worse, or better, just different.

________

“He’s my brother.”

Andrew admits this one night, for no reason other than that he can.

Kent is across the room, backlit by lights from the Strip, his legs dangling off the arm of his favorite couch as he scrolls through his phone looking for distractions. Parse hasn’t lived with Andrew for almost two seasons, but he still turns up like a bad penny whenever he needs to commiserate with someone who knows his more lascivious secrets. Truthfully, Andrew’s grateful for the company. He’s a pretty genial guy, but he’s always kept his distance, a personality trait he likes to think he shares with an unassuming sibling, but there’s no way to know for sure. The farther Andrew gets from the 2009 Draft, the less faith he has in a reunion that won’t just bring crippling sorrow to everyone involved.

A secret Zimmermann son who actually made it in the NHL. Who has his name on the Stanley Cup, not once, but twice, largely thanks to the spitfire forward lounging in Andrew’s living room.

“Who’s your brother?” Kent asks, not looking up from his phone.

“Jack Zimmermann.”

Kent barks a laugh and rolls his head lazily to smirk at Andrew.

“That’s funny. I guess you kinda have the same chin. Was Marky digging for chirps?”

Andrew has no idea what that means, but he sets down his tablet and says, “No, he’s actually my half-brother. My mom dated Bad Bob in ’84 and got pregnant.”

The lackadaisical smile on Kent’s face falters as his gaze sharpens, like he’s actually looking at Andrew for the first time. Andrew responds by gesturing at himself lamely.

“That’s not funny.”

“No.” Andrew agrees. “It isn’t.”

Kent swings his feet down off the couch and braces himself against the overstuffed leather. He doesn’t look mad, but there’s something too close to disbelief for Andrew to convince himself everything’s okay. It takes a moment, but Kent must find what he’s looking for on Andrew’s face.

“Does Bob know?” Kent asks with that familiar overfamiliarity, as if they both still have some personal relationship with the living legend.

“Yeah. When Mom got pregnant she told him she didn’t want the attention since it was only a fling — ”

“Who the fuck doesn’t lock down Bob Zimmermann?” Kent breathes. “Also, why the fuck did she tell you that?”

“No shit, right? She got him to sign away parental rights, set up a trust, never spoke to him again as far as I know. I didn’t find out until after I signed with the Aces. She didn’t want me to get blindsided if it all came out, but the story never broke.”

“I mean, does Bob know who you are?” Kent questions. “Does Jack?”

Andrew shakes his head no, because he doesn’t think so, and Kent flops back against the cushions, face slack with disbelief; it doesn’t take long for his features to shift to anger.

“You knew this whole time and you didn’t tell me? Even after I told you —“

“Okay, there’s a whole-ass difference between you fucking dudes and and me being ‘Bad Bob’s bastard’,” Andrew bites, curtailing Kent’s imminent hissy fit. Appropriately, Kent closes his mouth, almost pouting.

“Fine. But that’s fucked.” Kent says after a loaded moment of silence. “I’m sorry you’re . . . you.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry you’re you, too.”

“You know Jack’s signing with the Falconers, right?” Kent offers like the worst kind of olive branch, unintentionally telling Andrew exactly what he was up to during that stretch of time between New England games a few months prior. “It’s not public but it’s happening. Ink’s dry.”

“I know. That’s why I told you. It’s gonna be weird,” Andrew swallows, thinking about playing Providence in the coming months.

“Fucking right it’s weird.”

_________

For the most part, the Las Vegas Aces are decent, stand up guys. Even with the accusations of gambling debts and mob connections with the ownership group, Andrew’s never been asked to hit a certain player a little too hard, or to take a dive so the other team gets a shot at a power play. A lot of talk, a lot of conspiracies, ‘Typical Aces hockey’, but there’s no malice. Not really.

Andrew thinks it’s hilarious he plays the game a lot like his estranged father, but he’s not a legend in the making, hell, at this point he’s barely regarded as more than a mid-level, reliable center that can bring home 40 points a season.

Carly whips behind Zimmermann’s back to clip his skate with a stick, dropping a ill advised chirp that sets every player in earshot on edge. Parse is close enough to catch the quiet slur, stiffening like he’s been hit, and Andrew watches Zimmermann recover quickly, steely and resolute.

Jack has his mother’s eyes — not the warm brown Andrew catches every time he looks in the mirror.

“He’s a fucking goon,” Andrew breathes, gliding up to Jack’s shoulder in lieu of an apology. Zimmermann doesn’t miss a beat, his gaze flicking to Andrew with the quiet rage of ‘who gives a fuck’. Andrew admires his commitment to the game. Coming back after so much, after so long, to willingly subject himself to the same kind of treatment that Andrew knows likely led to his original fall from grace.

“Hey,” Kent ducks his head as he slides up a little while later, mouthguard clenched between his teeth, and asks, “You see his twink?”

At Andrew’s obvious confusion, Kent jerks his head toward the glass behind the Falconers’ bench, to a raucous group of fans all sporting fresh Zimmermann jerseys. Andrew’s gaze drifts along the row of faces, lingering longer on the familiar, handsome couple beside the blonde young man. He may be imagining things — the stadium lights catching a bad angle — but for the briefest moment, Andrew holds eye contact with his father.

“He’s cute, right?” Kent says bitterly, like he doesn’t have a partner of his own back home.

“Yeah, he is. You gonna do anything about the slurs, Captain?” Andrew counters, earning a stern look from Parson.

“I’ll deal with Carly.”

“Oh, you will? Because I’ve never seen you shut him down before.”

“I’ll handle it.”

Kent’s expression goes stormy, and he gives Andrew a hard shove before skating off to set up for the next shift. To his credit, he does grab Carly by the arm and tell him something that earns a look of displeasure from the larger man, but Andrew knows a verbal warning won’t curtail someone as dead-set in his conservatism as Carly.

The next play, Carly flashes Andrew a toothy smile over the lineman’s shoulder, as if they’re in on the same joke, and his vision goes red.

__________

“Bad Bob’s outside,” Scraps rasps, like whatever brief interaction he’s just had has physically winded him. “He wants to talk to Flip.”

Andrew blinks up from the water bottle in his hands, previously concerned with the pink-stained gauze wrapped around his knuckles. A few of the guys start chirping, but most of them remain silent, still processing the fact that Andrew assaulted one of their own without clear motivation, in defense of an opponent.

“That’s what this was all about? You gunning for a trade?” Sorenson spits from his stall. “Needed to impress Bad Bob by beating the snot out of Carly?”

“Maybe I am,” Andrew sighs, pushing himself to his feet, wincing at the way his jaw aches from the few good hits Carly had managed to squeeze in before he went down. “What the fuck are you gonna do about it.”

_______

Andrew’s grateful he kept his skates on. He needs the boost of confidence that comes with the added height, especially when he finds Bob Zimmermann waiting patiently in the corridor like he’s just another staff member and not the second most recognizable figure in modern hockey.

“Hey kid,” Bob greets, casting an approving, overly-familiar eye over Andrew’s padded bulk and sweat-slick hair. “You can throw a hell of a punch. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy beat the piss out of a teammate before. Off ice, sure, but never during a game.”

His accent is just as thick in private as every interview Andrew’s ever caught live — but his tone is unexpectedly warm, even grateful — when Bob laughs at his own recounting of Andrew’s assault attempt, the sound is light and joyous like nothing in the world comes easier to this titan of a man.

Andrew wonders if Bob can recognize the chin they share beneath a his playoff beard; if there’s any resemblance left in a nose that’s been reset a half-dozen times.

Andrew grew up loved and never wanted for anything. His step-fathers, both of them, had been good men who never left him looking for a father figure. It wasn’t until his twenties that Andrew even realized there was hole where his bio-dad should have been, and not just a regular hole, a yawning sinkhole threatening to devour his entire sense of self, because his biological father turned out to be a man he grew up idolizing as a personal hero.

He’s not mad at his mother, but when Andrew struggles to find his voice — which is bullshit seeing as he’s almost thirty-five and a god-damned professional athlete — he can’t stop himself from feeling like a misplaced child.

“Do you,” Andrew swallows, looking over Bob’s shoulder to see if anyone’s watching them. Finding they’re alone, he rallies quietly, “Do you know who I am?”

Bob’s jovial expression softens into something remorseful, but unfathomably kind. “I do, buddy,” he acknowledges, somehow squeezing three decades of affection into one term of endearment. “I’ve known for some time, now. The whole time, actually.”

That hurts more than expected.

“Does your wife? Does Jack?”

Bob shakes his head, but it isn’t a hard no.

“Alicia knows, and Jack has some idea he’s got a half-brother, but it’s all in the abstract. No specifics. Definitely doesn’t know you play. I wanted to respect your privacy and your mother’s wishes. She let me know she’d told you the truth a few years back and I wanted to give you the space you needed if you decided to reach out. When you didn’t, well, a man makes assumptions.”

Andrew looks down at the concrete beneath his skates and sniffs hard, fighting nasal drip from the smelling salts he’d needed in the third period; or, at least, that’s what he tells himself. “I had a plan, back when — ” he stops himself, looking down at his skates. Bob’s eyebrows lift in curiosity, leaving room for Andrew to gather his thoughts, but he doesn’t take the bait, unable to bring up what could have been just yet. Bob seems to grasp the context after the moment.

“2009,” he acknowledges softly. “Hell of a year.”

“Yeah. It was. Is he okay?”

“What, Jack? He’s leagues ahead of where he was then —”

“No, I mean, tonight. Carly clipped him pretty hard before I got in there.”

“Oh, a little bruised up, but he’ll live. Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Okay.”

Andrew looks down at his bandaged fist and realizes he’s completely forgotten how gnarly his face must look.

“Trainer says I’m alright, but I’m gonna get leveled with a wicked fine, I know it.”

“Was it worth it?” There’s a look of guilty pride on Bob’s face, like the man’s enjoying himself a little too much when he leans in and whispers, “You just did something I’ve wanted to do since Jack was in mites. Fucking lay out one of those fuckers that’s got nothing better to do than bitch because they can’t play,” there’s a moment of hesitation, as if he’s worried about pushing a boundary, before he adds, “How’d it feel to look out for your little brother?”

Pride, it turns out, in contagious, and Andrew feels like he could go back on the ice and do it all over again. “Pretty fucking great,” Andrew can’t help a smile, wincing when the gesture pulls at his split lip.

Bob slaps a hand on Andrew’s shoulder pads, then gets a grip on the back of his head, heedless of his sweaty hair.

“Crisse, you’re a fuckin’ beaut, kid. I’ve wanted to tell you that for years.”

Andrew can’t blame the smelling salts anymore.

__________

Jack clearly doesn’t see his father standing there with red-rimmed eyes, or Andrew in an equally unkempt state, and has no reason to think anything untoward has happened when he offers a handshake and pulls Andrew into a hug, bouncing his free fist off the back of Andrew’s pads. “I owe you a drink,” Jack says decisively when he pulls back, shooting a grin between his father and Andrew. “Can’t believe you did that.”

“More than a drink, I think,” the blonde guy Andrew saw behind the bench pipes up. Jack’s ‘twink’. Boyfriend. Whatever. “Dinner at least.”

“A pie,” Bob suggests tightly, keeping his voice even as he turns to quickly scrub his fist over his eyes. Andrew recognizes the statuesque woman who strides up beside Bob, and one quick look tells him she definitely knows who he is.

“Hello, Andrew,” Alicia greets softly, genuinely. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” he says, the tightness in his throat coming out as gruffness rather than emotion. “This is great, but I should go shower and, uh, it was nice meeting you all.”

Bob’s hand whips out and fists the sleeve of Andrew’s sweater, keeping him in place.

“You have plans tonight?”

Andrew debates lying, because he doesn’t know how to move forward from this point, but they’re all looking at him. Waiting. Expectant. There’s too much at stake, and yet somehow — A sharp whistle drags Andrew’s attention back to the locker room. Kent is peeking his head out, and god knows how long he’s been eavesdropping.

“Yo, Zimmermanns. Bittle.”

“Parson.” The blonde says curtly, earning a wry smirk from Kent.

“Flip, we got a presser if you feel like putting a bow on the evening,” Kent’s gaze drifts to Bob’s flushed face, and he adds, “Or, you can shower and slip out the loading bay while I cover for your aggro ass because this is not going to be fun. Your call.”

Andrew looks at the small family surrounding him, his family, and says, “I don’t want to explain.” Kent shrugs and ducks back inside while Bob’s brow furrows in confusion. “I can do dinner, but I don’t want to,” Andrew holds his hands out in front of him, trying to gesture what he means, and Bob snaps his fingers in understanding.

“Ah, ha, I got you, kid.”

“Neat. I’m gonna go shower.”

“We will be here when you’re ready,” Alicia offers. “Take your time.”

“Oh, I will,” Andrew replies before he can stop himself, cringing the second his back is turned because what the fuck could he be any more awkward?

Time will tell.

_____________

#zimbits #jack / bitty #omgcp #check please #my fic #my stuff #lost zimmermann brother au #bob's got another kid and I named him andrew again!#kent is not a bad guy #only carly is a bad guy and we hate him #long post #because it's a mini fic!

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wrathofthestag · 6 years

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Rink with a View

Summary: It was in the spring of 1876 that John Gamgee created the first ice skating rink in London. The Glaciarium was looked upon with great curiosity and–for some–suspicion, for who would dare ensnare nature in that way? The Florentine Salvatore brothers rose to the challenge the following year by creating the first indoor ice rink that could remain cold during the summer months. Several years later, in 1911, one Mr. William Poindexter and his cousin, Mr. Jack Zimmermann, visited Florence with the intent of seeing the Palazzo del Ghiaccio and it is here, where our story begins. A Zimbits/Room with a View AU…

PART ONE

~* Chapter 1 *~

It was in the spring of 1876 that John Gamgee created the first ice skating rink in London. The Glaciarium was looked upon with great curiosity and–for some–suspicion, for who would dare ensnare nature in that way?

The Florentine Salvatore brothers rose to the challenge the following year by creating the first indoor ice rink that could remain cold during the summer months. Such a feat had yet to be seen, and so, the Palazzo del Ghiaccio, which sat just off the Arno, drew visitors from across the continent and beyond to marvel at this wonder.

Several years later, in 1911, one Mr. William Poindexter and his cousin, Mr. Jack Zimmermann, visited Florence with the intent of seeing the Palazzo del Ghiaccio and it is here, where our story begins.

“The Signora had no business to do it,” Mr. Poindexter said, “no business at all. She promised us each a room with the view of the rink, and here we are. No view, no rink, staring into a lonely courtyard!”

“Signora, indeed. She was from Ottawa. We may as well be back home,” Mr. Zimmermann sighed.

They approached the dining room and noticed that almost everyone seated spoke flawless English. Portraits of the late Queen lined the walls of the room, as well as a Canadian flag and a Union Jack.

“William, don’t you feel as though we are at home? As if maman might just waltz into the room at any moment?”

William lifted an eyebrow. “Indeed. Come and let us sit,” he said as he motioned toward the available chairs.

The moment they sat, two dishes were placed in front of them. The other people at the table nodded politely at William and Jack.

“Thank you,” Jack replied as a woman poured them each some red wine.

William cut into his meat and took a bite. He frowned and put down his fork.

“This meat has been boiled. It has surely been boiled for stock. It’s lost all of its flavor!”

“I so wanted to see the rink,” Jack said quietly. “The rooms the Signora promised us said we would be overlooking the rink. It really is quite an inconvenience and disappointment.”

“Well any hovel is fine for me, cousin, but you should not have to be without your view. Especially since your parents paid for this trip and my way.”

Jack huffed. How William loved to do this. Now Jack loved his cousin, but he did have a knack for being long-suffering and loving every minute of it. Always the martyr.

“You deserve a room with a view of the rink just as much as I do–or anyone for that matter, William.” Jack pinched the bridge of his nose, “Of course, it is silly to argue over a room that does not exist. The view is a moot point.”

“Still, should a room come up, I insist you take it,” William replied.

And so it continued for a few more exchanges as the other dinner guests threw subtle glances at one another until a third voice cut through the noise.

“I have a view!” a man seated at the end of their table exclaimed.

William turned and glared at him. “Oh… well, how lovely for you,” he replied dryly.

He was an older man with a heavy build, a bushy mustache and a shock of red hair not unlike his own. His eyes were large and full of what William could only describe as wonder. William frowned, clearly this man was ill-bred. Particularly if he was willing to interrupt a private conversation just to be a braggart. And to top it all off, he was American. American, indeed.

“My son, Eric,” the man said as he pointed to the young man seated next to him, “he has a view as well.”

Jack turned to look at the young man. He was wearing a linen suit, had his hair neatly combed back save for an unruly cowlick which stubbornly refused to conform.

His nose was pleasantly upturned and his eyes were the color of coffee. Deep and warm. Jack shifted in his seat. He was about to say something when William interjected. “Well, it would seem you two are fortunate. Quite.”

“No, that is, what I mean is that you two can have our rooms. We can switch rooms. Clearly, a view of the rink is important to you both and it doesn’t really matter to Eric or me, either way.”

Gasps from others at the table were emitted, and William cleared his throat as he looked at his neighbors who shook their heads and tsked.

“I appreciate the gesture, but we couldn’t possibly impose.”

“Why?” The man asked. “Why not?”

He banged on fist on the table, and it caused Jack to smirk.

“As I’ve already said, we could not possibly impose. Thank you,” William replied sternly.

“We appreciate your offer, but you see—” Jack began. William placed a hand on Jack’s forearm. Jack stopped speaking.

“But why? I have just said that my son and I clearly have no need for a view, and you two desire one. We have a view of the rink we don’t need, you two have a room without a view. I don’t understand,” the man said with much agitation. “Eric, make them understand.”

Eric looked at Jack for only a moment, then looked away and added with nonchalance, “There’s nothing else to say. It only makes sense that you should have our rooms.”

Jack could sense William’s dread at what he considered a scene. Of course, the men were right. Why couldn’t they change rooms? Jack was perplexed.

“William, perhaps…” Jack began.

William’s face flushed and he began to eat the meat he had rejected earlier.

“Eat your dinner, Jack. Tomorrow we’ll just look at different pensioni seeing that this one is a failure.”

“A million apologies! A million apologies! Please forgive my tardiness,” Jack heard a strong voice say. He looked up and there stood the Reverend Mr. Knight, who waved and hurried to take his place at the table.

Jack, forgetting his manner and sense of propriety, rose to his feet, “It’s Mr. Knight! How wonderful! William, we can’t change our pensione now.”

William replied, “Why, yes. Will you see that? Mr. Knight. I’m certain you’ve forgotten us, but it’s us: Mr. Poindexter and Mr. Zimmermann. We were both there when you assisted the Vicar of St. Peter’s back on Easter.”

Mr. Knight had a vague recollection of who they were but when he saw Mr. Zimmermann’s smile, it came back to him. The subdued twinkle in the blue eyes, the hushed excitement just brimming beneath his supposed quiet demeanor; yes, he certainly remembered this young man.

“Mr. Zimmermann! Mr. Poindexter! Of course. And pray, Mr. Zimmermann, how is your mother? How are those roses of hers doing?” Mr. Knight said with a smile as he placed his napkin on his lap.

“Maman is doing splendidly, thank you. Her roses won first place in last month’s conservatory seminar. She won’t stop talking about them,” Jack said with a chuckle.

William cleared his throat and whispered quietly to Jack, “I suppose we can’t leave now that Mr. Knight is here.”

“I suppose we can’t,” Jack said with a smile.

He then felt the weight of someone’s stare on him. He felt it like a sack of flour, sitting heavily on his chest.

Jack turned toward the end of the table and observed that the younger Mr. Bittle was staring at him quite intently. The two remained with eyes locked for a moment until Eric Bittle gingerly tilted his plate upward on one side displaying the most curious thing. He had arranged his meat and vegetables to form a question mark.

Jack frowned at the sight.

It was ridiculous, quite ridiculous indeed, and he had no idea what to make of it. Eric raised an eyebrow then discreetly lowered the plate and continued to eat.

“Have you planned out your day, yet?” Mr. Knight asked. “There is so much to see in this rich, wonderful country.”

“We have our Baedeker ready to go,” William replied, “with all of the sights–”

“Oh, no,” a voice interrupted. “In order to truly know Florence, one must leave the Baedeker behind.”

William turned toward the voice.

“This is my third time here, and the only way to travel is to let one’s self just be guided by the wind and remain as clear and open as the arctic air. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Mr. Derek Nurse.”

“Hello,” William replied, intrigued by the boldness–so much different from that the elder Mr. Bittle. “I am Mr. William Poindexter, and this is my cousin, Mr. Jack Zimmermann.”

William leaned closer to Jack and whispered, “That man seems so clever, it should seem we are in luck.”

And indeed Mr. Nurse began to set loose a perfectly full torrent of information on where they should go, what they should see, what times and how to to get there.

“And the Prato! You must go to the Prato In fact, it is I who should take you,” he quickly added.

William nodded, “We’re eternally grateful!”

Jack looked down at this plate and rolled his eyes, and at that moment he heard a small laugh come from the end of the table. He looked up and the Eric Bittle looked straight at him with a smile. The nerve.

Jack quickly looked back at this plate and consumed his meal without looking up as William continued to chat with Mr. Nurse.

After dinner, William found the Reverend Mr. Knight smoking in the drawing room and approached him. Jack entered the study and sat himself down in front of the piano. He gingerly pressed a few keys.

“We are most grateful to you for showing up at the moment you did. Your appearance was rather serendipitous as we were in the middle of a most uncomfortable situation.”

Mr. Knight exhaled a long plume of smoke and raised an eyebrow at William.

“Oh? Please tell me, what can I commend myself for doing?” He asked.

“Do you by chance know the name of that older man, the American, who is here with his son?”

“Yes, the Bittles.”

“Is he an acquaintance of yours? A friend, perhaps?” William asked.

Jack turned from the piano to look at William and Mr. Knight as they spoke. He stroked the piano keys and listened intently.

“Well, we are friendly, as one tends to be in pensiones. He is here on holiday with his son. The elder Bittle was transferred to Europe by his employer. It seems that this is their first stop before their final destination where he is to work as the head clerk. I have forgotten where exactly.”

“Oh… then I shall say no more,” William said.

Mr. Knight took another puff of his pipe and then said, “If I may be of assistance in any matter, I dare say that I offer my services–in any capacity you may need.”

William looked around the parlor to survey who else was in the room, then leaned in a bit closer to Mr. Knight.

“I am not one to be put under the obligation of others. Especially to those whom we know nothing about. Mr. Bittle acted rather inappropriate–in front of the others–and I hope I acted for the best.”

William caught Jack’s eye. Jack frowned slightly then turned his attention back to the piano.

“What occurred?”

“They have a view of the ice rink they do not care for, as such, he suggested that my cousin and I exchange rooms with his son,” William said in a quiet tone. “Of course, I turned him down immediately. Obligation.”

“You acted very naturally,” Mr. Knight said, then appeared deep in thought. “All the same, I don’t think much harm would have come of accepting.”

William began to turn red as Mr. Knight continued.

“He is a rather odd man, but I don’t think he would have taken advantage of your acceptance. Having spoken with him earlier, I do not see those machinations as part of his character. I think he was just being nice. Clearly, he has rooms he doesn’t value and thinks that you would.”

“Am I to conclude that he is a… Socialist?” William whispered.

Mr. Knight’s mustache twitched as he tried to suppress a smile.

“I suppose that is one way I heard him describe himself.”

“And as such, he has raised his son as a Socialist, as well?”

“Who is to say. Eric has hardly spoken a work, but he seems nice enough. Is very bright and has all of his father’s mannerisms so it seems fitting that he may also be a Socialist.”

“You think I am being unreasonable, don’t you,” William said. “You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?”

Mr. Knight shook his head, just as Jack quickly approached them.

“No, I think you were doing what you thought was best for you and your cousin–which is quite understandable. But honestly, I do not think there is harm in accepting.”

“See, William?” Jack said pleased. “I do so always hope that people will be nice; that they are nice at heart, and it appears Mr. Bittle is… even for an American.”

“Well, I for one, do not find his bad manners ‘nice,’” William said with a huff. “But if it would make you happy, and Mr. Knight could act as our mediator then I suppose there would be no harm. I am here, after all, to make sure you have a good trip, cousin, and am only here through your kindness.”

“Mr. Bittle has no ulterior motive. I will certainly be your mediator, and we can have the two of your in your rooms with a view in no time,” Mr. Knight said as he rose from his chair to look for the two Bittles.

“He is so helpful,” Jack said. “Just as I remember him. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman.”

“Jack!” William said as he tried to stop the small grin that threatened to form on his face.

A few moments later, Mr. Knight returned bearing a large smile.

“If you can give them but half an hour, the rooms will be all yours.”

Jack smiled as William feigned one.

William and Jack ran into the younger Bittle in the hallway just outside one of the rooms. He carried a valise that was only half closed and had a shirt hanging out of one side.

“Pardon me,” he said as he moved out of their way.

“I would like to thank your father personally for his kindness,” William said flatly.

“You can’t. He’s in his bath,” Eric replied.

Jack pressed his fist to his mouth to hide his smile, and William cleared his throat.

“Well, thank you nonetheless, and good night,” William said as they entered the room.

Jack placed his books on the dresser and quickly walked to the window. He opened the window-shutters and smiled brightly when he saw the ice rink.

“Look at it, William. There is it!”

William patted Jack’s shoulder, “Tomorrow. You shall see it up close tomorrow. As for now, let’s finish unpacking and get to bed.”

Jack nodded and took one more look at the rink before he closed the shutter.

“I would have given the larger room to you, but I happen to know it was the younger Bittle’s. In my small way, I am a man of the world, and I did catch how he looked at you so.”

Jack looked at William, not sure what to say when they heard a knock on the door.

William answered and in marched Eric.

“Excuse me,” he said as he walked straight to a painting on the wall, which had been flipped around.

On the back, a question mark had been drawn. Eric flipped it back to its proper state to display the painting. He then nodded at Jack and William and left the room. Pausing only momentarily to briefly look at Jack once more before closing the door.

“What an odd, odd man,” William stated. “Whatever did that mean?”

Jack smiled, bewildered, wondering what to make of him at all.

Wrath’s Note: This was supposed to be my OMGCP Big Bang fic, but I switched to something else. So, I had this started and figured I should finish it. It’s definitely a WIP, but I have it all planned out.

“If Mr. Zimmermann ever takes to live as he skates,” the Reverend Mr. Knight said, “it will be very exciting."

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#zimbits au #zimbits #room with a view au #jack zimmermann #eric bittle #eric is george #jack is lucy #chapter one #william poindexter #jack x bitty #shitty knight #edwardian zimbits #zimbits WIP #not beta'd so it might be a bit of a mess

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