Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's not even that Roy Kent is that much grumpier than usual, on the day when everything goes terribly wrong.

Sure, his knee bugs him more when the weather is bad, and he's currently limping around because it's way too cold for mid-November, especially since it was gorgeous out yesterday. Sure, he slept like shit last night because his knee was aching. Sure, he's in a tiff because he was out of his favourite coffee creamer and he has a habit of letting little things like that ruin his morning.

But Roy is always grouchy in the mornings, so this is nothing new.

It's the team that are being a bunch of whiny little baby idiots, whinging all the way from the dressing room to the pitch about how cold it is and how they don't want to run about in the rain and why can't they train inside for now because it looks like it's going to start pouring.

So Roy makes them run laps until they're all vomiting and falling down into the soaking wet grass— save for Jamie, who has superhuman stamina at this point and barely seems winded, just standing there bouncing on his toes and shivering. Even he looks miserable, though, rain-drenched and covered in mud, giving Roy a look like he's trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with him today.

"Right. Whistle! Bring it in."

The team groups up, all groaning and complaining under their breath.

"Please tell me we're going inside," Colin mutters, probably thinking Roy can't hear him.

"Not a fucking chance, Hughes," Roy barks. "I'm tired of you all stropping about and crying because of a little bit of fucking rain. Full scrimmage, full-out, now. If I catch any of you slacking, I restart the fucking clock and you keep fucking playing until we're done. Got it?"

There's a quiet grumble of agreement from the team.

"A little harsh, Coach," Beard offers.

"They deserve it."

Beard shrugs.

"Whatever you figure."

"I do think it's about to start raining harder," Nate chimes in. He's holding a massive umbrella over the three of them. "Do we move inside if it gets worse?"

"Fuck no," Roy snaps. "I've played in a bloody hurricane. They'll be fine."

That match— an England-USA friendly, held in Orlando— did get called off within ten minutes, when they were all sliding around the pitch, but still. It was far worse weather than they're in now, and Roy survived.

Maybe he's taking his bad mood out on a bunch of people who don't really deserve it, and maybe he's still feeling a little unsure in his position as manager, so maybe he's slightly abusing his power by pushing the poor lads so hard... but such is football, isn't it? Sometimes you turn up to training and your coach decides to kick your arse for no apparent reason, and that just serves to make you tougher. Hell, Roy used to be coached by fucking Mourinho, the biggest fucking prick of a manager that's ever managed. (He loved it, Roy did, the no-nonsense way Chelsea was run back then, but mostly because he'd stayed on the coach's good side by keeping his mouth shut and playing good football.)

"Let's go!" Roy bellows. "Not a word of fucking complaining or I pause the match and make you all run more laps!"

That shuts them up. Roy folds his arms over his chest and watches.

This is good for them.

-

The intimidatingly dark cloud they've all been eyeing rolls in and opens up above them, just minutes into the scrimmage.

It's pouring, now.

If this were a match, there'd certainly be an official making a severe weather call and cancelling the rest of play. Everyone would be sent inside to dry off and warm up, and that would be that.

But it's training, and Roy is in charge, and he's going to make them suffer it out for at least a bit longer.

"That was sloppy, Rojas!" he calls, after Dani just misses a goal, bouncing the ball off the crossbar.

"Sorry, Coach! It's just— the rain is making it very hard to see!"

"I don't fucking care!"

It's about two more minutes before it happens. The thing that ruins what was already shaping up to be a terrible fucking day.

Roy should've seen it coming, really. It's like it happens in slow motion, but also somehow happens too fast for anyone to stop it. All he can do is stand there and watch it.

It goes like this:

Jamie has the ball. He's headed into the box, unstoppable even in these disgusting conditions.

Isaac goes in for a tackle. He miscalculates how slippery the pitch is, and slides in on an angle that his face makes very clear he knows is a dirty play and definitely not what he was trying to do.

Jamie's legs are knocked right out from under him in a flash, his boots losing traction on the grass and sending him airborne for a brief moment. He comes down hard; his back makes an audible thump as it hits the grass, and his head slams into the cold ground so hard that it may as well be called an instant concussion, right there and then.

Sam, throughout all this, has been running towards them, ready to take a sneaky pass from Jamie and go running off the other way— exactly how this play is meant to work.

Sam, to his credit, tries to stop.

However, he's already slipping and barely keeping his balance, so there's no changing his path now, and he's headed straight for the tangle of players in front of him.

There's a shout of pain, and Sam goes down too, and there's blood, and Roy begins to realize how massively he's fucked up.

"Whistle! Fucking whistle! Everyone stop!"

He's running out from under the umbrella before he realizes what he's doing, his knee protesting all the way. He's on the pitch, trying to figure out in the moment if this is a problem for the team medics or for a fucking ambulance, because someone— probably Jamie, but Roy can't see him past the wall of concerned players who've already circled up— is bleeding a shit-ton.

"I didn't mean to," Sam is gasping, clutching his right foot and staring wide-eyed at his teammates, thoroughly shaken up. "I couldn't stop— I tried to get around him, but—"

"It was an accident," Isaac reassures him. At least he seems to have made it out of the pileup unscathed, if a bit terrified. He helps Sam up, then gestures for Jan to come help out. "Let's get you off the pitch, bruv. Someone's gotta look at your ankle, yeah?"

"Move," Roy barks at the rest of the team as he approaches.

When the crowd of players splits, he sees precisely why Sam is so upset.

Jamie is still on his back, and his face is in a right fucking state— the metal studs and blades of Sam's boot have dug in and made deep, bloody gashes from his cheekbone up to his forehead, narrowly avoiding his eye, and he's got mud and grass all over him. He's poking weakly at the cuts with his fingers, and his eyes are screwed shut in pain. He looks rather like he's barely hanging onto consciousness.

Roy, in that soft little part of him that cares about his best fucking friend quite a lot, wants nothing more than to comfort him, tell him he'll be alright.

"Tartt," he snaps. It turns out comforting is a difficult note for Roy Kent to hit. "Stay the fuck awake if it fucking kills you. No fucking passing out on the pitch."

"M'not... not gonna...," Jamie slurs, his hand resting limply across his face now. He gags, like he's holding back an upsurge of vomit, then swallows thickly. "Just... fuckin' dizzy."

He'd hit his head so fucking hard on the ground, even before being fucking kicked in the face. They'll need a stretcher, definitely, since there's no way he'll be able to walk to the treatment room like this, even if his teammates hold him up and practically carry him along. Besides, with the way he fell, he could've hurt his neck or his back, so moving him at all would be fucking idiotic, and—

"Jamie... Jamie. C'mon mate, come back to us, yeah?"

That's Colin, now frantically tapping Jamie on the uninjured side of his face to try and wake him up, with absolutely no success.

Fucking shit.

-

The ambulance drives right onto the training pitch, sirens blaring.

Roy was the one who rang for it, but he can't even remember what exactly he said, his brain and body on autopilot. He knows he tried to send the team inside, but those stubborn, worried idiots are in a little swarm by the door, watching all wide-eyed and frightened and drenched.

Nate has brought the umbrella over, Beard went off to check on Sam and Isaac, and Roy has dropped to his knees in the grass (which he'll surely feel in the morning) to hold a rapidly-reddening towel to Jamie's face. He doesn't even know where he got the towel from.

"He took a bad fall and fucking... hit his head on the ground," he's saying to the paramedics when he zones back into reality, words falling out of his mouth of their own accord, "and then another lad's boot caught him in the face while he was down."

They're shifting Jamie onto a stretcher, and seeing him go so easily is a bit sickening. If he were awake, he'd certainly be fighting them off.

"So there were two impacts to his head, then?" the woman who seems to be the lead medic asks. She's strapping these foam blocks around his head to keep his neck still— Roy knows it's just protocol, but it's still terrifying. "The ground, and then another player's foot?"

"Yes." Roy shifts uncomfortably, not sure what to do with the bloody towel in his hands now that his job has been taken over by someone with actual gauze and shit. He hands it to Nate. "He was conscious until just before I called, about five minutes ago. We tried to wake him, but nothing worked."

The paramedic nods, and then they're loading Jamie into the ambulance.

"Any relevant medical history we should know about?" she asks, as they do so. "Past injuries or major illnesses? Medications? Allergies?"

"He just started a really low dose of Ritalin for ADHD, like three weeks ago, so he's still adjusting to it," Roy says. "Erm, he's had concussions before; I'm not sure how many, but none in the past couple of years. His only allergy is pineapple— it gives him hives. I think that's it."

Roy can't believe he knows that stuff off the top of his head, but he hasn't got time to be embarrassed. He's a good coach, he knows about his players. Whatever.

"Oh," he adds on, surging forward, so he can keep his voice low and chat just to the paramedics. Nate is still nearby, and it's not that Roy doesn't trust him, but he's not exactly in the habit of spilling private information to him either, not after the panic attack leak. "He's got PTSD. He really, really hates if you grab him when he's not expecting it. Gets him a bit panicky and angry, is all, so it's best to warn him before you touch him. I've learned that shit the hard way."

The woman nods, knowing. She's surely seen that type of thing before.

"Would you like to ride along with us? If he wakes up, it might help to have a familiar face."

Roy is pretty sure he would've forced his way into the ambulance if she hadn't offered, so he nods.

He tries not to let the wording of "if he wakes up" unsettle him.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll just—" He turns around to face the team. "Oi! Training's off! Everyone inside!"

And he doesn't watch to see if they've listened, just jumps into the back of the ambulance with Jamie. He sits in the free seat, holds Jamie's hand, and tries his very best to stay calm.

-

Jamie doesn't wake up in the ambulance.

No, the little prick has to go and have himself a seizure instead. The way his back arches as he jerks and flails, and the sound he makes— whining high in his throat, while even his vocal cords spasm— are so terrifying that Roy has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment and collect himself.

"This isn't uncommon after a head injury," one of the paramedics says, while carefully monitoring Jamie's breathing as he shakes. "It's nothing to worry about, Coach."

Still, though... the the ambulance speeds up and starts to blare its sirens in a slightly more frantic way, racing for the hospital.

Roy feels a bit sick with worry.

-

"...well, I'm sorry I didn't call you earlier— I was a little busy doing fucking chest compressions. I need you to admit room nine and free up a bed, stat— no, I know a tib-fib fracture has no business admitting to medicine, but you know what it's like trying to get fucking orthopaedics to fill out paperwork, and I've got a trauma incoming so I need to keep this hospital fucking moving, do you understand? No, ortho will do the surgery, but I just need the patient out of emergency, so— whatever. What the fuck ever. Call Dr. Baldwin yourself and figure it out, I don't give a shit. An ambulance is pulling up, and I want that patient admitted by someone."

Ruth Kent slams the desk phone down, takes one moment to run a hand through her hair, further messing up her ponytail, and then heads to the doors for the incoming patient— they fly open just as she approaches.

"Twenty-five year old male, GCS 6, airways are clear, open facial wounds and probable TBI," the paramedic is saying, which lines up with what they said over the phone a few minutes ago. "Possible SCI, possible skull fracture, one tonic-clonic seizure during transport that lasted three minutes."

The patient's face is mostly obscured by gauze and tape at this point— they'll have to unload him into a room before she gets a good look at the facial injuries. Hopefully he's not fucked his eye up; she sees a lot of shit in here, Ruth does, but eye trauma still makes her squirm.

"Any CSF leakage?" she asks, walking alongside the stretcher. "Vomiting? Epistaxis?"

"No, no, and no."

"Alright. Mechanism of injury?"

As she asks it, she notices the patient's muddy football kit and boots— it clicks that this is a fucking Richmond player. What the fuck did Roy let happen at work today?

"Slipped on wet grass after colliding with another player and went flying— took a hard fall, and then a boot to the face after he landed. Certainly not a pretty situation: two major hits to his head."

"Fucking shit," Ruth sighs. "His coach is a fucking idiot. Who trains outside on a day like this?" The stretcher pulls up to a bed. "On my count. One, two, three."

They slide the player over into bed— fucking heavy, athletes are— and then the nurses slip the backboard out from under him.

"Right, get him hooked up to full monitoring, and we'll—"

"Ruth!"

Well, speaking of idiot coaches.

"Sir, you can't be back here," a nurse is saying, but Roy is a piss poor fucking listener, so he's pushing past the curtain anyways.

"Roy Kent," Ruth fumes, turning to face him— the look she gives him is enough to silence even the nurse. "What the fuck have you done?"

Roy, to his credit, looks appropriately terrified and ashamed for the situation at hand, which is big considering his usual refusal to emote at all. He's rain-drenched and he's got blood all over his hands— probably the player's— and she'd feel bad for him in any other circumstance.

"You've gotta help him, Ruthie— I feel so fucking shit. I should've brought the team inside sooner instead of training in the rain, but I'm an asshole and a terrible fucking manager, and—"

Ruth cuts him off.

"Oi. If I have to admit you with a panic attack, you'll have cocked things up even more for everyone. Go to the waiting room, get washed up, and take some deep breaths. I'll handle this."

Roy hesitates to leave, eyes locked onto his player, sincerely worried.

"Dr. Kent," a nurse says, in that mix of calm and urgent that people tend to get in here when a trauma rolls in, "he's not protecting his airways."

Fuck. With a low GCS, of course he's not— his tongue has probably fallen back in his mouth to block his throat, too deep in unconsciousness to control it anymore.

"Right, let's intubate." She turns briefly to Roy, as the nurses hand her supplies. "You can't be back here. Just go. I'll keep you updated, I promise."

Roy grunts like he's annoyed, but his face gives away that he's really just scared. He reaches out to give the player's ankle a gentle squeeze before he goes.

"Don't you fucking die on me, yeah? That's not allowed."

She finally gets a look at her patient's blood-covered face while she prepares to shove a breathing tube down his throat, and Ruth realizes just who it is she's working on.

Her brother's best friend, her daughter's favourite babysitter (he's so much fun to play with, Mum, and he doesn't take it easy on me when we practise football, and he'll even buy me a Fanta when we go to the park as long as we don't tell Uncle Roy), and someone she's developed quite the soft spot for lately— in an entirely little-brother sort of way, much to Roy's relief.

"Fucking hell," she sighs, looking down at the state of him. "What've you gotten yourself into, Jamie?"

-

The only thing that's made this miserable day any better is the fact that Ruth is working.

It's not that Roy wouldn't trust other doctors— they've all got the right training, and that— but now he knows Jamie is in safe hands, and that he'll get an update as soon as possible. Which, it's been less than ten minutes, only enough time for him to get the blood off his hands, and he's already desperate for news.

He's never seen a football injury like it. He's seen broken bones, dislocated joints, bloody cuts and scrapes, even plenty of nasty concussions; he's seen players carted off in ambulances before... but none of them were Jamie, and he's rather sure none of them were having seizures and being put on a ventilator and being announced to the A&E staff as a probable TBI.

That's a Ted thing, brain injuries, with his crazy American Football bullshit, where they go smacking around into each other on purpose. When they did their first-aid recertification together last season, Ted had asked the instructors question after question about hematomas and haemorrhaging and other shit that Roy hadn't anticipated ever needing to worry about.

Now, quite frankly, he's never wanted Ted Lasso around so badly in his life.

He thinks about calling him, but realizes that fucking time zones are in the way— it's still morning here, not quite half ten, so it's absurdly early in Kansas. Ted probably won't even be awake for a bit yet.

Call me when you can please . This mornings a fucking shit show .

He sends the text, and to his surprise, his phone immediately starts to ring.

"Why the fuck are you awake?"

"Well, hello to you too, Roy-Boy. I'm just up, being an early bird, getting the worm, you know how it is. To what do I owe the pleasure of your strongly worded text?"

Roy huffs. Hates that Ted's chipperness actually calms him down somewhat.

"I've had a shit fucking morning, and I'm a shit fucking manager, and I need, like, fucking advice or some shit before I start freaking the fuck out."

"Now, that was a lot of curses, even for you. Lay it on me, Coach. What's the problem?"

Roy rubs his temple on the side he's not holding the phone.

"I think Jamie is fucking dying, and it's all my fucking fault."

-

For what it's worth, Ruth figures, Jamie does look a lot better once his face is cleaned and stitched up.

He's still out cold as he's sent off for a CT scan— the most responsive he's been since arriving here was a bit of twitching away from the pain as his wounds were cleaned. He's stopped bleeding, though, the gashes on his face not as deep as they originally seemed (and thankfully, his left eye is just fine, even though it'll be covered by bandages for a while yet, given the state of the skin around it). He hasn't shown any signs of a spinal cord injury either, so there's at least some silver linings here and there.

The scan should help figure out exactly what's going on. He's definitely got a head injury of some kind, but there's still a lot of possibilities when you go down to the details— whether it's just minor swelling in his brain from being jostled around, or if a blood vessel has burst, or if there's even some break in his skull that was too subtle to notice on palpation alone.

He could wake up later today and be just fine, if a little disoriented... or he could stay in a coma for far longer and need months of rehab. Anything could happen now, and it all depends on what's happened to his brain— head injuries are fucking unpredictable.

They'll consult neurology as soon as the imaging comes through. For now, Ruth can at least take some peace in the fact that Jamie has been stable this whole time; he was intubated as a precaution, (it's not that he actually wasn't breathing, just that the risk of him stopping was too high), and there's been nothing funny going on with his heart either. He's not dying (unless, god forbid, he takes a turn and something goes horribly wrong), so there's nothing worth stressing over while he's still in his scan.

He'll be fine. He's Jamie Fucking Tartt, of course he will.

-

"Well, fuck," Ted sighs.

The out-of-character word choice really drives home how awful this is.

"You're telling me," Roy grumbles. "I haven't even checked up on Isaac or Sam yet— I know I need to, but literally all I have space in my brain to worry about right now is Jamie, until I know he'll be okay."

"That's understandable," Ted says. "The two of you are like peanut butter and pickles on toast."

"We're fucking what?"

"An underrated combination that not everyone understands, but that's pretty darn good if you just give it a chance."

Roy grunts. He can see how that might taste alright somehow, but he doesn't exactly fancy trying it. It's annoying when Ted's weird bullshit makes sense.

"And besides, I'm sure Beard and Nate are holding down the fort just fine. You focus on Jamie— he'll need you."

Roy thinks of Jamie waking up in hospital, confused and in pain, and imagines having to explain to him what happened. On that same note, he realizes it's probably up to him to call Jamie's parents— the thought of telling Georgie that her boy is critically injured is nauseating. Even ringing James Sr. (who Roy still can't stand, but whom Jamie has been tentatively making contact with through his sober house as of late, because there's more nuance to unpack in their relationship than Roy finds himself capable of wrapping his head around) sounds terrible right now, because delivering bad news is never any fucking fun.

He should make those calls sooner, rather than later— the last thing he needs is Jamie's family finding out about this from a fucking press leak or something. Not that there'd been any fans in to watch today, not in the pouring rain, but all it takes is one random staff member at the club or the hospital telling the wrong person for this all to blow up in a giant fucking mess.

Shit.

"What do I tell the press, Ted? Like, we've got a Champions League match in two days, and both my top players are out of commission. I'll have to do a conference and talk about it, and I've got no idea how to explain this other than me being fucking stupid, and—"

"Woah. Slow down there, cowboy," Ted tuts. "Don't even think about that yet. You've got a loved one in the hospital, so I don't want you even thinking about work until you've gotten through the day and taken care of yourself. Keeley, Rebecca, and Higgins are already on it, press-wise, I'm sure— they're the dream team, so give them some room to work their magic, and they'll get something figured out."

Roy forces himself to take a breath. This is why he really does like Ted, though he'd never admit it out loud. He's just got a way of reframing things that takes the urgency out of them, even in a literal emergency like today's.

"What about the match?" Roy sighs. "I don't know how I'll get the team ready in time, and they'll never be able to focus."

"Forfeit it," Ted says, as if it's the simplest answer of all time.

"What? Fuck no. We can't."

"Sure you can. Those boys must be awfully shaken after today— it's traumatizing, watching someone get hurt like that, seeing the ambulance take off with them. You've got every reason to pull out of the match, and I guarantee everyone involved would understand. Some things are bigger than football."

He's fucking making a point again. Fuck's sake.

"We'll see," Roy grumbles. "They might want to play for Jamie's sake. I don't even know how bad Sam's ankle is, he might be fine."

"That he might," Ted agrees. "You're in charge, Coach. Go with your gut."

"Well, my gut makes fucking terrible decisions, doesn't it," Roy snaps, "seeing as I was the one who got us into this mess in the first place. I should be fucking fired."

"Woah, Roy. I think you need to see if anyone in that hospital has some scissors you can borrow."

Roy sighs heavily.

"To cut myself some slack?"

"Exactly, my fine furry friend. You can't control what you can't control, and accidents are accidents. If you wanted Jamie to get hurt, you would've made darn sure that happened a long time ago. You're here for him now, and that's what counts."

"Fuck. Thank you, Ted. This helped."

"Glad I could be of service."

Chapter Text

Dr. Ruth Kent is in the middle of pouring a can of Red Bull into her thermos so she can pretend it's tea or something— she's on her ninth hour of this incredibly chaotic shift and caffeine is of the essence— when her pager lets her know Jamie's scan results have come through.

As soon as she pulls it up, processes the words left temporal epidural haematoma staring at her from the computer screen, and takes in the rather large mass of blood visible on the actual scan, she lets out a string of curses even Roy would be taken aback by.

Apparently bleeding from his face wasn't enough; ever one to make a statement, Jamie simply had to go bleeding inside his skull as well. Fucking hell.

She didn't exactly have "sending a close family friend for emergency neurosurgery" on her bingo card for today, but here she is, in a bit of a tizzy as she consults with the surgeon (a conversation which is quick, uncomplicated, and no-nonsense, thank fucking god) and then hovers by Jamie's bedside while the nurses prep him for the operating theatre.

Ruth can't help the urge to reach out and push Jamie's hair out of his face— he's certainly not going to be thrilled when he wakes up a with a patch of it missing, after having his head cut open. He looks so young and fragile like this, the poor poppet, and while she knows it's not technically ethical to be treating someone she's close to, she's glad she's the one here with him.

"You'll be alright," she says, though it's incredibly unlikely that he can hear her. "I think Roy might go on some kind of murderous rampage if you're not, and he wouldn't do well in prison, so I'll make sure things are all good. I've got you, Jamie."

"Do you know him?" Holly, one of the nurses asks. She's sweet— fresh out of university, yet somehow unfazed by the chaos of A&E, taking it all in stride.

"My brother's the manager at Richmond," Ruth offers, unable to take her eyes off Jamie, "so I've gotten to meet some of the players. I always get a bit of a soft spot for the kids."

And that's true, so she leaves it at that— no mention of the Honorary Uncle badge, handmade by Phoebe, that she knows is pinned to Jamie's kit bag. No mention of the fact that this is one of the few people she trusts not only with her daughter, but with her big brother; Roy's sensitive heart, under that gruff exterior, is something Ruth's always had a mind to look out for. Having Jamie as a friend has been so good for him, and it hasn't gone unnoticed.

"I watched him on Lust Conquers All," Holly offers, as she goes about her work, cutting Jamie's muddy kit off. "Had a bit of a celebrity crush on him— I can't say this is how I was hoping to meet him someday." She rests a hand on Jamie's shoulder, turns to address him. "You were robbed, love. Honestly. You were ten times fitter than Danthony, and had much better chat."

Jamie's chest rises and falls with the hiss of mechanical ventilation. He doesn't react, though Ruth can picture the way he'd take that compliment with a wink and a cheeky smirk.

The various monitors around him beep their indications of his status: his blood pressure is too high, and his heart rate is too low, because his intracranial pressure is increasing with every minute that the blood clot is still in his head, but he's okay. He's about to have his skull drilled open and his brain operated on, but he'll be okay.

He has to be, really, because if he's not, and if Roy does something insane and goes to prison because of it, there's Ruth's babysitter list practically decimated. That simply won't do, will it?

-

Once he's off the phone with Ted, Roy sees that Beard has texted him.

Update: Sam's ankle is fine. He tweaked it a little, but scared himself more than anything. Physios sent him straight up to Doc Sharon once they cleared him, because he was pretty shaken up. How's Jamie?

And Roy doesn't know how to answer that, because he has no idea how Jamie is, past the last time he saw him— all bloody and unconscious and about to have a tube shoved down his throat. Anything could've happened in the time he's been sitting here, down a random hallway off of the main waiting room to avoid people staring at him.

Haven't got any news yet, he texts back. Just sat in A&E losing my mind. How's the team? Did you send them home?

The reply is quick.

Tried to. Most of them are still hanging around the locker room, pretty rattled. I think they'd rather be together while they wait to find out how he's doing.

A second text.

Isaac disappeared, though. He's upset.

"Fuck," Roy breathes, out loud.

Because of course Isaac's upset. Roy feels like shit for making the team run about in the rain, but he can't imagine how guilty he'd feel if he'd been the one to physically take Jamie down like that, even by accident. And Isaac's like him— cares a lot and doesn't know how to handle it— so he's probably hiding somewhere, in a rage, as he tries to find his way through the emotions.

Let him be for now, he sends, after thinking on it for a moment. He needs some space. He'll come back to the team when he's ready.

He can picture the state of the dressing room now— that quiet way the lads go after the hardest of losses, but likely even tenser today: taut with anticipation while they wait for news about their friend. Roy wishes he had literally anything to give them, but he's just as clueless as they are. They're all just waiting. It fucking sucks.

He stares at his phone screen until it goes dark, and then stares at it some more, like he's trying to a burn a hole in it with his eyes.

He feels fucking ill, he's so nervous.

After seconds or minutes or however fucking long, the screen lights back up— it's Keeley calling.

Fuck, she's probably freaking out, worrying about Jamie, while trying to manage this mess as far as publicity goes. She'd never say it out loud, but she'll probably be silently furious with Roy for causing this, and she'll have every right to be.

He almost doesn't answer, but ignoring Keeley might actually be physically impossible, so Roy finds himself with his phone pressed to his ear.

"Keeley," he breathes out, because he's got no other words left in him at this point.

"Hiya, Roy," she says, her cheery tone a shocking departure from what Roy had been expecting. "Have you got lunch break plans today? I've just had a meeting cancel at the last minute, but I've still got the restaurant reservation booked, if you've got time to join me."

Roy blinks as he realizes no one's told her.

She must've been at the KBPR office, in meetings all morning, had her personal phone on do not disturb. She hasn't heard yet— of course she hasn't, when she's got a whole career going on that doesn't revolve solely around her work with the Greyhounds.

Roy has to tell her what's happening. Fuck.

"I can't. Jamie's in hospital." Well, no beating around the bush, apparently. The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. "There was an accident in training this morning."

It takes Keeley a moment to process that, understandably so.

"What?" He can practically see her getting up and rushing to leave the office, to get here as soon as she can, even though she doesn't even know what hospital they're at. "Is he okay? Are you with him? Oh my god, Roy. What on earth happened?"

Roy closes his eyes a moment, trying to maintain his composure.

"I'm— I'm still in the waiting room. I came here in the ambulance with him, but then they took him back and I haven't seen him since. Ruth is with him, at least; we got brought to the right hospital." He pauses. Swallows thickly. "It was bad. He was knocked out on the pitch, and bleeding so fucking much. I'm freaking out."

Keeley takes a breath. Part of the reason she's so good at what she does is that she can nearly always keep her head straight in a crisis— though they've never had something quite like this to deal with.

"Okay. Shit. Are you alright? Was anyone else hurt?"

"I'm fine. Isaac and Sam might be a little scuffed up; they all slipped and ran into each other, but Jamie got the worst of it." Roy rubs at his face. "He went down really hard, and then I think Sam must've stepped on his face by accident. The paramedics were saying he's probably got a brain injury. He had a seizure in the ambulance."

And he's not trying to scare Keeley, and he shouldn't be dumping all this on her at once, but he needs to say it. Needs to get it off his chest, and needs her to know just how serious this is.

"Oh god..." Keeley breathes. "I'll be there as soon as I can, I don't want you sitting all alone."

"Could you bring me a change of clothes?" Roy looks down at himself— still not entirely dry from being out in the rain, and bloodstains on his trousers from kneeling next to Jamie. "I'm a fucking mess right now."

"Of course. Text me if something changes, or if you need anything else, okay? See you soon."

"See you."

And then the call ends and he's staring blankly at his phone again. Can't be bothered to put it away, but doesn't want to do anything with it, either.

So he just stares and waits and really fucking hopes for some good news.

-

Unfortunately, just because she's got a friend admitted doesn't mean Ruth can just ignore any other responsibilities— it does, however, help to have a few medical students on clinical placement to delegate to.

"I need you to call Sunset Care Home and figure out why that patient in 204 is here," she says, catching one of the students by the elbow as she passes him on her way out to the waiting room. "They've sent him in without a note in his lap or anything, and he's got no bloody clue what's going on. Remind them not to send dementia patients without notes."

"Right, okay," the poor, overwhelmed kid responds. He's only been here a week, and the workload is a lot to get used to. "I'll get on that, Dr. Kent."

"Lovely, thank you." She realizes she doesn't actually know his name, so she pats him on shoulder and continues on. "Let me know what you find out— I'll be back in a few."

And she walks away too fast for anyone to stop her; now that Jamie is in the safe and capable hands of the neurosurgical team, Roy deserves an update.

She turns down a couple of hallways to look for him— it's no surprise that he's not in the main waiting room, seeing as he'd probably hate to be recognized by a nosy fan right now. She finds her big brother in the most secluded area possible, slumped in a chair and staring at his phone.

He looks absolutely crushed. It's not an unfamiliar sight in A&E, that quiet sort of devastation, but it doesn't look right on Roy.

"Coach Kent?"

It feels weird, addressing him that way, but they're both sort of in work-mode right now. It gets his attention, at least, his gaze snapping up to her like he's been startled out of a day dream.

"Ruth," he breathes. He stands up, immediately coming towards her, and doesn't even wince when his knee gives a noisy crack. "Fuck... is he okay?"

Ruth sighs. Takes a moment to think of how best to answer that.

"He's not not okay," she settles on. "He's very seriously injured, but I don't think his life is in danger, at this point. I reckon he'll be alright— probably not up and playing football anytime soon, but doing as well as he can."

That not-quite-good-news doesn't seem to improve Roy's desolate state by much.

"Can I see him?"

Ruth shakes her head, and watches Roy deflate even more.

"He's in surgery right now, and he will be for at least a couple of hours." She lays her hands on his shoulders. "You should go home— get cleaned up and have something to eat, and I'll call you as soon as he's done."

"Fucking surgery? What the fuck for?" Roy demands, though he sounds very small. He's so terrified it's not even able to pass for anger anymore.

"He's... well, I'm not telling you the clinical terms, because you'll go off and start googling things and freaking yourself out. When he fell, an artery burst inside his head. It stopped bleeding all on its own already, so they're just going in and clearing out the clot. It's a very standard surgery, and I'm confident he'll be all settled in ICU by half-three at the latest."

Roy blinks. Brushes Ruth's hands off of him.

"ICU," he echoes. "A blood clot in his brain... has he had a fucking stroke? Why are you so fucking calm about this?"

"No, no, definitely not a stroke," Ruth rushes to clarify. "I should've been more clear. You know, like—" She starts to act it out with her hands. "There's your brain, then it's wrapped in layers of other tissues to protect it, yeah? He was bleeding between the top layer and his skull— very superficial and not touching his actual brain. The main concern there is that the buildup inside his head puts pressure onto his brain, but with how quickly we got him into surgery, there shouldn't be too much to worry about."

Roy seems unconvinced by the whole nothing to worry about bit— which is a bit of a stretch, sure, considering how iffy Jamie's vitals were getting prior to surgery, but still. There's no sense getting worked up yet, when anything could happen. It's entirely possible that he could be fine.

"I'm not going anywhere until I've seen him," Roy says. Fucking stubborn Kent genes.

"You're all wet," Ruth notes. "I can tell you're freezing, because you always catch cold in wet clothes, so you're really just making yourself ill at this point. You need to go home for a bit and change."

Roy glowers.

"Keeley's bringing me something to change into. She's on her way."

Ruth sighs.

"The two of you are going out for lunch when she gets here, then. Sitting here won't make the surgery go any faster, and I promise I'll let you know as soon as he's done."

Roy, for once in his life, opts not to growl at her about it, his usual reaction when he realizes she's got a point. He just takes a deep breath and nods.

"Fine. You're fucking right."

Jesus. A quiet, resigned Roy Kent. This really is a strange day.

-

Keeley hugs him, once he's changed, and Roy doesn't cry.

Not technically, at least. Maybe a couple of stress-tears leave his eyes, but Keeley doesn't notice, so it doesn't count.

"Your sister says I'm meant to get some food in you." She's being so gentle with him, can clearly tell he's on the verge of freaking the fuck out. "Anywhere you'd like to go?"

Roy shakes his head as they pull back from the hug.

"No. I'm not hungry."

Keeley stares up at him, giving that stern little look that can get him to do anything for her.

"You don't need to torture yourself. Let's go have lunch, and we'll come back when we can see him. No point sitting here and waiting— this chair's the wrong height, it'll ruin your knee."

His knee is already killing him from when he'd dropped down to Jamie's side in the grass. He's got extra-strength painkillers, both at home and in his office, for bad flare ups. He could really use one now, but can't be arsed to go get them. Jamie's in more pain than he is, so he's certainly not going to fucking complain.

"Fine."

He's conceding, today. Doesn't have the energy to argue. What the fuck ever— Keeley can take him to some restaurant and he'll be a grump the whole time, but he'll do as he's told.

"I'm gonna ring Rebecca," Keeley says, as they walk out towards her car. "We'll need to figure out the best way to break this news, but we can't do that until we know more about Jamie. As long as nothing leaks until he's out of surgery, we should be fine."

Roy climbs into the passenger side. Takes a breath.

"I need to call Jamie's mum. I don't know what the fuck to tell her."

"Higgins should've called her already," Keeley points out, turning the key in the ignition. "He's got everyone's emergency contacts. It might be nice of you to call her too and check in, though, if you want. She's probably on her way to London."

"She's in Spain," Roy realizes aloud. "Fuck."

Her and Simon are on holiday, and they've got tickets to see Richmond play Barça in two days. A match that may or may not even happen at this point. Roy can't stop thinking of Ted's advice— forfeit it, some things are bigger than football.

Jamie's life is bigger than football. Watching your teammate be rushed away in an ambulance is bigger than football. And for poor Sam and Isaac, the traumatic experience of accidentally almost-killing your friend because your stupid manager set up an unsafe scrimmage is definitely bigger than football.

It's not like there's really a point to even playing the match. Their Champion's League debut has been a mediocre performance at best, and they're at the bottom of the Group F table. It's four matches into the group stage already anyways, so there's no saving their spot. They won't be advancing even if they somehow manage a win. They could forfeit this week and change absolutely nothing about the standings— they'll be disqualified from the competition and likely fined by UEFA, but Roy will pay the fine out of his own fucking pocket if he has to. He's not going to force the team to play if they're not up for it.

"Shit, speaking of Spain," Keeley says, like she can read his mind, "you're flying there tomorrow night, aren't you?"

Roy sighs.

"Would Rebecca kill me if we didn't?"

Keeley purses her lips.

"Maybe. Or, like, I don't think she'd be mad, but sponsors and shareholders and all that might be."

Roy scoffs.

"We've got a player in critical fucking care. If the fucking shareholders have a problem with that, they can fucking die."

Keeley nods.

"Right. Good point. And hey— you're the manager. If you say the team's not playing, then they're not playing, no matter what anyone else says about it."

Roy stares at the road.

That's a lot to think about. He'll check on the team later today and try to make a decision. For now, he's got enough on his mind, picturing Jamie with his brain sliced open or whatever the fuck is going on back at the hospital.

-

Room 2043 in neuro ICU. Jamie is stable and recovering. Can see one visitor at a time.

She texts it to Roy, while lingering just outside the room in question. Her shift ended at three, which was perfectly timed for his release from surgery— she's technically up here on her own personal time, and Jamie's no longer in her care now that he's out of A&E.

She's just here to visit a friend.

She's a bit scared to see how he's doing. The ICU is fucking terrifying.

She knocks as she enters the room, purely on instinct, despite knowing there's no chance he'll be awake in there. The cacophony of beeps from the various machines inside is already stressful.

"Hi, love." She keeps her tone as quiet and gentle as she can. There's Jamie, swallowed up by the bed, covered in tubes and wires. "You're looking better, aren't you. I heard you were a lovely patient for your surgeon— just a quick and easy operation, no complications."

Jamie doesn't so much as twitch, even when she gets close enough to take his hand. The ventilator hisses, his monitors beep, and his vitals look good. His blood pressure's still sitting a bit high, but not enough to worry. His heart rate's rather low, too, but he's an endurance athlete, so of course it is. His natural rhythm is probably in the forties or fifties at rest, so the number on the screen is fine. He's fine.

"You gave Roy quite the scare," she continues, just looking at his poor, bandaged wee face, with the endotracheal tube in his mouth. "He'll be here soon. He's worried sick."

Jamie's eyelids flutter so faintly it's almost unnoticeable. His index finger twitches under her hand.

"Coming around a bit, are you?" She gives his hand a gentle squeeze. He likely won't wake up until the swelling in his brain has gone down some more, which could be hours or days, but it's nice to see him move a bit. "You're alright. Just rest for now, take your time."

His head is all wrapped up, and she wonders how much hair he's missing under there. Maybe he'll pull a Beckham and just get rid of it all, once he's got the presence of mind to worry about it. Or maybe he'll set some kind of trend, get all the models and footballers out there shaving random patches of their heads to match him.

His hand twitches again, a bigger motion this time. Then twitches again, and again, and then his hand goes rigid, and his arm follows, and—

"Oh shit." Ruth presses the call button. Another seizure isn't surprising, but it's still not fucking pretty to watch, his whole body gradually following his hand's lead until he's completely tense. "You're okay. I'm right here."

A nurse rushes in, and then a second one follows. Ruth doesn't have to say anything— they know what to do, and she's not in charge here anyways. Specialized neuro ICU nurses probably have a better grasp of seizure management than she does.

There's not much they can actually do, in the early stages, besides wait it out. At the five-minute mark, long after the rigid spasticity has turned into rhythmic jerking that feels like it's been going on for ages, they finally push some lorazepam through an IV. Slowly but surely, it takes effect, and Jamie goes limp.

"Fuck's sake," Ruth sighs, falling into the chair beside his bed. "You can never just sit still, can you, Jamie?"

Again, he probably can't hear her, but she knows he'd laugh at that.

It catches her off-guard, really, how well she's gotten to know him as of late, She's never had a younger sibling before, but something about wee Jamie, a decade her junior, brings out a fierce sort of protectiveness for her new little brother.

One nurse has left already, and the other gives Ruth a gentle smile as she finishes whatever she'd been doing.

"Is this your husband, then?"

Ruth nearly chokes on a laugh. She suddenly remembers making that very same slip up when Coach Lasso brought his friend into A&E years ago.

"No," she chuckles. The nurse is on the older side, must not know who Jamie is. He's allegedly dating Bella Hadid at the moment, according to The Sun, after being spotted partying with her after some fashion show— when Ruth texted him the article, all he sent back was nah not dating with a laughing face and a squirrel emoji, so she'd decided not to dig too deep into whatever that meant. "Definitely not. He's a good friend."

The nurse eyes them both up with a coy sort of smile that says she doesn't exactly believe that, but nods nonetheless.

"I see. Lovely friend you are, coming round to see him, Doc."

Ruth returns the smile, doing her best not to burst out laughing at the thought of her and Jamie being anything more than friends— it would never happen, but the way Roy would react if it ever did makes her think that once Jamie's up and moving again, they ought to pull off that prank. Maybe a fake tabloid article would really sell it.

Alone again, once the nurse has left, she carefully squeezes Jamie's hand.

"You're alright," she repeats from earlier, because on the chance that he's conscious enough to listen, he could probably use the reassurance. "They're taking such good care of you. All you've gotta do is rest."

Jamie's fingers twitch under her hand again, a fainter movement this time. Hardly even noticeable.

Nothing else happens.

Maybe that time, it really was a good sign.

-

Thank god Jamie can only have one visitor at a time, because Roy starts fucking crying as soon as he walks into the room.

It's like— he's not much of a crier, despite what his retirement presser might lead most people to believe. His stupid feelings usually turn into anger, rather than tears, except in truly unique moments: leaving the sport he'd spent thirty years utterly devoted to, holding newborn Phoebe for the first time, sitting alone in a villa in Spain where he'd paid to have romantic rose petals strewn all about... and apparently, the newest addition to the list is seeing Jamie Tartt in intensive care, fucking clinging to life, looking all young and innocent and shit. 

Because maybe he's not that innocent, but he is young. And he's got so much ahead of him— he's the same age Roy was the first time he went on as captain for England, and Jamie's been steadily working his way up the ranks on that front. In fact, Roy wouldn't be shocked to see him wearing the armband someday; he does sometimes for Richmond, now that they're playing around more with squad rotation, and he's grown into a fucking incredible leader. It won't take long for Southgate to see that.

But, like, Roy has seen careers ended by far less serious injuries, and he's got a very bad taste in his mouth about this.

For some reason, as he takes the few steps over to Jamie's bedside in this private room, all he can think of is that moment during his brief stint as a pundit, when he'd gone on TV and wished Jamie dead.

Jamie Tartt is a muppet, and I hope he dies from the incurable condition of being a little bitch.

Well, now he's nearly died from the condition of having a shit fucking manager, so look how that worked out. He turned up to training today all cheerful and shit, his usual fucking charming self, and he was a good sport about the rain and Roy's awful drills and the fucking dangerous scrimmage, and now he's here. He's got a machine breathing for him, and bandages all over his face, and Ruth said the neurologist told her it might be days before he wakes up, because his fucking brain is all bruised and swollen inside his head.

And it's Roy's fucking fault, and he all-but collapses into the shitty plastic chair that'll just fuck his knee even more, and he fucking cries. Can't even look at Jamie properly without feeling ill with guilt, and that makes it feel even worse, just sitting here and ignoring him, but he's not sure what else he can do.

"I'm so fucking sorry," he mutters. Takes Jamie's hand and rubs his thumb over the back of it, like Grandad used to do when he was poorly as a kid. "This is so fucked, Jamie."

Jamie doesn't react.

Just lays there, quiet and still, which is an incredibly unsettling state for Jamie Tartt to be in at the best of times. Even in his sleep, he moves about and never fully settles— which Roy knows because they sometimes hang out in the evenings now, and Jamie is prone to crashing on the couch halfway through any given film. Roy has taken to making sure his guest room's always ready, just in case he needs to drag a half-asleep Jamie into it at the end of a long day, if he happens to come over after training.

Roy thinks of what Ted said on the phone: If you wanted Jamie to get hurt, you would've made darn sure that happened a long time ago. You're here for him now, and that's what counts. Fucking American prick, being right about things—there's no sense in whinging about how guilty he feels, because that's not going to help anything now. He can worry about whether Jamie will ever forgive him once he's awake.

He sighs. Forces himself to turn his attitude around.

"You're gonna get better. We haven't watched the new Love Is Blind yet, and I'm not fucking watching it without you. Pointless to watch it at all, if I haven't got you bitching in my ear about it the whole time." He gives Jamie's hand a steady squeeze. "I'll bring my fucking computer here so we can watch it as soon as you wake up. So fucking hurry up with that, yeah?"

And Jamie still doesn't react, but maybe he's heard it. Roy thinks he's made himself plenty clear.

Chapter Text

Keeley is taking a turn sitting in with Jamie, and Roy is walking back into Nelson Road.

He's been informed that both Isaac and Sam are in Dr. Sharon's office, so he's headed there— it feels right to give them an update before the rest of the team, since not only were they the ones involved in the accident, but they're his captains.

Well, them and Jamie. With their newly-packed schedule this season, playing multiple games a week, Roy's been rotating players in and out of the starting lineup to give them an even spread of rest days. If Isaac's not on the pitch, it's Sam or Jamie taking over, and they've become quite the trio of phenomenal leaders. They work well together, the team respects them, and they're collectively much better at captaining than Roy ever was.

They know he's coming, so he opens the door to Dr. Sharon's office after giving it a little courtesy tap.

"Lads," he greets them, and aren't they a sorry sight.

Sam is curled into himself on the couch in the corner, fiddling with the sleeves of his jumper and staring blankly at the floor, while Isaac sits in a chair by the desk and absolutely mashes the shit out of what looks like silly putty, glaring at it like it's shagged his mother or something. They've probably been like this for a while, silent and brooding, because Sharon sets down a book as Roy walks in.

"Coach Kent," she replies. "Good afternoon."

"Doctor." Roy nods. Looks back to Sam and Isaac, who've both glanced up at him, waiting for what he's come here to say, so he may as well get right into it. "Right. There's not really an easy way to say this, but—"

Isaac's eyes go wide before Roy can finish.

"Oh my god. He's dead," he blurts, horrified.

Roy nearly chokes.

"What? No. Jesus Christ. He's not dead, he's just in a coma. Holy fuck, McAdoo."

Isaac lets out a sigh of relief, visibly deflates. He'll break his neck jumping to conclusions one day, that kid, for fuck's sake.

Sam, though...

Sam doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just swallows thickly and breathes:

"A coma."

Roy sighs.

"Yeah. But they don't think he'll be in it for long— he just needs a day or two for the swelling in his brain to go down, and he should start coming around."

And it's supposed to be reassuring, because he's avoided the words the neurologist used, like severe traumatic brain injury and epidural hematoma and post-traumatic amnesia, but it still somehow seems to have the opposite effect, because Sam simply crumples.

He drops his head to rest on his knees, and breaks down in this quiet sort of way that says the past few hours have probably exhausted his body's capacity to cry any harder than this.

"Roy, Isaac," Dr. Sharon says, quiet but firm, like she's not open to argument, "I'm going to spend a bit more time with Sam. Why don't you two go down and talk to the team?"

Roy nods.

Isaac gets up, taking the silly putty with him, still crushing it between his fingers. He nods as well.

"Come and see me later," she continues, in response to their silence. "I think each of you could benefit from a chance to talk things through."

The thought of having to sit down and tell someone he respects exactly how stupid he is sounds absolutely terrible to Roy, but he knows she's right. Isaac likely feels the same.

"Sure." He gives her another nod. "Thanks, doctor."

"Yeah, cheers," Isaac adds, as they both make for the door.

And Roy tries not to eavesdrop as they walk away, but he overhears Sam's voice crack as he declares I am never going to forgive myself, and he's pretty sure something inside him breaks.

-

Telling the team goes about as well as expected... which is, not remotely well at all.

Not everyone is here in the dressing room— some of the lads have filtered out by this point, off to get kids from school, or go to appointments, or just get out of the sullen atmosphere that's suffocating all of Nelson Road right now.

It takes both Roy and Isaac's bellowing voices to calm the initial chaos, where it seems like the stubbornly remaining team members might be preparing to storm to hospital to get to their friend. As soon as Roy has made it clear that no one but approved visitors— himself, Keeley, and Jamie's family, which already fills the capacity on the list at the nurses' station— are allowed into the ICU, the defeated silence returns.

Roy needs a moment, so he's stepped into his office to find his painkillers, but he can't take his eyes off the team through the window.

Dani's lips are moving as he sits with his eyes closed and clutches the crucifix on his necklace. Colin is the only one daring to enter Isaac's space, with a hand on his knee, speaking quietly to him, despite the way the captain looks very much like he might explode. Richard and Thierry must be translating what just went down for Étienne, the seventeen year-old transfer from PSG's academy— he doesn't have the strongest grasp of English yet, and hadn't seemed to know what was going on when the team burst into uproar, but had been just as enthusiastic as anyone else. He's a good fit for this group.

(He'd been incredibly starstruck, Étienne, upon meeting Jamie at the start of the season. Had called him the best attacking midfielder in the world, right to his face, a compliment which Jamie had been surprisingly humble about accepting. They've become quite the pair, them two: despite the fact that they can hardly understand each other through Étienne's broken English and Jamie's heavy accent, the way they feed into each other's hyperactivity often finds Roy at his wit's end during training.)

"You okay, Coach?"

That's Beard, joining him in the office.

Roy nods. Keeps rummaging in his unreasonably cluttered desk drawer.

"Just looking for my fucking... knee shit. It hurts."

Finds the tablets, pops one out, and swallows it dry. They're strong little pills, and they make his head go just slightly fuzzy. Usually, he hates that, but it might be a bit of a relief today— anything to get his thoughts to slow down.

"Ted told me you called him."

Roy nods again. Grunts his agreement. Leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, waiting for the medication to start working.

"He said he asked you to think about forfeiting this week," Beard continues. "Are you thinking about it?"

Roy sighs. He doesn't want to think about it.

He'd looked into the rulebook over lunch with Keeley. UEFA makes it pretty bloody clear— refusal to play comes with disqualification from the league and massive fines, and upon further thought, Roy has realized that the absolute headache it would cause the club once it spirals into sponsor commitments and contracts and shit simply isn't justifiable. They have to play.

"I did think about it," he finally offers, "and I don't fucking want to fly to fucking Spain tomorrow... but things are what they are, and rules are fucking rules, and we have a match to play. There's not really a way out of it, as much as I wish there was."

Beard sighs. He sounds exhausted.

"I really don't know if those kids are up for it."

Roy huffs.

"I know. I'm not fucking up for it either. But we'll tell them they're playing for Jamie— because he'd be fucking furious if he knew we were even thinking of skipping a match because of him— and we'll survive. We'll use the same formations we do any other time he's not starting. It might not be our best show ever, but it's happening. If anyone really doesn't think they can play, I won't force them; I don't know what kind of state Sam or Isaac will be in."

Obviously, a match against a team like Barça usually guarantees they'd be using their absolute strongest starting eleven— including one of the top playmakers in all of fucking Europe, with ten assists and four goals already this season, between the Prem, the CL, and the Carabao— but they'll simply have to do it without Jamie this time. They'll be without him for a while, probably, provided he's able to come back from this at all, so they're going to have to adapt.

As Roy starts turning over strategies in his mind, thinking of all the match tape he's watched of Barça, he remembers Jamie telling him some time ago that he wanted that to be his next big move. He said if he could map out his dream career, he'd stay at Richmond one more season, then play with Barcelona for a while, maybe do a stint somewhere else in Europe after that if the offer is right, and then come back to the Greyhounds when he's old and decrepit and thirty-five to play out his retirement years. He was also going to win the World Cup at some point in there, he insisted, and probably the Ballon d'Or too.

(The two big things Roy has never won, the smarmy little shit. He'd known exactly what he was saying, too, with that cheeky fucking smirk.)

(This conversation had happened on the train home from Paris, after this year's Ballon d'Or ceremony, where Jamie was the first Richmond player to ever be shortlisted. He was ranked twenty-fourth, and Roy had been so proud he thought he might burst— he'd even gotten over his hatred of red carpets long enough to let Jamie drag him along for the night as his plus-one. It'd been good fucking fun, really, even if it brought back the infuriating memories of all the years he'd lost the award to Ronaldo and Messi.)

"Nate and I will figure out the game," Beard says, interrupting Roy's thoughts. He's uncharacteristically gentle about it. "Go get some rest."

They both know Roy won't be resting anytime soon, but he appreciates the out nonetheless.

-

"I thought Uncle Jamie was picking me up today."

Phoebe's pouting as she gets into the car, carrying a painting she must've done at her after-school art program.

"What, you're not happy to see your mum?" Ruth tries to joke. "I see how it is."

"No, Mummy," Phoebe sighs, with a roll of her eyes. "I am happy. But Jamie always picks me up on Tuesdays, and I made this for him."

She holds up the painting. It's incredibly abstract, but seems to centre around football in some vague sort of way— Phoebe's creative vision can be a bit hard to follow at times. Still, though, Jamie would certainly love it.

Ruth sighs as she puts the Range Rover into drive and pulls away from the school.

"Well, I think Jamie would've really liked to pick you up today, love. He loves spending time with you." She pauses, thinking on how best to say this. "I have some sad news about him, though. I don't want to scare you or upset you, but I want you to know what's going on— Jamie got hurt very badly at training today, which is why he couldn't come get you. He had a surgery on his head this afternoon, so it's going to take him some time to get better, and he'll probably be in hospital for a while. I'm quite sure he'll be okay, but it's been a very scary day, especially for Uncle Roy."

Phoebe is quiet for a moment.

"Are we going to visit him?"

Ruth sighs again. Feels like it's all she knows how to do.

"Not today. He can't have very many visitors right now, since we don't want to crowd him— Keeley and Uncle Roy are staying with him until his parents can get to London, so he's not alone, but you and I will have to wait until he's doing a bit better for our turn to see him."

Phoebe hums, taking that in.

"If I make him a card, can Uncle Roy take it to him?"

That's a much easier question to answer.

"Of course he can. I think Jamie would like that very much."

Phoebe nods, contemplating for a moment, then very seriously asks:

"Do you think he like tits?"

Ruth nearly chokes, trying not to laugh. She honestly can't believe she raised this child sometimes.

"I'm sure he'd enjoy anything you draw for him, but yes, Phoebe, I reckon he does probably like tits."

"Perfect. I'll get to work straight away."

-

Jamie's not small.

Roy is well aware of that. Knows he's sort of the reason why, really, with the way the extra training last season helped sculpt stupid vanity muscles into real, usable, solid strength. Besides that, while Jamie's not particularly tall, he's certainly not short either— he's a big man, a professional athlete, who could probably lift Roy over his head and throw him if he wanted to.

But he looks like a fucking child in this hospital bed, and Roy can't stop thinking about it.

He's switched off with Keeley again— she's got a press statement to write, which Roy will have to read in front of all the journos tomorrow morning, explaining why the fuck Jamie won't be joining them in Spain. She'd promised to keep it short and to the point: there was an accident in training, Jamie was severely injured, they're all a bit shaken up, but they're going to play the best they can for him. Generic media bullshit, asking everyone to send him thoughts and prayers and whatever the fuck, while reminding them all to respect his privacy.

There's so much to think about... but when Roy is in this room, it all sort of fades out. He's a man looking at his best friend, deep in a coma. There's nothing he can do but sit with him and try to comfort him, because Jamie could be hurting and scared and confused in there.

"Your mum and Simon are on their way," Roy says, once he's holding Jamie's hand again. "They just got on their flight, it's only a couple of hours. I haven't spoken to your dad yet— I'll ring his facility tonight and let him know what happened, so he doesn't have to find out from a tabloid or something, but I'm not inviting him down to London."

He pauses. Jamie hasn't told him much about the new, tentative peace he's made with his father, besides a simple things are better, now, with James Sr. sobered up and living in a recovery centre. It's a question of how better, and why do you even give him the time of day, and would you forgive me if I headbutted him on sight if I ever see him face to face— Roy doesn't understand the situation at all, but tries to respect it from a distance.

"Once you're awake," Roy continues, "if you want him here, we'll have him come... but not yet. Not until you can choose for yourself if you want to see him."

He rubs his thumb across Jamie's knuckles.

"I'll have to go pick up your mum and Simon from the airport in a little while," he continues, just to fill the air. "I'll take them to mine to drop off their stuff— they're staying with me, it wouldn't be fair to make them get a hotel when I've got plenty of room— and then we'll come here straight away. Keeley might be able to come sit with you again while I'm gone, so you're not all alone."

He tries to imagine if the Roy Kent of even a year ago would be able to believe he's putting up Jamie Tartt's parents in a spare room— despite having a massive house, he's never been one to have people over, the guest rooms typically sitting unused. But Jamie has staked his claim on one as of late, spare bottles of his trillion kinds of self-care products infiltrating the ensuite, so Georgie and Simon are certainly welcome to that space as well.

Big Man Roy Kent has gone a bit soft now that he's older, and he's finally starting to believe that it isn't a bad thing.

"You're alright, Jamie," he mutters, absentmindedly.

He reaches across the bed to push what remains of Jamie's hair out of his face, and catches himself off-guard with how gently he does it. Have to be careful, he supposes, with all the tubes and wires and bandages. He lets his hand rest on Jamie's face for a moment, just cupping his cheek above where the breathing tube sits, on the side opposite from all the stitches— it's far too intimate of a gesture, but when he carefully rubs his thumb along Jamie's cheekbone, there's a little flicker of movement in his sleeping face. A brow scrunch, a flutter of his lashes... it's not much, but it's something.

"There you are." Roy catches himself smiling. "I knew you were listening. You'll be up and about in no time— maybe you'll wake up in time to watch the Barça match. You'll be chuffed; your wee bestie Étienne is in the starting lineup for once."

Roy pauses. Pictures the way Jamie would laugh at that, and has to look away from his bandaged, sleeping face.

"I know I'm too old to say bestie," he grumbles. "You don't even have to be fucking awake to embarrass me about it— between you and Phoebe, I've got the vocabulary of a bloody child. I mean, when Colin called himself the rizzler the other day, I fucking knew what he meant. At forty-fucking-one, I should be out of the loop by now, I reckon."

It dawns on him in that moment, for some reason, that he's pretty sure he's about the same age as Jamie's mum. Like, Georgie would've been young when she had him, sure, but that makes Roy technically old enough to be Jamie's dad, and that's a weird fucking feeling, looking down at him all quiet and still and childlike in this big bed.

He's never felt remotely paternal towards Jamie— probably due in large part to his own immaturity— but he feels something, right now. Certainly not fucking fatherly, but caring and protective in a strange way that he's rather sure he's only felt for, like, Keeley before.

Jesus Christ. He loves the little prick, doesn't he?

In what exact sort of way, he couldn't explain, but that has to be what it is. He doesn't thinks it's a romantic love, but they're best friends, and Roy loves him— fiercely, more than he's ever loved any other friend in his reclusive, introverted life— because of course you can love your best friend. Something special has happened here, over the past couple of years, and no one could've seen it coming... especially not Roy.

He sits back in his chair and sighs, already sick of waiting for Jamie to wake up. He knows getting rest while his brain heals is essential, but can't it just happen faster?

"Fucking hell, you really are my best friend. I love you, you little shit," he mutters. "You have to wake up so you can say it back."

-

Georgie and Simon are as lovely as ever.

They thank Roy profusely for picking them up at the airport (the least he could do, considering it's his fucking fault their holiday's been cut short), and gush compliments about his lovely home when they get there.

(It looks like any other footballer mansion, if a bit homier due to Ruth and Phoebe's influence. He never hired a decorator, back when he moved in, so it certainly has an air of boring single man collecting a bunch of random shit over the years, but in what he finds to be a rather tasteful way.)

(He's got a lot of decorative pillows, thanks to Keeley. He had half a mind to toss them all in the bin after their breakup, but found himself instead holding them while he cried very manly and not at all embarrassing tears over her. He can't get rid of them now, too used to how they brighten things up.)

(There's also far too much football memorabilia strewn about. He used to keep it all confined to a trophy room, but Jamie had come over one day with a burst of energy and gone full-on superfan, pulling out framed medals and kits and insisting they should be hung on the walls. He made the place look like a bloody shrine, and Roy has since scaled it back a touch, but left some of Jamie's decorating in place. He doesn't mind being proud of his accomplishments.)

"I've got, like, a few guest rooms," Roy says, trying very hard not to be awkward about this. "The main floor one is where Jamie usually stays— it's the biggest— but there's a couple more upstairs if you'd like. You can... make yourselves at home, I guess."

It's only after Georgie and Simon walk into Jamie's room that Roy remembers the framed KUNT kit is hanging in there.

He really fucking hopes they won't ask.

-

"Seems like Jamie's made himself awfully comfortable at yours," Georgie remarks, as they head out to Roy's vehicle to make for the hospital. "Have the two of you been spending a lot of time together?"

Roy shrugs.

"He likes to show up after training and invite himself in."

Georgie hums. Shares a look with Simon. Roy is too tired and distracted to decide what it means, what inferences she might be making about him.

He wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't like how close they've gotten— he can't stop thinking about how young Jamie is, about how the age difference between himself and Jamie is close to the same as between Jamie and Phoebe. He tries to imagine how he'd react if Phoebe were to tell him she had a best friend fifteen years older than her whose house she kept staying over at... he'd probably have a body to hide.

"He told me about what you did for his birthday," Georgie continues. "That were dead thoughtful of you, Roy. I hope he told you how much he appreciated it."

Roy grunts as he starts the G-Wagon. He's not sure what to say.

He had been quite proud of himself for coming up with that one. He arranged for a local animal shelter to bring a bunch of puppies out to training— on paper, it was half to boost morale and half to get Keeley some good PR content for the internet— and it just happened that the only day they were available was Jamie's birthday. If anyone asks, he definitely didn't do it on purpose, and he definitely only enjoyed the sight of Jamie running about the pitch surrounded by dogs a normal amount.

"He talked about it for ages," Simon offers. "I think we had to talk him out of getting a dog about three separate times in the next week— it'd be lovely to have one, I'm sure, but hard when he travels so much."

Roy laughs a little, but immediately feels weird for laughing on such a terrible day. He's surprised by how chipper Georgie and Simon are, but they haven't seen Jamie yet, don't know how bad it is. The mood will surely be different later tonight.

"He's been telling me to get one for my niece," Roy says, "so he can visit it when he minds her once a week. I'm genuinely thinking about it, but I have to get my sister to agree first."

Georgie chuckles.

"A mum who doesn't want a dog is hard to convince— I held strong against Jamie for his whole childhood, and I still do. No matter what he says, I just don't fancy an animal in my house. I'm not a pet person."

Roy nods his agreement.

(He very nearly got a cat a few months ago, on a stupid impulse driven by something Dr. Sharon said about his need for quiet companionship, but then he'd taken a look at Jamie all sprawled out on his couch one lazy afternoon, literally basking in a beam of sunlight, and decided he already had what he was looking for.)

"You did get him a hamster," Simon chimes in.

"Which he lost for two days, when he left the cage wide open, which I really should've expected a seven year-old to do," Georgie sighs. "It was running about my house, hiding and shitting in nooks and crannies for two days. Meanwhile, Jamie was crying his eyes out, thinking he'd killed the wee thing, so I swore off pets after that. Not even a bloody fish for that one."

"Where'd you find it?" Roy can't help but ask. "Was it alive?"

"Little Roy was alive and well, holed up in my knickers drawer," Georgie laughs. "Christ, I should've led with that bit— the fucker was named after you."

And that's enough for Roy to really, properly laugh, despite himself.

Because every single detail of that story is so fucking Jamie, and it's hilarious. He can picture it— he's seen the baby photos, little Jamie with messy hair and gaps in his teeth and dirt perpetually smudged on his face from spending every spare minute kicking a football around. Of course he'd lovingly name a pet after his favourite player, and of course he'd go on to lose said pet inside his own house. Roy could just as easily see that happening next week.

(Though Jamie's current favourite footballer, as in one who's actually still playing, is Mbappé, whom he'd met and fangirled over at the Ballon d'Or. Roy considers it a much less cute name for a hamster.)

"Fucking hell," Roy sighs. They're pulling into the hospital car park now, and the reminder of what's really going on wipes the smile from his face. "Right. He can only have one person in the room at a time, and I spent all afternoon with him, so I'll just drop the two of you off. He's in room 2043. Give me a call later, and I'll come pick you up."

Georgie takes a deep breath. Nods.

Roy can't keep his big mouth shut, so as he pulls up to the curb, he adds:

"It's not pretty. He's really not well." He pauses. "I'm so fucking sorry. I should be looking out for the lads better at training; this never should've happened."

Simon reaches forward from the back seat to squeeze his shoulder.

"None of that, lad. No apologies. Accidents are accidents."

That's what Ted said, but Roy's still having an awfully hard time believing it. Simon and Ted weren't there, hadn't seen how truly careless he was. If they had, they'd understand just how much he is to blame.

Simon gets out of the car and steps around it to open the door for Georgie, who gently lays a hand on Roy's forearm.

"You're a good man, Roy," she says. "Jamie's so lucky to have you. He loves you so much."

And Roy grips the steering wheel— she can probably feel his arm flex under her touch— and grits his teeth and nods.

There's a lump in his throat, now. It hurts a bit.

"I love him, too."

Even though he only just realized it today, even though they've never used that word towards each other before, it's true. Jamie has fucking weaselled his way into his heart and made a home for himself there, and he's Roy's favourite fucking person in the world. He didn't even know friendship could be like this. 

"You should go rest," Georgie says, all gentle and motherly. She finally gets up, out of the car, but doesn't close the door yet. "We'll call a car later, don't worry about us. You've had a long day. Take care of yourself, love."

Roy nods again. He glances at Georgie and Simon, but finds himself too shaken up to return their gentle smiles. The most he can do is offer a curt wave as they close the door.

He doesn't cry on the drive home, just stares at the road and tries not to think about how fucking crushing the guilt is getting to be.

-

Georgie takes Simon's hand as they walk up to the hospital entrance.

"How long do you think they've been dating, him and Jamie?"

Simon hums.

"Ages, I'd reckon. I mean, they're clearly living together, yeah? There's no way Jamie actually stays in that guest room— likely just uses the ensuite to store all his hair products."

Georgie nods.

"That'd be like him, wouldn't it." She pauses, sighs a little. "It must be hard, in the public eye; no wonder they're keeping it a secret."

"It's nice to see our kid being cared for, though. Roy's clearly gone over him."

"That he is, that sweet boy," Georgie laughs. "He's a good one... at least now that he's older. I'll never forget Jamie asking me what co-cany was after reading a tabloid about him, in the queue at the shop some twenty years ago. Didn't even think Jamie could read, honestly, until he said that— he were only, like, six."

Simon chuckles.

"How times change. The great Roy Kent, and our little Jam Tart... it's mad, but it's lovely."

"Innit," Georgie sighs. "I'm happy for them."

Chapter Text

"Is this James Tartt?"

Roy's phone is on speaker, face-up on his kitchen counter. He can't believe he's about to have this fucking conversation.

"Yeah, speaking. Who's calling?"

Roy sighs. This should've been a Higgins thing, but Jamie had no contact information for his dad in the club records. Roy only knows the name of the rehab place Tartt Sr. is in because Jamie had it written on a post-it on his fridge, which Roy happens to remember reading while cooking breakfast after a morning run one day. He'd called the facility directly, and they'd put him straight through to James' extension.

"This is Roy Kent." He pauses. "I'm calling about your son, Jamie."

A pause.

"Shit. Is he alright? Has something happened?"

And this voice on the phone, quiet and worried, is nothing like the man who'd stormed the dressing room at Wembley— maybe that's what Jamie means by things are better, now. Maybe his dad really has gotten his shit together in some kind of meaningful way. Colour Roy fucking surprised.

"I wanted to let you know he got hurt in training today. He's in hospital." Roy's trying not to stumble over his words. "It was a bad tackle— he hit his head when he fell, hard enough that the doctors said he's likely got a brain injury. We've no idea how severe yet, but it's serious."

"Fuck's sake..." James has the nerve to sound a touch annoyed, but it's hard to get a read on his tone over the phone. Maybe he's just scared. "I should come down to London, then, should I?"

Roy narrowly holds back the urge to growl.

"No. You shouldn't." He suddenly remembers what Keeley told him to say, their pre-rehearsed script, meant to keep him from being too mean. "If Jamie decides later on that he wants to see you, we'll be in touch— however you're not one of his official emergency contacts, so you can't see him in hospital until he's able to approve it himself. I'm only calling to make sure you hear this from the club before it's in the news."

"Is this a fucking joke?" James snaps, and that's more like what Roy was expecting. "That's my son you're talking about. You're his manager, not his fucking minder— who are you to decide who gets to see him?"

Roy takes a deep breath. Jamie would be proper pissed off if he finds out Roy's fucked up the delicate balance he's got going with his dad, so he needs to not ruin this right now.

"It's the hospital's policy, not something I fucking made up. Until he's awake and sound of mind, anyone that's not already approved can't see him. Even his fucking teammates aren't allowed in, it's not personal." He pauses, sighs, tries to be nice. "We'll ring you right away if Jamie asks to see you."

Which isn't fucking likely, Roy's rather sure, but stranger things have happened.

"Whatever, lad. Some responsible manager you are, letting your players get hurt at training," James snarls. "I fucking knew you should never have got that job— I told Jamie he ought to transfer out of there, but he's never been one to fucking listen."

Roy swallows the urge to snap.

The worst part is that Tartt Sr. makes a good fucking point. Roy probably shouldn't be manager, and Jamie is too good for Richmond, and he's hitting where it hurts whether he knows it or not— Roy suddenly has a much deeper understanding of how poor Jamie's been manipulated over the years. Fucking mind games.

"Right, I'm not having this fucking conversation," he says, keeping his voice as level as he can. "Have a good night. Do not fucking try to contact this number."

He jams his finger on the end call button, and drops his elbows on the counter.

"Fuck."

-

Morning finds him in Rebecca's office, feeling very, very small.

"...and it's not like the waivers our players sign cover fucking unreasonably dangerous circumstances— we are legally liable for their safety at work, Roy, and you are the one meant to fucking uphold that!" she shouts. "Any fucking one of those players could decide to sue us tomorrow, and it's your head on the chopping block. I mean, Jesus... if this is a career-ender for Jamie, we could be paying out the rest of what he should've been earning for the next decade! You've put the entire fucking club on the line!"

Roy shrinks in his seat. He knows she's right, knows having Ted and Simon telling him he did nothing wrong yesterday was the opposite of helpful, but fucking hell... it's hard to hear it all out in the air, isn't it?

"Rebecca, I know. I'm an idiot, and—"

"Shut the fuck up," she cuts him off. "No. You're not going to sit here and whine about it. You are not an idiot. You're a very smart man who made a very irresponsible decision, and you don't get to write it off as being stupid. You knew what you were doing. You thought you were, I don't know, pushing them harder, training them better— whatever was going through your head made sense at the time, didn't it? It was wrong, but you chose it, and you're going to be fucking responsible for that."

Roy nods. He can't speak, and his face is burning. He's never done well with guilt— never known what to do with it, always let it turn into anger at himself, at everyone and everything around him. Sitting with the feeling is new and uncomfortable.

He forces himself to look up at Rebecca, unsure of how his expression might read.

She sighs. Softens, just slightly.

"If you were an idiot, Roy," she continues, "we wouldn't be having this conversation, because you'd be busy packing up your office and getting the fuck out of here. If you were an idiot, I wouldn't be trusting you to take responsibility for your mistakes and fix this mess as best you can." She finally sits down at her desk, finished pacing the floor. "I chose you as manager for a reason. You are good at your job. You've made a massive mistake, yes, and I'm fucking furious about it... but you've also handled it well so far, and shown how much you care about the team."

Roy sniffles. If pressed, he'll blame it on hay fever. 

(Even though it's November.)

(Jamie, among a few other players, gets terrible hay fever in the spring. Roy started keeping antihistamine tablets in his desk last season, because he knew the little pricks would forget to take them.)

"I do care. A lot." He thumbs at the hem of his jacket, a nervous fidget of sorts. Swallows the lump in his throat that's been persistent since yesterday. "I don't really know what the fuck to do, though."

Rebecca nods.

"Have you spoken with Dr. Fieldstone?"

He was meant to yesterday, but had to go see Jamie, and get his guest room tidied up, and pick up Georgie and Simon, and—

"No," he sighs. "I told her I would, but it got away from me."

"I'd start there, then," Rebecca says, and there's no room for argument. "After you've done press, that is. Keeley's got a statement ready for you— don't go off-script and don't take any questions."

Roy nods. Forces himself to keep breathing.

It's on the tip of his tongue to ask if someone else can do the press conference— Higgins would, most likely, if Rebecca told him to— but that stupid quote Ted put in his head years ago comes to mind.

It has to be me. It can't be anyone else.

Fuck that children's novel and that little girl and Ted fucking Lasso.

"Fuck."

"Just go, Roy," Rebecca says, unfazed by his sudden exclamation. "You've gotta go deal with this."

He stands up and walks out of the room.

-

He gets a text from Ruth on his way down.

Just popped in to see Jamie! He's coming around a bit - he squeezed my hand when I asked him to, which is a big improvement. Might see him off the ventilator this afternoon if breathing trials go well xx

He tucks his phone away and pauses outside the press room. Takes a deep breath.

He can do this.

-

It's the shortest press conference ever. He reads Keeley's script— as generic and detail-free as she'd promised— and doesn't give the journos an inch when they try to press for questions.

Jamie was injured in training, it's serious, but he's stable and recovering in hospital. They're playing tomorrow, and they're looking to win for him and make him proud. That's it.

"...and did that bring up any emotions for you, having to speak to the press about Jamie?"

He's now sat in the chair in Dr. Sharon's office, having an absolutely terrible time. It's only been a few minutes of the session, but he's hardly said a word— when things get difficult to talk about, he totally clams up.

He nods in response to her question.

"Right." She pulls a small deck of flash cards from her desk, and slides it across to him. "Maybe you can show me."

And Roy feels like an idiot every time these cards come out, but they do fucking help, so he picks them up and rifles through the stack. He chooses a few and lays them out on the desk, glaring down at them.

Angry
Embarrassed
Afraid
Sad

Sharon nods and hums as she reads them.

"Let's start here, then." She picks up the angry card. "I know this is an emotion we work through a lot— does it have a direction right now? Is there something specific you're angry at?"

Roy frowns. Clenches his fists where they rest in his lap. Stares at the desk.

"Yeah. Myself."

"You're angry at yourself," she echoes back. He nods. "Loud anger, or quiet anger?"

That's another tool that makes him feel stupid— they've determined, over the past couple of months, that because he's got so much fucking anger nearly all the fucking time, it's easier to break it down into types.

He clenches his jaw and swallows.

"Loud," he finally says. "So fucking loud. It makes me want to hurt myself. But I'm not going to."

Last night was hard, in that respect. The only thing that kept him from shouting his voice raw and punching a wall was knowing Georgie and Simon were in the house. It's probably good, having them around. It should keep him from doing anything stupid.

"Why not?" Dr. Sharon asks. "What's stopping you from giving into the urge?"

Roy breathes.

"Jamie's parents are staying with me. His mum and stepdad— not his piece of shit father, who I had to fucking phone last night and tell him Jamie was hurt, and he was a dick about it, and it made me even angrier, because the shit he said wasn't even wrong."

It all comes out in one breath, but Dr. Sharon doesn't seem fazed by the explosion of words. She just tilts her head.

"What did he say?"

Roy glares down at his lap, his face burning with shame.

"That it's my fault, all of this, and I'm shit at my job." He pauses. "It's true, but I didn't want to fucking hear it from him. I hate him more than I've ever hated anyone. I don't like that he's right."

Dr. Sharon sighs. Thinks for a moment, then responds.

"Is he right?" she asks, as if that's not a stupid fucking question. Of course he is. "Roy, it's a good thing that you're taking accountability for the impact of your choices; it's a very mature thing to do, and I really respect the way you're taking ownership of the situation. At the same time, though... writing one bad day off as being bad at your job, or even using that phrase, all my fault— don't you think it's a bit reductive, in terms of the bigger picture?"

Roy blinks. He's not really following.

"What I mean," she continues, her voice going a bit gentler, "is that you and I both know your self-talk has a habit of getting a bit... mean. Right?" Roy nods. He's fucking cruel to himself sometimes, and that's one of the big things they're working on. "So I think it's important, that throughout all this, you're careful with how you speak to yourself. If, let's say, it were someone else's decision to practice in the rain yesterday— if one of the other coaches, or even the captains, had been the one to make the call and say Coach, we should keep going— think of what you might say to them. You'd still be angry, I'm sure, but would you be as hard on them as you're being on yourself? Would you want to hurt them?"

Roy swallows thickly.

No one else would be stupid enough to make the same decision he did, but he tries to imagine it anyways. Tries to picture Beard and Nate telling him the lads are fine, they can keep going— he would've shouted at them, probably, when Jamie got hurt, and he'd blame them and be angry about it... but he wouldn't hurt them. Not the way the urge to hurt himself comes about, the way he wanted to hit something last night and make his knuckles bleed. He wouldn't want to make them suffer; in fact, he's rather sure he'd fucking forgive them.

He says nothing.

"All I'm asking is that you give yourself some grace, with respect to that anger you're feeling. You deserve the same care and respect you'd show anyone else," Dr. Sharon says. Sensing he's ready to move on, she picks up the Embarrassed card. "Can you tell me a bit about why you chose this one?"

And they go on like that, unpacking his emotions and shit, until he has to get down to training— a terrifying prospect, facing the team again and trying to keep going as if he hadn't carelessly put their fucking lives at risk yesterday— but once he's been talked through a stupid fucking breathing exercise, he forces himself to go.

It has to be me, he hears in his head again.

Fuck that fucking book.

-

"...try to get you breathing on your own now, okay? We're going to shut the machine off for a bit and see how you do, but it'll be ready to kick back on if you need it. You've got nothing to worry about."

Something is touching his face, and a person is touching his hand. Something is in his mouth, and he doesn't like the feeling of it.

He opens his eyes, trying to see what's happening, but it's too bright to make anything out, and his eyelids feel heavy, so they close again right away.

"Well done, Jamie," the same voice says. "Let's chart spontaneous eye-opening again, and set the breathing trial for thirty minutes."

There's beeping, and movement somewhere nearby, and he thinks he might even hear Mummy's voice telling him he's doing well.

It sounds like a hospital, he realizes.

He wonders why Mummy's here, hopes she isn't ill.

Maybe someone's hurt, he thinks. Maybe Simon got too ambitious with a new knife set and cut his hand... or maybe something's happened to Dad, who could've gone back on the drink.

Whatever the case may be, he's tired. Sleep is pulling him under again, and there's not much he can do about it, so he settles into the feeling and doesn't bother putting up a fight.

-

Training is a mess.

The kind of mess that, as a player, would've had Roy going home to have a shower beer and then lay on the floor and contemplate why the fuck he still does this shit, thinking about how he could've been a fucking accountant or something, but he chose football, and he has to run around chasing a fucking ball with a bunch of other idiots, and none of them can score a goal to save their fucking lives.

And it's understandable, of course, that no one's head is in it today. They're running set pieces, slowly and methodically, at the lowest impact they can— it would've been easier to make today mindless conditioning where no one really needs to focus that hard, but they can't afford to be sore and tired tomorrow. The day before a match has to be more mental than physical, and that's the fucking problem.

He opts to end training half an hour early and send everyone to recovery— they've all got their own pre-match routines and treatments they need done, so they may as well give their bodies some extra care.

He texts the team group chat once he's back in his office.

Mandatory mindfulness session in the film review room at 7pm. Bus comes at 8 to take us to the airport, so bring all your shit. Reply so I know you've seen this.

The replies are quick— thumbs-up emojis and yes coach all around— so he puts his phone aside, just as Beard walks in and wordlessly hands him a cup of tea.

Roy nods his appreciation.

He's got to finish yesterday's incident report for HR, and fill out his section of the injury documentation for medical, and see if he can squeeze in enough time to head to the hospital and see Jamie one more time before leaving for the match.

He gets as far as finishing the incident report before Georgie texts him a photo. It's Jamie, still looking rough, but without a breathing tube in his throat— he's even smiling a little, with half-lidded eyes that are almost looking at the camera. It's like the little idiot knew his picture was being taken and tried to pose.

Someone's coming around! Can't stay awake more than about 30 secs, and not talking or nothing just yet, but he's breathing on his own and getting more responsive. Will you have time to swing by? I think he'd love to see you xx

Roy's really not sure Jamie will want to see him— might not want to face the person who caused this whole mess— but he has to try. It's like Dr. Sharon said: it's good that he's taking responsibility for what he's done. He can, at the very least, apologize, and then fuck off if that's what he needs to do. Or grovel for forgiveness, if Jamie will let him. He's not too proud to fucking beg at this point.

Just finishing up some paperwork, I'll try to be there in an hour. Glad to see him smiling. x

And he sets his phone down, takes a breath, and gets back to work.

-

He stops by to bring Ruth a late lunch (early dinner?) on his way into the hospital.

"Jamie's mum says he's awake— or not quite, I guess, but he's at least opening his eyes here and there."

Ruth takes the takeaway bag and sets it on her desk.

"It'll be a couple days of that, most likely," she says. "Did his neurologist talk to you about post-traumatic amnesia while you were there yesterday?"

Roy blinks.

"I think so, but I didn't exactly hear much of it. There was a lot going on."

Ruth sigh-laughs.

"Right. Well, I just want to make sure you know ahead of time that it's not like amnesia in films, where they wake up and function totally normally but they've forgotten, like, the last ten years. It's way more fucking complicated than that."

"And Jamie might have it?"

"He will have it," Ruth corrects. Sometimes it catches Roy off-guard just how smart his baby sister is, knowing all this shit. "It's just part of waking up from a coma; he's going to be really, really out of it, because his brain's still recovering. He might know who you are, he might not, and that might change every time you see him. His mood will probably be all over the place, getting really upset or agitated, and it might be hard to calm him down. The big thing is that he won't be making any new memories for at least a couple of days, even once he's awake and talking— that's the amnesia bit. You could tell him every five minutes that he's had a brain injury and he's in hospital, and he'll still likely keep asking what's going on, because it's just not sticking. You'll have to be very patient with him over the next little while."

"Fucking hell," Roy sighs, already overwhelmed.

"Yeah. It's shit," Ruth agrees. She finally peeks into the bag Roy brought her, with the Pret logo on the side of it. "Oh my god. Is this that sandwich I like?"

She can never remember which one it is when she goes to order it, but Roy does. He brings it to her fairly regularly.

He nods.

"Fuck, you're the best, Royo." She stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "Right, I've gotta get back to work, but you have a nice visit with Jamie, and have a safe trip tonight. Text me when you land."

"Of course." He hugs her. There's about ten million more questions he wants to ask about brain shit, but they evidently don't have time. "Love you. Go save some lives."

And he heads for the elevator, not entirely sure what he's getting himself into.

-

When he were ten, he had to spend a night in hospital after his appendix exploded.

Mummy couldn't stay with him— the nurses said she could have a cot in his room, but she had to go work a night shift because it was cold out and they had to pay the gas meter soon or it would cut off and they'd have to bundle up in blankets until they could afford to get the heat back on. He was old enough to understand, then, that Mummy really had to keep this job and couldn't miss any shifts. So it was fine.

He had a dream that Roy Kent came to visit him. He looked just like the poster in his room, in a Chelsea kit and looking all mean-like, but he'd been real nice and friendly and told him to get well soon so they could have a kickabout someday.

He thinks he might be having the same dream, but this Roy doesn't look like the poster. He can't really see him, actually, since his eyes still feel heavy, but he can hear him.

He's not sure if Roy Kent the Footballer is the same as his friend Roy— they have the same name, right, but it's confusing. Nothing makes sense right now. Sometimes he thinks he's asleep and sometimes he thinks he's just actually awake and pretending to be asleep and sometimes he thinks it's the other way round and sometimes he can't think at all. He doesn't know how to move anymore except when someone says "Jamie, can you squeeze my hand," and then he can, but that's all he can do.

Can you give my hand a squeeze?

That's Roy. Maybe his friend Roy, maybe the famous footballer, maybe both, he can't tell.

He squeezes, though, as good and tight as he can, because he wants this Roy to stay with him. He likes when he can hear someone and feel someone here.

He tries to look, tries to figure out where he is and what's going on, but his eyes won't focus so he doesn't even see anything when he opens them. Just a silhouette against all the bright white light , which seems vaguely Roy-shaped.

Maybe if he sleeps some more, he'll have the energy to wake up proper next time.

-

It's almost unsettling seeing Jamie looking more like a person and less like a body being strung along by machines— he just looks like he's having a kip, now.

There's little red spots on his cheeks, where it looks like his sensitive skin must've reacted to the tape that held the breathing tube in place, giving him a bit of a rash. Some of the bandages have been taken off now, showing the stitches Ruth put in to hold together the cuts on his temple and cheekbone. There's a feeding tube going into his nose, next to an oxygen canula; there's IVs in his arms; and the site of his brain surgery is still wrapped up.

He's still quite obviously not in a good way... but he looks like Jamie again.

Especially when he shifts in bed, as restless as ever, and then twitches his fingers with intention while Roy holds his hand, and then looks straight at Roy when his grey eyes open up for a few seconds. There's no recognition there, he doesn't light up or anything, but he looks. He takes in whatever he's seeing, however his poor, rattled brain is making sense of things, and then closes his eyes and lets his head loll to the side a bit, like he's fallen asleep, the way he does every time they watch a film together.

"I can't stay long," Roy sighs, watching Jamie's sleeping face and having a fucking feeling about it. "I've gotta try to get the lads out of their heads for tomorrow. I told them we're doing mindfulness tonight, but you and I both know I've got no fucking clue what that means. I just didn't want to say we're having a meeting, since that'll stress them all out— I reckon we'll do some breathing shit and let them talk about their feelings if they want to. The whole lot of them were a fucking mess today, you wouldn't believe it."

Actually, Jamie would believe that— it would stroke his ego just the right way to know the team fell apart without him. If he's listening, he's probably got his fucking baby shark chant going in his head, revelling in how important and special he is.

And he'd be right, but still.

"I know how much you were looking forward to the match, so hopefully your mum can put it on for you to listen to. We'll probably fucking lose, but you support Barça, so you'll be happy either way, yeah?"

Because despite spending all his time playing football, Jamie is still a massive football fan— he follows other leagues, makes friends with random players around the world that Roy has no idea how he even met, and plays a fucking obscene amount of FIFA. He doesn't even limit it to football, necessarily, because he bets on golf of all things, and spent his short summer break this year in Manchester, dragging all his school friends into a newfound obsession with playing tennis. A fucking sport fanatic, this kid.

Roy runs his fingers gently up and down Jamie's arm. It's something he'd do for Phoebe if she were ill or something, just sitting with her and trying to figure out what a soothing touch is meant to be.

"You'll play for them someday. Because you are getting fucking better— there's no way this is it for you. I'll fucking train you again, brain injury and all, and we'll get you back."

And he says it with confidence, because Roy Kent is nothing if not fucking delusional.

He never learns: he'd thought he could play on an injured knee for years without permanently disabling himself; he'd thought that romantic vacation with Keeley that never fucking happened would fix them; he'd thought, when he was Jamie's age and Mum got her ALS diagnosis, that he could somehow make her better by telling himself she'd be okay. But he fucked his knee, and he broke up with Keeley, and his mum fucking died within a year and a half, and now Jamie might never play football again. Might not even walk or talk or fucking function at all, for all anyone knows, because brain damage is fucking unpredictable, and Roy is fucking delusional. 

"No way," Jamie says, making that judgmental and mildly disgusted face he does when he doesn't get his way. "I came out with yous to get dessert, not to work out. You're actually delulu, mate."

"I'm fucking what?"

"That's a pound, Uncle Roy," Phoebe chirps from behind them, "and Uncle Jamie's right. You are delulu. It's not fair to make him do extra work just to have a treat."

It is fair, in Roy's opinion, in order to keep Jamie's calorie count balanced, but he's not going to try to explain dietetics to a nine year-old right now.

"I don't know what that word means, but you two spend too much time on the internet, so now the both of you are running laps around the park before I even think about buying you ice cream. Off you go."

Jamie seems like he's about to argue some more, but then he glances over at Phoebe, and grins. It's like a cartoon lightbulb may as well have popped up over his head.

He scoops Phoebe into his arms, making her squeal in delight, and takes off at a jog while carrying her over his shoulder. Not exactly what Roy had in mind, but it's fucking adorable, so he'll let it slide.

If nothing else, Roy hopes they can still have those moments. Even if football is gone, if Jamie's living with the impact of this forever, Roy really, really wants to see him and Phoebe laugh together like that again.

And then he curses himself for being fucking selfish, thinking about what he wants, when Jamie is the one whose entire life has been upended by Roy's fucking stupidity. Jamie ought to ignore him for the rest of his life, ought to never forgive him for fucking this all up so badly. Jamie should hate him for this.

But because Roy Kent is selfish and delusional, he just squeezes Jamie's hand and stays by his side for as long as he can. He's going to take what he can get while Jamie's still too out of it to be angry at him yet, and wallow in his misery and guilt when the blow finally comes, when Jamie is finally coherent enough to tell him to get lost.

Just because he's ready for it, doesn't mean it'll hurt any less.

Chapter Text

Roy's attempt at a mindfulness session with the team likely involves a lot more cursing than his yoga instructors might use, but it's surprisingly effective— nearly everyone on the team opens up about how anxious they're feeling about Jamie being hurt. Some express a sort of survivor's guilt, knowing it could've been any one of them to slip and fall, and others are honest in their frustration for not speaking up when they knew training was getting dangerous.

Roy is quiet while they all share their feelings, and then he apologizes. It starts out incredibly stilted, with decades of PR training kicking in, but he hears his inner Dr. Sharon voice telling him this is a safe space for vulnerability, so he fucking tells all those boys that look up to him and trust him that he's fucking eating himself alive with guilt over not taking care of them the way he should've. He says he understands if they're angry at him, as they have every right to be, and he fucking asks them if they'll please, on their own time and when they're ready, forgive him for the massive mistake he made.

There's a general murmur about his apology being accepted, and Dani says something all bright and fucking positive about how they understand that he didn't mean for anyone to get hurt and of course they forgive him, but Roy hardly hears it, because he can't draw his attention away from Sam.

Sam, who's been silent this whole time, with a completely uncharacteristic glare on his face, directed solely at Roy.

He wasn't like this at training this afternoon— he was dialled-in and focused, if a bit quiet, which wasn't a surprise. No one was expecting him to be all smiles and laughs, and the lads seemed to appreciate it as he did his best to toss encouraging comments their way and help fill the Jamie-shaped void in their team leadership. He seemed, by all accounts, like he was handling things remarkably well... but there's very clearly more going on in his head now that he can't distract himself with the game.

Isaac wraps the session up with a short captain's speech about how they're playing to fucking win tomorrow to make their brother proud, and a call of Jamie on three! One, two, three—

Sam puts his hand in as unenthusiastically as humanly possible, mutters Jamie's name when the team shouts it, and storms out of the room.

Fuck.

-

"Mummy, is Uncle Jamie feeling better today?"

Phoebe has finally emerged from her room, where she'd shut herself up after dinner to work on a card for Jamie and have all of her stuffed animals sign it.

"I think he is," Ruth says. "A least a little bit. I popped into his room to see him when I finished work, and he was doing much better than yesterday."

He was still technically unconscious, but like Roy said, he'd open his eyes or move a little when you spoke to him, which is a huge difference from when he was in A&E. Little victories, right?

"Is he better enough to play tomorrow? He was really excited to go to Spain— he told me he was going to sneak out of the hotel when Uncle Roy wasn't looking and go to the beach with Dani and Sam."

Ruth sets down the plate she'd been drying, and wipes her hands with the towel. She turns to face her daughter and get down to her level, because she clearly needs to explain this a bit better.

"Phee..." she sighs, "listen. I think it's going to be a long time until Jamie is better enough to play. He's going to have to stay in hospital for a couple of weeks, and I don't know if he'll be back on the pitch until at least the spring— he's very badly hurt, love."

Phoebe's lower lip begins to wobble— even as she gets older, nearly ten now, she still has some of those little habits that just make her look so small.

"He's staying in the hospital? Is he dying?"

"Oh, no, baby," Ruth is quick to breathe out. She opens her arms, and Phoebe launches herself into a hug. "He's not going anywhere, anytime soon. He— well, we just don't know how the injury is affecting his brain just yet— he might need a lot of help while he gets better, but he will get better, okay? Even if better is different than how he was before, we'll still be there for him, right?"

Phoebe sniffles and nods into Ruth's shoulder.

"Why would he be different?"

Ruth thinks for a second on the most kid-friendly way to explain this, and cards her fingers through Phoebe's hair while she does.

"Think about all the different things your brain does for you. It's in charge of your whole body, right? It controls how you move, how you talk, how you think... it's where all the different parts of your body connect and work together." She pauses. "So if it gets hurt, it can make it really hard to do all kinds of things— it depends on what part of your brain got hurt, and how badly. Jamie might have a hard time walking or talking for a little while, or he might get confused sometimes, or he might even just get really sad, because your brain controls your emotions too, but he's going to be okay. He's got lots of people to help him along."

Phoebe pulls back from the hug and nods, an adorably determined look in her teary eyes.

"I'll help him. Millie from school doesn't walk or talk, but we still play together. I help her sometimes, like opening her snacks for her at lunch. I could do that for Jamie."

And Ruth gets that warm feeling in her chest— she's so fucking proud of her sweet girl's kind heart.

"You certainly could, love. I think he'd appreciate that a lot."

-

Sam sits at the back of the bus, headphones on, refusing to even look at anyone.

At the airport, it's more of the same— stomping his way through security, shouldering past his teammates as he heads towards the boarding area for the charter jet— all those little bits of physical aggression that he's inevitably going to feel terrible about when this mood passes.

And Roy can't even bring himself to be anything more than mildly irritated by the behaviour.

He knows why Sam's upset. He fucking gets it. Roy, at twenty-two, would be doing the exact same thing— stropping about and making sure everyone knows just how pissed off he is, because guilt and worry and anger all simmering together makes it fucking hard to even think about anything else.

(Roy gets it, because Sam, under the surface, does have a lot of anger. Roy can see it in him, even at the very best of times, because he's got an eye for that shit. It's there, lurking, and the worst part is that the poor kid doesn't know what to do with it when it bubbles up. He snaps at people and lashes out, and he immediately regrets it, and then gets upset that he was even angry in the first place.)

He's obviously trying very hard not to do or say something he'll regret tonight, and Roy is fucking proud of him for that— there is a point where he has to put his foot down, though, and that point comes when Sam shoves his passport across the desk to the air stewardess with so much aggression that her eyes go wide and she recoils a little, obviously uncomfortable.

"Oi," Roy hisses, clamping a hand on his shoulder. "Cool it, Obisanya."

Sam turns around to glare at him.

"Don't fucking tell me what to do."

He snatches his passport back and storms down the tunnel towards the plane, looking rather like he's about to destroy anything and anyone in his way. His shoulders are practically up to his ears with tension, and he's walking as fast as his stupid designer shoes will carry him.

Christ, Roy thinks, it's like looking in a fucking mirror.

"I'm sorry," he says to the poor stewardess as she checks his passport. "He's not usually— he's had a rough day. I'll talk to him."

And she doesn't seem particularly bothered either way— probably takes a lot of shit from a lot of entitled people, working on private jets. She likely thinks Sam is just some bratty footballer who treats everyone like that.

"Enjoy your flight, Mr. Kent."

"Right. Thanks. You— you too."

-

"Your mum and I stopped by your house today, Jam."

There's a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. It feels nice.

"We thought we'd pick up some of your things— comfy clothes, and that, for when you're a little more awake. Look what we found, love."

It's hard to focus his eyes as he opens them, and he can't find who or what he's meant to be looking at, but the haze slowly clears as he blinks it away.

There's Simon, smiling at him and holding up Duck for him to see.

He were too lazy to name the thing properly when he were small— too scared he'd pick a bad name and be stuck with it, so he just left it too long and eventually gave up and called it Duck. It's a fluffy, yellow toy, with patches of worn-down fur from the decades he's owned it, and it lives on his bedside table. It comes with him everywhere— there's an inner pocket of the suitcase he takes to away matches that fits Duck perfectly inside, and he's given up on even being embarrassed about it at this point. Most people who've roomed with him have seen Duck poking out of his bag, and they've rarely ever questioned it.

He opens his mouth, tries to tell Simon thank you for bringing it, even though he's not sure where he is right now or why he's not at home, but nothing really comes out. Just a weird little choked sound, because his throat is dry and he's too confused to say real words anyways.

"You're quite happy with that, aren't you?" Simon says, with a big smile, unfazed by the failed attempt to speak. He's a good lad, ain't he. Jamie hated him at one point, but now he doesn't, and he can't remember what changed. "Here, I'll tuck him right under your arm. You can give him a cuddle."

And he doesn't know why he can't move his arm properly on his own, but Simon does it for him, and the touch of Duck's fur on his skin is so much new sensation at once that it almost hurts— he has to close his eyes again and breathe through it— but he feels Simon kiss his forehead, and he gets a sense that he can rest.

Wherever he is, whatever's happened, he's pretty sure he's safe. He's got Duck, so he'll be fine.

-

Roy opts to leave Sam alone for the time being— it's not like there's anywhere to have a private conversation on a plane, and this isn't exactly something that needs to be hashed out in front of the lads. As long as nothing escalates, this is a problem to be handled in Spain.

Isaac stops next to Roy's seat as he boards.

"Want me to talk to Sam?"

Roy sighs.

"I think him and I need to chat. Let's give him some space, and I'll have a word with him at the hotel."

Isaac nods.

"Sounds good. Thanks, gaffer. Let me know if I can help."

Roy nods back.

"Cheers, skip."

When the stewardess comes past— the same one who'd checked their passports— he orders a beer and takes his pain pills with it.

-

He sleeps for the entire plane ride, and spends most of the journey to the hotel trying to wake back up. Thankfully, Beard is the one who's good at keeping everyone on track when they're travelling, and Nate's former kit-man instincts usually kick in to help with organizing, so Roy can get away with just following the crowd.

Once they're in the lobby, though, it's back to business. He's instructed Will to make sure Sam is the last one to get his room assignment— the team starts to splinter off, headed for the elevators because it's far too fucking late for a movie night, and Roy just hovers until the moment is right.

"Oi," he barks, as soon the key is handed over. "Sam."

If it weren't so fucking frustrating, Roy might be impressed by Sam's commitment to icing him out. The glare from earlier remains firm and steady.

"I am going to bed, Coach," he snaps.

"Not fucking yet, you're not," Roy snaps right back. He points to an empty meeting room near the lifts, which he's been eyeing since they got here. The door is cracked open, so he's rather sure they can use the space— a nice neutral zone for whatever fucking conversation is about to go down. "Now."

Sam, at the very least, has the good sense not to push it. He heads to the room and sits in a chair, but makes it plenty obvious he's less than happy about doing so.

And when Roy follows him in and just stands there for a moment, pondering how best to break this tense silence, Sam is kind enough to do it for him.

"I do not want to talk to you, Roy."

"Yeah, I fucking figured as much," Roy huffs. It's almost a laugh, but not quite.

"Then what are we doing here?" Sam folds his arms over his chest. "If you're going to give me another stupid fucking apology, you can shove it up your ass and leave me the fuck alone."

Roy blinks. Fucking hell.

He takes a breath and tries to channel his inner Ted. What the hell would Lasso say at a time like this? If Roy asked him for advice, Ted would probably say some bullshit like: don't think about what I would say, think about what you would say. And he'd have a point somewhere in there, too, which is the worst part.

"Swearing helps, doesn't it," Roy says, trying to be authentic or some shit, "when you're this fucking angry,"

It takes all of five seconds for Sam to crack.

"No," he sighs, "it makes me feel worse, and I regret it every time." He quickly steels himself, though. "But I am so angry at you that I don't care. I will fucking swear at you all I want, and I will not regret it at all."

Roy takes another breath, and nods. He decides to make this like the press conference— as quick and to-the-point as possible. Practical, logistic shit only.

"Okay. Listen, I get it. You have every fucking right to be angry with me, and to not want to talk to me. In fact, it'd be fucking weird if you weren't mad at me." He resists the urge to stuff his hands in his pockets; he tries to keep as manager-like as he can. "All I want to talk about right now is whether or not you want to play tomorrow— I understand if you don't want to, and there's no pressure either way. You can play, or not, and no one will hold fucking anything against you. I can charter you a flight home right now, if that's what you want. You don't seem like you want to be here, and that's okay."

And he's apparently fucked it, somehow, because Sam just looks even more furious.

"Fuck that, Roy. I want to be here, and I'm going to play." He stands up, raising his voice as he does. "I want to know why you are here. Why the fuck are you still allowed to coach us after what happened yesterday? You put us all in danger, and you have a player in a coma. Shouldn't you be suspended or something?"

And, oh. That's what this is about.

Sam's not wrong, is the thing. And he's not the only one thinking that, if the email chain between a bunch of higher-ups at the club he'd been CC'd on this afternoon is anything to go by— Roy's been trying not to think about it, because there's nothing he can do until a decision is made, and because Rebecca made it clear that she has no plans to fire him, but he might be in a lot of shit, with the club and with the league.

"I might be," he ultimately says. "Suspended. I don't fucking know yet. There's a bunch of legal shit going on in HR right now, reviewing what happened, and there's a good fucking chance they'll be strongly suggesting I take a leave of absence as soon as we're back in England. I'm only here now because Rebecca decided it wouldn't be fair to you lot, and to Beard and Nate, to send you to a Champion's League match without your manager with one day's notice."

Sam's jaw works as he stares at Roy, taking that in.

"You would do it? Go on leave, if they said so?"

Roy nods.

"Yeah. I— even if the club doesn't tell me to, I probably will." He realizes that as it leaves his mouth. There's no fucking way he can keep going like this. He needs to take some time to get his head on straight, even just a couple of weeks. "I have to. I'm... fuck, I don't know what the fuck happened yesterday— why I was so angry at you all when you did nothing wrong, why I wasn't thinking straight, why I pushed it when I fucking knew it wasn't safe— and I need to figure that out before I can coach again. I'm stuck in my own shit, and I owe it to you to deal with it properly."

He can't believe he's saying that out loud. He's known for a while that the stress of the new job was getting to him— the team is busier than ever this year, so even days off see him working from home for hours just to stay afloat, and he still doesn't feel like he knows what he's doing at all. He's not been sleeping well, and he's been ignoring the fact that he needs his knee replaced for far too long, and yesterday morning was just a culmination of all that shit leading him to run training without thinking clearly and fuck everything up. It was the first crack in a breakdown that's been a long time coming, as much as he hasn't been willing to admit it.

"I'm sorry, Coach," Sam says, though his expression remains hardened. He sits back down. "I do feel bad for cursing at you. I should have realized there was more to the situation than I knew about."

"Don't fucking apologize," Roy sighs. "It doesn't matter how stressed I am, or whatever else is going on— you still got hurt because of me being fucking careless. You should be mad."

It's the shape of your boot that'll be scarred on Jamie's face forever, and it's my fault that you have to deal with that.

"I am mad," Sam says, more carefully and slowly now, "and it's going to take me a long time to forgive you." He swallows. "But I do feel bad for the way I've acted tonight. I don't know if you've noticed, but I do not do very well with anger."

"I mean, I'm not exactly one to talk when it comes to handling anger," Roy offers, somewhat lightheartedly. "I think you're fine."

"Did everyone see me when I was rude to the stewardess?" Sam asks. When Roy nods, he drops his head in his hands. "I am so embarrassed. This is even worse than the time I yelled at Coach Lasso and walked out of training."

Roy frowns.

"You what?"

Sam sighs.

"It was while you were a pundit. I was angry about a rumour that he was going to be bringing Jamie back to the team, which wasn't even true at the time. I was so mad at the thought of having to play with him again, and now... and now I'm upset about not having him here. I cannot believe that after all of that, he became one of my best friends."

Roy smiles, even hazards a quiet laugh to break a bit of the tension.

"He's got a way of just... like, worming his way in there, doesn't he?" he says. "Imagine telling either of us, from two years ago, that we'd care this fucking much about Jamie Fucking Tartt. Like, fuck's sake, I sat there and held his hand and fucking cried all day yesterday. It's fucked."

"Did you see him today?" Sam asks. "How is he? I— that's another thing I was angry about, that you were the only one allowed to go visit him. I know you two are close, of course... but that did hurt."

Of course it did. Roy feels like such a fucking knob, even though there wasn't much he could do about it. The minute Jamie's level of care is lowered and his visitor list is expanded, some of the team need to be on there— especially Sam and Isaac.

"I popped in this afternoon. He was doing a lot better— he's still out of it, but he opened his eyes a bit and moved around a little. They think he'll come around more in the next day or two and hopefully be able to take some more visitors."

Sam nods, taking that in.

"And how was...it?" He gestures to the side of his face.

"Better than I expected," Roy says, honestly. He decides not to mention that it took over fifty (incredibly tiny and precise) stitches to close everything up, because the number might be jarring, but adds: "It looked a lot better once he was all cleaned up. My sister did the stitches, and she doesn't do anything half-assed, so he'll be as gorgeous as ever in no time."

He consciously chooses not to process the fact the he just, unthinkingly, called Jamie gorgeous out loud. It's been too long of a day to unpack that right now.

Sam doesn't seem to notice, probably equally exhausted. He just nods, stands up, and nods towards the lifts.

"Can I go to bed now, Coach?"

Roy nods, rather sure that this has at least helped Sam recognize his anger and put it into perspective— if anything, he'll take it out less on his teammates and everyone around him  tomorrow, saving any glares and snippy comments for Roy himself, because that's who the problem is here.

Sam walks out of the room, but hesitates in the doorway like he wants to say something more. He doesn't, though. Just stops and thinks for a second.

"You're a good kid, Obisanya," Roy says, while he's still there. "Take it easy tonight."

Sam heads off without a word.

Roy sits down in a conference room chair. His knee locked up while he was stood here, and he needs to give it a minute. It's late, and he's tired, and he really fucking wants to go home.

-

Jamie's rather sure he's in a hospital room.

He's got no idea what happened, or how he got here, but Mummy's asleep in one of those hard, plastic chairs, next to his bed.

He looks around— there's flowers on the windowsill, he's got his Duck tucked under his arm, and someone's brought an AFC Richmond blanket to lay across his legs. He blinks. He must've been here a while.

His head hurts like crazy, and he can feel the familiar pull of stitches in his face. Maybe Dad was involved, or maybe he crashed his car (the poor thing, he'd just gotten a new one), or maybe he fell down his stairs or some shit like an idiot. He's got no fucking idea what's happened.

He tries to wake Mum and ask her, but for whatever reason, his brain's a bit too foggy to find real words— all that comes out is weird little groan, but it does the trick. She startles, and her eyes go wide when she sees Jamie looking at her.

"Oh, Jam," she breathes, quickly getting up to hug him. "Hi, my darling." She cradles his head and strokes his hair. "You've no idea how happy I am to see you awake."

The hug is nice, Jamie thinks.

He wants to ask how long he were out, or ask what the hell happened, or say anything, really, but nothing comes to him. He opens his mouth, but words get lost somewhere on their way from his brain, so he just makes a stupid little whiny noise again.

"I know, baby," Mummy whispers, as if she understands. She kisses the top of his head. "You're in hospital, love. You got hurt at training; you hit your head quite hard, but you're okay."

That must be why he's so confused. He's had concussions before, but never this bad— his brain feels like it's swimming around in his head, never holding still long enough for him to even find a single word to say.

He tries to prod at his stitches, get a feel for how fucked his face might be, but Mum catches his wrist and stops him.

"Don't touch. You've got some cuts on your face, and a spot where they've done a wee surgery on your head— it's all quite sensitive, so you can't mess with it."

Jamie doesn't even try to talk properly this time, just whines his annoyance like a stroppy toddler. He feels a bit like one, all helpless and upset.

"It's tough, baby, I know," Mummy sighs. She rubs his wrist where she's holding it. "Does it hurt?"

He manages to coordinate his muscles enough to nod. At least there's something he can do.

Everything hurts, especially his head, and he's more frustrated than anything else. He can't remember how to talk, his face is all messed up, and he doesn't like the smell of the hospital or the too-bright lights in this room. He doesn't fully understand what happened: she said he got hurt at training, and he knows what that means, knows he's a footballer... but he can't wrap his head around it for some reason. The pieces aren't fitting together to make sense of how playing football led to feeling this fucking shitty in a hospital bed, because his brain's not fucking working right. He feels ill, like he might vomit if he thinks too hard, but he can't not think, and—

He doesn't realize he's crying until Mum is wiping the tears from his cheeks— which hurts, even though she's being gentle, because his skin is all sensitive and sore.

"Oh, Jammer... you're okay, love," she whispers. She kisses his head again. "Listen, you're safe here, and you're going to be okay, my baby. I've got you, and all the lovely doctors and nurses want to help you— I've called the nurse to come bring you something for the pain. She'll be well pleased to see you awake, won't she, and..."

Mummy keeps talking, and Jamie's too tired to listen, but her voice is nice to hear even when he can't understand it. He's still got Duck under one arm (and has no idea how it got here from his house), so he hugs it tight and closes his eyes, letting more tears run out; he can't stay awake much longer, he doesn't think, but he's rather sure Mum will stay with him anyways, so he hasn't got anything to worry about.

Chapter Text

Roy used to love playing at Camp Nou.

It's double the capacity of Nelson Road, and even bigger than Wembley— the crowds are always mad, if a bit intimidating. Walking in today was supposed to be exciting. Most of the lads have never played here before, so Roy managed to pull a couple strings last week and arrange to get them on the pitch for an early pre-warmup, a chance to take it all in.

He's trying to enjoy it, he really is.

But he's thinking about Jamie— picturing him in a Barcelona kit, all grown up and in his prime, scoring goals for a hundred thousand fans every match in this massive stadium. That was his plan, wasn't it, to make this his next club when he inevitably outgrows Richmond. (Pundits would likely tell you he has outgrown Richmond, that he should've tried to transfer somewhere this summer and bolster his chances of collecting some silverware, that he could easily be the best player on almost any team in the world. Roy would agree, but Jamie wouldn't.)

The lads are playing rondos, and even though it's just a silly drill, they look far better than yesterday. Roy should be watching them and laughing along, giving pointers where he can, but he's standing here on the sidelines like a miserable fucking prick who knows this is his last day at work before going on fucking stress leave, which he's not sure a Premier League manager has ever done. Mourinho certainly wouldn't have even considered it; even Ted kept coaching through his panic attacks. Roy really is enough of a fuck-up that he can't keep doing his job, and it sucks. It's embarrassing already, and no one even knows yet.

Sam seems in much better spirits today, but hasn't so much as looked in Roy's direction. That's fair, Roy decides, because obviously the kid's not forgiven him yet, but at least he's playing nice with his team. That's what matters today, just getting through the match in one piece.

"Are you alright, Roy?" Nate asks, wandering up beside him after doing a round of watching the groups of players. When Roy takes too long to answer, he scrambles. "Sorry, stupid question. I shouldn't have asked. You're busy watching the drill. I'll walk away."

"I'm not fucking alright," Roy huffs, before Nate can get far. "Thanks for asking. I'm fucking shit."

"Uh— oh, I'm sorry." Nate is clearly caught off-guard by the actual response, still not adjusted to Roy doing things like speaking normally to him, or sometimes participating in the Diamond Dogs with more than just grunts. "Do you want to... talk about it?"

"No," Roy snaps, harsher than intended. "Are you on the email chain with HR about what happened in training the other day?"

"Erm... I don't think so. Am I meant to be? Am I missing something? When I came back to Richmond, they gave me a new email address, but sometimes things go to my old one, and—"

"It's fine. It's just... there's some shit going on." He pauses, then forces himself to elaborate. Hears the Ted-voice in his head telling him to expound. "The FA was looking at fucking suspending me from coaching because of Jamie's injury, so there's been a whole fucking to-do between their lawyers and Richmond's lawyers, and it's been fucking annoying. As of this morning, they're saying I didn't technically break any official rules, but if Jamie decides to sue, he could argue I violated the code of conduct— they're not legally suspending me, but fucking suggesting I go on leave for a few weeks and redo some of my certification."

Nate frowns.

"That sounds an awful lot like they're suspending you."

"Doesn't it," Roy grumbles. "Fucking legal shit. But I think it's... for the fucking best. I think I should go on leave and deal with this shit properly, and I think you should be interim manager while I'm gone."

Nate makes a very Higgins-like noise of surprise.

"Me?"

"Well, Beard wouldn't want to, and we're not bringing in a stranger. You were a good manager over at West Ham. You'll be fucking fine." He looks back up at the team, catching a beautiful pass from Dani to Bumbercatch. "Oi! Well done, Rojas!"

"Gracias, Coach!" Dani grins, practically vibrating with excitement.

There's still a fraction of a chance, Roy realized over breakfast with the coaches this morning, that they find their way to the Europa League— if they win their next two matches, and Union Berlin loses their next two, and they score enough times, they could end up third on the group table by goal difference. It's unlikely, but possible, and when Nate told the team about it on the bus this morning, it was enough to get them all fired up and excited.

So Nate will be fine. He's better at talking to the lads than he thinks he is, and he's a tactical genius, so it'll all work out— Richmond without both Roy Kent and Jamie Tartt will certainly be a shakeup, but not the end of the fucking world. It's fucking temporary, they'll both be back.

"Are you sure you don't want to see if Ted will come back for a while?" Nate asks. "Or, no. He wouldn't. He's not even coming for the wedding, Christ. I— um, Roy, this situation is terrible, but I appreciate you choosing me to replace you. Not replace. Um, fill in for you. Yeah."

Roy just nods. Grunts his approval, and leaves it at that. He's going to at least enjoy his last day.

-

"Mummy... why?"

Georgie forces herself to take a deep breath.

She's been sat with Jamie all morning. It's not quite noon, but this is already the tenth time today she's had to explain to Jamie that he's in hospital. It's not that she's frustrated with him— he can't control that his memory's only good for less than a minute before he gets confused again— but it's the situation that sucks. It's just not fair for him, is it.

"You hit your head quite hard at training, love. You fell and got hurt, but you'll be okay."

Jamie tries to say something, but Georgie can't tell what. There's some one-syllable words he can get out, slow and slurred, but anything more complicated seems to get lost along the way from his brain to his mouth.

He reaches for his stitches. Again.

"Don't touch," Georgie sighs. It's not like he'll remember her being less than enthusiastic this time around, because they'll just repeat this routine next time he wakes up. "You can't mess with those, baby. It'll hurt."

One of the nurses suggested restraints for his wrists— gentle ones that would still let him move, but stop him reaching his face. If Georgie hadn't been so sure that it would absolutely terrify him and only make his agitation worse, she might've said yes to the idea, because she's spent all morning constantly grabbing his hands and forcing them back down.

Jamie makes another few noises that are likely meant to be words; it's incomprehensible again, so Georgie just nods.

"I know, Jam," she says. She carefully pushes Duck into his hands, down in his lap, to distract him and give him something else to touch. "You're alright."

He'd done really well when physiotherapy was in here, earlier— they didn't quite get him all the way to sitting up, because of something to do with the pressure in his brain post-surgery still being too high to change positions yet, but the therapist had gently guided his arms and legs through different stretches while laying down. It's probably the closest thing to normalcy he can get right now, a physio treatment, and he'd clearly enjoyed it, smiling all the way through.

"Mum," he mumbles, because that's one word he's got the hang of. It's slow, like he's sounding out each letter, but incredibly endearing. "Mummy."

He reaches out for her, and she takes his hand, giving it a squeeze. For all that it's difficult to see him like this, it does sort of feel like he's her little boy again, which isn't the worst feeling in the world.

"Hi, Jamie." She smiles at him, and despite his glassy-eyed confusion, he manages a wee smile back. "You're so strong, baby. You're doing so well."

Jamie blinks. Reaches for his stitches again with the hand Georgie's not holding onto.

"Hurts."

She catches his wrist, redirects his hand back down to Duck.

"I know, love. I know. The nurses are bringing you more medicine soon."

Jamie frowns. Grips at the little toy that he's had since he were a toddler.

"Why?"

Georgie sighs. She's not sure how many more times she can have this conversation.

-

During the players' downtime between their morning kickabout and their actual warmup, Roy sits in on a conference call with a fuck-ton of Richmond staff, where they announce that he'll be stepping away from his position for three weeks, possibly longer, at the conclusion of today's match.

HR doesn't even allow him the dignity of announcing it himself— he supposes he doesn't deserve it. He just gets to sit and listen while some woman prattles on about how seriously they take workplace safety here, and how they're taking all measures recommended by the FA to prioritize their players.

Even Rebecca, across the table from him in a meeting room at the hotel, looks entirely over it, however it's Higgins who cuts it off.

"Right, well, those of us at the match need to get going. Coach Kent, would you like to speak to anything before we sign off?"

Roy shoots him a look— sure, he's annoyed HR hasn't let him talk, but it's not like he has anything prepared.

"Um... I fucking appreciate the club taking this seriously and handling it right," he says, leaning over the phone in the middle of the table, set to speaker. "Obviously I'd not meant for anyone to get hurt, but I allowed it to happen, and I take responsibility for that. I'm taking this time off to fucking... better myself, and set an example— when you fuck up, it's right to take measures to fix it. Thanks for fucking understanding."

And he jabs at the end call button so hard he worries for the integrity of Higgins' phone screen.

"That was good," Rebecca remarks. "Let's quote some that for the PR statement. Or, I suppose, clean it up with a few less fucks first."

"I'll type it up and send it to Keeley," Higgins says.

Roy leans back in his chair and sighs.

"Fucking hell. How are we even announcing this? The press will go fucking mental."

"Mental for mental health," Rebecca says, sounding an awful lot like fucking Lasso. She seems to realize that as she says it, and then pulls a face and shakes her head. "Right, the FA agreed not to publicize the investigation, since nothing came of it. The angle is that you're taking stress leave— you've got some personal stuff going on, and what happened on Thursday just tipped the scales, and you need some time. And we're being very woke and progressive about it because mental health matters, and all that."

And that feels dishonest, but it's not entirely untrue— he's not exactly a picture of mental health— so whatever. While it doesn't do much for his legendary hardman of the Premier League reputation, it does save face as far as being a competent coach... and avoids making Rebecca look like an idiot for hiring him, which is probably her main goal here.

"We're still working out how to time this announcement with giving an update on Jamie, so it might not be public until Monday— there's a lot of speculating going on right now, so we need to address that first."

Roy hasn't even looked online. He hates Twitter at the best of times— he does like when people tweet gifs of him, but he only sees the good ones because Ruth sends them to him. He's not taken a peek at what people must be saying about Jamie; all that's been released is that he's in hospital with a vague serious injury from training, so people must be jumping to all kinds of crazy conclusions.

"I read an article today saying an inside source had confirmed he was paralyzed from the waist down," Higgins notes. "And another was certain he'd gone blind somehow. It's amazing how easily they'll just spread total lies."

And some sort of panic grips at Roy's chest— if Jamie had fallen differently, he could've broken his neck and been paralyzed. If Sam's foot had landed differently, he could've lost an eye or been blinded. He's not sure, even after all this discussion and shit, that anyone who wasn't on the pitch knows just how bad the accident was. Jamie could've fucking died.

"I've gotta go," Roy blurts. Stands up too abruptly, which jams his knee the wrong way. "Fuck!" He rubs at it, but can't crack it back into place yet. At least it makes a decent excuse. "Gotta go get this fucking dealt with so I can actually stand for the match."

"Of course," Rebecca says, dismissing him with a wave. "Go, do what you need to do." She pauses, then gets more serious. "During your time off, the club will be referring you to an orthopaedic surgeon. We're not putting this off any longer."

Roy, in what he'd consider an impressive display of maturity, doesn't even groan or whine about it, despite how badly he'd wanted to push that back until the off-season. He already knows he needs the whole fucking joint replaced— with the fancy private doctors the club has access to, he could probably have a metal knee by next week, and he probably should just do it... but he's got houseguests now, and he's got Jamie to worry about, and both of them in hospital at once might send Phoebe into a breakdown without her favourite people around. It's simply not a good time for it— it never is.

"Fine," he huffs, because despite his hangups, he knows he's in absolutely no place to argue. "I'll see what they say."

"They'll say you need surgery," Rebecca says. "And you'll get it."

Roy grunts and limps out of the room.

-

He's laid up with an ice pack, procrastinating getting ready for the match, when he gets a text from Simon.

Your biggest fan was well chuffed with the post on Richmond's Twitter this morning! Best of luck from us both x

The post was a compilation of clips from the pre-warmup this morning, mostly of Roy giving corrections and encouragement, with music overlaid on top; it's the kind of edit people like to make of Jamie's match footage, which he has dozens of saved to his phone (probably for his wank bank, that self-obsessed little fucker). Roy can admit he looks quite good in it, and all the clips show the lads smiling at him and shit. Captioned The Coach Kent Effect, it's probably been posted as preemptive damage control for the upcoming announcement about his leave, but it's still not out of the ordinary for the club's social media. They've got a bunch of early-twenties PR staff that love making TikToks and shit like that.

And there's a video attached to Simon's text— Jamie, properly awake now, is holding his iPad and watching the screen intently. He's got a Richmond blanket around his shoulders, and a stuffed animal (a duck that's clearly been well-loved) in his lap.

"What're you looking at, Jamie?" Simon's voice encourages, from behind the camera. "That's your mate, innit?"

Jamie nods his head, slowly and uncoordinated. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but nothing really comes out. He just points at the screen, looking a bit like a toddler; it'd be adorable if it weren't so sad.

Roy has to remind himself that this is what Ruth talked about— Jamie's going to be out of it for a few days, at least. He'll be in this weird limbo of slowly getting his brain functions back, and they have to be patient. Simon's gentle tone is probably exactly what he needs right now.

"Yeah, that's Roy there." Simon chuckles. "You like that video, don't you, Jam? I think we've watched it twenty times now."

Jamie laughs— giggles, really— loud and bright and childlike. Roy wishes it were funny to see him so loopy and confused, but all it does is tug at his heart, because this is his fucking fault. If Jamie could remember how and why he got hurt, he'd certainly not be enjoying that video so much.

"Dunno if we'll be awake long enough to catch any of the match," Simon continues, "but we can try, yeah? Been a bit on and off all morning, haven't we. You've been staying awake for longer every time."

The camera moves closer to the bed, and Simon's hand comes into frame, brushing back Jamie's hair. Jamie leans into it, closing his eyes.

"You need another nap, Jammer? Nearly ten minutes you've been up this time. That's big."

"No," Jamie mutters. He opens his eyes, looks up at Simon, and furrows his brow. He reaches up for the stitches on his face, like he's just realized they're there. "Hurts."

"Ah, don't touch—" Simon starts, and the video ends there.

Roy watches it three times, and definitely doesn't get choked up over it.

-

Phoebe's in her Kent #6 kit, holding her teddy bear that wears a Tartt #9 kit, sat on the floor with her nose to the telly when the match kicks off.

It's only recently that she's actually gotten interested in watching football, finally old enough to have the attention span for it, and she's well on her way to full-on hooligan.

(Ruth, quite honestly, still doesn't care for it. She does like that it keeps Phoebe distracted for a couple of hours so she can get things done round the house, though.)

"Come on, Sam! Go! Go!" Phoebe is hollering, only a few minutes into the match. Ruth pauses before starting the vacuum to listen in. "No, no, no, no— Yes! Woohoo!"

"A spectacular solo goal by Obisanya to start off the afternoon," an announcer is saying. "That was a man on a mission if I've ever seen one! Can you believe it?"

"You'd think it was Jamie Tartt out there, Arlo! Have we ever seen that kind of attack from Obisanya? To think, just a few seasons ago, he was a defender!"

"With Tartt's mystery injury, it certainly looks like Richmond are doing their best to fill in the gap on the pitch today. This could be a very exciting match!"

"Mystery injury, indeed— Kent's press conference yesterday left us with more questions than answers, but you've got to respect the club for keeping Tartt's privacy in mind. We'll certainly be keeping him in our thoughts and hoping to see him play again soon."

Ruth turns on the vacuum so she doesn't have to listen to them speculate.

If there's anything she hates about Roy's career, it's the publicity— she fucking hates those talking heads and pundits who sit and chat shit about everything. Their focus should be on the game, in her opinion; it shouldn't matter why Jamie's not there, why not talk about the players who are? Even Sam's goal was overshadowed by their nosiness, which is simply infuriating.

But that's just how it is, unfortunately. Fucking football.

-

Halftime sees them up one-nil, which feels entirely too good to be true.

Sam's goal was incredible. Hardly anything had even happened yet, but he saw an opening and took it, blowing past defenders before they even realized he was coming— it wasn't a play they've drilled before, not something he'd usually do, but it fucking worked, so no one's bothered.

What is a bother, though, is that ever since netting that goal, Sam has been playing like he's been given the prick signal. It's like watching Jamie in his first season at Richmond— playing incredibly well, but diving for fouls, not passing, and brushing off his teammates. Sam has his days where he plays a bit more aggressively, sure, but he's never gotten like this before, and it's throwing off the energy of the whole team.

Roy spends the walk back to the dressing room trying to figure out how the fuck to address that without making it worse, and comes up completely blank.

Thankfully, it turns out he won't have to bring it up himself.

"Sam," Jan says, the moment they're all back in the room. "You're playing like an asshole today. Why?"

Sam, who's turned to face his locker, rifling in his bag for something, freezes. For a moment, Roy worries he might blow up— lose his head and have an outburst he'll be embarrassed of— but he just stands there a moment, tension in his shoulders.

"I'm playing like I want to win," he finally says, coldly, not turning around yet. "I don't know why the rest of you aren't."

Fucking hell. Apparently whatever effect yesterday's talk had on the kid has worn off.

"Oi," Isaac quickly cuts in. "The fuck are you talking about, bruv? If you wanted to win, you might pass the bloody ball sometimes, yeah? You're playing like a fucking prick."

Sam whips around to face him, an uncharacteristic glare on his face.

"Oh, I am so sorry for scoring us a fucking goal. It's not like anyone else has been able to."

"Yeah, because you're being a dick and not giving anyone a fucking chance to try," Isaac shouts. "Never fucking mind that— you're lucky you haven't been carded for all the fucking diving you're doing! The hell's gotten into you?"

Roy really fucking wishes Lasso were here to handle this. He's not, though, and someone needs to do something before the dressing room erupts into chaos.

"Right, that's it," Roy huffs. He points at Sam. "The lads are right, you're playing like a fucking prick. If I don't hear an apology to your teammates leave your mouth in the next ten fucking seconds, you can go ahead and start your cooldown, because McCracken's going in for you."

Sam looks stunned, as if he hadn't expected his shit attitude to get him in trouble. Like their tentative truce last night meant he could get away with whatever he wanted today.

"What!? You're benching me?"

He sounds remarkably familiar, a bit like a twenty-three year-old Jamie— which is exactly how old Sam is now, so maybe there's something to do with being this successful at that age that makes it easy to be a dick, especially when there's a lot of pent-up anger involved.

Roy glances at his watch for dramatic effect.

"You've got about five seconds to convince me not to."

Sam opens his mouth like he's going to say something, closes it, folds his arms over his chest, and stares Roy down for a moment. The gears turning in his head are practically visible as he decides whether to give up and apologize, or double down. His gaze narrows as he must come to a conclusion.

"Fine. Put Kyle in," he snaps. "I don't care. I don't want to play for a coach that's about to lose his fucking job, anyways. I'm done."

And he storms out, into the attached treatment room where the physios are set up— if he knows what's good for him, he'll at least get his ankle worked on, but it seems more likely that he'll just go straight through there to the bus, to sit and pout.

Fuck's sake.

It's Colin who breaks the silence.

"You're being fired, Roy?"

Roy sighs. Everyone's staring at him, waiting for answers.

"No. Not fired," he starts with. "I am going on leave though— by my own fucking choice, after a lot of discussion with the club— and Nate's going to be in charge for a few weeks. I was gonna tell you lot after the match. It's not a big fucking deal."

He can tell by everyone's faces that they want to ask about a million follow-up questions, but no one's brave enough to be the first one to speak, so they all just sort of nod and accept that.

"The FA did look into suspending me because of what happened to Jamie," he continues, because he's fucking trying to be open with the lads. "They decided not to, but I chose to take a break anyways. I need to sort out some shit, and I really need knee surgery. I'll reckon be back in the new year. I'll still be nearby if you fucking need me for anything, yeah?"

More nods.

"I think it's wonderful that you are taking care of yourself, Coach," Dani finally says. "We will play our very best for your last match with us, yes? You will be very proud!"

And that seems to wake everyone else back up— they all echo Dani's support, loudly and enthusiastically, and Roy's not sure what other reaction he was expecting. Of course it's fine. The media and the fans will be another story, but the lads understand, and that makes all this a lot easier.

"Well, we've still got a second half to play," Roy says, trying to get back on track. "We're up one-nil, we've got McCracken subbing in— and can we all take a minute to say well-fucking-done to Étienne on his Champions League debut? You're fucking crushing it so far, lad."

A cheer roars out as the lads all pat the kid on the back and shake him by the shoulders— he's been keeping up quite well, taking on Jamie's centre attacking midfield position in stride. He's a talented little playmaker, (and he's picked up a lot from following Jamie around during training and asking him a million questions, like the fanboy he is), so it's nice to see him shine today.

(It makes Roy feel quite bad, looking back at their first season together, to think of the way he'd brushed Jamie off when all the kid wanted was to talk to his favourite player. Maybe he'd have been less of a dick to the rest of the team if Roy hadn't iced him out— if Roy had taken some time to be a good role model, like Jamie regularly does for Étienne. Fuck.)

"Ah, merci," Étienne laughs, bashful. He raises a fist. "Allons-y, we will win this match for notre ami Jamie!"

And the lads all rally around that— even if only half the words made sense, they get the idea. They pile into the middle of the room, putting their hands in, and Isaac counts them off, using a repeat of last night's.

"Jamie on three! One, two, three—"

"JAMIE!"

Back to the pitch they go— missing both Jamie and Sam now— and Roy just hopes they can fucking hold it together for forty-five more minutes.

Chapter Text

Jamie's in bed, and there's a football match on.

He's not in his bed, he realizes.

The sheets are too scratchy. It's something he's picky about, sheets and blankets. He bought some really lush, expensive ones for his bed last year— replacing the set he bought at Primark when he was eighteen and took with him every time he moved— and now he's never going back. He likes his soft sheets, and his weighted blanket, and his secret collection of souvenir stuffed animals from all the different places he's travelled... and none of those are here, so this can't be right.

The match is on this tiny little screen at the foot of the bed... not his TV, and not his bed. And he stares at the screen to figure out who's playing, which takes him a while because his brain feels like it's made of jelly, but eventually determines that those orange away kits look familiar. He thinks that's a Richmond match.

So he's in bed, and his team is playing, and he's probably meant to be there right now. He's not there. He's... somewhere. Somewhere with scratchy sheets and a tiny telly and too-bright lights and, when he looks to his side, Mum and Simon. They're here, sat next to the bed, watching the match, and Mum's got one hand resting on top of Jamie's.

Jamie blinks, and his eyes feel heavy, and he doesn't understand.

"Mummy."

It's like trying to talk through a mouthful of honey— the word comes out all sticky and slow, not sounding quite right. It catches her attention, though.

"Hi, baby," she says. She gives his hand a little squeeze, and smiles at him. "There you are. Awake in time for the second half, yeah?"

And that's just more confusing, like, because he should be at the match, shouldn't he? They've played a half already, and Jamie's still in bed... has he slept through it? Roy's going to be furious.

Jamie can't get the words out to tell that to Mum, though. His mouth is full of honey and his brain made of jelly, and all he can do is point at the TV and frown and hope that makes her understand what he's asking.

Why am I not there?

"Oh, you've not missed much, love," Mum says, not answering his question at all. "Richmond's up one-nil— Sam had a gorgeous goal early on, and everyone's been defending really well. It's a great match so far."

He wants to tell her no, that's not what I meant, I don't understand why my team's playing without me and it's freaking me the fuck out. All that leaves his mouth, though, is:

"No."

And he throws whatever's in his lap at the telly in pure frustration.

It turns out to be Duck, who bounces gently off the screen and lands on the floor— that's only more upsetting, because he's gone and reminded himself of Dad, getting angry and throwing things, and poor Duck don't deserve to fall on the ground neither, and he doesn't like these scratchy sheets or the awful chemical smell of this room, and—

Mum reaches for his hand, probably wanting to calm him down, but Jamie's so frustrated that he just shoves her off.

"No," he repeats, because it's the only word he can get out. "No, no."

Simon picks up Duck from the floor and sets it by Jamie's feet, on top of the blankets, because he's fucking nice like that. Jamie kicks his legs until Duck falls again, because apparently this is the only fucking way he can let them know he's upset.

He's confused, and he can't talk, and his head hurts, and he doesn't want to be in this stupid room anymore. He tries to sit up, wants to get out of bed, but Mum stops him with a hand in the middle of his chest.

"Relax, love," she breathes, gently pushing him back down. "Gotta stay laying down for now, yeah? You've just had brain surgery. You can't move too much yet."

And Jamie wants to scream, because what the fuck? He still doesn't know what's going on, but he's apparently had his brain poked around in for some reason, and that must be why it hurts, and he doesn't understand how he got here or what the hell has happened to him, or why his team is off playing somewhere without him. Have they gotten rid of him again, this time because of his stupid brain not working anymore?

So he does scream, because it's not like this could get any worse. He may as well just totally lose his shit about it.

He pushes Mum's hand off him again, and shouts his frustration— he quickly realizes his aching head is a bit sensitive to noise, so he clamps his hands over his ears to make it more bearable, and screams even louder. It's not words, just noise for the sake of making it, and he doesn't care if it doesn't make any sense to anyone other than him, because it feels fucking nice just to let it out when he's not really able to do anything else.

"Jamie," Mummy says, startled, trying to talk gently but still be heard over his shouting. "Hey, what's the matter, baby? What's got you so upset?"

What do you think? he wants to scream at her. I don't know what's happened to me, and I want to go home, and my head hurts, and I don't want to lay in this bed anymore.

But he can't say that, can he, because his brain's been surgeried on for some reason and doesn't fucking work.

He doesn't mean to get all violent and shit, but he's getting upset that she keeps touching him when he's trying to make it clear he doesn't want to be touched— when she reaches for his arm again, he hits her hand away, before bringing his hands back to his ears and shouting again.

There's more people coming into the room now, and Jamie doesn't want them there; he keeps screaming, because he can't fucking stop now that he's started. At some point, someone touches his ankle, so Jamie kicks his legs out and doesn't fucking care if he hits someone, because why isn't anyone fucking understanding that he wants them to get away from him?

He feels like a kid. He can remember being four years old and having a tantrum of similar proportions on the floor of a Tesco— the trolley was too noisy and the lights hurt his eyes and his sock was all bunched up in his shoe and it was driving him mad. He'd felt out of control like this, then; like he could do absolutely nothing but scream and lash out until the feeling went away.

(Mum had abandoned their groceries right there, just taken him out to the car park and sat with him on the pavement outside the store until he were calm enough for them to catch the bus home. They had plain pasta for tea that night, because the cupboards were empty, and then Nan had minded him while Mum went to do a proper shop the next day.)

"This is a very normal reaction for someone in Jamie's state," a voice is saying. "Emotional regulation is really difficult after a brain injury. He's likely just overwhelmed— he might be scared or in pain, and not really aware enough to communicate it, so you can imagine how distressing that would be, yeah?"

It's fucking annoying to be talked about like he's not even here, so Jamie shouts again to drown the voice out. He's so fucking mad, and he wants to be left alone, for fuck's sake.

"Jamie, dear, you're alright," another voice says. "I'm going to put some medicine through your IV, love. It's just to help with the pain and calm you down a bit."

"No," he shouts, even though the idea of being in less pain isn't a remotely bad one. He probably should just let them give him the medicine, but he's rather committed to being contrary at this point, so he pulls his tube-covered arm away and squirms in the stupid bed. "No, no— Mummy."

"I'm right here, love," Mum is saying, because she's thankfully not gone anywhere, despite his screaming. "The nurses just want to help you, yeah? You're a bit ill, baby, and you're in hospital, but you're going to be just fine."

And he doesn't want to let the nurses fucking touch him, but he's getting tired from freaking the fuck out, so he finds he can't really fight it when someone's taking his arm to fuss with the stupid tubes attached to it and give him the medicine.

"That's it," Mummy says. As he starts to calm down, he's able to look at her and Simon properly again, and they look so fucking tired. Makes him wonder how long he's been in hospital, and how many times he might've lost his mind like this already and not remembered it because he's all confused-like. "You're okay, Jam. What if we turn the telly off and just sit for now? Maybe Simon can shut off some of the lights. I think it's just a bit much for you right now, yeah?"

Jamie knows he's being annoying when he makes a stupid whining noise, but he thinks it less annoying than screaming, so it's probably an improvement. Mum doesn't seem to mind.

"Is that better?" Simon asks, once he's got up and shut the lights off. (It is better, Jamie thinks, because it doesn't hurt his eyes anymore.) Simon bends down to pick up Duck from the floor, then sets it back on Jamie's lap. "There you go, lad."

Jamie takes Duck in his hands and squeezes. It's proper soft, from years and years of cuddles, and he quite likes the feeling of it. He's too tired to be properly upset anymore, so he just hugs Duck against his chest and sits there. Stares at the TV that's now been shut off, and wonders how the match is going. Wonders how cross Roy must be with him for missing it.

"I'm... ill?" he eventually asks, working the words out slowly and stickily. It takes so much effort that he has to squeeze his eyes shut to concentrate, because his mouth just won't cooperate with his brain.

"You got hurt at work," Mum says, when he opens his eyes and looks at her again. She moves like she wants to touch him, but stops herself, clearly remembering him hitting her away just moments ago, which makes Jamie feel awful. "It was a bad tackle in training; the grass was slippy from the rain, and you fell and hit your head. You have a brain injury."

Jamie blinks. He sincerely tries to make that make sense, but the pieces don't quite click.

He's not even sure what he tries to say, because it doesn't come out right. His mouth isn't listening to him— he only manages an unintelligible lump of sounds, which was probably meant to be a question. Maybe he's trying to ask if everyone else was alright. Could the person who tackled him have been hurt too?

"You're okay," Mum soothes him. He's got a feeling she's been doing a lot of that lately. "Just gotta rest up, yeah? You've been sleeping it off, which is good. You'll feel better soon."

Jamie squeezes Duck a bit harder. He's glad Simon handed it back to him, and he's glad that Simon is sat there to hold Mum's hand. He's nice, Simon. Jamie likes him.

"You... stay?"

If I take a nap, will you two still be here?

It seems like two words at a time is about all he can manage. Fucking frustrating, that.

Thankfully, Simon gets it. Before Mum has a second to figure out what Jamie's trying to ask, Simon smiles at him and reaches over to give his hand a careful squeeze.

"We're not going anywhere, Jam Jar. Not until the nurses tell us to get out for the night, but then we'll be right back in the morning. Nothing to worry about."

Jamie hums his agreement, because that's easier than words. It's still not exactly making sense, where he is or what's going on, but if Simon says there's nothing to worry about, it must be true, because he's proper smart. Works as a chemist, him, and he's even technically a doctor or something. He must know what's happening.

Jamie is tired now, so he closes his eyes and lets himself sink into sleep. It comes easily, and maybe he'll make some more sense of things after a nap.

-

Three-nil.

They end the match three-fucking-nil, with goals from Colin and Dani, both assisted by Étienne. It's beautiful.

Roy, quite honestly, nearly cries when the whistle blows for full time. The lads go fucking nuts, as they have every right to— after the harrowing few days they've had, they seem to hug each other extra tight in their post-match celebrations. Roy watches Isaac take an individual moment with every single member of the team, giving hugs and congratulations.

He's been remarkable both today and yesterday, Isaac. He's either the picture of mental health, handling this whole fucked up situation extremely well... or he's repressing a metric fuck-ton of emotions by leaning hard into his captainly responsibilities and pretending to be fine, and it'll all come exploding out of him eventually.

Roy sincerely hopes it's the first option, but knows fucking well it's likely not.

The celebrations make their way into the changing room, where the boys break into a Richmond 'til we die chant in a giant huddle— they've won their first match in the Champions League. Even back at Chelsea, a far more established team at the European level, these wins were cause for celebration; Roy can't fault the team for their excitement. They played a hell of a match.

(He really, really wishes Jamie were here, though. The guilt is making him fucking nauseous, bile rising up in his throat every time one of the lads jostles him. Jamie should be here. He fucking deserves this moment.)

"Roy?" That's Higgins, poking his head in. "The press is ready for you."

Fuck.

-

"There's Uncle Roy!" Phoebe beams. "Mummy, they're showing him!"

Ruth peeks into the living room to see the post-match interview on the screen— for someone who just pulled off a massive win, Roy certainly doesn't look pleased.

"Obisanya wasn't feeling well," he says to a reporter's question. His nose twitches a little— he's lying. No one else would catch that, though, Ruth is quite certain. "Simple as that. He did well pushing through it in the first half, but it caught up to him when we got to the changing room; I could tell he was struggling, so we decided to pull him. McCracken did a great job taking over."

Ruth can't hear the next question, but watches Roy pull a face.

"I don't fucking know what to tell you— the kid's fine, just a bit ill. Footballers are human: they get sick, they have bad days, they get headaches and shit, whatever the fuck. He'll rest up and be back for our next match."

It's almost impressive that Roy manages to look even more annoyed at the next question.

"I thought I heard our PR team tell you lot not to ask questions about Tartt because we don't have anything new to share. We're prioritizing his privacy while he deals with a serious injury; the last thing he needs right now is people sticking their fucking noses in. I have no comment on when he'll return to play, but Richmond will fully support him while he recovers. The whole team really played their hearts out for him today."

Roy answers a few more questions about the actual match and tactics, but Ruth doesn't really listen— just sees Roy for how fucking tired he looks, and wants nothing more than to drag him home by the earlobe and force him to take a nap. Of course he's not been sleeping; he's not someone who handles worry well, and he's prone to driving himself mad with fretting and festering and overthinking. She's not excited to see the state of nails, because they'll surely be bitten down to stubs, with the skin around them all chewed up too.

She pulls out her phone to text him.

Coming home tonight or tomorrow? Well done on the match xx

As soon as the interview wraps up (and Phoebe subsequently gets bored and changes the channel,) she gets a text back.

Tonight. Ditching the team and coming early, headed straight to the airport now.

Ruth sits at the kitchen table, and types out another message.

Come to mine when you get here? Or Phee and I can meet you at yours? Just don't want you all alone x

She can practically hear the put-upon sigh Roy is likely letting out.

Jamie's parents are staying over, so I'm not alone.

What time do you get in? I'll come give you a lift x

It'll be late. Don't bother.

What time??

22:00ish

Not that late. I'll be there. What airport? xx

London City.

Right-o, Royo. See you soon xx

Because what's the use in having an older brother if you can't lovingly antagonize him, right? As is typical with Roy, he just needs to be gently bullied into accepting some care and support. He'll be fine.

"Phoebe," she calls. "We're gonna go to Uncle Roy's tonight, once he's back from Spain. It'll be past your bedtime, so go on and pack an overnight bag, yeah? You'll go straight to bed when we get there."

"But Mummy," Phoebe groans, coming into the dining room. "I haven't seen him in days. I have to stay up and talk to him!"

And she'd consider that a reasonable request on any other night, Ruth would, but it's just not the time.

"You can talk to him in the car, when we go to get him from the airport, but it'll be bedtime when we get to his house. I'm quite serious, yeah? He's had a very hard few days, and he'll be very tired— you know how he can be a bit of a bear when he's not slept."

Phoebe giggles at that.

"He does growl a lot when he's tired."

"Exactly. And the whole reason I want to go round his tonight is to make sure he gets some sleep— he'll listen to me better if you set a good example and go right to bed, yeah?"

That's a gamble— trying to see if her old soul of a kid will buy the child-logic there. Phoebe thinks it over with a remarkably studious expression, and then nods.

"Yeah. All he needs is a good role model. I'll go upstairs and pack."

Ruth gives her a kiss on the head before she can go anywhere.

"Good girl. Thank you, Phee."

And there's that settled.

-

"Jamie, please try to take a deep breath, love. You're okay."

The meltdowns keep coming, after the first one.

It's like he's just conscious enough, at this point, to be aware that something's wrong, but not oriented enough to understand what it is— every time he wakes up, he's terrified all over again, and he freaks the ever-loving fuck out, whether it's screaming or crying or trying to fight his way out of bed.

Jamie's sobbing with his whole chest this time, clearly scared and disoriented and exhausted, as Georgie tries to keep his hands settled on his little duck toy. It seems that hugging the toy and pulling his Richmond blanket tighter around him are the only things that bring him any calm; perhaps the soft textures bring him back to his senses a bit.

"Hey, look at Mummy, yeah?" she breathes. She waits for Jamie's teary, confused eyes to meet her own. "I promise you're safe. I know it's scary right now, but I won't let nothing happen to you."

Visiting hours are nearly done— Georgie catches herself feeling a bit relieved at the thought of some reprieve from the fits of crying and screaming, but immediately feels guilty when she remembers that Jamie will still be here all night, terrified, but without his family to comfort him. The nurses will do their best, of course, but it won't be the same. He'll just be by himself, with no capacity to understand what's happened, regulate his emotions, or communicate what he needs.

But tomorrow should be better. That's what the neurologist said: they're getting through the worst of it, slowly and steadily, and Jamie should start coming back to himself soon. Little by little, he should start forming memories again, and staying awake for longer, and getting more coherent. He just needs time.

So Georgie strokes her thumb back and forth over the back of his hand, and just sits with him. Lets him cry it out, like when he were little and had such a hard time managing his incredibly big emotions, when she'd feel helpless because nothing ever seemed to soothe him, except for holding him and letting the moment pass. That's all she can do now, she supposes.

Simon comes back into the room, from where he'd stepped out to call his daughter, Ella— she's a few years older than Jamie, and not particularly close with him, but she'd heard about him being hurt and wanted to check in. They are family, after all; even if they really only see each other at Christmas and Easter these days, they get on a lot better now than they did as teenagers, and Ella's two kids absolutely adore their Uncle Jamie.

"Ella says hello." Simon walks over to stand by the bed. He puts a hand on Jamie's shoulder, rubbing gently. "She'll keep popping round to check on the house and water the plants until we're back up to Manchester, however long that is."

"That's kind of her," Georgie sighs. Jamie's calmed down a bit now, but he's still crying quietly and squeezing her hand, and she's utterly drained. "It'll probably be some time before we're home, yeah?"

Simon nods.

"As long as Jay needs us." He turns his attention to Jamie then, and leans down to talk to him. "Right? You're not getting rid of us anytime soon— pretty soon, you'll be begging us to get out of your hair."

He ruffles Jamie's hair as he says it, and by some kind of bloody miracle, Jamie laughs.

He hasn't cracked so much as a smile in hours, but he giggles at Simon's remark despite the tears on his cheeks, and something in Georgie's chest unwinds a little as she watches her boys interact.

They're going to be okay.

-

He stands there at the airport, for a long moment, with Phoebe in his arms.

She came running to him the moment he walked through the arrivals gate, and he was struck by how fucking grown-up she looks. She's nearly ten, getting taller and looking more like a little adult every day, but at least she's not deemed herself too old for a big hug like this.

"I missed you so much," she whispers into his neck, and Roy nearly fucking breaks.

Because it's been a big shift, since he's started as manager and lost a lot of his free time to meetings and paperwork and planning and bullshit— Jamie gets her from school more often than he does, at this point, and it's been too long since they've spent a whole day together.

"I missed you, too," he says, giving her a tight squeeze. "So, so much."

He spent the plane ride slogging through emails that have been piling up— the changes being made to his contract for this unpaid leave, the referral to the surgeon that wants to see him tomorrow, and a whole string of things from his lawyer about preparing their defence for when Jamie sues.

Not if, but when.

As if it's the only logical conclusion here— and maybe it is. Maybe once they've got a bigger picture of the impact this injury will have on Jamie, Roy will be paying out millions in damages, as if money can make up for a stolen career. The emails had also made clear that Jamie's lawyers could reasonably demand that Roy never coach again— the FA let him off easy because he's Roy Fucking Kent, and the rules have always been bent in his favour, but a private legal firm will have no such hesitation in ripping him to fucking shreds.

Another section in one of the (unnecessarily long) legal emails says that Roy shouldn't be visiting Jamie in hospital, and should under no circumstance be alone with him, because it's a bad look for the defence. It could seem coercive, like Roy's trying to convince Jamie of something... as if Jamie's even fucking remembering or recalling anything that's happened lately. That one earns a strongly-worded reply stating that Jamie is his closest friend, and that not visiting would be a far worse look, and that there's nurses and people in and out of the room all the time anyways so it's not like they're actually alone.

(It makes him so fucking angry, typing that message out, that he bites his thumb nail so hard it starts gushing blood and he has to ask the stewardess to bring him a tissue. She looks a bit terrified of him as she does so.)

But all of that stress takes a step aside for a brief moment, with Phoebe clinging to him, letting him carry her to the car and then insisting he climb into the back seat with her.

Maybe being on leave won't be the worst thing— he'll at least have more time for her (and for Jamie, because nothing's going to fucking stop him from being there for him).

If him and Phoebe are both asleep by the time they reach his house, that's no one's business but their own.

Chapter Text

"Yesterday was... really tough for Jamie."

Roy and Simon are working side by side in the kitchen, getting breakfast together, while Georgie entertains Phoebe in the living room, and Ruth has a well-deserved lie-in ahead of her night shift tonight.

"Shit," Roy sighs. That awful twist of guilt awakens in the pit of his stomach again. "I'm sorry."

Simon shrugs.

"He was doing well in the morning, right," he explains. "When I sent you that video, he was well chuffed to play around on his iPad a bit, even though he weren't too sure what was going on." He begins to flip a row of pancakes on the griddle. "It was during the match, and for the rest of the night, though— he got really, really agitated every time he was awake. The doctor said it's normal for the state he's in, part of waking up, but it broke my heart, you know? He was so scared— screaming and crying and getting so upset— and it was hard to calm him down, so we just sort of had to wait it out."

Roy feels ill. Sick to his fucking stomach.

He's seen Jamie cry— a really, genuinely upset kind of cry— a total of three times. There was Wembley, and there was his breakdown in the boot room last season, and then there was a night a couple of months ago in his kitchen.

-

"I just don't understand! It's meant to be better by now. I don't know what I did wrong."

They're making dinner after a disaster of a match against Arsenal— Jamie had to be subbed off thirty minutes into play, in his second ever game as captain, because his ankle gave out on him. Nothing even happened, but he suddenly couldn't take weight on it, and had to limp to the sideline for the physios to check it out. Sam, who was scheduled for a rest day in their rotation, went in for him, but couldn't quite find his footing, and they lost the match by three goals. It sucked.

"You've done nothing fucking wrong, Tartt. You stepped on it funny and it flared up. That's what injuries do."

Jamie wipes harshly at his eyes. He's gone a bit flushed, and he's obviously trying to hide that he's tearing up.

"But I hurt it months ago. I'm not injured anymore, I thought it was better."

Roy sighs. He wants to tell Jamie that it's alright to cry, but thinks that might sound too patronizing.

"You're not a fucking teenager anymore, injuries don't just disappear when you're done with them," he says instead, staying focused on the topic at hand. "This is something you're dealing with now. And it's only been four months, anyways, so it's still sorting itself out. As long as you keep doing your physio and taking care of it, it should do this less and less... but you'll probably always have problems with it, here and there, and that's fine."

Jamie says nothing.

Just gets this frustrated pinch to his face that looks like he's really trying not to break down sobbing, and subtly starts to move his hands around at his sides, flapping back and forth— Roy recognizes this look on him for what it is, now, and simply opens his arms.

Jamie comes at him, immediately. Starts crying into Roy's chest— full-on, shoulders shaking, probably getting snot everywhere. Roy wraps him up in a tight hug, and just holds.

"I know it's not fair," he says, trying to pre-empt whatever Jamie must be thinking, "and it's not your fault, okay? It's just fucking shitty luck. But listen— I fucked my knee for the first time when I was your age, yeah? And then I still played thirteen more seasons, two more World Cups, and won the fucking Champions League. This sort of injury is annoying, yeah, but it's not gonna get in your way if you take good care of it."

"I'm so fucking mad," Jamie chokes out, after a bit. His voice is much smaller now. "I— I hurt it for the first time when I was sixteen. My dad pushed me down the stairs, and I sprained it so hard a bit of bone broke off. It got better then, but now I'm wondering, like... maybe this is just another fucking way he's ruined things for me."

Roy takes a breath. Nods.

"You could be right. It's fair to be angry at him. I don't think anything's ruined, though."

Jamie sniffles.

"I told him I'd come up for another visit on his birthday, next Tuesday."

Roy's hand finds a place to rest in Jamie's hair.

"Do you want to see him?"

Jamie shrugs. He hasn't said much about his trip to Manchester a couple months ago— when Roy asked how it went, Jamie had simply mentioned that it was weird to see his dad clean-shaven, but nice that he looked healthy. He'd changed the topic after that.

"Dunno."

Roy nods again.

"If you decide you don't want to go, you can tell him you've got extra training. Complain about your god-awful, demanding prick of a manager making you come in on your day off. I don't mind."

That earns a quiet laugh out of Jamie.

(Roy definitely doesn't want to kiss him. That would be mad.)

(He'll have to ask Dr. Sharon if he might be having intrusive thoughts.)

"Fucking awful, that manager of mine," Jamie teases.

Roy hugs a little tighter, and Jamie squeezes him right back. The kid's going to be okay.

-

"He's waking up, though," Roy says, almost desperate. He gives up, momentarily, on the fruit he's cutting up. He grips the edge of the counter in some sad attempt to ground himself. "That's good, innit."

Simon gives a little sigh.

"Yeah. He's... getting through the worst of it, I'd reckon. He'll be thrilled to see you today— he quite enjoyed the pictures and videos of you on Twitter yesterday."

Roy suddenly remembers the email conversation with his lawyers last night— where they said his best defence would be to keep his distance, to give poor Jamie some space from him, to stay out of the fucking way. To which Roy, delirious with stress and lack of sleep, had responded that the only thing that could make this mess worse would be for Jamie to wake up and realize his best friend hasn't been coming round to see him.

Because he knows Jamie quite fucking well at this point— knows that once he's got a clear head again, of course he'll be fucking angry with him for causing this and letting him get hurt, but he'd be even fucking angrier if he felt abandoned after it all. All the legal defence in the world isn't worth the thought of Jamie thinking he doesn't care, so advice be damned, Roy's going to keep visiting, even if it fucks him over in the end.

"I have to go meet with a surgeon this afternoon, who works out of the same hospital," Roy says, "so I'll pop in and visit him beforehand. Do you think— Do you think there's anything I could bring him? Like, was he eating at all yesterday?"

Simon hums.

"I don't think he ate yesterday— he's got a feeding tube in, still, so he didn't need to— but it could be worth trying, bringing him a little sweet treat. He might be up for it."

There's this cafe in Roy's neighbourhood that Jamie buys a croissant from at least once a week, if not more— he had an actual sit-down with the dietician to have it worked into his meal plan somehow, cutting out some carbs elsewhere to make room for it, because he's that fucking obsessed. They're massive, and come in all kinds of posh flavours, which Roy finds fucking ridiculous because a plain croissant is amazing already and shouldn't be fucked with, but Jamie loves trying whatever weird shit they've come up with. Roy will grab him one today and see if he wants it.

"Right, I'll do that, then." He forces himself to pick the knife back up and finish slicing the strawberries on the cutting board. "Today will be better."

He certainly fucking hopes that's true.

-

Jamie's pretty sure he's in a hospital.

He thinks Mummy was here, at some point— or maybe he dreamed it, because he's all alone right now. (If Mummy were here, she wouldn't leave him, he doesn't think.)

Something hurts, but in a dull sort of way where he can't even quite tell where in his body the pain belongs to. His face feels tight and uncomfortable. He reckons that might be stitches. Maybe Dad got him with the corner of his ring again.

"Good morning, Jamie. It's nice to see you awake!"

It feels like it takes about ten minutes to turn his head towards the source of the voice, everything moving slowly and stickily. When he tries to say something— he's not sure what, maybe just hello to the man that's come into the room— all he manages to do is open his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Well, then. Fucking odd, that.

"My name's Adam," the man says, "and I'm a physical therapist. You might not remember it, but we worked together a bit yesterday."

Jamie stares at Adam. He doesn't remember that. He doesn't bother to say as much, though, seeing as he's a bit confused on how to get words out. Figures Adam will put that together himself.

"Your doctors have told me we can try to get you sitting up today," Adam continues, "or at least moved around in bed a bit, to avoid any pressure injuries. We'll just have to watch your vital signs once you're upright; if it all holds steady, that'll be a good indication that you could likely move out of intensive care later today."

It takes Jamie a little while to process all that, but he manages a slow nod.

He's in intensive care. He doesn't know why. He's trying to sort it out, and coming up rather blank.

"Sarah, the occupational therapist, is going to come in and help us in just a moment. I'm not sure if you've met her yet, as she wasn't in yesterday."

Jamie's already got a job, he's pretty sure, and he doesn't reckon he needs a therapist about it. Or, like, isn't Dr. Sharon the therapist for his occupation? He might have to tell this Sarah lady that he's already got it covered.

Rather than try to say that, though, Jamie lets his attention drift and notices that Duck is tucked safely under his arm. He quite likes that.

There's a wee note pinned to Duck's foot as well.

We had to leave at the end of visiting hours, but we'll be back as soon as we can. We love you so much, Jamie.
Mummy and Simon xoxoxo

Oh. That's where Mummy went. It was dead smart, leaving a note. He's surprised he was able to read it proper, with his head so fuzzy, but it felt quite familiar— maybe he's a bit confused and not remembering all the times he's already read it.

When Jamie manages to focus on what's going on again, Adam is talking quietly to a girl who's wearing scrubs just like his own.

"...and we were just waiting for his ICP to level out and his cognition to improve a bit before we could do much more than passive range of motion. I think we'll start with bed mobility today, and then hopefully try some sitting, since he's a little more awake."

"That sounds great," the girl who must be Sarah says. "Once we've got him up, I'd love to take a quick look at where he's at function-wise— maybe try a bit of self-care and see how it goes, assess for cognition while we're at it."

Jamie doesn't know what all that means, but she seems nice, and he does love a bit of self-care. Maybe they'll do face masks, that would be mint.

"Right," Adam says, with a grin. "Let's crack in, then."

-

It turns out self-care means brushing his teeth.

Which, like, is nice and all, since his mouth is dry and his teeth feel terrible... but it's a lot less fun than the self-care he likes to do with Keeley.

And he's not even good at it, is the thing. He sits there on the edge of the bed— in a papery hospital gown, covered in a million tubes and wires, his bare feet dangling, feeling like a useless lump after it took two sets of helping hands just to get him upright— staring at Sarah all confused-like. There's a toothbrush in his hand, with toothpaste on it already and everything, and he knows what he's meant to do with it, but he just can't figure out how. His brain is made of soup, it feels like, and nothing's working up there.

"Can you put the toothbrush in your mouth, Jamie?" Sarah asks, patient as a bloody saint. "Try giving a little brush. I think you can do it."

Right. In his mouth. That's where he's meant to put the stupid thing. Fucking hell.

He does as much— misses his mouth entirely at first, but gets there eventually— and finds it surprisingly easy to do such a familiar task. He's a bit obsessive about tooth-brushing, isn't he, and keeps a little travel set of tooth stuff in his kit bag so he can clean his teeth after lunch at work every day, so this is quite nice. Muscle memory's doing the work for him, and his mouth already feels much less cottony and disgusting with a bit of mint in there to freshen it up.

"Well done," Sarah carries on. "That's it, yeah? Go on, and I've got a cup you can spit in when you're ready."

He realizes he's already lost a bit of toothpaste to an embarrassing dribble down his chin, but he can't bring himself to be that bothered. He's actually doing something, which is more than he can say for however long he's been stuck in a hospital bed.

He doesn't last too much longer— starts to get tired and lose his balance, tipping to one side but steadied by Adam's hands— and decides to finally spit in the cup.

He misses entirely, of course, and gives himself a lapful of toothpaste.

"That's alright," Sarah says, unwaveringly positive. "We'll get you cleaned up, love. You've done really well, okay?"

Jamie's eyes have already filled with frustrated tears, practically of their own accord, and there's a lump rising in his throat. He can't do nothing right, and it's fucking embarrassing.

Finally, when he opens his mouth this time, he's able to get a word out.

"Fuck."

Sarah and Adam both laugh a little, but not in a way that it feels like they're making fun. Just trying to lighten the mood, like, while Sarah wipes up his mess.

"You can say that again," Adam says, giving Jamie's shoulder a squeeze. "Do you wanna lay back down? I think you've had enough for now. You did great."

Jamie nods, all slow and uncoordinated.

Laying down is easier than sitting up was, but he still feels like he's just played a full ninety once he's settled in bed again. They put the head of the bed up so that he's still sort of sitting but doesn't have to balance himself, and then Sarah puts Duck back into place.

"We'll see you tomorrow, yeah?" she says. "I'll put in a good word for you with the doctors, see if you can move to the step-down unit and have a few less machines around."

Jamie nods again. He's too tired to fully know what she's talking about, but she seems nice.

"Cheers," he mutters. "Yeah."

And he reckons he's about due for a nap.

-

Greyhounds!!

Sam: I am very sorry for how I acted yesterday.
Sam: I have been very angry for the past few days, but I should not take it out on you all. I am ashamed that I let it get to me.
Sam: I hope you can forgive me.

Roy's not sure why he's in the players' group chat when none of the other staff is, but they add him back every time he leaves, so he's just accepted it at this point.

He's never said anything in it, and he never will, but he texts Sam separately from it.

Proud of you, lad.

And then he tucks his phone away and walks into the hospital.

-

"He's doing so much better today," Georgie had said, passing Roy on his way into the room as they swapped places in their bedside vigil. "He's still confused, but in a good mood. It's really quite sweet— he'll be pleased to see you."

It's a different room, now, on another unit near the ICU. It means Jamie's improved enough to not need quite so much support, which is good. He can have more visitors here, too, meaning a couple of the lads could probably come by later, which is even better. 

So Roy holds onto the croissant in its little pastry box and walks in.

Jamie certainly looks better than two days ago— the swelling in his face has fully gone down, leaving the neat and tidy stitches not looking quite so terrifying. The rash on his cheeks from the breathing tube is gone; the last time Roy was here, he'd only just been weaned off the ventilator, and now he's not even got oxygen in his nose anymore, just the feeding tube on his face and the other IVs and lines on his arms. He's propped up to almost sitting, and he's even got a bit of healthy colour coming back to him.

He looks well, and that's a relief.

The last time he was here, Jamie's eyes had barely fluttered open, and he'd only twitched his fingers. This time, when Roy sits down, sets the pastry box aside, and takes Jamie's hand— because that's what you do when you're sat with someone at the hospital— the kid slowly blinks awake and turns to look at him.

Roy can't stop himself smiling.

"Hey, you."

Jamie stares at him, looks a bit lost— his brow furrows and he cocks his head to the side— and opens his mouth to speak. It takes a long moment for any sound to come out, but Roy waits.

"You..." he echoes back, first. After a pause, adds: "I... know... you,"

"You do, yeah?" Roy chuckles softly. He gives Jamie's hand a little squeeze. "You know who I am?"

Slowly, Jamie nods.

"I... saw you... play... football."

He draws the words out, pronouncing every syllable with care. His speech is slurred, like his mouth isn't quite cooperating, but he's clearly trying very hard to make himself understood.

And he's a little confused, it seems, but it's better than not being recognized at all.

"Did you, Jay?" Roy teases, trying to keep things lighthearted. "I've seen you play football too, you know. You're very good at it."

Jamie blinks. Stares. Roy can see the exact moment he processes what was said, because a grin spreads across his face and a blush blossoms on his cheeks.

"I... am?"

Roy nods.

"Very good," he repeats. "The best English player in the game right now, as far as I'm concerned."

Jamie lets out this incredibly sweet, childlike little laugh, and then brings his stuffed animal up to his face, hiding in it. Roy reaches forward and carefully ruffles his hair, mindful of the surgical site.

"Don't get fucking embarrassed. I'm serious," he chuckles. "You're incredible."

Jamie whines like he's annoyed, but he's clearly still smiling wide. Roy can't make heads or tails of what he tries to say next, mumbling into the fur of his toy duck, but he seems well pleased, so that's got to be a good thing.

Just then, a nurse pokes her head in.

"Hi boys, I hope I'm not interrupting," she says. "I'm just going to get the tube feed going so you can have some lunch, Jamie, and then I'll be out of the way."

Jamie doesn't seem bothered by her coming over to mess with the tubes and wires hanging off him— just watches with wide, curious eyes while she opens a can of some liquid and gets it ready to send down the tube in his nose.

"I brought him something to eat," Roy says, suddenly remembering the croissant. It's matcha-flavoured this time, with some (nasty-looking) green cream in the middle of it, which Jamie would likely love. "Can he— is he able to have it, do you think?"

The nurse hums.

"I'll have to check his chart. I know the speech therapist came in for a swallowing assessment earlier today, but I'm not sure what the results were."

Roy frowns.

"Why wouldn't he be able to swallow?"

He'd figured, if anything, Jamie might have an upset stomach or something and not feel up to eating— he hadn't considered that this was even a problem he could have. He gives Jamie's hand another little squeeze; it's mostly to quell his own anxiety, because Jamie doesn't really seem to be paying attention at all.

"It's quite common after a brain injury," the nurse says, "since chewing and swallowing is a much more complicated process than we usually give it credit for. If one little piece of the puzzle's not working, it becomes really easy to choke on things, so we tend to play it quite safe— especially since he was on a ventilator a couple of days ago."

She finishes up what she's doing and starts the feed for Jamie, hitting a button and letting the liquid start to flow through the tube, then turns to the computer beside the bed that's been showing his heart rate and blood pressure and whatnot. She clicks around, types a couple things, and nods as a short note is pulled up.

"Right, so, it looks like the order for now is nothing by mouth. No food, no liquids. That'll likely change over the next few days, once he's worked with the rehab team some more... but no snacks for today, unfortunately."

Jamie either doesn't understand or doesn't particularly care— he's looking down at Roy's hand now, fidgeting with his fingers like he's never seen a fucking hand before in his life— but Roy, once again, feels a bit ill in the pit of his stomach, sick with guilt. Every time he gets a new detail of just how hurt Jamie is, he watches the accident play out all over again in the back of his mind and feels briefly like he might keel over.

"Roy..." Jamie says, sounding like a child. He is a fucking child, practically. Fuck. "You... watched me... play?"

Fucking hell.

"Of course, all the time. I'm your coach— you remember that, right?"

Slowly, Jamie nods. His head then lolls to the side like he's tired. The nurse gives the two of them a smile as she leaves the room.

"I know. You... make me... run. Lots."

Roy can't help but laugh a little at that.

"Yeah, and the moment you're out of this fucking hospital, you'll be right back to it. Maybe I'll make you run home."

Jamie's brow furrows for a second, visibly thinking about it, but he nods again.

"I could."

Roy sighs.

"I'm fucking with you. I wouldn't make you do that... I believe it, though. You could."

Jamie blinks. Frowns.

"I... went to... your house. Once. Did I?"

"Lots of times," Roy says. Jamie's holding tight onto his hand. "You usually come over a couple times a week after training— we make dinner and watch shit reality TV. Do you remember we just started the new Love is Blind?"

Jamie chews his cheek.

"Maybe... yeah. Dunno."

"It's alright if you don't." Roy strokes his hair. "You've had a mad past few days, haven't you. Your memory's gone a bit funny, but it's fixing itself, slow and steady."

Jamie reaches for his stitches with the hand Roy isn't holding.

"My... head," he mumbles.

Roy catches his wrist before he can prod. Puts his hand back on his stuffed animal.

"Yeah, I know. Does it hurt?"

Jamie nods.

"I'll call the nurse back in," Roy says, pressing the button as he does. "We'll see if we can get you some of the good drugs, yeah?"

"I don't... do... drugs," Jamie whines. His speech is getting a little harder to understand, the longer they talk; it simply seems to be taking a lot out of him to hold a conversation. "I won't."

"Just medicine," Roy chuckles. "It'll help you feel better. I'm your fucking gaffer, remember, and I say it's fine— no drugs tests anytime soon."

Jamie, however, doesn't seem to quite understand. He frowns and shakes his head.

"No," he whines, sounding a bit like when Phoebe's protesting going to bed. "I'm... not."

"It's just like what I take for my knee, yeah?" Roy tries to reason. "It just makes you hurt less, no harm done."

Unfortunately, Jamie's a bit beyond reason now, just getting properly upset.

"No." He's got tears in his eyes— which Roy knew would likely come eventually, since Georgie and Simon warned him earlier that Jamie's entirely-warranted frustration can really only come out as crying at this point. "I wa-want... I want... my mum."

The nurse comes back in, responding to the call, and Jamie hides his face back in his duck toy. Roy sighs and rubs the poor kid's shoulder.

"Sorry," he says to the nurse, "I was thinking I'd ask if he could have some painkillers for his head, but he's not keen on taking them right now. Let's not worry about it."

She gives a sympathetic smile.

"I see. Jamie, are you sure you don't want your medicine? You're due for another dose, and it'll help with your headache. I can give it now, or a bit later."

Jamie shakes his head, and doesn't look up.

"Not right now, then," she says. "That's alright, love. I'll come back and check on you in a little while."

Jamie sniffles, and Roy keeps rubbing his shoulder and back, unsure what else to do.

"Your mum will be back soon," he offers. "She's just gone off to have some lunch. You're alright, yeah?"

Whatever Jamie tries to say next doesn't make it from his brain to his mouth in one piece— it's a quiet mutter that Roy can't make sense of, still obviously upset, but he nods like he understands anyways.

"It's okay," Roy continues. "Are you tired, Jay?"

Jamie whines quietly and nods. He's still hugging his duck close to his face. He looks like a child, and it's heartbreaking.

"Why don't you try having a sleep, then? I think that might help your headache, too."

Jamie's next words are equally as muddled as the last, but if Roy had to hazard a guess based on body language, he'd think Jamie might be asking him not to leave. (Or maybe that's a bit of a projection from the part of his brain that so badly wants Jamie to want him here.)

"I'm not going anywhere for now." He pushes Jamie's messy, unstyled fringe back. "Not until your mum gets back, so you won't be alone. I have an appointment to go to this afternoon, but I can come back later if you want me to."

Jamie grabs at Roy's hand and gives it a tight squeeze. He looks so fucking tired.

"Okay, yeah. I'll come back. Just rest now, okay?"

Another nod, and Jamie's eyes are starting to shut. Roy just sits there with him, tries to pretend it's like the dozens of times Jamie's fallen asleep on his couch after training.

He wouldn't normally hold Jamie’s hand for that, but that's just what you do in the hospital, isn't it.

-

To: Sam, Isaac

Jamie is in room 1743 and can have some more visitors now. Not the whole team yet, but I think he'd be happy to see you two. He's tired and confused, but getting better. Come by for a bit this afternoon, if you can.

Isaac McAdoo liked a message.

Seen by Sam Obisanya.

-

Roy steps out of the elevator and into the orthopaedics unit for his consult.

He fucking hates going to the doctor, but he owes it to everyone around him to get the fuck over it and deal with this. He can't let his knee fuck up his life even more than it already has.

Georgie had given him a big hug and told him good luck before he came up here, and Jamie hadn't quite been coherent enough to do the same, still coming around from his nap, but he'd clung to Roy's hand like he didn't want to let go.

That has to mean something, right?

Chapter Text

Isaac looks a bit sad, and Jamie doesn't really like that.

He's not the type to be sad, Isaac. Even after the worst matches, he sometimes gets a bit angry— passionate, as he prefers to say, after yelling at the team— but never does he just sit down and pout.

So when he walks into the room looking like someone's just killed his dog— does he have a dog? or was he just thinking of getting one and hasn't done it yet? or does his girlfriend have a dog, maybe? and she was moving in, bringing it with her?— that's no bloody good, is it.

"Mate," Isaac says, oddly quietly. His eyes are wide, and he's walking slowly up to the bed. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Jamie blinks. Frowns. Feels his brow furrow.

"Why?"

He can't remember nothing bad that Isaac did, but he also can't remember exactly why he's in hospital— he's aware that he hit his head, since that's what Mummy told him, but doesn't quite understand how— so he's not sure what's going on. Isaac wouldn't hit him.

He looks sad, though.

"It's my fault you're hurt, innit," Isaac says, wringing his hands in front of him, not quite approaching the bed all the way, and not sitting down either. "I was the one who tackled you."

That doesn't really clear things up all that much, but Jamie supposes that maybe brute forcing his brain into using logic again might get him there— he'll shove the pieces together like a poorly made puzzle. He's in hospital, he hit his head, and Isaac tackled him, and that's how he got hurt. He got hurt by Isaac tackling him. He's hurt, and he's in hospital. Because of Isaac.

But that doesn't make sense, does it, because Isaac's one of his best friends and wouldn't hurt him.

Jamie realizes he's been staring at his lap trying to figure it out for far too long.

"Okay," he says, because fishing coherent words out of the bowl of jelly he calls a brain is really fucking difficult. "You... um... my head?"

That's not a fucking sentence, is it. He's not even sure what it was supposed to mean.

Isaac nods, though.

"Yeah, you hit your head, bruv. I slipped on the pitch and tackled you way too fucking hard, and I feel awful. It was an accident. I'm so sorry."

Jamie was in an accident. He hit his head in an accident. Isaac tackled him by accident. He was in an accident, and he hit his head. That's why he's so confused now. That sort of makes sense, he thinks.

"Slipped," Jamie says, because he likes the sound of that word. He bunches his hands in the blue of the Richmond blanket in his lap. It feels dead nice.

"The pitch was wet," Isaac offers, still standing an awkward distance away. "It was raining hard, but Roy wanted us to finish the scrimmage. I should've said something— told him I thought it weren't safe, or summat— but I just kept playing. We all did."

That does sound like Roy, doesn't it, making them play in the rain. He pushes them really hard at training. That's a good thing, usually. Jamie appreciates it.

"And I... fell?" he asks, still trying to parse through exactly what happened. "My head."

"Yeah." Isaac looks uncomfortable. "You fell really hard, bruv. You hit your head on the ground, and then Sam tripped over you, and his boot clipped your face."

Jamie reaches for his face, where he's aware of the sensation of stitches by his eye— for once, no one grabs his wrist and scolds him when his hand gets too close, so he carefully tries to prod at the area to feel how bad it is.

He's unfortunately not very coordinated right now, though, so he pokes himself in the fucking eye.

"Ow. Fuck," he hisses as he recoils. At least cursing is easy, compared to other words. "Jesus."

"Bloody hell, mate," Isaac gasps, "what did you do that for?"

"Dunno," Jamie groans. He leans back against the pillows. "Ugh."

That must be why Mummy and Simon won't let him touch his face. He's got less control of his limbs than Colin after nine shots of tequila— which is really saying something, because the ninth shot had Colin facedown on the pavement outside the club while they waited for an Uber. Jamie can't quite place how long ago that was, since his memory's all a bit jumbled, but he knows it was dead funny.

"Sam's... okay?" he asks, after a moment, suddenly remembering why he was trying to touch his face in the first place.

He took a boot to the face because Sam tripped over him.

"Physically, yeah," Isaac offers. "But he's really upset about it all. I've never seen him so pissed off. It's fucking terrifying, if I'm honest."

Oh.

Jamie suddenly feels very small.

Sam tripped over him. Sam is angry.

Sam must be angry at him.

It feels awful, right, but Jamie thinks he understands. Sam's got every right to be angry at him for getting in the way, ruining training, and generally fucking things up. They've probably got important matches to get ready for— he can't gather his thoughts well enough to find any specifics, but there's certainly big things going on— and now Jamie's in no state to play at all. He's ruined everything.

"You alright, bruv?" Isaac asks. He's still not moved any closer. Probably doesn't want to.

Jamie nods. Can't get any words out. He's so fucking ashamed.

"The team's gonna be glad to know you're on the mend, yeah?" Isaac continues, a bit softer. "We need you, mate."

They need him. The team needs him, and he's stuck in a fucking hospital bed.

Jamie thinks he might be sick.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Isaac asks, looking worried. "You've gone really pale. Should I call a nurse?"

Jamie doesn't know, honestly. Doesn't fully understand what's wrong with him, doesn't know if a nurse could do anything to help him now, doesn't know why he's suddenly having trouble breathing. One of the machines he's attached to is beeping a bit frantically, and he really doesn't want to be here anymore.

"I'm gonna grab someone." Isaac's backing towards the door. "You're okay, mate. Just... fucking breathe, yeah? Hang on a minute."

And he leaves, and Jamie is alone, and Sam hates him, and the team needs him, and everyone's mad at him, and he can't breathe, and—

There's suddenly a nurse touching his shoulder, saying something about medicine that will calm him down, and he shoves her off.

"No, no," he's repeating, almost without trying to. He squirms in the bed, trying to get away from her. "No."

"Jamie, love, what's going on?" That's Mummy coming in. "Hey... what's got you so upset, poppet?"

He's not sure he could put it into words if he tried— there's a lot that he's upset about, and it's all come on quite suddenly, and he doesn't know what to do. He can't even breathe.

"Jamie," Mum tries again. "Look at me, please. You're okay, yeah? I'm right here."

He's not okay, is the thing— Sam is angry at him, and that's, like, the worst feeling ever, because Sam is one of his very best friends. Sam is angry, Isaac is sad, and everything is wrong.

"Go away," he manages to say, though it's not exactly what he means— he doesn't mind her being here, but she won't stop touching his arms and petting his hair and getting in his space. It's usually nice, that, as he does like to be touched most of the time, but it's freaking him the fuck out right now. "Stop."

"Okay, love," Mummy says, not seeming all that bothered, just taking his whining in stride as she usually does. The nurse is still nearby, but not crowding him anymore either. "I can get out of your way for now. Do you want Roy instead? He's just got back from his doctor's appointment. He could come sit with you."

Jamie's stomach twists.

If Sam's angry, then Roy's going to be furious. That's terrifying.

But there's no use putting it off, is there. He learned that from Dad— the longer you wait, when you know you're in trouble, the worse it'll be. When someone's going to hurt you or yell at you or something, it's better to get it over and done with.

So he nods to Mummy's offer to send Roy in, because he's not going to be a soft little scared baby about it, and mentally prepares for whatever storm is about to come.

-

"It's nothing you did wrong," Georgie says to Isaac, coming out of Jamie's room, speaking softly. "He's just in a mood."

Roy can't help but frown, and he watches Isaac's face mirror his own.

"Are you sure, Mrs. Tartt?" Isaac asks. Georgie only winces a little at the misnomer, and doesn't bother correcting him. "He was all good, and then as soon as I said the team missed him, he got upset. I think I worried him or summat."

Georgie shakes her head.

"No, no. He's been refusing his pain medication all day, hasn't he— God knows why— and he's getting irritated without it. He doesn't even want me anywhere near him right now; he needs to sleep for a bit. It was just unlucky timing for you, love."

Roy sighs. Wonders if Sam's been here too, during the time he was upstairs at his way-too-fucking-long appointment. It'll break the poor kid if Jamie doesn't react well to him, so it might be worth telling him to hold off, if he's not already stopped by.

"Should I come back and try again tomorrow?" Isaac asks, wringing his hands. "I'll see if Sam can come, too. I haven't heard from him today."

Well, that answers that question. Maybe he's busy with the restaurant.

"That might be best," Georgie sighs. She then turns to Roy and goes all fond. "He asked me to leave, and he wants Roy instead— maybe you can convince him a little morphine won't hurt him."

He wants Roy instead.

Something in Roy's stomach flips at that, an entirely strange feeling. It must be nerves— why would Jamie choose him over his mum? Maybe he wants to know how the surgical consult went... but that would be odd, because he was far too out of it earlier to even know that's where Roy was off to, let alone to actually remember it now, a few hours later.

"Okay," he all-but squeaks, before clearing his throat and forcing his voice back to normal. "Okay. Yeah. I'll go in there and see if I can help."

Georgie smiles and squeezes his shoulder.

"Good. I'm going to ring Simon— he's gone round Jamie's house to do some stress-cleaning and get out of his head a bit. He's probably scrubbing the kitchen down with bleach by now, just trying to get everything nice for when he can come home."

"The team could help," Isaac offers. "If anything needs doing at Jamie's house, like. It was his idea when we all went and fixed up Sam's restaurant, so we can return the favour— do some cleaning and look after the garden and that. I know he's got loads of plants out back."

Roy decides to let Isaac and Georgie sort that out, not make Jamie wait any longer.

(Besides, it's not like he has anything to do with the team right now. He's not even their fucking manager. He'll keep his nose out of their business.)

He slips past them into Jamie's room.

-

Jamie, for what it's worth, looks the most awake he's been in days— he's sat up in bed, frowning down at the duck toy he seemingly hasn't let go of since he woke up, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket on his lap. He doesn't look happy, but he looks alert and aware, which is a good start.

"Hey, Jay," Roy says, as soft as he can. That nickname isn't one he's used much before this week, but it feels nice and gentle and right. "You alright?"

Jamie shrugs. Doesn't look up. His shoulders are visibly tense, and he grips the blanket a little harder.

"Your mum said you wanted me to come sit with you," Roy continues, making his way over to sit down by the bed. "How are you doing? Does your head still hurt?"

Slowly, Jamie nods.

"My... head. I, um... hit my head. Yeah? At— at football. I think."

His words have gotten marginally clearer, however it still takes a bit of focus to listen closely enough to understand him.

"You did hit your head," Roy says, the guilt in the pit of his stomach threatening to rise up and overtake him. "And it did happen playing football. I'm so, so sorry. It shouldn't have happened at all, but... I put you in danger. It was fucking stupid."

Jamie's brow furrows a bit deeper.

"You... um, you're mad? At me?"

Roy feels his eyes go wide, immediately panicked.

"What? Fuck no. Of course not. Why would I be mad at you?"

"I... um..." Jamie strokes his fingers along his fuzzy blanket, staring down at it and clearly thinking hard. Roy bites his tongue to not interrupt, let him get his thoughts articulated. "I can't play. I... the team. Isaac said."

Roy frowns.

"Isaac said I was mad at you?"

An immediate frustrated pinch works itself into Jamie's expression. He shakes his head, and spends another long moment thinking.

"No... the team. And I can't... and Sam."

Roy has no fucking idea how to respond to that, because he doesn't know what the fuck it means. Jamie's clearly getting at something here, but it's not quite clear as to what.

"Look, Jamie... I'm not mad at you, yeah? No one is— not Isaac, not Sam, not the team. Everyone's just fucking worried and wants you to get better. If anything, you should be mad at me, since I was the one who made you lot run around in the fucking rain and let you get hurt."

Jamie shakes his head again.

"No. I'm..." He squeezes the duck in his arms like a giant stress ball. "Not at you. I won't."

"You're not mad at me," Roy repeats, to clarify. When Jamie nods, he adds: "Good. I'm not mad at you either, yeah? So we're okay, nothing's wrong."

That'll surely change— once Jamie's processed things a bit more, there'll likely be some resentment to unpack, but they'll get there when they get there. For now, it's not worth stressing him out.

"Why did you..." Jamie points to the hospital bracelet dangling loosely on Roy's wrist, which was put on when he went down for an x-ray and MRI as part of the consult. "That. Why?"

"Oh." Roy holds it closer for Jamie to see. "A doctor was having a look at my knee today. They had to do some scans."

Jamie grabs his outstretched hand and squeezes it between both of his own.

"You're... okay?"

"Yeah, mostly," Roy says. He shrugs. "I need surgery, which kind of freaks me the fuck out, but it's fine. If you can handle fucking brain surgery, I can deal with them poking around at my knee."

He's scheduled for a total knee replacement in a week— the surgeon had initially pitched a cartilage transplant, which would be less invasive and quicker to recover from, but the scans had given away just how absolutely fucked the whole joint is. The cartilage is nearly nonexistent, so the bone is all worn down from constant rubbing, and if he'd gotten this dealt with a few years ago, maybe the easier surgery would've been an option.

"That hurts," Jamie states, with a frown. "Your knee."

Roy chuckles.

"All the time, yeah. It's totally fucked."

Jamie huffs out a tired breath.

"My, um... my head."

"Your head hurts?"

"Yeah..." Jamie purses his lips. "I think. I dunno. I... um, hit my head. With... doing football."

Roy sighs.

"You did, didn't you." He uses the hand Jamie isn't holding to brush the kid's fringe back. His hair needs a wash, but they'll probably have to wait until the surgical wound has healed a bit more. "It's okay. Next time the nurse comes, she'll give you stuff to make it feel better. Don't try to fight her off this time, yeah?"

Jamie looks so confused, his eyes all wide and innocent and lost. Roy is so fucking fond of him it practically hurts.

"You're alright, Jamie," he continues. "I promise. The doctors and nurses are here to help. You'll start feeling better soon. I'll be right here."

Jamie sniffles.

"The team... got mad?"

He's really stuck on that idea, isn't he.

"No one is mad," Roy repeats, touching his hair again. "Listen, you're not in any trouble, Jamie. You're just hurt. That's okay. Everyone wants you to get better, that's it."

Jamie frowns, but nods. After a long moment of quiet, he adds:

"My dad."

Roy sighs.

"Yeah. He wants you to get better, too. I gave him a ring the other night— he's still in Manchester. Once you're feeling better, you can decide if you want him to come visit."

"But I'm..." Jamie trails off, and then continues in a befuddled mumble. "Manchester. This is... I'm not. But— Roy?"

Roy gives him a little smile, the best he can muster when his heart is fucking breaking at the sight of the most self-assured person he knows in such a state, stumbling over his words and unable to make sense of anything.

"Yeah, love?"

Jamie lets out a shaky, frustrated breath.

"I don't... live there."

Roy nods slowly, trying to understand.

"In Manchester?" Jamie nods. "That's right, you don't. You live in London. That's where we are right now."

Jamie's brow furrows again, and his frown deepens.

"But— I'm cold."

And Roy's not entirely sure what that has to do with being in London, but he's not going to force it to make sense. He just nods.

"Okay. Let's call the nurse; I'll ask her to bring us your medicine and a warm blanket, yeah?"

Jamie blinks. He's looking down at their hands, where he's still squishing Roy's between his own.

"My blanket?"

"A new one— they have a machine that warms them up, so we'll add it on top of the blanket you've already got, and you won't be so cold."

Roy uses his free hand to press the call bell, hears it start to ring in the hallway. It's a lot quieter now that they're out of the ICU— no hissing ventilator or beeping monitors, just the low hum of a fan in the corner and the idle background chatter coming from the nurses' station across the hallway.

"Hi Jamie," the same nurse as before is saying, putting her gloves on as she comes in. Roy finally reads her name tag, tries to commit the name Olivia to memory. (She's young, blonde, and gorgeous in a girl-next-door kind of way. She looks like someone Jamie would take on a date.) "I saw you called for me. What's up?"

"Um, I want—" He cuts himself off, shakes his head. Looks to Roy. "I want... I dunno."

"He's a bit cold," Roy fills in for him, "so a warm blanket when you have a second would be great— and he'll finally take some pain relief, too. Please."

"Please," Jamie echoes, and he finally, finally smiles.

(Something inside Roy growls at the fact that it's the nurse who made him smile. He's not sure why he's fucking jealous about it.)

"Of course," Olivia says. "A warm blanket and your pain meds. I'll get on that right away, love. You look like you're feeling a bit better now, yeah?"

"Better," Jamie echoes. He nods slowly. "I think. Yeah... Roy?"

(The jealously dissipates when Jamie squeezes his hand again, and looks up at him with those innocent fucking eyes.)

"Yes, Jay?"

"I'm... better?"

Roy can't help but fucking smile.

"Yeah." He tucks Jamie's hair back again. "You're doing really well."

Jamie nods, satisfied. Smiles like the fucking sun. Turns back to Olivia.

"Okay. Yeah. Better."

"Good," she says, with a laugh. "I'll be right back with your medication and that blanket for you, love."

(As soon as she's out of the room, Roy's struck with the sudden urge to lean over and kiss Jamie's forehead. He stops himself, but he nearly does it.)

(He wonders if Jamie would mind if he did.)

-

Keeley stops by while Jamie's so drowsy with morphine he can hardly hold his head up.

It's a bit like the night he'd hurt his ankle last season— Roy and Keeley had come in with champagne, not realizing how many painkillers the physios had already given poor Jamie, and he'd been absolutely plastered within a few sips. Once they'd bundled him into the back of Roy's car, he'd spent the whole drive back to Keeley's place mumbling incoherently about what good friends the two of them were and how happy he was, and had promptly passed out as soon as they got him settled between them on the couch.

"We're going to put the statement out tomorrow morning," she says to Roy, while carding her fingers through Jamie's hair. The kid looks so content under her touch he may as well be purring. "We're keeping it really simple, just giving a bit more information so people stop speculating so much."

Roy sighs. He's fucking exhausted, and he's done nothing but sit around all day.

"Can I read it?"

"Yeah, of course." Keeley pulls her phone out. She hands it to Roy, then pats Jamie's cheek gently, which hardly rouses him from his zoned out state. "I'm not sure if this one's listening, but maybe read it out loud for him. Just in case he wants to know."

Roy has to zoom in on the text, then clears his throat.

"Right, okay. An update on Jamie Tartt. On Thursday morning, Tartt suffered a serious head injury during a training scrimmage, due to an accidental collision between players on the pitch. No other players were injured. He was taken to hospital, and remains there, stable and recovering. His timeline for returning to play is unknown at this time. Tartt and his loved ones are grateful for the outpouring for support, and appreciate the continued respect for his privacy during this difficult time. AFC Richmond will continue to support our number nine in every way possible until we can welcome him back to Nelson Road."

"We'll just put it up on social media," Keeley says. "We're going to hold off on announcing your leave— maybe the day before your surgery, we'll put something out about it. The less we relate you leaving to Jamie being hurt, the less drama it'll stir up."

Roy nods. Sets Keeley's phone on the bed, and rubs his hands over his face.

"Are you sure I shouldn't just fucking own up to it being my fault and retire? This all feels fucking... dishonest."

"It is dishonest," she half-laughs, half-sighs. "It's PR."

"But— it's fucked, Keeley. I nearly killed him by being fucking negligent, and now you've got to bend over fucking backwards to salvage my fucking reputation, and I don't fucking deserve it. Rebecca should've fucking fired me. Any other manager would've been sacked the minute some shit like this happened."

Keeley shrugs. Keeps petting Jamie's hair.

"Now, I'm not saying this to knock your ego, babe, but it's less about you and more about the club, yeah? If Rebecca fired you now, she'd look like an idiot for hiring you in the first place, and Richmond as a whole would be in a bad light. It's on the entire coaching staff that things went so wrong, anyways— of course it's more on you as the manager, but every single one of the staff that was on the pitch when it happened is going to be doing extra safety training, because someone should've said something. You're not a one-man show, love."

Roy feels very fucking small. The only thing that keeps him from getting up and walking out of the room— his default reaction when his feelings get uncomfortable— is the fact that Jamie's got their fingers intertwined.

He looks down at Jamie, who's leaning into Keeley's hand with his eyes half-closed, obviously on the edge of sleep. The feeding tube taped to his face has his dinner running through it, because he's too fucking ill to even eat or drink, and the stitches on his cheek and temple are still dark and obvious. He's clinging to Roy with one hand, and his childhood toy with the other, and he looks like a fucking kid.

"I don't know how I'm ever gonna fucking fix this," Roy sighs. His voice goes a bit shaky. "I care about him so fucking much."

"Oh, Roy." Keeley does that sad little pouty face that still makes his heart clench a little. "That's really sweet."

"He's gonna hate me," Roy continues, a lump in his throat, "and he'll have every fucking right to, but it'll still hurt."

Keeley rubs her thumb on Jamie's temple. Jamie doesn't really stir, his eyes half lidded and his head lolled to the side, probably not listening at all.

"You really think he will? You know he doesn't hold a grudge, babe." She pauses, chews her cheek. "Even people he should hate... I don't think he does. He's got a big heart."

And Roy knows exactly who she means, but doesn't exactly appreciate being compared to Jamie's fucking dad. That logic is horrible, isn't it: if Jamie keeps forgiving that abusive monster, surely he'll forgive you too, right?

"I think I should head out," Roy says. "I have... a thing."

Keeley fixes him a look.

"At seven o'clock on a Sunday night?"

Roy nods.

"Yeah. I just have to—" He gives Jamie's hand one final squeeze, then carefully extradites his fingers from the tight grip they've been in for the past hour. Jamie's tired face scrunches into a frown, but he doesn't wake up, so it's fine. "I have to go."

He stands up and makes a break for it before she can stop him, slowed only by the stiffness in his knee. It fucking hurts, and he really needs to go home and cry some more.

"Roy," Keeley calls, already far behind him, "come on. What's the matter? Come back."

He doesn't look back— rushes down the hall to jam the button to call the lift with one hand and wipe furiously at his eyes with the other.

If Jamie forgiving him looks anything like Jamie forgiving his dad— the choice clouded by guilt and fear and a sense of obligation— Roy may as well just flee the country and never show his face again. In fact, maybe his lawyers have a point; maybe he should be staying out of the way, keeping his nose out of Jamie's recovery, letting him heal surrounded by people who'd never hurt him.

That's why they're keeping James away, isn't it? Even though he'd probably come visit with good intentions, his mere presence would freak Jamie the fuck out and upset him. Who's to say that, once Jamie remembers the accident, he won't feel exactly the same way about Roy? And be too scared to tell him to fuck off?

He makes it as far as his vehicle before he fucking loses it, slamming his hands on the steering wheel and cursing out loud.

"Fucking idiot," he mutters to himself, while fumbling the key into the the ignition. "What the fuck were you fucking thinking?"

And he doesn't drive away, not yet, once the car is running. He rests his forehead on the wheel, hugs his arms around himself, and fucking cries.

Chapter Text

"Mummy, can we go see Uncle Jamie today?"

It's the first thing Phoebe says when she comes into the kitchen, all dressed in her uniform and ready for school.

No good morning, Mummy, or even what's for breakfast— just a ridiculously tough question to start the morning off with.

"I don't know, love," Ruth sighs. She sets a glass of orange juice on the table, next to Phoebe's breakfast. "I know he's doing a bit better now, but he's still really ill. I'm not sure he'll be ready for too many people coming and going. I'll have to chat with Uncle Roy and see what he thinks, yeah?"

Because Jamie can have more visitors now, right, but it still might be a little much to have an excitable child in the room. And Ruth doesn't want to shy away from this kind of thing with Phoebe— doesn't want her to be scared of hospitals or anything— but it might just be too upsetting for her to see her favourite person in such a state.

"I think I should bring him a Squishmallow." Phoebe sits at the table and digs into her cereal. "He said my giant shark is his favourite one, last time we were playing with them. It's the one you can even use as a pillow since it's so big."

"I don't know how well that would fit in a hospital bed," Ruth says, "but I'm sure he wouldn't mind a smaller one to come sit with him and brighten up his room."

She has no idea if that's true or not, seeing as Jamie's an adult man and all, but he seems like the type to enjoy cuddly wee things. He's got a sweet sort of softness to him that shines in his interactions with Phoebe, which Ruth greatly admires. He's far better at playing than her or Roy— he seems to genuinely enjoy letting go and using his imagination in a way that most adults struggle with, and has an almost magical way with kids.

"Maybe the axolotl," Phoebe muses. "Or the quokka. They're smaller."

Of course, it wouldn't be Phoebe if she were collecting normal animals. Ruth didn't even know they made those as Squishmallows— it's really time to do a toy box clean out and deal with the absurd number of plushies in this house.

"Well, you choose one to bring, and I'll talk to Uncle Roy today. If he thinks Jamie might be up to a visit, we'll go right after school. If not, we'll just wait another few days, yeah?"

Phoebe nods.

"Yeah. I just miss him. I want to see him."

"I know, love." Ruth walks up behind Phoebe to start brushing her hair while she eats. "You'll see him soon, I promise. And it might be scary to see him in hospital, but he's still the same Jamie, right? He might be a little confused or tired, but he'll be glad to see you either way, even if it's hard for him to show it."

"Can I have two plaits today?" Phoebe asks, craning her neck to look up. "And I know that, Mummy. Jamie's always happy to see me. We're besties."

"Right, of course," Ruth laughs. "How could I forget?"

-

He should be coming out of it soon.

That's what the doctor keeps saying. Because the coma only lasted a couple of days, the state of amnesia should resolve itself before the week is up.

It's five days since the accident, and Georgie still has to watch her son struggle to recall his own name when the nurse asks him for it. He doesn't know where he is, and can't even offer a guess as to what day it is.

(Those are the big three questions they always ask: person, place, and time. Sometimes Jamie can answer one or two, but sometimes, like this morning, he can't get any of them.)

"Mummy."

If there's one comfort she can take, it's that he always knows her. Even if he's in a strop and gets fussy with her, he knows who his mum is.

"Good morning, Jam Tart." She reaches out to stroke his hair, and he lets her. "How are you feeling?"

He shakes his head, minutely. His voice is very small when he responds:

"I don't know."

Georgie sighs. At least he's not panicking.

"That's okay," she says. "I'm just happy you're awake, baby. It's really nice to talk to you."

Jamie looks a bit lost, glances at Simon on the other side of him, and then nods slowly.

"I'm... home?"

"No, love." Georgie takes his hand. "You're in hospital. You're alright, though."

Jamie frowns for a moment.

"I hit my head."

Georgie feels her breath catch, and sees Simon's eyes go wide.

"You did. Yeah. Do you remember anything else?"

Because, like, this is the first time he's woken up with any idea at all of what's going on— his memory keeps resetting itself every time he sleeps, and he has to start from scratch when he wakes up. Today, though... no one has told him anything about his head, yet. It seems he's remembered it on his own.

"Roy," Jamie mumbles. He furrows his brow, clearly thinking, then nods. "Somewhere."

"He was here yesterday," Simon offers. "Do you remember him coming to sit with you?"

Jamie blinks. Frowns.

"Dunno."

Georgie nods. They'll have to take what they can get: he knows he hit his head, and he knows Roy was somewhere. That's better than nothing.

"That's okay," she says. "He'll come back again today, I'm sure. He's just having a lie-in this morning."

"He's... sleeping?"

"I think so, yeah. It's the morning right now. Bright and early."

Jamie's eyes flit around the room, and eventually land on the door.

"I wanna..." He points towards the hallway. "There."

"We're not going anywhere just yet, Jammer," Simon chuckles. "I think when the physio comes later, you might be able to get up for a walk, though. I saw the doctor changed your orders today."

It's been good having Simon here— he's a pharmacist, works in a druggist shop these days, but spent some of his early rotations in hospital, so he's familiar with all kinds of things. (The whiteboard above Jamie's bed has a note reading: AAT - PT to mobilise. That apparently means he's cleared to move around as much as he can tolerate, once the physio's been round to help him along.)

"But I want," Jamie sniffs, still pointing. "I wanna— go."

"I know, lovely," Georgie sighs. Takes his hand and squeezes. "Can't hardly ever sit still, can you. Just relax for now, yeah? I promise you'll be up and moving soon."

He huffs, clearly annoyed, but settles anyways.

"I hit my head," he repeats. Takes a breath, and looks very serious when he adds: "Can't touch it."

"That's right. Not while you've still got so many stitches— we've gotta leave those alone."

He nods.

"That hurts."

"Exactly, baby," Georgie says, unable to stop smiling about how much better he's doing. He's still out of it, but far more coherent than yesterday. "It hurts if you poke at them, so no touching."

"Can't touch it," Jamie repeats, idly, as if he's on loop. "That hurts."

And the repetition is better than him not talking at all, Georgie supposes, so she gives his hand another squeeze and just lets him prattle on.

-

He's an odd wee duck, her Jamie.

He's three years old and not talking yet, is the thing. Or, like, he does talk, but not the way that other kids do— if you ask him a question, instead of answering, he repeats it right back. He communicates mostly by pointing to things, and when he babbles to himself while he's playing, he's often just parroting things he's heard people say; it's simply like he's not quite figured out how to put together words of his own yet.

He goes to nursery, and his teacher says he plays just fine with the other kids, and that he's just quiet. A late talker, isn't he. She's referred them to some sort of doctor to run some tests about it, but they've just not had the time to get there yet.

(It'd mean taking a day off work, getting the bus all the way to whatever office they're meant to get to— which is a hassle as they're still stuck living in a caravan park while they wait to be approved for a council house— and likely being told there's something wrong with him, which Georgie simply doesn't want to hear. Jamie's perfect, and he's just developing in his own special way.)

(Next time the community nurse comes round the park, she'll ask if there's anything she should try to help him start talking more. The nurse listens better than doctors do, anyhow.)

She's getting him to sleep one night, though, tucking him into the bed they share, and he looks right at her with his sweet little smile and says:

"Now, Thomas is as happy as can be!"

And Georgie's sure her surprise is written all over her face, because he's never spoken that clearly before, and she's got no bloody clue where it came from.

"What on earth are you on about, baby?" she chuckles, prodding at his wee tummy, which makes him giggle. "Who's Thomas?"

Jamie curls his little fist around his baby blanket, getting all snug and cozy, looking thoroughly satisfied.

"Blue's the only colour for a really useful engine."

It clicks, then, that he's been watching Thomas the Tank Engine all evening on a tape they borrowed from the library. He's quoting the show, isn't he, in the same way he repeats things that people say.

It occurs to her, vaguely, that perhaps his line about Thomas being 'as happy as can be' was him finding the words to tell her that he's feeling happy— she's not sure that's possible, quite honestly, since she can't claim to know all that much about how kids' brains work, but it'd certainly be lovely if it were true. Maybe he's smarter than he lets on, her wee problem-solver, finding a way to make the words his own.

"Now, Thomas is as happy as can be!" he repeats again, with the exact same intonation as before.

"Are you happy, love?" Georgie pets his hair. "You had a good day?"

"You had a good day?" he chirps, as he nods his agreement, still looking well chuffed with himself.

Georgie sighs and leans over to kiss his head. Jamie squirms and giggles below her, then plants a messy little kid kiss on her cheek.

He's a strange one, isn't he, but he's hers.

-

Some people he's sure he's met before, called Adam and Sarah, are here to get him out of bed.

"It's been a few days since you've been up on your feet," the bloke says, "so we're going to take it really slowly. You're already sitting better than you were yesterday— you're balancing all on your own."

Jamie is, in fact, sat on the edge of the bed, with his socked feet dangling just off the ground. His hands are planted on either side of him to steady himself, and it took some help to go from lying down to this, but he's doing it himself now.

"I've brought you a walker for balance," Adam continues, as he sets it up in front of Jamie, "though I don't know if you'll need it or not. I'm going to put this belt around you, just so that I've got somewhere to grab if you need me to hold you up. We're going to try standing first, see how that goes, and then maybe try some walking, alright?"

Jamie nods.

"Maybe try some walking, alright?" he repeats to himself. He then pauses, frowns, and realizes aloud: "I've got... no... pants."

Because his legs feel incredibly bare, and the hospital gown he's realized he's wearing feels like it's wide open at the back— if he stands up now, he's quite sure his whole bum will be out. Which is fine, like, but probably not what anyone wants to see.

"Yeah, I guess you don't," Sarah chuckles. "I can go grab you some pyjamas if you'd like, or I can just fix your gown at the back. It's quite long, so you should be all covered up once it's closed."

"Just... fix. Yeah." Jamie points to the strings hanging down his back. Then pauses again, realizes another strange sensation, and starts fucking laughing without even meaning to because it's so bloody absurd. It turns out his bum's not bare. He can hardly even choke out the words, but finally manages to wheeze: "I'm... in a... nappy?"

Adam snorts, clearly not having expected him to say that.

"You— well, I suppose you are, mate," he chuckles. Jamie likes him. "You've been stuck in bed for a few days, and nature still calls while you're in a coma, doesn't it. Your body doesn't stop doing what it needs to do."

"We'll practise getting to the toilet today," Sarah chimes in. Her name badge says occupational therapy, and Jamie still doesn't quite know what that means. "Or at least a commode, if you can't walk far. If that goes well, you should be able to do away with the pad— or nappy, I guess."

Jamie's still giggling. He can't bloody believe it. Being in hospital is fucking strange, innit. He's a twenty-six year-old man in a nappy and some silly-looking socks with grips on them, about to get up and use a walker; he's like an old man and a baby all at once. If only Roy could see this.

(He's quite sure Roy has seen it, actually. His memory's incredibly hazy and confusing, but he's got some vague recollection of Roy being in this room at some point.)

"So, I've got no doubts that you'll be strong enough to stand," Adam says, adjusting the belt on Jamie's waist, pulling it tight. "It's more a matter of balance, after a head injury, and whether your body feels like listening to your brain. Your legs might just decide not to hold you up; that's why I'll keep a hold on you, just in case."

"Just in case," Jamie echoes. It's easier to understand things when he repeats them— it always has been, and he's not sure why. He nods his head. "Okay."

"You can grab onto the walker once you're standing, and you can sit back down at any point, yeah?"

"Yeah." Jamie nods.

"Right, then." Adam squats down a bit, grips the belt, and nods. Sarah hovers nearby, one of her hands resting on the walker. "Let's do it. Ready, steady... stand."

His legs are a bit shaky, but Jamie forces himself up anyways, quickly grabbing the walker for balance. It feels fucking stupid, doesn't it, hardly being able to support his own weight. Just last week (or however long it's been since he got hurt, he doesn't really know,) he was doing bloody bicycle kicks, and now his head's spinning and his legs are threatening to give out while he's just standing still.

"You're doing really well," Adam says. He slowly lets go of the belt and eases his hands away. "This is all you, mate. I'm not doing anything to help. Can you try taking a few steps? Just marching in place?"

Jamie sniffles, feeling a bit frustrated at how difficult this is, but nods. He's not sure he'll be able to get his feet off the ground, but it'd be daft not to at least give it a go and see what happens.

And, like— it turns out to be more of a shuffle than a march, and it takes a lot of mental effort, but his feet do move.

"That's excellent, Jamie," Sarah says. It doesn't even feel that patronizing, she just seems nice. "How does it feel?"

He has to stop moving to be able to focus on talking. His head's starting to hurt again.

"Um... hard," he manages to get out. "Dizzy."

"Okay, why don't you sit," Adam says, and Jamie doesn't need to be told twice. "It looks like your blood pressure's dropped a bit, which is probably why you're feeling dizzy. We'll let it come back up, and we'll try one more stand, but we'll hold off on walking for today."

"I'd like us to try transferring to a chair, for this one," Sarah adds. "You were able to move your feet just enough that I think you could do it quite easily— we'll just use one of the chairs right here, but you could do it with a commode or a wheelchair later on, too, and gain a bit of independence back."

Jamie blinks. Frowns.

"Wheelchair?"

"I'll bring one up later today, just for you to use until we get you walking," Sarah continues. "I think spending some time out of bed could feel really good. Maybe your parents can take you out in it, go down to the garden or something."

That would be quite nice, actually. He might enjoy getting out of this room, even if someone has to push him around.

"For practice, let's try getting to this chair." Adam taps one of the plastic chairs beside the bed. "And then we'll get you back to bed so you can rest. Sound okay?"

"Sound okay?" Jamie echoes, without even meaning to.

It does sound okay, though, so he nods and readies himself to stand up again. If he can play a full ninety, and survive all Roy's insane workouts, he can certainly move from a bed to a fucking chair— how hard could it be?

-

"What do you mean you're not going to see him today?"

Roy growls into his phone, despite knowing that'll do nothing to deter Ruth.

"I'm just not. I don't think I should."

"Why the fuck not?"

The thing about his little sister, Roy has come to learn, is that she's happy to spend far-too-large portions of her days off arguing with him. She doesn't give up, unfortunately.

"Because it's my fucking fault he's in hospital anyways, so I shouldn't be around him while he's all fucking vulnerable and shit. I don't want to get in his fucking head and mess things up."

The silence on the other end of the phone is pointed.

"Do you know what would get in his fucking head, Roy?" Ruth says, after a moment. "His friend avoiding him for no reason. When was the last time you two went a day without seeing each other?"

Roy frowns. Finds he really has to think on it to come up with an answer.

"The off-season, when he was travelling," he sighs. "But it's— Ruth... I fucked up so badly with him. It's not fair for me to fucking walk in there like I've done nothing wrong. He's— he's such a good fucking person, and I know he'll do something mad like fucking forgive me, when he absolutely shouldn't."

"Will you stop fucking self-flagellating for two fucking minutes and think about your fucking friend!?"

Ruth doesn't raise her voice much. She sounds an awful fucking lot like their mum when she does.

(When Mum was ill, Roy only visited her in hospital once, right near the beginning of when things were getting bad. He was Jamie's age then, and he was scared of how much her ALS was changing her, and Dad had called him one night and shouted that all she fucking wanted was to see her son. He still didn't visit after that, too caught up in his guilt about it, and then she fucking died.)

"I am thinking about him!" Roy shouts right back. "All I'm doing is fucking thinking about him!"

"No, you're projecting your fucking guilt onto him," Ruth snaps. "Yes, he's got every right to be angry with you. He's also got every right not to be, because he's his own fucking person, who has his own fucking feelings. You need to be there for him and do what you can to make this right, until he can figure out how he feels. You know damn well he wants you there."

Roy wants to tear his fucking hair out, because this is exactly the argument he's been having with himself for days.

He can see what Ruth is saying, and he knows she has a point, but it's all so fucking complicated— maybe he should ask Beard what to do. That'd guarantee him a no-nonsense answer. Or maybe he'll call Ted for another pep talk, or Rebecca for another dressing-down and reminder to get his shit together.

He feels bad about it, but he hangs up on Ruth.

He can't finish this conversation without exploding— he's going to say something awful, or speak to her in a way that would make Mum roll in her grave. Ruth knows him well enough to know why he's cut the call off, and subsequently, to expect an apology later in the day. This is fucking routine for them, or at least it was when he was a bit more of a douchebag some number of years ago. They've been arguing since she learned to talk.

He texts Dr. Sharon.

Asks for an appointment.

She tells him she'll see him tomorrow morning.

Georgie texts him, right after that.

Hope you had a lovely lie-in! J is asking after you again [heart emoji] He's still quite confused today, but much cheerier and remembering things a bit better. No rush to get here of course, but I thought it might make make you smile to know he's thinking of you. xx

Fuck.

-

Gonna go see Jamie again before training this afternoon - can I pick u up!

*?

He was asking about you yesterday so I think he really wants to see you

Sam???

Sammmmm y

Samuel

Cmon bruv I'm on my way I know you're not doing anything this morning we're litrally meant to be resting so you better not be busy and we have training in 2 hours anyways

I'm outside let's go

Fucks sake man I know you're reading these

Whatever, keep being a dick about it

Ok I'm picking up Dani instead

See you at the club I guess

✓ Read 10:56am

-

The wheelchair is an ugly thing.

Jamie immediately finds himself entering some sort of love-hate relationship with it— he hates it on pure principle, because he's a professional fucking athlete who shouldn't need to get pushed around in a stupid chair... but it's the only thing that'll get him out of his stifling little room, so he sort of has to love it.

It's big, with a tall backrest to prop him up, since his balance is so shit that he can't even sit up on his own for very long. There's a headrest that keeps him from tipping his neck too far to the side, and a wee harness on his chest (which reminds him a bit of a baby's car seat) that stops him from pitching forward, since he's still got the bloody spins from his blood pressure going all funny every time he stands up. It feels like he's drunk, quite honestly, and he sort of wishes he were right now— this might not be so embarrassing with his inhibitions properly lowered.

Dani seems thrilled to be pushing him, though, which is sort of nice, and Isaac's walking beside them, dutifully guiding the IV pole as they head down the hallway towards the lift.

"Riding in style, are we?" a nurse grins, as they pass the desk. "I bet it feels good to be up and about. Are you going outside?"

Jamie nods— an action that's still quite uncoordinated, especially with him being a bit dizzy.

It does feel good, though, especially now that Mum's helped him change into real clothes (pyjamas, yeah, but more real than a hospital gown) and run a comb through his hair, back before the lads got here. His head's still rather foggy and nothing's really makes much sense, but he feels more like himself, and he's chuffed to go get some fresh air.

"Outside," he says, since that is where he's going. Points to the lift. "Going... there."

"Exactly, bruv," Isaac agrees. "We're gonna find the garden. How hard could it be, yeah?"

"Yes," Dani laughs. "We will get you outside in no time, hermano. Who could get lost in a hospital?"

-

They get lost. Of course they do.

Jamie laughs the whole time, while they wheel him from floor to floor, trying to figure out where the fuck the garden is.

It turns out it's on the bloody roof— by the time they get there, they've only got a few minutes before the lads have to leave for training, but they savour the moment nonetheless, drinking in a rare day of sunshine in late fall.

Jamie falls asleep on the way back to his room, utterly knackered from the excursion, but so incredibly happy.

-

"Uncle Jamie!"

Mum told her she had to try to be calm, but Phoebe can't help herself from running up to the bed as soon as she sees him. She's got a round, purple, squishy axolotl in hand, as well as another card for him, to go with the one she had Uncle Roy bring yesterday.

Jamie moves really slowly when he turns to look at her, and his face goes a bit scrunchy and confused for a moment, but then his mouth spreads into a smile.

"Hi," he says. He reaches a hand out towards her. "Phoebe."

The stitches and cuts on his face are sort of scary to look at, but he still looks like himself. His smile is the same.

"I've missed you so much." Phoebe sets the card on the little table next to his bed, so she can grab his hand. "I was really sad when Mum told me you got hurt, and I've asked to come visit you every single day."

Jamie's really, really gentle when he squeezes her hand.

"I'm... happy," he says, super slow, like he's sounding it out, "to, um— to see... you."

And she thinks she gets what Mum was saying, that some things get a lot harder when you've hurt your brain. He's talking different, and he looks a bit strange, and the wheelchair parked in the corner says he probably can't walk either— it makes her really, really sad, but Jamie looks happy right now, so she's not going to ruin it.

"I brought you a toy," she grins, holding up the Squishmallow. "Her tag said her name is Monica, but I think you could call her whatever you want. She's an axolotl."

Jamie mouths the word axolotl, and looks a bit confused, but keeps smiling.

"Isn't that lovely?" Jamie's mum says. She's sitting next to his bed, and she reaches over to rub his shoulder. "Can you say thank you, baby? Phoebe's brought you a wee friend, ain't she."

"Thanks, Phee," Jamie sounds out again, all slow and careful. He leans his head back against his pillow, still smiling. "...Love it."

"Good. I knew you would." Phoebe sets Monica in Jamie's lap. "You can keep it until you're better."

A peek back at the doorway shows that Mum is talking to a nurse, probably wanting to find out more things about Jamie.

"Jammer, love," his mum says. "Do you want to show Phoebe what you've been practising today? Maybe we can go for another walk together— I'll bring your chair closer, and you can get up and sit in it, yeah?"

Jamie glances over at the wheelchair, shoots it a bit of a glare, but ultimately takes a breath and nods. His smile comes right back, but not as big.

"Can get up and sit in it, yeah?" he echoes, exactly how his mum said it. "Yeah."

"Jamie wasn't able to get out of bed for a few days," his mum explains, when she gets up to move his wheelchair, "but now that he's feeling a bit better, he's finally up and moving some. He's been riding around in this big chair, since his body's still not quite feeling ready to walk, but he can get into the chair all by himself."

Phoebe nods.

"That's really good, Uncle Jamie." She doesn't let go of his hand yet. "It's okay that you can't walk yet. Your brain's still hurting— that's what my mum says, and she says you'll keep getting better with more time. How do you get to the chair without walking?"

It's Jamie who lets go of her, because he's reaching for the bedrail.

"Just like—" he starts. The big muscles in his arms squeeze while he pulls himself up to sitting, his dad (or whoever Simon is to him, since Jamie once said his dad wasn't very nice, but this man seems nice, and Phoebe met Simon at Uncle Roy's house but didn't really understand who he was) helping him to swing his legs over the side of the bed. "Um, I just— like... um, like this."

Once the chair's in the right spot— once Phoebe steps out of the way of it, because it's going right next to the bed— Jamie uses Simon's hands for balance as he stands up, turns his body around, and plops right into the chair.

"Well done, Jam Tart," Simon beams. "That's the best you've done it! Showing off, are we?"

Jamie laughs, while his mum does up the seatbelt on the chair.

"Phoebe." He pats his lap, clearly inviting her to join him in the chair. "Here. You can— we... go, um... fast."

And, like, that's an impossible offer to turn down, isn't it, so Phoebe climbs right on.

-

Ruth sends him a video of Jamie and Phoebe flying down the hallway, while Simon runs behind, pushing them in a wheelchair.

They're both laughing like they haven't got a fucking care in the world, lit up by a golden hour sunset through the massive windows behind them.

Roy groans, throws his phone on the floor, and goes back to sleep.

Chapter Text

Jamie rubs his forehead, narrowly avoiding his stitches, which are due to come out tomorrow.

"That hurts."

Georgie sighs.

"I know, baby. You've got to wait a bit, since the nurse only just gave you more medicine. It'll start working soon."

Ruth and Phoebe left some time ago, once Jamie had quietly admitted that his head was starting to hurt. Simon's gone off to pick up some dinner as well, so it's just Georgie and her boy for now.

(No dinner for Jamie, unfortunately— his swallowing assessment this morning saw him gagging on everything he tried to eat or drink, so he's stuck with the feeding tube for a while longer.)

"Mummy," Jamie groans, incredibly agitated. He's got Duck and his new toy from Phoebe squished against his chest, one hand fisted in his Richmond blanket, and his head tossed back against his pillows. "Go... home."

"You want to go home?" Georgie rubs his arm gently, and Jamie nods. "I know, love. It's shit being in hospital. We've just got to take it day by day."

"Take it day by day," Jamie echoes, somewhat absently. He then whines, clearly annoyed. "No, no, no."

He says something else that Georgie can't quite make out, his sweet little voice coming out too quietly as his words all jumble together, and he tugs on Duck's fur. He's terribly antsy right now, and the painkillers they've given him are meant to make him drowsy, but they've not kicked in just yet.

"Why don't you try to nap for a bit, baby?" Georgie offers. "It might help you feel better."

Jamie shakes his head, his brow furrowing as he frowns.

"No. Home. I... want."

And he reaches like he's going to try to pull the IV out of his arm, as if he wants to get up and walk out of here without it. Georgie grabs him by the wrist to stop him, and he promptly uses his free hand to smack her, right on the bloody shoulder.

It's not hard, and it doesn't hurt— he's uncoordinated and weak right now, probably couldn't hurt a fly— but it's enough to properly startle her. 

"Jamie," she scolds, more surprised at him than anything else. "No. Absolutely not. You can't be hitting."

Because he's not a violent person, is he, and his frustration's clearly getting the better of him while he's not thinking clearly— Georgie herself understands it and won't hold it against him, but she'd absolutely hate to think of him hitting some poor staff member who's come round to try and help him, especially as he starts getting his strength back. He's got a lot of power in his muscles, once he figures out how to use them again.

She's got him by both wrists, now, holding his hands in his lap. She can see the moment he realizes what he's just done, through the haze of his confusion, because he immediately starts to tear up.

"Mummy," he mumbles, tugging at her grip on his hands. He shakes his head. "No, no."

"Jamie, I'm quite serious," she says, while she's still got his attention. "It's not nice to hit. I don't appreciate that."

With a heartbreaking little whimper, he starts to really, properly cry.

(He might not have the words for it right now, but Georgie can tell he's sorry. There's some things you can just read in an expression, especially when it's your own kid, like.)

"Listen, baby, it's okay," she tries to soothe him, rubbing her thumbs over the backs of his hands. "Just don't do that again, yeah? You're alright. I know you're feeling really frustrated, and you're in some pain."

Jamie sobs and shakes his head. 

"Mum."

And that's the only word he can get out right now, so she just nods like he's said something that makes sense.

"I know, poppet. I know."

She hums a little, like she used to do to calm him down when he were little. He had big, big feelings, didn't he— she'd often just have to hold him in her lap, squeeze him tight, and hum little lullabies to him while he cried himself dry. Before James had come back into the picture, wee Jamie was a gentle, emotional little thing, who cared so much about everyone and everything around him. Georgie had deeply adored that about him, and had worried a fair bit about how the world might treat him.

(She thinks he might still be like that, deep down. Probably always has been, even when James was trying to scare it out of him. That might be why those fear tactics worked so well, really, because at the end of the day, Jamie always cared quite a lot about his father, too, and wanted to make him happy. More than the bastard ever deserved, that's for certain.)

Jamie's breath keeps catching in his chest with how hard he's crying now— it's far gone from how calm and happy he'd been earlier today. (A nurse, speaking to one of the therapists in the hallway earlier, had described his state as pleasantly confused— Georgie had had a nice giggle about that choice of phrasing when she told Simon later on, if only for his accurate it was.)

"You have to breathe, baby," Georgie sighs. She drops one of his wrists so she can smooth a hand over his hair. "You'll make yourself sick, my love. Come on, then. In and out."

Jamie shakes his head. He's clearly got a lot on his mind, having worked himself into a pure panic at this point. He brings Duck up to hide his face, and he sobs even harder.

"Jamie, you've not hurt me, baby," Georgie carries on. "You know that, yeah? And I'm not angry with you, neither. You're not in any trouble. You're having a hard day, lovely. That's okay."

The painkillers should be kicking in soon, and should hopefully settle him somewhat, as they make him quite drowsy.

"Your head still hurts, yeah?" she asks, when Jamie gives her no response.

A nod. His shoulders keep shaking, and he keeps letting out the saddest little whimpers alongside his tears, crying into his stuffed duck.

"Why don't we lie down, Jam?" Georgie sighs. "That might feel nice."

She pushes the button to lower the head of the bed— doesn't make it completely flat, but just enough that it might encourage him to sleep a bit, since he's not sitting up anymore.

He simply rolls onto his side, facing away from her, and cries even harder. All she can do is rub his back, keep on humming, and wait for the painkillers to kick in.

-

He just hit Mum.

Hadn't even meant to, really. Just got really, really angry for a moment, and acted on pure impulse.

But that means his impulse was to hit her, which is fucking terrifying.

He's just like Dad.

Always knew he would be, eventually.

It's all fucking shit, innit.

-

"Roy Kent, you'd better be fucking dead."

That's Ruth, on his doorbell camera, broadcasting to his phone while he's still lying in bed.

"That's a pound, Mummy," Phoebe pipes up.

Ruth told her eyes.

"Add it to Roy's tab."

Roy unlocks the door with the app, which is fucking mad. Being rich is fucking stupid, because he buys shit like a smart lock and actually uses it.

He doesn't say anything— just waits for his sister to park Phoebe on the couch with an iPad and find her way up to him. Sure enough, he hears her footsteps on the stairs.

"Tell me why," she starts, before she's even into his room, "I've just been by the hospital, and Georgie's not heard from you all fucking day. Your phone's alive and in your hand, so I'm having trouble understanding why you couldn't at least fucking text her. She's worried."

Roy rolls over, away from the door. His knee aches.

"I'm ill."

"No, you're not." Ruth marches around to the other side of the bed. "You're— Christ, you look terrible. But you're entirely capable of at least telling the poor woman you're alive."

Roy pulls his duvet over his head.

"I want to be alone."

"You're a big fucking baby, Roy." Ruth sits on the edge of the bed. Her tone's gone gentler, but her words don't get any less harsh. "What the fuck is the matter with you?"

Roy sighs. She'll sit here until she gets an answer, so it's not worth dragging it out.

"Keeley compared me to Jamie's dad," he says, from under his blanket shield.

Ruth is quiet for a second.

"What, because you're old enough to be his dad?" she asks. "You're not, are you? If you'd got started early, maybe... but I don't think fifteen year-old you was shagging anybody, not with those gangly limbs and all that hair."

"No, fucking hell," Roy cuts her off. "Because Jamie's dad is an unforgivable, abusive piece of shit that Jamie keeps fucking forgiving, over and over. And Keeley said he may as well forgive me for this shit too, since he keeps doing that. Because I'm just as bad."

He can practically see Ruth frowning, even though he stays hidden.

"Did she say that, or did you think it?"

Roy huffs.

"She said Jamie has a habit of forgiving people he shouldn't. I filled in the rest."

Ruth sighs.

"Roy. Don't be ridiculous." She tries to pull back the duvet, but he holds it down. "Come out. You know that's not what she was trying to say."

"Don't see what else she could've meant."

Ruth tugs harder on the blanket as she sits on the edge of the bed. Roy doesn't budge.

"Pointing out that Jamie's a forgiving person has nothing to do with you or his dad."

"He's fucking terrified of his dad. That's the only reason he keeps giving him chances. I'm not letting that happen with him and I."

"It won't, because he's not scared of you, and you've given him no reason to be. If he chooses to forgive you— for an accident that was only partially your fault anyways, because it was an accident— that just reflects on him trusting you and loving you. You're best fucking friends."

Roy sniffles. He knows she's right, but that massive pit of guilt and anxiety that's coiled itself up inside him makes it hard to believe her.

"I just want him to feel fucking safe," he finds himself saying, his voice a bit wet. "I really fucking care about him. I don't know how or when it fucking happened, but I do. I don't want him to be scared of me."

Ruth hums, all gentle and soothing, sounding far too much like their mum.

"Royo... he cares about you, too. I can tell. I don't think there's anything you could do that would make him scared of you."

Roy shrugs.

"I gave him a brain injury."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"If you'd clobbered him over the head with a bat, maybe," Ruth huffs. "It was an accident, Roy. He's your best friend. You two will get through this, even if it's a bit of a fucking mess along the way. Even if he's angry with you at first. You just have to trust him."

Roy remains under his duvet.

She stands up.

"I'll go start some dinner. You should eat, and then go see him for a bit."

Roy grunts.

She takes that for the maybe that it is, and leaves the room.

-

"You couldn't answer your fucking phone, bruv?"

"Leave me alone, Isaac."

"Why won't you come visit him?"

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Sam! He'd be so happy to see you. He was worried about you, wanted to know if you were hurt. Please come with me tomorrow."

"No. I can't."

"The fuck does that mean? Sam— no, Sam! Wait up, mate! What the fuck is your problem!?"

-

He gets there shortly after visiting hours have ended— likely just misses crossing paths with Simon and Georgie on their way out.

There's a lot he can I'm Roy Fucking Kent his way into, though, so a made-up excuse about paparazzi lingering about during the day gets him into the unit after hours and sees him sat at Jamie's bedside again.

"We've given him a bit of a sedative to help him sleep through the night," a nurse says, "so he'll likely be very hard to rouse for the next while. If we'd known you'd be here, we would've held off on administering it for a bit longer. He's been quite agitated and upset tonight, and he needs to rest, so we've had to help him along a bit."

Roy just nods.

"He had a lovely day, though," she continues. "He was out of bed plenty— getting stronger, quite independent with transferring to the wheelchair, and even foot-propelling himself around some. His speech is getting clearer, too."

"Good," Roy says. He watches Jamie's sleeping face twitch into a slight frown. Wonders what he's dreaming about. "That's good, yeah. Thanks. I'll let him sleep."

The nurse smiles.

"Let me know if you need anything."

And she's gone.

It's no surprise they've had to medicate Jamie to help him sleep, quite honestly. He's an insomniac at the best of times, and he's got a whole complicated setup that usually helps him— he takes melatonin, he keeps a fan on for white noise, there's some eye cream he uses that has an essential oil or some shit in it that's meant to be relaxing, and he often likes to do a bit of yoga before bed to unwind, at Roy's recommendation.

Even with all that in place, he still can't sleep sometimes, so whatever drugs they've given him were probably very much needed.

"I'll try not to wake you," Roy mutters. He reaches for Jamie's hand, taking it as carefully as he can, despite the nurse having just said it'd near impossible to actually bother him. "It's nice you've had a good day, yeah?"

It feels selfish of him, sitting and holding Jamie's hand when Jamie doesn't even know he's here.

"I'm sorry I didn't visit today," he continues. "I'm... fuck. I'm really in my head about all this. I didn't even fucking get out of bed, just sat and fucking stewed in how awful I felt. It was stupid."

The frown on Jamie's face finally relaxes. He shifts a little, turns his head just slightly.

"It's just like... Keeley said something yesterday that really fucking upset me. And I won't say it now, since I think it would upset you, too— I know you're not fucking listening, but whatever." Roy swallows. "It made me think, though. About you... and, like, us. How much I care about you."

He thinks Jamie would laugh at him now, if he were awake. He'd tease him— big bad Roy Kent is having an emotion? Dangerous stuff, that. Everyone run for cover.

But Jamie just sleeps.

"When I think about my life, I picture you in it," he blurts.

It feels like confessing a fucking crime.

His face burns. Jamie can't even hear him.

"I like that you come over for dinner all the fucking time, even though I whinge about it. I like that you have a room at my house. I like that Phoebe calls you her uncle and Ruth calls you her baby brother. I like that we're best friends."

He pauses.

"I'm really scared that's all fucked, now. You have every right to fucking hate me, but I'm scared of how much that'll hurt. I don't really know what to fucking do."

Jamie twitches. His arm and his leg jerk a little, opposite the side Roy's holding his hand.

He always twitches in his sleep. It's a comfort to see it.

"I can't make up your mind for you, though. I'll just keep on trying to be there for you, for now. I know I've done a right shit job of that today, but I'll be better. I'll be here."

He'll have to say all this again to an awake Jamie, but this practice round is nice. It's easier to pour his heart out when no one's listening. He'll get it polished up and sounding better to say it all again tomorrow.

-

He says it to Dr. Sharon first.

He sits in her office and spills everything he'd said last night, everything he'd dwelled on yesterday.

She looks at him, tilts her head, and says:

"Roy, is it possible that you have some romantic feelings for Jamie?"

It's like being doused in cold water. He suddenly can't breathe, can't move, can't think, can't respond.

"I'm not trying to insinuate anything," she continues, as if she's not just pulled the floor out from under him. "I'd just like you to think about it. It's perfectly fine if you don't, and it's perfectly fine if you do."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"I fucking don't," he finally snaps. He pauses, lost for words, then adds: "He's a man."

Sharon nods.

Roy feels a twist of shame, somewhere within him, like he's been caught lying.

But, like, Jamie's a bloke, and he's too young, and he's Roy's employee. There's a million fucking reasons why it wouldn't make sense or be a remotely good idea to have fucking feelings for him.

But it's also, like— he's Jamie. He's incredible, and he's sweeter than anyone expects him to be, and he's got more raw talent in his pinky toe than most people do in their entire bodies, and he's beautiful, and he's hard-working beyond belief, and...

Fuck.

"Fuck!"

He stands up and walks out of Dr. Sharon's office, even though he's still got ten minutes left in his session.

-

Sam's in the hallway, on Roy's way out of the building.

"Hello, Coach," he says. He pauses. "Or... not-coach. Sorry. I don't know."

Fucking salt in the wound, innit.

Roy just grunts. Gives him a nod.

"I did not expect to see you here today," Sam adds on, "since you are not coaching us, and all."

It's casual, and his tone is friendly, but there's a sharpness in his eyes that says he's still angry and he's not going to let Roy forget it. What a little twenty-three year-old prick.

"Yeah," Roy huffs. "Just had therapy. I'll be on my fucking way."

Sam's gaze narrows a little. There's something judgemental in it that makes Roy feel like a teenager all over again.

He smiles, tight and visibly fake.

"It's nice to see you, Roy."

Roy doesn't know what the fuck Sam's fucking deal is, but he's not fucking playing into this shit. He's got enough on his mind.

"Yeah, cheers. Nice to see you, too." He opts to make some fucking small talk; call it an olive branch of sorts. "Have you been by to visit Jamie yet?"

Sam's expression drops.

"Will everyone stop asking me about that?" he practically snarls, and then he's storming away.

Roy blinks.

He's not even going to fucking bother wondering what's going on there.

-

J is having a tough morning. Docs think there's some sort of infection, he's got a fever and he's so so tired :( He'd still love a visit with you I'm sure, he's just quite out of it xx

Roy stares at the text from Georgie, while sat in the club's car park.

He had breakfast with her and Simon— apologized for disappearing yesterday, and let them know he'd be coming by the hospital just before noon today. Offered to bring lunch, which he's planning to grab from a cafe on the way there.

"Fuck," he sighs. Just nods to himself, taking in the situation. "Okay."

Because Jamie had been doing so well yesterday, apparently, and Roy missed it to have a fucking tantrum in his room like a whiny baby-child. And now it's all shit, innit, with Jamie getting worse, and it's not fucking fair.

On my way now. See you in a few.

He sends the text, pockets his phone, and starts his car.

-

Georgie and Simon are in the hallway when he gets there, because a whole group of people— a doctor, a couple of medical students, Jamie's nurse, and fuck knows who else— are in the room.

"They're doing a spinal tap," Simon says, looking about ten times more exhausted than he did this morning. "The doctor thinks it's meningitis as a complication from his surgery, and bloody septicaemia to go along with it, but they've got to do all the tests to make sure before they can start throwing antibiotics at it."

"As if he needs one more fucking thing going wrong right now," Georgie huffs. She looks a bit of a wreck, her eyes red-rimmed. "Just when he was doing so much better. Fuck."

"Fuck," Roy echoes, staring at the closed door. He doesn't even really know what a spinal tap entails, but it sounds fucking unpleasant. "I brought fucking sandwiches."

Georgie laughs.

"Cheers, Roy," Simon says, cracking a proper smile. "Thank you."

And Roy nods and pulls out the sandwiches, and they sit in a hospital hallway and eat, and when the whole crowd leaves Jamie's room, Georgie gestures for Roy to go in.

"Spend some time with your boy." She takes Simon's hand and stands up. "We'll go out to the garden, get some fresh air."

Apparently Jamie is his boy now.

Fucking hell.

Roy nearly fucking chokes on his own breath, but manages a nod and what he hopes is an air of fucking normalcy. Georgie and Simon walk away, and Roy scrubs his hands over his face.

"Fuck."

-

The first thing he notices is how fucking pale Jamie is.

There's a pink, feverish flush settled high on his cheekbones, but he's practically ghostly, otherwise. Part of it is likely that he's missed a weekly fake tanner appointment in all this, but it's definitely got to be the illness, too, that's washing him out so badly.

It makes his bottle-blonde hair look lifeless, flopping across his forehead, and makes him look even fucking younger than before.

"Are you awake, Jay?" Roy tries, as he crosses the room towards him. "I know you're having a hard fucking day. It's shit, innit."

Jamie doesn't really move, but his eyes crack open, and the corners of his mouth turn up just a bit.

Roy can't help his grin, as he takes his place in the shitty plastic chair beside the bed.

"I see you smiling. Glad to see me, are you?"

Jamie seems entirely too tired to respond at all— he takes a deep breath and lets his head loll to the side a bit. His eyes stay on Roy, though, between long, slow, sleepy blinks, and the whisper of a smile stays put.

"Fucking fever, huh?" Roy huffs. He takes Jamie's hand, which is oddly cold and clammy. He swallows a surge of worry. "You'll be alright. Once they figure out what's the matter, the doctors will get you all fixed up. Nothing to stress about, yeah?"

And he does make a mental note to text Ruth and ask her how scared he should be— as meningitis and septicaemia sound fucking bad— but he's not going to be anything but fucking positive for Jamie.

Because Roy is fucking in love with him, isn't he. And he's not going to make that any of Jamie's business for the time being, if ever— certainly not until he's himself again, and he's playing football again, and they both have the time and energy for that sort of conversation— but it feels important to sit here and acknowledge it, at least in his head.

He's in love with Jamie Tartt, and he needs him to be okay.

Jamie's eyes slip shut, and his hand goes a bit more slack. His lips part a little, and his breathing changes slightly as he falls asleep.

Roy raises their entwined hands to his lips and leaves a little kiss there.

Just this once. It feels fucking right.

Chapter Text

Jamie's lawyer comes by just after lunchtime; Georgie and Simon have booked the family room on Jamie's floor for the meeting.

Georgie's spoken to her on the phone a fair bit over the past week— knows she works with both Jamie's agent and Keeley's publicity firm to sort out his contract and brand deals and whatnot— but this is the first time seeing her in person, and holy fuck.

"Lovely to meet you," she says, in an Eastern-European accent befitting of a Bond villain. "Georgia, yes?"

Irina is tall and pencil-thin, with sharp features jutting out all over the place, and ice in her eyes. She's probably in her early thirties or so, and looks like if she ever got bored of lawyering, she could probably make a good name for herself as a runway model.

Georgie's only slightly terrified of her.

"Yeah, that's me." They shake hands, and sit down on the world's least comfortable couches, with sterile vinyl upholstery and hardly any give to them. "This is Simon, Jamie's stepdad."

And, bless him, Simon gives her the same goofy smile and wave he gives everyone— Irina doesn't seem to know quite how to react, but gives him a polite nod.

"We have much to discuss," she says, pulling her laptop from her bag. "I believe that if we play our cards right, we can sue Mr. Kent for all he's worth, and make sure he never coaches another athlete again."

Georgie blinks. She hadn't been aware that's what they were going for.

Because, like, it was irresponsible on Roy's part that Jamie got hurt, wasn't it, but it's not like he meant for it to happen. He should never have had the boys out in the rain like that in the first place, but Georgie's quite sure she's never seen anyone in the history of ever regret a bad decision more. Roy's a good lad, and he's been through enough.

And he's Jamie's boyfriend, at the end of the day. They can't bloody go about suing each other.

"I really don't think that's what Jamie would want," she says. Tries to be proper firm about it. "He's very, very close with Roy. I think he'd be quite upset if we did anything like that."

Irina's expression doesn't change much, but there's a certain air of judgement when she nods.

"I see. You must understand... this injury may have cost Jamie millions and millions of pounds in future earnings, alongside the emotional and mental stress of this experience. If he cannot play football again because of this unfair turn of events, we need to ensure that justice will be served."

The thought of Jamie not playing again is enough to get a bit of a lump in Georgie's throat. She's been trying not to think about him having to retire— he's a battler, isn't he, and he'll fight his way back to the pitch one way or another.

"Can't that be handled through the club? Protecting his income in case of an injury or early retirement should be in his contract," Simon says. "I don't see a need to involve Roy directly. He's already on unpaid leave, he's retaking his coaching certification, and he's been incredibly gracious to us behind the scenes. A legal battle is the last thing he or Jamie need right now."

Irina purses her lips.

"Mr. Kent's irresponsible coaching directly caused Jamie's injury. He should certainly face more consequences than some time off of work. I strongly recommend that we hold him accountable to every extent that we can, from a legal standpoint."

Georgie takes a breath. She's so fucking exhausted.

"I see what you mean, but can we come back to this another day?" she blurts, without entirely meaning to. "I'm sorry; I know you wanted to get the ball rolling while it's all still recent, but today really isn't a good time. Jamie's taken a turn for the worse this morning, and I just— I can't talk about all this right now."

She's been holding it together this week, hasn't she, but it's all sort of bubbling up right now. The thought of Jamie not playing again has made her brain jump from point A to point Z and think of him fucking dying, which is a bit too real of a thought with the way he just keeps getting sicker this morning, and she's one more condescending comment away from a proper fucking breakdown.

Simon squeezes her hand.

"I agree. I think we should table this for another day."

(He'd been a wreck last night, Simon. They'd been laying in the guest room of Roy's house, trying to go to bed, when he'd just shattered— the reality of the situation seemed to hit him all at once, and he'd cried in her arms for the better part of an hour.)

Irina sighs.

"I understand. I'll continue the groundwork— getting statements from other players, reviewing our options— but we will not proceed with anything until you are ready. This is a very difficult time, I know."

And she's scary, Irina, but there's a reason Jamie likes her so much; she'd fought tooth and nail alongside his new agent to get him into a better contract at Richmond than the one he'd first signed when he was fresh off the reality show. He's being paid fairly now, and there's no more line saying he could be let go at any time for behaviour issues, and there's even a clause copied from David Beckham's old contract that takes an insurance policy out on his good looks, making sure he can be paid out if he ever loses modelling gigs because something's happened to his face.

Which, something has happened to his face now, but Ruth had been quite insistent that any scarring would be very minimal and likely quite sexy. Hopefully they don't need to claim that policy.

"I appreciate your understanding," Georgie says, her voice a bit tight. "It was nice to meet you, love."

And Irina leaves, and Georgie still doesn't break down. Not yet.

-

Jamie is tired, and Roy is talking to him.

"...and when we finally get you out of hospital, I reckon we finally go on that trip you've been pestering me about for ages. Fucking... lads holiday, or whatever you want to call it."

Roy is holding his hand, really tight.

Jamie's face feels all flushed and uncomfortable, and he's got a crick in his neck like he's slept on it funny for a week straight, and he's drenched in sweat even though he feels fucking freezing.

He's so fucking tired. He glances up at Roy, but then his eyes fall shut again. His head feels a bit clearer than it has lately, but he can't even fucking do anything with it, because he feels like fucking death.

"We'll go to Spain, once you're all better," Roy carries on, "or the Amalfi Coast, maybe. I've not been to Italy in ages."

Jamie has, in fact, been mithering Roy relentlessly about going on holiday together. They already spend so much time together, right, and they both love a bit of sun and sand, so it'd be mint, wouldn't it. Just a couple of lads on a wee getaway for a few days— why the fuck not?

(That's the clearest thought he's had in a while, he realizes. Not much has been making sense lately, but he knows he'd quite like to go on holiday with Roy. He remembers the other times they've talked about it, the destinations he's looked into. He does want to go, once he's feeling better. He's not sure what's wrong with him, why they can't go now.)

"Jay, can you try to take some deep breaths for me?" Roy says. He starts to rub Jamie's chest. "You're breathing really fucking fast again. You can't get enough air in like that. You've got the oxygen mask back on, so you've gotta try to fucking use it."

Jamie hadn't noticed he wasn't breathing right— he's so tired, though, like he's just finished running or something, and he can't drag in a good, deep breath. His face is so hot, but his body's so cold, and he really wants to roll over on his side and curl up in a ball and try to get warm, but he's too tired to do fucking shit.

"Jamie... come on, love," Roy continues. "You have to breathe. In and out, yeah? I know it's fucking hard."

He can't, though. His neck really hurts, and his chest feels tight, and it's too fucking difficult.

An alarm starts to ring, somewhere nearby.

Roy called him love, just now.

That was nice.

"...and he's hyperventilating again, even on the high-flow oxygen," someone is saying, when Jamie starts trying to listen again. That's not Roy's voice. "I'll give him another litre— try to get his saturation back up— but his respirations are really, really shallow. He's having little bouts of apnea, too, and the fever's still getting higher. I'm worried he'll need ventilation within the next few hours."

Sounds like some Grey's Anatomy shit, Jamie's brain unhelpfully supplies, while he struggles to breathe.

(He binged that show ages ago, after Ted sent him back to Manchester, and he had loads of free time, because he was too scared to leave his house for anything other than training and matches. Didn't go out with his mates from City even once, was too bloody depressed and terrified. It was shit, back then, but he watched a lot of good shows.)

Roy is still rubbing his chest. It's quite nice, that. 

"I'll page ICU," someone else says. "We'll manage him here while we can, but I'll let them know we might have to send him back over."

There's a moment where it suddenly gets a bit easier— he's able to suck in some more air, and it forces the tightness in his chest to unwind. He can get some good breaths after that; not as deep as he'd like, but better than before.

"That's it," he hears Roy murmur, which makes the other fretting voices fade into the background. "You're alright, Jamie. Keep breathing like this, yeah? You'll be okay."

Jamie still doesn't know what's happening, but he believes Roy.

If Roy says so, he'll simply have to be okay. They've got to plan their trip, after all.

-

When they get back from their meeting with the lawyer, it becomes immediately clear that things have changed in the time they've been off the unit.

The doctor catches them in the hallway— explains that Jamie's results are positive for bacterial meningitis, that they're starting him on antibiotics and steroids immediately, and that he's showing some early signs of sepsis.

It's a medical emergency, the doctor stresses— Jamie's in some respiratory distress, which is putting pressure on his heart; they're about to transfer him back into ICU, where he'll be better supported if his breathing keeps getting worse. The infection's gotten into his blood, and his body is trying so hard to fight it off that it's started attacking itself, is the gist of it, as far as Georgie understands; his poor lungs and heart are having a hard time keeping up, but he's still fighting.

"...and I'll give you what good news I can," the doctor continues, while they're still standing outside Jamie's room. "His level of consciousness is still quite good, even with him being drowsy— he's responsive, he's listening when we talk to him, he'll open his eyes and smile a bit sometimes for his friend there. We're not completely back to square one. He's doing about as well as he can, right now, and he's in good spirits."

Georgie nods.

"That's good, yeah. He's a battler, our Jamie. He won't give up just yet."

She peeks into the room— there's a nurse working with all the tubes and wires, getting Jamie ready to transfer back down the hall to the other unit... and there's Roy.

Jamie's looking up at him with tired eyes, but he looks happy, doesn't he, despite everything going so wrong around him.

And Roy's talking to him, his words a low rumble that Georgie can't make out from here, and he's rubbing Jamie's chest with one hand, and he's got their fingers intertwined with the other, and there's a little crinkle in the corners of his eyes when he smiles.

They're so in love, Georgie thinks.

She can't look away from it. She squeezes Simon's hand, knowing he's probably thinking the same thing.

"He'll be okay," Simon says, quiet and fond. "I've got a good feeling."

-

All the phones in the room buzz while they're getting changed after training.

Roy: Jamie is back into ICU. Really, really ill. Complications from surgery.
Roy: He's not up to many visitors, and the nurses are fucking strict about it anyway. His mum would like you lot to send little videos just saying hi and shit to cheer him up.
Roy: Hope training is going alright.

"Shit," Jeff says, the first one to finish reading it. "Poor Jamie."

"I was gonna bring Clara to visit him tonight," Declan frowns. His four month old baby is Jamie's goddaughter, made official as of her christening a couple of weeks ago. "I thought he might like it, with him doing well yesterday."

"She would probably get even sicker than Jamie is, if you did," Jan pipes up. "Infants have very weak immune systems."

The mood in the room is too low for anyone to even tell him to shut up.

Isaac forces himself to breathe. There's a part of him that wants to spiral— wants to run off to the boot room and punch a wall— but there's work to be done. He's a captain.

"Right, we're gonna make the best fucking get-well-soon video anyone's ever fucking seen," he says, in his best booming, commanding tone. He looks around the room, lingers on Sam for a moment. "Everyone is going to participate. No fucking exceptions. We're doing this for Jamie."

Sam glares at him.

Isaac really doesn't fucking get what his problem is. And, like, he knows he should probably be trying to find out, but Sam's being really bloody difficult about it, and Isaac himself is stressed enough already. They've lost their best player and their head coach in one swoop, and it's Isaac's job to keep this team motivated and shit, and he's got no idea what he's fucking doing.

"Start brainstorming your ideas tonight," he commands, "and we're all staying late after training tomorrow to work on it. In the meantime, his phone should be fucking exploding with messages from all of us. Make it happen."

He sits down on the bench, which dismisses the team to keep packing up their shit in morose silence, and tries to get his head on straight.

Colin slides over to him.

"You busy tonight?" he says, quiet and just between the two of them. "Michael's in Dubai again, and I can't be arsed to cook. I think I'll get pizza, if you want in on it. We can think together."

Sophie, Isaac's girlfriend, is out of town, too— she's in Mallorca for some kind of week-long, over-the-top hen do for her best friend— so he's not up to anything. The thought of going home to his empty house again is nauseating.

He elbows Colin's ribs.

"Is pizza in your meal plan?"

Colin rolls his eyes.

"I'll get one with veg— that kind Jamie likes, with spinach and olives and shit on it. That makes it healthy."

Isaac huffs as much of a laugh as he can muster. He's never really been one to give that much of a shit about his meal plan— uses it as a guide, of course, but tends to make room for plenty of cheat meals— and Colin knows that.

"Fuck that. I'm in... but for normal pizza, not Jamie's health-food shit."

Colin laughs.

"I knew you would be."

A night in with pizza and FIFA sounds just right— maybe they can brainstorm what the fuck to do about Sam while they're at it, since him and Colin have all their best deep conversations with a video game in front of them.

(Colin is, like, genuinely not the brightest person Isaac's ever met— logic isn't his strongest skill— but he's rather good with people. He knows everything about everyone on the team, and he's incredibly observant. He might have some insight into the Sam situation.)

"I'll come by around seven?"

"Sounds perfect, boyo."

-

A plan hatches.

A very, very stupid one, in Isaac's opinion, and they've each had too many hits of Colin's dab pen when they think of it... but it's a plan.

And Dani's in on it, too, after they FaceTime him into their brainstorming session, so there's no way it goes wrong now.

Operation: Solve the Sam Situation is a go.

-

"Declan's sent you about seven million videos of Clara," Roy says, leaning over the side of Jamie's bed, holding his phone. "Fucking adorable, innit."

Jamie's hardly awake, but his eyes flit across the screen, and he smiles. Squeezes his toy duck, which hasn't left his grasp all day.

There's a massive fucking mask over his nose and mouth, forcing him to breathe— the CPAP is one step short of going back on the ventilator, apparently, but Jamie's been doing well with it all evening. His O2 isn't dropping the way it was before; when they first transferred him here, his lips had been fucking blue with how bad he was struggling for air, but he seems to be settled now, pumped full of antibiotics and supplemental oxygen.

Roy swipes to the next video of Declan's baby. She's playing with a little football, but she can't really walk or do anything yet, so she's mostly just slobbering all over it.

Jamie smiles again.

He's been in a good mood, despite being so sick and exhausted, and Roy has spent much of the day with him— Georgie and Simon have gone out to dinner, saying they needed to get away from the hospital for longer than just going back to Roy's to sleep, so Roy's elected to just stay here until someone kicks him out.

"Étienne's just texted you," Roy continues, as he's been doing since the messages started flooding in. "He's sent a video of... well, I'm not fucking sure what this is. He's playing a video game... Minecraft?"

Phoebe plays this game sometimes, the one with all the cubes. Jamie's into it, too— he'll hop on his computer and say he's busy playing Minecraft with his kids, which Roy's quite sure refers to Étienne and Phoebe, his teenage prodigy and his pseudo-niece. What an odd fucking group they are.

"I have added a new room to the house that we built," their little mini-Jamie of a midfielder's voice is saying in the video. "Is very nice, no? Phoebe has helped me with the walls, so they are pink now."

Roy doesn't fucking get the appeal of the game, but Jamie's tired eyes seem more open now, watching the video, so Roy lets it play. It is quite sweet, listening to the kid's broken-English narration in his squeaky seventeen year-old voice, talking about whatever the fuck it is you do in Minecraft world.

While Jamie's entranced with that, Roy's own phone buzzes with a text from Ted.

Just checking in! Would love it if you could gimme a call sometime, Coach.
Beard let me know Jamie's not doing too hot - give him a hug from me, if you can. You boys have been on my mind nonstop.

He texts back.

Can chat later tonight.
J is really ill with an infection from surgery, but hanging in there. The little prick is as fucking cheerful as ever, it's fucking annoying.

Okay, maybe cheerful as ever is a stretch, but the twat's been awfully smiley for someone who's deathly fucking ill.

(And Roy loves that about him more than he can possibly put into words, so he's going to grouch about it instead.)

"Lasso says hi," Roy offers, when the video is done, and then brushes Jamie's sweaty hair back. His forehead is still incredibly fucking hot to the touch. "You still doing alright, Jay? Do you want the blankets off for a bit?"

Jamie blinks slowly, a bit of a haze in his eyes, and then gives a weak little nod.

"I'll leave the sheet on," Roy blabbers, giving into the worst of his mother-henning instincts, fussing with the bedding, "but I'll pull back the rest for a while. We've gotta cool you down a bit, yeah? Can we do another cold cloth on your forehead?"

Jamie shakes his head. Still doesn't look totally clearly up at Roy, but seems to try to focus in his direction.

"Too cold," he mouths, though no sound really comes out. His brow scrunches a little. "No."

"Okay," Roy sighs. He settles Duck back into Jamie's hands, with the blankets all rearranged. "What about one that's not so cold, just to wipe your face with? That might feel nice."

Jamie's eyes go unfocused again, but he nods. His fingers twitch lightly in Duck's fur.

"Right, I'll do that, then," Roy continues, getting up to the sink in the corner of the room. There's a stack of flannels beside it, for exactly this purpose. "Maybe you can sleep a bit, after this. Getting tired, aren't you."

He's babbling to himself, and it's stupid, but Jamie looks up at him when he starts to run the cloth over his forehead, and it's like he actually sees him, this time. The haze finally clears, just for a moment.

Jamie looks really, really fond.

Maybe even loving.

(Maybe Roy's delusional.)

-

"Agh, my knee! My poor, beautiful, fragile knee!"

Isaac is impressed— Dani is really acting the shit out of this. It's like fucking Shakespeare.

"No! How are you ever going to play again!?"

Colin is a little less good at acting. Maybe it's a very low-budget Shakespeare production.

Sam is staring at both of them, looking somewhere at the intersection of amused, worried, and annoyed. It's the worried that they're really banking on, in order for this to work.

"Sam!" Dani wails. "Help me, mi amigo!"

Isaac can't stay and watch, because he needs to run off to start his part of the plan, but he's sure Dani and Colin have it under control. With them making a scene, Isaac can slip inside unnoticed, and go hide in the treatment room... which Colin, and hopefully Sam, are going to be bringing Dani to.

He crouches behind the table and waits.

"...I think I am dying!" Dani's voice carries down the hallway, after a bit.

"That's not funny," Sam snaps.

And, like, perhaps he has a point, when their mate might actually be dying, but fucking hell.

The lads go quiet, but their footsteps keep getting closer, and Isaac does his best to keep still. He can't jump out too early and blow this for everyone involved.

"Will you please sit with me, hermano?" Dani asks, when they walk in, after Colin has already offered to go get the physios. "I am very nervous."

"Yeah, of course," Sam sighs. They both take a seat on the table. It's quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry for being a dick lately. I have been... angry. It's frustrating, because I'm trying not to be, but I am."

"I understand," Dani says, softly. "And now I feel very bad for what I am about to do, because it's going to make you angrier."

"What?"

Dani jumps up and sprints out of the room.

The door slams shut, and Colin locks it from the outside.

Sam makes for the door, rattles the handle, but can't get out. Through the window, Colin is walking away with the keys and high-fiving Dani in the hallway.

Isaac hops out of his hiding place.

"Right, bruv. This is an intervention."

Sam turns back around, furious and bewildered. He's got a very Roy-like fury in his scrunched brow, which is slightly terrifying.

"What the actual fuck is wrong with you!?"

Well, at least they're talking. That's a start.

Chapter Text

Good morning, Jamie. This is Ellie, I was your night nurse, and I'm just going to be giving bedside handover to Andrea on the day shift. You can listen in, or sleep through it if you'd like.

Jamie likes this nurse's accent— it sounds a bit like home. He wonders which part of Manchester she's from, unable to put a finger on it while he's so tired. He doesn't quite open his eyes or nothing, but he decides to listen to her.

So, you were transferred back into ICU yesterday afternoon, because there was an infection at the surgery site on your head, which developed into meningitis. Your fever's been quite high since you came in, and you were having trouble breathing, but now you're doing well on CPAP with eight litres of oxygen. You were showing some early signs of sepsis, but they haven't developed any further; we started treating you with antibiotics and steroids, which seem to be doing the trick. We're taking blood samples every six hours from your art-line to keep an eye out for anything spreading, but it's been looking good so far.

We've got IVs running vancomycin, cefotaxime, dexamethasone, and furosemide, with the dosages in your chart— because you're on a diuretic, we've placed a Foley catheter to monitor your urine output. We're keeping your head elevated and monitoring your ICP, and we're wiping you down with a cool cloth at least every hour to try to bring your temperature down.

This is a lot, Jamie thinks, but he appreciates her explaining it all. He's not sure how much of it will stick, with his head still feeling rather fuzzy, but maybe he'll remember the important bits.

You had two seizures overnight, so your doctor is planning to start you on lorazepam and phenobarbital to keep them under control. He's just putting the order in now.

You're at a bit of a risk for pressure injuries at this point, but the more you move around, the lower that risk will be. I think a good goal for the day would be to sit up on the edge of the bed with some help, for however long you can tolerate it.

That's the point where Jamie loses focus— he does like the idea of sitting up, though. Maybe Roy will help him. It could be, like, some sort of training, the closest he can get while in hospital. Ten reps of sitting, maybe. He thinks he's been lying down a lot lately.

Roy will come back today, won't he? And Mummy and Simon and Keeley... and hopefully not Dad. Jamie doesn't think he's been here— he'd remember that, probably. He remembers someone saying they won't let Dad come here unless Jamie asks for him, which he won't, so that's good.

Roy will be here, and Dad won't be, and the nurses seem to know what they're talking about... so things are alright, Jamie figures.

-

"Sam, don't be mad."

An icy glare.

"It's a little late for that."

Isaac raises his hands in surrender.

"Look, I'm sorry. This was a last resort. You wouldn't talk to us, or even look at us, so we had to come up with something."

Sam folds his arms over his chest.

"You had to? You couldn't just leave me alone?"

"Yes, we fucking had to," Isaac huffs, standing his ground. "You've been a nightmare to work with all week. You got yourself benched on Saturday, and you've still been playing like a prick, like you didn't fucking learn anything from it. You're meant to be a captain on this team, and at this rate, you're not even a starter— you've messed up our whole lineup, even more than we already had to adjust to without Jamie. I'm really fucking pissed, bruv, and so's the whole team."

Sam's jaw clenches. (Isaac worries for the state of his molars.)

"You don't understand," he snaps. "I am trying."

"Trying to do what, bruv?"

Sam opens his mouth and closes it again, visibly at a bit of a loss. He rubs his eyes.

"I don't know. Fuck." He takes a breath, and something in him finally goes a bit softer as he admits: "I'm so furious, and I don't want to be. I'm trying not to be. I don't know what to do, and it's scaring me."

And something in Isaac unwinds.

"Sam, mate..."

Because he knew the whole issue was to do with Sam taking what happened last week really hard— but it sort of pieces together, in this moment, that he's just a fucking kid. He's really fucked up by the whole situation, and probably feels like everything going wrong with Jamie is his fault.

"I'm sorry," Sam breathes. He sits back down on the treatment table. "I know I've been awful. I'm trying to get it together, but I feel like I'm stuck. I can't get over it."

"It's not your fault, what happened to Jamie, bruv," Isaac says. "You know that, yeah?"

Sam frowns at him. Nods.

"Yes, I know... it's Roy's fault." He twists his hands in his lap. "I don't know how I will ever forgive him, and that scares me."

And— oh.

Isaac blinks.

He's honestly forgiven Roy quite easily— was it a bit fucked to make them keep training in the pouring rain? Sure. But they've played matches in terrible rain, or in snow, or in blistering heat, so they need to be prepared. Roy must've thought he was doing them a service by not calling it off right away, because not every official will make a call early enough— sometimes they have to play in shit weather.

And it was a freak accident, wasn't it. Isaac's slipped like that on wet grass before, but never with someone that close to him. He's done a million slide tackles in his life, but he's never knocked someone's legs out from under them like that. The whole situation was completely mad, and it was even crazier that Sam happened to be in exactly the wrong place at the wrong time to be a part of the collision— that part was nothing Roy did, was it?

But it wouldn't be helpful, Isaac just telling Sam not to be mad, so he needs to choose another angle here.

"That's why you won't visit Jamie?" he asks. "Because you're mad at Roy?"

Sam takes a breath.

"No. I think... I'm scared to see how bad it is."

Isaac nods. That much, he understands.

"It's bad," he says, because there's no use lying, "but it was the only thing that made me feel better, like, seeing him and talking to him. Brain injuries are fucking terrifying, and he couldn't really walk or talk, right, but he was smiling and shit, and so happy to have visitors. He was even asking after you."

Sam's breathing hitches.

"He was?"

"Yeah, bruv. He— well, he was worried you'd be mad at him."

It's a bit heartbreaking to watch Sam process that.

"Mad at him?" He shakes his head. Frowns really deeply. "I need to go see him. Shit."

"You could ask Roy," Isaac offers, but then catches himself. "No, I'll ask Roy. I'll text him today and see if he can sneak you in."

Sam sighs.

"I have been so rude to him this week. I doubt he'll want to do me any favours."

Isaac rolls his eyes.

"He's Roy, mate. He likes you. I reckon he understands being angry, since it's, like, his default emotion, so he'll get it. I'm sure he'll help."

He moves to open the door, considering the situation adequately resolved for now... but he can't open it, obviously. He's about to text Colin to come back and let them out, but realizes his phone is probably still in his kit bag.

"Do you have your phone?"

"I came straight here off the pitch," Sam replies. "I didn't have it on me."

Isaac eyes the locked door and considers their conundrum.

"Well, fuck. We didn't think this through."

Sam gives him a look.

"Why am I not surprised?"

-

It takes twenty minutes for Will to finally walk past and hear them banging on the door.

Sam seems to be in a better mood by the end of it, at least.

-

Jamie just sort of stares, while Georgie's in the room.

She sits and talks to him for a bit, though she can't tell if he's listening or not; his eyes just hover on her, open and blank, and he doesn't really respond to anything.

She pulls up Spotify on his iPad, and he finally smiles a bit when she puts some music on— it's a playlist he must've made at some point, called Relaxin!! with an emoji of a smiling cat, and it's a bizarre mix of classic rock ballads, acoustic stomp-clap indie bullshit, and the odd classical tune thrown in for good measure. (He's a strange one, her Jamie, but he clearly knows what he likes.)

She putters around after that— arranges the cards and flowers on his windowsill, brushes his hair, and then ends up giving him a quick sponge bath with a cool flannel. His temperature's still so bloody high, so he's being wiped down at least every hour by a nurse, and they've said to do it as many extra times as he'll tolerate, in between that.

"Nan and Grandad are getting the train down tonight, to come see you soon," Georgie says, once she's sat back down, holding Jamie's hand. "Before, I told them to wait until you were up and moving a bit more, but now... well, they just want to see you. They're worried. They love you so much, baby, and they want to be around."

She's not going to say out loud: you might be dying, and they want to be here to say goodbye, just in case things take a turn. It's the truth, but he doesn't need to hear that.

Jamie doesn't even react to the news of his much-adored grandparents coming to see him— just looks at her with half-lidded eyes, before they slip shut again; God knows if he even heard her.

"You're alright, Jam," she sighs, giving his hand a squeeze. "You're okay, baby. Mummy loves you so much."

His head falls to the side slightly, as his breathing evens out and his fingers go limp in her hand.

"That's it, get some sleep." She rubs a little circle on the back of his hand. "I'll be right here."

And she still doesn't cry.

-

Roy gets a text from Isaac as he walks into the hospital.

I know J can only have so many visitors, can u sneak Sam in for a bit?? I think he really needs to see him

And Roy doesn't see why not, honestly— as long as there's not too many people inside the room at any moment, they should be able to add someone new to the list of visitors, seeing as they were able to add Jamie's nan and grandad today.

Yeah. He can come after training today, tell him to text me when he's here.

Isaac sends back a thumbs up, and that's that.

Hopefully this means Sam's doing a bit better— even just the way he'd snapped at him yesterday morning when they'd crossed paths in the hallway was unsettling, not to mention his behaviour at the match. And Roy gets it, why he's so angry, and knows exactly whose fault that is... but for Sam's own sake, he really hopes the kid's working through his feelings and taking care of himself.

Maybe they need another chat, but it might not be time for that yet. Things probably still need to settle a bit more.

"What do you think?" he sighs, once he's up in Jamie's room. "I really fucking wish I could talk this shit through with you— you'd know what to do. You've got a fucking way with people, sometimes, and I don't fucking get how you do it."

Because Jamie's able to just say things, right. He tells it like it is, because that's just how his brain works— he's got no time for sarcasm and minced words and figures of speech. He takes things literally, and he speaks his mind, and even when he fucks something up by doing that, he's always able to fix it. It's fucking impressive.

But right now, Jamie just looks at him, all blank-eyed and tired and loaded with meds. He probably doesn't even know what's going on, likely only vaguely aware of Roy's presence.

"You'll like seeing Sam later," Roy offers. He gives Duck a little squeeze, and sticks the toy back under Jamie's arm. "I reckon you'll perk up a bit for him. Always so excited to see him, as if you don't spend every fucking day together."

Jamie blinks slowly. Shifts his arm a little, giving Duck a bit of a hug. His breath is still fogging up the CPAP mask, and his face is still flushed, and he's still incredibly fucking warm to the touch. It's fucking scary.

"Your nurse said physical therapy should be coming soon— you're meant to try sitting up, when they're here. Do you think you can wake up a bit more for me, Jay?"

He brushes his thumb along Jamie's temple, on the uninjured side of his face. It seems to startle him a bit— grabs his attention and gets him to look up.

"There you are. I know you're tired, love, but try and stay with me, yeah?"

"Roy," Jamie mumbles, almost surprised, like he's seeing him for the first time. He takes a heavy breath. "Hi... love."

Roy blinks.

Realizes he's called Jamie love, without even thinking, and now Jamie's saying it back. Roy's got no fucking clue if Jamie even knows what he's saying— probably just echoing him, like he's been doing since he first came out of the coma— but it makes his heart pound, either way.

"Hi," Roy breathes. Strokes his face again, to keep his attention. "You're doing so well, Jamie. You're getting better. They even turned down your oxygen a bit, and you're still breathing fucking perfectly. You're so fucking strong."

The fever is higher than it was yesterday, he's far weaker, and he's much less awake... but he's breathing. They're taking the wins wherever they can fucking find them, at this point.

Jamie stares at him.

"Think... I'm ill," he mumbles, though it's hard to make out past the CPAP mask. "My... head... um, bad."

"Your head hurts?" Roy sighs. He's not sure if Jamie can have more painkillers, given all the meds and shit he's on already, but he'll ask a nurse and at least check.

"No," Jamie breathes. Closes his eyes for a moment. "Like... can't think. S'funny."

Roy pets his hair gently.

"Yeah, well, you've got a fucking infection in your brain, so it's a bit too busy to think right now, just trying to get better. You're alright."

Jamie sniffles. Looks up at him again.

He mumbles something, but trails off before Roy can understand what the fuck he's trying to say this time. There's tears in his eyes, though.

"You're okay," Roy sighs. "Please don't fucking cry, or you'll set me off, too, and we'll both be a fucking mess. Let's at least keep it together 'til the physio comes, we've got work to do."

Poor Jamie looks incredibly confused, but nods slowly, and blinks a few times to clear his eyes.

"It's okay," Roy repeats. Touches his face again, trying to keep him awake. "Nothing to be sad about right now. We don't need to cry. You're doing really well."

It's a tone of voice he tends to reserve for Phoebe, but he can't even stop himself using it— Jamie deserves better, deserves kinder, than the way Roy usually speaks to him.

(He knows it's playful, the way they tease each other and the way he's so hard on Jamie— knows Jamie Tartt doesn't do anything he doesn't want to do, so he certainly wouldn't spend all his time with him if he thought Roy was ever too rude or too harsh— but still.)

"Cold," Jamie mumbles, or at least Roy thinks he does. He's been shivering, on and off, ever since the fever came on. "I need..."

His fingers twitch, curled in the thin blanket that's laid over him. He can't have too many layers, with the fever still spiking, but Roy pulls up the plush Richmond blanket that's followed him from room to room— he lays it over Jamie's arms and chest, but keeps the rest of him uncovered, hoping it's more the softness that he's craving than actual warmth.

Jamie turns his head, brushes his cheek against the blanket, and hums softly, content.

"That's it," Roy mumbles, not even sure what the fuck he's on about. "Good lad. You're okay."

So much for keeping Jamie awake— his eyes slip closed, and Roy can't bring himself to bother him any more than he already has. He can rest, for now.

-

It's been a weird, confusing day, and Jamie is suddenly sat on the edge of the bed, with all his tubes and wires dangling all over the place.

He doesn't remember sitting up, but now he's upright. The guy who helped him stand the other day is in front of him, saying something to him that he can't make out. Another set of arms is hugging him from the side, holding him up.

He's really cold. The arms are warm.

"We'll get you cozy again soon," a low voice rumbles in his ear. The arms hold him a bit tighter. "Promise. I've got you for now. Five minutes of sitting, remember? That's what we're aiming for, you're nearly there."

Sounds like Roy, but that's too nice to be him.

Push it, Tartt! Don't be fucking lazy! I told you five minutes, so you're making it to five minutes— I don't fucking care if you're cold!

That's more like Roy.

Jamie thinks that might've been in his head, though. His little Roy-voice, which he saves for when he's particularly exhausted on a run or in a match. He likes using it to make himself work harder, and it's nearly as effective as the real Roy shouting at him.

"Oh-two and blood pressure are looking good," the guys says. Jamie doesn't know what that means. "You're doing really well, Jamie."

Oh-two means... something important. He remembers people being worried, telling him it was dropping, at some point.

At least it's looking good now. That must be good.

"I know you're getting tired," the nice-Roy says. "It's okay. We'll take a rest soon. You can nap a bit before Sam gets here."

Jamie smiles.

Sam.

He quite likes Sam, Jamie does. Feels like he hasn't seen him in ages. They usually can't even go half a day without bothering each other— their snap streak is one for the ages, and they hang out after work at least once a week.

Jamie should've texted him, maybe. He's got no clue where his phone is. He thinks his head might be too fuzzy to even know how to use it, if he had it. He doesn't know how long it's been since he had it, or how long he's been at the hospital. He doesn't know if Sam has been here to see him already or not, since there's lots he can't seem to remember.

"Oi, what are you fucking smiling about?"

That's definitely Roy holding him, Jamie realizes.

He giggles.

"Roy."

Roy laughs a little.

"Yeah, cheers. That's me."

Jamie remembers having dinner with Roy. He's not sure when, but the image in his head is a little clearer than most things have been lately— they're at Roy's house, and they're having this dead good homemade pasta dish that suits Jamie's meal plan and everything, and they're having a laugh over the newest Lust Conquers All season.

I'd go back for an All-Stars, I reckon. If it were short, like, and in the offseason or summat.

You certainly fucking wouldn't, Tartt. Keeley would have your fucking head, first of all, for fucking up your image.

Nah, mate. Ain't you heard? All press is good press. Keeps people talking, keeps the brand deals coming— I'm trying to surprise Mummy with a vacation home in Spain, I need the cash.

I'm sorry, is the fifteen million pounds a year Richmond's already fucking shelling out not enough for you? I'm sure your fucking goal bonuses alone could buy her a beach house.

Oh, piss off. Maybe I want a beach mansion for her, and maybe I need to get my arse out in some more Gucci adverts to make it happen.

You're so fucking annoying.

And you're a grumpy old cunt. Are we just stating the obvious, then?

You'll be in an obvious state after I fucking headbutt you.

God, you've got a way with words, Grandad. If I ain't knew any better, I'd think you were flirting.

And he doesn't remember what else they did that night, but it just feels good to have a real memory to hang onto.

"Yeah, he's been like this all day," the real Roy is saying. "He'll be with it for a couple minutes, and then drift off again. I doubt he's remembering anything, honestly."

And Jamie was literally just remembering something, so he pouts.

"Rude."

Roy startles a bit.

"Oh, fuck's sake, you are listening." He's trying to move Jamie's shoulders. "Cooperate, then. Come on. We're lying back down now."

Jamie squirms a little, just to be a pest, and Roy and the other guy both laugh.

"Tartt," Roy groans, though he doesn't really sound mad. "Head on pillow. Now."

Jamie whines his annoyance out loud. He's spent too much time lying down lately, and he doesn't want to.

"We'll put the head of the bed up," the guy says. "It can be like you're sitting, but you'll have more support, yeah? You won't get tired out."

"Not tired," Jamie grumbles. It's a lie. "Roy."

"I know," Roy sighs. "You're never tired, are you? Always saying you're not fucking tired, then falling asleep on my couch, you little liar."

Between Roy and the other guy, Jamie can't wiggle his way out of being put back to bed— they turn him around, and put the sheet back onto his legs, and put all his tubes and wires back where they're meant to be. He hasn't really got it in him to fight them off, because he is actually really tired, and he'll probably fall asleep soon anyways.

He clings to Roy, though.

"I'm not fucking going anywhere," Roy laughs, when Jamie won't let go of his arm. "Relax. You're alright."

Jamie's fighting hard to keep his eyes open, but it's useless. He falls asleep with his fingers curled around Roy's.

-

"...and you are Jamie's... sister?"

Sam is floundering a bit, just outside Jamie's room in the ICU, where the nurse had led him to. For all that he's close with Jamie, he knows absolutely nothing about his family— other than his mum is brilliant, and his stepdad is a great cook.

(And his father is a horrible, horrible man. Sam knows that.)

"Oh, please," the woman who's met him outside the room laughs, "you're too sweet. I'm Georgie, Jamie's mum. You're Sam, aren't you?"

"Uh, yes," he stammers, hesitating like he's forgotten his own name. "Yes, hello. I'm Sam, Jamie's friend. Our coach told me it would be alright to stop by tonight. I hope that is okay."

"Of course, love. Roy told me you were coming, but he's just left to go look after his niece." She takes him by the shoulders. "I've heard so much about you, haven't I. It's so lovely to finally meet you, Sam— even if I wish it were in better circumstances."

He blinks.

"Jamie has told you about me?"

She laughs.

"Oh, he tells me everything. Some people write in a diary, and some people talk their mum's ear off whenever they get the chance— I feel like I know your whole team already."

And it's a bit like how Sam's own father knows all about the team, and had given Jamie a big hug when they were the last ones leaving the restaurant, that night they were all there last year. It's a relief, quite honestly, to hear how well Jamie gets on with his mum.

"Well, it's very nice to meet you," Sam says. "Jamie always has the kindest things to say about you."

She gives him a hug.

Something in him relaxes. He hadn't realized how badly he needed this.

"Jam will be so thrilled to see you," she tells him. "He's been asleep for most of today, but if you go in there and talk to him, he'll usually come around for a bit. Roy noticed this afternoon that touching his face is a good way to wake him— just be really nice and gentle, and rub his temple 'til he notices you're there."

Sam nods.

(The thought of Roy's hands on Jamie, gentle as they might be, after it was his fault that Jamie's in this mess in the first place, makes him irrationally angry.)

"Coach Kent has been here a lot, yes?"

Georgie smiles, pulling back from the hug.

"Every day. He's a good one, that Roy." She pauses. "They're not a couple I would've expected, you know, but they really do make such a good pair. You can just see the love."

Sam freezes, unsure of what he's just heard.

"Roy and... Jamie?"

Georgie's face drops into pure shock.

"Oh. I— They've not told you, have they?" She claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. "Oh no, I didn't mean— never mind. Pretend I never said anything. I don't think they've told anyone. I shouldn't have let it slip, I'm just so bloody sleep-deprived, and— right. They're good friends. That's it. That's what I meant."

And Sam feels a bit like his world has been tilted on its axis, suddenly going back through every memory of Roy and Jamie interacting and recontextualizing it all, and—

God, that makes sense, doesn't it?

Holy shit.

"Okay, yes," he says out loud. "They are good friends. It's very nice."

But inside, his head is spinning, processing the fact that Jamie hadn't even told him about this. How long have they been together? How serious are they? Were they ever planning on telling anyone? Is that why Roy's so hard on him, just trying his best not to play favourites and taking it too far the other direction? Or is he hard on him all the time? Is Jamie safe? Are they—

Well, Jamie's in a hospital bed, and it's not worth overthinking the rest right now.

"May I go in and see him?"

"Of course, love." Georgie pats his shoulder as she ushers him to the door, and even kisses his cheek. Sam really likes her. "I'll go join my husband down in the cafeteria, and we'll be back in an hour or so. Take your time."

Sam takes a breath. It's this moment that he's been so scared of— seeing the damage, seeing what he did to poor Jamie, for the first time.

"Thank you," he mutters.

He doesn't look away from the door.

He needs to do this.

So, he does.

Chapter Text

He rubs Jamie's temple, just like Georgie told him to, because his voice isn't enough to rouse his sleeping friend.

(Jamie's face looks somehow both better and worse than expected. There's stitches on one side of his forehead, patches of them going down to his cheekbone, surrounded by dark, deep bruising— but it's all contained to one area, and the rest of him, what's visible past the breathing mask, looks rather normal.)

(The bandages on his head are harder to look at, knowing what sort of massive surgical scar likely hides beneath them. They look clean and freshly-changed— they're probably being reapplied constantly, trying to deal with the infection there.)

"Hello, Jamie," he repeats, letting his thumb brush back and forth over Jamie's heated skin. "Are you there, my friend?"

Slowly, Jamie blinks awake.

Stares up at him, confused, with a haze in his eyes that speaks to how high his fever must be. There's the hissing of the oxygen machine, and the beeping of monitors, and Sam finds himself at a bit of a loss.

"Um, it's Sam," he offers, unsure of whether or not Jamie's recognized him. "From the team."

Jamie blinks again.

"Hi," he whispers, and then finally cracks a smile. "Sam."

He reaches a weak hand up, and Sam quickly takes it.

"I have missed you very much at training this week. It has not been the same."

Jamie's fingers twitch a little. It seems that's all he can muster.

"Missed... you." Jamie's unfocused eyes finally seem to land on him properly. It's hard to hear him clearly. "Don't like... here."

"You don't like the hospital," Sam echoes back. He squeezes Jamie's hand. "I understand. I'm sure it's no fun to be stuck here."

Jamie blinks slowly, clearly fighting to keep his eyes open.

"Happy... now."

Sam nods, trying to ignore the lump in his throat.

"I am very glad you're happy, Jamie. I should have come to see you sooner. I'm sorry I took so long to get here." He carefully touches Jamie's face again, which seems to help him stay awake. "You have had lots of visitors, yes?"

Slowly, subtly, Jamie nods.

"Mummy... and Roy."

Sam swallows the urge to grimace.

(Of course his mother and his partner are the first people to come to mind, even though Sam knows other people have been here too. Roy has probably spent hours and hours here, sitting with Jamie and comforting him. It's irrational to be so infuriated by it.)

(It'd be worse, Sam supposes, if Roy had been absent. At least he's showing up. Jamie seems to appreciate it.)

(He wonders, though, if Jamie knows what actually happened to him, and if he'd appreciate those visits as much if he understood the truth.)

"It sounds like you are in very good company," Sam forces himself to say. "I met your mother in the hallway, she is lovely."

Jamie's still smiling.

He doesn't say anything, though, and silence settles in for a moment.

"I was at the restaurant last night," Sam says. He squeezes Jamie's hand again. "I was thinking about that night you and I were there, a couple of weeks ago— I saw your note on my desk and it got me laughing all over again."

Even when you haf to do boring paper work you are soooooo sexy Sammy #StayConfadent never forget it mate!! if i were a girl id suck your dick clean off <3

It's a hot pink sticky note, left on the corner of the desk in the back office. Jamie had tagged along to keep Sam company on a late night of doing admin work, (mostly to steal leftovers from the kitchen, quite honestly), and they'd both laughed themselves to overtired tears by the end of it. Everything was hilarious to them, and Jamie's running commentary made even the most boring of paperwork entertaining, even though it took far longer to complete than if Sam had been working alone.

Jamie smiles wider, and his eyes slip shut. Moves his fingers slightly in Sam's hand.

"Love you... mate."

Sam forces himself to keep breathing.

"I love you very much, Jamie. You are so strong. You will be alright, I know it."

And Sam is so, so angry that any of this happened in the first place, but it brings him some peace to sit here while Jamie falls asleep— to hold his hand, and carry on talking quietly to him about what's been going on at training lately, and see him slowly relax back into rest, hopefully able to feel all the love Sam's trying to pour out for him.

"I'm so sorry," Sam whispers, once he's quite sure Jamie's no longer listening. "I have to tell you... I have been a terrible teammate, this past week, and I think you are the only person who might get it." He fiddles with Jamie's hand, moves his fingers gently. "I have been a complete prick, in training and out of it, and it's like— I think I finally understand more of why you acted the way you did when you first came to Richmond. It is so hard to play nice when you're angry. I cannot stop snapping at people— even Dani. That's how you know it is bad."

Obviously, Jamie doesn't respond, but Sam knows him well enough to picture how he might. He'd be sad to hear it, that Sam's having such a shit time, but he'd be understanding— he'd want to help, probably, and maybe take the piss a little, but he'd give good advice.

Right now, though, he just sleeps.

Sam holds his hand and sits with him.

He misses his best friend very dearly, even while they're right next to each other.

-

"...and I apologize in advance if my dad comes on a bit strong, when you meet him."

Georgie's doing up a late-night shepherd's pie in Roy's kitchen— warming up a frozen one from Costco, that is, but who cares. They've all been out of the house all day, between the hospital, and Roy minding Phoebe, and Georgie and Simon taking her parents to their hotel once their train got in, so no one can be arsed to cook properly.

(Roy had offered to get another guest room ready, but Georgie had shut that idea down— she says she loves her parents best in small doses, which Roy understands all too well. He's at least insisted on paying for their hotel.)

"So much personality in such a tiny man," Simon remarks. "It's astonishing, really. You'll like Paul, Roy."

Georgie snorts.

"A hundred and sixty-two centimetres of pure audacity, he is." She shakes her head. "He'll try to talk your ear off about football if he gets the chance. He's been head coach of his non-league club just outside Manchester since I were wee, so he'll want to bond over being big-shot managers, of course."

Roy can't help but laugh.

"Could probably learn a fair fucking bit from him, with experience like that."

Georgie rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, if you need tips on how to have a sneaky pint on the sideline mid-match, he's your man." She bends down to pop the dish into the oven. "Not to mention, he thinks you're God's fucking gift to football— he bought Jamie that poster and started the bloody obsession in the first place."

Roy cocks an eyebrow.

"A Chelsea man?"

"Nah, United, but he always kept tabs on the England squad," Georgie chuckles. "Whatever year you played your first Euros— he hitchhiked with his mates to the tournament, and then he come back going on about this young pup that's gonna be our next captain." She shakes her head. "Captain of the Three Lions may as well be the fucking prime minister, in his books."

"2000," Roy says, thinking out loud to remember what fucking year that would've been. He was eighteen when he first went up for England, and it was a Euro year— they hadn't gone past the group stage, but he'd started in all three of their miserable matches. "It was in Belgium, I think. We were shit."

"Well, my dad was impressed with you, at least," Georgie says. She sits at the table with Roy and Simon, picks up her freshly-refilled glass of wine. "He ain't told my mum he was going until he calls her from some bloody hotel in Belgium, after we've not seen him for days— she wouldn't let him back in the house when he came home, so he stayed a week on my couch. Of course, Jamie's only three, so he's just chuffed to have his grandad around, but I nearly had the man's head, I swear."

And Roy can picture it, little toddler Jamie happily listening to his grandad go on and on about football, while Georgie fumes in the background.

"It's memories made, isn't it," Simon offers. "It's nice you got that time together."

He's clearly teasing, though, because Georgie just fondly flips him off.

"At the end of that week, Jamie tells me he wants to be a football hooligan when he grows up. The week before, he'd been going on about being a scientist! I chased my old man out with a broom that night and sent him back to Mum to deal with. Good riddance."

"He sounds like quite the fucking character," Roy comments. "He must be proud of Jamie playing for England."

"Christ, is he ever. You should've seen the lot of us weeping when Jamie got subbed on, that first match," Simon laughs. "Already making plans for another hitchhike to the next Euros, Paul is."

And that dampens the mood again, doesn't it.

Roy remembers the fact that the World Cup starts in a couple weeks, down in Qatar; Jamie was on the provisional roster, but obviously not in the final squad announcement that came out yesterday. He'd already been privately told he hadn't made it, though, days before his accident— simply outranked by players with more international experience who'd played in the actual qualifiers— but was assured he'd likely be a shoe-in by the next big tournament.

You were fucking twenty-fourth for the Ballon d'Or, and they don't even want you as a fucking reserve? I'll go down to Southgate's house myself and knock some fucking sense into him right now.

Jamie, supremely unbothered, shrugs.

I've only played in four matches for England, and they were all friendlies, mate. He'd be mad to snub someone experienced for me; he promised they'll play with the lineup more in the new year, start putting me in proper for Euro qualifiers and let me get some real minutes. Even give me a starting number, probably.

But at this point, it's a question of whether he'll be able to play football at all by then, let alone as England's number ten. 

Fuck.

It's quiet for a bit, while they're all thinking it, until Georgie shakes her head and changes the subject.

"I caught one of the nurses today watching Jay's Lust Conquers All highlights on her phone. I ain't called her out or nothing, but I had a good laugh— the poor hen must have a wee crush."

And the air of hopelessness lifts, just a touch, and Roy can breathe again.

-

Jamie doesn't wake up at all the next day.

Not for Roy, not for Georgie, not for Simon, not even when Keeley stops by— no matter how much they touch him and talk to him. He briefly opens his eyes to his nan's voice, and moves a little when his grandad squeezes his hand, but a proper bout of wakefulness never comes.

The fever's still high, and it's fucking terrifying.

Rest is exactly what he needs, the doctor says that afternoon. I know it doesn't seem like it, but the antibiotics are doing their job already— his labs are looking better every day, and the infection is slowly resolving. The fever is his body's way of fighting it, and that's simply taking all of his energy. It's all still a bit touch and go, but I'm very hopeful for him, at this point.

That doesn't make it much easier to see him like this, though, when he was fit and healthy a week ago. He's looking thinner already, getting a bit gaunt in his cheeks, and there's a terrible paleness to him that just makes him look sickly. It's awful.

"You're working so hard, Jay, I'm so fucking proud of you," Roy mutters to him, once he's stayed in the room past the end of visiting hours, once again. (It's freezing in here, another measure they're taking to try and lower Jamie's body temperature. Roy blames that for the tremble in his hands.) "Keep getting better, yeah? Rest up, and come back to us when you're fucking ready."

It's painfully familiar, sitting and talking to an unresponsive Jamie. It hurts.

"I have surgery on Monday, finally getting my fucking knee replaced." He carefully flexes and extends the offending joint a couple of times. It aches. "Gonna be on crutches and a load of fucking painkillers for a while, but I'll keep coming in to see you. You'll have a good laugh about my metal knee, I reckon. Phoebe's already started calling me Megatron."

He can picture the way Jamie would roll his eyes at that. He'd call Phoebe dead creative, and have a giggle about it.

(He'd look so fucking beautiful.)

Roy kisses Jamie's knuckles. Can't fucking help himself. It's been a long fucking day, and he's feeling weak to his stupid impulses.

"I love you, Jay."

When he looks back up at Jamie's face, he realizes he's being stared at.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathes, startled. "You little fuck. I thought you were asleep."

And, like, he's barely awake— Jamie's eyes aren't focused, and his hand's quite limp in Roy's, but he's looking. That's something.

He just watched Roy kiss his hand, and heard him say I love you. Fuck.

"Um, visiting hours are done," Roy says, because he's a coward. "So I have to fucking go, but— you have a good night, yeah? Fucking... like, get your rest, mate. I'll see you tomorrow."

And he runs away, on a broken knee. Feels like the biggest fucking idiot to ever walk the earth.

-

Roy just kissed him.

Roy said I love you.

And he had to leave, right, so Jamie couldn't even say nothing back, and he's so tired that he doesn't even know what he would say, but like— as Roy walks out, limping on his bad knee... Jamie loves him back. Of course he does. Fucking hell.

It's a bit too difficult to think very hard about it right now, but he knows he does.

He shifts in bed, goes back to sleep, because it must be late if Roy's leaving.

(He dreams about sleeping next to Roy. They're in Roy's bed, having a lazy lie-in on a Sunday morning, sunlight streaming in across Roy's shirtless back, while Jamie holds him and kisses him, like that's just how things are meant to be.)

(Fucking weird, innit, but it's nice.)

-

Friday morning sees Roy in the press room— Georgie's watching it from the hospital, Jamie's hand resting loosely in her own. Simon's back at Roy's house, borrowing the home office to take some work calls, and her parents are still at their hotel. It's just her and her boy, as it's always been.

"Your Roy's on the telly, baby," she coos, brushing a hand over Jamie's heated forehead. "Do you see him?"

Jamie's eyes glance to the screen, a promising sign that he's at least listening, but don't stay there long. He's slightly more responsive today, but still lacking that focus in his gaze that comes when he's actually awake. He's likely in some sort of half-asleep, feverish haze right now, only vaguely aware of his surroundings.

"Yeah, cheers," Roy's saying to the journalists. "Thanks for coming out, you lot. I know it's not our usual time."

"He looks quite nice in his suit, doesn't he," Georgie murmurs to Jamie, whose eyes are closed again. "All dressed up for his big speech. The poor lamb was so nervous this morning."

"First off, I have an update on Jamie Tartt," Roy says. Takes a breath. "As of today, he's still in hospital with a serious head injury, and he's going to be away from the pitch until at least the new year, if not longer. We're all fucking devastated, here at Richmond, and everyone's spent the past week in a bit of shock— no one expects to see this sort of injury happen in training, of course, and Jamie is a massive part of this team, so we're all feeling the impact of him not being around. He's got the full support of his club behind him while he recovers— I've spent time with him in hospital myself, and his teammates have been visiting and sending their love as well. Richmond has Jamie's back, every step of the way."

"Can you tell us a bit more about how exactly Tartt was injured?" the first journalist to be called on asks.

"No." Roy huffs a breath through his nose. "No more than what's already been shared, for the sake of everyone's privacy. There was an accidental collision between multiple players on a wet pitch, during training last Thursday morning. Jamie was the only one seriously hurt in the incident, and was taken to hospital immediately." He pauses. Sets his note cards down, clearly going off-script. "However, I want to make one thing fucking clear: as manager of this team, I am fully aware that a player being hurt in training is on my shoulders. I should've made a severe weather call far fucking earlier than I did that day— it was too wet for the lads to be out there, the slippery grass contributed to the accident happening, and it was an error in my judgement to let them keep playing. I'm taking this very fucking seriously, and I'm going to be redoing the safety sections of my coaching certification, as well as any other training the FA recommends, to make sure I'm doing my part to rectify this and prevent it ever happening again."

Georgie brushes her hand up and down Jamie's forearm.

She thinks back to that conversation with his lawyer— it's been in the back of her mind, these past couple of days, the thought of holding Roy responsible and taking legal action, and all that nonsense that just feels like too much to consider right now.

He's just so trusting, Jamie is. When he convinces himself someone's got his best interests in mind— however true that really is, such as in the case of his father— he goes all in. He'd do anything Roy tells him, so of course he didn't question whatever training Roy had him doing out in the rain. Even if he'd thought it was dangerous, (and he's a bright boy, so he probably did), he'd never question the word of someone he trusts so hard.

And that trust might be broken, after all this. He might be really angry, once he's aware enough to process what's happened... but even so, the thought of suing Roy, or trying to bar him from ever coaching again, still feels far from what Jamie would want. They'll wait until he can at least offer his thoughts on it.

"There's been calls in the media to see you removed from your position, saying you're not experienced enough for the job," another journalist says. "Do you have anything to say to those?"

Roy sighs.

"People are entitled to their fucking opinions." He leans forward, onto his elbows. "I like this job, and I'm good at it. I plan to keep doing it for a long time... however, that brings me to the other reason for this press conference, which those people that want me fired will be proper bloody pleased about: I'm going to be stepping away on medical leave for six weeks, and Nathan Shelley will be taking over as interim manager, effective immediately."

There's a shocked murmur around the press room, which the microphones manage to pick up on.

Jamie stirs in bed, but settles easily.

The poor poppet looks so uncomfortable, with his brow furrowed and his cheeks red. His fever's reached its highest point so far, despite the staff's best efforts to cool him down, but they're hopeful it'll break soon with how well he's responding to the antibiotics. It's a matter of time, apparently, and four days into the infection is about where things should start to turn around.

"Thanks, New Trent," Roy says, on the screen. "I still like you better than Old Trent. Thank you for asking a normal fucking question, and being fucking polite about it. I'm having surgery on my knee— it's been a bloody nightmare for the past three years, and it can't wait any longer, so it's happening now. With the international break for the World Cup coming up, this felt like the right time. I'll be stuck at home on painkillers and crutches for the next while, and I'll be fucking miserable. I might even miss doing this press shit, but don't let it go to your fucking heads."

He's handling this well, Roy— he'd been so nervous this morning, getting ready to head to work, and had gone into a wee panic over his suit jacket being wrinkled. (Georgie had let her mothering instincts take over and just gone ahead and ironed it for him while he got breakfast together; he'd looked proper relieved when she handed it back to him, all neat and tidy and ready to go.)

"Not you," Roy snaps, in response to another reporter. "I won't miss your stupid fucking questions. You can fuck off."

Georgie chuckles, shakes her head, and shuts off the TV, since the conference is nearly done anyways.

"I've never heard anyone curse quite like your Roy," she sighs, reaching up to pet Jamie's hair. "It's an art, innit, all the ways he can say fuck. Quite impressive."

Jamie's face softens slightly, relaxing under her touch.

(He's beautiful, her boy. He's got so many of his father's features, but he doesn't look like James, really— he's so perfectly himself, and he's so gorgeous. She likes to think he's got her eyes, and maybe her smile.)

"Are you there, Jam?" she sighs, stroking his heated forehead. "Can you give Mummy a wee smile, maybe?"

His eyelashes flutter the slightest bit, but there's otherwise no movement in his sleeping face. His mouth's still hidden under the CPAP mask, so it's hard to see, but it doesn't seem to even twitch.

"That's alright," Georgie breathes. Keeps running her thumb along his eyebrow. "Get your rest, baby. Everyone who loves you is waiting right here 'til you're better. Sleep as long as you need to."

He doesn't stir, but she thinks he might've heard her.

-

Jamie used to pretend to sleep, sometimes, so that Mummy would carry him to bed.

He was too old to be doing it, at a certain point, but he'd still try it— she surely could tell, seeing as he's never been much of an actor, but she'd never once called him out for pretending, even when he was getting a bit too big. She'd just pick him up and carry him, usually to her bed instead of his own; she probably knew that if he was going to the lengths of feigning sleep, he needed a good cuddle that night.

So she'd carry him to her bed, even when he were like seven or eight, or however old was on the border of too old, and she'd lay him down under the blankets— and he was a thumb-sucker for far too long, weren't he, so he'd get all snuggled up doing that— and she'd lie there with him and stroke his hair.

She'd tell him he was beautiful and strong and brave; she'd say he was her perfect little boy and she loved him so much. He'd just lie there and listen, and sometimes if he'd had a really bad day, he'd cry a little, but Mummy wouldn't comment on it. She'd just let him cry it out, because she knew he needed to.

He feels a bit like that right now, so sick and miserable in bed; even though he knows Mummy is right here with him, he can't bring himself to move or wake up properly. She asked him to smile, and he can't, so he keeps on faking sleep just like a little kid.

He sort of wishes he were still small enough for her to pick him up— he wants that feeling of resting in her arms, that gentle bounce of her carrying him up the stairs. He wants to lie down in her bed, while she sits next to him and makes him feel better, until he actually falls asleep. He misses their house, and he misses being a kid, and he misses not being fucking ill and in hospital. He doesn't even know how long he's been here, or why he came here in the first place— he's sick of the beeping machines and the scratchy sheets, and his neck hurts, and he's so fucking cold. It's terrible.

"Nan and Grandad are on their way," Mummy says. "They'll come spend some time with you again, yeah? I think you liked that yesterday."

He doesn't really remember that, to be quite honest, but it sounds like something he'd like. They're two of his favourite people, and their bickering always makes him laugh. (And wonder how on earth they're still married after all this time, but mostly laugh.)

He keeps pretending to sleep, because he's too cold and tired for anything else, but Mummy sighs softly as she touches his face.

"There's that gorgeous smile. Just a little bit of it, but I see you. I know you're there, baby." She rubs her thumb along his eyebrow. "You'll have lots of visitors today; Keeley's coming by again later, and Simon will be here at some point when he's done working. Roy's got a busy day— meetings, and getting things ready for his surgery on Monday, and watching Phoebe again tonight— so he doesn't think he'll come today, but he'll be here first thing tomorrow."

Roy loves him, Jamie suddenly remembers.

He said it when he was here, whenever that was. He kissed his hand, and he said I love you, and Jamie had looked at him and thought I love you too with all his might, but he'd been too tired to say it.

He'll say it next time, he promises himself.

And then sleep's coming over him again. Gotta be rested up for all his visitors— and especially to see Roy tomorrow— so he listens to Mummy talk, and he finally tries to rest.

Chapter Text

It's match day, and Sam is trying.

He's been on his best behaviour— sure, he didn't talk to anyone on the bus up to Manchester last night, but he showed up to watch a film with the team (The Princess Bride, a classic,) and he even went down for breakfast with everyone instead of asking to have it in his hotel room.

"A bit better today?" Isaac asks him, bumping his shoulder gently, as they walk to the lifts to go back up to their rooms and get ready. "I saw you fucking smile."

"A bit better," Sam agrees.

After his visit with Jamie, he'd at least gotten his head on straight at training, and managed to earn his starting lineup spot back by apologizing to the team and the coaches for his behaviour— Beard had warned him that today is his second chance, and if he's rude to the team again, he'll still be riding the bench when they come back from international break in the new year.

"We're gonna kick some fucking United arse today, for Jamie's sake." Isaac jams the button for the lift. "We're not holding shit back."

Sam chuckles.

"I will use all my new aggression for good, then. Get into their heads, Jamie-style."

"Exactly, bruv. You're like a secret weapon— no one expects you to be a prick, but you've tapped into it now. With great power comes great responsibility."

The lift dings, and at the same time, both of their mobiles chime.

It's a text from Roy in the team group chat, which he once swore he'd never use in a million fucking years.

Best of luck today lads.
Tartt's fever broke last night and he's feeling much better. We'll be watching the match. Fucking kill em.

It's followed up with a selfie— Roy at an awkward old man angle, the camera way too close to his face, not smiling, while Jamie gives a tired-looking grin in the background. He's lost the breathing mask that was on his face when Sam visited, replaced by some tubes in his nose; the bruising by his temple is fading; and his eyes look a bit clearer, like maybe he actually knows where he is and what's going on.

"He looks good," Isaac offers. "Jamie, I mean. Roy looks a bit shit. They both need haircuts."

Sam rolls his eyes. Roy does look terrible, and it's unnervingly satisfying to see. 

"Jamie's had half his head shaved. He needs more than a haircut— you'll have to work magic."

"You know I can," Isaac says, dead serious. "As soon as he's well enough, I will."

"I believe you," Sam chuckles. "I think he will appreciate it. His hair is very important to him."

And he means it lightheartedly— it's an ongoing joke within the team, Jamie's vanity, which even Jamie himself is in on. He likes to look good and feel good, and Sam would never fault him for that, but the lengths he goes to are often a bit funny to witness.

Isaac doesn't smile, though. His brow furrows.

"Hair is important," he states. "I'll fix him up, proper."

Sam nods slowly, unsure of quite how to respond after his joke falling flat. There's clearly something else on Isaac's mind.

"Yes, you will." He pauses. "Everything okay, captain?"

For half a second, it seems like Isaac might say no... but the lift doors open at his floor.

"Don't worry, I'm good." He gives a tight smile. "See you in a bit, yeah?"

He's walking away before Sam can even respond.

There was something strange there, Sam decides, but he's not sure he's got it in him to look into it yet. They'll just have to get through the day first.

-

"Rooooooy."

Jamie's quite sure he's repeating himself. He can't really help it, though, because talking is hard, but Roy's name is easy to say. There was something he wanted to tell Roy, he knows, but he can't think of what, so he's going to keep being a bother until it comes to him.

"Hi, Jamie," Roy says, in the tone of a parent who's getting tired of answering their toddler's same question over and over.

He takes Jamie's hand in his own, and gives a gentle squeeze. It's nice.

Jamie lets his head loll to the side. They took that big, terrible mask off of his face this morning— they said he's breathing better, and his temperature is going down. (He feels sweaty and gross and nasty and hot, though, so he'd like his temperature to go down a bit faster, please.)

"What if we try sitting up for a bit?" Roy offers. "Are you feeling well enough? Let's try to get to the edge of the bed, like you've been practising with the physio."

Jamie doesn't know if he's well enough, because he doesn't really remember practising that, so he just stares.

"Oi, Tartt," Roy chuckles. He taps the side of Jamie's face gently. "I'm fucking talking to you. You're gonna sit up for a bit, and I'll fucking help you. C'mon."

That sounds more like Roy, with all the fucking swearing and that.

(Jamie was going to tell him something... but what?)

"Roy?"

A deep breath.

"Yes, Jamie?"

Jamie frowns, trying to think.

"You... um, here. Right?"

Because Roy has been here before. Jamie knows he's been in hospital for some time now, and that Roy has come to visit him.

"I'm right here," Roy says. He's holding Jamie's shoulders now. "I won't let you fall. C'mon, lean forward a bit."

"No," Jamie groans, because that's not what he was trying to ask. "You— I was... sleeping. And you..."

He trails off into a huff when he can't find the words. He's thinking of a time that he was half-asleep, and Roy was here, and it was nice, and there was something he wanted to say about it. His brain feels funny, though, and it's like the path from what he's thinking to what he's saying has gotten all tangled up and confusing, so only a handful of things can actually find their way through.

"Fucking hell," Roy sighs. "Okay. You were trying to sleep. I'm sorry, we can try again later."

"No!" Jamie shouts, louder than he means to, but Jesus— Roy just can't understand him, can he. That's all wrong. He shoves Roy's hands off of him, and his eyes are burning with tears before he can stop them. "Roy, you— no. I don't."

"I'm sorry," Roy repeats. "Fuck, it's okay, Jamie. I'll fuck off, yeah? You can sleep. I'll come back later. I didn't mean to upset you."

"No," Jamie practically sobs. He tries to reach for Roy's hand, but he's so uncoordinated that all he really does is smack it. "Roy."

Roy pulls his hand away— of course he does, Jamie just hit him— and nods.

"Okay, yeah. I'll come back in a little bit, Jay. I'll give you some space— I'm gonna go get a tea, and come back."

Jamie doesn't want him to go, but he doesn't know how to fix this when he can't talk right, so he just cries. He holds Duck up to his face, because it's soft and it usually makes him feel better, but it doesn't help him stop crying. He doesn't know why he's so upset, but it feels like the end of the fucking world, watching Roy walk away from him.

"Oh, Jamie," a nurse is saying, as she walks in. "What's the matter, love?"

He doesn't trust his words not to fuck him over again, so he just shakes his head, and she sighs.

"Alright, my dear." She leans down to talk to him, nice and close. "Listen, it's perfectly normal for your emotions to feel a bit out of control for a while after a brain injury. You can go ahead and cry as much as you need to. It might make you feel better to get some food in you, so I'm going to start your tube feed for lunchtime, yeah?"

He wants real food. The stuff they put in the tube looks disgusting, and he hates it, but there was a lady who was here this morning to help him swallow or something, and he fucking gagged on the applesauce she gave him, unable to get it down without choking. His mouth doesn't work right— he can't talk, and he can't eat, and it's all shit.

He still doesn't really understand why this is all happening, and he wants to go home. This isn't fucking fair.

"Hey, Jamie," the nurse says, all gentle and nice, once she's done messing about with all the machines. She crouches next to the bed. "What if we get you all cleaned up, love? I can wash your hair, brush your teeth, give you a wee shave— all right here in bed. Would that help you feel better?"

He sniffles and nods, still holding Duck against his cheek to feel its fur. Part of him would much rather get up and have a proper shower, but the rest of him knows he's just far too tired to do that, so a wash-up in bed will have to go.

"Please."

She smiles at him.

"Of course. I'll be right back with all the stuff. You get yourself nice and comfy, yeah?"

He nods.

And when she comes back, it's so fucking nice— she's got a little tub of warm water, and she scrubs his hair really gently, and washes his face, and carefully shaves off his stubble. She brushes his teeth for him, getting him to spit often because she knows he's not swallowing right, and even lets him try a bit of brushing for himself, as uncoordinated as he is.

It feels fucking incredible to be clean.

"Oh, look at you," she beams, when they're all done, and she's finishing up combing his hair for him. "Handsome as ever. Isn't that refreshing?"

He's a bit exhausted from all the pampering, having a hard time keeping his eyes open, but manages a nod.

"Nice... yeah." He pauses for a moment, fighting to get the next word out. "Thanks."

Roy's not back yet, he realizes, which makes him a bit sad. Now that he's feeling a bit better, and more like himself again, he might be able to say what he wanted to before.

The nurse wipes carefully under his eye.

"Still feeling a bit down, are we?"

Jamie shrugs. He hadn't realized he'd started crying again.

If he tries to tell her what's wrong, it might not come out right, so he just doesn't bother. Tears keep leaking from his eyes, but at least he's not got the urge to sob, like before.

"That's alright, my dear. You've had a tough go of things lately. It's hard." She smoothes down the tape that holds his feeding tube to his face. "You're on the up now, though, I reckon. Just since last night, you've gotten so much better."

And Jamie doesn't quite know what's wrong with him to begin with— he's sure it's been explained to him, but he can't seem to track down the memory— and he doesn't know how long he's been in hospital or remember much of what happened before today, but he'll take her word for it that he's getting better. He'd quite like to be, at least.

"My... mummy," he mumbles, because he thinks she must be around here somewhere, and he wants to see her, if Roy's not coming back. He pulls on his blankets. "I... want my— yeah."

"I'll see if she's around, love. I think she might be coming in a bit later today, just running some errands this morning."

That's upsetting, innit, because he misses her, and why are her errands more important than him? Why is he all alone here?

"My mum," he repeats, feeling a bit angry. "And... and my— Roy. It's not... fair."

"You just want your family around, don't you, darling?" the nurse sighs. Jamie realizes he can't even remember her name, and that frustrates him even more. "I passed Roy in the hall not too long ago— he said he was just off to grab his sister some lunch and let you have a kip. I'm sure he'll be back right away. Do you want to try to sleep for a bit, while you wait for him?"

And that's, like, the last fucking straw.

He doesn't want to sleep. That's what he's been trying to get across: he's been sleeping loads, and he doesn't want to anymore. He's not even fucking tired.

She's still leaning close to him, and he shoves her with both hands.

"No! Fuck off!"

She looks startled for a second, and stumbles back a step, but doesn't seem all that perturbed. Just fucking smiles at him.

"Okay. You don't have to sleep, Jamie. What about... here." She picks up his iPad from the counter by the window. "Why don't we put some music on? I'll get your Spotify opened up, and you can choose a playlist, and then I'll leave you to listen to it."

"No."

She brings the iPad over to him, and on an impulse, he launches Duck at her, throwing as hard as he can.

She sighs when the toy bounces off her arm and falls to the foot of the bed.

"Well, that's not very nice to your poor duck, is it?"

Jamie blinks. That wasn't very nice. He's really being quite mean, but he's just so angry.

She picks up Duck, sets it in his lap, and then leans down beside him again.

"Here. Let's have a look." She shows him the iPad screen, and it's a bit fucking overwhelming to look at, with too many things to choose from. She taps the screen a couple times. "Right— why don't we pick between Gentle Piano and Mellow Lo-Fi? Those both sound calm and relaxing. Which would you like?"

Jamie stares. He doesn't fucking know the difference between them, quite honestly, but he points to the one with a blue cover, because it's nice to look at. He doesn't care.

"There we go," the nurse, who definitely has a name and Jamie just can't remember it, says. Some quiet music starts to play. "Piano's always a good choice. You can hold your tablet, or we can set it on the table right here."

She pats the bedside table, where a couple of fidget toys he knows he's seen before are sitting. He picks up the pop-it, which is also blue, like the music. He pushes a finger into one of the little bubbles on it.

The nurse says something else to him, but he's not listening, because he likes looking at the blue bubbles. He pops another one, and finally smiles a bit.

-

Roy drops off a soup in A&E for Ruth, and brings the sandwich that he bought for himself back up to Jamie's room.

The little fuck is fast asleep, with one of the silly toys that Phoebe sent for him clutched loosely in one of his hands.

"He was getting a bit agitated and aggressive," Andrea, Jamie's nurse, had said as Roy came back onto the unit, "but that's totally normal at this stage. He's confused, and he can't control it. A distraction can calm him right down— we put on some music, and he was alright."

So that's likely why the iPad on the bedside table is playing quiet piano music, making it sound like Roy's just walked into one of those sad fucking animal shelter adverts they show around the holidays.

At least Jamie's got the fucking energy to be agitated and aggressive, Roy supposes. It's better than sleeping all fucking day and scaring the shit out of everyone, by getting so fucking weak and sickly. He looks far healthier today, like all the medicine they're pumping into him is finally doing its job, and they're already talking about getting him back into the step-down unit, and eventually to some sort of fucking rehabilitation centre.

(Roy spent one off-season in rehab— Ruth, twenty-four at the time, had snapped at him, one day: well, you're about to be a thirty year-old grown man with a molly addiction, so that's fucking classy, isn't it. Grow the hell up. He'd taken that for what it was, a proper fucking wake up call, and he'd realized how embarrassing it would be to be thirty— ew— and still using the party drugs he'd gotten into at eighteen, so he'd checked himself into a private centre that the Chelsea medical staff arranged for him.)

(He's got a feeling Jamie's rehab won't be anything like that.)

"Hey, you," he says, sitting down by the bed. He knows Jamie's not listening, but it's worth saying hello anyways. "God, you look better today. I can't fucking get over it."

He's got a bit of colour back, and some of the bruising by his eye is starting to clear, and even just watching him breathe without needing so much help is a relief. Even though he wasn't making much sense earlier, at least he was talking, and there was something in his gaze that just looked more awake.

Roy eats his sandwich, sitting there and listening to the beeping monitors and hissing machines that he's gotten used to lately, and actually manages to feel a bit hopeful.

After a while, Jamie starts to stir, and finally blinks awake. The fucking smile that spreads on his face when he notices Roy next to him is like a ray of fucking sunshine. Holy fuck.

(Roy loves him so hard, in that moment.)

"Roy," Jamie beams. He fucking giggles. "You— Roy."

Roy snorts.

"Yeah. I am Roy." He slides his chair a little closer, and takes Jamie's outstretched hand. "Had a good nap?"

Jamie blinks slowly. There's still a sort of vacancy in his stare, even with him being more awake— like something's shaken loose in his brain and hasn't quite settled back into place yet.

"I... think so." He twists Roy's fingers around in his own, playing with them like one of those fucking fidget toys he and Phoebe like so much. "I want— um, can you... stay here?"

That's, like, a proper fucking sentence. Took him a long time to get it out, the words coming together bit by bit, but still. Fucking impressive.

"Yeah, I thought maybe we'd watch the Richmond match together, in a bit," Roy offers. "They're away at United— your grandad might watch with us, too. What do you think?"

Again, Jamie spends a while processing that, just staring blankly ahead while the gears in his head must turn the question over.

"I like... that." He pauses. Frowns. "My grandad?"

"Yeah. He's come down from Manchester for a visit, with your Nan. I met them both last night, they're fucking lovely."

Jamie squeezes Roy's fingers, thinking hard again.

"Why?"

Roy sighs.

"You got hurt, and you've been ill. It's made you really fucking popular— everyone's worried about you. Lots of visitors, yeah?"

Slowly, Jamie's head bounces in an exaggerated nod.

"In... hospital."

"Exactly." Roy copies the nod. "You've been in hospital for ten days, and loads of people have come round to see you."

Jamie looks up and stares at him. His eyes are still all fucking eerie and unfocused, but he's clearly seeing something. His brow scrunches.

"Like you."

And that makes Roy's heart feel all warm and fucking fuzzy, doesn't it.

"Yeah. I've been here most days. Do you remember that?"

Jamie's mouth opens, then closes again. He looks at Roy's hand, tugs on his fingers.

"Yeah," he finally breathes. "You, um... you. When you— here. It was... I saw."

Roy's fucking smiling like an idiot, even though that didn't make any sense at all.

"You saw me here, did you?" he attempts to paraphrase. "You remember that?"

Jamie smiles back.

"Yeah."

"Good." Roy touches his hair, now all clean and soft. "Your brain's had a tough fucking go of things lately— remembering shit is really fucking good. I think that means you're getting better."

Jamie hums softly, still playing with Roy's fingers and holding his hand. He looks all young and fucking innocent, like a distractible toddler fidgeting with a toy.

Finally, once he's had a good think about whatever's going through his head, he glances back up at Roy.

"Roy?"

"Yeah, Jamie?"

Another squeeze of Roy's hand, squished between both of Jamie's. 

"I love you... loads."

And he's just said it like it's nothing, curled up in a hospital bed, surrounded by his blankets and stuffed animals. He's so fucking sweet, and it's making Roy's heart fucking melt.

"I fucking love you, too. Loads."

Because Jamie's confused, and surely doesn't mean it in the I think I'm in love with you sort of way that Roy does, but it's worth saying anyways.

(It makes Jamie smile, and that's enough. There's a moment where it feels like everything might be alright.)

And Jamie loses focus after that, his attention span somehow fucking shorter than it was before the accident, but his good mood lingers— he plays with his fidget toys, not really listening to any conversation Roy tries to make, and makes silly little noises to himself. At one point, he grabs his iPad, stares at it for a while, and can't seem to figure out how to unlock it.

"Roy."

"Yeah, give it here." Roy takes it from him to type in the passcode, which he surprises himself by actually knowing. (To be fair, Jamie uses 5151 for everything.) "Do you want the music back on?"

"No. I want—" Jamie reaches for it. "I want... pictures."

"What, the fucking camera? Taking selfies in the fucking hospital, I swear to fucking god—"

"No. The— I want the— pictures." He wrestles the iPad out of Roy's hands, stares at the screen for a long moment, and then finally opens the Photos app. "Just... look."

And the tablet must be synced to his phone, because he's got everything there— silly pictures of Sam and Dani in a variety of filters, probably taken on the bus to an away match; TikTok videos he filmed with Phoebe but never posted, out of respect for Ruth not wanting her on social media; and far too many angles of Roy himself glaring at the camera, in all sorts of settings.

"Huh. You just miss your fucking mates, don't you?" Roy muses, when Jamie taps on a video of the team celebrating in the dressing room after a win and immediately grins. "Yeah, I'll read my book for a bit, and you look at your pictures."

He's not expecting that it'll hold Jamie's attention for very long at all, but it's something, and it's keeping him calm. That seems to be the goal at this point, so Roy's happy with it.

-

Nate and Beard are an odd pair, and neither one of them is particularly good at calming the general sense of nerves and tension in the room, but they're trying.

Sam's at least finding it easier to breathe today, especially after speaking to his parents on the phone back at the hotel, so he's doing his best to check in on his teammates and be the leader he knows they need.

(It's normally a Roy thing, giving people individual pep talks before a match, but he's not here. It's normally a Jamie thing, lightening the mood and filling the air with borderline-delusional confidence, but he's not here either. It's normally an Isaac thing, making sure everyone's focused and prepared, but he's acting really strange today... so Sam's taking up the slack for all of them. It's far harder than it looks, he's realizing.)

"Dani, come on, man." Sam taps his shoulder. "Put your phone away."

(This is more what he usually does, mother-henning everyone to make sure they actually make it onto the pitch on time. He's in charge of tracking fines, too, and having your phone out within half an hour of a match is certainly eligible for one.)

"Ah, sorry," Dani chuckles, though he doesn't actually put it away. "My sister is having her baby today, and I am waiting for updates. I can't stop checking."

And, well, that's a special circumstance, and today has been incredibly weird— no one seems to have their head on straight, and everyone seems terrified for this match, even though they're miles ahead of United on the table and have far better defence than them— so Sam supposes he can let it slide, this once.

"That is very exciting," he offers. "Does she know what she's having?"

Before Dani can answer, his phone starts to vibrate with an incoming FaceTime call.

JAMIE TARTT 😮⚽️👏 lights up the screen, above a photo of Jamie and Dani holding up their swapped shirts after an international friendly they played over the summer.

"Wait, what?" Sam feels his brow pinch, confused. "There is no way he is using his phone right now."

"Maybe it's a miracle," Dani grins, and then he's swiping to answer the call.

"—are you fucking calling someone? Jesus Christ, Tartt, I look away for two seconds and you start fucking messing about—"

That's clearly Roy's voice, and then Jamie's face comes into view, laughing hard.

"Nooo, Roy. Mine!"

The camera jostles around.

"Jamie, fucking hell, I know it's your iPad, but you're not in a fucking state to be calling people up right now, when you can hardly talk. Just— give it here."

"Amigo Jamie!" Dani shouts. "Hello!"

That catches the whole team's attention; everyone's clamours around them, trying to get in on the call, with a general buzz of wait, is that Jamie!? coming from all angles.

"Who did you even call? And how the fuck did you know how to do that, when you couldn't even sort out how to turn this fucking thing on?" Roy is grumbling, and then the camera turns to show him when he must wrestle the device away from Jamie. "Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. It's all of them."

"Hello, Roy!" Colin chirps, leaning over Dani's shoulder. "Hi Jamie!"

Roy glares, but it's the fond one he reserves for when he's only being mean because he knows he's supposed to be.

(Sam, surprisingly, feels less of that terrible twist of rage in the pit of his stomach. The sight of Roy isn't as infuriating as expected.)

"Shouldn't you lot be in the fucking tunnel by now?" Roy barks. "You have a match in ten minutes, get off the fucking phone. Someone—" he shoots Jamie a look— "was pressing random fucking buttons on his tablet, because he's basically got the mind of a fucking toddler right now, and somehow managed to open FaceTime."

"Roy," Jamie whines, off-screen. "Please. Mine."

"This is such a beautiful surprise," Dani beams. "We are all so happy to see you both! We miss you so very much."

Roy sighs.

"Yeah, we miss you, too. Hang on." He turns away from the screen. "Jamie, look. The team's on FaceTime, they're all there— can you tell them good luck?"

And Jamie no longer seems to be paying attention, simply looking away and giving an annoyed little huff when the camera pans to him, which earns another sigh from Roy.

"Right. Not interested anymore, are we? This is why you can't be calling people, if you can't focus for ten fucking seconds to say hello to them. Here, play with this for now." Roy reappears on the screen as he hands something to Jamie. "Sorry. He's really fucking out of it today, but at least he's fucking awake. We'll put on the match, but I don't think he'll be watching too closely. Get out there and fucking kill 'em, yeah?"

"We will murder them, Coach!" Étienne leans into Sam's side to get closer to the screen. Sam puts an arm around him. "Violently!"

Sam squeezes his shoulder.

"A little aggressive, but very good English. Well done."

The only member of the team not crowded around Dani's phone is Isaac, who's still busy brooding— Sam doesn't know what's going on there, but he does exactly have room to judge, considering how he's acted lately.

"I hate to cut this off, guys," Beard says, tapping his watch, "but we gotta go."

Sure enough, a staff member is in the doorway, ready to lead them off towards the pitch.

"Right, okay," Sam says, taking matters into his own hands. "Come on, then. Richmond on three— one, two three!"

And he hears Jamie's voice join in, over FaceTime, and some of the tension he's been holding onto lately finally unwinds a bit.

It's going to be okay.

Chapter Text

Jamie's grandad, Paul, shows up in a Richmond shirt and a United scarf— he's clearly torn between who to cheer for in this personal derby of sorts, his grandson's team against the club he supports.

"There he is!" Paul grins, as he walks in, carrying a tea from the coffee shop downstairs. "Look at you, Jammer, wide awake! How're we going today, lad?"

Jamie, who's gone a bit glassy-eyed and tired after his call with the team, just smiles and points at Paul. He tugs Roy's sleeve.

"That's my... grandad."

Roy can't help but laugh a little.

"I know. I told you he was coming, didn't I?"

"Big man, Roy Kent," Paul greets him with a nod. "Happy match day."

"Cheers, yeah," Roy chuckles. "Nice shirt. Fucking shit scarf."

"Oh, fuck off."

"Roy," Jamie interrupts the banter, still tugging his sleeve. "My shirt."

As Paul comes around to sit on the other side of the bed, Roy peeks at the back of his shirt— sure enough, TARTT 9 is proudly printed on there.

"Yeah, that's your kit, innit?" Roy says. "Is Grandad your biggest fan?"

Jamie nods, still smiling wide.

"Of course I am," Paul grins, giving Jamie's hair a ruffle, which makes him laugh. "Have been since you were in nappies— I'm a fan of anything you do. Used to be the fastest-crawling wean I'd ever seen, weren't you."

(That's a lovely mental image, innit— a baby Jamie crawling about, totally clueless, while his grandad cheers him on like he's just won the World Cup.)

Jamie reaches out and grabs the end of Paul's scarf, stares at it for a moment, and wrinkles his nose.

"No." He tugs on it. "Ew."

Roy snorts.

"You tell him, Jay."

"Come off it, lads. Can't a man support his club?" Paul huffs. Nonetheless, he pulls the scarf off, balls it up, and sets it in Jamie's lap. "Here. I suppose I'm in Greyhounds territory, after all."

Jamie squishes the scarf between his hands, and looks hilariously fascinated by it— whatever's going on in his poor, addled brain must be fucking intense, because he's staring at the garish, ugly piece of fabric like it holds the truths of the universe.

"Oh, you're properly out of it," Paul teases, watching him. "They've got you on the good stuff, do they?"

Roy rolls his eyes as he gets the match pulled up on the little TV. It should be kicking off right away.

"They just gave him more painkillers, but he was like this already. Totally off his fucking nut between the concussion and the fever."

Paul laughs and gives Jamie's cheek a soft pat.

"Poor Jambo. You're alright, kid."

Jamie's mouthing something to himself, but it's anyone's guess as to what— he's completely zoned out, like he's having a proper fucking trip.

"Hey, Jay," Roy tries. "Look who's on the telly. The lads are playing today."

Jamie glances at the screen for all of ten seconds, watching the team walk out, then looks back down at the scarf and wraps it around Duck.

To be fair, that's about what Roy expected.

"Yeah, you can't be bothered. That's alright." He points to Duck. "Oi, is your wee pet a fucking United fan, then? Poor taste, he's got."

Jamie giggles, and it gets this horrible warm feeling to spark up in Roy's chest. It's fucking absurd how fond he's gotten over the little prick.

"No," Jamie says, slow and drawn-out, with a massive smile. "He's cold."

"Right," Roy chuckles. "Of course. That's fucking silly of me, innit."

Jamie reaches for Roy's hand, and Roy gives it to him to hold.

"Roy?"

"Jamie."

"I'm not... playing." He points to the screen, glances at Paul, then looks back at Roy. "That. I'm not."

"Not today, no." Roy reaches over with his free hand to smooth out the tape on Jamie's feeding tube, curling up at the corners. "I'm not fucking coaching, either. We're both having a rest day, yeah?"

Jamie frowns, considering that.

"Why?"

"Well, you're in hospital, aren't you. Do you remember why?" Roy pauses. "It's alright if you don't."

For a long moment, Jamie thinks. His brow furrows, and he just stares at Roy with his scarily blank eyes.

"My head, I think." He nods slowly. "Um, from football."

"Yeah," Roy says. "You're right. You hit your head— it was a bad tackle in training." He pauses. He can't fucking stop himself from adding on: "I had you lot training in the pissing fucking rain, for no fucking reason, and it wasn't fucking safe. The pitch was too slippery, and that's why you got hurt. I'm so sorry, Jay."

Jamie blinks at him. He doesn't seem to understand.

"Take it easy on yourself, Roy," Paul cuts in, suddenly reminding Roy that he's been here the whole time. "My lads train in the rain all the time. Miserable fucking Manchester weather, we've got. A little rain toughens them up."

Roy swallows. Somehow, that doesn't make him feel any better.

"Sometimes, yeah... but it went past the fucking point where I should've called things off, and I knew it. I was in a shit mood, and I was pushing them too far. I really fucking regret it."

Paul waves a hand.

"They're big boys, they can handle getting wet." He squeezes Jamie's shoulder. "Can't you, Jammer? A bit of rain's never bothered you."

And Paul's exactly the type of coach Roy grew up with— loud, boisterous, and willing to push and push and push their players until it's too far. And that's the type of coach Roy thought he'd be, because he was pushed and pushed and pushed his whole life, until he was winning trophies and captaining England... but it turns out that pushing his players' limits feels fucking awful when something bad actually happens. There is such thing as too far, and he fucking found it.

"A bit of rain is the reason Jamie nearly fucking died," Roy snaps, his mouth moving ahead of his brain. "That's not fucking funny."

And Jamie starts tugging on Roy's hand, quickly pulling him out of the heat of the moment.

"Roy." He points at the TV again. "I saw... Sam. There."

Roy's breath slows down a bit, and he has to fucking smile.

"Did you? What about your other mates? Is Isaac there?"

Jamie squints at the screen for a moment, then nods.

"Yeah... and Dani. I seen 'em."

"Good," Roy sighs. He squeezes Jamie's hand. "You keep watching them, yeah? Tell me what you see."

And he looks back over at Paul, who seems a bit embarrassed.

"I shouldn't make jokes like that," he offers, which, from a bloke like him, may as well be a pages-long handwritten apology letter. "Let's just be glad Jamie's alright."

Roy gives him a nod, and even a grunt of agreement. That's all he gets, though.

"That's Declan," Jamie mumbles, pointing. "Roy. I saw."

"That's good, Jay. Well done." Roy squeezes his hand. "You're paying attention really fucking well."

And Roy just watches Jamie for a moment: takes in the way his eyes aren't quite focused, bouncing all around the TV screen, and he's chewing his cheek in concentration, waiting for another closeup of one of the lads so he can shout it out. It's so fucking sweet, and he's trying so hard, and Roy just wants to—

"It's alright, lads," Paul cuts in, with a knowing smile, like he's in on a secret. "If you want to... you know."

He gestures between them, as if Roy's supposed to know what that means.

"What the fuck are you on about?"

Paul grins.

"Ah, we're not talking about it, are we?" He taps the side of his nose and winks. "Got it. Secret's safe with me."

Roy stares at him, trying to work out what the fuck he's missing here.

"What fucking secret?" he growls.

Paul jokingly puts his hands up in surrender.

"Easy, lad," he chuckles. "I'm just saying, you can give him a kiss or a cuddle if you want to. It's fine by me; you boys don't have to hide, or nothing. I support it."

Roy blinks. Takes a second to wrap his head around that.

And before he can explode, demanding Paul explain exactly what led him to that absurd fucking conclusion, Jamie lifts Roy's hand to his mouth and fucking kisses the back of it.

"Love you," he says, with a childlike fucking smile, contently living in his own world. "Royo."

Fucking hell.

And there's nothing else Roy can say, is there, besides:

"Yeah, I love you too, Jay."

He'll talk to Paul about it later, he decides. He'll explain the misunderstanding tonight, because it's not worth backpedaling now and upsetting Jamie, who just doesn't know any better.

Besides, it's not like it's a lie.

Roy really does fucking love the little twat.

-

"Isaac... come on, man. It's okay."

Sam's practically chasing him down the tunnel, because the second the whistle blew for halftime, Isaac took off.

"Piss off," Isaac snaps, not slowing down. "I fucked it."

It's a good thing centre-backs hate running, because Sam catches up easily.

"You didn't!" He grabs Isaac's arm. "It's one-nil now, big whoop. We'll come back. It's not your fault."

Isaac whips around to face him.

"It's not? Because a fucking own-goal sure feels like my fault. I'm so fucking stupid."

He rips off his armband, throws it at Sam's feet, and keeps walking.

"What are you doing?" Sam shouts, swiping it off the ground and stumbling to follow him. "We have a second half to play!"

"You do."

"Isaac."

"You seriously don't think I'm about to get fucking benched? I put the ball in the wrong fucking net!"

"By accident! It could've been anyone, yes? It bounced off of your leg!"

The rest of the team is catching up to them now, so Isaac charges away even faster.

"Fucking leave it, Sam."

Sam groans, and for all the frustration he feels, he also feels terrible, because he was being just as difficult during last week's match— if not worse, honestly. It's incredibly embarrassing, looking back at it.

If Jamie were here, Sam would probably hand the captain armband off to him, because he certainly doesn't feel like he deserves it right now... but he's not here, and it's all messed up.

"You alright, Sam?"

That's Colin, coming down the tunnel, with the rest of the team finally catching up.

"I'm fine." Sam holds up the armband. "Isaac's not."

"Shit," Colin sighs. "He'll be fine. Don't worry about it. He's been in a mood all morning."

They start walking towards the dressing room.

Sam, in a bit of a desperate move, offers the armband to Colin, who rolls his eyes.

"Not a chance. Put it on."

"But, Colin. After last week—"

Colin cuts him off before he can get far.

"After last week, you got it together and fixed things. You're good, boyo."

Sam holds the armband in his fist as they walk to the dressing room, not entirely convinced.

Maybe Dani will take it.

-

Today is a weird day, Jamie has decided.

The team is playing, but he's not there, and Roy's not there— the match is on a tiny little telly, and Grandad and Roy are watching it.

(Jamie's trying to, but looking at the screen for very long makes his eyes feel all funny. He's most just entertaining himself by making weird noises with his mouth and fidgeting with everything he can reach, including Roy's sleeve, because his brain feels a bit all-over-the-place. Like when he took ecstasy after drinking a fuck-ton of vodka-RedBulls, and got high out of his fucking mind, unable to keep still longer than two seconds, and it drove Keeley mad.)

"That's a tough go for McAdoo," Grandad is saying. "Right off his leg— he won't be too pleased with that on the score sheet, will he."

"He beats himself up more than anyone I've ever met," Roy replies. "Fuck. He'll take this one hard."

Jamie doesn't know what they're talking about.

He notices a big, ugly wheelchair, parked in the corner of the room— he's not sure if it was there earlier. Maybe someone brought it in while he was sleeping, like.

"Roy," he says, because that's the easiest word to say. Jamie points. "Roy."

Roy and Grandad both look where he's pointing, but don't quite seem to get it.

"What?" Roy asks, confused. "Do you want something, Jay?"

"That," Jamie says. He points harder. "Go."

Roy frowns.

"Like, the door? You want me to leave?"

Roy really is a bit thick, isn't he.

"No. The... um..." Jamie spends a long second looking for the word. "The... chair."

"Oh. Yeah, that's the wheelchair they brought for you." Roy laughs a little. "Bit of a fucking contraption, innit? Do you remember going for a ride in it the other day?"

Jamie shakes his head. That sounds a bit familiar, but he can't really recall it.

"It's... why?"

That's the most he can get out, like, but what he really wants to know is why he needs a bloody wheelchair. He can walk just fine. He's a footballer.

"Your balance is a bit fucked, from hitting your head," Roy tells him. He taps Jamie's head to make his point. It hurts a little. "You had a hard time standing when the physio was here, this morning— he said it'd be good to get out of bed, though, so the chair can help with that. We could go for a walk if you're feeling up to it. What do you think?"

Jamie blinks. Frowns.

"Go where?"

"Just around the hospital. I think Isaac and Dani took you to the garden last week, yeah? Do you remember?"

Jamie shrugs. It's not really ringing a bell, but it sounds like something they'd do.

"Dunno."

"That's okay," Roy says. "Your memory's been funny lately. You'll start getting it back." He touches Jamie's hair. "Wanna go walk? I'll take you out while I still fucking can— I'm getting my knee done on Monday."

Jamie blinks.

"Your knee?"

"They're replacing it with fucking metal." He points to his leg. It doesn't look like anything is different about it. "It's about fucking time."

And Jamie— just starts fucking crying.

He can't stop it, like. He's pretty sure he's lost his grip on whatever part of his brain gives him any control over his emotions— they strike in waves, coming out of nowhere, and he can apparently only have stupidly extreme reactions.

He just hates thinking about Roy hurting, is the thing. It makes him sad, and it makes him feel guilty, and Roy is his favourite person, and it's so shit that he's in pain all the time, and it sucks.

"Oh, Jammer," Grandad says, on the other side of him. "What's going on, lad?"

"Roy," Jamie huffs, because that's what's going on. He's sad about Roy's knee. "That hurts."

Roy frowns.

"Does something hurt, Jay?"

"No. You."

Thankfully, that seems to get through to him. He can be a bit dense, Roy, but he's getting it now.

"Oh. Yeah, it will hurt having my knee replaced, but once it's healed from surgery, it won't hurt anymore." He's talking the way he talks to Phoebe. "You know how fucking grumpy I get when it's bothering me— reckon I'll be much nicer to be around."

And Jamie can't stop the tears, but that does make him feel a bit better.

He can remember one morning, like, they showed up to training, and Roy was in a proper strop. In fact, he'd texted Jamie that morning, using his stupid Memoji to complain that he was out of his coffee creamer— the over-sweetened, flavoured, American shit that Beard orders online for him— and then the weather was miserably cold and rainy, and Roy looked like he'd hardly slept at all. Everyone was a bit grouchy, but especially Roy, and Jamie had spent all morning just watching him and trying to figure out what the fuck to do.

But then there's a hole in his memory.

He can't remember the afternoon, or even anything beyond starting a scrimmage, out in the rain. Roy had shouted at them that he'd restart the clock if anyone slacked, so Jamie was trying to play his best despite the slippery grass and the rain soaking him to the bone, and... that's it.

He was playing, and now he's here. There's a big empty piece in between.

Did something happen at training? Is that how he hit his head, like everyone keeps telling him? Was there an accident on the pitch— the wet, slippery pitch that Roy was forcing them to play on when everyone was muttering that it didn't seem safe?

Is it Roy's fucking fault that he's in hospital?

"Jam Jar," Grandad says. "Shall we go for a walk? I know you don't do well with sitting too much. Let's go move around."

Jamie slaps his hands over his ears, because he's trying to think, and he can't get distracted right now.

How the fuck did he hit his head?

"My head," he says, mostly talking to himself. "My— I hit my head. I hit my head. My head. That hurts."

"Your head hurts?" Grandad asks.

"No!" Jamie shouts. He rubs his eyes. "You, no— my head is... fuck. I hit my head. I don't— know." He forces a breath. "Don't know... how."

"You don't know how you hit your head."

Jamie nods. Still doesn't uncover his ears, but looks over at Grandad and waits for him to explain. The tears on his face are making his cheeks itchy.

"You had a bad slip on the pitch at training. Roy could probably tell you a bit more, yeah? It was an accident— you smacked your head on the ground, and got tangled up with the other players."

He looks at Roy, who's making a face like he's shat himself.

Jamie thinks they might've talked about this already today, but it didn't stick in his head right.

"I— yeah. It was in training," Roy says, slowly and carefully. "I'm so fucking sorry, Jamie. It was raining, and Isaac slipped while he was tackling you, and then Sam tripped over you. It was my fault for making you lot trot about in the fucking rain. We should've been inside for the morning. I was so fucking stupid."

Jamie feels a bit ill.

That's what he thought might've happened, right. He remembers that rainy morning, just doesn't remember getting hurt.

"Why?" Jamie mutters. He grabs at Roy's arm, a bit harder than he needs to, and his throat feels really tight. "Roy. No... I got hurt. You— why?"

Why would you let me get hurt?

Roy loves him. Jamie knows that. Why would Roy hurt him?

"I really fucked it, Jamie," Roy says, looking so sad. "It was an accident, but it's my fault it even had a chance to happen in the first place. I'm doing everything I can to make this better, and I promise I'm fucking trying. I'll do anything you want, make it up to you however I can, yeah?"

Jamie, quite honestly, can't tell how he feels about all this.

It's like— Roy wouldn't do nothing bad to him on purpose. They look after each other, him and Roy, and they love each other loads.

But... he's a bit angry, Jamie's realizing.

His team is playing without him today, because he's hurt, and that's Roy's fault. It's because of Roy that he needs a stupid wheelchair, and that he has to have that horrendous feeding tube formula for every meal. He was normal before this. He could, like, eat and walk and stay awake longer than an hour, and everything.

He squeezes Roy's arm. Forces himself to take a breath. He doesn't like being angry, is the thing. He doesn't want to be.

"You're... sorry?"

He needs to hear it one more time, maybe, and then they'll be okay.

"So fucking sorry," Roy confirms. "I'll tell you every day, if you need me to. Every fucking hour, yeah? I'll never stop telling you."

Jamie nods slowly. He might need that, honestly, with his brain being all fucked, in case he forgets.

"Okay. Yeah." He squeezes Roy's arm again, then slots their fingers together. "I think... I'm mad. At you. A bit. But, um... I love you, Roy. Yeah?"

"You're mad at me, but you still love me," Roy echoes, with his big stupid lovely eyes all wide and sad. He nods. "Yeah. That's alright, Jay. I understand. I love you, too."

Jamie stares at him for a bit.

Roy is his favourite person. It's not nice to be mad at his best friend. He secretly hopes his brain might just forget this whole conversation, and he won't have to be angry anymore.

"The chair," Jamie mumbles, after a moment. "We can— go?"

"Do you want to?"

"Yeah." Jamie pauses. "With, um— with Grandad."

He can see the hurt in Roy's face at that— not being invited— and it's awful, but like, if Roy's knee is bugging him, he shouldn't have to get up and push him around. That ain't fair.

"Okay," Roy says. He stands up to wheel the chair closer to the bed. "You go on with Grandad, then. Can I help you get to the chair? We'll call your nurse to come unhook some of your lines first."

Jamie nods.

"Can you— um, Roy, can you—" He can't find the fucking word, but he reaches out to Roy with both arms, hoping that might make his point. He wants a hug, he just can't say it, and Roy doesn't seem to be getting it. "Roy. Like this."

He wraps his arms around himself.

Roy finally smiles.

"Oh, fucking hell." He laughs softly. "Of course. C'mere."

And Jamie gets the hug he wanted— Roy gives the best fucking hugs. It's impossible to stay mad at him. He'll go for his walk with Grandad, get out of his head a little... and then they'll be just fine.

-

Nobody else wants the captain's armband.

Sam has offered it to nearly the entire starting lineup at this point, and everyone's just rolled their eyes and told him to keep it— Sam's starting to spiral a bit. Even Jan didn't want it, and Jan loves telling people what to do. It's madness.

"Sam," Coach Beard says, a bit of a warning in his tone, "you gotta sit down, man."

"Sorry, Coach." Sam doesn't stop pacing. "I need to keep my legs warm for when we go back out there."

Suddenly, Cockburn's shoving a water bottle into his hands.

"Hydrate."

Sam nods. Takes a sip. Holds out the armband.

"Thank you. That was very captainly of you to remind me."

Declan simply rolls his eyes.

"Just letting the new dad instincts take over, yeah?" He doesn't take the armband, just glances down at it. "Come on. Put it on."

"I can't."

"I'll buy you ice cream after the match?" Sam fixes him a look, and Declan shrugs. "I'm still working out the whole dad thing. Ice cream bribes will work on Clara someday, once she's old enough to eat it."

Sam sighs.

"I would like ice cream very much."

"Well, skipper, you only get it if you do your job." Declan nods. "Be a good lad."

It's a bit embarrassing that that's actually working.

Sam stomps his foot and pouts for a moment, apparently overcome by the spirit of a stroppy toddler... but then gives up and straps the stupid armband on. 

"I will take you up on that, Dec."

Declan rolls his eyes.

"If we win, you can have two scoops."

"Good."

Chapter Text

The rest of the day is a roller coaster. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

They’re only two days into international break, and Isaac McAdoo has dropped off the face of the earth.