Archive of Our Own

“Can I get sprinkles?” Violet asks, peering over the edge of the counter at the veritable rainbow of flavors before her.

“You may, if you stop smudging up their glass, you monkey.” Trent takes one of her hands from where it’s pressed up against the glass of the ice cream case and holds it in his.

He turns to Ted on his left. “What’s that the Americans say? Pick your poison?”

Ted grins. “What a tasty way to go out,” he says, innocently as anything, then turns to order a scoop of chocolate chip and a scoop of strawberry from the teenaged girl behind the counter.

Violet orders her own cone of double chocolate with rainbow sprinkles, confident and eloquent as Rebecca Welton herself. Trent is not thrilled this is the first comparison that comes to mind, but he’ll allow it.

Trent orders and pays for all three of them while Violet has dashed off to buzz around Ted where he stands near the door of the shop. When he rejoins them, Violet is halfway into some tale about her friend Sasha from school, and Ted is nodding along with genuine interest.

He holds the door for them both. Violet doesn’t take a breath, and boldly chooses to walk backwards rather than break eye contact with Ted.

“Well heck yeah,” Ted is saying. “I’d watch an episode of Daniel Tiger over Thomas the Tank Engine any day, that’s a no brainer.”

Violet looks delighted with this news.

“Walk properly, please,” Trent scolds gently, and she pouts but turns around to walk forwards in front of them a few paces, engrossed again in her ice cream.

Trent cuts a searching look to Ted, and only gets a smile. He smiles right back, then takes a bite of his ice cream.

“Whatcha got?” Ted asks, gesturing with his own waffle cone.

“Rum cherry.”

“Ooh boy that sounds good. Better be sure it’s virgin.” Ted quips.

“Hardly,” Trent says, dry as unbuttered toast.

Ted chuckles but then draws a sigh. “Yikes, that was a bad line wasn’t it? Maybe I’m a little rusty when it comes to flirting,” he says.

“Ted, I believe we’ve done nothing but distantly flirt for two years.” Trent takes another bite then says, matter of fact, “Don’t worry too much, I find it charming when you fumble things.”

When Trent looks over, he can see a blush, rosy and stark on Ted’s round cheeks.

“Is Teddy coming home with us?” Violet asks, twisting around for a moment but then remembering herself. 

“If he would like,” Trent says, posing the question without asking.

“Sounds fun,” Ted says. “I’m free like Tom Petty this evening, so why not?”

“Would you like to stay for tea?” Trent asks.

“Ah no, I’m on the wagon.”

Trent grins wryly. “No. Dinner. Sometimes referred to as tea. Though we’ve already effectively ruined our appetites, so it may be some time…”

“Tea is tea and tea is also dinner? Gee, just when I think I’m figuring this place out.”

“Would you like to stay for dinner, then ?” Trent asks again, slow.

“Sounds better than me slapping a ham sandwich together all by my lonesome.”

“He can play you a song on our piano. He loves to sing me songs on the piano,” Violet says, walking backwards once more.

“I don’t sing ,” Trent says, stooping down to jeer at her without an ounce of malice. 

She turns frontwards again. “You do! You sing the do-re-mi song and the one about the crocodile.”

Ted gasps. Trent rolls his eyes and braces himself.

“Elton, is that you?” Ted shouts, glee written all over him at getting to tease.

Trent glances around them. “Politely… shut up. You don’t understand what any single person on this street would do if they heard you shouting that.”

Ted grasps his bicep in conciliation, strokes a hand down the sleeve of his blazer a bit. 

“Henry likes it when I sing him songs too. Probably cuz I’m darn goofy when I do.”

Trent smiles, and looks down at Violet. Any so-called goofiness had always been reserved for her and her alone. It wasn’t his nature. That was the composure and decorum presented in the press room, and it had been all too easy for Ted Lasso to wear through it. He doesn’t quite know what he’ll do now that he’s got the two of them. 

-

On the topic of decorum, Trent forgets his place is an absolute nightmare.

Well. Ted knows every secret there is now. Why be worried?

“Pardon the mess,” he says, not embarrassed so much as he is resigned, going about snatching up the half-empty teacups scattered over the coffee table while simultaneously folding a pink blanket and gathering a stuffed dragon, a skipping rope, and a hula hoop.

“Chef don’t judge,” Ted says, taking up the mantle of resident Roomba, pacing the living room.

He tarries at the edge of the room where the upright piano is, the neatest surface in the room. He spots Trent’s electric guitar leaned in its stand in the corner, half forgotten, nearly a fixture of the room.

“You in a band?” he asks, smiling in his sweet, genuine way. “Moonlighting gigs? Wait a minute, that why you were never in the press box?”

Trent glances up from his mad rush of tidying. 

“I was in a band in uni. And no, you’re not permitted to ask any follow up questions.”

“What’ll it cost me to negotiate at least one?” Ted bounces on the balls of his feet.

Arms full, three mugs in one hand, the dragon’s tail end poking from underneath his elbow, Trent opens and closes his mouth. He sighs and droops resolutely.

“We were called Monks For Hire,” he says deliberately, then marches off to deposit the toys at the bottom of the stairs, calling after Violet to come and put her things away.

She stomps down with her little gray cat cradled in her arms.

“This is Meghan,” she announces to Ted.

“Awww, she sure is sweet. Gonna give me the sneezies though if you get too close.”

The cat leaps from her arms, so naturally she must dash away after it. Ted takes a prim, practiced step out of the way.

Trent goes to the kitchen to deposit the mugs in the sink, and checks the cupboards for anything he can scrounge together for a decent meal now that he’s promised it.

“How about pasta?” he calls over his shoulder, rummaging around. “With a cream sauce. Ah…” He checks the fridge, sniffs the cream. “Yes, a cream sauce.”

When he shuts the door, Ted is there, grinning with his hands in his pockets. “I do a mean Alfredo if you’ve got the parm.”

-

Ted’s got the butter, cream, Parmesan, and four different spices Trent didn’t even know he had spread across the counter.

He moves about the kitchen like it isn’t the first time he’s even been here, even somehow finding the measuring spoons on the first try without asking which drawer. 

“Man City’s behind,” Trent says, leant against the counter, reading from his phone with his glasses perched on his nose.

“Well ain’t that nice,” Ted says, stirring at the stove.

“I do love it when you fake enthusiasm for an opponent’s loss.”

“Poor bunch-a guys, and poor Pep. He’s a nice guy, ain’t he?” Ted sprinkles in more garlic.

Trent looks sidelong at Ted over his glasses. “Pep Guardiola?”

“Yeah, who else?” He stops stirring and glances over. “What?”

Trent arches a brow and goes back to his phone. “Nothing,” he draws out, slow and skeptical, smirking surreptitiously.

“You’re gonna tell me I’m wrong?” Ted asks after a beat. “Guy works the sweater-necktie combo like nobody’s business. It’s…”

Trent sets his phone aside, putting his elbow on the counter and setting his chin in his hand, staring up at Ted.

“It’s what?”

“It’s…” Ted gestures with the spatula. “Nice.”

Trent grins.

“Well. Perhaps my sights have been rather singularly occupied as of late.”

“I do love it when you say ‘perhaps.’”

Trent hums and relishes a long look at Ted, early evening light from the kitchen window haloing him in pale blue-grey. It’s a sight to see indeed. Ted Lasso in his kitchen with a pasta sauce recipe led entirely by intuition, accidentally giving up his secret crushes. Domesticity is not a thing that’s ever done it for Trent, nor is it now really, but Ted walks through life seemingly intent on endearing himself to everything and everyone, so that… that must be it.

“Seems like you’ve got a handle on things here,” he says, suddenly struck with an idea. He slips away from the counter, letting his hand trail across Ted’s shoulders as he goes.

“Hang on, where you going?”

Trent gives a grin at the door and—he’ll take it to the grave—waggles his brows. Whatever this man has done to him will be irreparable for some time.

He crosses the living room over to the piano and opens the storage in the bench to rifle through his music books.

He’d probably choose something modern for Ted. Something he’d know. As a personal rule, Trent has nothing country western or folk. Shifting through a few others, he spots just the thing. 

It has been quite some time since he’s found the time to play for any other reason than to entertain his daughter, a low-pressure performance since she couldn’t care less about providing any relevant criticism. He doubts Ted could even notice how rusty he might be, but all the same, playing for someone, making a gesture like this…

He sits and rights his posture, spreads the music out over the stand. He takes a long moment to look at the title. Yes, he does think this is quite perfect. He tucks his hair back behind his ears and begins.

The beginning melody starts in its melancholy way, resonant and warm all through the room. Ted’s a room away, but even with the barrier, the sound feels suddenly vulnerable. He supposes that was his intention, anyways, so better to stick to it now.

Elton’s Rocket Man has always been a favorite song of his. Many ways to see it, many ways to think on it. It’s easy enough to play. A simple melody that repeats with little change, but it builds beautifully, especially when muscle memory from years ago takes over and Trent can deviate from the written music a bit.

His interest in music had waned when he was with Michael. Nothing as dreary as Michael snubbing his talent or greedily taking up all of Trent’s headspace so that he fell out of the habit. His life was just turning and changing. He took his first job at the Mirror and promptly wanted to leave. He was writing his arse off, grabbing at anything and everything, so there wasn’t room in his head nor room in their flat for a piano back then.

He remembers a Christmas at Michael’s parents’ house, when Trent had sat at the piano in their living room and played ‘O Holy Night’ and ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful.’ Michael had kissed his cheek and set an Old Fashioned atop the upright. Then, when they went to bed, he started up some needless argument about Trent spending too much time talking to so-and-so at the bar when they’d been out with their friends three nights prior.

This piano was second or third hand, but resolutely well-kept. He'd gotten it when Violet was still a baby, with hopes that he could pick up where he’d left off and perhaps she could take an interest when she was old enough. He’d only just begun to let her plunk around on it and he’d been teaching her scales when she had enough patience and focus to sit.

He isn’t where he used to be, and any sense of skill on the guitar has probably gone all to shite. But it is something he still enjoys and finds quiet in when he needs it.

Eventually, he leads the song to its end and lets the last chords bloom long and low until they fade away.

He puts away his music, lest it be subject to Violet’s penchant for origami, and breezes back into the kitchen.

“How’s it coming?” he asks casually. 

Ted looks over his shoulder from where he’s still at the stove, and Trent can see that his eyes are gleaming.

Well. This had been in the cards but not necessarily a given. Not necessarily his intention.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ted says. “Just a real nice song is all.”

Trent steps up beside him and touches a hand to the back of his hair. He reaches round to kiss his temple, then turns to the cupboard to retrieve the pasta.

-

Ted’s Alfredo is a hit. Trent fears Violet will ask for it when Ted is not around to make it, and he wouldn’t dare ask a magician his secrets. 

Violet does insist on an episode of Daniel Tiger, and then Trent insists that though today was a school holiday, tomorrow is not and she’s had quite an eventful day so it is time for bed. 

He leaves Ted for ten minutes to go and conduct the nightly routine of brushing teeth and arranging stuffed animals and singing their goodnight song together—after which Violet murmurs sleepily, “see, you do sing…”—before he shuts off the light, closes the door, and rejoins him downstairs.

“Sending her to bed after an evening of ice cream and carbohydrates. She’s going to be murderous tomorrow,” he’s musing out loud as he makes his way into the living room.

Ted is sat on the left-most side of the sofa, hands folded over his middle, lamp light glowing in his bright brown eyes.

“Hey there,” he says.

Trent leans against the door frame. “Hello.”

“Did the washing up for you. I really like that term, by the way. Makes it sound just a little more fun.”

Trent slips over to sit beside him, propping his head in his hand with his elbow on the back of the couch. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“What’s done is done, Olivia Munn.”

Trent smirks. “Well I thank you.”

“I see your thanks, and I raise you one more question about these aforementioned Monks.”

“Not the proper use of that phrase, I’m afraid.”

“So were you the front man?” Ted goes on. “Or the John Deacon, or what?”

Trent’s laughing. He brushes a hand across his mouth. “We practiced in the drummer’s grandmother’s garage. A far cry from making the Live Aid line up.”

“Sounds to me like you were snubbed. Classic Glenn Close-Olivia Coleman situation. So what kinda music was it? Math rock? D’yknow that’s a real thing?… not to be confused with Schoolhouse Rock. German reggae? Folktronica?… oop!”

Trent has realized by now there is no real way to shut Ted Lasso up. Nothing he could use in a press room anyway, even these days as AFC Richmond’s appointed advance-man. Fortunately, he does have exclusive use of one set piece in particular. 

“No more questions,” he says, pulling away from a kiss.

“Mm-hm, right. No more questions, see you on the pitch.” Ted’s eyes are closed as if he’s anticipating more.

Given that Violet has only just gone to bed, Trent estimates it’s half past eight. Though they will see one another at work tomorrow, work requires work decorum. 

“Fancy a drink?”

Ted blinks his way back to the land of the living. “Ok.”

-

“Oh. Man City lost, by the way. When you were upstairs. Forgot to mention that earlier,’ Ted says, reaching out to accept the short glass of whiskey Trent offers him.

“You’ll have to send Pep Guardiola a bouquet.”

“Oh great idea!”

Trent settles beside him on the sofa again. 

“Cheers to one less man in the way.” Trent holds up his glass.

“There you go.” Ted clinks their glasses. Before he takes a sip, he says, “Still got West Ham to tackle, ooh boy.”

Trent leans in close. “No holds barred.”

“Another American turn of phrase from one Trent Crimm,” Ted says, deflecting a little.

Trent takes a drink. “It’s earliest origin is Canadian, actually.”

“God save the Queen,” Ted says, a dry benediction.

“Send her victorious,” Trent says.

Ted settles back into the sofa, cozy. “This is the nicest night in I’ve had in awhile, I tell ya.”

“However surprising it may be, me too.”

“Parenting kinda renders your love life DOA, huh?”

“Indeed,” Trent says. “As a rule I keep Violet out of any of my… romantic affairs. An easy rule to maintain because there have been exactly none.”

“And here I was once upon a time thinking you were charming every fella in town and I’d never get my chance. Turns out you’re doing just as well as any of the lesser-haired common folk.”

“Any illusion is purely accidental.”

“Well you know what they say… happy accidents and all.”

Trent smiles.

God, he is falling.

“I liked your song,” Ted says, eyes suddenly starry. “Or… the one you played for me. Not ‘Your Song.’ Though that one’s nice too.”

Trent touches a hand to his knee. “No more music talk.”

“No, I’m not, I promise! I’m thanking you for your song. Or. You know. The song you played.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“I start missin’… well not missing home. Missin’ Henry’s more like it. Worrying that I’m not… well…” Ted takes a heavy breath that he almost shakes with. He resets his shoulders. “I relate to our old friend the rocket man, let’s just say.”

“Interesting how the astronaut is used to represent the every-man. The every-man who is… misunderstood and misjudged, yet steadfast in his task.”

Ted’s eyes shine a whole different way. Trent watches it, commits the beauty, the preciousness of it to memory.

“I love it when you talk literary devices,” Ted says after a moment.

“Happy to oblige.”

He cannot resist another kiss, now, while there is no good reason they should be stopped.

After all, the first time he brought Ted to tears today, he had promised to make up for it, good and proper.

-

At the clubhouse the next morning, Trent’s in the café brewing the tea he would very much like to have had at home barring Violet’s insistence on plaits instead of a ponytail, the toothpaste stain on his first shirt, and the lost school bag.

He’s stirring in his sugar when Rebecca Welton enters.

“Good morning,” she chimes but without looking directly at him, busy already with the kettle.

“Hello,” he says suspiciously over the rim of his cup.

Rebecca picks up on his meaning immediately. 

“Higgins is out with a head cold today. I had to fetch my own water.”

Perhaps she’s being sarcastic, but even so, Trent chuckles…

“Have you written up those profiles for our summer transfers?”

“I have. I’ll send you the draft. Was going to pitch them out to FourFourTwo and Teamtalk after you approved.”

“Wonderful.”

Both with tea in hand, they start off together down the corridor.

“I was also wondering if there were some sort of archive I could access,” Trent asks. “Players’ and managers’ histories, statistics, that sort of thing.”

At this, Rebecca bristles a bit. She slows and stops, just outside Trent’s office.

“Every organization has its black spots, right?” she says, warily, mug of tea held in both hands.

Trent looks her in the eyes.

“Rupert Mannion will have his chapter,” he says. “And I never write without honesty.”

Rebecca smiles, glossed lips wound up in a cat-caught-the-canary grin. 

“And that is what I admire about you, Trent,” she says. “There’s a few archives in the managers’ office. You should start there. I may also have a contact on Richmond history that could be of use to you.”

“Thank you, Miss Welton.”

“You may call me Rebecca,” she says.

Trent dips his chin in kind.

Then Rebecca’s gaze drifts through the open door of his office and her jaw absolutely drops.

“What in the holy flying floral fuck is that?” she demands.

“ What ?” Trent looks. “Oh Christ, he didn’t.”

At the middle of his desk, there’s a comically large spray of pink, orange, and red flowers, ferny green leaves arcing in all directions, complete with a Richmond-blue ribbon tied about the vase.

Trent approaches slowly. He snatches the card from where it’s pinned in its little plastic fork. A handy weapon to utilize later, he thinks. The envelope tells all.

‘To: Pep Guardiola Trent Crimm’ 

Trent tears it open and pulls out the card.

The inscription bears the same busy chicken scratch as the envelope.

‘Keep your head up, champ. Xoxo, Ted.’

He snaps the card closed and looks up at Rebecca.

She’s practically got a stranglehold on her tea, one perfect eyebrow arched in calculation.

“I knew I’d regret this,” she says, and stalks away.