#ted lasso/trent crimm

[singaroundelay]

“Colin, you better have a damn good reason for showing up at 7 am.”

“Why, you got someone here?”

“Of course not.”

Meanwhile, the not-someone upstairs…

Not saying this would have been a better ending to S3 — but I’m not not saying it.

[nollimet]

“Nobody taught me to want. But now I want. I remain lying down with eyes open, looking at the ceiling. Inside is the darkness. A pulsating “I” is taking shape.” — Clarice Lispector, Água Viva

[laiqualaurelote]

for the wip ask meme: cover story!

Thank you for this ask (from this WIP game)! a couple of folks have asked about this one. It's the Ted/Trent spy-AU-in-a-Notting-Hill-bookshop-AU, which stalled because the premise got too unwieldy and the literary references got out of hand. (It did have a playlist I was quite fond of, with a number of Kinks songs including, presciently, A Well Respected Man). Because I am unlikely to ever finish it, I thought I'd just fic amnesty the whole thing here, so:

Cover Story

Trent is about to wind up stocktaking when the door to the bookshop bangs open. “We’re closed,” he calls irritably, and then he turns and sees who it is.

“I got something of a reading emergency,” says Ted Lasso.

Trent takes him in: breathing hard, collar askew, perspiration plastering a lick of hair against his forehead. In his hand is a gun. Trent recognises it as a Heckler & Koch P30L.

Trent ought to be going for his own weapon right about now. Instead he says: “So it is you.”

“Yep,” says Ted.

“I knew it,” hisses Trent. “I fucking knew it.”

“Boy, you sure do like to be right about stuff.” Ted pauses, then staggers. Trent sees that he is favouring his left side, and that the shirt beneath the puffer jacket is darkening with blood.

“Ted,” he begins, “wh – ”

“Like I said,” Ted grits out, “emergency.” And then he collapses in the middle of Trent’s bookshop.

Five weeks earlier

“You wouldn’t happen to have the latest John le Carré, would you?”

Trent has to climb a little ways down the ladder to see the man speaking to him. It’s one of the American tourists who wandered in after lunch. There are always Americans underfoot these days, trawling the aisles of the bookshop as if in hope of a meet-cute out of Notting Hill. Trent, as a rule, finds Americans tedious and does his level best to avoid them in all his lines of work; he achieves this in the bookshop by hiding in the stacks and leaving them to the tender mercies of his assistant. Unfortunately, this appears to be a particularly persistent specimen. Trent descends a few more rungs and braces himself.

“Is that the one with Brexit?”

“The one with the bookshop.” The American has a very distracting moustache. He looks almost exactly like a slide Trent once saw in Disguises 101: How Not To Overdo It. He is also wearing multiple layers beneath his puffer jacket, like some sort of Midwestern matryoshka, even though the shop’s heating is working perfectly well. Trent is automatically suspicious of customers with many layers, lest they are shoplifters. But a shoplifter would not go to such lengths to gain his attention.

“If you mean the posthumously published one, it’s not yet in stock. Shipping delays, I’m afraid.”

“Ain’t that a pity,” says the American. “I was sold on the premise. A bookshop that’s secretly a base for spy shenanigans? Tell me you don’t want to see how that turns out.”

Trent removes his glasses, keeping his expression bland. “You could put in an order, but if you’re not in town for long then I daresay there isn’t much point.”

“Oh, we’ll be here for a while. Long vacation. Thought we’d take it easy, like the Eagles would say. Though this ain’t Winslow, Arizona.”

“You can place an order with Miss Bowen at the counter,” says Trent, after he has cast about for a response to that string of gibberish and come up empty.

“You bet I will. If I could just – ” The American reaches out, and Trent almost breaks his wrist on instinct, but he simply brushes past Trent’s sleeve and pulls a secondhand copy of Call For The Dead off the shelf. “Maybe we ain’t see the last of le Carré, but at least it’s a first.”

“Ah, ha,” says Trent, to mask his surprise that they even have a copy of Call For The Dead in stock. It’s probably languished in here for years, unsold. “Good eye.”

“Well, I thank you for the consultation, Mr…”

“Crimm. Trent Crimm, The Independent.”

“Well, Trent, I appreciate you. Keep fighting the good fight.”

Trent blinks. “Against…?”

“Amazon,” says the American brightly. “Which, as an American, I apologise for.”

“Er, quite,” says Trent. “Sorry about Brexit, and all that.”

The American’s name on the order form is Ted Lasso, which makes him sound like a fictional character. He collects his bearded friend from the philosophy section and they depart, engaged in a discussion so animated that Lasso walks into the shop door, rebounds with no perceptible damage and continues his argument without missing a beat. Trent and Miss Bowen watch them go, mildly perplexed.

“Is he a subscriber? I don’t recognise either of them.”

“Just an ordinary customer, from the looks of it. He wanted to talk about books.”

“I suppose it must happen from time to time, in a bookshop,” says Miss Bowen dryly.

Trent crosses to her side of the counter, which is built in such a way that a customer, standing in line, would not be able to see what her hands might be doing. He leans down casually to check the automatic shotgun mounted under the countertop. 

“He was talking about the new le Carré. It’s about spies in a bookshop, apparently.”

“Oh,” says Miss Bowen, eyebrow raised. “Is it now?”

“Yes,” says Trent. “We ought to get hold of it quite quickly, I think. In case there’s been a breach.”

“Come now.” She turns to him sharply. “Le Carré couldn’t have written a novel about us. I mean, he’d never been in the shop. We’d know, wouldn’t we?”

“I daresay we would, Miss Bowen. But put in the order anyway.”

“Certainly, Mr Crimm. And did you want new grenades on top of that?”

“I did, yes, thank you for reminding me.”

“Of course.” A pause. “We are quite sure that man wasn’t a subscriber, are we?”

Trent scoffs. “What, that guy? Come on.”

*

Trent’s childhood dream was to own a bookshop. He thought of bookshops as places where you could read all day and avoid people, which seemed like paradise. However, his family being who they were, his skills being what they were, the job market for English degree-holders being what it was – he spent a year at odd ends, haphazardly weighing the pursuit of postgraduate studies against attempting to break into the publishing industry, until finally he gave up and took the path he knew had always been there, lying in wait for him. He became a spy.

It was another fifteen years before he revisited the idea of the bookshop, in the wake of his abrupt and unceremonious retirement from the Circus. Cleis was one and a half years old by then, and he knew he must find something, for her sake – he had promised –  even though he could not stomach the thought of going out in the cold again. He was mulling over his various options – heaven forfend he wind up in something horrible, like insurance – when his mother dropped by for tea and said peremptorily: “Mae is retiring, don’t you know?”

Mae – the only name anyone ever knew her by – was a veritable battleaxe who ran the Crown and Anchor, a pub that doubled up as the London station for agents of every stripe working in or passing through the city. The stations, by the unspoken rules that governed their universe, were neutral ground; they served every agency and freelancer without question and in turn brooked no conflict within their confines. To move against a station was to move against the combined powers of the rest of the agencies. Nobody had tried it in Trent’s lifetime.

“Oh?” said Trent. He was only partially listening to his mother; most of his attention was focused on trying to get Cleis to keep her yoghurt in her mouth. “Who’s taking over, then?”

His mother fixed him with the glare she had honed on some of the finest intelligencers this side of the Atlantic, as well as his teenage self. “I rather thought you might throw your hat in the ring, dear.”

Cleis mawed at her in surprise and dribbled watery yoghurt down her bib. Trent sighed. “I’ll talk to Mae.”

Mae thought it was a ridiculous notion to run a station as a bookshop. “You wouldn’t catch half that lot dead in a bookshop,” was her take on it. “Who has time for reading these days? And you’ll have to get in books! Actual books!”

“That’s rather the idea, yes,” said Trent. “It can’t be harder than maintaining a liquor licence.”

“Well, it’s not like I was going to hand the tender over to anyone else,” admits Mae. “What will you call it, love?”

Trent considered. “The Independent. Because that’s what it is.”

Even Mae had to admit, a few years in, that it was working out quite well. He’d even managed to sell some books.

*

“How’s the le Carré?” Miss Bowen asks, amid her reshelving. “Are we in trouble?”

“I don’t think so.” Trent is perusing Silverview at the counter, book in one hand, the other on the rifle. “The bookshop’s in East Anglia, and the protagonist hasn’t the first idea how to run it.”

“Oh, well then,” says Miss Bowen. “It will put nobody in mind of us at all. Is it any good? I’m always wary of these late discovery manuscripts. I don’t think I ever got over the disappointment of Go Set A Watchman.”

“It’s unevenly weighted. Makes you miss him at his best.” Trent turns a page. “Still, I’m glad he didn’t go gentle into that good night.”

He tenses as the shop bell rings, then sees that it is Keeley Jones, resplendent in a fluffy yellow coat. “What can we do for you, Miss Jones?”

“Trading in,” sings Keeley. “On Jamie’s behalf.”

Trent takes off his glasses and gives her a forbidding look. “What, has he gone and lost the lot again?”

Keeley winces. “Only some of it.”

Trent sighs. “Let’s get it processed in the back.”

Jamie Tartt is one of the stars of the agency known as the Dogtrack. He’s also aggravatingly cocky and spectacularly laissez-faire with his equipment; Keeley’s always in here, making apologies for him having thrown his Glock into a volcano, or something. Trent has no patience for the likes of Jamie Tartt. One already has so many people trying to kill one in this line of work, but there he is, giving even more people reasons to want him dead.

The back room is behind a reinforced steel door that can only be opened using either Trent’s or Miss Bowen’s fingerprints and a passcode that changes every day. The passcode is in fact a rolling alphanumerical series that progresses through the entirety of Hamlet, and if anyone ever cracks it, Trent will be very impressed by their grasp of Shakespeare. In the back room, Trent lays out the remnants of Jamie Tartt’s mission kit and purses his lips.

“To lose one dart gun, Miss Jones, may be regarded as a misfortune. To lose both looks like carelessness.”

“Oh, you needn’t have a go at me, I’m proper mad at him myself. You know what he did last week? Tried to murder Roy Kent. Roy Kent!”

“What, for work?”

“Not even that! Some kind of fucking…pissing contest.” Keeley makes a noise of exasperation. “Some days it’s like we gave a bunch of five-year-olds guns and let them loose on a jungle gym. You know what I mean?”

“I’ll just put it on his tab,” says Trent. “Which is astronomical, by the way.”

“I’ll chivvy the folks at the Dogtrack to send you a cover. Only they’re rushed off their feet this week – you must have heard.”

Trent has heard, but it always serves one in intelligence gathering to pretend to know less than one really does. “What’s happening over there?”

“The Mannions are going to war,” says Keeley, her voice lush with the juice of gossip - another reason why Trent likes having her in the shop. “The whole Dogtrack’s splitting up. Christ, but it’s a mess down there.”

“Who’s Jamie backing?”

“Hasn’t decided. Rupert’s putting it about that the whole agency’s going with him, but word on the street is that Rebecca Welton’s brought in someone from abroad to take him out. They’re saying it’s an American.” She sucks in an excited breath. 

“Why would you bring in an American for that?” demands Trent. 

“Beats me. It’s going to keep us all on our toes for a bit, to be sure. I reckon it’s some Tom Cruise type, all Mission Impossible Jack Reacher like. But nobody knows for certain.” 

“Surely not,” says Trent. “You at least must have some idea, Miss Jones.”

Keeley flutters her eyelashes at him. “Who, me? I’m just a humble secretary.”

“Of course you are,” says Trent. “And I’m just a poor bookseller.”

Keeley slants a sly look at him. “You haven’t seen any Americans around, have you?”

“We get Americans in the store all the time. Just this morning we had a Mrs Glenda Johnson from South Carolina complaining that we don’t have a café in the store.”

“Yeah,” says Keeley, “fairly sure it’s not Mrs Glenda Johnson. Isn’t there a Costa two doors down?”

“Precisely,” says Trent. “Americans.”

They return to the front of the store, the afternoon light streaming across the polished wood floors and touching the book covers. “It really is awful pretty, when the light’s good,” says Keeley, running a hand across a row of Sally Rooneys. “You know what you ought to do? You should do #BookTok.”

“That,” says Trent, “is the single worst suggestion I’ve ever heard.”

Keeley laughs. “Give me a pot of money and some Madeline Miller and I’ll do it for you. I’ll make you so famous, you’ll be beating influencers off with a stick.”

“Just tell the Dogtrack to pay for your boyfriend’s damage.”

Keeley sticks her tongue out as she swings out of the shop. “If you see the American, you’ll tell me first. Won’t you?”

*

“Tell me a story,” says Cleis. They’re curled up in her bed, her tiny frame pillowed against his side. 

“You’ve had two already.”

“But I want another.” Cleis looks up at him, her eyes clear and green as the sea. “Tell me about Maman.”

Trent stares up at the glow-in-the-dark stars that speckle her bedroom ceiling. Tell me about a complicated woman, he hears Coralie say in his head. She sounds slightly amused. This is an anachronism, of course. Coralie never lived to see the Emily Wilson translation of The Odyssey. She would have loved it.

“Where do I start with your mother?”

“Was she very beautiful?”

“Yes. She knew exactly how beautiful she was and what to do with it.”

“Do I look like her?”

“The spitting image.” Even at four, Cleis looks so much like her mother that Trent will sometimes look over at her, in the middle of something mundane like making dinner or brushing her hair, and the resemblance will strike him like a punch to the gut.

Cleis is pleased by this. “What else?”

“Well. She loved old poems, and she was a lot stronger than she looked, and she wasn’t scared of a thing. Never listened to anyone either.”

“Not even you?”

“I like to think she listened to me a bit more than most other people,” allows Trent, “but even that wasn’t very much.”

Cleis kneads her quilt between her small hands. “Why didn’t she come back?”

Trent swallows. “She couldn’t. She had to save everyone.” Including me, he doesn’t add. Instead he says: “She loved you more than anything in the world.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me so. It was the last thing she said, before – ” Trent stops. Cleis is silent.

“Go to sleep now, chouette.”

It’s another hour before she drifts off to sleep proper. He sits in the dark, her hand tucked in his, until she does.

*

“So that’s your subscriber number, which you should quote in all correspondence with us and over the phone when placing orders. Orders placed within less than twenty-four hours of pick-up will be subject to last-minute fee increments. Is that understood, Mr Rojas?”

The lush-haired young man beams at Trent across the counter. “Si, entiendo.”

“Book club notices are posted on the board to the right,” Trent goes on. “Those are for freelancers, I don’t vet them personally and you attend book club at your own risk. This is for your first assignment.” He hands over a copy of Roberto Bolaño’s 2666. Dani Rojas makes to open it; Trent slams it shut. “Don’t open your books in the store.”

“Okay,” says Dani, wide-eyed. He hefts the book experimentally in his hand. “It is very heavy. Does it have a happy ending?”

Trent snorts. “It’s a Bolaño, what do you think?”

Dani nods cheerfully. “I thank you for this, señor. Literature is life.”

“I mean, it actually isn’t,” says Trent, “which is sort of the whole point – but never mind. All the best, Mr Rojas.”

Dani leaves, whistling. He passes Roy Kent on his way in. “He’s not the American, is he?” says Roy, not quite sotto voce to Trent.

“I rather think he’s Mexican,” says Trent. “Are you all still going on about that? I’d have thought you’d have worked it out by now.”

“Nah,” says Roy. “No idea who it is. Mrs Mannion – that is to say, Ms Welton – is keeping her cards close to her chest. Old Rupert’s foaming at the mouth. They say he’s got hold of some kind of leverage, but fucked if we know what.” He studies the noticeboard. “Anything good at book club?”

“What, are you freelancing now?”

“Reckon I might as well, since it’s all going to shit at the Dogtrack.” Roy frowns at A Moveable Feast, Wednesday 8pm; A Gentleman In Moscow, Thursday 7pm; and Vengeance Is Mine, All Others Pay Cash, Thursday 9pm. He points at the last. “Where’s that one again?”

“East Java. I hear Indonesia’s nice this time of year.”

“Right, let’s give it a go then.”

Trent scribbles down a number on a Post-It and hands it to Roy. “Call it and burn it. You know the drill.”

“Cheers.” Roy regards Trent, brows thickly furrowed. “You’ve seen the American, haven’t you?”

“No comment.” 

Roy grunts. “Bet you have. You’re just being a prick about it, as usual.”

“Whoever it is, they’re probably out in the community already,” says Trent. “Bravely or stupidly.”

“Stupidly,” decides Roy, stalking off.

*

The problem with The Independent is that, despite Trent’s best efforts and the imminently prophesied demise of brick-and-mortar bookselling, it still continues to be a fairly popular bookshop. Trent has no idea why this is. He puts zero effort into the window displays. He shelves the books in no discernible order, so it is virtually impossible for a customer to locate anything. Sometimes he even leaves terrible TripAdvisor reviews for himself, to discourage casual browsers and tourists. And yet the shop continues to see customers – not subscribers, actual book-loving civilians. People keep popping in to have opinions on how Trent should run his bookshop, to complain that he doesn’t sell stationery or upbraid him for not carrying the latest Stephenie Meyer or insinuate that he should hold poetry readings (of their poems) in the store. It’s a marvel that Trent has gone all these years without shooting anyone in the face.

Still, the shop has regulars somehow. There are the subscribers, and then there are normal people who just show up and spend ages browsing, even though Trent has made sure there is nowhere comfortable for them to sit. There is the elderly gent who pops in nearly every morning to thumb through books and point out printing errors to anyone unfortunate enough to be in proximity. There is the teenage girl who spends afternoons seated cross-legged in an aisle, reading The Sandman in instalments. And then there’s Ted Lasso.

“Why’d you call it The Independent?” Ted wants to know. He’s come back to pick up his copy of Silverview, and despite having achieved this with little incident, has nevertheless once more sought out Trent where he is dusting the shelves.

“Because it is an independent bookstore,” says Trent, who is in fact sweeping for bugs. He finds one planted atop a birding guide and surreptitiously crushes and pockets it. “Can I help you with anything else, Mr Lasso?”

“I was wondering where I might find your Graham Greene.”

“I believe we have The Quiet American somewhere in the shop, if you can bear to wait while I excavate it. Though,” adds Trent, “you are a distinctly unquiet American.”

“You can say that again,” says Ted cheerfully. “You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of The Third Man, would you?”

Most people haven’t even seen The Third Man, let alone are aware that it was based on a Graham Greene novella. “You know your spy fiction, Mr Lasso.”

“Call me Ted, won’t you?”

Trent drags the ladder around the corner and retrieves The Third Man from a high shelf near where the ceiling dips. He looks down, head tilted, at the man beaming up at him from the foot of the ladder. You’ve seen the American, haven’t you? Ted Lasso does not look like the kind of American called in to bring down the head of an agency. He looks like a caricature of an American. He has worn the same pair of khakis every time he has set foot in this shop and it is likely he does so without irony. Yet Trent has the feeling that something is off, the way that shots in The Third Man are framed at a slight angle so that the city looks like a painting knocked askew. 

Ted clears his throat. “Kinda staring there, Trent. Makes a fella wonder if he ain’t got toothpaste in his moustache.”

Trent hands over the book. “Why are you here, Ted? Really?”

“First thing I always do when I land in a new place is find a local bookstore,” says Ted brightly. “Tells you a lot about the town, your local bookstore.”

Trent takes off his glasses. “And what, pray, have you learnt from this one?”

“That nothing is where you think it’ll be,” says Ted. “But it sure helps if you ask for directions.” 

“Perhaps you should ask him if he wants to get coffee,” says Miss Bowen after Ted has left. “Isn’t that why you hired me? So you could have more of a social life?”

Trent pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hired you so that in the event of a terrorist attack on the shop, we wouldn’t be short-handed.”

“I’m glad you did. It was this or go back to teaching kindergarten.” She raises her voice sharply as a man in a denim jacket emerges from behind a shelf and shuffles towards the door. “Stop right there!”

“Uh,” says the man intelligently. “What’s this about?”

“We have CCTV in the shop, you know,” says Miss Bowen. “So we’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave the shop with Jonathan Franzen stuffed down your trousers.”

The man leers. “Like to come over and check on it yourself, love?”

Miss Bowen meditatively flicks open the boxcutter she was using to trim plastic wrap. “You know, I just might.”

The man hastily removes the Franzen. “All right, no need to get all shirty about it. I’ll just put it back then.”

“The fuck you will, we’re not touching that again,” says Miss Bowen. “You’re going to leave twenty quid on the counter – with your other hand, mind – and then you’re going to back out the door and never come back.”

“Can’t do that in kindergarten, can you,” remarks Trent after their errant customer has complied and made himself scarce.

“There’s something to be said about the job satisfaction in this place,” agrees Miss Bowen.

*

Trent arrives at his parents’ just in time to see his daughter stabbing his father in the front garden.

“Ah! Ah! Alas!” cries his father, sinking dramatically into the grass as Cleis bashes him joyously with a foam sword. “You’ve got me, dread pirate!”

“Did you kill grandpa, chouette?” says Trent as she greets him by thwacking him on the shins with her sword. 

“Three times,” says Cleis modestly as she is scooped up.

“She’s a bloodthirsty one.” His father is rising ponderously to his feet, brushing grass stains off his knees. He dotes on Cleis in a fashion that was distinctly lacking in Trent’s own childhood. Trent still cannot get over the incongruity of it – the legendary Chester Crimm, scourge of the Stasi Circle, playing pirates on the lawn with a four-year-old. He does have the eyepatch for it, Trent reflects.

His father turns his good eye towards Trent. “Sell a lot of books today, son?”

“Hilarious,” says Trent shortly. “Where’s mum?”

“Getting her hair done.” They head back into the house. “What’s this I’m hearing about an American at the Dogtrack?”

“Christ, I’m sick of hearing about the American. How’d that even get to you?”

“I was at poker night with the old guard. It’s all everyone’s talking about, the Mannion split.” His father pulls a beer from the fridge and hands it to Trent as Cleis makes for the living room television. “Never liked Mannion. Did you know he tried to get off with your mother, back in the day?”

“Ugh,” says Trent faintly.

“That was before he got mixed up with the Welton girl, of course,” says his father with the alacrity of the generation who can get away with calling Rebecca “the Welton girl”. “The agencies are such a shitshow these days. You know, back in my day – ”

“By all means,” says Trent mordantly, “reminisce about the Cold War, dad. What a splendid time that was.”

“You know what I mean,” his father grumbles. “People just got divorced and got on with things. Didn’t go about involving Americans. You’ve not seen the American, have you? Why are you laughing?”

“I’m just thinking of the rhyme,” says Trent. “From The Scarlet Pimpernel.” At his father’s blank look, he recites: “They seek him here, they seek him there, those people seek him everywhere! Is he in heaven or in hell? That damned elusive Pimpernel.”

“Damned!” exclaims Cleis from the doorway. “Damned, damned, damned!”

Trent stares at her, aghast. “Now look what you’ve done,” says his father.

*

Ted isn’t in the shop today, though his bearded friend has put in an appearance. He has only ever been referred to as Beard, and Trent is coming round to the idea that it might actually be the man’s Christian name, because who even knows with Americans? He’s browsing in the back, which is fine, and has been engaged for the past fifteen minutes in a conversation with Jane Payne, which is not so fine.

“Should we say something?” Miss Bowen wonders.

“We are The Independent,” says Trent. “We have a policy of non-interference.”

“I mean, she’s literally toxic. Did you see the photos from her Dubai job?”

“No. Jesus. Why are there even photos?”

Miss Bowen shrugs. “No idea. Everyone’s been sending them around in the group chats. Did not know you could get blood that colour.”

“Miss Payne can do what she likes, provided she does it outside the shop.” Trent pauses. “Though you could ask him if he wants to get coffee.”

“No thank you,” says Miss Bowen. “I have no wish to be stabbed in the pancreas by Jane Payne.”

They are distracted by the shop bell. Trent is surprised and slightly disconcerted to see none other than Rebecca Welton bearing down upon the counter in all her glory. The agency heads rarely visit the shop in person; Trent typically corresponds with Mr Higgins for the Dogtrack’s interests.

“Ms Welton. What can we do for you?”

“I’d like to see your Canterbury Tales special edition,” says Rebecca without preamble. 

Trent blinks. “Certainly. This way.”

In the back room, he opens the case where the Chaucer collection is stored. Rebecca begins looking it over critically. She hefts a rocket launcher experimentally, testing its weight. “Which one is this?”

“The Wife of Bath. Gives you five shots.”

“Hm,” says Rebecca approvingly. “I rather like the sound of that.” She inspects the double-barrelled shotgun dubbed the Man of Law and the poison darts of the Pardoner. “I’ll take the lot for the rest of the month.”

“That’s a lot of firepower,” says Trent bluntly. “You’re not trying to kill your husband, are you?”

“I don’t know why you’d say that, Mr Crimm. Though I suspect he might be trying to kill me.”

“Is it all for you? Or is any of it for the American?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Rebecca, expression immaculate. “Do invoice Mr Higgins.”

*

“Darling,” says Trent in long-suffering tones, “please get out of the tree.”

Cleis responds by clambering to a higher branch. She’ll be a while. Trent sighs and puts his hands on his hips, gazing out across the green. It’s a pleasant Sunday morning in the park, though it doesn’t stop him from tracking every jogger and picnicking couple in the vicinity, combing the milieu for hands in pockets and inside coats, calculating distances and trajectories. 

His gaze moves across and catches on a lone jogger making his way up the path in their direction. That’s Ted Lasso, he’s sure of it: head down, shoulders hunched against the bite of wind off the water, but there’s no mistaking that moustache. As Trent watches, he raises his head and their eyes meet. He does a very convincing double-take. He’s either genuinely surprised to see Trent here, or his acting skills are commendable. That Trent can’t tell says a lot. Then his face splits into a broad grin.

“Hey there, Trent Crimm, The Independent!”

“Hello, Ted Lasso from America.” Trent eyes Ted as he jogs over, beaming affably. He waves his hand awkwardly. “You…live around here?”

“Oh yeah, Beard and I have digs around here. Like to come out for a run on the weekends.”

“Your vacation is stretching on rather,” Trent informs him.

“Oh, we picked up some work,” says Ted evasively. “Thought we’d stick around, make hay while the sun shines. Though you ain’t got a whole lot of hay around these parts. Not like what I’m used to, at any rate.”

“What sort of work do you do, Ted?”

“Human resources,” says Ted blandly.

Trent removes his glasses and fixes Ted with a searching look. Ted meets his gaze, perfectly amiable. Trent narrows his eyes. Ted doesn’t blink. The whole effect is ruined when Cleis leaps out of the tree unannounced and tumbles onto him.

“Oh for f – ” Trent bites off invective as he staggers. “For the last time, my love, climb down.”

“But this is faster,” says Cleis innocently. She appears to notice Ted, and peers at him curiously as Trent sets her down.

“Well hey there, sweetheart,” says Ted. “What’s your name?”

“Cleis.”

“Fais attention,” says Trent, more sharply than is his wont. Cleis stiffens and tucks herself behind his knee. She always takes her cues from him, and he realises too late his body language has been telescoping an ease with Ted that he should not have brooked. She has never introduced herself to a stranger before.

Ted must pick up on some of that, because he stops short of coming over, instead maintaining the distance between them and crouching down till he is at Cleis’s eye level. “That’s a real pretty name,” he tells her. “It’s from a poem, ain’t it?”

“Sappho.” Trent’s throat feels tight.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” says Ted. “Like a small golden flower. Did you name her?”

“No,” says Trent. “That was her mother. She's – she liked the classics.”

On Trent’s first mission to Morocco, he was paired with a young agent with a French accent and a Classics degree. The former was nearly imperceptible except when she was under pressure; the latter was of no use whatsoever on the mission, any more than Trent’s own English degree was.

“You’re gay, aren’t you?” she said after they had spent four minutes making out pointedly in an alcove to distract the security guards of the Casablanca mansion they were breaking into.

“I’m afraid so,” said Trent, picking a lock.

“That’s a relief. I was worried I was losing my touch.” The lock clicked open, and she whistled appreciatively. “Sing to me, Muse, of the man of twists and turns.” 

“The Odyssey? Really?” Trent was secretly delighted that he was no longer the only one pretentious enough to quote classics during a field op. Or Casablanca in Casablanca, even.

She winked at him. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Her name was Coralie Chénier, though they called her “the Owl”. Trent used to envy her this; everyone, despite his best efforts, referred to him as “Chester’s boy”. Then came the Cuba incident, which was such a bloodbath that it earned Trent the moniker “the Jackal”. After that he decided monikers were overrated. At least they matched: the Owl and the Jackal.

Coralie was an orphan – the service preferred either orphans, or those to the manor born, like Trent – and so for the ten years they spent in the field, he was the closest thing she had to next of kin. It was him she told first about Cleis.

“The father?”

She waved a hand dismissively – not in the picture, then. She did not say who it was. Trent knew it to be a crowded field.

“Are you keeping it?”

“I shouldn’t, should I? It’ll take me out of the field for a good stretch.” But he already knew, from the way she rested her hand over her still-flat stomach, that she would.

“I could marry you, if you liked,” he offered.

She laughed. “That’s the sweetest thing any man has ever said to me, darling. But I think I’ll be just fine.”

The last thing she said to him, before she pulled out her comm and charged back into a building rigged with explosives, was: “Promise me you’ll look after her.”

“There must be another way – ”

“I’ve got to do this, Trent,” she said, too gently. “Make sure she knows how much I loved her. All Croesus’ kingdom.”

“I promise – ” but by then she was already gone. 

“I’m sorry,” says Ted, bringing Trent back to the present. His hand tightens on the shoulder of Coralie’s daughter. 

“Thank you,” he says, for lack of anything better.

“Heck of a poem,” Ted adds. 

“Oh yes,” says Trent. I wouldn’t take all Croesus’ kingdom with love thrown in, for her.

[cthulhubelle]

Ted lasso fanfiction writers I know you’re out there somewhere please help

how do you write Trent Crimm dialogue??? I make him sound too formal. Here’s an example please don’t be harsh:

“My sincere apologies for being late, Ted. This morning Isabel informed me that she now hates toaster waffles and refused to eat a single bite of her breakfast.”

this is my first real fanfic in ages and I’m too neurodivergent for any of this but especially conversations. I’m being consumed with the need to write this but by god, the flesh is weak

[veryace-ficrecs]

Trent/Ted Lasso fic recs part 2

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

part 1 here

some small comfort by trentcrimminallybeautiful (biDEMONium) - Rated T

Trent finds Ted having a panic attack in the coaches' office. 

Curious & Judgmental by r_n_g_are_dead - Rated T

When he was ten and three-quarters-years-old, Ted Lasso’s parents left him at the Allen-Bradley Clock Tower for 3 hours and 42 minutes. Well, more like the park across the street. While there, he met a young British boy. Ted gave him a football trading card. The British boy gave him a pen.

Time was infinite. Time with people in your life was not. But sometimes you got more time with them than you ever expected.

what do dogs dream about? by trans_chickens - Rated T

She nestles into her pillows and is just about to close her eyes when she suddenly seems to remember something else. She sits up straight again, blinking at Trent. “He was silly I think, when he said a thing about you.”  Trent, who was this close to feeling triumph over a toddler brought to sleep with no incidents or hiccups, suddenly feels like he’s losing a battle. “What… did he say about me, love?” he asks, mouth dry. Maybe he doesn’t want the answer. He wasn’t even gone that long for the ice cream, how could Ted and Olive have fit in a whole conversation about dog dreams and also talk about Trent behind his back? It’s not fair. It doesn’t make sense. He’d think Olive was making it up if it wasn’t for her sincere expression. That and the fact that Trent suspects his daughter hasn’t figured out the concept of lying yet. He dreads the day she’ll get there, and hopes he still has tons of time until then. He almost wants to believe that time is now when he hears the next words out of Olive’s mouth. “He said you’re pretty.”

recipe for happiness (in khabarovsk or anyplace) by prewars - Not Rated

Series: 7 Works

Ted does what he does best: talk. Trent listens.

I Told You I Would Stay by hippiecommune - Rated G

Coach Ted Lasso from America, the man whose incurable optimism and seemingly infinite supply of well-wishes had somehow wrangled a good opinion out of quite literally everyone he’d ever met, was giving up. He was going home. Trent was here to ask questions about relegation and Ted was here to announce formally that he was resigning. Trent knew this because Ted had left a message three hours ago giving him a heads-up.

the funny thing about coincidences by mmummydust - Rated T

MrBlueSky: What are you working on tonight? Or thinking about on your walk? starman72: Coincidences, coincidentally. MrBlueSky: :) What about them? starman72: Nothing in particular. Just thinking. I’ve had a lot of them occur lately. Just a bit funny how things work out sometimes. --- Ted Lasso has been talking to someone on Bantr. Trent Crimm has also been talking to someone on Bantr. Turns out, they're both using it as a fairly poor distraction for their feelings. This doesn't turn out to be as big of an issue as it seems. Or - Ted and Trent are both incredibly, helplessly oblivious.

the courage to put on the cape by clementines_and_colourful_things - Not Rated

Trent Crimm, The Daily Planet. — A Ted Lasso Superman AU inspired by a Tumblr post by matttheratking. Thank you for violently (and metaphorically) shaking me by the shoulders.

things we are too young to know by andaskwhynot - Rated M

The other man stops talking, looks straight at him. And Trent was wrong, the look he had fixed on him earlier was not a smile, not really. Because now he is smiling at him, and it is nothing short of a beam, bright and open, and there are dimples, and even though the other man has a face that is more narrow than not, all Trent can think of as he looks at him is ‘corn fed’. Trent does a year abroad in the states, gets assigned a football player as a roommate and has his life turned upside down. It's all horribly cliched, until it isn't.

Words are very unnecessary (but they brought me to you) by blueberrywizard - Rated T

“At 4:44 in the morning the smell of coffee, like every other day, woke Trent up. At 4:45 kitchen radio started to play quietly in the background and Trent could, just like yesterday, recognise the sounds of Enjoy The Silence, which he thought was a little bit of a strange coincidence, but well. Stranger things had happened. At 4:50 he was at the kitchen table, thinking about his life choices. About journalism and football and life that kept having turns that he couldn’t predict.” Or: Trent Crimm, The Independent finds himself stuck in the time loop. There’s a lot of British 80's music and questionable life choices included.

Trent Crimm Cannot Be Objective About This by thegables - Rated E

“I’m bigger, you know, so I won’t get as cold, and you’re… not as big, so the cold would bother you more, it stands to reason, so you should just let me go on the outside by the window.” Trent said, “You have the gallantry of a big-jawed American film hero.” His tone when saying it was such that Ted said, “Sorry.”

in my head (I found you there) by lilysaid - Rated E

Trent loses the last three years to amnesia and can't figure out where overly-familiar American football coach Ted Lasso fits into his life.

friday (never hesitate) by oriscribes - Rated G

Trent froze with a small wince. Oops. This was too much. This wasn’t what he meant to do. But it was Ted and he was fucking leaving. But right now Ted was looking at Trent with a gentle smile and a gentler look in his eyes and well shit. Trent needed to leave before he did something stupid like kiss the the gaffer like he got the boy at the end of this fucking fairytale of a season. OR: an alternative take of when Ted is reading over Trent's book.

that funny feeling by bearfeathers - Rated T

Ted needs to talk to Trent about the security footage he found. Except that's hard to do standing in West Ham's facilities with people bustling all around them. So he does the only reasonable thing he can think of: he invites him to dinner.

Total Writing by sbkmm - Rated T

'He’s bouncing off the walls. He definitely made at least two weird noises and waved his arms around like a Muppet.' What happens to Trent after That Scene in s3e07. Can he recover his cool exterior? (spoiler: he can not.)

Take My Whole Life Too by ItsClydeBitches - Rated G

Ted Lasso was the kind of man who taught NSYNC choreography for a going away party and bent his players into impossible positions just to say “Hi, Boss!” in the morning. He’d organized fearsome bets over darts, baked heavenly biscuits on the regular, and had requested at least two boxes from Nate Shelley’s niece, one of which still sat on a shelf in his office, despite the betrayal. Ted was also a passionate believer in what he referred to as “rom-communism,” all the trappings included. In retrospect, Trent should have known he’d go all out for Valentine’s Day.

red-handed love by clementines_and_colourful_things - Not Rated

The ever-bubbling reservoirs of hyperactive energy stored deep in Ted Lasso’s sun-touched soul never ran dry. — Or, Ted Lasso is not the most spatially aware, which leads to a head injury, a hospital visit, and a very stressed Trent.

When Life Gives You Lemons by Springandastorm - Rated T

Trent snorts, which is a sound that Ted has trouble believing he's able to make. "You didn't want to touch the knob?" He repeats. "Nah, it's got all kindsa nasty germs on it, and I know that you bake 'em out anyway, but this one time in college I got food poisoning from a bad donut and spent about two days straight on the—wait." Trent waits patiently for Ted to finish realizing, arms folded. Ted feels his face break open wide. "Trent Crimm, are you making a dick joke?" "...I'm attempting to." Ted thinks that if there were a little meter for how much he likes Trent, that might've just broken it.

lonely, lonely boys (this one's for you) by clementines_and_colourful_things - Not Rated

Nothing about Kansas feels right. And that’s only partly due to the massive fucking tornado.

Or, Trent ventures to Kansas to attempt to drag Ted back to Richmond, but nasty weather throws a wrench in his plans.

Biscuits for Blushes by JessJesstheBest - Rated G

“Clara’s class is having a holiday party and it just so happens that she has listed your biscuits as her ‘Favorotti’ of all time. She absolutely refuses to bring her classmates anything else to the party.” Or Trent's daughter has requested Ted bake cookies for her whole class and obviously he's on board.

Can’t Cry in Public and Can’t Drink Alone by WordsInTheNight - Rated G

When the wifi goes out at Ted's, Ted and Beard turn to watching the Shocker game at Mae's. Trent happens upon them and is invited into the wonderland that is watching football--with football coaches. Ted jumps on chairs. Beard is as protective as a mama bear, but buys Trent a pint. Just some smoopy afternoon getting to know each other and sharing each other's space. Pre-relationship, but the air is thick with promise. Set slightly after season 2, so two-ish years since the Shockers won the Division II NCAA championship. Trent Crimm is working on a book about Richmond. They haven’t hooked up, but intention is in the air.

exercising restraint by trentcrimminallybeautiful (biDEMONium) - Rated E

Following a fun and informative encounter with his favorite ex-journalist, Ted has a rather uncomfortable meeting with the Diamond Dogs. Featuring: Trent Crimm and the be-catted bag, Leslie Higgins knowing a lot about BDSM, Roy Kent being the world's most unwilling participant in this conversation, and Beard being Beard.

Top of the List by infiniteeight - Rated G

Rebecca wants Ted to be happy. Ted is good at making other people happy, but sometimes he needs to be nudged into taking something for himself.

The Humble Himbo by ItsClydeBitches - Rated G

Join narrator Trent Crimm as he follows one of the world's most magnificent creatures, the Himbo, capturing never-before-seen moments within AFC Richmond.

linger by trentcrimminallybeautiful (biDEMONium) - Rated G

Rebecca comes to see why Ted hasn't gotten off the team bus yet.

[munsons-mutiny]

I fucking love Trent Crimm/Ted Lasso it’s lowkey a crack ship but I’m obsessed. (Also I haven’t started season 3 yet so no spoilers but I’m hoping for a lot more Trent content cause I love him)

But I find it so funny that there’s two sorts dynamics for them I see in fics:

- One where Ted has a secret appreciation for art and culture stuff (Which wouldn’t surprise me in canon tbh the man’s got layers)

- He is exactly as uncultured and American as he appears in the show.

First ones great because him and Trent just have fun surprisingly deep conversations.

But the second is iconic. Cause he says shit that makes Trent want to walk away and never return and for someone reason he just adores this uncultured person. Even he doesn’t understand it. I love it sm.

[starghost-fics]

we now have a total chapter count I'm fairly confident in: 16/21. home stretch!!

Chapter 16: It rains on Sunday. Trent builds a blanket fort with his daughter, and has a conversation with her, then thinks too much and makes a decision.

commentary

this chapter is informally called "it's the hope that kills you"

this chapter is also very important to me and i hope i got it right. idk, you tell me!

in case you were wondering, i wrote the end of this chapter approximately 6 months ago, after it popped into my head as i was walking home. i've been trying not to get ahead of myself too much on this story, trying to enjoy meandering through each chapter as much as y'all, but little bits and bobs arise. just sad dads festering back there as, for example, I wrote trent and ted on the verge of making out outside of trent's hotel in KC

but now they have kissed, and yet trent is twisted up in his own mind about it

trent you fool

[hubristicfool]

“And what’s the current object of obsession?” Daniel quirks an eyebrow towards the pad. It’s a fair question. If Trent has insisted on mixing work and pleasure, they might as well scavenge it for conversational parts.

“There’s the usual game write-ups, of course,” Trent says, tracing his fingers through the condensation on his glass. “I’ve got another piece on the back-burner I’m hoping to pursue, assuming I can shake loose enough information to get it anywhere.”

“That sounds interesting. What’s it about?”

Trent hums. Normally, talking through a piece that isn’t quite coming together can help him connect all the pieces in his head. In this case, however, he finds himself hesitating. This is different. Not personal, of course not, but–his.

This fic was born while rewatching the scene in Headspace where Trent oh-so-conveniently runs into Ted at the Crown and Anchor with a mustachioed companion in tow, and I was like, “I am going to be so very normal about this.” 

[singaroundelay]

If this isn't a man who is so many shades of excited to meet his boyfriend's gaffer's mum and pump her for every single embarrassing story he can about Ted, I will eat my tinfoil hat.

ALSO. Can we note that his notebooks are closed? This isn't for the book.

This is completely for his own edification.

Plus Ted was worried about his mom staying home during the Manchester game because he knew Trent would spend time with her. He has no clue what stories she'll tell him now.

The rom-communism of getting to meet your partner's mum.

[nollimet]

I just think it would be neat if they kissed…

[image description: a drawing of Ted Lasso and Trent Crimm from the waist up. Trent has one hand on the back of Ted's neck and the other hand squishing his cheek. Trent is kissing Ted on the edge of his mouth, but he's looking back out of the corner of his eye, slightly embarrassed. Ted's arms are around Trent's waist, but he looks surprised and somewhat confused. one of his eyes is wide, and the other is squeezed shut due to Trent squishing his cheek. Ted is smiling with his mouth slightly open, and he's blushing heavily. the two of them are outlined in white, and the background is a muted green. end id] (id by @lichfucker)

[laiqualaurelote]

“I just met Ted Lasso,” Sachiko Crimm says bluntly when her ex-husband picks up.

Trent is silent for a while. “And?” he says finally.

Sachiko gives it five seconds, and then she bursts out laughing.

“Stop it,” says Trent wearily.

I fully expect this fic to be jossed in the next few hours, but meanwhile I had some thoughts about Trent Crimm’s ex-wife.

[ailelie]

Trent Crimm/Ted Lasso Fic Recs!

All right, so, if you're interested in Trent/Ted fic, you have got to check out basically everything written by r_n_g_are_dead (@rngaredead). Every single fic is a gem. The first two are both over 90k and the second two clock near 30k and 40k respectively.

Fathers and Sons and Boyfriends (Oh My!) involves a touch of fake dating and an absolutely beautiful father-son relationship between Trent and his dad and his dad and Ted.

Nothing's Easy as Riding a Bike When You Don't Know How is an amazing character study of Trent that is extremely well-paced. Ted and the romance with Ted start about midway through, but that build-up was absolutely necessary. The father in this is the polar opposite of the above fic. Also, Trent's relationship with his ex is rather complex and a great read.

Curious & Judgemental is a story about coincidences with a bit of identity porn that I was on edge from chapter one to see how it all played out. Coincidence is heavy in this, but also wonderful, so enjoy.

What Happens After is a series of four fics that re-writes season 2 with Ted spending Christmas with Trent instead of Rebecca and how that shifts everything.

What really stands out in all of these stories is the depth of characterization. r_n_g_are_dead creates multi-faceted, messy characters and often complex relationships. In each story, they build up a good case for why Trent and Ted work as a couple, rather than just assuming the reader will agree they work. Every positive relationship exudes warmth.

I read these stories just recently and I already want to re-read them.

[here-there-everyfuckenwhere]

Fic prompts!

I’m not sure how specific you want them, so here goes:

All of these are for Ted/Trent, can be established relationship or not, rating’s up to you, whatever you want!

-snow

-they spend the night at a hotel room

-they are apart for whatever reason, and they miss each other

-celebrating each other’s birthdays

Okay okay, so I got this request almost a year ago and I never ever responded to it even though I had something just sitting in my WIP folder this entire time. I didn't think this one was good enough to post considering I took quite a diversion from the original prompts, but in honour of Ted Lasso Season 3 Teaser Trailer Day, I have decided to break my year-long silence.

Enjoy

+++

Title: ???

Pairing: Ted Lasso/Trent Crimm

Prompt: Hotel, snow, apart, birthday, missing each other,

Word count: 1.7k

Other tags: fluffy, oneshot

+++

Read on AO3

+++

To anyone else looking out at the dark streets of Richmond from their window, it appeared to be like any other Winter afternoon. The air was the sort of cold that would bite at your skin if you stood outside for long enough. Thick, white snow delicately framed every window in town, including the window that Trent Crimm, formerly of The Independent, sat beneath, longingly staring at the reflection that seemed to be staring back at him.

The day itself shouldn’t have felt significant to him anymore; he managed to make it through 41 other birthdays just fine after all, and his 42nd was shaping up to be no different from the rest. Trent was never really in favour of celebrating his birthday. As a child he never really enjoyed celebrating his own birthday or having parties with his friends from school (not that he ever seemed to make many…), and the habit of ignoring his birthday until it finally washed over him and became just any other day had well and truly followed him all the way throughout his adult life. 

On this birthday in particular, Seraphina happened to be staying with her grandparents. The situation seemed unfamiliar to Trent; having a completely empty, quiet house all to himself without having to write a detailed report on Richmond’s win the night before in Liverpool as a deadline drew closer and closer. In a way it was oddly freeing, but simultaneously terrifying, and Trent found himself unsure of what to do. Which explains why he sat, staring out of the window at nothing for at least half an hour that night. 

Fortunately, a sound snapped him out of his trance, startling him at first until he realised it was the  specific ringtone he had set for whenever Ted called him. Which, he had noticed, had become his nightly ritual. 

Trent picked up his phone, taking a deep breath before answering. 

“Trent Crimm, The Inde-“ he stopped himself. Old habits. He cleared his throat gently. 

“How may I help you?”

“Aw, I know who I’m calling,” he heard the familiar voice of Ted Lasso assure him. He couldn’t help but smile. 

“How is Liverpool?” He asked, genuinely curious despite having been there himself what felt like a million times to attend various football matches during his career. 

“I’ll tell ya, Trent, it’s a lot more fun being in a city right after you’ve actually won a game,” he answers, followed by a low giggle that makes Trent’s heart race a mile a minute. 

“And the hotel…?” He asks. Decades of working as a journalist leads to some terrible habits, like not being able to hold a normal conversation without just firing questions at the other person. Ted doesn’t seem to mind it, handling each one with the same sincerity and charisma he brought to the press room where they first met. 

“Nice. Almost a little too nice, if I’m being honest. Which reminds me, I’ve got something I need to give to you,” Ted tells him, which is.. strange, to say the least. 

“That’s very kind of you, but.. why?” Trent asks, fidgeting with his glasses in his hands absentmindedly. 

“Well, I know you said you don’t like gifts, but I figured it was the least I could do,”

Trent stops fidgeting. 

“…for what?” He asks. A strange feeling, something between dread and excitement, took a hold of him as the question comes out far more stern than he intended. 

“Aww, come on now, Trent, you didn’t think I’d forget your birthday did you..?” 

Trent sighs. Of course he would never forget. He tries his hardest not to read too much into it- Ted probably remembers all of his friends’ birthdays… right?

“I’m not totally sure how you even remembered in the first place,” he said, returning to fidgeting with his glasses again, this time more anxiously. 

“Remember that time Keeley was trying to guess what your star sign was…?” Ted prompts him. 

Trent cringes at the realisation that yes, he actually did volunteer that information and yes, that was the context. 

“Thank you very much for calling, but you should know I am staunchly opposed to celebrating birthdays. Mine in particular,” he attempts to explain, though he’s almost certain he’s not going to get very far. 

“Now, why is that…?” Ted asks, his signature, almost child-like curiosity laced through every word of his question. It was hard not to want to tell him everything. 

He wasn’t like Trent; he didn’t ask questions to manipulate or make people feel a certain way. He asked questions simply because he wanted to know what the answers were. 

Trent takes a moment to consider this before answering. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe just the thought of being.. older,” he shrugs even though Ted can’t see him. 

“Aw, there’s nothing wrong with getting older, Trent. It just means you’re finally growing into your reading glasses,“ 

Trent gasps, taking mock offence, but can’t help laughing slightly. His day definitely seems to be improving. 

“So you’re sure there’s absolutely nothing you want for your birthday..?” Ted asks, but in a way that makes Trent think he’s definitely planning something. Some grand, Lasso-style gesture that would probably just embarrass the hell out of him. 

“Yes, I am quite certain, Coach Lasso,” he says carefully, making sure that there is no way any word in the sentence could be misconstrued. 

“Nothing at all…?” He repeats. Something inside of Trent lights up, either fear or excitement. Or possibly both. 

“Yes, I am sure. Nothing at-“ before he can finish his thought, the familiar sound of the doorbell permeates the silence in the apartment. 

“-all,” he finishes, before carefully inching towards the door, completely unsure of what to expect. 

Of all the things he might have suspected before opening the door, Ted standing by himself, beaming at him on his doorstep was not one of them. He was holding a cupcake, topped with a lit birthday candle. 

Trent hangs up on the phone call, standing in utter disbelief at the scene before him, trying to remember this moment as best as he could. A million questions flooded into his mind, 

Like “Aren’t you supposed to be coming back from Liverpool tomorrow?”

But instead of asking any of them, he stared in silence just for a moment, trying to savour it for as long as possible. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Ted asks him, gesturing down at the candle. 

“I- what?”

“Come on! You have to make a wish!” He smiles expectantly. As Ted holds the cake out towards him he can see something on his face that he has never seen before- something fond, and soft, and truly happy. Trent could feel the slight sting of tears in his eyes that he choked back as he eventually blew out the candle. 

“Woo! There ya go! Now, for obvious reasons you can’t tell me what you wished for, but-“ 

“Ted...” He said gently, cutting him off from whatever digression he was bound to launch into. 

He took a step closer and shut the door behind him. 

He suddenly felt a wave of new-found confidence come over him in that moment as he slowly dragged his gaze eyes up from the unlit candle, all the way to Ted’s eyes, which were widened in curiosity and anticipation. 

Ted could feel his heart thumping against his chest, and suddenly he felt as though he was witnessing Ms Scanlon’s tan lines again for the very first time, but this was new. Different, somehow. Because this was real, and it was with Trent Crimm, formerly of The Independent, the man who he had been thinking about since the moment he saw him in the press room on his first day at work. 

“Thank you. For everything,” Trent smiled at him slightly as he gently plucked the cupcake from his hand and placed it down on the small table just inside his front door. As he reached for it, his fingertips grazed Ted’s just for a moment, but it felt like maybe just a moment too long, and now Ted’s insides were twisting and knotting. It was a feeling he was familiar with, whenever the panic would settle in and it felt like he couldn’t breathe, but this was different. This was comfortable and warm and good and he never wanted it to end. 

He tried to keep his imagination from going wild; Trent was a good friend of his, and he just wanted him to have a good birthday. Nothing else. But he couldn’t help but wonder if Trent was thinking the same thing. 

“Oh, no, that’s okay, I just swung by to-“ Ted’s words are cut off by Trent’s warm hands cupping the side of his face, curing the chill with his gentle touch before pressing his lips against Ted’s in one swift motion.

Ted stands there for a moment, stunned, before reaching for Trent’s waist to gently pull him closer. After all, he has only really kissed Michelle, and felt completely unprepared for this scenario. Even though he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it once or twice.. 

Something inside of Trent felt as though it was bursting at the seams, as if months of wondering if all of Ted’s grand gestures and late-night phone calls and little nods to each other in the press room meant what he thought they meant this whole time. What he wanted them to mean all along. 

Ted feels his breath catch in his throat as Trent takes his bottom lip between his teeth gently as they pull away from each other. 

They stand for a moment like that, in Trent’s doorway as Ted stares at the ground nervously and shoves his hand in his pockets, trying desperately to ignore that  every single cell in his body felt like it had caught fire.  

Trent studied him for a second, unsure if maybe he had made a huge mistake and ruined any shred of trust the two of them had only moments ago. 

Then he remembered the candle in Ted’s hands, how he had been told to make a wish and blow it out. How he wished for just a moment, a brief moment in time, that he had the courage to say how he really felt. 

He took a deep breath in before filling the silence that had settled in between them. 

“Would you like to come in…?” 

Ted nodded before slipping politely past Trent and in through his living room. 

Maybe Trent could come around on this whole birthday thing after all.. 

+++

[bearfeathers]

👀

[imaginedmelody]

 To tell the truth, Trent hasn’t thought that much yet about how this is emotionally affecting him. Perhaps later, after all of this blows over, there will be a grieving process for what he’s given up. Certainly there will be worries—what the most viable path to pursue next will be, how to minimize the disruption to Eliza’s life. It’s possible that the freedom of being untethered to a publication will become distressing, once the magnitude of it has set in.

 But right now, the possibility of something new is all he can comprehend. Reporting on Richmond had begun to feel like a box someone was cramming him into—years of articles on the same mediocre matches, average season after average season. Then Ted had come along and thrown everything into chaos. And now, years into the boring middle of an otherwise respectable career, Trent has finally realized: there are other stories out there. Maybe even stories he could stand to be a part of.

Post-season 2 finale, Trent and Ted have a conversation, a revelation, and a move toward something more.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I am very bad at promoting my own fics on tumblr, but I just finished my first fic in eight months! Just a little reflective Tedependent character study <3 Hopefully the first of many for this fandom!