i think about the stanford fight every day. i think about sam planning exactly how he’s going to tell john and dean. separately or together? sooner or later? deciding if he can ask dean to keep it secret. i think about things going wrong, john finding the letter or dean making a joke that sam just can’t dismiss. i think about dean finding out and going straight to john. i think about things going exactly the way sam planned them, until suddenly they don’t and he’s walking out the door and never coming back. i think about every single way it could have happened and whether the start even matters when the ending is always the same
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but here's the thing:
bob zimmermann probably gets into bed that night, and stares at the ceiling and listens to his wife tapping on her phone and then to her turning on her side and then to her breaths as they even out slowly, and thinks: I did not fuck up my son's life.
because for a long, long time he thought he had. and for a long, long time the inescapable truth was that he actually almost had. the therapist they saw together while jack was in rehab was very big on analyzing blame, so he's been told many times that he couldn't shoulder the full responsibility over something so complex, but it was a hard thing to believe in the years after the overdose. because the truth was, he pushed his son too hard, and then didn't watch closely enough to protect him from the fall, and that was all on him.
and even after jack was out of physical danger, bob still worried. because his son was quick to push people away and slow to trust. because his son went right back to hockey like there had never been any other option, despite all that it put him through. because his son still seemed to think hockey was all there was, that hockey was all he was, and a big part of that was bob's fault. for all of bob's four cups, somehow he never managed to tell jack that his greatest and proudest achievements were him, and alicia, and their family.
and when they skyped (when jack agreed to skype with them for more than a few minutes at a time, which was at first almost never, and then occasionally, and then, unexpectedly, a regular thing), alicia would ask about jack's friends, and if he's seeing anyone, and about the latest screw or safety dance or spring c (bob never got the hang of all those college events, truthfully, although it did sound just as fun - and less risky - than his twenties), and jack would sometimes mumble something, or talk briefly about his teammates, or let shitty barge in and take over without answering. but more often than not jack would just say that he's too busy with pre-season; that he's too busy with practice; that he's too busy with playoffs; that he's too busy preparing for the next season.
but then --
he's serious about this, alicia said at dinner, and bob rubs that tight spot in the center of his chest and breathes. because that phone call made bob realize he'd been worried about that. had been worried jack spent his whole life thinking his father wasn't sure of his abilities as a player, when bob had been certain of jack's success all along; it was everything else bob was unsure about.
bob zimmermann gets into bed that night, knowing that there's someone out there looking out for his kid. someone out there making sure he knows he has value outside of being a hockey player. someone out there making him laugh and holding him when he cries, someone who jack opened up to, got to know, fell in love with, someone jack is serious enough about to share with alicia and him, when jack has never been one for sharing. and even if it ends (although - jack is, after all, bob's kid, and if he's right about how jack looks at bittle, and how bittle looks at jack, then bob's pretty sure it's not anything to worry about), at least jack would go back into the world knowing it's something he can have.
at least jack knows he's allowed to be happy. that's all bob ever wanted for him.
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God the Duke of Francis backstory still gets me. You're a child getting invasive surgery on your everything and your dad comes in and starts monologuing about how the hideous pain you're in will stay with you forever and make you strong through the struggles to come, because nothing you go through in the future will ever be as awful as this. But he forgot to tell your doctors that it should hurt and they've given you top of the line anaesthetic so you're actually doing super good but you still have to listen to your dad give the most cringefail villain speech of all time.
And then you need to monologue at torture victims for your job... I'd be so fucking nervous I'd rather be shot in the head
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ND culture is losing your bright yellow raincoat, feeling nauseous at the mere thought of using any other rain coat or an umbrella, eventually finding it again crumpled under a pile of random stuff several months later. Additionally, it has the bike key you also lost several monhs ago and forgot about in one of the pockets.
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