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When Freddie looks back on it, he thinks the first warning sign was Jack not being able to sleep on the plane back from Anaheim.
Jack’s just lost his second start in a row, though it’s through no fault of his own; only the night before, Freddie had managed to both get a shut-out and a loss.
The team elects to take an overnight flight back to Toronto and use their two days off to recover and prepare for Tampa. Freddie isn’t thrilled about sleeping on a plane, but he has to admit that being back at his condo as soon as possible sounds pretty appealing right about now.
As they take turns boarding, he looks through his notifications, ignoring most of them for the time being, and shuffling down the aisle to the back. He glances at scores around the league and settles into his seat, sliding closer to the window when he feels someone else join him. Usually, he has his own row, but sometimes Auston sits next to him. When he looks up, neither of those seem to be the case for this flight. Jack lowers himself into the seat, sitting down stiffly before leaning back and letting out a groan.
And, yeah. Freddie meets his eyes, matching looks of exhaustion on their faces, and lets out a grunt of agreement before turning on a podcast and preparing to sleep.
As much as the season isn’t going up to his standards, he recognizes that they’re doing well overall as a team. Trading for Jack addressed their one major weakness, and despite a disappointing California trip, Freddie’s excited for the rest of the season.
And not that he would admit it, but he doesn’t find himself minding it as much as he’d expected when Jack got a start instead of him. Getting to watch another goalie play with that much enthusiasm— with his whole team working to give him the best chance to win—and seeing his face light up with a huge grin after the games he had won? (Getting to pull him into a huge bear hug and hold him close without anyone second guessing it?) It’s not exactly a hardship for Fred.
He startles awake only an hour or so later when he feels someone nudging against his side. Jack presses closer and has his legs pulled up on the seat in front of him. Freddie can feel him shivering, even though the plane is the same temperature as always. Jack’s chin is on his knees, and his eyes are scanning the plane frantically, searching for a threat that only he can see.
Freddie doesn’t know Jack well enough yet to know if it’s nerves about flying or something else. Either way, he gets the impression that Jack isn’t in the mood to talk, so he pulls out an extra blanket from his carry on and wordlessly passes it over. Jack jumps a little at the sudden movement, but shoots him a grateful look, wrapping the blanket around himself.
Before leaving him alone for the flight, he nudges Jack’s knee and is met with a surprisingly intense stare that focuses directly on him. “Are you feeling sick? Want me to go grab a trainer?”
He sees Jack consider it for a second before shaking his head. “Not sick, just — on edge? It can wait until tomorrow.” His voice is as rough as Fred’s ever heard it, which isn’t helping convince Fred that he’s not sick.
Fred nods, fighting the wave of worry he feels welling up, and leans his head back. Unfortunately, now that he’s awake, he’s probably not going to be able to fall back asleep. He drifts for a bit, letting his mind wander; from what could be bothering Jack, to the way Jack had looked in his suit earlier, to Jack’s eyes—
No.
No .
He’s not doing this again. The one other time he had fallen for a teammate, Connor had been traded barely a month after they finally talked. He can’t risk messing with the team, with Jack’s focus, this close to the playoffs. He can’t handle losing another of his—his friends (because Jack is his friend , nothing more) to the unpredictable nature of hockey business. He can’t go through that again.
He backs away from those thoughts, tuning into his surroundings and feeling Jack shift against his side. Without moving his head, Fred opens his eyes and looks down to see Jack fully leaning against him, head resting on Freddie’s shoulder even though his eyes are still open. Freddie quickly smothers the burst of affection welling in him and racks his brain for the breathing exercises they’d done last week, something to distract him until he can relax, but finds his breathing synching up with Jack’s as he floats back to sleep.
Coach calls for an optional skate the next afternoon, allowing them to sleep in as long as they need to. Fred thinks about just going in to check in with the trainers (and Jack) before killing some time on a bike, but changes his mind before even finishing the thought, knowing that he’d be bored pedalling to nowhere when he could be on the ice instead.
If the commotion coming from the locker room is any indication, he isn’t alone in that thought. He stops at the door, just in time to watch Mitch throw a tape ball across the room and nail Mo in the back. Fred crosses over to his locker quickly, trying to avoid becoming Mitch’s next target.
Jack is sitting in his own stall, right next to Freddie’s. He’s already got his pads on, just needs to put on his helmet. Freddie takes a moment to observe him out of the corner of his eye. Jack seems quieter than normal, more on edge, so Fred nudges his shoulder as he passes by, flashing the other goalie a quick grin when he looks up. Jack’s face relaxes at that, but his body stays tense. He looks like he hasn’t slept since they got off the plane early in the morning.
If Freddie remembers correctly, he didn’t sleep while on the plane, either.
As Mitch and some of the other forwards head to the ice, Jack shakily gets up, puts on his helmet, and follows them, leaving his messy stall behind. Freddie doesn’t remember it being that cluttered before their trip—maybe he brought some more stuff from home? He sees that his blanket from the flight is in there, but decides to leave it, figuring Jack might want to keep it for a bit.
Justin comes up to talk with Fred as he’s getting the last of his gear on, something about a new shot-blocking drill he wanted to try if they had time after practice. Part of his thoughts are still stuck on Jack, but the rest of Freddie’s brain agrees to try the drill. It’s certainly an area they need to improve on, and he wants to be prepared for the shelling they’ll likely face against the Lightning. The two of them are some of the last to leave the locker room.
They pause by the boards, taking a second to look around at the team. Mitch is flying around the ice, trying to avoid Mo and a host of others, likely other tape ball targets, who are seeking revenge. His laugh rings out across the ice, followed closely by a variety of expletives.
Freddie is pulled from his train of thought when Justin nudges him. “What’s up with Soupy?”
Following his gaze, he sees the other goalie chasing players around the crease, poking at them whenever they get close. It’s nothing too far out of the ordinary—Jack is usually messing around with the defenders during warmups, throwing chirps around and laughing at the ones thrown back at him—except for the fact that he’s completely silent.
They step on the ice, moving slowly towards Jack’s net to get a closer look. He looks over as they approach, and Freddie thinks he understands what Justin was saying earlier. Jack’s face, usually lit up with happiness or mischief, is locked in the determined stare he only wears during games.
Fred skates over, more than a little concerned now. Jack rises out of his stance to meet him, gliding out of the crease. Besides his serious expression, Freddie can’t see anything wrong. He’s not moving like he’s injured, but he’s carrying himself more stiffly than normal, not making eye contact for more than a second before his eyes dart around the rink, constantly cataloguing where his teammates are. He just seems, like he’d mentioned on the plane, on edge.
Fred stops and turns, facing the rest of the rink and leaning his chin on the top of his stick. As Jack glides up next to him, he glances over. “Everything okay?” he asks, trying to check in without being obvious.
Jack hesitates and starts to say something, but before he can explain, Keefe blows his whistle to call the team to center ice to stretch.
The first few drills have Fred constantly on his toes, shifting from side to side, standing up and collapsing back down. He’s breathing heavy and his earlier concern about Jack has all but vanished. He’s locked in, controlling the crease and stopping most of the shots he faces.
The whole team takes a quick break for water, going over the next few drills. Out of habit, he looks for Jack, then wishes he hadn’t. The goalie is with the group, but his “game face” has only gotten worse, his eyes tracking back and forth across the team and then up to the diagrams Keefe is drawing. Freddie will definitely need to check in with him at some point, but he silently hopes that it can wait until after practice. There’s enough people and cameras around the rink that he doesn’t want to give even the slightest impression of calling his new partner out.
When he zones back in, the team is splitting into their positions - the forwards go down to Jack’s end while the defensemen gather around Fred’s net to work on blocking shots. Fred stares at Jack’s back as they return to their nets, the wheels in his mind still turning. When he checks back into his surroundings, Justin is excitedly explaining the drill he had in mind and getting ruthlessly chirped by Travis, apparently about some inside joke they’d had when they were both with the Marlies.
As badly as he knows this is something they need to work on, he quickly gets tired of shoving people out of the way to see the shots that are coming at him. When they take a moment to breathe, he chats with Mo, going over a miscommunication between them that led to a goal (and a truly horrendous celly) from Tyson. The group hug still going on in the corner and his conversation with Mo are both interrupted by a commotion at the other end of the ice. The forwards are gathered in a loose circle around the net, blocking Freddie’s view. He apprehensively heads to join them, Mo beside him, and has to hide a snort at what he finds.
They must have been working on breakaways, because Mitch has somehow managed to wedge himself completely into the goal, his helmet knocked astray and his stick along the boards. Jack is still in the crease, hovering protectively. Mitch doesn’t seem stressed, a grin on his face, content to lie there for another minute or two, and Freddie doesn’t fully understand the commotion until Mitch shifts to get more comfortable and Jack —
Jack freaks out .
He turns around, facing Mitch, and pushes the smaller player even further into the net before turning back around and growling at JT, who had skated closer during the quick scuffle. This sets off some mumbling from the surrounding team, but Mitch calls out a cheerful, “I’m fine!” which seems to settle his teammates. Jack is set, as if preparing to stop a shot, and he slides side to side, doing his best to make sure no one gets close to Mitch.
The realization hits him suddenly and with the same force that Tyson’s shot earlier hadn’t. Fuck . He finally understands why Jack has been so weird the past few days. Dealing with a nesting goalie is not something he expected when he showed up at the rink today, but he thinks he knows what he’s doing. He leans over to Mo without looking away from the goal and mutters, “Go let the trainer know what’s going on,” before locking eyes with JT. He tilts his head, a silent you got this? and Freddie hesitates, but nods in response. They all seem to be on the same page.
JT backs away from the net, calling out to the team, “Everyone off the ice!” and skates over to Freddie. “What do you need us to do?”
...And that’s the question Freddie has been dreading. In general, when a goalie gets traded or joins a new team, they talk with the other goalies and the training staff to make a plan for this exact moment. And, well, Freddie might have slacked off on that a little. He’d been injured when Jack originally joined the team, and then they hadn’t really gotten a chance to talk. Nesting wasn’t really a topic that came up in casual conversation and he’d been meaning to bring it up, maybe on their way to or from Tampa…
Regardless, it’s too late now.
He looks at JT, trying to meld his face into an expression that puts off in control vibes and not the oh shit oh shit oh shit vibes that he’s currently experiencing. There’s certain behaviors and preferences that are more common among nesting goalies, some that are nearly universal, so those would be the best place to start.
“Have one of the guys grab everyone’s practice jerseys and throw them in my bag.” He’s not looking forward to the smell in his car, but Jack should find the familiar scents comforting. Fred continues, “He’ll probably be fine once we get him off the ice. If he starts to get angry or lashes out, we might have to take him to the visitors’ locker room.” He is in control . He’s got this.
JT either buys that Freddie knows what’s going on or politely ignores the fact that he does not, because he nods and skates off to the locker room without any questions.
Finally, it’s just the three of them on the ice. Jack isn’t in a crouch anymore, but he’s still bracing himself, as if he expects someone to fire a puck towards him at any moment. His shoulders have dropped down from where they were hunched up and his eyes, darting wildly just moments before, are focused on Freddie’s face.
Freddie takes his mask off, slowly setting it down on the ice, before approaching Jack. His eyes are still wide and alert, but he doesn’t appear as on edge as he had earlier. Fred mentally crosses his fingers, hoping that he hasn’t yet gone nonverbal, and starts talking quietly.
“Hey, Jack, you’re doing so good. Protecting your net, protecting Mitchy here,” Mitch makes an affirmative noise, and Freddie continues, “Why don’t we get off the ice, get all cleaned up, then we can get you home? You can build a nice, strong nest at home, but you’ve got to change before you can leave.”
Jack’s eyes flicker across Freddie’s face as he talks, and Freddie hopes that what he’s saying is getting through to him. He slowly takes his own mask off, reaching back and putting it on Mitch’s lap, then turns and faces Freddie again.
“Don’t make me leave him.”
Freddie groans a little on the inside, afraid that Mitch will react negatively, or in a way that makes Jack explode. Instead, he looks down at the winger to find that he’s put Jack’s mask to the side and is shrugging his own jersey off.
“Here ya go, Soupy. You’ll wanna add your favorite player’s jersey to your nest, yeah?”
Jack is turned back around, eyes wide and nodding at Mitch, too far gone to properly hide his excitement at getting a gift from Mitch. When Mitch lifts his jersey up and offers it to Jack, Jack grabs it from him and holds it reverently.
Fred looks back at Mitch, more than a little confused. He’s met with a steady, reassured grin and a, “I took care of the goalies in London, bud. I know what’s up,” so that explains that.
And, oh. Maybe Mitch has this handled. He certainly sounds like he has more experience than Fred, who’s only been involved in nesting once, when he was the one actually nesting. He remembers how he felt distant from his body, how he had nearly hurt Brownie when he lost control and started biting, because that’s all he’d seen in Anaheim. Jack’s from the Pacific Division, just like Fred was, and that, more than anything, makes his mind up for him. Even though Quick seems like a nice guy, he doesn’t know what Jack’s been taught about nesting. He can’t risk Jack accidentally hurting Mitch without realizing it.
He steadies himself and turns back to Jack, who has now wrapped his prized possession around his shoulders in a rough imitation of a cape. “Wanna go put Mitch’s jersey with the others? We can get you changed and out of here so you can start building your nest.”
Jack meets his eyes, nodding eagerly and agreeing in a slightly hoarse voice, “Yes, please.”
Freddie wraps an arm around his shoulders, slowly guiding him off the ice. It’s only once they reach the boards that Jack realizes he’s been tricked, looking back at Mitch and then at Freddie with a betrayed expression on his face. Before he can start protesting again, they enter the locker room.
The guys go eerily quiet when Jack and Freddie walk in, but Jack doesn’t seem to notice, still upset about leaving Mitch but not willing to fight Freddie about it in front of the team. Freddie swears he can feel his teammates’ gazes shifting from Jack to him, then back. Do they understand what’s happening? Are they scared? Can they see that Freddie is scared?
For most of the team, this is their first time actually seeing a nesting goalie. When Fred went through it last year, he managed to get home before the worst hit. Jack still isn’t too far gone, but his eyes are shifty and he clearly looks uncomfortable. Fred thinks he can hear Willy explaining it to Sandy, but his Swedish is rusty, and they’re talking quietly enough that he can’t be sure that that’s what they’re talking about.
Someone, probably Mo or JT, purposefully clears their throat, and the room jumps back into motion, if a bit more subdued than before.
Freddie helps Jack get his jersey and pads off, then leaves him once he’s down to his under armour to go check in with the trainer. The conversation takes all of two minutes, just updating her on how Jack’s acting and if he’s noticed anything unusual, but he returns to a dramatically different locker room.
Goat and Spezza are in the middle of the room holding tightly to Jack, who’s whining and struggling as hard as he can to get to the door, where Freddie now stands looking on. Zach is in the corner, holding a towel to his nose, so it looks like Jack’s outburst, whatever it was, claimed at least one victim.
He stills as Fred enters his line of sight and reaches out for him. Fred can’t help but look him over, making sure he wasn’t hurt during the scuffle, then pulls him against his side in a one-armed hug. He glances over at Zach. “What happened?”
Zach pulls the cloth away from his nose, studying it for a moment to see if he’s still bleeding, before replying, “You left and he freaked out. Started yelling about you, then started looking for Mitch. When he started to run out of the room, a couple of us grabbed him.” He gestures at his face. “He wasn’t super thrilled about that. We were just getting ready to send Auston to get one of you.”
Fred turns to Jack, who shrugs sheepishly, then nods at Zach in a mixture of thanks and apology. After a bit of coaxing, Freddie convinces Jack to get dressed, but the only sort of winter clothing he’s willing to wear is one of Fred’s old sweatshirts that’s lying around.
When they pull up to the apartment, Jack perks up, seeming to recognize that they’ve arrived home. His posture sags just as quickly when he realizes they aren’t at his place — they’re at Freddie’s. He looks over at Freddie and lets out a questioning chirp.
Fred lets out an exhausted sigh, hoping this conversation won’t turn into another ordeal. “I didn’t have your address, bud. You’ll have to nest here unless you can tell me where you live.” He reaches into the back seat to grab the bag of jerseys, then slides out of the car.
Jack chirps again, face gloomy, but he follows Freddie without a fight.
For all the worrying Freddie did, building the nest is the easiest part. He guides Jack to his bedroom, the other goalie hiding behind him the whole way there. When he opens his bedroom door, Jack all but runs to the bed, immediately grabbing at the pillows and sheets and arranging them to his liking. Fred drops the bag of jerseys next to the bed, then goes to his closet to pull out extra pillows and blankets, just in case.
While watching Jack build, he thinks back to his own nesting and how he felt more secure once his nest had walls — walls he built using his pads. Deciding he should help, he shuffles a bit, getting Jack’s attention without startling him too much.
While Fred was reminiscing, Jack has managed to almost completely bury himself in jerseys and blankets. He pops up at Freddie’s movement, still half covered with a blanket, and tilts his head, waiting to see what Freddie has to say.
Fred grins, hopelessly endeared, then, “Do you want me to grab our pads from the car?” He moves closer, pointing to the pillows perched precariously on the edge of the bed. “They can help keep the edges from moving too much.”
For all that he’s having trouble speaking, Jack seems to understand him right away and nods frantically a couple of times. He looks approvingly at Freddie for a second, then goes back to arranging. Freddie turns away quickly, walking back to the car and trying to hide the burst of fondness he feels.
As relatively inexperienced as Freddie is, he figures that they should get cleaned up as much as possible before properly settling in. After getting off the plane the night before, he only ended up getting a few hours of sleep, so his biggest priority is getting horizontal before he passes out. He’s hoping for a nice hot shower, a chance to wipe off all the grime of a practice, and, perhaps a bit selfishly, the opportunity to wash Jack’s hair. Neither of them had showered at the rink and he’s becoming very aware of how they both stink.
The other goalie adjusts the pads around his nest, stabilizing the parts threatening to fall. Once done, he carefully climbs out, looking at Fred for approval. Fred grins, nods, and reaches for him, guiding him away. Jack follows willingly but stops when they get to the entrance to the en-suite bathroom. He looks around the room, searching for any threats, takes a slow, dramatic step forward, and...
...hisses at Freddie’s shower, before springing back out the door.
Freddie’s got a bad feeling about this.
After a few minutes of trying to coax Jack back into the bathroom, Freddie gives up and takes his own shower. Maybe Jack will be convinced to join him once he sees that the shower isn’t a threat. He zones out a little, taking some extra time to wash his hair twice and scrub at a nasty scrape on his leg he doesn’t remember receiving. He should probably plan out what his play is going to be with the nesting goaltender currently hiding around the corner, but it’s easier to just let his mind relax after how long his past few days have been.
Unfortunately, he eventually has to leave his warm, foggy haven. He steps out of the shower, still lost in thought and more than a little bit drowsy, and makes an undignified screeching noise when he almost trips over Jack, who has decided to sit right outside the shower door. His teammate is sitting on the ground, trembling with something… cold? Exhaustion, maybe? He looks up at Freddie with wide eyes, looking like he wants nothing more than to run away at the slightest provocation, like he’s afraid .
Freddie takes a deep breath, starting to get irritated with Jack. As endearing as his earlier behavior had been, his illogical fear of the shower is grating on Freddie’s nerves. Listen, he knows it’s not Jack’s fault that he’s acting like this. He knows that nesting makes people act unreasonably. He knows , okay? But he’s so fucking tired at this point and he wants to go to bed. He wouldn’t mind the company, but only if said company no longer smells like hockey equipment.
Still standing in the shower, he reaches for Jack, who takes his hand, stands up, and pulls gently, trying to get Freddie to leave. The moment Freddie resists and tries to guide him in the shower, Jack loses it. He starts growling again and goes so far as to snap at Freddie when he tugs a bit harsher on his arm. Freddie pulls back reflexively, knocking his soap bottles off of their shelf, which creates a loud series of crashes, which, of course, sets Jack off again.
He’s cowering, standing between Freddie and his towel, but his growling has only gotten louder.
Yeah, okay. Fred’s had enough.
He pushes past Jack, swipes his towel off of its hook and hastily dries off. He lets the towel drop to the floor when he’s done. Before leaving the room, he looks back at the goalie, accent thickening in his anger. “Take a fucking shower. Or not. I really don’t care. But don’t come back to the nest until you’re clean.” He slams the door shut and leaves.
His anger is gone even before the echoes of the closing door have fully faded. He knows he’s fucked up, but it’s too late now. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants, grabs his phone, and curls up in the nest, surrounded by reminders of his team but feeling incredibly alone.
He mindlessly scrolls through his phone, trying and failing to distract himself. After a bit, he starts getting restless, rolling back and forth, unable to get comfortable or sit still on the mound of jerseys. When his phone screen lights up with several text notifications in a row, he pounces, desperate for a conversation or any interaction that isn’t with a freaked out goalie.
It’s Mo, of course it’s Mo . Sometimes Freddie swears that his A is a mindreader, that he has a spidey sense telling him when something is wrong with his teammates. Either way, he opens the text and gets the lifeline he didn’t know he needed.
Hope u 2 aren’t dead yet
Gards played with Soupy at worlds a few years ago
if u have questions, he might know the answer
call me if u need anything
Fred feels like he can breathe for the first time since they left the ice. He sends a quick thx , then swipes to Gards number and reopens a chat that’s been quiet for several months. Mo must’ve given him a heads up, because he replies almost instantly.
mo said you know campbell
we didn’t play together long, but we hung out for most of the time we were at worlds.
did he nest while you were there?
nah, he said the rooms in the hotel were too cramped
poor guy is super claustrophobic
what’s going on?
he won’t let me help him get clean so he can nest properly
what do you mean?
came home from practice and built the nest at my place
all he’s done is hiss and growl at the shower
tried to bite me when i tried to get him in there
so I told him not to come back until he was clean
He winces. In retrospect, it does sound a bit harsh.
….
fucking hell
how big is your shower
Freddie has to pause. His shower is reasonably sized, if a bit bigger than average, and he tells Gards as much.
he was probably trying to protect you dumbass
small spaces? claustrophobic?
and instead you, his nesting partner, yelled at him for protecting you and told him not to come back to his own nest
have fun with that one, Big Red
Sometimes, Freddie wishes his friends didn’t know him as well as they do. He finds himself missing Gards, whose blunt but light-hearted nature had helped Freddie settle on and off the ice. Honestly, if Gards and Mo hadn’t been so caught up in each other (whether they realized it or not), either one of them would’ve been great nesting partners. He feels so out of his element right now, knows that he isn’t the best at reading Jack’s nonverbal cues; what he’s saying is that he could really use some reassurance, or at least a nice, solid hug from his favorite defensemen.
He debates sleeping in the guest room. Maybe giving Jack space would draw him back to the nest?
As if Gards is reading his mind, he gets one last text.
just because you might be able to nest alone doesn’t mean he can. go check on him
——
When he finally gets the nerve, Freddie sits up. He takes a deep breath, stands, and pads over to the bathroom door, opening it slowly to avoid spooking Jack. He sees the goalie still next to the shower door, but if Freddie didn’t feel bad before (and he did), he absolutely hates himself now.
Jack is curled up in a makeshift nest of towels and washcloths, one of which Fred recognizes as the one he dried off with earlier. Freddie can see him shivering even across the room. He feels it like a punch in the gut when Jack looks up at him, makes eye contact, then burrows his head under a towel.
What finally breaks him is hearing Jack trying to purr. Freddie’s only heard goalies purr in contentment, but he knows it can also be used to self-soothe in times of stress. The rumbles pick up every few seconds, crossing the room before being cut off as Jack shifts around.
He creeps into the bathroom, making just enough noise that Jack can tell where he’s at but doesn’t startle. The closer he gets, the more Jack shies away, so Freddie settles for sitting on the floor several feet away from him. Pulling out his phone, he makes sure that it’s on silent and pulls up a random puzzle app, resolving to stay put until Jack approaches him.
He’s lost more games on his phone than he’s won when he feels something brush against his leg. Looking down, he sees that Jack has pulled himself (and several towels) closer to Freddie, and is hesitantly lowering his head onto Freddie’s lap. It feels like the closest he’s going to get to forgiveness. He slowly lowers a hand to Jack’s head, starting to stroke his hair, and feels some of his anxiety melt away as Jack’s purring grows louder.
Seeing Jack relax helps Freddie lower his guard enough to apologize. “Sorry, bud. I shouldn’t have gotten angry.”
Jack turns slightly, looking up at him through wide eyes, clearly understanding, even though he can’t respond.
Freddie grins little, “I got yelled at by Mo and Gards. They told me you were probably trying to protect me, yeah?” Jack mirrors his grin and nods in confirmation. “I appreciate it.”
He clears his throat and shifts a little, glad to be done with the emotions for now. “Think we could get you wiped down with a washcloth and back in the nest?”
Jack pushes his head against Freddie’s hand, so Fred runs a hand through his hair one more time before grabbing a cloth and helping him get clean.
Jack seems to be trying to put his own helmet not on himself, but on Freddie. They’re preparing to walk around the house, but Jack seems convinced that they’re suiting up for battle. Freddie reaches out, steadying Jack’s arm, and asks, “You’re sure you want me wearing yours? I can go grab my own.”
He’s answered with a decisive head shake. “Wanna protect,” he says, reaching for Fred.
As enlightening as that is, Freddie doesn’t have it in him to argue, so he accepts the offering and puts the mask on. Jack visibly relaxes as soon as it’s in place, grabs his stick, then burrows under Freddie’s arm.
His response also tells Fred how far along he is; those are the only words he’s said since they left the rink, so he’s likely nonverbal now. (He remembers how panicked he had felt when he went under, vaguely understanding what others were saying and what was going on, but unable to speak for himself, not fully in control of his instincts.)
He guides Jack around, shows him the other bathroom (which doesn’t have a shower), takes him to the kitchen so he can pick out some snacks. Jack stays pressed against his side the whole time, and Freddie gets the impression that, while he’s still clearly scared, he’s starting to feel better, starting to trust Freddie and the space around them.
When they return, fruit snacks and gatorade in hand, Freddie helps guide Jack into the nest without knocking anything over. He climbs in after just as carefully and lets Jack poke and prod at him until he’s positioned just how Jack wants. It’s a little warmer than he would normally like, but he has to admit that it’s cozy, and he’s kind of looking forward to having the next few days off.
After the drama of the afternoon, Freddie settles quickly with Jack behind him (and Fred does not honestly remember a time in his life where he’s been the little spoon, but he’ll allow it for now). He can feel small puffs of air on his neck where Jack is exhaling. The hand on his hip grounds him, as does the comfort of being in a nest, and he floats off to sleep not long after getting comfortable.
When Freddie wakes up the next morning, he notices three things: first, they’d forgotten to close the curtains the night before, so his room is unreasonably bright; second, that he is absolutely starving; and third, Jack is practically glued to his back, purring, with his chin resting on top of Fred’s chin. It feels like being hugged by a vibrating octopus, to be quite honest.
He must move around subconsciously, because the purring stops and he’s greeted with a questioning chirp. He carefully turns around to face Jack and finds him wide awake, looking as if he hadn’t slept at all, again .
And...yeah. That’s definitely not right. He pushes down the rising self-doubt and rests his head against Jack’s chest for a minute before sitting up.
Freddie takes a second to gaze down, appreciating how Jack smells a little like his own body wash but also still very much like himself, the way Jack’s hair is all messed up with tangles forming at the ends. His forehead is marked by concerned valleys; his eyes, by dark shadows.
Fred reaches out a hand to cup Jack’s cheek, starts to say something, anything, to comfort him, but his stomach betrays him, cutting through the silence with an ominous grumble. That draws the corner of Jack’s mouth up, has him rising and maneuvering his way out of the nest, running off to (hopefully) get Fred some food.
While he waits, he scrolls through his phone, shooting off quick updates to the guys who reached out, then a longer update when Mo presses for details. Mitch has been surprisingly quiet; out of all of his teammates, Fred had expected him to be the first to reach out. All he’s sent is a short little keep me updated pls and a series of emojis that Fred can’t hope to decipher.
(There’s the requisite hockey stick, and both a blue and a white heart, a taco, a beach ball, four question marks, and some kind of- pleading face?)
His attempt at translation is interrupted by a series of growls, thuds, and clangs coming from the kitchen, and he reluctantly gets up, scared to see what he’ll find; although, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little intrigued.
Comparing the mess to a natural disaster might be a stretch, but not by much. Fred thinks that Jack might have been trying to make some sort of eggs and toast, but most of the eggshells are on the floor, and his stick (which he had brought with him) is covered in the remnants of yolks. There’s a jug of milk on the counter, on its side, spilling off the counter, onto the cabinets, and down to the floor.
Right as Freddie arrives, the toaster finishes with a confident sproing , and Jack spins around, rushing over to grab the toast. He carefully pinches at it with his bare hands, intense determination etched across his features, and sets it on the counter before finally looking up and noticing Freddie’s presence.
Freddie can’t help but sigh at the sight. “Oh, Jack…” He trails off. Jack’s clearly out of it, but he’s trying so hard to provide. It’s heartbreaking.
Jack’s eyes widen; he clearly hadn’t expected Freddie to come out of the nest. Maybe he was hoping that Fred would wait for Jack to bring him the food. Jack rushes over, chirruping and whimpering, gesturing for Fred to sit down at the table.
As much as he wants to go along with it, and knows it would calm Jack down, it’s just not an option right now. “Jack, babe, can I help? Is there anything you’d like me to do?”
And Freddie can read the answer in Jack’s body language, clear as anything, but he also sees the conflict crossing his face. At some level, Jack knows he’s out of his depth, but everything in him is telling him to not let Freddie help, that Jack should be the one taking care of him and not the other way around.
The trill he makes sounds dejected, as if he’s decided to accept Freddie’s help but isn’t happy about it. Freddie reaches out to him, slowly pulls him into his side in a short hug, then properly enters the kitchen and— how did Jack get eggs on the ceiling? Freddie schools his features and starts looking around more thoroughly; he’s going to need to distract Jack for long enough to at least start cleaning this up. If nothing else, he can hopefully get away with getting the eggshells thrown out and the cabinets and floor wiped down.
“Hey, Jack? It’s a bit colder in here than the nest, can you go grab one of my sweatshirts?”
Jack perks up at that, clearly happy to have a task that doesn’t involve watching Freddie clean up his failed attempt to provide. He darts towards the bedroom, and Freddie sets to work.
Jack comes back all too quickly and Freddie has to think on his feet again. He takes the offered sweatshirt (one of his favorites, he notes, shyly pleased) and slowly puts it on while he formulates another excuse. Reluctantly, he pulls it back off and turns to Jack, trying to express sincerity and regret. “This is wonderful, babe, but it doesn’t smell like you. Could you scent it, or—or put it in the nest for a few minutes, or something like that, to make it smell like you?”
Jack honest to god coos at that, taking the sweatshirt back and leaning in to rest his forehead against Fred’s for a moment before he trots back out of the kitchen.
In the time it takes for Jack to cover the sweatshirt in what he deems is an appropriate amount of his scent, Freddie manages to downgrade the catastrophe in front of him to simply a messy kitchen. He looks over towards the toaster, noticing the only survivors from the whole ordeal were two pieces of toast, a little more burnt than he normally would like, but edible. Pushing down a fond smile, he quickly smothers the two pieces with some butter, grabs a couple of water bottles, and heads back to the nest.
It’s been longer than he realized since he let someone take care of him. Just because Jack didn’t succeed with the breakfast doesn’t mean Freddie can’t appreciate the gesture.
Jack is finally asleep, but it’s a restless kind of nap; his legs are moving constantly, he’s grumbling unintelligibly under his breath, and the way his eyes are squeezed tightly shut seems almost painful. Freddie has reached the end of rope at this point, frustration at his own incompetence and concern over his—over his friend.
Late that night, Fred reaches out to Mitch. He knows it’s barely even been a day since Jack started nesting, but something doesn’t feel right; as much as he hates admitting he needs help, he knows when to trust his instincts. Outside of the fitful nap he’s taking right now, Freddie doesn’t think Jack has slept since before the Ducks game. Hopefully, with Mitch’s experience helping others nest, they’ll be able to help Jack.
Deciding just to go for it, he texts him.
I have a favor to ask.
Fredddd
what’s up
And really, he shouldn’t be surprised that Mitch is awake. For all the energy he seems to possess, Fred still isn’t sure if he actually sleeps or not. He might get to find out, if Mitch figures out what he’s asking.
Should Jack be sleeping normally?
...yeah?
all the guys i ever nested with slept almost constantly
once we got comfy at least
is jack not?????
No. I don’t think he’s slept since before the ducks game.
He was awake when I woke up and seemed exhausted.
oof yeah that’s not normal
do u want help
Fred takes a moment to thank whatever powers that be for not having to ask for help. It’s far easier for him to accept an offer than to put himself out there and ask directly..
Yes please
Can you come over tomorrow?
yeah!!! np. having another person in his nest might help settle him.
should i bring keona?
i went by his place today to feed her. she seems lonely :(
And, yeah, his first instinct is to roll his eyes, but the more he thinks about it, the better of an idea it seems. Keona seems chill and she’ll definitely calm Jack down, at least a little.
(He also knows that Mitch will worry about her if they leave her at Jack’s.) It seems a hassle to move her and all her stuff to Freddie’s place, though.
Would it be easier to take Jack back to his home?
The response is instantaneous.
NOOOO
i dare u to try and make him leave his nest now.
he’d be fighting before u got to ur car
Got it. Thanks.
anything else i should bring?
No, i think we’re mostly good
kk see u in the morning
He gets ready for bed, brushing his teeth as quickly as he can so that Jack doesn’t freak out at him for being gone too long. They lay in bed, curled together and staring at the ceiling, for what feels like hours.
Fred’s caught up in where he messed up. Jack’s nesting is going poorly, so what did Freddie do wrong? Should he have backed off on the shower thing? Should he have taken Jack to his own house instead of Freddie’s? What if it isn’t something he’s done, but something about him that makes him a bad nesting partner?
A traitorous voice from the back of his head asks if this is all happening because he won’t let himself be taken care of, but Freddie is quick to shove it aside, rolling to face Jack and clinging on tighter than he’d ever admit to, scared to lose any of this.
Mitch shows up early the next morning, dragging a suitcase and a carrier with a less than thrilled cat in it. He thinks he remembers Mitch saying her name was Keona. When he looks closer, Freddie can see scratches all over his forearms, so he guesses that she put up a bit of a fight.
Jack, who followed Fred to the door, wearing his own helmet and carrying his stick like a sword, softens immediately when he sees Keona; something in him recognizing that she’s his. Mitch sets the cage down, then follows Fred to the guest room to deposit his suitcase. Jack stays right where he is, but crouches down and sticks a couple fingers into the cage, stroking the kitty’s cheeks. When Fred and Mitch return, Jack looks as at ease as he’s been in the past week. His grin, when he finally turns away from Keona, is blinding, and he jumps up, runs over, and nearly suffocates Mitch in a hug that has the winger’s feet dangling in the air.
He then promptly ruins the moment by licking Mitch’s cheek.
Fred can’t help himself; he giggles. Mitch looks at him, betrayed and clearly still disgusted, so Freddie explains, “It’s his way of thanking you. It’s more of a Western Conference thing.” It makes sense that Mitch wouldn’t have seen it before.
Mitch looks at Freddie oddly, but recovers quickly, patting Jack’s shoulder with a quick, “No problem, buddy. Wanna show me your nest?”
The goalie nods, grabs the cat carrier, and all but trots down the hallway to the bedroom, winger following close behind.
Freddie takes the opportunity to relax for a moment before moving towards the kitchen. He’ll need to stock up on snacks for the nest and set up Keona’s food and litter box, but he could use a moment alone to breathe first.
He’s got a bowl of grapes in one hand and a box of snack cakes in the other when he returns to the bedroom, only to pause in an attempt to understand what he’s seeing. Mitch is standing on the floor next to the nest, surrounded by several pillows that have fallen on the floor, wearing Jack’s helmet and drowning in Freddie’s chest protector. He grins up at Fred when he fully enters the room, but doesn’t move, trying not to disturb the nesting goalie currently fastening his own pads to Mitch’s legs.
Freddie sets the food down on a side table and goes to stop Jack, who’s huffing and making small distressed noises as he discovers that his pads don’t fit Mitch correctly. Fred reaches out, resting a hand on Jack’s shoulder and saying, “C’mon, Jack. Let’s get these pads off so Mitchy can actually get in the nest. He doesn’t need them, I’ll help you protect him, alright?”
Jack seems reluctant but agrees readily enough, undoing the fastenings and gently removing the pads.
A few minutes later, Mitch is finally in the nest, sandwiched on either side by goalies and holding a cat who’s calmed down significantly. Both Keona and Jack are purring, and Mitch looks like he would be, if he could. (If Freddie was nesting, he thinks he would be joining the chorus of purrs, too.)
Within seconds of starting to purr, Jack is fast asleep. Freddie breathes a sigh of relief, glad that Mitch seems to have helped solve that issue. He runs through a list in his head of things that need done: start on the kitchen, do a load of laundry, maybe prep some snacks for the three of them? Oh god, did he remember to set up Keona’s litter box? What if they run out of her food? What do cats even eat, besides kibble?
He gets lost on that thought for longer than he’d like to admit.
Mitch, half asleep now, breaks the comfortable silence they’ve settled into with, “You know, Jack wouldn’t even let me touch the straps on your pads earlier. What was up with that?”
Freddie’s brain stops completely for a moment. “Uh—oh,” he stutters, “That’s— that sure is something, definitely— ” he cuts off before he can do any more damage.
Their PR team would be proud .
He goes back to petting Jack’s hair, ignoring Mitch’s sleepy, half-mumbled protests, and tries not to overthink it. He only remembers mentioning it to Jack once; the one superstition he allowed himself to have— none of the other guys were allowed to touch Freddie’s pads. At the time, he was showing Jack around the practice facility and didn’t think he was even listening, too caught up in his new surroundings. What else had Jack caught when Freddie wasn’t paying attention?
By the time lunch rolls around, Jack and Mitch are awake again. Jack is curled up behind Mitch while Mitch swipes through photos of Zeus; he seems especially proud of the video of his dog swimming.
Freddie decides to take advantage of this rare moment of being ignored, mumbles something to the two of them about going to the kitchen, and slides out of the nest.
Despite all of his wishes, his kitchen still looks the same as yesterday. It’s a simple enough process to get going: load and run the dishwasher, wash the other dirty dishes by hand, wipe down the counters, and mop. He’s in his head, mind wandering around, while his hands are hard at work, and the kitchen is nearly usable again by the time he’s interrupted by yelling coming from the bedroom.
“ FREDDIEEEEEEEE!”
A pause, and then another, “ FREDDDDDDD!”
Mitch’s voice echoes throughout the house. He doesn’t sound concerned, but Freddie rushes back to the bedroom, terrified that something has happened, that Jack is getting worse.
He should really know better at this point.
He’s met with two pairs of puppy dog eyes (and one pair of uninterested, disgruntled feline eyes who look at him disdainfully before going back to sleep).
Trying to hide his relief, he lets out an exasperated sigh and nods at Mitch, “Can I help you?”
Mitch’s smile turns into a smirk, his tone going a little bratty as he complains, “We’re hungry.” Jack’s stomach growls loudly from where he’s seated next to Mitch and staring imploringly at Freddie.
He tries not to roll his eyes (can’t help it, does) and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Master Chef here tried to cook the last remaining food I had, so we’ll have to put in a grocery order. Do you wanna fill it out or do you just want me to do it?”
Mitch takes a second to think about it, but Jack is already reaching for the phone; although Fred can’t tell if that’s because he understands the question or if he’s just distracted by the bright lights. He hands it over anyways, throwing around ideas with Mitch for what they could have for dinner that night, suggestions for snacks and all that.
As badly as Mitch wants popcorn, the mention of getting crumbs or kernels in the nest makes Jack bristle, so they take the hint and move to other foods.
Then, Mitch says the magic words, “What about pop-tarts?” and Jack’s face lights up. His thumbs are flicking over Fred’s phone in the search for his prize. Fred decides to cut his losses and go finish the kitchen. He’ll grab them a protein bar or something while he’s down there.
When Freddie gets his phone back from Mitch and Jack (an hour later), he finds that “he” has already placed an order for twenty boxes of pop-tarts, and that he should expect them delivered to his house sometime in the next few days. Wonderful .
They camp in to watch a movie or two before it’s actually time for bed, but Jack can’t tolerate the unfamiliar voices and sound effects, so the computer is quickly muted, the sound replaced with subtitles. Freddie finds himself with a lapful of goalie. Jack’s head is tucked under Freddie’s chin, and his breath is warm against Freddie’s throat.
Fred and Mitch chat a little bit, at first about mundane topics, but quickly moving onto more serious questions. Finally, Freddie asks the question that’s been bothering him since Jack freaked out in the bathroom.
“What did I do wrong?”
Mitch looks at him, face serious and eyes concerned. “What do you mean?”
Fred struggles for a moment, trying to find the words without exposing too much of himself. “What did I do that messed up Jack’s nesting? Why wouldn’t he sleep?” His voice catches a little, but he pushes on. “What if it messes up things with him and the team?”
Mitch’s face breaks at the last question, and he reaches out to Freddie, grabbing his hand. “Oh, Fred. None of this— This isn’t— There’s nothing that could even be your fault.” He finds his words after a few false starts, looking Freddie dead in the eye as he continues. “Some goalies need extra people in the nest, sometimes one person isn’t enough. It doesn’t have anything to do with the nesting partners, it’s just something that changes from goalie to goalie.”
His eyes start to itch, threatening to water, so he just nods once, short and abrupt, and resumes the video. It’s not that he thinks Mitch is lying, it just feels like this should be his fault, feels responsible for Jack in a way he isn’t used to.
He jumps a little when Jack starts nibbling at his neck, but relaxes once it’s clear Jack isn’t planning on actually biting him. Every now and then, there’s a nip that hurts more than the others, but it’s easy enough to settle into if he keeps his focus on the movie. It’s certainly not the weirdest thing he’s dealt with this week.
Freddie startles out of a dream—a pleasant one, with a garden and a sketchbook and a random dog chilling with him—to Jack’s face right in front of his. They both go a little cross eyed before Fred backs up, turning and sitting up with his back against the headboard.
Jack stays horizontal, but presses closer to Freddie’s legs, fidgeting until Freddie gets a hand in his hair. Mitch is still out cold, asleep on the other side of Jack; he lets out soft snores and grumbles under his breath every now and then, but it’s anyone’s guess what he’s dreaming about.
Freddie feels a head butting against his hand, and resumes petting Jack; he must’ve stopped while lost in thought. They sit there in silence for a while, Mitch’s snoring providing a surprisingly soothing soundtrack to Freddie’s thoughts— thoughts about the season, about his family, about what they’ll have for dinner when everyone is up. Mitch flails a little bit next to them, clearly dreaming, and Jack growls the slightest bit when he gets kicked.
Freddie starts getting deeper, thinking more about how the past month has affected him. He’s been injured and missed games, he’s been benched a few times, but he’s also been given a new backup, and he’s desperate to protect him. Freddie’s only been in Toronto for four years, but he’s seen so many goalies come and go. He won’t let that happen to Jack, not if there’s anything he can do about it. He finds himself starting to voice some of these thoughts out loud, almost without realizing it.
“I think I like being under the pressure I am?” Fred says, “It helps me focus, keeps me sharp? But at the same time, if I start fucking up, or blow an easy save, that’s on me; the losses are on me, y’know?
“And, I’m glad to have you here, if only to have someone to share the net with, but if I mess up or get injured, and there’s suddenly more pressure on you? Enough that you can’t handle it? I think that’d be worse, honestly. You don’t deserve that.”
Freddie can’t bring himself to look down at the other goalie; he feels like he’s said too much, or is about to. Jack turns his head a bit, nuzzles into Freddie’s hand before returning to his previous position. As much as he tries not to, Freddie keeps speaking, his breathing getting heavier as he keeps going, as if holding everything in this whole time has made the flash flood of thoughts unstoppable.
“And all the guys—Mitch, Mo, Aus—they’re all great. But they just don’t get it, the pressure we’re under. Like, they have pressure of their own, sure, but they don’t go through the same stuff as us.
“So I can’t fuck up, because that would screw the team over, that would put more pressure on you—pressure that you might not be able to handle, and I can’t lose you.”
The last part slips out before he can stop it, and he feels how Jack goes even more still against his side. After an unsteady breath, Freddie glances down.
Those same eyes he woke up to are meeting his again, and Freddie is startled to see the emotion behind them. He looks away quick; he can’t deal with this, can’t see what Jack’s face does when he fully understands what Freddie said, can’t— can’t —
His breathing is quicker, shallow but fast, and this isn’t a panic attack, he doesn’t think, but it’s close. Everything in him is screaming to run away, to get out of here, to get out of his own home if it means not letting Jack see him like this. He whips around, making sure that Mitch is still asleep; having one person see him like this is more than enough, thanks.
When he stops to take a breath, he realizes he’s already halfway out of the nest, starting to get up, but—. There's pressure against his back keeping him still, strong arms wrapped around his waist, a nose pressed against the back of his neck.
“ Stay ,” Jack says behind him, rough with disuse but clear all the same.
It’s Freddie’s turn to go still, cold water rushing through his veins at the thought that Jack understood everything he said.
Jack’s arms around him squeeze, then relax, and he shifts a hand onto Fred’s stomach. “C’mon, breathe.” Jack coughs quickly, trying to clear his throat. “Push against my hand. There you go, again.”
Fred’s grateful for the winger on the other side of the bed, somehow still asleep. For as energetic as he is when awake, Mitch sleeps like the dead. His snoring provides a soothing soundtrack, something to sync his breaths up to until he can pull himself together.
A few minutes (or hours, Fred isn’t completely sure) later, he’s composed enough to shift his position, and gets back on the bed. Although he can talk now, Jack doesn’t seem quite ready to leave the nest or push the conversation any further, so Freddie decides to try and sleep. Having an arm wrapped around his side and a purring goalie behind his back makes it surprisingly easy to slip back into unconsciousness.
The next time he wakes up is to Mitch realizing that Jack is back; though that hasn’t stopped the winger from staying curled against Jack’s side. Mitch is rambling on about something Keona got up to before they’d joined the nest, his hands flying every which way as he recounts the perils of trying to get her in her carrier.
(The main character of that particular story has been hiding under Freddie’s bed for at least the past day, having likely decided that she’d had more than enough cuddles to last all of her nine lives.)
Mitch helps them clean up, when the story is done. For all that Fred could ignore the smell earlier on, his room positively reeks now. The jerseys go in one pile, the dirty sheets and blankets in another. Mitch gives Jack an affectionate hug, mumbling something about stopping by later to, “check on his favorite girl.” Freddie rolls his eyes, but accepts a hug of his own before Mitch heads out.
He’s not expecting it when Jack corners him in the kitchen, a serious look crossing his face.
“We need to talk.”
Fuck . Did Freddie do something wrong? Mitch had said that he was doing fine, but what if the two of them had forgotten something vital and now Jack was pissed? He looks away, not meeting Jack’s eyes, but he is truly stuck, caught between Jack and the counter. He could use his size to push out of Jack’s hold, run to his room, hope that Jack would leave on his own, but that would be rude at this point, and if he has done something wrong, running will only make it worse.
“Wh—What about? Is something wrong?” He can feel his face flushing, his pulse rising.
Jack looks alarmed at Freddie’s reaction. “Whoa! No, no Fred, it’s okay.” He gently grabs Fred’s chin with his hand, pulling his face down to make eye contact. “Hey bud, take a deep breath for me.”
He does, gets a nod, and takes another.
Jack watches him the entire time, murmuring encouraging words, soothing phrases, and Fred can feel his body climb down from high alert.
“We can wait—”
“—No, I’m fine.” Freddie interrupts. “What were you going to say?”
Jack’s been watching him this entire time, but his face visibly softens as he looks into Fred’s eyes. “Can I kiss you?”
It’s a question straight out of his wildest dreams and darkest nightmares all at once, but he finds himself nodding before he can even think.
The kiss is softer than he’d expected, to be quite honest. Sure, Jack’s scruff scratches against his face, prickles where it rubs, but the callused hand on his cheek is gentle, the mouth against his even more so.
Fred sinks into it, one of his hands coming up to run through Jack’s hair while the other rests on Jack’s hip. When they finally pull back to breathe, Freddie can feel Jack grinning against him, can’t stop his face from mirroring it right back. He opens his eyes to see startling blue ones staring right back and can’t help but push back into another kiss.
After another minute or so, he pulls away and pushes on Jack’s chest a bit. Jack backs up, grinning ear to ear and Freddie knows his own face is flushed and doing weird things in response.
“Just— Jack— How did you know?” Freddie still can’t quite wrap his mind around it.
“What do you mean?” Jack giggles, clearly confused, as if the answer is obvious. “In the locker room, you gave me your favorite sweatshirt; you’ve been calling me babe since we got here; and Mitchy told me how you look at me when you think no one’s watching.”
Oh. Oh. He’s either going to murder his winger or buy him a fruit basket. Maybe both.
He hesitates for a moment, needing total confirmation before he can let himself get excited. “And you, you feel the same way, yes?”
Jack just nods, pulling him in, and Freddie melts into his arms, finally relaxes.
Jack’s just getting back from practice, setting his bag next to the laundry machine, when there’s a knock at the front door. He’s not really expecting company, but if there’s anything he’s learned since moving to Toronto, it’s to never be surprised when a teammate shows up uninvited.
The delivery truck leaving his driveway puts that theory to rest, though, so he opens the door, not knowing what to expect. The large box sitting on his doorstep doesn’t immediately answer any of his questions.
He hears Keona padding up behind him, so he closes the door in a hurry; he is not in the mood to chase a power-high cat around his neighborhood, especially not when the sun is already down.
Keona joins him at the dining room table, where he finally unveils the mysterious contents of the box. He pulls out a box of pop-tarts, then another, and—
He pulls out nineteen boxes of pop-tarts, then sees the note that’s fluttered to the floor.
Cinnamon sugar isn’t really my favorite. Thought you would enjoy them more.
-Fred
(Bring some to practice for Mitchy. He won’t stop bitching about how he didn't get any.)