#tw: concussion | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

masterwords · 9 months

Text

probably lucky i'm alive

Summary: Derek drives Hotch home from New York (coda to 4x01 - Mayhem) and their car breaks down. It's a comedy of errors but they make the best of it.

Pairings: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 10.5k

Warnings: concussion, bomb mentions, death mention, grief, vomit...Hotch is a whole mess. It's all canon based so if you know the episode you probably have an idea what to expect. Except you know, Hotch is actually hurt in a more realistic way after having a car explode in his face so he is suffering.

Notes: Another Mayhem story. Yep! You're welcome. I think this is my favorite one to date, if that tells you anything. Thank you all for putting up with me! (I wrote this for the "only one bed" prompt for Day 5 of @criminalmindsweek but it took me forever and totally got away from me. They do have to share one bed it just takes 10k words to get there.)

Read on AO3: probably lucky i'm alive

Steam or smoke, that’s the game his mom used to play when her car would go on the fritz. If it’s steam, she’ll make it. Her car will be toast but she’ll probably get to her destination. If it’s smoke, she has to pull over right away before it’s in flames. They went through a lot of beaters when Derek was little, it was more economical for his parents to drop $250 on a new car that would limp them through a few months to a year than to fix problems that would arise on any of them. Fixing anything would have been more than most of the cars were worth.

After his father died, they just started taking the bus for a long time. They didn’t have to play the game with the city bus.

Derek hasn’t ever had to play that game with any of his cars. He’s made damn sure of it. But now he’s playing it with a government issue SUV that should be in tip top shape. He’s playing it on a long road trip back home after a really bad case, a road trip that really just needed to go smoothly. He glances at the dash, checks for indicator lights, checks the engine temperature and the oil pressure. Nothing is indicating that it’s an immediate thing, not yet. The car’s precious sensors haven’t registered what the problem is.

Hotch is asleep in the passenger seat. He’s been asleep since they crossed the New Jersey state line. They’d been talking, just awkward small talk that felt forced until he sort of went quiet. Got a faraway look on his face and then let his eyes drift closed. Derek was glad for it. They’d never had trouble talking before, hell they were practically inseparable from the moment they met but the last few weeks things have been challenging and it came to an explosive climax in New York. Derek thought driving him home might fix it. Or at least put them on the right path.

The trajectory they were currently maintaining was not supportable long term. Something had to give.

After a little too long convincing himself that it’s definitely steam and it’s disappearing, it’s fine, he’s absolutely certain that what is coming out from beneath the hood in fine little tendrils is in fact smoke. And those fine little tendrils are taking on more substance as the miles tick by. There’s no shoulder to pull over on, not here, so he angles the SUV toward the next exit and tries to get them to a safe place to pull over before the engine erupts in flames.

After the night they had, this is about the worst thing he can think of to happen.

“Smoke,” Hotch mumbles, shifting in his seat. He hasn’t even opened his eyes yet but the smell has permeated the vehicle now. “Is that smoke?”

“Yeah, hold tight I’m finding a spot to pull over. Dammit.”

The last thing Hotch needs to see after last night is another SUV in flames and Derek is right, the minute the other man registers what is happening his entire body goes rigid. He’s doing his best not to show it and maybe if it were anyone but Derek they might not see it right away it but he knows better. He knows Hotch better.

“It’s all good, man,” he says in as calm a voice as he can muster when he knows he’s pulling them off of the highway in the middle of nowhere. It’s not really the middle of nowhere, they’re just in that stretch of no man’s land between townships, a place where cell reception is weak at best because you don’t stop here you zip right on through. Unless your SUV starts billowing smoke and making creaking, popping and hissing noises. Hotch squeezes his eyes shut and Derek worries that he’s on the verge of a panic attack but he quickly pulls himself back out of it and looks straight ahead. Trains his eyes on the horizon. There are a few sparse patches of trees among an endless sea of cropped green grass, buildings off in the distance but nothing nearby.

“That doesn’t look good.” Hotch deadpans it, but Derek can hear a little tremor in his voice. He manages to angle the vehicle off the road enough not to be a burden but he can’t justify driving it any further, they’re dangerously close to seeing flames. He can feel the heat against his knees. It would be just his luck to have it erupt while they were both still in it. Lucifer’s poetic justice.

“Yeah, okay it’s not good but we’re fine. She’s overheating. Probably a coolant thing. I’ll take a look as soon as it’s safe, just relax okay?”

Easier said than done. Hotch is watching the smoke curl out from the seams and the smell of it is making him sick to his stomach, taking him back to the night before. To standing on the street watching his vehicle burn. Derek puts his hand on Hotch’s shoulder, a reassuring weight, and squeezes.

“Really. It’s just the engine being a shit head. Nothing to worry about. Worst case scenario we call a tow truck and hitch a ride somewhere to wait.”

Hotch doesn’t move beneath the weight of Derek’s hand, and for a beat too long Derek leaves it there. “Come on, let’s hop out huh? I’m gonna pop the hood and let it air out, see if I can get a feel for it.”

“Do you know anything about this engine?” Hotch has his doubts, but ultimately he does trust that Derek won’t make it worse anyway. A smoking engine seems about as bad as it can get, at least with the vehicle still in one piece.

“I know my way around under the hood.” He smirks a little and catches Hotch doing the same, a brief but welcome change in mood.

He can tell where the problem is, and has a pretty good idea of what needs to happen, but he also knows he can’t fix it. They need a few parts and a lot more experience than he has tinkering around with broken old cars. Maybe if it was a Ford Pinto with carburetor troubles, he could manage it. A faulty alternator? Or a broken muffler that needs a patch job. He became his mother’s personal home mechanic at a young age, helping her limp her broken cars along until payday after his father’s death. Becoming the man of the house at 10 came with a steep learning curve, but as he pops this hood and the smoke obscures the world around him he can only cough and shake his head. Whatever is causing this much upheaval is beyond his limited mechanical abilities. These vehicles are all computerized, he’s

Hotch coughs and covers his nose and mouth with his forearm, turning away from the acrid smell before he really does get sick. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Derek poke around, hiss as the oil cap burns his fingertips and step back. He massages his aching shoulder and sighs.

“Gotta call for a tow. This old girl is toast.”

Hotch’s phone is broken.

Not just broken. Obliterated. It had been in his pocket during the blast and shattered on impact, he’s got a slice on his upper thigh from the broken screen. Derek pulls his out and frowns.

“Of course. No service. I’m gonna take a little walk, shouldn’t be too far. Just sit tight.” Derek starts walking right away, doesn’t even wait for Hotch’s response but he can hear uneven footsteps behind him. Limping, he’s limping and he won’t stop. “Hotch. Come on. Just wait here.”

Hotch scowls and it looks a little scarier with all the bruises and cuts on his face. Derek stops long enough just to lock eyes with him. “The last time you disappeared you drove an ambulance rigged to explode into Central Park.”

“Ahh, very funny. Good one. Thought I was gonna have to wait a year for you to pull that one outta your pocket. Feel better now?”

Hotch smirks and limps behind Derek for a few more steps, not exactly keeping up but moving away from the still smoking vehicle. He’d like to put a little distance between the SUV and his body.

“Hotch. Stay with the car, dammit.”

“No.”

“Hotch. You can barely walk. I’m just gonna go until I’ve got enough service to call for a tow truck, I’ll be right back. Just rest okay?” He no longer sounds sharp or authoritative, just pleading. He’s worried, there’s no hiding it now. Acute acoustic trauma and shrapnel in his leg. There’s no way that’s all of it, Derek can see it plain as day. “You need to take it easy.”

It’s true, he can barely walk. But he suspects Derek can see something that looks dangerously like PTSD in him when he looks back at the smoke plume emerging from beneath the hood of the SUV. And that changes Derek’s mind, he realizes why Hotch wants to move away from it. He can’t fault him for that. Derek doesn’t want to smell smoke right now either. They’ve both had their fill of vehicles and fire.

“Okay, man. You can come with. It’s not like we have anywhere we gotta be. Just tell me if you need to take a rest or something okay? I don’t know how far we’ll have to go to get a signal and you look like shit.”

Hotch won’t say a word. He’ll just limp along with his lips set in a grim line, forcing one foot in front of another no matter how badly it hurts. The further they go the slower he walks, and Derek is checking his phone almost obsessively, willing that stupid little triangle to fill with bars so they can stop. So Hotch will rest.

They talk about nothing. Just bullshitting. Hotch can’t hear very well, his ears are ringing and his head is pounding but he keeps up the best he can. It’s nice, he thinks, being alone with Derek when there isn’t anything really on the line. They’re easing back into that comfortable space again.

“Remember when our car broke down in buttfuck Idaho?” Derek asks, slowing his pace a little. He’s conscious about which side of Hotch he walks on, makes sure he’s near the good ear. The less bad ear, maybe. The one that isn’t crusted with flecks of dried blood. The one that Hotch doesn’t reach up and cover every time a car whizzes by on the interstate nearby. “On that huge stretch of nothing highway?”

“It was 98 degrees,” Hotch says quietly. “But it felt like 150 out on that blacktop. I remember thinking the soles of my shoes were going to melt before we got help.”

“It’s always you and me. Been on a hundred road trips with Reid, never a problem. A few with Em, with Jayj, even Rossi. But you and me? It’s like disaster follows us. My blisters were out of control.”

“Mine too. My socks were full of blood. Dress shoes and socks are not ideal for July in hell.”

“I’m not sure any shoes would have been ideal. That was a nightmare.”

It’s not hot now, the walk is almost pleasant. They’re walking on a stretch of road that butts up to an expanse of green, maybe grass, maybe something else. It’s autumn but the leaves haven’t started changing much yet. There’s a crisp breeze that keeps them comfortable while they walk, it’s nice and keeps them comfortable. Derek keeps checking his phone obsessively, every step he expects he’s moved into a sweet spot. It finally happens about ten minutes in and he stops abruptly.

“Got some bars, I’m gonna get us a tow truck. Pop a squat, man.”

Hotch listens this time. He lowers himself down into the cool grass in the shade of a small tree and leans his back against the trunk. It does feel good to take the weight off of his sore leg. The shrapnel tore through his shin and his knee is swollen, he isn’t even sure why. Maybe if he’d let the doctor really check him over he might not be so surprised when a new pain rears its ugly head...but it doesn’t matter. If he had let the hospital continue checking him out, they would all have died. For once his impatience with doctors, at hospitals, at all of it paid off. His stubborn refusal to play by their rules saved lives.

He doesn’t fancy himself a martyr, he didn’t do it for him, but the unexpected kickback wasn’t so bad.

“Okay. Half hour. We got time to hoof it back to no man’s land even at your snail’s pace.” Derek extends a hand and helps Hotch back to his feet, noticing the way he favors his knee. His entire left leg, really. It seems to be getting worse. “You good to walk back or you need another minute?”

“I’m okay.”

“You sure? I can piggy back you.”

“I’m fine Derek.”

Derek isn’t surprised to hear Hotch say that, he expected nothing else. If Hotch ever owned up to really feeling like shit, he would know they were all doomed. He could read the vocal inflections, though. There were certain tonal changes that he could detect easily, the words were superfluous at best.

“Good,” Derek says, but he starts them out at a slower clip and Hotch notices but says nothing. He appreciates the more leisurely pace. They’re really starting to find their way back now and it’s an easy, comfortable thing. He’s missed this comfort. Adrian Bale’s bomb blasted it to pieces and they never really bothered to put it back together, just mended what they could quickly and let the rest settle where it lay. Hotch didn’t realize until now how badly he really needed this, Derek’s friendship, this closeness. Someone who knows him intimately and more importantly doesn’t take his shit.

“Hey. I’m sorry about Joyner,” Derek says to break the silence. It’s on both of their minds and Derek doesn’t want Hotch thinking that he’s glad she’s dead, or that he isn’t busted up about it. She died on his watch and he’s feeling the weight of it. He’s responsible, culpable. At least in his own mind. They might have had some friction but she was a good Agent and he hated the way everything went down. That she probably died thinking he was a hot head, an asshole. “How well did you really know her?” He heard Emily and JJ talking of course, he’d heard it all but he wants to hear it from Hotch’s mouth. He wants to get Hotch talking, make him open up before he suffocates.

“She came over and worked in Atlanta during the 1996 Summer Olympics when she was with Scotland Yard,” Hotch says, slowing his pace a little. He’s worn out. Pain is exhausting. “She was young and eager, we share a lot of the same traits.” His head is swimming and his chest feels tight. He realizes he just referred to her both in past and present tense and there’s a squeezing sensation as his heart thumps that he doesn’t like. “I was a new recruit with the Bureau and volunteered for some security detail, it seemed like an interesting assignment and would pad my resume. I joined later than most people do, I guess I wanted to make up for lost time. We met at that time and became friendly. When I joined the BAU she called me for a consult on a serial killer she had in London, they didn’t have the resources on behavioral science that we did. I wrote her a letter of recommendation when she decided she wanted to join the FBI not long after.”

“Did you keep in touch?”

“Not well. Haley admitted that she was threatened by my friendship with Kate, so out of respect for her I didn’t pursue it. I wouldn’t have…”

“I know. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“I think I do. I heard the way Prentiss and JJ were talking about Kate and I. And after the way things happened in New York, how the two of you...I owe you an explanation.”

“Nah. It’s good. Really. I never thought you slept with her, not if you were married to Haley. Now...whether you wanted to or not...well that’s none of my business, but I didn’t think you actually did.”

“Maybe an apology, then.”

“Yeah, I’d take an apology…” Derek smiles. He’s not sure he deserves to get one any more than he needs to give one, he thinks everything kind of came out in the wash. But if it’ll make Hotch feel better to offer it, he won’t turn it down. He’d been so angry. He could still feel the last embers of that fire in his belly, the way Hotch looked at him and told him to take a walk, told him it wasn’t his place...yeah an apology didn’t sound half bad.

“An apology then. I’m sorry, Derek. I should have been more open with you. Kate pulled me aside when we arrived and told me that they had their eye on you, that her job was on the line.”

Derek nods and picks up the pace when he sees that there’s a car pulled over beside theirs and someone looking in the windows. The road is deserted, there’s no reason for anyone to be out here unless they were broken down. He didn’t expect anyone to stop and couldn’t remember if he bothered to lock the vehicle. Wouldn’t that just be his luck? Break down on the side of the road and abandon a government vehicle full of case files and other sensitive materials with easy access. Like a big neon sign saying come rob me.

“Hang back a sec,” Derek says, and Hotch grunts his displeasure at being coddled.

“Derek, I’m perfectly capable of...”

“Dammit Hotch. Just listen to me for once okay?” He might be a little too sensitive, but after the case they just put a pin in he’s not sure he trusts anyone that isn’t on his immediate team. The world is fucked and he’s just trying to get them home safely. It feels like things are spinning wildly out of control, a car bomb, the ambulance, their SUV breaking down and now this guy wants to poke around in their business? He’s about to go off and he doesn’t even know what the guy is doing yet.

Derek’s hand is on his weapon as he approaches. He’s an open guy, loves to smile and make friends, but now is not the time. He might be feeling a little over protective of Hotch, and maybe that’s not even warranted but he’s going to listen to his gut right now and remain on alert.

“Saw the car pulled over, thought someone might need help…” The guy smiles, but his body language isn’t friendly. The way he stands tall feels like an attempt at intimidation.

“We’re good buddy. Already got a tow truck on the way. Thanks for checking.”

The man takes a step forward and stares Derek down. Even from his vantage point Hotch knows this is trouble – messing with Derek right now is bound to get messy. “How do I know this is your vehicle?”

Hotch’s head swims and his knees start to buckle. He stands there, comes completely still and he curses his body for its terrible timing. It takes this moment to turn on him? The smell of smoke still emanating from the car doesn’t help, it’s taking him back to a moment in time he’d rather forget. He plants his feet and considers reaching for his weapon too but for the time being, he listens to Derek. The sound of his voice. He’s still in control of the situation. The SUV is full of confidential documents, full of weapons, full of things this man shouldn’t see and he has no idea if he’s been picking through it. Derek is wracking his brain and for the life of him can’t remember if he locked the SUV before they left.

“It’s mine and that’s all you need to know. Back off.”

Derek and the other man are bristling now, too close for comfort. Derek produces the key fob and clicks it, flashing the lights on and then off with a sarcastic smile. Of course, it occurs to him a moment too late that now he’s clicked it he’ll never know if it was locked or unlocked when the interloper arrived. “See?”

“That don’t prove a thing. You coulda found those keys on the side of the road.”

Hotch is about two seconds from being sick all over the ground, and on sheer will alone he manages to produce his FBI credentials before he goes limping toward the two of them. His knees are about to buckle but he’s going to fix this situation without violence first. He’s in no condition to jump into a fist fight, let alone draw his weapon, but there will be no choice if the man goes after Derek.

“This vehicle is ours, sir. There’s a tow truck on the way to help us. I appreciate your concern but it’s under control.”

The man leers at Hotch, and then at his badge, and back at him skeptically. He’s a whole mess of a man with scrapes and bruises on his face, favoring one leg heavily, he looks like the kind of guy who broke out of a hospital. He wouldn’t be hard to take, and Hotch can see him calculating the risk while he studies the credentials. “We’ve got everthing under control.” Hotch repeats himself, a little more firm, rising up to his full height against the angry protest of broken ribs. Recognition flashes in the man’s features, he believes Hotch now. He looks like FBI, there’s not a question in the man’s mind as he takes in the suit and tie, the severity of his set features.

He hesitates though, one last flash of indecision. The items in the vehicle are tempting, whatever they are. And he wants to fight Derek, he wants to do that badly, maybe for no other reason than he doesn’t like his smug face. Still, he gets into his vehicle and drives off without another word, at least not another that either of them can hear. Derek rifles through their things, makes sure nothing is missing while Hotch collapses in the passenger seat with his head in his hands willing the lightheaded feeling and the intense screaming pain in his skull to pass. They never said he had a concussion but he’s no stranger to that, he knows exactly what it feels like.

“You locked it,” Hotch says quietly through his fingers, not looking up.

“You sure?”

Hotch doesn’t want to say why he’s sure, but his body knows he heard that sound. Every part of his body is certain. He felt it in his teeth. “I’m sure.”

Derek pops his head up from the file box in the back and studies Hotch curiously, like he’s putting it together somehow. PTSD. The letters float around and bash into one another in his head, they flash like a neon sign. Hotch is suffering and he doesn’t know how to help him, not out here. Maybe not at all. “You good?”

“I’m okay.”

“Does it ever occur to you not to lie?” Derek asks, sitting down on the edge of the bumper when he’s satisfied everything is intact. The SUV tilts his direction briefly and stabilizes. Hotch lets out a strangled laugh that makes his chest hurt. It would never occur to anyone but Derek to ask him a question like that. They might think it, but no one would ever say it. Not even Dave, he would just raise an eyebrow in that silent judgmental way he has but he wouldn’t make a peep. Derek blurts it out and damn the consequences.

“In my experience, it’s better this way.” He pauses and smirks. “Don’t profile that.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He’s already doing it. There’s no way around it. But he smiles and shrugs like it’s nothing important, like everything is casual and cool.

It’s closer to an hour by the time the tow truck finally shows up and Hotch is reclined in the passenger seat with his arm thrown over his eyes, sick to his stomach. The smell of smoke has permeated everything and he can’t get far enough away, it’s in his clothes now. His best bet has become simply not moving, instead focusing on breathing in and out through his mouth. Moving makes his head swim, makes his brain feel like its come dislodged. They’d been talking at first, but after a while Derek quieted down, like he thought Hotch might get some sleep if he just left him alone. When the driver arrives, Derek catches him before he even gets halfway to the SUV. They go through the paperwork together at the end of the tow truck, far enough away that their voices don’t carry all the way to the SUV. He knows Hotch isn’t asleep but operating under the guise that he’s helping in some way makes him feel better about the situation they have found themselves in.

“Hey,” Derek says, tapping Hotch gently on the shoulder. “He’s about to hook us up then we’re outta here.”

“Thanks.” Hotch doesn’t move until the SUV rocks beneath him and the sound of metal grating against metal fills the air. With one hand pressed against a sudden pulsing in his forehead, Hotch falls out of the side of the car and stumbles away as quickly as his legs will carry him. He’s aware that it probably looks funny, like Igor lurching through Dr. Frankenstein’s castle, but he can’t get away from the sound fast enough. Every scrape and bang makes his skull feel like it’s coming apart at the seams.

“Hotch?”

He raises his hand, tries to keep Derek back. He doesn’t want to be touched right now, he doesn’t want anyone near him. He walks away faster and leans against a tree, breath heaving angrily in his chest. It’s getting hard to pull in enough and he’s aware of just how close he is to passing out. His vision has narrowed to a pinpoint.

“He okay?” the driver asks, thumbing in the direction of Hotch when Derek walks back. He’s concerned, rattled, but he’s got to mask that and pretend like it’s fine. Just get them out of there. That’s his only objective, get them the hell off the side of the road. His only consolation through all of this is that he’s glad it’s him and not Agent Davis out here with Hotch. She’ll be glad when he tells her about it, too. Tells her how she dodged a bullet.

“Oh, uh yeah. Rough night. You know how it is.”

The driver chuckles and shakes his head like he gets it. Like it was a night of hard partying. Derek is content to let him think it’s as simple as a hangover. He wishes it was just a hangover. That this could be fixed with some Tylenol and hashbrowns.

“You guys need a ride somewhere or you got someone coming for ya?”

“If you got one,” Derek says with a smile. “We’ll take it.” He sprints over to where Hotch is hugging the tree for dear life and grabs him, practically pulling him toward the truck. “Guy thinks you’re rocking a wicked hangover. Just go with it.”

Hotch nods, or tries to anyway but the movement is too much so it’s stunted and he stops, miserably resting his forehead against Derek’s shoulder for a moment. He leans heavily on Derek while they walk, willing his body not to give out on him, not here on the side of the road, not in front of a perfect stranger. Doesn’t have much choice though, if it’s going to it’s going to and that’s just how it goes. He’s about out of energy to control the way things go.

In the truck, Derek slides into the middle seat and lets Hotch take the window. He rests his head against the cool glass and closes his eyes, hands clasped in his lap. Giving some kind of an image that he’s got it together, that he’s not a dead man walking. As the day wears on, he becomes more and more aware that there is more wrong with him than he’s been willing to admit or explore. All he wants is a bed and a few hours of sleep, convinced that will fix the worst of it.

The engine is too loud and Hotch instantly feels sick when the pain strikes. He can’t get away from it, he’s trapped in the truck and the sound is a hot knife picking around in his brain. The driver smiles and turns the radio on, unaware of Hotch’s plight. He’s not going to say anything. “There’s a little motel next to the truck stop a few miles up ahead. They can fix your car up at the mechanic shop a little further down, you boys can stay the night at the motel if you need to and there’s a greasy spoon right there too. One stop shop.”

“Good deal, man. Thanks for coming out. You’re a lifesaver.”

It’s hard to rest in someone else’s vehicle. They’ve seen too much. Derek does his best to form a sort of human shield between the driver and Hotch, just in case anything gets weird. Hotch is vulnerable and it’s just radiating off of him, he can’t hide it anymore. It’s going to be pretty obvious it’s more than just a hangover soon and no Derek doesn’t exactly think the tow truck driver is a serial killer but he’s still on edge. It’s in his nature to be suspicious.

So, he talks. He strikes up every conversation with the driver he can think of until they arrive at the mechanic shop. It’s an hour before they get there, and he’s not sure if Hotch slept a wink but he didn’t say one single word the whole time. He was just lost inside of his head, willing the pain to settle, willing his body not to give out entirely before he has somewhere to crash.

The mechanic shop is small, derelict vehicles practically piled up all around it. Half junkyard, half mechanic from the looks of it and the land it sits on stretches as far back as the eye can see. It doesn’t instill confidence in Derek that the mechanic shop is surrounded by acres of junked cars and trucks but he doesn’t have much choice. “You saw the motel we passed? It’s nothin’ special but they got beds.”

“I did,” Derek says, not giving it much thought. They can just call someone back at Quantico for a ride but he’s not going to say that. The guy has been more than helpful, he’s been kind, he had great taste in music. Derek found himself enjoying the ride when he could stop himself from worrying about Hotch for a minute or two.

“Hope it don’t take them too long to fix you boys up. Feel better, buddy. Get you some gatorade and some greasy food. They got biscuits and gravy over there that’ll cure anything.”

Hotch doesn’t think either of those things will fix his problems but he thanks the man anyway. What he really needs is a bed and a week long nap. He’s starting to feel completely detached from his life. Like he’s just out here bumping into things, un-tethered, and everything hurts.

While the mechanic checks out the vehicle, runs a complete diagnostic, Derek calls Penelope. He knows he should probably call Strauss first, or Rossi maybe but he calls Penelope because he’s about as anxious as he can possibly be and he needs to hear her voice. She’s been sending him a barrage of texts all morning, most of which he isn’t even seeing until right now because he’s been in and out of service.

“I can try to send a car but it’ll be about 6 hours before they can be there,” she says. “They’re all being used right now. That is if Strauss even approves it. She’s going to throw a fit about you guys breaking this car after what happened last night.”

“Yeah, like any of that last night was our fault. Plus we didn’t break this car, we didn’t do anything but drive it.”

“Be that as it may, sunshine, light of my life, she’s going to blow a gasket. Much like your vehicle. Do you want me to try and get someone up there? Or if you don’t mind waiting I can drive up when I finish here...”

“Six hours?” he asks, frustrated. “Nah. I don’t want you driving all the way up here like that and I don’t think Hotch will fit in your car anyway. We’ll just stay the night, drive this car back if they can get her road ready or figure something else out tomorrow. I don’t think Hotch is up for any more excitement. He’s dead on his feet, I just need to get him somewhere quiet and leave him be.”

“That bad?”

“I think the sound of the tow truck hooking up our SUV almost killed him. He’s a wreck.”

It’s a slow walk to the motel, and Derek is avoiding telling Hotch that there isn’t anyone coming to get them. Right now Hotch just thinks they’re going to find somewhere to sit, maybe grab a bite to eat and wait it out. He’s got to find a way to break it to him that they’re stranded. The way Hotch is walking, it’s doubtful he’ll mind much when met with the alternative: a bed. Right here. The motel looks quiet enough, nothing fancy but it’ll have a bed and a shower and by the looks of it, blackout curtains. It all seems like a recipe for sleep if he can get Hotch there without a fight. He doesn’t look he has any left in him.

“Is someone coming to pick us up?” Hotch asks.

“Nah. It was gonna be like 6 hours at best, then we got 4 more hours in the car. Garcia offered to drive up when she’s off work but I figure we just stay the night here and get back on the road in the morning, that guy said it should be an easy fix, at least enough to get us home in one piece.”

Hotch isn’t keen on the motel thing and the “one piece” bit doesn’t instill him with confidence, but Derek does make a good point about waiting until morning. He’s beat and as much as he’d like to tell Derek he’s fine, that excuse wore itself out hours ago.

The motel room has pink floral comforters and turquoise carpets. It’s an eyesore. The blankets are scratchy and thin, and the rooms smell like cigarette smoke but Derek was right, the blackout curtains covered a multitude of sins. They could sleep the afternoon and the night away if they so desired. They were able to splurge with their per diem and each get their own room, adjoined by a thin door just in case. Derek insists that the door remain unlocked, just in case. Strength in numbers. He’s really just laser focused on the fact that Hotch isn’t as okay as he wants everyone to believe.

“You hungry? There’s a greasy spoon attached...I could go for a burger and fries. We can try to blow your hangover away.”

Hotch forces a smirk at that and nods. He is hungry, and the last meal he ate was long enough ago that he couldn’t remember exactly when or what it was. And if he eats then he can take the percocet the doctor so kindly prescribed. That should have been a dead giveaway that his body was a complete mess if the doctor, who barely had a chance to look him over, would prescribe such big guns.

The diner is small, only a few booths scattered inside of a dark room. The roar of the semi-truck engines outside the window echoes in Hotch’s head and he rests his head on his hand, covering his painful ear carefully. Trying to be casual about it so he doesn’t alarm Derek. The man has been making too much fuss today. Touching it hurts but that’s less than when sound enters therefore better.

“What happened in the ambulance?” Hotch asks, sliding a fry absentmindedly through his ketchup. He wasn’t as hungry when he sat down as he thought so he stuck with a turkey sandwich and a side of fries. A safe bet. Derek talks on the third pass through the red glob, waiting for Hotch to finally put the damn thing in his mouth instead of playing with it.

“Garcia blocked the cell signal with her crazy magic just long enough for me to get the ambulance away from people. I jumped out and booked it out of there just before the thing went up. Don’t think I’ve ever run so fast in my life. You know those stories about the moms lifting cars off of their kids to save their lives? It felt like that. An out of body kind of thing I guess. I jumped and rolled and somehow got right to my feet and just ran like fuckin’ Forest Gump. Wish you coulda seen it.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Nah, I’m alright. A little sore but it’s all good. This is what I work out for, right? I got far enough away before it went up.” He pauses and sips his water, willing Hotch to just eat the damn fry. The poor thing is about ready to break off and sink into the ketchup like it was quicksand. “You would have died, Hotch.”

“What?”

“I know you were gonna do it and there is no way you would have gotten away from it in time. You can barely walk. As soon as we realized what was going on, I knew you were gonna try to drive it outta there and everyone would have let you. Hell, you drove it in, you already knew the thing, and you’re Hotch. Right? They all think you can’t get hurt, you’re invincible, nothing happens to Hotch. No one would have argued with you.”

“You would have.”

“You’re damn right I would have, but you know what happens then? We die arguing. Everyone dies. The arguments we get into get pretty epic. No time for that, man. I had to stop it before it got to that. If you want, we can go at it now.”

“I don’t.” He finally bites into the fry and Derek grins like he’s just won a prize.

“Not even a little? Come on...I know you’ve got something to say...”

“You already win.”

Yeah, Derek thinks. Hotch is in bad shape. Not even willing to argue.

Derek wants to say something else, something helpful or positive, he’s not sure exactly what but he’ll wing it...his phone buzzes just before he has a chance to open his mouth. Hotch takes the opportunity to drag himself out of the booth and limp toward the hostess stand to pay the tab. Derek sighs and glances down at his phone, not overly interested in answering it but it’s Spencer and he can’t let that just go to voicemail. He’d feel awful. Spencer has been sending him texts all day too, worried and kind of desperate ones.

“Are you okay?” he asks, clearly agitated when Derek picks up. He doesn’t even start with hello. His voice is a high-pitch whine in Derek’s ear. “Garcia told me your car broke down. I can come get you. Just tell me where you are.”

“It’s fine kid. We got this little roadside motel we’re gonna shack up in and our car should be good by morning. I think Hotch is glad not to be in a car. He probably needed another day of rest before travel.”

“Well a car did just blow up in his face. How is he anyway?”

Derek sighs and watches Hotch move slowly toward the restroom. He’s limping hard on his left leg, using the backs of the booths for support when there isn’t anyone sitting there.

“Not good. He won’t say anything of course, but he’s in bad shape.”

“Watch for signs of PTSD.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s a little early, but I’m looking.”

“What about you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah kid, I’m fine. Got some bumps and bruises, found some grass and twigs in my boxers when I went to bed last night...looked like I got into a fight with Sasquatch or something but I’m good.”

“You guys are too much alike.”

“No, I’m serious. I’m okay. I got away from the thing before it exploded, ran like hell. I tumbled a little in the grass and breathed in some smoke but I’m good. Promise.”

Reid keeps him on the phone a little longer, and Derek is pretty sure he’s being profiled through their conversation but he lets it happen anyway. If it makes Reid feel better to do it, he won’t argue. He’s not hiding anything.

They walk back to the motel in amiable silence, hardly any space between them on the stretch of broken sidewalk between the diner and their rooms. At almost timed intervals, Hotch seems to dip, like his knee is giving out on him and Derek twitches, ready to reach out and catch him if he goes down. It’s not a fun game to play.

It’s hardly late afternoon, way too early for bed in Derek’s book but Hotch looks beat so he doesn’t argue about retiring in the daylight even if it makes him feel like a geezer. “What’s your plan?” he asks, fitting his key in the lock. Hotch takes a minute, fumbling with his own key and shrugs.

“A shower and sleep.”

“Yeah, shower does sound good. I can still smell the smoke on my clothes.”

Hotch nods and hopes that Derek won’t look too far into that himself, it’ll just make him come through that door that adjoins their rooms every half hour to check on him. He’s doing everything he can to avoid Derek’s scrutiny. It’s all well-meaning, he’s not doing it for work, he’s doing it because he cares but Hotch isn’t ready to address anything except the immediate pain in his head and the smell of smoke on his clothes. And even then, he’s willing only to do that in private.

“You get a hankerin’ for pie or something later, give me a shout okay? Doesn’t look like there’s much nightlife here but we could watch a movie or something.”

“Sure.”

Derek is in the shower before anything else. The minute his door is shut he’s throwing his bag on the bed and turning on the hot water. He’s not worried about anything other than just washing off the day. The smell of smoke and motor oil are pungent enough to make him gag if he thinks about it too long. Getting under the spray of water and forgetting, relaxing, is all he wants. Hotch is as safe as he can be tucked into his hotel room, and Derek can hear him on the other side of the thin wall moving around.

The hot water rushes over his sore shoulder and he rotates it, loosening angry muscles. No clicking. He’s not hurt, not badly, just sore. Exactly like he said.

At his feet, soap suds collect near the drain in little cloud mountains. The drain is slow and the tub is collecting a little more water than he’d prefer. As he stares down at the suds, he pushes his toes through them and over the drain cover to see if there is something obscuring it. His toe touches something with a lot more substance than bubbles and as he pulls his foot back, it moves. He tells himself that it’s just his mind playing tricks on him. There’s nothing there.

But then it moves again and he takes a step back so he can bend over and get a better look. That was a mistake. He realizes it once he’s hunched over, catches a glimpse of something like a worm swish in the water and beady eyes blinking up at him, calm and collected. It’s a mouse, and it’s in the damn shower with him. He takes another step back but this one is hastier and he doesn’t pay attention to anything, his eyes are locked on the mouse.

He hears the snap before he feels the metal slicing his heel, scraping and pulling at the taut skin. A mouse trap, he’s just stepped on a mouse trap and now he’s crashing to the ground more out of surprise than pain. As he lands with a deafening thud, he does the only thing he can think to do. The only thing he’s ever thought to do in situations like this since joining the BAU.

It comes out so naturally it never occurs to him not to.

“HOTCH! HOTCH!”

He wishes he hadn’t done it immediately. Hotch is hurt, he doesn’t need this shit, but it’s done and he can already hear the door that adjoins their rooms flying open. It’s too late. All he can think to do is throw his hands over his dick, hide what he can before Hotch is in the bathroom and throwing the curtain back.

His gun is aimed right at Derek, right at his junk. “Woah, woah, hey,” Derek says automatically, turning away from the gun like that’ll do any good.

“What is it?!” Hotch asks, lowering his weapon, glancing frantically around the room to catch a sight of what could have scared Derek so badly. For a second he wonders whether he actually heard anything or if his mind was playing tricks on him. The thought chills him to the bone. If he’s just broken in on Derek in the middle of a shower for no reason…

“Sorry man, I’m sorry...there’s a damn mouse...I panicked…”

Hotch sees the twitch in the bubbles, sees the tail and reaches for it. His hand snaps forward, fingers pinching through soap suds and he comes up with the mouse dangling in his grip. The thing seems so calm and collected it doesn’t even flip around in his hand, it just hangs there. His lips twitch at the corners and he smiles, turning toward the door to walk it outside. Catch and release. Though he has his doubts about how long it’ll stay outside. A few minutes, maybe.

Derek’s chest heaves and he grunts, trying to sit himself upright with some dignity. There’s a mouse trap digging into his back dangerously close to his ass and he’s not exactly thrilled with this situation. Hotch comes back in once he’s gotten out and wrapped a towel around his waist.

“You’re bleeding.” There is blood on the floor behind Derek’s foot and he glances down at it, craning his neck to see the damage.

“The trap snapped my heel.”

Hotch waits for more, an explanation, a wild story, but he gets nothing. Derek is still on edge, staring at the tub like it might sprout legs and start walking around.

“There are traps in my room too,” Hotch offers finally. “I didn’t see any mice, but I called the front desk. They have an exterminator coming tomorrow.”

“They couldn’t say anything when we checked in huh?”

Hotch shrugs and leans against the counter for support. He’s been getting dizzy spells all day but they’re coming more frequently now. “She said she’ll comp our rooms.”

“This is fucked.”

Derek can’t believe how unbothered Hotch is over this entire ordeal. Before he has a chance to ask why he’s so calm about it, he hears a scraping sound behind him and looks back to find a mouse slipping down the sloped wall of the tub. “I can’t sleep here.”

“You can stay in my room. Strength in numbers.”

Then it hits him. The way Hotch stands with his hand planted against the counter, the way he sways a little on his feet, he’s taken his percocet. He’s half cocked on pain meds. The thought makes Derek laugh, and feel both jealous and guilty all at once. He was ready to zonk out in bed when Derek shrieked his name and even in the state he’s currently in...he came running. Damn that big softy, Derek thinks. He’s kind of cute in his slacks and t-shirt though.

“You sure?”

“Get your bag. Hurry up.”

Hotch’s room looks lived in. Torn apart. The blankets are pulled entirely off the bed and left in a heap at the foot, chair on top of the desk, the furniture pulled away from the walls where he could get it. It looks like Axl Rose and a bottle of top shelf whiskey got paid to do the housekeeping. Derek has to laugh at the absurdity. “You checked for mice huh?”

“There’s a trap beside the trash can, saw it right away.” His words slur just the smallest amount, and Derek detects a hint of the south in the accent that slides with it. “No mice. So far.” What Hotch doesn’t say, what he only implies, is that he’d planned to be passed out before any of them made an appearance. Out of sight out of mind.

“I’d say I’ll take the floor but that is not happening. We’re getting cozy.”

“Be my guest.”

Hotch falls asleep almost immediately. Derek finds the remote and clicks around aimlessly through channels, stopping for a while on jewelry infomercials and spaghetti westerns that hold his interest only mildly. Every so often he glances over at Hotch who looks almost peaceful with his head cradled in his arms against the thin pillow. He’s curled up beneath the papery sheets and the scratchy comforter like it’s the most comfortable nest in the world and Derek finds himself more than a little frustrated and jealous. He’s buzzing, he won’t be sleeping a wink, which really doesn’t work because he’s got to drive in the morning as long as their car is ready to go. No way Hotch is in any condition to get behind the wheel.

He’s certain he won’t sleep but eventually it does happen, he nods off while he’s still sitting up and watching a Jackie Chan movie marathon. His chin tucks into his chest and he leans slightly to the side as his eyes slip shut.

They sleep for hours while the world continues buzzing right outside. The late afternoon sun gives way to a deep orange blaze of sunset that melts like a popsicle on hot cement as it drips in beneath their blackout curtains. Derek is lost in some kind of fiery dream he’ll barely remember when he hears a thud and a whimper beside him. His first thought is mouse, huge fucking mutant mouse and his eyes shoot open.

“Hotch?” he asks, patting the empty place on the bed beside him when he realizes he’s alone. “Hotch where are you?”

He can hear it before his eyes adjust, Hotch dragging himself along the turquoise carpet miserably toward the bathroom while he gags, trying to fight off the sick. Derek leans over the edge of the bed and squints, watching the shadow of his friend move and then the bathroom door closes and he’s on the outside listening to it.

Hotch sounds miserable. There’s no hiding it, no pretending it’s anything but what it is. Derek knows that Hotch has a concussion and with that comes a slew of symptoms that neither of them has done a very good job of managing or even acknowledging.

When he comes back, he’s on his feet but just barely. Derek pretends he didn’t see him crawling, pretends he hasn’t spent the last fifteen minutes listening to him getting sick. His instinct is to once again ask if he’s okay, but that’s a pretty stupid question at this point and all he’ll get for his trouble is a lie.

“Rumble in the Bronx…” Hotch rasps through his raw throat, all but collapsing on his side of the bed. “Haley’s sister Jessica loves this movie.”

“It’s a classic.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t recommend you for the job,” Hotch says on the verge of tears, completely out of the blue. One minute it’s Jackie Chan, the next it’s a sob fest. Derek can’t keep up no matter how hard he tries. Hotch’s head hurts worse than it has all day, like someone is pulling his skull apart with a crowbar. There is no relief except what little he can do to distract himself, and sleep isn’t going to do the trick. Not now. So he’s going to try talking. “I should have. It was childish.”

“What was childish?”

“I didn’t want you to leave. It was never about Kate. I just don’t want to lose you…”

“Lose me?” Derek asks, his heart leaping into his throat. He’s a little concerned that this sudden outpouring of emotion means something is terribly wrong so he mutes the television and turns to focus on Hotch half-expecting to watch him having a stroke or something equally terrifying. But he just looks normal. Drained, half-lidded eyes sensitive to the small amount of sunlight seeping into the room but nothing alarming. “Hotch, all I ever do is fight with you. You’re gonna miss me being a pain in your ass?”

Hotch nods and lets his half-lidded eyes slip closed. He can tell Derek wants to argue, wants him to bristle a little. He wants to see that he’s okay but his head is splitting and he doesn’t have the energy to keep up with that. It’s an abrupt change of course, avoiding the inevitable argument and he just barely manages it. “Do you remember the room we got in Idaho? When someone finally found us out on that highway and gave us a ride to town?”

“Do I ever. That place was worse than this one. The water ran brown and there were cockroaches everywhere. They were in the fuckin’ fridge.”

“I’ll take mice over cockroaches,” Hotch whispers, pressing his face into the pillow. The pressure on his forehead feels almost soothing. “Your feet had to hurt as bad as mine, but you walked down to that gas station and bought bottles of water and a bag of ice and that styrofoam cooler so we could soak our feet in water that wasn’t brown.”

“Nothing ever felt as good as that ice. I’ve never had sex that felt better and I’ve had some good damn sex.”

Hotch smiles a little wistfully while his stomach knots. “We used the whole box of bandaids in my go-bag.”

“My feet never hurt so bad in my life.”

“Me neither. Derek,” Hotch says, rolling on his side. It takes all of his strength to make his body move that way and the pressure change in his head is instant and furious. He takes a couple calculated breaths before he’s able to continue. He just has to say this...it’s important and getting the words out might just kill him, he’s starting to get that panicky feeling that comes with the knowledge that the injury he’s been ignoring for days might be more serious than he wanted to admit. Either that or his mind is shot to shit. He has no idea. It could just be panic, it could be the sound of the trucks outside putting him on edge. He can barely tell up from down anymore. “I don’t want to let you go. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You keep saying that you’re gonna lose me…isn’t it up to me if I even go? Who says I want that job anyway?”

Hotch looks up at him and offers him a sad little smile. The tears in his eyes might be from the swell of emotion or the intensity of the pain in his head, he’s not sure at this point. “I would be lost without you. Everyone thinks I can’t be hurt, you said it yourself. They all have this idea that I’m invincible, and I am only able to be that way because you’re beside me. Look what happens when…”

“None of this happened because of anything you did. You know that.”

“Maybe if my judgment hadn’t been so clouded, if I hadn’t been so focused on Kate keeping her job I would have seen what was happening sooner.”

“None of us saw it. This isn’t on you. We’re a team and we failed collectively.”

It’s not within Hotch to believe something like that, not when everything stacks up in his favor. But Derek is trying to cheer him up and he’s not in any shape to mope around, he’s got bigger problems than etching what-ifs into his conscious. He’s got a splitting headache and all he wants to do is sleep it off, his eyes are practically closing of their own accord now. It’s probably the worst concussion he’s ever had and that’s saying a lot, he’s had some real winners.

“Are we cool?” Derek asks, tossing the remote onto his nightstand. Hotch doesn’t have an opportunity to answer before two mice come darting out from beneath their bed at the sound and Derek nearly jumps out of his skin. He slides quickly to the center of the bed, crashing into Hotch’s prone form and Hotch can’t help but let out a small laugh. He thinks it’s kind of cute the way this big strong man who can face down the biggest monsters humanity has to offer is terrified of these tiny little creatures. Slowly he drags himself upright and rests his aching back against the headboard.

“There’s one on my side too,” he adds, figuring Derek will want to know that. He saw it when he fell out of bed and dragged himself to the toilet. There’s at least one mouse between them and the bathroom and that seems like a pretty big deal now that Derek is practically clinging to him. “They have us surrounded.”

“I’m never sleeping. It’s all I can hear. I can’t close my eyes.”

“You should have stayed a little closer to the ambulance when it exploded, your hearing could be ruined like mine. I don’t hear anything, and even if I did the headache makes it impossible to think about anything else.”

Derek makes a sarcastic ha-ha-ha and leans against Hotch. They’re cool, he knows it now. Whatever weirdness had settled between them was gone now. “You remember how we passed the night in Idaho?”

Hotch gives Derek that little smile that only shows some of his teeth, it’s a little devious and not many people get to see it. Derek likes to think that this smile belongs to him. “I might need a refresher. Head injury and all.”

“Oh. Yeah. Head injury...you gonna milk that all night?”

He really wants Derek to kiss him right now. It’s all he can think about, the only thought rattling around inside his skull. It bypasses the circuits of pain and takes center stage. After everything he’s done and said, after everything with Kate, he can’t be the one to reach out and make that first move. It’ll be too much.

Derek knows it too. He knows it and he wants it, but he’s having a little fun teasing. He leans forward, pressing their foreheads together and whispers something Hotch can feel against his lips but he can’t hear. And Derek knows damn well he can’t hear it above the high-pitch ringing in his ears. Asshole. Hotch swallows hard and decides he’s going to take the bait, whether he heard what Derek said or not.

He’s right there. No space between them, nothing else to do with this moment. He’s got a bruised jaw and a split lip, a headache that’s bordering on emergency level pain even for him...what he really needs is another painkiller and some sleep but what he wants is Derek and at this point he thinks he’s made that pretty damn clear.

Derek gets to it before Hotch decides to. The contact is soft and sweet, a little hesitant until he feels Hotch move with him, hears the small strangled sound in the back of his throat that tells him all he needs to know. He’s gentle, hand cupping Hotch’s jaw, his lower lip sliding between teeth, all breath and heartbeat and Hotch can feel the warmth spreading down the length of his spine. He’s trying to play it cool but Derek can sense it, the way Hotch presses harder into the touch. Like it’s inconceivable that Derek could let him go, could break the connection. He presses into it like it’s giving him sustenance.

“Ringing a bell?” Derek asks between kisses, one hand sliding down Hotch’s arm, gripping his wrist, pulling him in. Hotch hums and nods, smiling into the litany of small kisses that he hopes are leading to something bigger, deeper, something that’ll erase every memory and every sensation that isn’t Derek.

“Getting there…”

Derek is content to spend all night reminding him of that time in Idaho, a time when everything was simpler. Hotch and Haley hadn’t been married yet, they’d decided to take some time apart before taking the plunge. Carefree time to explore what else was out there, just in case...and Hotch found Derek out there and that was good, so good, but too complicated. He isn’t sure it isn’t still too complicated. It’s probably worse now, he’s got an ex-wife and a child and more responsibility...but he’s also got a newfound appreciation for how quickly it can all be taken from you, too. He lost Kate and nearly died himself the night before, and if that isn’t enough to tell him how fast things change he’s not sure he’ll ever learn that lesson. Derek is here right now and his kisses are just as intoxicating now as they ever were, and he’s pretty sure that the New York job will remain unfilled for the time being...so, complicated or not, it’s a chance worth taking.

They’re content to continue this slow, quiet reintroduction to their past while ignoring the mice that skitter around in their carpet. In the morning they’ll call Penelope and ask her to send them a car and a driver, neither of them will be in any condition to drive...instead, they’ll sit in the back seat and sleep all the way back home.

And after that? Who knows. They’re not going to make plans, they’ll just wait and see. Things change pretty damn fast.

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #hotchgan #criminal minds #fanfiction #another mayhem story?#more likely than you think #mind the warnings!#tw: vomit #tw: concussion #tw: explosion aftermath #hurt/comfort #criminal minds week 2023 #day 5: only one bed

26 notes · View notes

sortofanobsession · 5 months

Note

If you look up Lionel Messi and soccer, you’ll find a bunch of articles about his problems with gagging and vomiting during matches. I’d like to plant a story idea in your head about Jamie having that same issue.

Author's Note: I know I promised this earlier, and I know I promised a birthday sequel, but this is the most chaotic week of my entire year for work. So the other might be a bit delayed. Sorry about that.

Zava is a bit out of character in this. He's meaner than he actually was on the show. I did that because I needed a sort of trigger for Jamie's anxiety. Jamie is confident, or at least presents himself to be, and absolutely sure of his own abilities, Zava in the show does make him doubt himself, but not enough to create this level of anxiety. My husband has the same type of anxiety, especially when it comes to his job. He went thorough a program to help him, but my husband was dealing with it for the first time. Jamie, I have him set to have sort of dealt with it before, because with Jamie's history he probably would have. But again, this is all canon divergent.

Pairing: RoyJamie

Word Count: 6k+

Content warning: Anxiety, vomiting, nausea, panic, fear, manipulation, verbal harassment, physical violence, bruising, injury, blood, head injury, ultimatums, concussions, stitches, angst, anger, swearing/cursing/cussing.

With a little help

Jamie used to be better at managing his anxiety. Or at least he thinks he was. Maybe he was just better at, what had Keeley called it? Right, compartmentalizing, a weird word, but yeah. He really didn't know much about this stuff. Maybe it was just easier when he was a prick and didn't care what anyone thought. He knew he was the star, and he was fucking brilliant. But now, he had so much more to lose. Sure, it had wracked his nerves thinking he couldn't lose and his dad would punish him. But the anxiety over that was manageable as long as he was winning. But things are different now. Zava was the star. Zava was taking his friends from him. His dad must be pissed about that. Jamie feels like he’s going to be sick for, well, he’s lost count.

Roy looks around the locker room and everyone is there and eager for the match, all but one.

“Where the fuck is Tartt?!” the coach demands.

“Loo,” Jeff tells him.

“Again?” Sam asks.

“The fuck you mean ‘again’?” Roy did not like the sound of that.

“Been in and out of since he got here,” Colin says.

“Does he plan to play sick because that is not a very good idea,” Jan Maas says.

Roy heads to find him, and Jan Maas might be on to something because he can hear Jamie throwing up. Something uneasy shifts the coach’s own gut. But Roy knows what he is feeling, just now why. He knocks on the door. He hears a bunch of noises, including rushed movement and water. Jamie rushes out and glances at the clock. And Roy does not like what he sees. Jamie is already sweating and shaking slightly.

“Shit, sorry coach, I’ll go-”

“Nope,” Roy states. “Cockburn can start, you-”

“I'm fine, coach, I can play,”

“Not if your fucking sick, if it's contagious-”

“It's not, I swear, coach, it's not like the flu or something,” Jamie tried, but Roy knew what he heard. He eyes Jamie skeptically and surprises himself as he reaches up to feel Jamie's forehead. Roy ignores the odd feeling in his chest at seeing Jamie’s cheeks color.

“I-I told you,” Jamie insists. “It's not like that, not a fever.”

“Something you ate?” Roy asks.

“...maybe?”

But Roy isn't sure if he should believe him. The coach sighs. “Get cleared by the med team, and you can go in, but until then, Cockburn goes in.”

And Roy is a bit surprised when Jamie doesn't fight him.

The team is too busy getting ready and listening to Zava for Roy to tell them.

“You're going in for Tartt,” Roy tells Cockburn.

“That bad?” The forward asks.

Roy grunts but doesn't give him a direct answer as he goes to the whiteboard and makes a few adjustments. Not that it changes much but the team finally notices.

“Cockburn is in,” Roy tells the other coaches.

“What happened? Is Jamie okay?” Ted asks.

“Waiting to see if fucking med clears him for the second half,” Roy states. “Fucking Tartt.” But as annoyed as he might be, he doesn't like the idea of Jamie not being alright. The team was finally set up to have a real chance at winning. Jamie Tartt had seen to it. Hopefully, he'd get it out of his system. But it wasn’t just that. Some part of Roy was just not happy that Jamie was unwell. He’s just not sure that bugs him so much.

“How is he?” Roy asks Gail at the half.

“A bit dehydrated, but good to go,” she tells him.

“Fucking good,” Roy says, and he means it because he feels more relieved knowing Jamie is okay than he had expected. “Let's go, Tartt! You're going in!” The match goes well, but Roy can tell something isn’t right with Jamie Tartt. So he decides to keep a closer eye on the forward.

It happens again before a few training days. And Jamie brushes it off as adjusting to a new morning routine. Again, Roy doesn’t really believe him, but he doesn’t force the issue. Not when Jamie is still up and training. But he can’t ignore it during their next match. Jamie actually throws up on the pitch and gets pulled from the match. Roy glares daggers at Zava as the newest striker complains about Jamie being a distraction. And it's not the first time he has. Roy makes his way to the treatment room and waves off the med team. So it is just him and Jamie.

“Alright, Tartt, fucking out with it,” Roy says. His arms crossed over his chest like he was trying to keep how worried he'd been growing inside his chest.

“Think I already did on the pitch,” Jamie winces.

“We both know that isn't what I fucking meant,” Roy tries to keep it together because he knows Jamie's history. He knows about Jamie's father. But Jamie isn't helping himself here, so.

Roy is going to have to be the one to do it. “Tartt, I need to know what is going on with you because this isn't the Jamie Tartt I know. And I don't fucking like it one bit.”

The way Jamie sinks deeper into himself has Roy quickly adding. “You fucking dying or something? You're fucking freaking me out, Tartt.”

“I’m not dying,” Jamie tells him. “Not even actually sick.”

“Then tell me what the fuck this is,” Roy says, and Jamie doesn't answer. Roy ignores the voice in his head with worse-case scenarios and moves to stand right next to Jamie. “Jamie,” he says in a softer tone. “I cannot help you if you don't talk to me. I need you to-” Roy doesn't even get to finish before Jamie sobs. Roy is momentarily gobsmacked before, without even really thinking, the coach pulls Jamie against his chest.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters more to himself than Jamie, but Jamie must think it's directed at him because Jamie just cries harder. So Roy just holds him tighter. Everything inside Roy Kent is telling him that he needs to do something. Because seeing Jamie like is like a knife in the heart, he'd do anything to cheer the striker up. And his brain doesn't seem to have much input either because Roy hadn't even realized his hand had gone up and was running through Jamie's hair, over and over to help calm him. But he doesn't stop because it actually seems to be helping as the sobs slowly turn into sniffles.

“I've got you, Tartt,” he says as he does. And when the treatment room door opens, and Jamie goes to pull away, Roy doesn't let him. The last thing he wants is for Jamie to close off and shut him out.

“I…uh…just need to grab a few things,” Gail says. The look on her face is one of surprise and slight amusement. “You're good.” She grabs what she needs and leaves.

“Well, that was embarrassing,” Jamie sniffles, it's muffled in Roy's shirt. And Roy huffs a laugh.

“It's fucking fine, just breathe and maybe tell me what is wrong.”

Jamie shifts, so it’s mainly just his forehead against him, and he takes Roy's advice. He takes a few deep breaths. He doesn’t pull away yet. Not fully. He’s almost too scared to look at Roy. But the way Roy's hand is now rubbing soothing circles on his back has him shifting and glancing up at Roy.

“Will you tell me now?” Roy asks.

“It's…it's just anxiety.”

Roy’s hand stills as that sinks in, but he recovers. His hand moves again because he doesn't want to make it worse. Doesn’t want Jamie to think that upsets Roy. He knows how Jamie gets when he thinks he’s upset someone.

“Okay, that's…okay,” Roy says. The coach is trying really hard to police his actions now. “Is this new or just worse than it was?”

And Jamie isn't sure if he'd ever heard so many words without the older man swearing, ever. And Jamie isn't sure how to feel about it. He didn't know if he should tell him that it was because of Zava.

“It's not new, but I thought I beat it ages ago,” Jamie says honestly.

“Okay, what changed?” Roy asks. And the coach can feel the striker’s muscles tense as Jamie starts to pull away. That didn't bode well. So Roy changes his tactic.

“Jamie,” Roy starts. “Tell me how I can help you?”

And that surprised Jamie. “You…you want to help me?”

“Of fucking course I do,” Roy says honestly.

“Because you're my coach?”

“Because I need you to fucking be okay. So what do you need from me?”

“Help me?” Jamie says. And the sad way Jamie says it grips Roy’s heart. He puts a hand on the back of Jamie's neck.

“Fucking easy, done. Just tell me how.”

“Train me?” Jamie asks, and Roy nearly laughs because if Jamie just needs some extra one-on-one to get past this, he will spend every minute he isn't with Phoebe or the team training with Jamie.

“Fuck, yeah, we can do that,” Roy grins because he has had worse-case scenarios going through his mind, and this, this is something he can and will do. “We can start tomorrow if you want.”

“Yeah, really?”

“Yes, Tartt, really.”

They train every morning before joining the team for official training. It's mostly just conditioning and talking. Roy hopes it helps Jamie get a handle on his anxiety and gets his confidence back.

Roy goes to Jamie before their next match.

“How you feeling?” Roy asks him.

“I'm okay,” Jamie says.

“You sure?”

“I think so.”

“Well, if that changes, let me know.”

“Sure, coach,” Jamie nods. When he turns back, the striker notices a few of his teammates looking at him funny. “What?”

“He didn't swear once,” Cockburn points out.

Jamie just shrugs. And Jamie thinks he might be okay until right before the game.

“Try not to lose your lunch or the game this time,” Zava nudges Jamie's shoulders as they head out.

And that has the knot in Jamie’s stomach returning. And he thinks he might get sick, so he slows down as they exit the tunnel. But Jamie hadn’t noticed that Roy had been watching him like a hawk. And the look on Jamie's face for just a moment before the striker can mask it is all Roy needs to see. The coach has to count to 10 to avoid murdering Zava on Sky fucking sports. He goes straight to Jamie.

“Whatever the fuck he said, ignore it,” Roy tells him.

“I don't know if I can-”

“Jamie, look at me,” Roy grips Jamie's shoulders. “You are Jamie fucking Tartt, and unlike that prick, you don't need to take your teammates down to be the star.”

“But I used to,” Jamie argues.

“But you matured, got better. He is a massive fucking prick. He wants to fuck with you because he KNOWS you are the only threat to his stardom on this fucking team. Stay focused on doing your job. Ignore him. And if you get the ball, do what you think is best.”

Jamie nods. “Okay, yeah, thanks, Coach.”

The match goes well, Zava still has to have the most attention, but Roy doesn't give him any. Ted and the others can manage that. Roy goes to Jamie.

“Well done, Tartt,” Roy tells him.

“I didn't do much, barely got the ball,” Jamie says with confusion.

“But you played without incident,” Roy insists.

“Guess training is paying off,” Jamie says. “Thanks, Coach.”

Roy smiles. Jamie’s stomach flips, but not due to anxiety or feeling sick. No, this is different. This is a good feeling because Roy fucking Kent is smiling at him and telling him he did well.

“Training tomorrow still?” Jamie asks.

“I think you earned a day off,” Roy says.

“What if I don't want one?” Jamie says honestly.

Roy considers it. He still has to meet the rest of the coaching staff to go through tapes. And oh boy does Roy have a point to make during that, but the last thing he wanted was Jamie backsliding.

“Tell you what, we can go over the match over breakfast,” Roy offers.

“Deal,” Jamie nods.

Roy thought they were finally getting in front of the issue as Jamie seemed to be doing better. Until one morning, Jamie fails to meet him for training. And he wasn't answering his door. Roy had never been so glad he had talked to his sister about Jamie's anxiety. She had insisted Jamie give someone a spare key. Because someone, mainly someone who lived closer than Manchester, to help make sure that his issues don't escalate. That someone needs to make sure Jamie isn't a danger to himself. Jamie picked two someones. Roy and Keeley. And without hesitation, Keeley had agreed to help. But this was the first time Roy had considered using the spare key Jamie had given him for emergencies.

Roy's heart is pounding in his chest as he opens the door. He begs the universe that this isn’t one of the worst-case scenarios his sister had told him after he asked her for help. He closes Jamie's door.

“Tartt?” He calls out. Nothing but silence greets him, and that makes his stomach churn. He digs his phone out of his pocket and heads straight for Jamie’s bedroom. He hoped he wouldn’t need his phone, but just in case, he pulled up the call screen.

“Jamie?” He calls out again. Nothing at first. He calls again and hears a noise in Jamie's bathroom.

“Jamie?” He says and knocks. He hears a sniffle. “I'm coming in.” And before Jamie can tell him no, Roy opens the door and finds Jamie leaning over the sink. His grip is so tight his knuckles are white on the edge of the sink. From a slight distance, Roy does his best to look Jamie over for any sign of injury. No blood. That was good. But he could tell this hadn’t just started by the bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes that looked at him with regret and possibly fear.

“Overslept,” Jamie manages. “Sorry.

Roy takes a deep and calming breath. Jamie is in better shape than he had expected, but the what-ifs still nag at him. He hauls Jamie into a hug.

“Roy?” Jamie asks in confusion.

“It's fine,” Roy says. “Everything's going to be fine.” Jamie isn't sure if he is saying it for him or not, but he doesn't fight it. He grips Roy's jacket tight. They stay like that for a bit.

“Come on,” Roy says, tugging Jamie by the wrist. “In,” Roy says, gesturing to Jamie's bed.

“But we have training,” Jamie says with confusion.

“Not for a few hours,” Roy states.

Jamie opens his mouth to argue, but his brain fails him when Roy removes his jacket and kicks off his shoes. “You going to stand there like a fucking prick, or you going to do as you're fucking told?”

Jamie silently crawls into his bed. He then watches in shock as Roy does too. Roy checks his phone, sets an alarm, and looks at Jamie.

“Fucking relax, Jamie,” Roy says, then lays down. Arms open in invitation. “You look fucking knackered, and you had me fucking worried. So make up your mind.”

Jamie is not sure if he is dreaming, but he isn't going to argue. He cuddles into Roy's chest, and Jamie has never felt warmer or safer in his life.

“Sleep, Tartt,” Roy tells him. And he does.

Jamie wakes up warm and content for once. He reaches for his alarm but realizes it's on the wrong side of the bed. Then he remembers what happened. It was Roy's phone. Roy was the warm body beside him. And Jamie's heart soars. Roy had been the only reason Jamie has been able to function recently. He really adores Roy.

“Feeling better?” Roy ask.

“Mmhmm,” Jamie hums.

“Good because we have training, so up you get,” Roy says.

Once Jamie is up and dressed, he heads down to find Roy in his kitchen drinking a cup of tea. He holds out a shake because he's gone over Jamie's routine with him multiple times. And Jamie knows he is officially lost on Roy fucking Kent. And Jamie knows there isn’t a way he is coming away from this anything but in love with his coach. Well, more so than he had been most of his life. He had fancied Roy for ages, but that had been that. Now Roy is in his kitchen and has spent the last hour sleeping in Jamie's bed with Jamie.

“Jamie?” Roy calls, snapping Jamie out of his thoughts. He shakes the drink again. “Yes or no? If you can't, then we-”

Jamie accepts the shake with a quiet thank you. And Roy watches Jamie. He seems to be doing alright now. But Roy doesn't want him to get antsy, so the coach looks down at his tea.

They head to Roy’s G wagon, Jamie not even arguing. It's quiet until Roy parks at Nelson Road.

“Now, you don't have to tell me what happened to cause what happened this morning, but…” Roy says, looking at Jamie.

“Just something Zava said yesterday got under my skin. You said to ignore him, and I'm trying. It's just not easy. Didn't sleep well, but I'm okay now.”

“Okay.” Roy reaches over and grips Jamie's shoulder. “If you need a break, tell me. We can take one.”

“Thanks,” Jamie smiles at him.

Shouting in the locker room has the coaches rushing out of the office. Dani Rojas and Colin Hughes stand between Jamie and Zava.

“The fuck is wrong with you?!” Jamie spits.

“I saw you with -” Zava starts, but Roy isn't having it.

“Everyone shut the fuck up!” Roy shouts. Jamie's eyes snap to his. And Roy sees a red mark on Jamie's face and would have lost his shit if Beard hadn't gone to check Jamie's face. Jamie lets him. Beard doesn't miss how the striker keeps glancing at Roy.

“Nothing broken,” Beard assures them.

“What in the blue blazes is going on in here?” Ted demands.

No one says anything—a number of players glancing at an irate Roy.

“Fine,” Ted says. “Beard, maybe a few laps will jog their memories.”

The team groans, but they go out.

“Not you,” Ted says to Jamie. Roy glares at the gaffer. The assistant coach swears he sees Zava smirks as he leaves.

“You fucking kidding me?” Roy snaps, but much to Jamie's surprise, it isn't directed at him but at Ted.

“Look at his fucking face, and he's the one that in-”

Ted shakes his head. “You strangling the team’s wringer in front of them might damage morale a bit, coach.”

Roy grunts but doesn't say anything else because Ted has a point. If Zava had opened his mouth again, he’d have the imprint of Roy’s boot all over him. It’s a dangerous thought but an undeniable one. Zava touched Jamie, and that is just not fucking okay in Roy’s opinion. He’s still fucking livid though.

“You alright, Jamie?” Ted asks the player.

Roy’s anger gives way to concern at the way Jamie’s hands bunch up in his kit. The striker looked like a kid who got caught stealing biscuits.

“Jamie,” Roy says as he goes over and tips Jamie's face up to look at him. A slight bruise forms and that has a mix of emotions swirling in Roy’s chest. “How much does it hurt?” Roy needs to know.

“‘m fine, Roy, nothing I can't handle it.”

“You used to handle broken ribs and not tell anyone,” Roy counters. “I need more than that, Tartt.”

Neither of them sees how shocked Ted is as he watches the pair. Roy went from furious to soft spectacularly fast in the gaffer’s book. And he isn’t sure he’d ever seen his assistant coach this gentle with anyone other than Phoebe.

“The team ended it before it could get worse,” Jamie says.

That gets Ted’s attention. “What exactly was ‘it’?” the head coach asks. Jamie looks between the coaches. Roy just reaches over and rubs Jamie's back. And Ted has even more questions now. But he knows he needs this answer first.

“Zava told me I should be benched, that I'm a distraction, especially…” Jamie hesitates, looking up at Roy. Roy just nods. Jamie looks back to Ted. “Especially to Coach Kent.” Roy lets out a bitter laugh but doesn't say anything. His hand did not stop its repeated course along the striker’s spine.

“How did that lead to you having a bruised face?” Ted asks.

“He had leaned into my space to say it, and you know me, I'm in and out of everyone's space always. So it shouldn’t have bothered me, but I didn't like it. I didn't want him there. So I shoved him back towards his spot. He didn't like that.”

“So a scuffle broke out until the boys stopped it,” Ted finishes.

“Not exactly. It was more the team scrambling to protect Zava, and I don't know who, but I took an elbow to the face. I…I don't think it was intentional.” They look up as the door opens. A couple of members of the med team enter. “But he kept saying that he knew. Didn’t make any sense.”

“Right, okay,” Ted says. He waves them over to look over Jamie's face. He taps Roy's shoulder and nods at the office. Roy nods. Ted goes to the office.

“You good?” Roy asks Jamie.

“Yeah,” Jamie says, offering the coach a weak smile. “Not like I'm going anywhere.” He gestures to the medics.

Ted closes the door once Roy is inside.

“Something you need to tell me, Coach?”

“Zava's a fucking prick and has been giving Jamie a hard time.”

“That’s it? I thought you helping train Jamie was working,” Ted says. “That he was right as rain.”

“I thought so, too, but he missed training this morning. Turns out Zava got under his skin yesterday like he just fucking did now, and with the anxiety Tartt already has, he barely slept. Found him crying and fucking gripping his counter like he didn't trust his own fucking legs. I got him to get a bit more sleep.” Ted didn't need to know that he did so by joining him in bed. “He is off his game already, and Zava just tipped the fucking scales. And now Zava thinks he fucking won. I'm not going to fucking sit here and let that prick isolate and bully-”

“And what is Jamie to you, huh? What's your next word, Roy? Your what?”

“Player,” Roy growls. “My fucking player. Because whatever you are implying, well, you can fuck off. And I'm fucking disappointed in you, Lasso. You made me put an end to the hazing of the kitman that fucking betrayed you. Betrayed all of us. But now that it's Zava targeting Jamie, who has been a fucking punching bag his whole fucking life, and you know it, it's nothing. Not on my fucking watch.”

“Alright, fair point,” Ted says.

It is painfully silent until Ted goes to check on Jamie.

“He's good to play, just a bruise,” the medic tells them.

“Great, let's get you out there,” Ted says, clapping Jamie on the shoulder. Jamie looks at Roy.

“Right behind you,” Roy assures him.

Ted decided to keep a close eye on Zava, especially when he was anywhere near Jamie. Things went fine during drills. He didn't miss the way a few players glared at Jamie as they finished running laps. Ted called Beard over and sent him inside after a few words. Isaac had confirmed that Zava had been talking to Jamie, Jamie shoved Zava, and the team stepped in. No one owned up to knowingly elbowing Jamie. So Ted had them run drills. More glares. Jamie’s shoulders slumped, but he looked over at Roy. Roy went over.

“They're fucking idiots,” Roy tells Jamie. “He’ll fuck up eventually. Tip his hand. Don't let him drag you down. He did this. Not you. Keep going.”

Jamie nods and joins the team.

Ted isn't sure he likes how Jamie keeps his head down. And Roy was right. Whenever someone glares at Jamie or ignores the other striker, Zava doesn't stop them. Zava seems to find it amusing. That was not good.

A bit later, Beard comes out with a tablet. He waves Roy over. Jamie's attention is drawn to the coaches when he hears Roy swearing and leaving the field. Jamie fights the urge to follow him. He turns to head back to drills when a ball hits him in the head painfully hard.

Roy hadn’t even reached the tunnel. When hears several people shout Jamie’s name. Roy's blood ran cold as rushed back to the field.

“He was distracted,” he hears Zava say, and the only reason Zava isn't picking his teeth up off the pitch is because Beard catches him, followed by Will.

He knows what happened without even having to look. Although Jamie was waiting with all the other players, the drills were running away from him. Jamie had gotten hit. Hard. This means someone did it intentionally or had gotten very bad at the basics.

“Jamie needs you,” Beard says. And that doesn't quell the other assistant coach’s rage, but it does change his direction.

“How is he?” Roy asks as he reaches Ted.

“Conscious,” Ted tells him.

“For Zava's sake, he better stay that way. I swear-”

“I know, Roy,” Ted says. “Go with him. We’ll handle it.”

“You fucking better,” Roy grits out before following the med team as they take Jamie away.

“Roy!” Keeley joins him where he is waiting in the hall. He was watching the med team work through the glass window. “Rebecca said it was Jamie. What happened?” Roy hands her the tablet he had retrieved. Much like the locker room video, the video of what happened on the pitch was sent to him. Keeley played the video and gasped. Zava had kicked the ball directly at Jamie. And the striker had one hell of a kick. Jamie went down instantly. Jeff and Sam were there in seconds, followed by most of the team.

“Poor Jamie,” Keeley says as she hands him the tablet.

“Stay with him,” Roy instructs as he walks away.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“To make sure this is fucking handled!” He spits back.

Rebecca startles as the gaffer’s door is thrown open.

“Roy,” Ted says as the manager drops back down in his chair. “The wall didn't deserve that, but I think we can ignore that for now.”

Rebecca frowns but agrees.

“How is he?” She asks.

“Three fucking stitches and a concussion at least,” Roy says, going to grab a number of things from his desk. “Maybe worse, they were still with him.” He kicks his drawer when it doesn't close—the pair wince.

“Why aren't you?” Ted asks.

“Keeley’s there,” Roy states.

“That's good,” Rebecca says.

“You say that now,” Roy tosses the tablet on the desk. The video paused on Zava kicking the ball.

“Roy…” Ted starts.

“Don't fucking, ‘Roy’ me. Fuck no. This fucking prick goes, or I do, Tartt too. I fucking told you he was fucking with him.”

“You don't mean-” Rebecca starts, but Roy cuts her off.

“Fucking do it, or I will send that video to Sky fucking sports. I am FUCKING DONE!” Roy slams the door as he goes into the locker room. The handful of players in there flinch. He isn't sure if it's a blessing or a curse that Zava isn't there.

“What’s going on, Coach?” Sam asks as Roy moves to collect Jamie's things.

“Is Jamie hurt bad?” Dani Rojas asks.

“Like any of you fucking care,” Roy angrily states.

“It's Jamie,” Dani says. “Of course we do.”

Roy bitterly laughs. “Could have fucking fooled me.” Once the coach is sure he has what he needs, he turns towards the team.

“I have never been so fucking disappointed in any fucking team in my life. This is exactly what he was terrified would happen. You fucking pricks didn't even fucking notice.”

The locker room was unusually quiet as the team prepared to leave after training. Zava isn't even there anymore. And no one has heard anything about Jamie yet. Roy had not come back.

Sam checks his phone.

“Oh no,” he says.

“What?” Colin asks. “What is it?”

“Check the team chat?”

Colin frowns.

One by one, the team is shocked that Roy and Jamie's numbers are removed from the team chat.

“That's not good,” Jan Maas says.

“No, it isn't.” Sam agrees.

Keeley had been keeping Jamie company after the med team said he could go when the coach got back. She smiles at the way Jamie sits up as there is a knock at the open door, relaxing when he sees it’s only Roy. Jamie’s never been truly afraid of Roy, but she knew that Roy being there made Jamie feel safer. Like nothing, and no one is getting past Roy to get at him. It was actually rather adorable. Roy was like that with people he cared for, especially those he loved. And she had a feeling Jamie was now one of those very select few. Roy loved Jamie. Jamie loved Roy. She knew it. She just hoped they’d figure it out sooner rather than later.

“Time to go,” Keeley says. She gets up and kisses Jamie's less injured cheek. “Call me if you need anything. Get better, babe.” She pats Roy’s cheek as she passes him.

“Here,” Roy sets Jamie's stuff. “Can't have you in your bloody kit. Then we can head out.”

Jamie goes to stand up and wobbles on his feet, and Roy knows that's not going to work. He kicks the door closed. “Right, let's get this done.” He carefully helps Jamie change. He avoids making eye contact with the striker as he does because that was a line Roy couldn’t cross now. He wasn’t sure his fucking heart could take it. A bruised Jamie Tartt, shirtless and trusting Roy to look after him. That did fucking things to Roy that Roy was not ready to deal with. Especially since Jamie had a concussion.

“Thanks,” Jamie mumbles since his system is flooded with painkillers.

“Ready?” Roy asks.

“Yeah,” Jamie says with a nod. He winces at the flair of pain that causes.

“Alright, words are fine. No need to rattle your brain even more.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Jamie barely says anything as Roy drives to Jamie's flat. He manages to get the injured striker inside, cleaned up and in bed. Jamie is in and out of it most of the day. It's not until the following day that Jamie really wakes up, his head throbbing, and realizes that Roy has spent the night and has been taking care of him. Jamie finds pills and water beside his bed and a note telling him to take them and come downstairs. Jamie can barely look at his own face in the mirror as he does what he needs to in the bathroom. He shouldn't be surprised to find Roy in his kitchen again, but this time Roy moves to meet him as Jamie makes it down the stairs.

“Morning,” Roy says. “Seem more steady on your feet already.”

Jamie hums and shuffles to the kitchen.

“Sit,” Roy tells him, and Jamie does. Roy gets him a cup of tea and a plate of food. “Eat.” Jamie looks unsure.

“Jamie,” Roy says, lowering himself to Jamie's eye level. “You need to eat, or those pills will tear up your stomach. And with all the stomach issues you’ve had recently, we don't want to make it worse.” Jamie agrees and eats. That's when he notices the time. The team would be well into training. And Jamie understands why he isn't going to training. But Roy should be there.

“Not going in?” he asks.

“No,” Roy states. Jamie can't see all that well right now, but he can still tell that Roy doesn't look happy.

“Roy, you don't have to babysit me,” Jamie insists.

“Your loss,” Roy says. “Phoebe thinks I'm a fantastic sitter.”

“She's 8, and you are her most favorite person in the world,” Jamie says.

“Yeah, because I'm the best fucking sitter,” Roy says with no sign of sarcasm or humor.

“You're serious, aren't you?” Jamie asks.

“You're head's fucked enough, you don't need me being a prick.”

“Okay, but-”

“I'm not going in because I told them if they don't fucking deal with Zava, then I'm not going back.”

Jamie can’t believe Roy gave them an ultimatum because of him. “You have to go back,” Jamie tells him.

“Not really,” Roy assures him.

“The team needs you,” Jamie argues.

“The team needs not to have a fucking asshole that does this kind of shit on fucking purpose.” And Roy knows he fucked up when Jamie rushes to his feet. Roy follows Jamie as the younger man barely reaches the toilet to lose what little he has eaten. Unfortunately, that means his meds too. And between the pain and the anxiety, Jamie can't take it. He sobs, and Roy holds him tight.

Roy doesn't move other than to comfort the injured man. Only when Jamie can breathe without gasping does he even consider it.

“Why?” Jamie manages to ask.

“Why would I not go back?” Roy asks for clarification.

Jamie nods.

“Because I'm not going to work for a fucking hypocrite. Lasso made me deal with you when you were a prick, and you changed for the better. He let Zava do the same shit too long, and it's only because he pulled this shit in front of the whole fucking team and was caught on security cameras; it’s a problem. Told them to deal with it, or I would send the video to Sky Sports.”

“Is that even legal?”

“He knew what the fuck he was doing,” Roy tells him. “And so do I. Zava wants to keep his fucking reputation, then he has to fucking leave.”

“And if we start losing again?”

“Is the league worth the fucking pain? Seriously, this fucking idiot is beyond fucking help. I won't watch him ruin your life just so the team wins. I'm sure the team would agree if they knew.”

In the afternoon, Jamie's phone is practically blowing up with messages, and his head hurts. So Roy tucks him back in and takes his phone so he can let the pain meds work and get some rest.

“The fuck did you do?” Roy answers his phone.

“Hello to you too, Coach,” Ted says. “How is he?”

“I had to take his phone away because he threw up his morning meds, and it was constantly going off.”

“We showed the team the video,” Ted says. “So they could understand why Zava is off the team.”

“So he's gone, good. Fucking took long enough.”

“Had to ensure he wouldn't try to turn this around on us. Or worse, you and Jamie.”

“If any of those idiots show up here and ring the doorbell, I will make them miserable.”

“They shouldn't. They know he needs to rest and heal.”

“Good.”

“I’ll tell him when he wakes up.”

Roy sits on the edge of Jamie's bed. He gives in and runs his hands gently through Jamie's hair to wake him. He can’t lie to himself any longer. He cares for Jamie a lot more than he should, but he can’t help himself. He smiles at the way Jamie hums and leans into Roy’s touch.

“Got good news,” Roy says, which seems enough to wake Jamie the rest of the way. “Zava's off the team, and the team’s more worried about you than anything.”

“He's gone, and they aren't mad?”

“Not mad at you, for you, maybe, but not at you.”

“Not mad at you either, right?”

“Maybe, but only because I took your phone away so they couldn't talk to you.”

That makes Jamie chuckle.

“This means you're going back, right?” Jamie asks.

“Yes, now up you get. Food. Meds. Then you can have your phone.”

Jamie hates sitting on the sidelines as the team struggles to score match after match. Knowing he's the reason Zava is gone twists something in his stomach. And knowing that the team has a friendly in fucking Amsterdam, of all places, makes him even more anxious. Roy is worried even before anyone packs for the trip. Keeley had texted Roy that she was supposed to help him pack since she hadn't spent much time with Jamie recently, but Jamie's not acting like his usual self. He might get to play in Amsterdam, so they both figure it's nerves about getting back into it. So Roy goes over. The three of them get dinner, but Keeley has to leave after. Roy thinks Jamie's doing okay, but the minute the coach asks what Jamie's going to do outside of the match in Amsterdam, he sees how Jamie starts to sweat and pale slightly.

“Jamie, look at me,” Roy says, and when Jamie seems to be too in his own head, Roy grips the striker’s face as gently as he can since he is still a bit sore. “I'm here, Jamie. You don't have to be scared of anything. You can tell me or don't tell me. But I'm not going to leave you like this. Fuck, I'll pack your fucking bag, you might not like it, but I will.” That earns a breathy laugh from the player. “I'll be with you every step of the way if you need me to.”

Jamie can't help it. He leans his forehead against Roy's and closes his eyes. Because that actually is extremely helpful. It does make him feel so much better.

“Fuck it,” Roy mutters. With a hand on the back of Jamie's neck, he shifts until his lips find Jamie’s own. He feels that Jamie shutters at the sensation before it's like the younger man puts all his energy into returning the kiss. When they break for air, Roy checks to ensure Jamie's cuts don't reopen. Jamie crawls into Roy's lap and kisses him.

“Feeling better?” Roy says, a slight grin pulling at his features.

“Fucking fantastic,” Jamie grins.

2 notes · View notes