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leiawritesstories · 5 months

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PART SIX: JUNE

Word count: 8.1k

Warnings: swearing, violence, breaking and entering, fuzzy science, scheming, flirting and more flirting, innuendo, a villain, more violence, blood, minor character death

shout out to @house-of-galathynius for beta reading this hot mess and to @backtobl4ck for encouraging frederick

I don't know if I should say this, but...enjoy!! 😁😈

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“Moon Moon!” Aelin clapped her hands twice as she strolled past Fenrys, who lounged against the Boss’s office door like it was the most natural place for him to be. “Thanks for showing up.”

The blonde man shrugged, a half-smirk curling his lips. “Like I had a choice.”

“You always do.” She threw him Celaena’s sweet little grin that usually made people either piss themselves, cry, or start babbling. “You can choose to show up, or you can choose to die.”

“Not much of a choice, Boss,” he drawled. He flopped into the chair across from her desk. “So tell me, who’s the mark?”

Aelin tapped on her computer for a few minutes before she slid a single sheet of paper across the desk. “Have a good long look, Moon Moon, because this is the only time you’ll see all of this info in one place.” As the Boss, she was many things, and stupid was decidedly not one of them.

Fen picked up the paper, his dark eyes scanning each line of text and small, grainy photo. He cocked one blonde brow. “Rourke Farran, eh?” Not looking up from the paper, he huffed out a breath. “The man’s whole fuckin’ house is a booby trap, Boss.”

“I’m aware.”

“So what’s this bastard done to…god damn.” Before he could even ask the full question, it was answered. “He’s got a front for a front.”

“I have never tolerated, nor will I ever tolerate, the treatment of human beings like commodities,” Aelin said softly, lethally. Celaena Sardothien’s notorious steel undercut her tone. “Farran thinks he can get away with it because I haven’t come for him. Yet.”

Fenrys whistled lowly and set down the paper. “What’s your timeline, Boss?”

Aelin liked this man more and more with each interaction. “I need Farran at the river warehouse by the 10th. You can use whatever means necessary, beat him up a little, get him nice and ready for his session with me, but don’t even fucking think about killing him.”

“Don’t worry, Boss.” A lazy, hungry grin unfurled across Fen’s handsome face, the dim lamplight reflecting off the scars on his cheeks. “Softening up bad boys is my specialty.”

“That’s why I hired you.” Aelin took back the paper and tossed it into the shredder next to her desk, which ate through the single sheet with a brief mechanical grinding of teeth. She burned the shreds at the end of each day, never one to take any chances with documents that could potentially be stitched back together. Fenrys stood up to leave, and she waited until he was almost out the door before speaking again. “One more thing, Moon Moon.”

“Yeah?” He paused, alert, his stance striking an oddly familiar chord in her mind.

“Farran isn’t dumb enough to put all of his guard dogs in one place.”

He nodded slowly, working over that little tidbit of information. “Noted. I’ll tell you when he’s ready for you.” With a wink that was far too flirtatious for anyone’s good, Fen left her office.

Aelin rolled her eyes as she returned to her computer. Her encoded list of targets was shrinking by the week; really, there was only one name left after Rourke Farran received his one-way ticket to her riverside warehouse, and it called to her every day. Some days, it took all of her willpower to stick to her typical Boss hours and Galathynius hours when she knew that if she spent just one more hour as Boss, she could solidify the plans that she’d been simmering for so fucking long. Just before she slit his throat, she’d once murmured to a criminal that she was cleansing the world of villains. In the months since then, that cleansing had nearly been completed.

She slid her gaze down to the end of the page, following the trail of crimson lines that struck out each name up through Farran’s, and stopped, musing on the last name left. Five letters. One name—the villainous criminal was possibly more elusive than Celaena Sardothien herself.

Maeve.

On the one hand, it made complete sense that Arobynn’s lover—ex-lover—would have taken over his business, diminished as it was when all of his cronies started fighting over their pieces of the trade after Arobynn died. On the other hand, Aelin had wondered just why the hell Maeve would have wanted to take over Arobynn’s drug- and gun-running business; surely the money couldn’t be the only reason. The more she dug into the grimy, seedy backchannels of truth, though, the more she came to understand why Maeve had done it.

The woman had been madly in love with Arobynn Hamel, and now she was madly out for blood.

In the prep room of the Gal Inc. labs, Aelin snapped on a fresh pair of sterile blue latex gloves, checked her badge where it was clipped to her lab coat, and nodded at her reflection. It had been seven weeks since Ren had come into the labs to have his SecondSkin changed—she and Nehemia had decided to extend the wearing period to seven weeks, as Ren’s use of SecondSkin was an experiment—and she was curious to see if anything was different.

“About time,” Nehemia said dryly as Aelin walked into the small, sterile lab, the one that Nehemia typically reserved for experiments that needed to be kept quiet. “I was just about to assume you were in a meeting and start the removal process without you.”

“Hello to you too, Dr. Ytger,” Aelin returned, just as dryly. “I just had to primp a little longer, you know how much effort it takes to look this good.”

Nehemia snorted. “Galathynius, if you spent that much time primping, I’d never let you in my lab.”

“Don’t I know it.” Aelin sat down on the second rolling stool and scooted over to Ren’s side. “Okay, Nemi. It’s your experiment.”

Quickly but clearly, Nehemia ran through her usual list of removal instructions, then dismissed Ren to go take his shower. He emerged about half an hour later, wearing his robe, his hair damp and his face…

“Aelin, come here.” Nehemia motioned for Ren to sit down and scooted her stool up close so she could examine his ruddy face. “This doesn’t look like a typical hot-shower flush.”

Aelin scanned the redness on Ren’s face and nodded in agreement. “Allsbrook, does it itch?”

“Not on my face, no,” he answered.

“Are you itchy anywhere else?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Chest, elbows, upper arms, torso, knees, feet, most of my back, some other areas. It’s not bad, it’s more annoying, like when you have a mosquito bite that you want to scratch.”

“Would you please remove your robe so we can see if there’s anything visibly wrong with your skin?” Nehemia asked.

“One sec.” Ren hopped off the chair, went into the shower room, and came back out a moment later. “Just wanted to put my boxers on.” He took off his robe, hung it on the hook in the wall, and sat back down.

“Too much information, Allsbrook,” Aelin grumbled.

Nehemia ran her analytical gaze over Ren’s body, charting the red rash spread over the areas that he had said were itchy. It looked like an ordinary chafing rash, the skin irritated and slightly split in some places, and some of the redness faded, indicating that it was probably sensitive to the heat of the shower he had taken to remove the SecondSkin.

“Are you allergic to latex or any of its components?” Nehemia inquired.

“Not as far as I’m aware, no,” Ren said.

Nehemia hummed. “Ae, I have thoughts. What do you think?”

“Prolonged exposure?” Aelin asked. “It almost seems like what happens when you wear the same tightly fitting garment—like a leotard—for an extended period of time and it chafes.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. It could also potentially be compounded by bacteria and dirt buildup under the material. It lays atop the skin, and as much as we want to claim that there’s no gap, we know there has to be a microscopic distance between the material and the wearer’s skin that could allow that to happen.” Nehemia gently touched two gloved fingers to the rash on Ren’s chest. “Does this hurt?”

“No.”

She pressed down. “Does it hurt when I do this?”

He shook his head. “No. Itches, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s a good sign, at least.” Nehemia sighed. “Okay, Galathynius, we need to talk before we can decide how to move forward.” She beckoned Aelin towards the back of the room. “Should we go ahead with another application?” she asked, her voice lowered to a whisper.

Aelin pressed her lips together. “Well, we can’t exactly have him disappear while we try and work out the rash.”

“I don’t want it to spread or get any worse because it wasn’t treated, though,” Nehemia said. “I think we need to at least treat the rash.”

“Yes, I agree, but how will that work with another application?” Aelin’s brows furrowed. “And how should we treat the rash if we’re not fully certain of what it is and how it works?”

“We haven’t yet agreed to do another full application,” Nehemia reminded her, “and my instinct is saying to treat it like it’s a normal chafing rash—hydrocortisone cream, Benadryl, that kind of thing.”

Aelin nodded. “Okay, that sounds fine. How do you think we should apply the SecondSkin?”

“Hmm.” Nehemia tugged her lower lip between her teeth. “We could selectively apply it and avoid the rash areas. Theoretically, he’s not going to be stripping down in front of anyone for any reason, so he really only needs to have the right fingerprints and face, maybe footprints too. I vote we just apply the SecondSkin to his hands, face and neck, and feet.”

“I think we should apply it from hands up to elbows, just to be safe, but that sounds like a solid plan. Do we have hydrocortisone cream here?”

“Should be in the first aid bin.” Nehemia returned to Ren’s chair. “Okay, Allsbrook, here’s how we’re going to proceed. We’ll treat your rash and reapply the synthetic to your hands and lower arms, face and neck, and feet, which should hopefully give the rash time and breathing room to heal. You should apply this cream every day, as often as necessary, to the parts that are most itchy or inflamed.” She took the tube of hydrocortisone cream that Aelin handed her and applied it to Ren’s rash.

“Is this something I can find at the pharmacy?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s a common treatment,” Aelin replied. She walked over to the safe built into the far wall, keyed in the combination, opened the compartment, and retrieved a sleek steel canister from inside. She closed the compartment back up and brought the canister over to the prep table next to where Ren sat.

Nehemia took off her used gloves and replaced them with a fresh pair. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Ren confirmed.

Working in tandem, Aelin and Nehemia carefully laid the almost-invisible film of SecondSkin over Ren’s hands, forearms, face, and feet, carefully molding it to his skin. The pieces had all been prepped beforehand, since it took a significant amount of time to press fingerprints and other distinctive blemishes and markings into the synthetic material, and the SecondSkin molded to Ren’s skin flawlessly, leaving almost no evidence that it was there.

“Come back in two weeks,” Aelin instructed him as she disposed of her gloves. “We’ll want to see if your rash has improved, which will help us decide how to move forward.”

“Got it.” Ren went back into the bathroom, got dressed, and came back out as Chaol Westfall, contact lenses placed and bland grin on his face. “See you in two weeks, Dr. Ytger, Galathynius.” He left the lab.

“We should have seen this coming,” Nehemia groaned when Ren was gone, chucking her gloves into the trash bin. “Honestly, Ae, I feel like such an idiot.”

“Nemi, you are a genius,” Aelin reassured her. “You’ve been so busy with development and research, and we didn’t even know this could happen until we saw it today.”

“Yeah.” The chief engineer sighed. “I need to go chart all of this, and you probably have meetings or whatever shit you do in your big fancy office.” She smirked at Aelin.

Aelin rolled her eyes, nudging her friend in the shoulder. “I’d say something smartass, but I do have a meeting pretty soon. Let me know if anything comes up with Allsbrook, yeah?”

“Of course.” Nehemia waved and turned down a side hallway towards her office. Aelin headed back to the prep room, put her lab coat in the laundry basket, and collected her things before heading to her office and the inevitable day of meetings.

Two weeks later, Ren came back to the labs, his rash significantly improved. Nehemia removed and reapplied the SecondSkin in the same few areas and instructed him to keep treating the rash, as she didn’t want to move forward with full SecondSkin application until it had completely healed.

“It’s a good sign that the rash is healing,” she told Aelin over the phone later that day. “In theory, that means the SecondSkin could cause a rash from chafing, irritation, or prolonged use, but the rash can be treated like normal.”

“Definitely a good sign.” Aelin jotted down that note. “Hopefully, that means SecondSkin can be used for the wide audience we’ve been intending all along.”

“How much longer do you think this is going to be in development and testing?” Nehemia asked. “It’s been over two years, Ae. Shouldn’t this be about the time where we start to consider trial groups?”

“I’d say yes, but we’ve only just learned about the rash, and we’re not yet sure if the current formula won’t cause that rash.” Aelin was partially thinking out loud. “My gut says to wait until the Ren trial isn’t getting a rash, and then move into trial groups.” Which will give me more time to get rid of Maeve before she can make a move for the SecondSkin tech like Arobynn did, she added silently.

She was the only person who knew why Arobynn Hamel had died when he did—the former crime lord had taken one step too close to her highly guarded technology, and she’d had no choice but to retaliate. It was…not unexpected that Maeve would try to do the same.

Fenrys Moonbeam might very well be insane.

People had told him that frequently, ever since he was a reckless kid jumping off the playground structures at school, but he’d never had the thought himself until he was strolling into the Night Owl—a popular nightclub that was rumored to be the primary front of Maeve’s organization—in tight leather pants, a silver sequined jacket, and no shirt. Because rumor also had it that Maeve, the so-called Queen of the Night, had a…taste for handsome men, and he had it on good information that Rourke Farran was a frequent guest at the Night Owl.

He sauntered up to the bouncer with a lazy, easy grin sprawled across his face. “Hey.”

The bouncer, who could accurately be depicted as a concrete brick, stared flatly at him. “Invitation only, fancy boy.”

“I’m with Cadre,” Fen returned, sliding his hand into his jacket to retrieve a beautiful ivory card with purple script embossed across its fine surface. He waved the card at the bouncer. “And they’re expecting me in ten minutes, so it would be great if you’d let me get my pretty ass through the door.”

“Fuckin’ performers,” the bouncer muttered as he swung open the door.

“Thank you,” Fen crooned, blowing a kiss at the stone-faced man. The door slammed behind him, and he tucked the invitation—expertly forged by Celaena’s man Nox—back into his jacket and slipped into the crowd of dancing bodies. He winked and smirked his way through the crowd, letting the thumping beat of the music ease his rhythm, until he reached the bar.

Sure enough, Rourke Farran lounged on a barstool near the far end, one hand around a bottle of beer and the other around the waist of a blonde woman whose lipstick was littered all over his neck.

Fenrys muffled the snort he wanted to let out and waved over the bartender. “I’ll take a Sex on the Beach,” he purred, giving the guy, who was probably in his early twenties, a wink.

The bartender’s blush was faintly visible in the flashing strobe lights. “Want that extra strong?” His gaze flicked ever so quickly to Fen’s bare chest.

“Give it to me as-is, and then we’ll see.” Fen lowered his eyes to half-mast and watched the bartender make his drink. The other man threw the drink together effortlessly, sliding it across the bartop to Fenrys with a little smile of his own.

“I get off shift in an hour,” he said softly, dark blue eyes alight with hope and a little hesitancy.

“Good to know.” Fen took a long sip of his cocktail and nodded appreciatively. “Delicious.” In his periphery, he noticed Farran push the blonde out of his lap and stand up, swaying a little, and turn towards the dancefloor.

He brushed past Fen on his way over. “Get a fuckin’ room,” he slurred, his glassy-eyed gaze flicking once over Fen’s glittering jacket and tight pants. “Goddamn fancy boy.”

“I’ll be back.” Fen drained the rest of his drink, tossed a twenty on the bar, and rose, following Farran into the sea of dancing bodies. He kept a discreet distance from the man, far enough away to not be noticed but close enough to watch the man’s moves.

As he had suspected, Farran oozed sleaziness. What he was doing on the dancefloor barely passed for dancing; his gyrating hips and roaming hands were just barely short of outright having sex in public. He moved from girl to girl, changing partners as often as the music changed, leaving a good number of people giving him dirty looks for being too handsy. Fen snorted, knowing that the man probably deserved their scorn. Farran began to move towards the doors, and Fen slipped onto the dancefloor himself, moving fluidly through the crowd, keeping a constant eye on Farran’s steady, subtle escape route.

Time to move, Moonbeam.

Feeling a twinge of guilt for not staying to meet the cute bartender, Fenrys watched Farran leave the club and waited exactly a minute and a half before he headed out as well, putting enough unsteadiness in his step to indicate intoxication. Once he was out of the club, he glanced down the street in both directions and then went left. Even if he couldn’t track Farran, he knew where the bastard lived.

After a quick pit stop in an alley to swap out his flashy jacket for a closely fitted black knit turtleneck, Fenrys headed into the tidy grid of streets that made up western Orynth, taking a meandering route towards the tidy, wealthy neighborhood where Rourke Farran lived. The neighborhood was decked out with security cameras, as Celaena had warned him, so he looped around through the expansive back yards, slinking easily through the landscaped trees and plants until he came to the fence that marked the edge of Farran’s property. There weren’t cameras along the back fence, primarily because of the rotating patrol of guard dogs and security guards, so Fen swiftly scaled the fence and hopped into a tree.

He waited for the first round of patrols to pass before he carefully reached into the thigh pocket of his pants, withdrew a slim, vacuum-sealed package of meat, quietly cut open the plastic, and tossed the meat in a gentle arc directly onto the grass beside the paved walkway that wove around Farran’s house. A pair of guard dogs came barreling around the corner within sixty seconds, barking and growling and quickly discovering the meat. The second and third patrols weren’t far behind, and it was only a few minutes before all eight guard dogs were tearing apart the meat.

“The fuck is happening?” A security guard rounded the corner, breathless from sprinting. He saw the dogs calming down and settling back into their patrols after having finished the meat. “God. Which idiot dropped snacks everywhere?”

Another guard sprinted around the corner. “Everything okay?”

“One of you jackasses dropped the dogs’ snacks,” the first guard snapped.

The second one raised his hands in innocence. “I’m not the snack keeper tonight, dude.”

“Whatever. Just get your ass back to rounds.” The guards nudged the dogs back onto the path and headed away.

Mentally, Fenrys started counting minutes. He got to four, then five, then slowly and carefully slid down from the tree and darted across the lawn and onto the shadowed back porch. A moment later, he’d scaled the drainpipe leading up the side of the house and was perched on the balcony directly outside the master bedroom.

Wherein Rourke Farran was fully naked in front of his mirror, with his—

“Fucking hell,” Fen groaned to himself, shaking his head. “Disgusting.” But also enough of a distraction for him to slip down onto the balcony, pull a slender silver tube from his sleeve, raise it to his lips, and blow a tiny needle dart straight into the back of Farran’s neck.

Farran crumpled to the floor.

Good work, Moonbeam, Fenrys complimented himself. Now you just have to get the asshole out of his booby-trap house and over to the river warehouse.

Easy.

Right?

“He’s all yours, Boss,” Fenrys drawled as Aelin strolled past on the way out of the storage warehouse.

She glanced at her smart watch. “It’s only the eleventh, Moon Moon. That was quick.”

He shrugged, irreverent as always. “What can I say? I like to work fast.”

“Hopefully not all the time.” She smirked wickedly. “Your bartender boyfriend might be disappointed.”

Fenrys flushed a delightful shade of pink. “How the fuck—”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered, Moon Moon.” She winked wickedly at him. “How’s our special guest doing? Is he adjusted to his new home?”

“It took him some time to get used to the room,” Fen returned, casually pulling a set of brass knuckles from a pocket of his cargo pants and spinning them over his fist.

Aelin chuckled, soft and lethal. “Not surprising. Thanks, Fen.” She paused just in front of the side door, her gloved knuckles resting on the doorknob. “Oh, Moon Moon?”

“Yeah?” He froze, his posture still as a…soldier’s.

“I’ll need you for cleanup on the twenty-seventh.”

He nodded. “Got it, Boss.”

Aelin keyed in the door code and left the warehouse, satisfied that she had set the wheels of her plan in motion. While she trusted Con’s assessment of his brother, she wasn’t fully convinced that she could completely trust anyone on her payroll, and Fen’s easy charm masked a cold, heartless willingness to carry out whatever depraved task she demanded of him. Furthermore, that stance of his—the utter stillness of his posture when someone ordered him to stop—had been pricking at her memory for days, and she’d only just realized why.

Fenrys stood like a soldier. More than that—he stood like one of her uncle’s men, one of the Terrasen Special Forces.

And Aelin knew the day one of Gav’s men got into Celaena Sardothien’s business would be the day her double identity began to crumble. Even if she wanted to trust Fenrys, she had to confirm for herself that she could, and that meant giving him a fake kill date in case he needed to report back to someone in the military.

If he did, if he turned out to be a spy, then the TSF would come sniffing around for Rourke Farran when it was already weeks too late.

Aelin laced her fingers with Rowan’s as they strolled through the fancy restaurant’s glass front doors, something settling deep in her chest at the simple, casual intimacy of holding his hand. Her mind had been running in overdrive for the last two weeks, and even now, with ten days left in the month, she hadn’t been able to slow the constant dizzying whirl of her thoughts.

Rowan was one of the only people who’d brought her a glimpse of peace recently, in the few scattered dates they’d been able to snatch between both of their busy schedules. He flicked her a tiny, secret smile, one that only she ever saw, before approaching the hostess stand with the same confidence that cloaked him when he was in his investigator clothes and badge. And dear god, the things that confidence did to her already throbbing pussy—she was half tempted to slip off her panties and sneak them to him under the table.

But she was a mature woman, so she wouldn’t.

“Whitethorn, party of two, seven-thirty reservation,” Rowan said to the hostess.

The young woman—probably a college student, if Aelin’s guess was correct—tapped a few things into her tablet. “Your table is ready, Mr. Whitethorn. Please, this way.” She led Rowan and Aelin through the low-lit restaurant towards the far wall of windows. Through the glass was a breathtaking view of Orynth, the city cast in shades of bronze as the sun began to drift downwards.

“Gorgeous,” Aelin murmured, captivated by the view.

Rowan’s thumb brushed across the back of her hand. “Not half as much as you.”

She blushed. “You’re quite the flirt, you—oh!” Unexpectedly, a man’s shoulder brushed hers as they wove through the restaurant floor. She looked up to find none other than Police Captain Chaol Westfall, wearing a nice suit and a mildly shocked expression.

“M–Miss Galathynius,” he finally managed, clearing his throat. “And, ah, Lieutenant Whitethorn. I…I apologize for running into you.”

“Westfall, what are you doing here?” Rowan inquired, polite on the surface but with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

“Considering we aren’t at work, it’s none of your business, White-horn, but I was at dinner with a friend of mine,” Chaol shot back. There was definite animosity underlying his words.

Rowan raised a brow. “You…have friends?”

“Ah, lighten up, darling,” Aelin interjected before either man could resort to fists. “We don’t all live at our workplace, as we seem to have discovered. And Ro, darling, we’ve left that poor hostess floundering.” She wrapped her hand around his arm and tugged him towards their table.

He shot Chaol one last suspicious look. Chaol returned the look, but broke the stare-off to nod respectfully at Aelin as she passed. “Ms. Galathynius.”

When they reached their table, Rowan pulled out Aelin’s chair before seating himself across from her. Questions brewed in the shifting of his eyes. “Question, Ae—do you know Westfall? How?”

“That was two questions,” she teased. “Yes, I’ve met Captain Westfall before. It’s all part of the business; I’ve met just about every notable figure in Orynth at some function or another. I probably met the police captain at some kind of gala.”

Rowan nodded slowly, digesting the information. “That makes sense. All those faces probably run together after long enough, yeah?”

“I try to keep them separate, but yeah.” She flashed him a sheepish grin. “There’s only so many names and faces you can memorize before they all start to appear the same.”

“Why, Miss Galathynius,” Rowan drawled, his face alight with mischief, “are you implying that there are too many men in suits in this fine city?”

She shrugged, meeting the gleam of his humor with her own dry wit. “I’m simply observing that if a few less of them were to bother me at every function I attend, my mind would be clearer.”

“I thought you had a mind like a steel trap, love.” Raising a brow, he sipped his water.

“It sometimes takes a moment to pull out a name from the file cabinet,” she returned. “And—oh look, here comes our server.” Their server, a sandy-blonde-haired man in his late twenties wearing the restaurant staff’s uniform of white shirt, black trousers, and maroon tie, wore a pleasant (if tired) smile as he pulled his notepad from his apron pocket.

“Good evening,” he said cheerfully. “My name is James, and I’ll be your server tonight. Would you like to hear about our specials this evening?”

Aelin glanced at Rowan, whose eyes had visibly narrowed as he scanned the server. The look was so blatantly male, she almost rolled her eyes, but her possessive buzzard relaxed when he saw the silver wedding band adorning the server’s left ring finger. “I actually think we’re ready to order, if that’s alright?”

James the server just about melted to the floor in relief. “Are you serious?” he asked, lowering his voice to an incredulous whisper. “I—I haven’t had a single easy table tonight, and it’s the last two hours of a double and—I’m so sorry, that was completely unprofessional of me.”

Aelin chuckled. “Don’t worry, James, was it? Customer service is a rough job.”

“Tell me about it,” the man grumbled.

Rowan shot Aelin a confused look. “Ae, love, I haven’t even looked at the menu.”

“Do you trust me, love?” she asked.

He pursed his lips, not quite used to letting someone else order his food. “All right.”

“Perfect.” She blew him a subtle kiss. “Okay, James, is it alright if I give you our order a few steps away?” She lowered her voice conspiratorially, keeping it still loud enough for Rowan to hear. “I want to surprise my boyfriend; I’ve been here more than once but he hasn’t ever been.”

“Of course.” James smiled, a genuine one this time. “I brought my wife here once when we were dating—took half my paycheck, but it was worth it.” He stepped aside a few paces and Aelin followed, quietly giving her and Rowan’s order. The server’s pen flew over his page.

“And say hi to Chef Emrys for me, would you?” she concluded.

“You…you know the head chef?”

“Bit of a long story, but yes. Tell him Aelin Galathynius says hi, please. Thanks!” She came back to the table and slipped into her seat, leaving the very nice but very shocked server to collect his wits after realizing just who he was talking to and go to place the order.

“Poor guy looks like he just got hit by a truck,” Rowan observed, smothering a laugh.

Aelin smirked. “I may or may not have given him my full name.”

“Ah, the name drop.” He nodded sagely. “Just what every famous CEO has to do to the poor server who got their table.”

“You’ve got quite a mouth for a soldier, you know,” Aelin mused, her words slowing to a near- seductive pace. “A respectable man would never insinuate that his date uses her job title for perks.”

“I never said I was respectable.” Lazily, his gaze roamed down her upper body, admiring the way her little black dress scooped beneath her collarbones, accentuating the gleam of the single small teardrop diamond pendant that nestled in the hollow of her throat.

James came by with two glasses of white wine and an appetizer platter with two sharing plates, breaking the dangerous haze of the moment, and Aelin thanked the server as he headed off, no doubt to take care of his other tables.

Rowan’s jaw slacked just a bit at the sight of the cured meat and prawns arranged on the plate. “Please tell me you didn’t order the most expensive things on the menu, Ae.”

“Of course not.” She reached across the table and linked her hands with his, the gesture as natural as breathing. “I got us an appetizer to share, a first course, a meat course, and a dessert, and I’m not the kind of person who orders expensive items just to flash her money around.”

He breathed out a deep, controlled exhale. “I know, love. It’s just…” His thumb rubbed across her knuckles. “I’m not used to any of this—the fancy restaurants, the fancy food, the way people don’t bat an eye at spending thirty dollars for some toast.”

She cracked a grin at that. “Let me introduce you to the fine, fine work of Chef Emrys, then. I actually used to work for him, way back when I was eighteen and my parents decided I needed to experience real-people jobs.”

“Way back when,” he drawled, teasing her.

“Hush, old man,” she teased right back, plating up a sampling of the appetizer plate and sliding it over to him. “I know I’m only twenty-seven, but my stint as a hostess feels like forever ago.”

“Kind of like how basic training feels like forever ago for me.” Rowan agreed. He bit into one of the cured prawns and nearly moaned, his eyes closing in joy. “God, this is incredible.”

She beamed. “Wait until you taste Chef Emrys’s filet mignon, Ro.”

The conversation flowed freely between them after that, only interrupted by the arrival of new food and wine. A mushroom and herb risotto accompanied by an aged Riesling. The promised filet mignon, which almost made Rowan cry with joy, and a spectacular six-year Merlot. And finally, individual blackberry cobblers, the berries ripe and fresh and perfectly sweet-tart, paired with the restaurant’s signature Cabernet.

“I don’t think I can move,” Rowan sighed as he set down his last empty wineglass. “But it was absolutely worth every bite.”

“I think I’m going to dream of this cobbler,” Aelin added, regretfully nudging her empty dish towards the end of the table. “Tell me when you’re ready to leave, yes?”

“Gonna need three to five business days,” he mumbled.

Her laughter rippled across their low-lit table. “I love when you let that humor of yours loose.”

A different kind of hunger flickered in his forest eyes. “And I love when I have you all to myself.”

“Possessive much?”

He just shrugged. “Call me whatever you want, love, but we both know you only come for me.”

Flames flickered through her blood at the deep, sinful timbre of his voice. “That’s only because I haven’t introduced you to my drawer full of battery-powered boyfriends.”

The banked embers simmering in his expression flared into a bonfire, and he sat upright and beckoned their server over. “Suddenly, I’m ready to go home.”

James was at their table within two minutes. “How was everything for you tonight? Can I get you anything else?”

“It was absolutely mind-blowing, as always,” Aelin said. “And no, I think we’ll just take the check.” Covertly, she slipped James her credit card, and he gave her a small nod as he went over to the server computer to process the payment.

“Don’t think I didn’t hear you,” Rowan murmured, the velvet caress of his voice stroking down her spine. “Mind-blowing, Ae?”

“Would you happen to know anything about that?” she asked, innocently.

In response, he trailed a brazen stare down her figure. “Seems like you need a refresher.” He stood up far too smoothly for someone who had just finished his fourth glass of wine, gave her his hand for stability as she rose, and then rested that hand against the small of her back, his touch burning through her dress.

Their server returned with a check folder in his hand and passed it over to Aelin, who glanced over the receipts, signed her name, and tucked her credit card and her copy of the receipt back into her small handbag. “Thanks, James.”

“Ah, thank you, Ms. Galathynius, Mr. Whitethorn. You might have been the best table I’ve had all day.” He tucked the folder into his apron pocket with a wry grin. “Have a good one!”

“If it’s good, it won’t be just one,” Rowan whispered into Aelin’s ear.

A shiver danced down her neck. “Is that a promise, Lieutenant?”

He held the door open for her as they left the restaurant. “Ask me again when you’re begging for my cock, love.”

Ren Allsbrook, alias Chaol Westfall, was expecting Whitethorn’s visit, but the man’s presence in his office still gave him an oddly unsettled feeling.

He pasted a bland, blasé expression onto his face. “Yes, Whitethorn?”

Rowan dropped into the chair opposite Ren’s, regarding him with a piercing look that almost seemed to pierce beneath the layer of SecondSkin cloaking his true identity. “How the hell do you know Aelin, Westfall?”

Ren shrugged. “We met at some city leader event a while back. Some big thing the mayor hosted so the big names of Orynth could pretend to be civil to each other.”

“Yeah? How long ago was that?”

Fucking think, Allsbrook. Chaol Westfall had been the police captain for about three years, Ren had taken over as Chaol six months ago in January, and the mayor’s Leaders Gala was always held in…the fall…“Last October, I believe. You’ll have to give me a little grace on the estimate, since I was damn busy with actual work.”

“Cute of you to think you can get away with sneering at me from your soapbox, Westfall,” Whitethorn said dryly. “Well, I checked the dates, and the mayor always holds his little party in October, so I’ll buy your story.”

“My story, huh? When did you get so desperate for leads that you started accusing coworkers, Whitethorn?”

“Shut up,” Rowan grunted. “I’m just making sure you haven’t been doing anything shady with my girlfriend, jackass.”

“Ooooooh, we’re using official terms now?” Ren couldn’t resist the urge to press Whitethorn’s buttons. “I thought you were allergic to that kind of commitment.”

“I wouldn’t get smart-mouthed with me, Westfailure,” Rowan grumbled. “I’ve seen you going to the Galathynius labs. What the hell are you doing there?”

Ren muffled a rather creative string of curses. “Whitethorn, I know you’re terse, but what the hell was that subject change? Give me some goddamn context, for shit’s sake.”

“Fine.” Rowan pulled up some security camera footage on his tablet. “This is a record of the feed from the Galathynius, Inc. lab complex’s security cameras, and before you open your mouth, I have clearance. Two and a half weeks ago, on June 4th, you went to the labs. You went again yesterday.” He tapped on the video, and the footage played, clearly showing Chaol walk into the labs and walk back out after a period of fast-forwarding through nothing.

“Well.” Think, you fucking idiot! “Since we are currently quietly investigating a connection between Galathynius, Incorporated, and the, uh, Shadow Killer—”

“Shadow Assassin,” Rowan corrected.

“Whatever. That person. You think there’s a connection, and I’m pursuing it. I happen to know a scientist who works in the Galathynius labs, and I set up a couple of meetings to speak with her.” Ren folded his arms across his chest. Buy the story, Whitethorn.

Whitethorn frowned. “Why didn’t I hear about these meetings?”

“Because I was being discreet, duh.” Ren poured a heavy dose of sarcasm into the last word.

Rowan grumbled something that sounded like a string of cussing. “I didn’t get sent to this investigation for the laugh track, Westfall.” He stood up and left the office, carelessly banging the door shut behind him.

“Jackass,” Ren grumbled. He turned back to the endless slog of paperwork and files he had to get through, because the job of police captain came with a lifetime supply of that shit. Against all beliefs, he’d actually come to enjoy this job, this role, and he was just as invested in the case as Whitethorn was.

He just happened to be on a different side.

This is fucking insane, this is fucking insane, this is fucking insane. Those were the words running through Fenrys’s head as he and his twin strolled down the secret back stars of the Night Owl. He was barely able to focus on the opulence of the hallway—plush velvet lining the walls, fine mahogany banisters, and black wall torches and overhead lights giving the whole space a deep purple glow—when his mind was so focused on what lay at the end of the walk.

“Relax,” Con muttered. “Don’t get us fucking killed before we’ve found out what she wants.”

“I’m trying,” Fen grumbled. He straightened the lapels of his jacket, the same sequined one he’d worn to the Night Owl three weeks ago. “But—”

“But nothing.” Con cut him off. “Remember why we’re here.”

“Right.” Because Celaena had trusted the two of them with infiltrating Maeve’s lair. Because they were the key to taking down the last obstacle in Boss Sardothien’s path, whatever the hell it was.

The masked guard in front of the twins stopped at a dark wooden door at the end of the hall. “Wait here,” he said, expressionless. He went into the room, closed the door behind him, and came out a few minutes later just as expressionless. “Maeve will see you now.” And he opened the door.

Fenrys took a quick, deep breath and strolled into the dark-paneled office, Con at his side, both of their gazes immediately locking onto the woman who sat behind the imposing black marble desk at the far end of the room. Her face was pale, nearly opalescent in the darkness, her lips were stained scarlet, and her unnervingly violet gaze was fixed on the twins.

“Thank you for being willing to meet on such short notice, boys,” Maeve said, her calm, cold voice slicing through the room like a blade.

“Our honor,” Fen replied. Maeve gestured at the pair of leather chairs opposite her desk, and the twins sat down.

She steepled her fingers under her chin. “I have a job for you.”

Con shared a loaded look with Fen. “Both of us, or just one?”

“Both of you. I need one of you for each side of the job.”

Slowly, Fen nodded. “Alright. What can we do for you?”

One corner of Maeve’s scarlet lips curled upwards. She retrieved a thin manila file from her desk and slid it across the desktop. “Fenrys, kill this man.” The order was as clearly and casually enunciated as if she was asking for a glass of water. “Connall, you will stay here to monitor Fenrys’s task.”

Beside Fenrys, Con’s posture stiffened. “How?”

“We have an advanced tech space that will provide all the equipment you need, as well as the chance to experiment with some of the devices we’re working on.” A gleam flickered briefly through the Queen of the Night’s unflinching stare. “And I require company.”

“Alright.” Con dipped his head in acquiescence, flatly refusing to meet the sharp, concerned gaze Fen shot towards him.

“Excellent.” Maeve smiled, and it sent a shiver down Fenrys’s spine. “You may go, Fenrys. I expect it won’t take you too long to get the job done.”

“I pride myself on efficiency,” he smirked, masking the oily chill in his blood with a lazy, half-wild grin. He rose, nodded at Maeve, and strolled out of the room and then out of the club, his steps sure and unfaltering until he was around the corner and out of sight.

Then, he ducked into a side alley and slumped against the wall, his veneer of easy confidence dropping to reveal his hidden terror. Fuck! He’d left his brother in that spider’s lair; gods only knew what could happen if either of them failed to do what Maeve commanded. Hands shaking, Fenrys reached into the hidden inner pockets of his jacket, his fingers closing around the comfortingly cold steel of his favorite twin flat knives and the envelope containing the thick piece of cardstock that had been in the file. The least he could do—for himself, for Connall, and for the man he had to kill—was carry out his task quickly, before the Queen of the Night could hurt his brother.

And so, heart heavy, Fenrys Moonbeam adjusted his jacket and the weapons contained within it and began his prowl towards Orynth Police headquarters.

Rowan arrived at Orynth PD unusually early on the morning of June 30. After a restless night—he’d tossed and turned far into the wee hours of the morning, snatched probably three solid hours of sleep, and had a muddled collection of dream snippets—he’d just decided to bite the bullet and drag his ass out of bed at five in the morning. Shortly before six, he keyed in his code at the door of the police station, let himself into the quiet, chilly building, and dragged himself to the locker room to dump his bag and splash some icy water on his face. With his vest strapped on and his badge around his arm, he grabbed his laptop bag and trudged up the stairs to the offices, ducking into his office to drop off his things and try to form a to-do list.

Fuck, he needed caffeine. He needed it badly enough that he’d even drink the bitter shit from the common-room carafe. So he pushed his chair in, left his office, and went down to the bullpen, following the faint scent of the first batch of coffee. Operating on autopilot, he was halfway to the break room before he smelled it.

Blood.

That coppery tang was unmistakable.

Fuck.

Coffee forgotten, Rowan whirled around and strode back to the bullpen, following his nose like some kind of hound. A bloodhound, whispered the traitorous part of his mind that sounded an awful lot like Aelin’s witty laugh. In any other context, he might have laughed along. But not this time. Head down, he tracked the metallic stench of blood across the bullpen, its tang growing heavier with each successive step he took. The blood, wherever it was, was still fresh enough to be that strong, but old enough to have spread its scent through a significant part of the floor. Both of those things worried him. A lot.

Hand straying to his holster, Rowan rounded the corner towards the cluster of desks where the detectives and Westfall worked whenever Westfall was in the bullpen. He inhaled, catching a lungful of blood-scent, so strong it nearly knocked him back. That part of the floor was still shadowed in the early-morning dimness, so he flicked on the nearest light for a better visual.

The flashlight in his hand clattered to the floor. His other hand clenched around the cold, smooth handle of his gun.

He’d found the source of the blood stench.

He blinked. Shook his head. He snapped his jaw shut, swore at himself a few times, imagined Gav yelling at him for losing his mind like a goddamn fucking green idiot, and took one step forwards.

He froze.

Sprawled facedown in a pool of his own blood, the back of his skull concave as if bashed in with a heavy, blunt object, with a bullet hole ripped through his temple and knives pinning his now-limp hands to the desk, was Chaol Westfall.

Rowan locked up the side of himself that immediately started screaming questions and approached Chaol’s…corpse…carefully, forcing the investigative side of himself to take the lead. He cautiously nudged Westfall with his baton, noting the lack of response. With that amount of blood loss, he’d be more shocked if the man was alive, but he still had to go through the steps. As much as he could, Rowan circled the body, clocking each new wound he found on the man’s body. It was…more brutal than he had initially noticed, slashes and cuts scattered over the body, as well as the knives stabbed through the hands and the obvious point-blank range of the bullet, marked by its entry and exit wounds.

As he came to the other side, Rowan stopped once again, because there was a goddamned note tacked to Westfall’s forehead. No—nailed to his forehead.

Fuck.

He pulled on the pair of latex gloves he kept tucked into his belt and gingerly reached for the note, lifting it up enough to read it. He didn’t remove it; he was too experienced to fuck with a crime scene like that. He did, however, lift up the paper, which was surprisingly thick and high-quality for a fucking assassin signoff. Three words were printed onto the note in dark ink. He tilted the paper slightly, and the black ink shimmered with a dark purple sheen, indicative both of its quality and probably of the signature colors of whoever the hell had written the message.

Tread carefully, Lieutenant.

There was no signature. There was, however, a symbol stamped beneath the short, threatening message. Rowan peered at the stamp, sharp gaze scanning it until the shape came into focus. It was an almost photographic image of an owl, the bird posed in eerie stillness, its inked eyes large and unblinking. And atop the owl’s head sat a crown, a perfect arc of five jeweled spikes.

It was the mark of the Queen of the Night.

~~~

TAGS: please let me know if you want to be added/removed :)

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

@sunshinebingo

@hiimheresworld

#my writing #until proven guilty #criminal/investigator au #rowaelin #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin au #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass au #throne of glass fanfiction #tw: big bad villain hehe #tw: violence #tw: fighting #tw: blood #tw: minor character death

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starrystevie · 2 years

Text

steve’s angry. he’s so goddamn angry all the time. his town is split right down the middle, his parents up and left to whatever safety vermont could offer and his kid won’t smile anymore because he’s seen too much and lost even more. this whole upside down bullshit just takes and takes and takes until there’s nothing left of hawkins, nothing left of steve himself. so he fights and takes his aggression out on people that don’t matter, on brick walls that have no say, on pillows and windows and cheeks he’s never seen before.

he thinks he’s seeing things, hearing things, when there’s whispers of his name in the darkness of an alleyway or bandages placed just so on his countertop when he gets home. it’s always after a fight that he feels whatever is following him, so he’s able to make himself believe it’s just from one too many blows to the head. he’s going crazy, he’s sure of it, when he thinks he sees eddie munson lurking outside his home as he limps up to his door and leaves a bloody handprint on the house siding.

so yeah, he’s angry. but when his knuckles are cracked and his muscles are screaming and there’s blood running down the side of his face and his eyes are swelling shut, he feels alive in a way that he thought was stolen from him.

but then there’s eyes looking at him. steve’s in his bathroom, too much blood staining his mom’s left behind fluffy white bath towels in a rusty brown, bandages wrapped tightly around the deep cuts on his forearm when he notices it. he gets those chills on the back of his neck and fights the urge to think maybe he’s cursed like will before turning to look around his always empty house. the air is still and he almost convinces himself that he’s imagining things like usual but then he spots the eyes looking in through his window.

steve knows those eyes. they’re hidden behind curls and in the darkness that night provides and they’re burning a bright red but he knows them none the less. he doesn’t think about, knows he probably should but doesn’t, and heads over to the window. it’s easy enough to unlock normally but steve can’t pull his eyes away from the ones looking right back at him so he fumbles with the lock until it clicks.

the next thing he knows, the sticky june air is seeping in through the open window and he’s laying flat on his back with strong arms and wild red eyes pinning him to his bedroom floor. eddie’s mouth is wide, eyes even wider, long teeth glinting in the glow of the lamp on steve’s nightstand.

“you’re here,” he breathes out causing the curls tickling steve’s cheeks to flutter. “how are you here? why now?”

eddie growls and it’s a sound steve would have never expected but knows he’ll never forget, locking it in a safe place in his memory to replay over and over. there’s a hand trailing down the side of his face, cold fingers running over the drips of blood from a cut in his forehead, red eyes following their path.

“i could smell you.” his voice is low, it rumbles through his chest and straight into steve’s veins. maybe he could smell the effect of that on him, too. “you got too hurt this time.”

it breaks steve. he laughs harder than he has in months and it’s this harsh, broken thing that’s a mockery of real laughter. he feels like a demon, cackling in the face of danger just to cause pain and fear. maybe he is a demon at this point.

‘that’s all it took?” he’s angry again, but this is a different anger. it’s mean and cruel, spreading down through his bones into his very being, and it’s cold. has steve shivering on his bedroom floor but that could also be from the hand still petting over his face. has him smiling with a busted lip that forces warm blood to seep into his mouth.

eddie sighs. it’s a head rush to see a creature such as him do such a human thing. “you can’t keep hurting yourself just to see me, steve. it’ll end-” he pauses like he’s trying to think of the best word to use, eyes focused on the red spilling over his own fingertips, over steve’s lips. “-badly.”

steve feels himself push up into eddie, revels in the intake of breath he gets in return. he can feel the blood from his cracked lip staining his teeth so he opens his mouth, licks it off slowly to make a show of it. his smile feels wild and he wants to push that onto eddie too. he feels alive.

“good.”

#hi i have literally no excuse for this #but this is probably going to become a whole fic btw #cause BOY do i have a lot of thoughts about it #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrignton #eddie munson #tw: fighting #tw: blood #this is technically my first dabble into monster fucker steve harrington which is a v fun topic #steddie drabble #my writing #stranger things #steddie ficlet #kas!eddie

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butraura · 8 months

Text

Seven-Sentence Sunday

tagged by no one because no one asked for this akskjsjfh

Every hair on the back of his neck stands at attention, his blood running cold. For the first time, Buck is afraid of Eddie.

He quickly scrambles to his feet, backing up enough to create distance between the two of them, but not enough to run into anyone standing at the perimeter of the circle. “Eds,” he murmurs carefully, hands up at surrender as if dealing with live ammunition.

Calling him by his nickname was, perhaps, the wrong move.

Eddie is up and lunges for Buck in what feels like a nanosecond. He grabs the fabric of his t-shirt and spins the two of them on their heels, throwing him up against a stack of tires. Buck ricochets off the rubber and stumbles forward. The cheers that were being yelled when Buck arrived have since gone mute. It’s so quiet now, Buck can hear how labored his breathing sounds. He regains his balance after only a moment, then attempts to stand straight, wilfully ignoring the pain searing in his back.

“I’m not going anywhere, Eddie,” he promises. “I know I fucked up. But I can’t undo it, no matter how much I want to.”

“Shut up,” the man spits, the first words he’s uttered since Buck arrived. It’s low and menacing.

“Eddie, I-” Buck tries.

“No.”

------

Tags: @watchyourbuck (I won't tag anyone else unless you ask lol shajhskdhf I want to be respectful)

This is a new WIP for a divorce-era fic; set to be either one long chapter or 2 shorter ones (I'm undecided). Also, this is my first post like this so idk, enjoy!

#buddie #911 #buck x eddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #divorce era #lawsuit era #wip #fic wip #not posted yet #seven sentence sunday #TW: fighting

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80stacos · 2 years

Text

Hero

Sodapop Curtis x Reader

—warnings: descriptions of making out, fighting, a bit of harassment

—A/N: I don’t usually do x readers so sorry if this is shit lmao.

Y/N’s POV

It was a quiet Friday night. Most people were out partying, hanging out at Buck’s, or at the Nightly Double. Sodapop and I, however, were in his empty house, laying on the couch and making out while the radio played. We rarely got any time to ourselves because he and the gang stuck like glue to each other so often. As much as I favored them, I also wanted some private time with my boyfriend. It was nice to have some peace and quiet for once. Well, for a little while at least.

“You taste amazing, Y/N,” Soda said between deep kisses. Slowly his lips made their way down to my neck, sprinkling my skin with a mixture of soft and intense kisses.

“Soda,” I whined in pleasure when he started to leave nibbles on my neck. If there was one Sodapop Curtis could do best it was kiss.

“Like that?” He asked with mischief in his voice. He knew the answer, but he liked it when I talked during our make out sessions. He was an intimate person who wanted more than just pleasure—he wanted connection and bonding, too. That has to be my favorite thing about him, how loving he is.

As we continued to hold each other as close as possible and share deep, passionate kisses, there was a loud BANG! Next thing I knew Soda and I were on the floor and he was covering me with his body to protect me from whatever just burst through the door. I was in too much shock to scream or say anything when I looked up and Soda was fighting two guys that appeared to be socs. Suddenly he went flying to the ground with one of the socs in his grasp. As a defense mechanism I backed up, not paying attention to the fact that there was the other soc behind me. He grabbed my arms suddenly, causing me to jump and turn to him.

“Well look at you,” he smirked maliciously, “so cute I might just have to take ya with me.” At this point I was shaking with fear. I whimpered quietly.

Soda saw me out of the corner of his eye and yelled my name. His instinct to keep me safe must’ve been hard at work in that moment, because he was able to escape the other soc’s headlock and run over to the one that now had me trapped in his arms. He punched the guy right in the face, hard enough to make him stumble backwards and release me. I ran to him crying from everything that just happened.

The rest of the gang were just coming back to the house, and the socs heard their hollering and chatting and ran out the backdoor at lightning speed. The greasers walked into the house to see Soda holding me close as I sobbed into his chest. He just gave them a look as to say, “the socs came by.”

#tw: suggestive #tw: fighting #tw: harassment #sodapop curtis #the outsiders #x reader #sodapop curtis x reader #sodapop x reader #the outsiders fanfiction #the outsiders fic #the outsiders x reader #fanfic

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sortofanobsession · 1 month

Note

For that prompt where Roy and Jamie sleep together in S1 and after Roy and Jamie lay themselves bare before each other and admit they are each other's best partner that they've ever had, I just had this dialogue idea for Jamie: " I hate bein' such a fuckin' prick, I fuckin' hate it bu' he... he h-hits meh less and don't get mad as much when I do." When Roy demands to know who, Jamie just says "Dad."

Author's Note: this one I have been working on for some time now. The anon that asked for it sent you a handful of asks. I know this is at least 2 of them.are in here but it kind of took on a life of its own after the first few scenes. It turned into a bit of a beast. And I enjoyed writing it.

Unbeta'd and posted on mobile because my new computer unfortunately has Windows 11 in S mode (hesitate to change that because of my second job).

Canon divergent Season 1 before Two Aces.

Content warnings: anger, violence, fighting, physical injury, abuse, hospitalization, broken bones, cursing/cussing/swearing, pain medication. (I'm sure I missed something)

Ted Lasso Masterlist

Ao3

Tired of Fighting

The fight in the locker room might have ended but Roy couldn't cool off. He just felt like a grenade without a pin. Lose grip in the slightest and he would go off.

Jamie normally feels like he has too much energy and he has to be moving, but this felt different. This felt like there was something in his chest that was driving him in a different way. It was persistent and didn't let up. It lasted days.

It all boiled over one morning. Both of them had gotten to Nelson Road early. Insanely early. Jamie needed something to do, something to focus on so he didn't just pace a hole in his carpet at home. Roy just needed to keep pushing himself to do more, be better.

Roy curses when he pulls into the car park and he isn't the first there. Jamie's stupid car is there. He is tempted to leave but he was already there. And he wasn't going to be a fucking coward that runs away just because of one person. Especially, fucking Jamie Tartt.

Jamie looks up as Roy walks in as he laces his boot.

"Morning," Jamie says, because he can't just say nothing. Roy just grunts and goes to his cubby. Jamie is annoyed but doesn't know what he was expecting so he just finishes getting ready. Roy brushes past him to get his boots and doesn't even look at Jamie and something in Jamie snaps. He knows he should just keep his mouth shut. But since when has Jamie ever done the smart thing? So he follows Roy into the boot room.

"The fuck did I do now?" Jamie asks. "Or is it that I exist and you hate it that much?"

"So you are a self aware prick," Roy says. "Fucking shock."

"At least fucking one of us is," Jamie snaps. "Because I never fucking asked to be here. I'm just doing my job, a job I'm good at. I'm sure you can remember those days, yeah? Back when you were a force on the pitch. When everyone chanted your fucking name. What's your excuse? Other than denial? An old man, past his fucking prime," Jamie spits. "A legend. Does me being better than you piss you off that much? Like an eclipsed fucking star, a dying one at that. You can't even-" Jamie is cut off when Roy's hand wraps around his throat.

"Who the fuck do you think you are talking to? This fucking attitude of yours. You didn't ask to be here?" Roy lets out a vicious laugh in Jamie's face. "You don't fucking get it do you? You're here because City is done dealing with your arrogant fucking arse. You are such a prick off pitch that you could win every game for them and they still wouldn't want you there. You being here gives them the benefit of having a fucking star in their program but doesn't have to fucking deal with you as a person." Roy sneers. "You might be hot shit on the pitch, but your attitude makes you a fucking liability. I might be a has been, but I'm the fucking captain for a reason you little shit. Unlike you I actually fucking care about these people. I'm here until the end. You're a fucking tourist. The worst kind of tourist too. One that doesn't fucking see that they are hated by everyone around them." His fingers flex slightly as he lets his statement hang there in the silent room.

Jamie's heart is pounding in his chest, but so is Roy's. The striker can feel the way Roy's pulse pounds where Jamie has his hands wrapped around the wrist of the hand Roy has wrapped around his throat. Jamie should be fighting back. He should be clawing at Roy's skin. But Jamie had long been conditioned not to. He hadn't expected Roy to go for his throat. He had expected a shove. A punch. But this was too familiar. As Roy speaks Jamie flinches. The internal panic starts. He feels the familiar feeling of waiting for pain.

Roy is fucking livid but something in his head is screaming that this feels off. Jamie usually meets his energy. He fights back, but he wasn't. He lets go of Jamie and steps back.

Jamie knows what is coming now that he is let go. He sinks to the ground and braces himself for a kick. He curls in on himself.

"What the fuck," Roy says because he had no intention of actually hurting Jamie.

Jamie cautiously looks up at Roy, shocked that he hadn't attacked him further. And the look on the striker's face has something twisting in his stomach.

"What the fuck?" Roy repeats. "I'm not going to fucking kick you."

"Oh," Jamie says. He feels exhausted and shifts to sit with his back against the wall. "Okay."

"What the hell was that?" Roy stares at him. "You weren't even going to fucking fight back."

Jamie stares at the floor and shrugs.

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because I'm fucking tired," Jamie admits with a sniffle. He pulls his knees to his chest and puts his head on his knees. And Roy is stunned because he has never seen Jamie like this. He looked…small.

"Tired of fighting back?"

"A bit, yeah," Jamie says. "But everything else too."

"What?" Roy says. His anger is waning but he now feels like he's off keel and he hates it.

Jamie sniffles and it tugs at something in Roy again.

"I hate bein' such a fuckin' prick," Jamie says. "I fuckin' hate it bu' he... he h-hits me less and don't get mad as much when I do."

And that has alarms going off in Roy's head. And he thinks over what Jamie has just said and something in him boils over because it makes fucking sense. Without thinking he kneels in front of Jamie.

"Who, Jamie?" Roy says. "Who makes you act like that? Who-" and just thinking about it makes Roy want to shatter something, but he buries that anger because Jamie just said someone's anger made him this way. Someone fucking hits him. "Tell me who hits you?"

Jamie shakes his head.

“Jamie,” Roy says it like he would if he was dealing with his niece, a stern demand, but a less angry tone. “Tell me who it is.”

“Dad,” is all Jamie says before he buries his face in his knees, and Roy thinks he actually sees red for a moment. Jamie’s dad hits him. And Roy has a number of different things going through his mind at once. He has a thousand questions he needs to be answered. He wants to find Jamie’s dad and tear him to pieces. He had felt like he wanted to kill Jamie more than a few times since they met, but for once, he feels like he’d rather kill for him than actually kill him. And that is a fucking shock. But it makes sense because Jamie isn’t a prick because that’s who Jamie really is. Jamie acts like a prick because his dad beat him into submission and then made him this way. And that makes Roy fucking livid. It means everything he thought he knew about Jamie was essentially beaten into him or learned to prevent being punished. And Roy has been feeding into that cycle. It occurs to Roy that the fights Jamie picks are because it gets a reaction. It’s like a small child that repeats a bad word because it gets their parents' attention, good or bad, it’s attention. Jamie may not be a small child, but he is still young.

“How long has this been going on?” Roy asks.

Jamie doesn’t answer.

“Jamie,” Roy says, “Has he always been like that?” Jamie looks up at him. And that’s a start. So Roy waits. His knee is screaming at him to stand up, but he doesn’t. He has a feeling that if he doesn’t get the answer now, Jamie will shut him out or just shut down. And Roy doesn’t want that. He wants to know how long Jamie has had to live like this. “Jamie,” he repeats, one hand moving to Jamie’s knee. “Tell me.”

“Long as I can remember,” Jamie finally admits. His face was a mix of embarrassment and pain that would probably knock Roy back if he wasn’t kneeling. For over two decades, Jamie had been putting up with this shit. No wonder he acted the way he did.

“Fucking hell,” Roy says, and he moves to sit against the wall next to Jamie, stretching his knee out as he does. And an important question comes to mind. “Does your mum know?”

Jamie nods. “Yeah, ‘s why she left,” he adds.

“She just let him-”

“She didn’t want to,” Jamie says. “He gets drunk and- well, you get the picture.”

“She should have called the fucking police,” Roy grumbles.

“Lots of people did, but he’s a drunk. He’d sober up, make promises, they’d believe him, and he just got better at making sure no one knew. Tell everyone I was just a rowdy fucking prick. But tell me to quit being a pussy. Tell me that I’m weak. Or worse, I’m nothing. A fucking disgrace. He’s embarrassed to be my dad. Until I got called up by Man City, suddenly he was proud o’ me. But if I didn’t do well, he’d get mad. So I sorta figured it out.”

Roy has never hated anyone more in his life than he hated Jamie Tartt’s father at that moment. He didn’t think he could hate anyone more than Phoebe’s dad, but apparently, he was wrong. Phoebe’s dad might be a fucking waste of space and a fucking deadbeat, but he’d be a dead man if he ever lay a finger on Roy’s sister and niece. Roy’d have fucking murdered him. That was one thing you don’t fucking do. You never hit a woman or a kid. Unfucking acceptable behavior. And O’Sullivan hadn’t crossed that fucking line. But James Tartt had. And that was not something Roy could just live with, now that he knew. No fucking way.

“You’re not fucking weak, or anything he says, you’re not a disgrace,” Roy states. “But your old man is.” Jamie sniffles, looking anywhere but at Roy. Clearly, Jamie doesn’t seem to believe him. “Fucking hell, Jamie,” Roy squeezes his knee. “No fucking kid should have to live through that. But you fucking managed it. You survived and fucking thrived. Made it to the fucking premiere league while doing it. And you’re fucking good at it.”

“I’m fucking amazing,” Jamie grins. And Roy feels something loosen in his chest. He bumps Jamie’s shoulder with his.

“Don’t fucking push it,” Roy cautions, but there is no heat to it. “You’ve earned your way to it not because of him but in spite of him."

“Not the way he tells the lads at the pub over several pints,” Jamie huffs.

“He’ll be telling the lads fuck all when I find him,” Roy says. “Make him see how it feels to be the one on the other end. Make him pick up his own fucking teeth.”

“You can’t just fight my dad,” Jamie says.

“Like fucking hell I can’t,” Roy states. “Fucking see him pick on someone that’s not afraid to fight back.”

“You’ll only make it worse,” Jamie sighs.

“Can’t be worse if he can’t fucking get to you,” Roy points out.

“You going to guard me every moment of every day? Because he always-”

“If that’s what it takes, then fucking fine,” Roy agrees.

“You’re not a guard dog, Roy,” Jamie states. “You have shit to do. I have shit to do. You can’t-”

“Then I’ll find others who can,” Roy says as he gets up.

“Wait…what?” Jamie scrambles to get up, the cleats on his boots making it a little tougher. Roy is already opening the door and heading to the locker room. Jamie looks at the time and realizes how close to training it had gotten.

“Oi! You pricks,” Roy points to Colin and Isaac. Colin had just put his bag in his spot and Isaac hadn’t even made it to his cubby. They stare at him. Confused when Jamie, in full kit, rushes in behind him. Roy points at Jamie. “You see his fucking old man around, you fucking tell me, that fucking prick’s face is long due to meet the fucking pavement.”

“What’s all the commotion?” Ted asks as he and Beard walk through the door.

“Roy…” Jamie starts and everyone is surprised by how unsure he sounds. Not the usual brash and confident prick they usually deal with. “You can’t-”

“Can’t fucking what? Just let it go? When we play City, does he show up?”

Jamie hesitates but nods.

“Fucking won't, next time,” Roy says and he’s already out the door. “Higgins! Where the fuck is he?!” A woman points down the hall and Roy heads that way until he finds a confused and nervous Leslie Higgins. “Higgins.”

“Yes, how can I help you?” Higgins manages to say.

“Jamie Tartt’s father, you know him?” Roy demands.

“Of him, I know of him,” Higgins corrects, he has a feeling he should definitely point out the difference. “James Tartt.”

“Fucking ban him,” Roy states.

“What?” Higgins is shocked. He looks up to see a concerned Ted, an unsure Coach Beard and an anxious Jamie approaching. “I can’t just ban someone for no reason.”

“Hold your horses, Roy,” Ted says. “Whatever happened we can-”

“I will not fucking do that,” Roy glares at him. “If you don’t ban him, then I’m going to curb stomp his fucking head in the fucking car park!” Beard moves to partially get between the players in case Roy lashes out. Roy doesn't miss the movement and it just adds to the list of things that are pissing him off. He isn't going to actually hurt Jamie. If they would let him fucking talk he would tell them that. They just need to fucking listen to him. His focus is brought back to Jamie when Jamie tries to plead with him again. And part of him wants to appease Jamie, to not hurt him more. But the more rational part of Roy knows that he has to keep pushing for James Tartt to be banned. He cannot let this man hurt Jamie again. Even more he can not even let the bastard near him. He has to fucking try.

“Roy, I told you, you can’t just-” Jamie tries. “He’s my dad.”

“Fucking watch me,” Roy challenges and Beard moves to put a hand on Roy's shoulder because clearly something is distressing the captain. And it didn't seem to be what usually is distressing him because of how desperate he and Jamie are acting. Roy shocked them all as he continues, “No, he’s your fucking abuser, and that shit ends now.”

“He's what now?” Ted says, suddenly very concerned for the safety and sanity of not one, but two of his players. “Jamie,” he turns to look at Jamie. “Does your dad hit you?”

Jamie looks from Ted to Higgins, to Beard and then to Roy.

“Tell them what you told me,” Roy says as he shoves Beard's hand off his shoulder. Beard is too shocked by not only Roy's tone but the way he looks at Jamie. This is the closest to begging the coach has ever seen from Roy Kent.

Jamie looks between the four of them again. This was not how Jamie imagined his day would go. He looks at Roy again and Roy's eyes make him feel weird, because he has never seen Roy look at him like that. Like he really wants something from him. No anger, at least not him. What he mostly sees is concern. Concern for Jamie.

“What did you tell Roy, Jamie?” Ted asks. And there is even more concern on Ted's face. Everyone looks so worried. He considers lying or even running off, but then Roy might get angry at him again and Roy's going to tell them anyway. So he tells them.

“That dad hits me less and don't get mad as much when I act like a prick,” Jamie admits.

“Which is why he needs to be fucking banned!” Roy adds.

“Or you’ll curb stomp him?” Beard asks for clarification.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Roy admits without shame. “Because he’s apparently been doing it for fucking years to Jamie and his mum, so he’s overdue for a-”

“Does the Man City team management know about this?” Ted asks Jamie.

“No one does, except my mum and stepdad, and I didn’t exactly plan to tell Roy,” Jamie says. “Or anyone.”

“Well you fucking did, and I’m not about to just-” Roy says.

“Roy!” Ted shouts. “Why don’t you and Beard go make sure the team is getting ready for training, Jamie you can head back too. I will-”

“You’re fucking serious right now,” Roy glares at his coach but Beard is already forcing him back towards the locker room.

“I will make sure it’s taken care of,” Ted says.

Roy storms back into the locker room and everyone stays out of his way. He violently pulls away from Beard as he does. Jamie’s not far behind him through the door but goes to his own spot and for a lack of anything to really do, he sits down on the bench. He bunches his hands up in his kit.

“You good?”

Jamie looks up to see Colin moving to sit next to him on the bench as he gets his guards on.

Jamie shrugs. "Not exactly how I thought today would start," Jamie admits and Colin is surprised at how off Jamie seems.

"What happened?" Colin asks as he shifts to show Jamie he has his full attention. "Must be something big to have Roy Kent in a fit."

"Was just honest and more came out than expected," Jamie says.

"About your father?" Colin asks, remembering what Roy had told him and Isaac to do. "If he's really a right prick, we're with you, mate. All you have to do is let us know, we'll be there."

"Thanks, I know I'm a prick, and-"

"Oi! Knock that shit off," Roy says. "You act like one doesn't mean you are one. Said so your fucking self. You old man is a liar and fucking tosser. You don't have to listen to that shit anymore."

And Colin is stunned. Roy Kent is not only on Jamie's side he's pretty much defending Jamie from Jamie's own words. And this morning is giving them all whiplash.

"Fair point," Jamie admits. "But I've been a shit teammate, and that's not fair to you lot. Roy pointed out I'm more of a tourist than a teammate." Colin looked at Roy. "An annoying one," Jamie adds. "While crushing my windpipe." Everyone is now staring at Roy.

"In my fucking defence," Roy says, still focused on Jamie. He didn't really give a fuck about the others. They knew him well enough. "That was before you fucking told me your old man made you this way by kicking your fucking ribs."

Colin winces. Hearing it put so plainly by none other than Roy fucking Kent took away any doubt about what was happening.

"Well," Colin starts. "You don't have to put on an act for him here, and you don't have to do it for us, we're a team. Just be you, I'm sure that's more than enough."

"Too fucking right," Roy says.

"And if I don't actually know who I am without the act?" Jamie says in absolute honesty.

"Then we'll help you figure it out," Colin grins. "Right Roy?"

"Fucking right," Roy nods.

"Then that's settled," Colin grins.

"Good, now fucking get to the pitch for warm ups!" Roy shouts. And they do as they are told.

Everything starts to change over the next couple days at training. The team works as a more cohesive unit. Jamie Tartt starts to be more of a team player. And Roy can't believe how one little honest moment in the boot room could make such an insane difference. It was mad, in the best way possible. His team was happier than it ever had been. Roy smiled as Jamie and Sam work together and actually seem to get along like a fucking house on fire. It was like Jamie truly was a different person.

"Whatever you did the other morning," Ted says as he stands next to Roy as he takes the bottle Will offers him. "Has made him an even better player. You're a good captain, Roy."

"I pushed him until he broke, it may have ended well, but it wasn't a good thing," Roy admits. He glances back at where Jamie is laughing with Jeff.

"Sky divers and bungee jumpers sometimes need a push, but the end result is a life change adventure." Ted claps his shoulder. "And he's not the only one that changed at that moment. Embrace it." Ted walks away.

They win their next match and the team celebrates like they won a fucking cup. And Roy sees a new side of Jamie Tartt that has a warmth spread through him. And it's a jarring feeling knowing just days before he had wanted to punch the man in the face. Roy is getting ready for bed when he gets a call from his sister and that is worrying. She tells him a friend of hers at the hospital called her to give her a heads up since her brother played for Richmond as captain. A player had just been brought in. They couldn't say who or why but Roy had a bad feeling. He grabbed his keys and was out the door as fast as possible.

"Oh good, you're here," a nurse says as Roy gets to the hospital. "His mother gave us permission to talk to the management of the team, in addition to you and his other emergency contact, Mr. Kent."

"Who-" Roy starts to ask who the other contact is when he gets his answer.

"Roy!" Keeley Jones calls out to him and it feels like someone punched him in the stomach.

"No," Roy says and it comes out more as a breath.

"Mr. Kent?" The nurse asks.

"Thank you," Roy manages because his sister would kick his ass if he was rude to the nurse and goes to Keeley.

"It's Jamie," Keeley says and Roy feels like he might be fucking sick.

"What the fuck happened?" Roy asks.

"His neighbor called about a disturbance," Keeley tells him. "When the officers got there Jamie was barely conscious."

"Fuck," Roy says. He leans against the wall to stay upright. "Who was it?"

"Roy…" Keeley starts.

"Who the fuck was it?!"

"His father," Keeley says and Roy sees fucking red.

"I'll fucking kill him," Roy growls.

"He's in custody," Keeley says but Roy doesn't seem deterred. "Roy…" she puts a hand on his arm. "There isn't anything to be done now but waiting to see Jamie."

Roy lets out a litany of curses. He wants to scream. He wants to hit something. And he does not understand why this is making him not just angry but fucking terrified.

"Roy," Keeley tries to get his attention.

"FUCK!" Roy shouts and punches the wall. Keeley jumps.

"I'll handle him," Keeley turns to see a woman approach. She looks oddly familiar.

"Are you-" Keeley starts to ask.

"I called him, he's my brother," she tells Keeley.

"Oh, okay," Keeley nods.

"Come on, tough guy," his sister says. "Let's get you sorted out."

"I'll kill him," Roy tells her.

"You won't, but I get it," his sister says as she takes a look at his knuckles. He has bruises forming and a few scrapes. He winces as she tests his movement. "Flex 'em," she commands. He does but his fingers don't move right. She sighs. "Hey Hannah," she calls to a nurse. "My idiot brother needs x-rays of his right metacarpals." The nurse nods and goes to get things sorted out since Dr. O'Sullivan wasn't actually on duty. The doctor turns back to her brother. "You're an idiot." Roy just grunts. "Injuring yourself isn't going to help Jamie Tartt, you know that, Roy."

"I told him this wouldn't fucking happen again, that we'd protect him," Roy says through gritted teeth.

"You know you can't protect people every moment of every day. There are always gaps you can't fill."

His sister is worried he might break a tooth with how tight his jaw is clenched. "I don't know what happened between you and Jamie Tartt, but I do know you. And he clearly means a lot to you," his sister says.

Hannah the nurse returns with a tray. "Bit of a wait in radiology, so might as well get a start on cleaning the scrapes," Hannah says.

"Thanks Hannah, I can handle this," the doctor says.

"Yes, Doctor," Hannah says as she leaves.

By the time she has his knuckles mostly cleaned up he is taken back for x-rays. Keeley assures him from where she had been watching with amusement she'll stay there for Jamie. So Roy lets his sister guide him.

His sister sighs as they look at the x-rays.

"Congratulations, dear brother, you broke your hand. Normally a splint would be fine, but honestly, I don't trust you to not do anything stupid, so you are getting an actual cast."

"Fucking hell, I don't need-"

"You lost your temper and punched a wall, Roy. You're getting a cast. End of discussion."

"Fucking fine," Roy relents because he knows nothing will stop his sister when it came to medical issues.

"What did you do?" Ted asks when Roy, sporting a bright blue cast, joins them. Both Beard and Ted had gotten there while he was getting X-rays.

"Interesting color choice," Keeley grins. "Expected black or just plain old white."

"My sister didn't give me a choice," Roy states.

"This is better anyway, It will match most of your kits," Keeley remarks.

"And his sweats, since he will not be playing for at least a few weeks," Ted says.

"Fuck off," Roy says. "Already down Jamie. If we have any chance of staying in the league-"

"We still have a new striker coming in, Rojas," Ted says. "And it's not your responsibility."

"I'm the fucking captain, of course it is," Roy says. "And Tartt's going to think you fucking replaced him."

"Not for the next few weeks," Ted says. "And Jamie will understand. He knows the game enough to know-"

"You fucking signed this guy to get Jamie to be a team fucking player," Roy glares at him. He knew the tactic well enough. "A challenge to fuck with his head."

Ted glances at Keeley. "For the record, Rebecca signed him before we found out about Jamie's dad and he started getting on with the team."

"Fuck off, it's still going to fucking destroy him," Roy states.

Roy refuses to leave until he can see Jamie. Keeley and Beard leave once they find out Jamie is out of surgery and stable. Keeley has to help draft an announcement about Jamie's condition. Ted stays.

"What happened to your hand?" Jamie asked Roy. Roy just grunts. Ted shakes his head. Jamie looks back and forth between the two.

"He lost a fight with a wall," Ted tells him. "How you feeling, Jamie?"

"A wall?" Jamie asks, his heavily medicated brain not able to piece it all together. "Why you fighting walls, Roy?"

Roy huffs. "I didn't fight a fucking wall, I punched it because it was that or I hunt your fucking-"

"Roy," Ted stops him because they didn't need Jamie getting upset and one glance at the monitor showed the injured man's pulse already climbing.

"Me? You punched a wall because of me?" Jamie said and Ted glares at Roy.

"Fuck no," Roy is quick to say.

"No one is mad at you," Ted tells Jamie.

"My dad is," Jamie says and shakes his head. He can't make eye contact with either of them.

And an angry growl comes out of Roy.

"No one here is mad at you," Ted corrects himself. "And I am sure that whatever your father was mad about, he's-"

"The fucking bastard is a liar and a coward," Roy interjects. "And a fucking dead man when I find him."

"Helpful, Roy," Ted sighs. "Really helpful."

Roy grunts.

"Your father's anger does not, and let me repeat that because I need you to understand. His anger does not give him the right to do what he did. No one has the right to. Ever. You didn't deserve this, not now, not ever." Ted tells him. "You get that, right, Jamie?"

Jamie doesn't answer because the medication, pain, and emotions are all too much and it's making his head hurt and it's getting harder to breathe.

"Fucking breathe, Tartt," Roy says. His voice now much closer than it had been. Jamie looks to see that Roy's good arm is leaning against Jamie's hospital bed and he is glancing at the monitor every now and again. But once Roy's eyes lock on his they don't leave. And Jamie can't help but find comfort in it because Roy fucking Kent was here. Roy fucking Kent was here for him and was trying to help him. He should listen to him, right? What did he say again? What should Jamie be doing? "Fucking hell," Roy mutters and squeezes Jamie's hand with his good hand. "Take a fucking breath, Jamie." And Jamie does. He lets Roy talk him through it until he can breathe again. It leaves Jamie absolutely exhausted.

"It's okay Jamie," Ted tells him. "You're doing great. You can sleep now. You've earned a good rest."

Once Jamie falls asleep Roy leans back in his chair and scrubs his good hand over his face.

"Fucking hell," he mutters.

"You can go home," Ted starts to say. It was getting late and it had been a very long day.

"Fuck off," Roy tells him, his tone more quiet but still just as harsh. "Not fucking going anywhere."

"You're on pain meds, you should-"

"Stay the fuck right here, because I'm not allowed on the fucking pitch, and you still have a fucking job to do. So you fucking do it."

"A bit crude but fair," Ted nods.

"Fucking go. Will let you know if shit happens."

Jamie wakes up a second time and it's just Roy there in the dim room.

"You don't have to stay," Jamie tells him. Roy shrugs but doesn't show any signs of leaving.

"You probably have better things to do like-"

"Fucking hell, Tartt," Roy leans forward. "Not leaving you fucking alone, so go back to fucking sleep, you need the fucking rest."

And despite the hostile tone Jamie feels himself smile, because Roy fucking Kent was keeping watch which means Jamie doesn't have to worry about his dad's lackeys coming after him.

"Your mum should be here when you wake up," Roy tells him.

"My mum?" Jamie is a bit surprised. He rarely gets to see his mum. He misses her a lot.

"Of fucking course your mum," Roy looks at him. "Your old man just got locked up for nearly killing you and it's all over the fucking news. Ted has to do a fucking presser and Keeley already has a statement out that you'll be on the mend. City is sending someone down and your fucking agent has been a pain in the arse."

"Really?" Jamie is surprised at how much of a fuss his dad cracking a few of his ribs and giving him a concussion had caused. "Seems a bit much."

"Fuck off," Roy grunts. "You can't be fucking serious." Roy looks over the injured striker. "You were in surgery for fucking hours. I was fucking in and out with a goddamn cast before you even had fucking stitches. He nearly fucking killed you."

Jamie shouldn't be surprised that Roy sounded absolutely livid, but he is. No one has ever been so angry over what his dad did to him, his mum had always been upset but she always seemed more sad than angry. But Roy was so angry he broke his own hand.

"I'll heal," Jamie says.

"Fucking nightmare," Roy grumbles and he gets up and paces the room a few times. And Jamie finds it a bit amusing how untethered Roy seems and for once his anger isn't actually directed at Jamie. Not entirely at least.

"Sorry you'll have to miss a few matches because of me," Jamie says.

"Dammit, Jamie," Roy says. "A few weeks is nothing. But compared to how long you'll be out. City might even call you back so they can keep an eye on you themselves now that the truth is out there."

"The truth?" Jamie is suddenly unsure what all the press knows that Jamie never wanted anyone to know. What would people think about him? His dad told him everyone would see him as weak. As a fucking pussy.

Roy doesn't miss the way Jamie's heart monitor spikes. He rushes back to the side of Jamie's bed. "It's okay," Roy says, the anger gone from his tone. And Jamie hears the same tone Roy had used as he sat beside him in the boot room. One filled with caution and concern. "Keeley didn't say much, but metro did release a statement and they are still looking for your father's fucking thugs. The press is putting pieces together. That's why Ted and Keeley are going to get out in front of it."

"What…what are they going to say?" Jamie says.

Roy sighs and props himself on the edge of Jamie's hospital bed. "That your fucking old man was banned from both Richmond and Man City games. Pep agrees that he shouldn't be allowed at all. The safety of all players, including you, is a priority to both teams. And now James Tartt and his fucking cronies are looking at a full league ban. That the met are doing a full investigation of your attack, as well as a review of previous incidents. I guess knowing that your old man has a fucking history of this shit is a big deal now since he brought his shit to Richmond. GMP ain't looking too good now that Scotland Yard's looking into it."

Jamie's head is spinning. And Roy is close enough that Jamie could reach out and touch him. And Jamie wants to because he feels like shit and he's scared because his dad always told him this would end bad. It would ruin his career if anyone found out. His panic and pain killer addled brain must have missed the part where he wasn't actually going to reach out for Roy because his hand is reaching out as if it had a mind of its own. And to Jamie's fucking shock, Roy takes it with his good hand. Roy glances at the monitors and knows that Jamie is going to stress out his already healing body if he keeps on like this. So Roy makes a decision.

"Hey," Roy says. He sits on the edge of the bed and leans into Jamie's space. "Listen to me, Jamie." He only continues after Jamie's eyes snap to his. He squeezes Jamie's hand as he does. "This isn't your fault. This isn't on you. You didn't do anything wrong." Roy says with absolute confidence. "You have spent years fighting this shit on your own, but that's fucking over, yeah? You have Keeley, you have Lasso, you have the team. Right now you have me, and I'm not fucking going anywhere. So relax and take a fucking breath."

Jamie doesn't even think about it. He just does as Roy tells him.

"Good lad," Roy nods. "Now do it again." And just like before they go on like that until Jamie calmed down and the monitors are no longer flashing. "good lad," Roy repeats. "Now, don't you fucking worry about that shit. Let Keeley and the fucking police do their jobs. You just focus on getting better so that when you're back out there on the pitch you can show the world that you are stronger than anyone fucking knew. Going to hear that fucking stupid shark chant and you'll fucking bask in it. The good kind of fucking attention. And you'll kick fucking arse and prove everything your old man has ever said wrong. Because that's the real fucking Jamie Tartt. Not the fucking charade your fucking old man made. The real fucking you."

Jamie doesn't realize he is crying until Roy uses the back of their joined hands to brush them away. It's an awkward motion but with his other hand in a cast there wasn't much else for it. It earns a bit of a chuckle from Jamie.

"You'll do fucking fine," Roy insists. "Because we'll get you healed up and back on the pitch in no time, you just watch."

"You going to help me?" Jamie asks, hopeful and glad to have Roy Kent on his side.

"The fuck else am I going to do?" Roy states and holds up the cast. "And I'm the captain for a fucking reason."

And Jamie grins because that's not the first time Roy has said that. And Roy actually didn't have to do shit to help Jamie. He hadn't before their little spat in the boot room. But Jamie wasn't going to complain now. Not when Roy fucking Kent, Jamie's childhood hero, was sitting on the edge of his hospital bed telling him everything would be alright and they'd manage it together. And he didn't have to worry about his dad getting angry at him. Especially since he was laying there holding Roy's hand. And wow, Roy fucking Kent hadn't let go of Jamie's hand since he took it and that did things to Jamie. Jamie didn't know he could feel happy, especially while sitting in hospital with broken ribs, too many stitches, and a concussion. It felt like a dream.

"If your ribs are broken in your fucking dreams, then you need to get better fucking dreams."

"How much of that did I say out loud?" Jamie asks, mortified.

And Roy fucking smirks. "Enough." Roy squeezes his hand and laughs when Jamie's face turns red with embarrassment. Roy had thought Jamie Tartt to be fucking shameless in the past. Nothing fucking phased him. But seeing him now, fucking blushing because Roy got a glimpse at what actually goes on in his head was fucking priceless. "I already knew you had my fucking poster, Tartt," Roy says. "That you watched my games. The only new info here is that you want to fucking hold my hand." He felt Jamie try to pull away but Roy didn't let him. "Fuck off with that shit," Roy says. "If I didn't want to hold your fucking hand, I wouldn't have taken it in the first fucking place. So steady on and quit getting yourself worked up over nothing before the nurses catch on and boot me."

"They wouldn't," Jamie says. "You're Roy fucking Kent."

Roy laughs. "In here I'm Dr. O'Sullivan's brother. And they know I won't do shit to make her job harder. So settle back in and fucking sleep, I'm not fucking going anywhere." Roy lets go of Jamie's hand so he can pull a chair closer with his only good hand. He settles in and offers his hand back to Jamie without another word. And Jamie takes it. Roy goes back to watching the TV that Jamie hadn't even noticed was on because the volume was so low.

"Fucking sleep or your mum will probably blame it on me," Roy states. And Jamie laughs, ignoring the pain in his ribs as best he can.

"Seriously, Jamie," Roy says. And Jamie looks away from the TV to look at Roy.

"I know, I know. Sleep," Jamie says as he gets as comfortable as he can without letting Roy's hand go and after a few minutes he falls asleep. And he stayed asleep thanks to the painkillers in his system. And that was fine with Roy.

Keeley is shocked to find Jamie's hand curled around Roy Kent's when she and Jamie's mum quietly enter the room. Both men fast asleep.

"Been like that for a bit," Roy's sister says in a whisper, now on shift in her scrubs and white coat. "Probably for the best." She grins and starts to leave. She had already given Georgie a full rundown of her son's case. "But feel free to wake them. I'm sure they won't mind."

"I'll let you handle it," Keeley says. "I'll be out here, have to update Rebecca and Ted before the presser."

Georgie nods and makes her way into the room. Roy Kent snaps awake as she gets closer. She can tell his guard is up immediately.

"Didn't mean to wake you," she says. "We talked on the phone, I'm Georgie-"

"Jamie's mum," Roy manages to recall and goes to stand up and starts to let go of Jamie's hand. Even sleeping Jamie doesn't seem to want that to happen by the way Jamie starts to shift in his sleep. So Georgie stops Roy.

"You're fine," she insists and moves to stand on the other side of Jamie's bed. Brushing her son's unstyled hair off his face. "What has he done to you my sexy little baby," she laments and Roy just silently watches as Jamie leans towards his mother's touch. "I always worried I'd get this call," she says a bit louder so Roy can hear but not loud enough to wake Jamie. She glances over at Roy as she runs her fingers through Jamie's hair to fix it. She knew he hated when his hair wasn't just right. And with his ribs broken he probably couldn't do it himself. She'd have to get a brush and properly sort it out later. Might make him feel better. Roy shifts closer so that Jamie can lean into his mum's touch without letting go of Roy.

"I hoped him coming to Richmond would be enough distance that James would leave him be." Her tone is sad and Roy knows it must hurt to see Jamie like this. It hurt Roy to see Jamie like this.

"It never should have happened," Roy says, trying to keep his tone low despite how upsetting it all was. He didn't blame her, not really.

She looks at Roy with sad eyes. Her son's childhood hero.

"It was always bound to end one of two ways. Either Jamie would break, or James did. And sadly, it was my sweet little boy." Georgie says.

"Why did you leave him if you knew?" Roy asks.

"I didn't leave him. I just couldn't stay with James," she admits. "Jamie, he wasn't stupid. He knew what was happening, and he'd try and get to his father before he could get to me. I didn't want to make it worse. I wanted him with me, but I had to find somewhere safe first. We got him when we could, but James had already gotten to him. My sexy little baby," Georgie said with a sad smile. "Then he was brought into the academy, and I hoped that would be good for him. Keep him out of James' reach, but I should have known he would find a way to get to him. Then as an adult, Jamie just threw himself head-first into the game. I hadn't realized how twisted James had made it all."

Roy wanted to shout that all that was bullshit. She was his mum, and that it was her fucking job to protect her son. But he also thought about his sister. How different her life would have been if Roy hadn't been there. If Roy didn't step in when they needed him. Or if Phoebe's father hadn't walked away but taken his shit out on them, and it was an infuriating thought. Georgie didn't have anyone to step in. No one like Roy stepped in to help. No one to look out for them until it was too late. But Roy was there now.

"It probably sounds selfish," she admits. "That I saved myself-"

"It's a fucking nightmare," Roy says. "But you never asked for it. You didn't leave and not turn back. You couldn't save him if you couldn't save yourself first. He'd have fought you."

"And Jamie was too young to understand," she nods, as she brushes Jamie's cheek. The sleeping striker leans into the touch.

Roy hums because he gets that. Phoebe is almost lucky that her dad simply left when she was too young to miss him. And Roy made sure Phoebe never had to go without anything she truly needed. Roy would throw any amount of money at any problem his sister and niece faced. He loved them more than anything. Jamie hadn't had that luck. But Jamie did have talent. And that had been his saving grace.

"Not so young anymore," she laments. "But he's still my sexy little baby." She smiles. And Roy can see where Jamie gets much of his true nature. His easy smile, his expressive nature. He needs for touch.

"You might have missed a lot," Roy says. "But at least you came back. You're here now."

She nods. "Thank you for calling me."

"The hospital called you first," Roy says.

"Yes, but you actually made arrangements. You made sure Jamie wasn't alone, and someone was there to meet the train."

"It was easier for everyone that way," Roy says.

"But not something you had to do," she tells him. "so I appreciate it."

"Not much else I bloody could do," Roy says nodding at his cast covered hand.

"Was still more than I could have asked of you or anyone," she insists.

And Roy felt the corners of his mouth twitch because fucking hell, Jamie's mum was grateful that Roy was doing this all. And that was nice but he didn't need her appreciation and thank yous. He hadn't done it for her. He hadn't done it because he was bored and useless. He had done it because it would make Jamie happy. Because Jamie Tartt's happiness was important to him. He wanted Jamie to be happy and taken care of. And that was a fucking revelation. He looks at their joined hands. Fuck. He cared about Jamie's happiness because he cared about Jamie. More than he did the rest of the team. Maybe even more than his fucking own happiness at this rate. Because Jamie deserves the fucking best after all he has gone through. And Roy wants nothing more than to give that to him. He looks back over at Jamie's mum who is just looking at him. He has to say something.

"Yeah, well, I did it for him," Roy says. And that makes Georgie smile. Because her son's hero hadn't moved from his side since he got there. He hadn't let her son's hand go since before she got there.

"You're good for him," She says plainly. And that hit Roy in a way he didn't expect. It made Roy feel like he truly had done something right. Something good.

"I just listened when he needed someone to," Roy says.

"Maybe, but you also did something about it. You didn't just listen. You tried to make it better."

That has something twisting in Roy's stomach.

"He told me I'd only make it worse, and he was right," Roy says. "I should go."

"Wait," She says but he had already pulled away and was nearly out the door.

"I'll see him later," Roy says and leaves.

Georgie worries about what Roy had just said, but she can't focus on that. She has to focus on Jamie. She'd have to ask Keeley or even his sister when she came back.

Jamie wakes up to the sound of his mum talking.

"You just focus on your son," Jamie hears another voice say as he blinks his eyes open. "My brother can be a bit self destructive and a bit of a prick, but he's a good guy. If he said he'll be back. He'll be back."

And Jamie realizes that was Roy's sister. She'd been one of his doctors. Wait, Roy was gone? Jamie looks around. When did Roy leave? He said he wasn't going anywhere.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Tartt?" His doctor asks and yeah, that's Roy's sister. He knows that for sure now. He winces.

"Jamie, just call me Jamie," he says.

"Okay, Jamie," she says.

"Tired, sore," he admits.

"That's understandable," she assures him.

"That's okay, baby," his mum says.

"How long was I out this time?" He asks, glancing over at where Roy had been.

"A few hours, the medication in addition to your injuries, might make you feel more tired and that's normal. Your body heals best when it's resting."

"Okay," Jamie says. "How long do you think it will be before I can get back to the team?" He asks.

The doctor nods, obviously familiar with the question. "If all goes well you can hopefully make it back in a few months."

"So I'm going to miss most of the season, they're facing relegation. I can't-"

"I will tell you the same thing I tell my brother," she says. "You can't help the team if you can't stay on your feet. You can't stay on your feet if you don't listen to what your body is telling you or you'll push it too far or too fast. You're not a machine, and you aren't immortal. The team will go on with or without you, it's why they have reserve players. You killing yourself is just going to make everyone feel worse when push comes to shove. And no one wins in that scenario. Relegation might feel like a fate worse than death, but I assure you from a medical standpoint, it isn't. Is it worth risking your entire future for it? And as much as I support my brother's team, as your doctor, I cannot in good faith tell you anything but the truth. You might be back by season end. But there are no guarantees that you will. You're lucky you are alive to see the team continue. You can still cheer them on. They care what happens to you. I know my brother does. So get some rest, and leave the rest to the professionals."

Yeah, she was Roy's sister. He had told him the exact same thing. Let the professionals handle it.

"Yeah, okay," Jamie agrees.

It must have been the right thing to say since is mum is smiling and squeezing his hand.

It’s hours before Jamie can go home. Days before he is allowed to leave his house. Over a week before he’s allowed back at Nelson Road. The first time mostly for a meeting with physio and letting the press see him up and about. He’s barely allowed on the sideline. It didn’t really matter though. Traning had ground to a halt when he made his way out of the tunnel, much slower than usual. He finally gets to meet Dani Rojas. The one time Roy got close enough to talk to it was mainly to remind Jamie that Dani wasn’t his replacement. Jamie had so many questions and doubt, but didn’t know how to voice them. So he nodded.

Jamie hates having to just sit back and watch from the sidelines. He had a hard enough time facing the reality he wouldn't be able to finish the season and that Man City was considering recalling him. And Jamie hated the idea of leaving Richmond if they got relegated. He was back on his feet but he wasn't cleared to play. Somedays were still harder than others and he would get winded easily. But he was working on it. And Roy had been helping him as promised. And as he figured the team was still facing relegation. And of course Man City was the team that would decide it. What made it worse was Jamie could tell Roy was pushing it. Pushing himself too hard to pick up the slack. He could almost hear Roy's sister telling him he was pushing his body too hard and something had to give. And he agreed.

He was proved right when Roy went down after challenging City's offense. The captain went down and didn't get back up. And that fucking terrified Jamie. Roy had been working so hard to help Jamie. And Jamie couldn't do shit now to help him. The striker wasn’t sure when was the last time he’d been so worried about another person. It was maddening being stuck on the sideline. Will put a hand out to block him from running onto the pitch. He felt like he could breathe a bit better when Roy finally got to his feet but the way Roy was limping away didn't bode well and Jamie just knew this was the moment Roy's sister always warned them about.

Jamie follows Roy towards the locker room. He waits there while Roy deals with the physio team. Roy pointedly ignores him as he takes off his jersey, looking at his own name. He tosses it away and sits on the bench. Roy knows it's over. His career is over. He finally looks at Jamie when he sits beside him.

"Rough play," Jamie sighs. "How you feeling?"

"Like fucking shit," Roy says.

"I get that," Jamie nods.

"At least you'll have next season," Roy says.

"Thanks to you," Jamie says.

"That's not true, you'd make a comeback with or without me. Just like you will next season."

"Wouldn't feel right without you," Jamie admits.

"Fucking face it," Roy says. "There's no fucking coming back from it this time, Tartt."

"Maybe not, but it doesn't mean you can't be a part of it. Unless you're giving up on helping me now too."

"Fuck off," Roy says. "My career ends and you make it about yourself."

Jamie grins. "If it makes you mad at anyone but yourself, then yeah, gonna do it."

"I'm not mad, I'm just…"

"I know," Jamie bumps his shoulder but instead of pulling away he stays there. Pressed against Roy's shoulder hoping to ground him, offer comfort.

Roy grunts and doesn't push him away. He actually leans into it because Jamie was here offering a bit of hope in his future. Something to do with his time now that he was looking at nothing.

"On the bright side, you'll have a lot more time for Phoebe now," Jamie grins and Roy huffs. "She will love it." And Roy can at least agree with that as Jamie keeps going, "And if you think you're gonna get rid of me just because you're out of the game, I got news for you." Jamie grins. "I'm not going to make it easy."

"Fucking nightmare," Roy groans, but smiles.

"I'm a fucking dream," Jamie boasts. And for once Roy can't argue because he came into the locker room to be miserable by himself. But Jamie had got him to actually smile. Made him feel like this was not as daunting of a change. It was still fucking terrifying to not know what he was going to do now. Football had been his fucking life for so long. So much has happened along the way, but it was all framed around football. How was he supposed to just sit back and let go? Could he do that? He wasn't sure. But it all seemed more tolerable with Jamie sitting next to him.

Roy sighs.

"You'll figure it out," Jamie assures him. "You always do." And Roy can't ignore the feeling of how much Jamie's confidence in him made him feel better, happier.

"I hope so," Roy says.

"I know so, because you told me that everything was going to be fine, because we were going to get through it. And I may not have made it back this season, but you were right. And this time, I'm right."

"Okay," Roy lets him have it because he knows Jamie isn't going to actually let this go. Not now, not any time soon. Jamie has proved to have unparalleled determination.

"Okay," Jamie grins and holds out his hand. He expected Roy to just shake on it. He doesn't expect Roy to just take his hand and hold it. And Jamie fucking love it. Because his teenage crush had only gotten bigger since Roy had sat with him in hospital. Jamie laces their fingers together. They sit quietly until the rest of the team comes in and Jamie reluctantly pulls away.

They only avoided relegation by ending the match in a tie. And Jamie is glad that he won't be leaving the team in a relegated state if he gets recalled. But he really doesn't want to leave Richmond. And unfortunately he was right. Man City wanted him back so they could get him back on the pitch their way. And Jamie has no choice but to go. The night before he is set to leave he shows up at Roy's.

"I don't want to go," Jamie says. "Even if my dad isn't there I still don't want to go."

His sad and desperate tone makes something twist in Roy's chest. He lets Jamie in and as soon as the door is closed, Roy pulls him into a hug because he didn't want Jamie to leave either, especially if he was going to be upset. Because Jamie's happiness meant something to Roy. He knows it was the right thing to do when Jamie grips the side of his shirt with a white knuckled grip. Jamie sniffles. "I don't want to leave, all my friends are here, you're here. I don't-" his sniffles turn into a full on sob. "I can't-"

"Okay, Jamie," Roy says, gently shushing him because he knows that Jamie has healed up well, but he wasn't sure how it would go if he hyperventilated now. "Shh, you're not gone yet. I'm right here. You can always come visit. And I can come see you. Not like I have much else to do," and that earns a choked laugh from Jamie. "We'll figure it out," Roy assures him. Roy pulls back enough and tilts Jamie's head until he can actually see him and something inside Roy shatters into pieces. Jamie looks devastated. Roy isn't sure he looked this broken when he was in hospital. It is like for once Jamie can't see a light at the end of the tunnel. And Roy hates that. Hates it more than he hated watching Jamie curl up on the floor of the boot room. Only thing he could ever hate more right now was himself, for walking away from Jamie's hospital room when he had told him he would stay. Because not once, but twice, now Roy has wasted an opportunity to tell Jamie how he really feels. And looking at Jamie now he thinks about all the time he could have had with Jamie that he wasted. "Because we always do." He can't help but glance at Jamie's lips because fucking hell Roy is a glutton for goddamn punishment and despite how shitty his timing is and how this could fuck up Jamie's future he finds himself leaning in. He gives Jamie enough time to pull away if he wants but instead of that happening. Jamie jumps at the chance and meets him halfway in a brutal kiss that makes Roy's heart pound like wild and Jamie feels like his skin is on fire. Jamie wraps his arms tighter around Roy. Roy buries his fingers of one hand in Jamie's hair and the other splays out on his lower back to keep him impossibly close. Roy forces himself to pull away because Jamie had just been struggling for air and sobbing and a few months ago was fighting for breath through broken ribs. And it was a smart move based on the striker's ragged breathing now. But Jamie's tears are gone and replaced by a look of total awe. And Roy can't resist. He kisses him again. And again until they both end up making their way to Roy's bed. Roy has a brief moment where he thinks maybe this is too fast. Maybe Jamie isn't in the right mindset and he's taking advantage of him in a vulnerable moment. He freezes.

"What?" Jamie looks at him with confusion. "What's wrong?"

"You sure you want-" and Jamie's lips cut him off.

"I can honestly fucking say I never wanted anything more," Jamie goes to kiss him again but Roy stops him.

"I don't want to be the guy that takes advantage of -"

"Fucking hell, Roy. You think I haven't thought about this a million times?" Jamie laughs. "You think your poster is on my teenage wall for aesthetic reasons. I have literally thought about this exact moment since I was a fucking kid. So unless you don't want to then-" it's Roy's turn to cut him off by kissing him breathless. And Jamie damn near fucking swoons. Because he wasn't lying. This is the biggest fucking fantasy he ever had. And it ends up being so much more than he could have ever dreamt up because Roy might be a legend on the pitch but he is a fucking artist between the sheets. It's like he knows just how to take someone apart and completely ruin them. And Jamie fucking loved it. Only when they were both just laying there trying to recover did it actually register what it meant. It made Jamie even more desperate to find a way to stay in Richmond and it made Roy just want to fight anyone that would try to take Jamie away from him. But they both knew the morning would eventually come and Jamie would have to leave for Manchester. So Roy just pulled him close. Jamie tucked his head under Roy's chin and let himself take in the feeling of just being with the person he wants to be with. To listen to the way Roy's heartbeat slows to a resting pace and his breathing evens out. Jamie tries to commit every tiny detail to memory before he inevitably falls asleep in the warmest and safest place he has ever been. And a sense of home settles in him that threatens to break him. And that must show somehow because Roy cards his fingers through Jamie's hair. Roy had seen Jamie's mum do it when Jamie had started to shift in his sleep at the hospital. And he must have done it right because Jamie goes to putty in his hands. And Roy thinks he might hear a sniffle.

"Hey," Roy says, his tone softer than Jamie thinks he has ever heard. "I've got you," Roy says, the hand not in Jamie's hair is holding him tight.

"And you have me," Jamie says. "As long as you can stand to have me."

Roy grunts and shifts so he can actually kiss Jamie. "Don't tempt me," he states.

"Mean it," Jamie grins.

"Fucking hell," Roy groans. "Now we have to fucking figure this shit out."

"Too good an offer to resist?" Jamie teases.

"Something like that," Roy says before catching his lips again. "We'll come up with something."

"Always do," Jamie finishes for him.

Roy sees Jamie off at the station and Jamie keeps his sunglasses on and his hoodie pulled tight because it isn't actually his, it's Roy's and no one needed to know that but him and Roy. His sunglasses hide the puffy eyes and tears and let people think he is sleeping off a bender or something because he doesn't need them to ask why he is so quiet. Why isn't he on his phone? He just wants to think of a way to get back to Richmond without ruining his career. Because Roy would be pissed if Jamie threw everything away for him, especially right after losing it all himself. Roy was a bit lost as is. Jamie didn't want to make it worse. The only thing keeping him from worrying too much about Roy being alone was Phoebe. Phoebe would keep him busy. She was smart and would know Roy needed it. Keeley had said she would help them find a way to get Jamie back. And Jamie trusted Keeley more than almost anyone. Between her and Roy, they kept him from losing it completely. He just hopes they could do the same for each other.

As time goes on, Jamie is miserable and annoyed with the rehab team that is trying to get him back to pitch ready. On the phone, Roy reminds him they are just doing their jobs and as much as he hates being there it's for the best. He doesn't take his misery out on anyone, but he doesn't exactly do much to hide it.

Pep meets with him one day and asks him if he is okay and Jamie tells him the truth. He misses Richmond. He never had friends like that. City had put up with him when he was at his worst and he appreciated that, but it didn't feel like home anymore. He wasn't happy. And Pep understood. He would see what they might be able to do to help him and Jamie felt better.

He called Roy later and told him about it.

"That's fucking great," Roy says.

Jamie was practically buzzing with excitement as he waited for the train to get there. He had to remind himself that he couldn't just run up and kiss Roy no matter how much he wanted to. No matter how much he missed him. And Jamie lights up when he sees Roy. And Roy can't help but fucking grin. Jamie hugs him and Roy lets him, fuck anyone that would care. He missed Jamie and he hadn't seen him in weeks. But they can't stay there too long and they both know it.

"How's your mum?" Roy asks as they head to Jamie's car.

"She's good. Simon's good," Jamie grins. "How's your sister and Phoebe?"

"Already annoyed that I have nothing to do but bother them and Keeley has been bugging me about fucking Sky sports."

"Oh that'd be something," Jamie laughs. "You behind the desk with those pricks. I'd pay to see it."

"You fucking would," Roy shakes his head but grins because he knows Jamie is mostly just being a cheeky prick. "You just miss seeing my fucking face."

"That's true," Jamie admits. "That and it's funny when you yell at people that aren't me."

"Fuck off," Roy says, playfully shoving Jamie shoulder. Jamie laughs.

They didn't touch again until Roy's stuff was in the boot and they were in Jamie's car. And even then it isn't more than Jamie's hand finding Roy's when he can. It's like that until they are locked away in Jamie's flat that Roy pins Jamie against the door and gives Jamie a right and proper snog. Fucking kisses him like he'd wanted to since he saw him.

"Hi," Jamie grins when they finally separate for air.

Roy's grunts. "Fucking missed you."

"Fucking missed you too," Jamie parrots. "As much as I'd love for you to fuck me right here, I think your knee would never recover and can't have that, can we?"

"Fucking hell," Roy groans as Jamie moves just right underneath him and Roy considers testing that little idea of Jamie's. But Roy knows Jamie's right and it's been fucking weeks. And he was determined to do this the right way. So he pushes off the door and follows Jamie's lead until they find themselves in a familiar position. Absolutely lost in their own little world for a bit as they make it very clear just how much they really did miss each other. Jamie couldn't stop his hands from exploring if he had wanted and Roy wanted to know what every centimeter of Jamie tastes like. And neither were disappointed by what they discovered. The rest of the day they barely left Jamie's bed. Roy re-familiarizing himself with every tattoo, mark, and scar on Jamie Tartt. And Jamie Tartt listens to the most soothing sound in the world to him, the sound of Roy's heart beating in his chest as he holds Jamie close. It was a reminder that it was all very much real. And Jamie wasn't alone. And Roy didn't mind the fact Jamie just wanted an extra long cuddle. He knew Jamie spent most days trying to get back in shape before the new season. Get back to where Roy assures him he should be. What team didn't matter because they both knew it now. They'd be Richmond till they died because that was home now. That was where most of the important people in their lives were, but mostly they knew that Richmond would be the one place that wouldn't mind if Roy and Jamie were together. Because the team there actually knew them, cared for them. Sure, Pep seemed to care a lot about Jamie, but it wasn't the same. No team had a dynamic quite like Richmond. And it made it hard for Jamie to be back with City. He considered a few lads there his mates, but it wasn't like it was at Richmond. It just felt different. And Jamie missed them terribly.

"How's the team?" Jamie asks.

"Scattered as usual, postseason. Montlaur, Rojas, and the rest went home. Sam says to stay in touch. Jeff said he'd try and catch back up with you soon. Ted says 'don't be a stranger' in that stupid accent of his."

"I miss them too," Jamie says.

"I know," Roy says as he runs his fingers tips along Jamie's scalp. He tugs slightly at the striker's now longer hair, earning an unashamed moan from Jamie. "Growing it out I see."

"Good or bad?"

"It's you, you'd make it fucking work one way or another."

"Not exactly an answer, Kent."

"It's fucking fine. I don't give a shit as long as you like it."

"I do like it," Jamie admits.

"Then it's good," Roy says, giving the longer locks another tug.

"I think I fucking love you," Jamie blurts out before he can stop himself. Like his brain hasn't caught up with his heart or his mouth. The hand in his hair stills and he is pretty sure he hears the way Roy's heartbeat races. That was good right? It's a long and painful silence for Jamie as he waits for Roy to say anything. But the silence gets to him. "Roy…" and Roy tilts Jamie's head up and manages to catch his lips.

"I think you aren't the only one," Roy says. His words spoke against Jamie's lips. "I fucking love you too."

And Jamie could cry, because Roy fucking Kent just said he loved him back while they cuddle in Jamie's bed. "Now I really need to find a way back to Richmond."

"You really do," Roy agrees.

The team cheers when Jamie walks in and Jamie is stunned. It's not until Roy guides him over to his new cubby spot, that just so happens to be right by the door.

"Told you it would work out," Roy whispers in his ear. Jamie wants to keep Roy that close and fucking kiss him so bad his hands actually twitch. But before he can do anything, Roy grins. "Go celebrate," he insists as he pulls away from Jamie to head to the gaffer's office to talk to Beard. Jamie wanted to reach over and pull him back but the team swarmed him. Because not only is he healed up and ready to start the new season, he is back at Richmond.

"You tell him the rest of the deal?" Beard asks as Roy walks in.

"Nah, want to see the look on his face when it happens," Roy says. "Little prick has been a fucking nightmare the past few days."

"Your nightmare though," Beard states. Roy looks over at the desk that's officially his. Roy couldn't help but grin when a loud round of Richmond till we die is being shouted in the locker room. And he knows, he just knows this was the right call to make. For both their futures.

Ted and Beard manage to get the team out on the field. Jamie had been sad that he hadn't had the chance to say goodbye to Roy but he had training to do.

"You ready?" Keeley asks him.

Roy nods.

Roy spends half the morning in the press room fielding questions about not only being Richmond's newest coach, one that actually knows the game, and an openly non-straight one at that. And the press went wild on that. Questions about his preferences. How long he had known. He refused to answer most of them. And absolutely shut the whole thing down when they asked if he was seeing anyone. He was just getting up to leave when someone asked about the nature of his relationship with Jamie Tartt, since Roy had been seen spending time with in Manchester in the off season. That pissed Roy off. He wasn't going to say anything revealing. Because he hadn't actually talked any of this over with Jamie.

"He asked for my help to get him ready for the new season, after his recovery. Didn't need to train myself anymore. I was his fucking captain when he was hurt and I'm a fucking coach now. Is that so fucking hard to believe?" And he walked away.

Rebecca had told him he had done well.

The locker room went oddly quiet when he walked in after lunch. Roy had spent most of his day so far dealing with Keeley plotting over a dozen photos and event lineups for him. He didn't care about any of it. He knew by the time he got back to start actually coaching the team would already know.

"The fuck you lot staring at," Roy says. "Get the fuck back to work." He looked at Jamie but Jamie wouldn't look at him. Roy sighs and drags Jamie into the office. Both Ted and Beard take that as their cue to get the team moving. Ted gives Roy a thumbs up as he closes the door behind them.

"You didn't tell me you were going to do that," Jamie says.

"Are you mad?" Roy asks him, because Jamie didn't look happy at all.

"Why?" Jamie implores.

The new coach wasn’t sure what the striker meant. "Why did I do it or why didn't I tell you?"

"Both," Jamie says.

"It was part of the deal to get Welton to buy out your contract from Man City."

"So you outed yourself for me?" Jamie doesn’t know if he should be furious or feel like the luckiest guy in the world.

"I took the job as a coach for you, Keeley thought we might as well make the announcement memorable."

That twists something in Jamie’s gut. Keeley is easily his best friend, but that didn’t mean he agreed with her tactics. He hated the idea of Roy giving up anything for, let alone something this big. "But they made you…"

Roy can tell this isn’t going the way he figured it would. He probably should have figured that would happen. "No one fucking makes me do anything I don't fucking want to," Roy assures him. "You fucking know that."

"I know but-"

"I never actually hid my sexuality from anyone. But no one fucking asked. And no one…well, no one ever made me think I'd have a reason to make something of it. But you. That's different. You've always been different. Made me fucking think. Fucking be better. Even before that fucking morning in the boot room. You always rose to meet me. Challenged me. Fucking annoying but I love it."

"Why didn't you tell me, we could have-"

"Because you are just getting back on the fucking pitch. You are now fully contracted to AFC Richmond. People are going to already have questions. Like why would a Manchester lad, born and raised, trained by City want to be anywhere but with Man City or even fucking United. Or what could possibly interest you in staying with a team that is barely in the league. If you and me were to actually go public, right now, you know what they'd say. You were throwing it all away for me. Or that I made you fucking do it."

"And I'd fucking tell ‘em all that is bullshit. My dad ruined Manchester for me. My dad is why I didn't mind coming here in the first place. It pissed him off. And I'll tell ‘em no team has ever felt more like home than Richmond. That yeah, I'm from Manchester. My mum is still there with my stepdad. And I love them. But I'm Richmond till I fucking die if they'll have me. Because there are things I love here in Richmond too. This fucking team. And I fucking love you. So that's all there is to it. I fought like hell to get back here and I made that choice. Me. And like you said, I asked you to help me get back here. Not just in the game but to Nelson Road. To the fucking AFC Richmond Greyhounds. There is no place I'd rather be than right here with you."

"That was beautiful." Jamie and Roy turn to see Ted standing there with Colin and Dani. Dani having been the one to actually say it.

"Sorry, didn't mean to ruin the cinematic moment," Ted says. "Dani was worried that Jamie was worn out from training already and Colin wanted to talk to you, Coach."

"Fucking hell," Roy says. He pinches the bridge of his nose. This team was already getting on his nerves and it was his first day as a coach.

Ted takes that as his sign that maybe Roy needs a bit more time to talk to Jamie. "We'll give you fellas a minute. But for the record, you two are adorable. Like enemies to lovers is one of my favorite troupes. So happy for you gents."

"Fuck off," Roy glares at Ted.

"Right, yeah, we're going," Ted says. Colin and Dani are already halfway to the locker rooms and looking anywhere but at the pair in the office.

Ted closes the door behind him again.

"Well, I guess the team's gonna know," Jamie says. "That okay?"

"I don't give a shit what they say. They'd always be fucking fine with it. It's the rest of the fucking league and the fucking fans that will try to fucking ruin you. And I don't want to be-"

Jamie kisses him.

"You won't be. I'd have probably found a way to fuck things up on my own if you hadn't have fought me in the boot room that morning. You're the reason we're both still here."

"Well, let's just fucking see how my shit goes over before you go making it about you," Roy says. Jamie laughs.

"You are something else, Roy fucking Kent," Jamie laughs.

"And your a fucking prick, but I fucking love you too. Now get your arse out on that pitch. And don't expect me to go easy on you because I know you better than anyone and I'm going to-" Jamie kisses him again before heading towards the door with a cheeky, "Yes, Coach."

"Dani Rojas!" Jamie grins as he makes his way into the locker room. "I assure you amigo, I am better than I have ever been. And I was fucking fantastic before." He claps Dani on the back.

"I can see that, mi amigo. I am very happy for you and Coach Roy. And I am glad you are back."

"Me too, Dani Rojas. Me too." Jamie throws his arm over Dani's shoulders as the pair of strikers head out.

"I'll go with them," Ted says. "Take your time."

Roy looks at a nervous Colin. "Hughes?"

"Yeah?" Colin says.

"Fucking out with it," Roy demands.

"Sorry, maybe I should come back another time, it's your first day as coach and-"

"Hughes," Roy says. "What is it?"

Colin had no idea how to ask what he actually wanted to ask.

“Going to need more clues here, Hughes,” Roy says. He has a feeling he knows but he isn’t going to be a prick and just assume.

Colin hesitates but he realizes that Roy just made the biggest announcement anyone could make on this type of topic in the sport. So he might as well just say it. “I’m gay,” Colin says.

“Okay? And?”

“What?”

“And I’m your coach and I’m glad you feel like you can tell me this, but is that all you wanted to say?”

“I just…I didn’t know there was anyone else like me on the team,” Colin says. “I didn’t know you or even Jamie-”

Roy is quick to stop him. “Going to need to talk to Jamie about what Jamie is.”

“But aren’t you two…” Colin is confused. He’d just seen Roy and Jamie kiss, more than once. “But you’re together, Jamie clearly-”

“Again, you’re going to have to fucking talk to Jamie about Jamie. Jamie and I haven’t labeled shit,” Roy tells him. “I’m not going to put him in a fucking box. I know that I’m me. Not straight, not gay. It’s a fucking spectrum I never bothered to figure out. All I can say is it’s fucking fine you’re gay. Fucking great you know who you are. I’ll tell you the same thing I told him, don’t fucking say shit about it to the press yet. I can take the fucking heat. I’m not saying hide it any more than you were before. Opposite really. You can be who you are outside here. That’s fine. Fuck it, you can even tell the team, be all fucking sunshine and rainbows for them. They love any reason to celebrate. I’m out, Jamie might as well be now. You can do what you want. I’m just say be fucking careful if you aren’t ready to tell the world. For better or fucking worse, I just brought a fucking press shit show to the door.”

“Why’d you do it?” Colin asks.

“Because I may not like telling the press shit, but I know they’re going to look for a story and the story is that I’m fucking here because Jamie Tartt wanted to be and that was fucking deal. Could leak from our side, could leak from City.”

“Man City knows?”

“Pep Guardiola knows more than he lets on,” Roy states.

“I don’t doubt that,” Colin says with absolute honesty. Pep Guardiola was known for being a good gaffer.

“I wanted the fucking lens to be focused on me,” Roy tells him. “Jamie’s been through fucking hell to get here. Fucking earned it. Press don’t need to be fucking digging around on why he wants to be here.”

“And if they figure out about you and Jamie?” Colin asks. “Not that I would ever say anything. I wouldn’t, I swear.”

“Then I guess we go the way Jamie suggested, tell ‘em they’re fucking pricks and that they’re looking for a scandal between consenting fucking adults that keep their private lives fucking private as much as fucking possible, and that as long as Jamie does his fucking job, and I do my fucking job, what’s the fucking problem?”

“Well, guess it’s good you have a plan,” Colin says.

“When fucking don’t I?” Roy challenges.

“Fair play,” Colin admits.

“Is that all, Hughes?” Roy asks. “Or do you want to have a fucking tea party?”

Colin isn’t sure if he should answer yes or no, that was a very confusing but very Roy Kent sort of question. “I think that’s it,” Colin manages.

“Then get your fucking arse on the pitch with the rest of the fucking team,” Roy tells him.

“Yes, Coach,” Colin says in a rush as he goes through the door to the locker room. “Sorry, Coach.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Roy calls after him. “Be fucking faster.”

Once alone Roy takes a deep breathe and fucking groans. This was his fucking life now. And he didn’t hate it at fucking all. He smiled to himself. His players clearly trusted him, at least as far as he could tell. They seemed supportive enough. He had Jamie and he didn’t see Jamie going anywhere anytime soon. He still had to deal with Ted fucking Lasso, but that didn’t seem as fucking terrible as it had before. He was supportive and he helped get Jamie back. Roy’s family was in a good place and for once it seemed he might be. Something would go fucking sideways sooner or later, but for now, like Jamie, he’s Richmond till he dies. Which being in a relationship with fucking Jamie Tartt, might be sooner rather than later, but it’d be worth it.

“About bloody time,” Jamie says when Roy finally makes it to the pitch. “What took you so long?”

“None of your fucking business,” Roy says but there is no heat in it, because this is Jamie.

“Your business is my business,” Jamie counters.

“Nosy prick,” Roy grunts.

“But you fucking love me,” Jamie grins.

“Might fucking change if your arse isn’t back running fucking drills in the next ten fucking seconds.”

Jamie laughs, because he knows that’s a fucking lie. He also knows Roy isn’t going to show him any favoritism on the pitch. “You said the same thing to Phoebe when she got out of bed after you’d tucked her in the other night,” Jamie points out. “Might need to work on your motivational shit, coach.”

“How's this for motivational,” Roy gets right up in Jamie’s face. “Get your fucking arse back to drills now and maybe you can do that one thing I told you you could never fucking do at the dog track.”

“Wait…really? But you said I’d terrorized enough kitmen and didn’t need to traumatize him more,” Jamie says.

“Not going to fucking find out running that pretty little mouth of yours on the sidelines, Tartt.” And the look on Roy’s face tells him he’s fucking serious. On all of it. And Jamie might actually be more motivated than he ever has been in his life to run drills.

“Fucking hell,” Jamie mutters.

“Fucking move it, Tartt!” Roy shouts and Jamie does with a chipper, “Yes, Coach.”

#tw: violence #tw: abuse #tw: anger #tw: hospitalization #tw: fighting #tw: history of abuse #tw: broken bones #tw: injury #tw: physical pain #tw: cursing #tw: cussing #tw: swearing #royjamie #jamieroy #jamie tartt x roy kent #roy x jamie #tw: anxiety #tw: fear

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hannahssimblr · 4 months

Text

After a freezing, wet trek along the Clontarf seafront I turn into Michelle’s estate. All the houses have warm, yellow light spilling out the windows onto the grey, rain beaten pavement, inviting, yet it only reminds me of how grim this damn country is in the winter. It's been eight years since we moved here now and yet I still don't understand how people are supposed to cope with the winter. I suppose they don’t. I suppose we just accept that we will be a little bit sad for a while.

They always leave the door off the latch for me on Tuesdays, they know I’m coming, and I let myself into the warmth of their home. It always smells good here, tonight like seafood and lemongrass, and whatever is cooking sizzles enticingly on the pan. I won’t ask for food, I never dare to, but if they offer I have yet to refuse them.

Rahim Tengu peers into the hallway as I shut the door. He is cooking in a suit. He’s always wearing one, even when doing things like mowing the lawn in the heat of summer.

“Jude,” he says, “Wet outside, eh?”

“Yeah,” I take my shoes off and leave them by the door, “Whatever you’re making smells good, like always.”

“Nasi Lemak,” He says, “I’ll leave a plate for you when you're finished”

“Oh, thank you.”

He hesitates, “So how are your studies?”

“Yeah, good. Trying to get back into the swing of it since the new year. Fifth year is tough, you know?”

“Yes,” Another pause. Rahim is the most awkward of all the dads, he never knows what to say to me, but I let him think on it for another moment, brows knitted, spoon halfway to the pan, before I decide to put him out of his misery.

“Jen upstairs?”

“Yes, yes, in her room.”

“Cool, see you in a while then.”

She’s sprawled out of the duvet with her earphones in, laying still like a corpse with her hands clasped on her stomach and white socks stacked on the pillows.

“Oh, you’re here,” she drawls. She doesn't even have to open her eyes to know it.

“You sound thrilled.”

“Ugh,” She flips to her stomach, pulls at her iPod cable and tosses the whole thing towards the head of the bed, “Come on, then, make me feel like a dumb bitch.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” I dig my maths notes out of my school bag and join her on the bed, “You been practising your trig?”

“That the one with the protractors?”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

She lays still for a long moment, just staring into the middle distance before gathering the energy to learn. She falls onto her back and pulls the book I have opened toward her. “‘In the diagram, [AB] and [DC] are two parallel roads, where [AB] = 800m and [DC] = 500m. By measurement, it is determined that [<ABC] = 75° and that [BC] = 600m. Find [AC] to the nearest metre,’” She looks at me, eyes filled with hopeless despair, “How am I meant to know?”

“Well, do you remember what we went over before Christmas? The cosine rule?”

“Before Christmas? You might as well be talking a decade ago. I don’t remember anything that happened before last week. My brain is mush.”

I pull out my ruler, “Well, look, let’s start by drawing it out so we can visualise it, like this, then, we know that A² = B² + C² - 2BCcosA…”

“Do we know that? Are we sure?”

“Jenny, yes. C’mon, we’ve done this.”

“I don’t think you understand how much I hate maths.”

“It’s not that bad, look, based on the cosine rule and the information we know already, we can write out the formula, right? x=(600)² + (800)² - 2(600)(800)cos 75°, so all you have to do is work that out.”

“Oh, is that all.”

“Yeah, so c’mere, hand me your calculator, it’s-” A shriek from the next room almost rattles my skeleton free from my flesh.

“Why are you always like this?” It's Michelle. “I’m old enough! Just let me go!”

I glance awkwardly at Jen who is ignoring it, diligently punching the formula into her calculator and kicking her feet in the air.

“When you demonstrate responsibility,” her mother screams back, “I will give you freedom, but until then…”

“Don’t look so shocked,” Jen says when she catches sight of my stricken expression, “You and Collette are like this.”

“Not really. We don’t scream at each other.”

“This is just the volume they speak at here. It’s not as dramatic as it sounds. They're kind of just... having a conversation.”

“Okay but you’re being such a bitch about it.” Michelle bites out, and I wince.

“I don’t talk to my mom like that.”

Jen shrugs, “It’s not that serious, really, they don’t mean it. They'll be all lovey-dovey-happy-families again tomorrow. You get used to it.” she scribbles something onto her copy book and pushes it toward me “X equals 751533?”

I frown, “I don’t know, let me check.”

“Well you’re a nightmare of a daughter sometimes, do you hear me? I don’t want to be like this, I don’t want to be up here shouting at you, but you drive me to distraction with all of this carry on!”

“Um,” my fingers hesitate on the buttons of the calculator, “So… it was… (600)² which is…”

Something clatters to the floor and they start shouting even louder. The corners of Jen’s mouth curl up, “Let’s take a break, yeah? We can drown it out with some music.”

“Good idea.”

She scrambles to fetch her iPod again and hands me one earbud. We lie back on the pillows while she puts on some whiny emo track about a guy who is either dying or wishing he was dead.

“Are you traumatised by Michelle and her mam because it reminds you of your parents?” She leans over me and sweeps my hair from my forehead. I laugh, “You trying to therapize me?”

“You said they fought when you were small.”

“Yeah but I only heard it a handful of times, I wouldn’t say I am traumatised.”

“Still, I think there’s something lodged in your psyche about it, it’s why you hate conflict.”

“Nobody likes conflict.”

“Yeah but most people don’t avoid it like you,” She pokes my arm because I've looked away, “Hey, would you say that you’d rather run away from your problems than face them?”

“Did you steal that question from your counsellor?”

She pretends to be shocked, “Um, no! Excuse me.”

“You’re excused. Hey, would you like it if my voice sounded like this guy’s?” I tilt the iPod screen to her and point to the album cover guy who has blood pouring down his face.

“First of all, that’s not the guy singing, that’s a cartoon. Secondly, I don’t know what you even mean.”

I lean into her ear and put on the whiniest voice I can in imitation of him “Hhhhwhat’s the worst that I can say… hhhthings are better if I stay…”

She snorts and shoves me off her, “Go away, you freak.”

“hhhAND IF WE CARRY ON THIS HHHWWWHAYAH…”

Jen’s bedroom door opens and I jump. Michelle stands there frowning. I hadn’t even realised in the midst of my caterwauling and our hysterical giggles that the shouting had stopped.

Beginning // Prev // Next

#lucky boy 2009 #hello Michelle #prizes for guessing who Jude is making fun of #the emo content is good for my soul tbh #tw: fighting

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schrijverr · 11 months

Text

I Found Myself a Cheerleader 4

Chapter 4 out of 28

Bumped to the lowest step on the social ladder after his fight with Billy, Steve gets roped in with the cheer team. What starts as a favor to help them out when one member breaks her leg in turn for protection from the brunt of the bullying, sets the universe on a different path.

In this chapter, Chrissy and Steve have a sleepover. During it, they open up about shitty parents, unhealthy habits around food and Steve has a nightmare. It makes them even closer as the year progresses. Meanwhile, Billy is getting more and more frustrated until he snaps and attacks Steve, who is saved by an unlikely hero.

On AO3.

Ships: eventual steddie and buckingham

Warnings: eating disorder, child abuse mention, period typical homophobia, nightmare, vomiting, bullying, f-slur, fighting

~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 4: The Sleepover

Ever since that Saturday, Chrissy has discovered how easily she can get out of the house and over to Steve’s under the guise of meeting up with people from cheer squad. So, their time together has increased significantly.

Steve is pretty sure Chrissy is his best friend right now.

Of course, they still mostly see each other at school, having practice each day. However, now Steve will drive her home after and they’ll stop by a park and talk for a little bit. And it’s not until two weeks later that Chrissy says: “We could have a sleep over. My mom will be going with my dad to this work party and she said she’d feel better if I’m not alone.”

In all honesty, Steve is kind of blown away that he is her first pick. He has never been anyone’s first pick without performing King Steve. He smiles at her and says: “Course, sounds fun.”

The bit of insecurity that lingered over Chrissy disappears as her face brightens. “Cool, then I’ll see you Saturday,” she says, before skipping over to the changing room.

Chrissy arrives on Saturday quite late, but grinning mischievously as he opens the door. “I stalled, so my mom wouldn’t wait to see, who opened the door. She thinks you’re a very nice christian girl, Stevie.”

“You’re a menace, Chris,” Steve shakes his head as he lets her in. He is excited to have a fun evening with his friend, but also unsure of how the night will go. He is also planning to bring up the food thing, though he doesn’t know how that will go.

She throws her bag in the hall and toes of her shoes. Then she dives into her bag as she says: “I have a copy of the Breakfast Club and you’re not allowed to protest.”

“Whatever you say,” Steve tells her with a fond grin, not having planned on protesting.

It says a lot about how close they’ve gotten that Chrissy moves through his house easily without having been there often. She rummages through all his cabinets in search for a glass and he watches her with amusement from the kitchen threshold.

However, the Harrington kitchen is quite big and they have a lot of cabinets with all sorts of tableware. So after watching her struggle for a bit Steve says: “You can also just ask, you know that, right, Chris?”

Chrissy pouts at him and says: “It’s not my fault that your house in confusing. Where do you keep glasses? I want some water.”

Steve opens a cabinet she hadn’t gotten to yet and fills it up with water, before handing it to her with a flourish: “My lady.”

“Thank you,” she grins, then moves to the living room where she attempts to figure out the TV system the Harringtons have.

Meanwhile Steve gets himself a glass of coke and goes to sit on the couch. He watches as Chrissy continues to press buttons until she figures it out, heart swelling with fondness. It’s nice to have a friend again, he hasn’t had a sleepover in ages.

The last time he watched a movie with someone like this was back when he was still trying to be King Steve. For a second he worries that she thinks this is a date, which he wouldn’t go for even if he were straight, because she is fifteen to his seventeen.

Right when he wonders that, she turns around and huffs: “Your TV is fucking stupid, Stevie. It is evil, I tell you.”

She is in a ratty shirt and her hair is up in an ugly bun. The way she’s complaining reads more like an annoying little sibling than anything else and he’s been on enough dates to know that her behavior isn’t very date-like.

He lets out a relieved breath, before smirking as he gets up, easily starting up the movie as Chrissy rolls her eyes and tells him he’s annoying.

However, she doesn’t complain further and crawls onto the couch, making herself comfortable as Steve starts up the movie and sits down next to her. When he does she flops over him. The move makes Steve smile and he relishes in the friendly contact.

By the time the end credits roll, they’re two vegetables on the couch. Steve is sure they can find something else to watch, but first: “What’s your preferred pizza topping?”

“What?” Chrissy asks, looking up from where she made herself at home in his lap.

“I’m gonna order pizza, what do you want?” Steve clarifies.

“Oh, uhm,” Chrissy says, looking wrong footed. “Not a big pizza fan,” she settles on after a moment.

“Chris,” Steve starts, unsure where to go from now, but knowing he has to say something. “You- you need to eat something. What you’re doing isn’t healthy.”

She straightens up, getting out of his lap as she practically shrinks into the other side of the couch. It rubs Steve wrong, the way she makes herself smaller. She tucks her hair behind her ear and says: “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t do this, Chris,” Steve says, brows pulling together, a lump in his throat.

“Let it go, Steve,” Chrissy shoots back and the use of his name hurts more than he’s willing to admit.

Still, he doesn’t let it affect him. He steels himself and shakes his head. “No. Just no. I’m not letting it go. You barely eat during lunch, you always refuse snacks. Fuck, you’re skin and bones, Chrissy. It shouldn’t be so easy to toss you in the air.”

“You don’t understand,” Chrissy is yelling now.

“Then make me understand,” Steve yells back. “Just fucking talk to me. Explain. Please.”

They’re both breathing heavily after their outbursts, just staring at each other. Neither of them are willing to break the look first, to give in. So, they stand there and wait to see who breaks first. Who will blink. Who will give in.

In the end Chrissy looks away first, her eyes boring holes into the ground as she hunches her shoulders. Quietly she says: “You don’t know what it’s like to live with her.”

“Who?” Steve asks softly, sitting down next to her gently, not yet touching. He doesn’t want her to stop talking.

“My mom,” Chrissy whispers. “She’s always on my case about what I’m eating. It’s suffocating. I’m not even allowed in the kitchen alone. And she’ll- she’ll like hem my clothes continuously, so they’re always too tight and it- it drives me wild. You can’t understand how that feels.”

“I do, though,” Steve tells her. “I get it. It fucking sucks, but you don’t have to listen to her. She’s being an asshole. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to be healthy.”

“How the fuck can you know?” Chrissy snaps, her tone venomous. “Look at you. You’re doing perfectly fine. You’re not always getting yelled at, how the fuck can you know?”

“Chrissy, I’m literally being protected by the cheer team, because shit got so bad,” Steve frowns at her harsh words, his own slipping out. “My life also isn’t sunshine and rainbows.”

“Well, it’s not the same,” Chrissy tells him. “Your mother isn’t always breathing down your neck about every calorie. You can do whatever you want.”

The words hit a sore spot and Steve can’t stop the bitter laugh he lets out, something ugly twisting in his chest. “Yeah, I can do whatever I want,” he spits bitterly.

“Stevie?” Chrissy asks, his tone tipping her off that something changed.

“Seriously, Chris?” he says instead of answering her. “You think my parents fucking love me? They have been gone since January. January. I have been by myself for months. They don’t care. They’re off prancing through Europe or some shit, happy to forget me. All I’m good for here is playing their perfect fucking son. And I can’t even do that right.”

He gets off the couch, tears burning in his eyes as he starts pacing: “I’m a screw up. I had to quit basketball and if they ever find out that I did, I’m sure my father will kill me. Literally. He already thinks I’m pathetic. He gave up on me years ago. I am always by myself, having to keep up this charade to make them happy and it’s never enough.”

Steve turns to Chrissy, looking at her with imploring eyes as she sits on the couch without moving a muscle, waiting for the storm to be over.

“I know what a controlling mother is,” he tells her. “They’re never here, but when they are… Fuck, it’s like I can’t do anything right. The way I move is wrong, what I eat, how I eat- shit, some days I feel like I can’t even breathe right.”

“Stevie, I-” Chrissy starts.

“No,” he cuts her off. “I don’t want you to pity me, Chris. That’s not the point of this. I- I’m messing it all up. The point is that I get it. Parents suck. They’re the worst on the fucking planet and we’d be better of without them. I get it. But you can’t let them take everything from you. You deserve better than this, don’t you get it?”

He runs a hand through his hair and pinches the bridge of his nose. Then he turns around, waving his arms as he continues his speech. The words that have been built up inside him for so long finally pouring out.

“My parents would hate everything I do, if they ever found out, but that isn’t going to stop me. I like cheerleading. I like having friends. I like it. I don’t care what they think, I don’t care what anyone thinks. I’m not going to let them force me to give up what I like. Because I fucking deserve better, okay? And so do you.”

Steve turns back to Chrissy, who is still on the couch, looking quite gobsmacked. He is about to ask what she’s thinking when she burst out into tears.

Panic rises in his chest as he rushes to her side, slinging an arm over her shoulder as he holds her gently. Softly he says: “Hey, hey, you’re okay, you’re okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay. Please, don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry,” Chrissy hiccups, wiping his face with the sleeve of her shirt.

“No need to be sorry,” Steve tells her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m so sorry, Chris.”

“It’s okay, idiot,” Chrissy says, bumping her shoulder against him. “I needed that. You’re right. And I am sorry about what I said about you being able to do what you want. Your parents sound like they suck.”

“They do,” Steve snorts. “For what it’s worth, it sounds like your mom sucks too.”

“She does,” Chrissy laughs. It’s still a bit wet sounding, but it’s better than the crying from earlier, so Steve takes the win.

Both of them fall quiet for a second, sitting on the couch in the living room, the credits of the Breakfast Club still rolling in the background.

“How did you do it?” Chrissy asks after a few seconds, breaking the silence that had fallen.

“Do what?”

“Stop caring.”

Steve is quiet as he thinks, then he slowly says: “It’s hard. I mean, I still care, but I try not to. It just takes time and effort. I have to remind myself constantly. And it’s easier to not care when they’re not here. But then they’ll call and I lie and pretend cheer practice is basketball practice and I pray that no one here reached out to them. They’ll tell me they’ll be away for a bit longer and it’s a relief, because I still care what they think and when they come back I’ll know.”

“So it all just sucks?” Chrissy asks.

“Yeah, kinda,” Steve laughs. “But you gotta keep trying anyway. Just start one day and try not to stop.”

“I can do that,” Chrissy says, determination bleeding into her posture.

“Hell yeah you can,” Steve agrees proudly. “So, pizza toppings?”

The question makes Chrissy laugh, before she admits: “I like pepperoni, but I- I can’t eat an entire pizza, Stevie.”

“We’ll share,” Steve offers with a smile. “I like pepperoni too.”

“Sounds good.”

Steve gets up and orders the pizza. He is glad it is finally out in the open. That Chrissy hasn’t shut him out or is mad at him. He hates it when his friends are mad at him.

Chrissy looks reluctant when the pizza arrives, but Steve doesn’t push. Some steps have to be made by yourself. Indeed determination swoops over her as she takes her first bite. Her eyes grow wide and she lets out a happy hum as she chews.

“Good?” Steve smiles.

“This is delicious,” Chrissy says, mouth still full.

Steve’s smile widens. “Good to hear.”

He puts on another movie that neither of them pay attention too. Chrissy only manages to eat three slices, but Steve is so proud of her. Making her blush as he tells her so.

With the pizza gone, the movie goes further ignored. Both of them end up lying on the floor, looking up at the popcorn ceiling. They’re talking about school, complaining about classes and homework, teachers that suck, weird stuff classmates did and mishaps from practice. Steve also talks a little about the kids.

When there’s a lull in conversation Chrissy suddenly asks: “Are you okay? No one bothering you at school or something?”

“What?” Steve asks, still not really used to someone looking out for him, especially someone like Chrissy, who is both younger than him and a girl.

“I don’t know, you’ve just been more fidgety the past week,” Chrissy says. “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Steve feels himself flushing. The reason he’s been more fidgety is because he’s been trying to avoid Eddie. He has come up to Steve once since their conversation. Steve was nice, but ended the conversation and tried not to look in Eddie’s way after. Something he has been less successful at than he’d want.

He just can’t help it, though. Eddie is magnetic and his eyes are naturally drawn to him. Steve likes watching his dramatic gestures and hypnotizing eyes.

However, Steve only wants to make it through this year unscathed. That means getting an even bigger crush on Eddie Munson is out of the question. Hell, associating with the other boy is out of the question. Especially now that it seems like Eddie wants something from him. Steve has enough trouble as it is.

Though, when he thinks about it, Eddie hasn’t approached since that first time when Steve kind of iced him out.

Of course, Steve has ensured that he is continuously surrounded by cheerleaders, a part of the student body Eddie avoids almost as religiously as the basketball team. So, it’s not like he has given Eddie the chance. Which is good. That was the point.

Still, Steve can admit he’s a bit disappointed at how easily he has shaken the boy. And the only reason he’s still fidgety is because he’s become quite paranoid after the Upside Down, so the few times he has caught Eddie’s eyes afterwards are enough to put him slightly on edge.

Not that he can tell Chrissy any of this. He wants to kid himself into believing she’d be cool with the whole gay thing, but he isn’t going to delude himself like that. Chrissy’s entire family is highly religious. The chances she’d be cool are very low.

So instead he says: “I’m okay. Nothing happened.”

“You sure?” Chrissy pushes.

“Sure,” he tells her with a smile.

“Alright,” Chrissy lets it go, much to his relief.

They stay up way too late, like you’re supposed to at a sleepover. Chrissy teaches Steve how to braid hair and Steve confides in her about the Farrah Fawcett spray, after which he swears her to secrecy. It’s fun and they’re still giggling as they brush their teeth,

Steve sets Chrissy up in a guest room near his, telling her where the bathroom is before leaving her there.

He knows they could share his bed, but he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable or make it seem like he’s pulling a move. He also doesn’t want to scare her in case he has a nightmare. They can get pretty bad, but it has been a while since he woke up screaming. He hopes his luck will hold through the night and he won’t wake Chrissy if he does have a nightmare.

Of course luck has never been in his favor and a few hours later he finds himself flying out of his bed, feeling disoriented.

A door opens behind him and he swirls around, his arms up in a fighting position as he tries to blink the world into focus. Sweat is cooling on his back, breath still catching in his lungs, as images of the demodogs surrounding him still flash in his mind’s eye.

“Stevie?” a voice asks him. One that doesn’t fit into the nightmare he had just woken up from.

Chrissy, his mind supplies.

Another blink and indeed there stands Chrissy in her pajamas, hand still clutching the door knob as she worries a lip between her teeth. She looks a bit scared, like she wants to reach out to him, but is afraid of the probably too intense look in his eyes and his fighting stance.

The anxiety slowly seeps away as a wave of nausea rolls through his body. He swallow thickly, before rushing to the en-suite bathroom, flicking on the light, before dropping to his knees and throwing up in the bowl.

There are footsteps behind him, then a small figure appears beside him. An equally small hand starts rubbing his back as he gags a few more times.

When no more puke comes out, Steve leans back against the wall. His head is bowed between his knees and he feels unable to face Chrissy. God, he feels fucking pathetic.

He feels Chrissy’s warmth against his side as she sits next to him. Both of them are quiet for a few seconds, then Chrissy asks: “You okay, Stevie?”

“Not really,” Steve confesses softly, not finding the energy to lie or come up with a reason.

“I’m sorry,” Chrissy says.

That gets Steve’s attention. He looks up at her in confusion. She looks earnest about it too and he doesn’t get it. “What are you sorry for?”

“After that day when Lisa forced you to eat, I- I should have guessed you weren’t fully okay either, especially not after that speech tonight,” she explains. “But I never asked. So, I’m sorry.”

Steve is overcome with incredible fondness for the girl next to him, who somehow cares about him in a way no one has.

“It’s okay, Chris,” he tells her, gently bumping against her. “I wouldn’t have told you if you asked anyway.”

“Why not?” Chrissy asks with an unhappy frown.

“Because it’s embarrassing,” Steve answers bluntly. “I mean, come on. I am nearly eighteen and I get nightmares that make me puke. That’s not exactly information I want out there.” He’s quiet for a second, then he softly adds: “I don’t like talking about it.”

Chrissy is silent as she thinks. Her face has lost the frown and she gives him a sympathetic smile as she says: “You don’t have to. But I’m glad I know. We’re here for each other, right?”

“Yeah, course,” Steve assures her, though mentally he thinks he is more there for her than vise versa. He is older, he’s already a protector. He’ll look out for her, to make sure nothing will get her. She doesn’t know half of what’s out there.

“And for the record,” Chrissy states, “I don’t think it’s embarrassing. Nightmares are the worst and you’re brave for going through them.”

He appreciates the sentiment so much and he knows that if he tries to say anything he voice might crack or tears may start to fall. So instead he throws an arm around her and pulls her close. The two of them just sitting on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor.

They sit there for another fifteen minutes, before Chrissy asks: “Wanna go to bed again?”

“No, I’m probably gonna go downstairs, maybe do some homework or something,” Steve tells her honestly. “But you can go back to sleep again. I don’t want to keep you up.”

“I’m not going to let you wallow alone, you idiot,” she says, sounding offended that he would even think that. “Lets play a card game or something.”

“Chris…” Steve protests, but Chrissy doesn’t listen to him. Instead she gets up and pulls him along to his bed, plucking the deck of cards from where they lay forgotten on his desk.

Steve decides to just give in and let her do her thing. They argue a little about the rules, but in the end it doesn’t matter much. They play about two rounds, before exhaustion sets in again. Steve can’t remember which one of them falls asleep first.

After that night Chrissy and Steve are as thick as thieves, practically inseparable, both in school and after it.

Lisa is quite done with how they seem to make a game out of annoying the other, or how they’ll compete about stupid little stuff. But she tags along whenever she can, making sure Chrissy and Steve don’t accidentally kill each other by stunting without a back spotter.

Steve has also made it a habit to bring extra lunch to school, since Chrissy’s mom refuses to give her more food to bring. It isn’t perfect yet, but it’s comforting to see her eat during lunch period and there is a sense of pride that comes whenever she thanks him for it. Like he’s taking care of her, doing something right for once.

Chrissy meanwhile asks him every day if he slept okay, noting when the bags under his eyes get darker when he��s going through a rough patch.

She helps him hide most of it with some makeup that she brings to school and convinces her mom to let her sleep over that weekend. It’s nice to not wake up alone for a change.

In their months of friendship, Steve has never met Chrissy’s parents, not that Chrissy has met his either.

Quite honestly, he truly doesn’t want to either. Whenever Chrissy talks about her mother especially, he is reminded of his own parents, who still haven’t returned home. He doesn’t know what it says about him that he hopes they’ll stay away until he can go to college.

Still, he is quite well known by Chrissy’s mother, who is delighted that Chrissy has befriended a good christian girl named Stevie. Chrissy delights in telling him about their fictional adventures that she spun to her mother. It’s kind of funny, Steve has to admit.

In reality most of their afternoons are spend in cheer practice. Competitions are coming up again, so they’re perfecting their new routine. Molly is convinced they’ll win this time and her laser focus and enthusiasm is infectious.

Not all is perfect of course. He often has to clean his locker when it is vandalized again and he is tripped up whenever possible, not to mention all the insults that are slung in his face.

On top of that, he hasn’t had a single acceptance letter in the mail yet, which isn’t great for his anxiety and the only reason he thinks he even has a shot at graduating is because Sofia graciously offers her time to him. He has taken to buying her lunch as a thank you.

Outside of school he still drives the twerps around as well. They mostly want to go to the arcade, but he has also brought them to Hopper’s cabin a few times or picked them up the Wheeler’s house after DnD.

One weekend he even drove Max to a skating rink a few towns over and watched as she performed all sort of dizzying stunts on her board.

Dustin is still his main little guy and he will show up whenever he pleases and brighten Steve’s day, a fact he will never let him know. However, Max and Will are both quickly making it up there as well.

He and Will never talk about that connection in the kitchen, about what they share. Neither of them is willing to acknowledge it, but sometimes they share a look when something happens and that is enough for now.

Steve has for example figured out that Will has a crush on Mike, which he thinks is stupid. Sure, the kid is Will’s best friend, but he’s also a bit of an asshole. Granted that can also just be because he is thirteen years old and everyone is an asshole at thirteen, but Steve stands by it.

So, whenever he thinks Mike does something idiotic, he’ll look at Will with judge-y eyes and Will will pull a face as if to say that he knows, but that he can’t help it and there are good parts to Mike as well.

It’s fun.

He knows that Max doesn’t have it easy at home. He sees Billy on a warpath nearly every day in the halls of Hawkins High. He hasn’t gotten a date with a cheerleader in months now and Steve is just waiting for the day he’s going to snap.

So, Steve tries to get her out of the house and doing something fun as often as he can. They never acknowledge it, but he’s trying to be a better brother than Billy is. So far, he thinks he’s pretty successful all things considered.

His efforts aren’t as appreciated by Billy, who doesn’t show any interest in his step sister beyond tormenting her, yet will glare at Steve whenever they see each other out in public. Still, he hasn’t done too much since their encounter last November.

However, not all good things are meant to last and it comes to a boiling point in the week before spring break.

Steve is sitting in the cafeteria talking to Chrissy and Lisa when his eyes are drawn to some movement. He looks up to see Molly walking away with a huff and a little bit of a thunder cloud over her head.

He looks to see what got that reaction and sees Billy leaning against the wall with an annoyed look on his face. If Steve has to guess he’d been leaning over Molly moments before in an attempt to ask her out. Something that seems like it wasn’t a success.

Tommy is coming up to Billy, likely trying to placate his anger. He’s been Billy’s little lapdog since the fall and it still hurts a bit to see his old friend now hang around his primary bully.

Right as Tommy is doing that, Billy looks up and happens to meet Steve’s eyes. Billy’s eyes immediately narrow, probably thinking that Steve is getting some amusement out of his misfortune or something. So to try and negate the damage, Steve quickly looks away, but it is too late.

Billy straightens up and shrugs of Tommy’s hand as he starts to march towards Steve. His face looks like murder. It looks like that day at the Byers house. It looks like Steve is in deep shit.

Without being conscious of it, Steve gets to his feet. If he is going to be attacked, he’s not letting himself be trapped at the table of a cafeteria, ready like an animal for slaughter. Steve might have made it a habit to get beaten up, but at least he’ll do down swinging.

None of the girls have noticed the danger yet, so when he gets up Lisa asks: “Steve?” in a confused voice.

Before he gets the chance to explain, Billy is already on him. He has grabbed the front of Steve’s shirt and this time he won’t be able to wiggle out of it that easily. “You,” Billy seethes.

“What about me?” Steve shoots back, trying to look unaffected as he searches for a way to get out of this, or fight back.

“You fucking fag,” Billy rages. “You and your little pathetic protection squad. Can’t look even after yourself. Need the cheerleaders to do it.”

“Come on, man, no need to be jealous,” Steve smirks, oozing King Steve charisma. “Not my problem you suck at getting the ladies to like you.”

He knows it isn’t the smartest idea to poke the bear, so to speak. However, he hopes that he can keep some of his dignity throughout this ordeal, to not just fold like a straw. And he might as well take Billy down a peg if he is going to get his ass beat.

Billy doesn’t reply to his taunt, instead tightening his fists as he readies himself to punch.

“What?” Steve continues now that he has found a sore spot. “Nothing to say, Hargrove? You can’t get a date? So what. You’re going to beat me up over it? Like you tried to fight that twelve year old you didn’t like?”

They’ve gathered quite the audience now and Steve decides to fuck it. Billy is making his life miserable, he can choke on his own actions.

“Yeah, I remember that,” he says, projecting his voice so everyone can hear. “Real mature move that was. You might have beat my face in, but won’t change that your first target was a little kid, you pussy.”

Over Billy’s shoulder he can see Tommy looking conflicted, his eyes flicking between Billy and Steve, as if he’s unsure if he should step. Steve can’t care less. Tommy is an asshole and he hates him.

Meanwhile Billy is apparently pushed to the brink of insults he’ll take. He lets out a roar – Steve can’t describe it as anything else – and throws a punch. A hard one.

Steve recoils from the force and hopes he doesn’t get a concussion out of his. He vividly remembers the doctor’s visit after his last fight with Billy. He can’t go through that again, literally. He physically can’t. Well, he could, but it has a big chance of ending badly for him. Very badly.

So, he immediately start to struggle to get free, knowing from their last fight that he can’t let himself be pinned down, because Billy will ruthlessly rain down on him and this time, there is no Max to save him

He hunches into himself and starts walking towards Billy, both of them moving back again. But they hit Tommy, who picks Billy, supporting him and pushing until Billy can turn the tide again and start pushing Steve back.

Vaguely Steve is aware that there is screaming around them and that his nose is bleeding. However, he can’t concentrate on the chants and the chaos, as he desperately fumbles in the hope of prying Billy’s fingers loose from his shirt. He’s already asking himself if he can rip the fabric to get out, before Billy can make him loose his footing.

The answer is: he can’t.

Billy hits him again and he barely manages to duck out of the way so that the hit only slides alongside his face, hitting his ear.

Still, the punch is enough of a distraction that Billy manages to push him over, letting go of his shirt so that Steve can’t hold on to his arm to keep himself upright. So he goes down like a sack of flour, hitting the floor with a dull thud that travels up his arms.

He doesn’t allow himself time to reorient himself, already envisioning Billy pinning him down like he did before.

So, he’s already scrambling back when a dark blur fills his vision. For a second he fears that it’s one of Billy’s lackeys, but no pain comes. Instead the form stands over him in an almost protective manner.

Steve blinks a few times, there in front of him is Eddie Munson. He is holding both of Billy’s fists in his hands, holding him back from attacking again. He is smirking and not looking like it’s taking him much effort. However, Steve can see how his neck is straining, muscles likely bulging under his leather jacket.

“You know, the pulling on pigtails thing is so overdone,” Eddie informs him casually. “If you want to sleep with Stevie-boy here, there are better ways to go about it.”

“I’m not some fag,” Billy snarls as he pulls back as if burned. Then he directs his next words at Steve, who is still on the ground behind Eddie. “First girls, now your boyfriend? It’s pathetic how you hide behind others, Harrington.”

“At least I could get a date, if I wanted,” Steve shoots back, not letting Billy have the last word.

Billy moves to jump him again, but is stopped by Tommy. He pushes Tommy out of the way, but doesn’t start shit again and instead he stalks away.

With Billy gone the excitement dies down and people turn to their own things again. Chrissy and Lisa are at Steve’s side checking him over. Chrissy’s brow is pinched as she asks: “Should we get you to a nurse? Your nose is bleeding.”

“Yeah, you don’t look okay,” Lisa adds.

“Wow, thanks. You two really know how to make a man feel special” Steve jokes, attempting a smile even as his face throbs. “No, but I’m fine, really. It’s okay.”

“I think you should get that checked out, pretty boy,” a new voice cuts in.

Eddie has squatted down in front of him and is checking him over as well with those concerned Bambi eyes. That gaze makes Steve aware how messy he looks. Blood is soaking from his nose into his shirt and he is entirely rumpled. He is also still on the floor.

A blush creeps over his face and he tears his eyes away from Eddie as he huffs: “I didn’t need you protecting me. I had it handled.”

“You call that having it handled?” Eddie asks with a raised brow, like he’s having a hard time believing it.

“It’s better than last time,” Steve defends himself. “He smashed a plate over my head then.”

“What!” Chrissy shrieks.

“I was fine,” Steve assures her, already regretting letting that tidbit slip.

“That sounds bad,” Lisa frowns.

“I was fine,” Steve repeats. “I went to a hospital and everything. It’s all okay. Just like I’m okay now.” He glares at Eddie. “I was fine.”

Eddie faces his glare head on with an air of nonchalance that always hangs about him. “I’m sure you are, big boy,” he tells him. “It still won’t hurt to get a tissue for that.” He nods towards Steve’s still bleeding nose.

When Eddie doesn’t respond to his hostility, Steve switches tactics and asks: “Why did you even help me? You’ve only made yourself a target.”

“Nah, man. Not if Billy wants his drugs, I’m not,” Eddie grins. “Besides, whereas the basketball team looks after the popular kids, I look after the lost sheep. You’re one of the outcasts now, Stevie, that means you’re under my jurisdiction.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Steve protests, but he manages a smile. Eddie might want some mysterious thing from him, but he also looks out after his own. He had almost forgotten they shared something now.

“Well,” Eddie stands up again and claps his hands. “That was enough excitement for today, I think. See you around, Steve. Look after yourself.” He nods at Chrissy and Lisa. “My ladies.” Then walks back to his table.

“He is not like I expected him to be,” Chrissy whispers.

“Mean and scary?” Lisa asks.

“Yeah,” Chrissy nods.

“He’s a weird guy,” Steve says, unable to hide a bit of fondness that creeps in. He gets up from the floor and says: “Might be smart to get a tissue.”

“I’ll walk you to the nurse,” Chrissy offers.

“Yeah, and I’ll take your stuff our next class and explain why you’re late,” Lisa adds.

“Thanks,” Steve smiles.

He and Chrissy walk away. As they make their way to the nurse, she comments: “You and Eddie seemed to know each other.”

Steve hesitates for a second, then shrugs: “We talked once. He seems nice, but- I don’t know… We don’t really associate.”

“Alright,” Chrissy luckily seems to let it go. “Glad he was there. I was really scared.”

“I’m fine, I promise,” Steve says, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

A/N:

Chrissy and Steve have parent issues, jock solidarity and u can’t change my mind, lmao

Also, disclaimer: I am not in any way, shape or form a good source on how do deal with someone you care about going through an eating disorder. Please do not take fanfic as a helpful source or guide to deal with such issues.

It’s hilarious in a sad way that I am going against the grain by giving Steve a little bit self worth rip

#rr writing #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #chrissy cunningham #billy hargrove #cheerleader steve harrington au #steve harrington & chrissy cunningham #buckingham #tw: eating disorder #tw: child abuse #tw: bullying #tw: f slur #tw: fighting #tw: period typical homophobia #tw: nightmares #tw: vomiting

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