Archive of Our Own

There’s a bit of humming in Roy’s ears. Not the high-pitch of a head injury, but the long, drawn violin that signals that tensions are rising in the plot of a film. The soundtrack keeping score- quite literally- of a fight or of a performance in which the main character is on the ropes of defeat. The steady weight of one note almost turns into paranoia. Roy blinks down at the hands he’s washing off under his rushing tap and he thinks, Yep, definitely paranoia. Cheers.

It’s almost alien, the skin of his knuckles. Already turning an angry sort of maroon with blood vessels popped open like Christmas crackers. Jesus. Put on your paper crown and that. All the swelling of it makes him feel like he’s got lobster claws for hands. He sticks his jaw out and breathes angrily through his teeth, and he hopes that if his hands feel like lobster claws, then James Tartt’s face feels like a fucking sausage pack through a meat processing plant. At the thought of James Tartt, Roy grunts again. He doesn’t scrub at his hands any harder with his own frustration, but that’s only because his fingers hurt so badly that he’s pretty sure he’s gonna lose feeling in them soon.

“How’re your hands, Coach?”

The pipe of Jamie’s voice at Roy’s back cuts through the violin humming in Roy’s head. Just like that, it stops. Roy thinks he might even hear an out-of-tune trumpet cut off disastrously as well. He knows better than to look back over his shoulder because even just imagining how small Jamie probably looks right now has Roy fighting the urge to clench his lobster claws into fists, and if he did that he might right proper cry about it.

So instead, Roy very gingerly shakes the water off of his hands with a flick of his wrists before equally as gingerly reaching to turn the faucet off. He grunts in response to Jamie’s question. He’d usually leave it at that, except tonight, well- Maybe Jamie deserves some common fucking decency and maybe Roy needs to grow the fuck up. Get the fuck over himself.

“Been better, but they got the job done. That’s all I’m worried about,” Roy finally says. Doesn’t mention that there’s actually a part of him that’s very much worried he’s broken more than three of his knuckles because he hasn’t been in a fistfight since his tussles in the locker room with Jamie. Even then, he hadn’t been trying to put Jamie in a gurney, though at the time he thought he’d rather like to. No, Roy’s form tonight had been a disgrace and had almost gotten his fingers broken, but there’s something to be said for pure muscle and adrenaline, no matter how poorly thrown the punches had been. Tartt Senior probably won’t be able to see through his two shiners for days. God willing.

‘Cause Roy’s genuinely gone and made that choice tonight, hadn’t he? Nothing that Roy Kent hates more than not taking responsibility for your own actions (hypocritically, sometimes) and he’s the one who put his fists up and got involved. Put himself between Jamie and the living fucking nightmare that should barely be considered a sperm donor, let alone a father. Somehow that had been the easy part of all of this. The hard part hadn’t been landing punches on some drunk bastard’s skull, it had been collecting Jamie up afterward. Roy knew how to be angry, but he didn’t know how to clean up his messes, let alone when those messes weren’t just shit he could sweep under his Roy-Denial-Carpet. Messes that weren’t messes at all, but were a whole fucking person that Roy- God help him- really fucking cares about. And that’s the answer to why Roy got involved. He’d seen red, hadn’t he, when Tartt Senior had dared lift a fucking finger in Jamie's direction. As if- Not to mention the way Jamie had flinched-

Roy squeezes his eyes shut and breathes. He can’t cock this up. The aftermath is harder because it means more, and that’s how it should be even though he’s royally petrified of the ways he could mishandle the situation at hand.

When he finally gathers the pathetic amount of courage it takes to turn around, he finds Jamie looking just as small as Roy thought he would.

Standing there in the clothes that he’d worn for one of their rare After-Dinner training sessions. He’s got no trainers on, instead, his socks are black with a pattern of neon paint splatters across them. Like some sort of omen, out of place in the somber energy of the bathroom, a symbol of how Jamie Jamie had been not all of an hour ago. He hadn’t known when he’d put those socks on that he’d find his drunk of a father sitting on his doorstep. One of them is on properly and the other has rolled down to reveal the vulnerable skin of Jamie’s right ankle.

Roy watches where the hem of Jamie’s sweatshirt is pulled tight against the fists he has buried up inside of it, clasping and then unclasping so that Jamie’s stomach seems to undulate with the fidgeting. His trousers are short enough to show off the pair of busted knees he’s sporting. Blood has started to trickle into the elastic band of his left-foot sock.

But the most worrying part of the whole scene is Jamie’s eyes. Just like that night way back when in Wembley when Tartt Senior had made his appearance, Jamie is staring forward and very clearly not seeing anything. He’s just… gone. Hollow. Like a river reed that’ll collapse in on itself if you hold it too tightly.

Roy doesn’t think of himself as someone who scares easily, but this has him swallowing a lump in his throat to stave off the way he kinda wants to go into hysterics right now.

“Right, let’s get you cleaned up then,” he says because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Sure, yeah,” Jamie mumbles with a lightness to his tone that’s so fake it hurts Roy’s teeth. He’s still looking off over Roy’s shoulder.

When Jamie doesn’t move to do anything, Roy approaches him slowly. What would he do if this were Phoebe? It’s decidedly not Phoebe, but Roy is severely lacking in the My Sort Of Best Mate Is Clearly In Distress category of caretaking, so he’d rather work off what little he actually has experience with than nothing at all.

If this were Phoebs, Roy would run her a bath, he thinks. He glances over his shoulder and his eyes catch on the bubble bath bottle at the edge of his tub that’s typically reserved for Phoebe’s visits. It’s got a picture of those two bug-eyed girls from Frozen on it, and it’s ‘frosted berry’ scented. Roy thinks Jamie will probably be thrilled with that.

“I’ll run you a bath.”

Jamie’s eyebrows wiggle a little bit like he might be confused, but he doesn’t say anything.

Good enough for Roy.

He reaches out to squeeze Jamie’s shoulder and ignores the way the grip has his knuckles screaming. The contact makes Jamie sigh, his eyes flickering a little as his blank expression grows the start of a frown.

So Roy turns and starts running the tap of his bathtub. He puts a hand under the water, waiting to make sure that it’s warmed up before he properly plugs the drain. Next, he opens the bubble bath cap with a click and pours an almost obscene amount into where the rushing water hits the basin. With a situation like this, he figures you can’t have too many bubbles, and also that Phoebe wouldn’t be too upset with sharing. She’s absolutely enamored with Tartt, of course she is.

As he watches the bubbles begin to foam up, his mind drifts. Training this evening hadn’t even been some sort of punishment or retribution for a match well lost. In fact, they’d both been in good spirits, and these days- though Roy would barely admit it under threat of his house being burnt down- when Roy is in a good mood he goes sniffing down Jamie. So what if that makes them best friends? So what if sometimes Jamie comes to get ice cream with Roy and Phoebe every once in a while? It’s a free fucking country even with the monarchy.

And they’d both been smiling, shoving at each others’ shoulders as they slowed their pace to laze up to Jamie’s front door. They’d been arguing about sorbet flavors. Apparently, Jamie has actively consumed and enjoyed cucumber sorbet which Roy thinks is a right joke. What the fuck does green-water-flavored frozen water even taste like?

Their laughter had died down into a shocked sort of silence when they realized there was a figure waiting on Jamie’s doorstep, painted red by the setting sun. The light of it had caught in the gray tangle of Tartt Senior’s scraggly hair. His yellowing teeth had grinned out across the distance.

Jamie had swatted a hand at Roy’s chest and said I’ve got this. Roy had backed off even though he hadn’t wanted to because, after everything, he respected Jamie’s decision to handle the situation in whatever way he saw fit. Words had been exchanged between father and son, with a rising volume that had Roy twitching and stepping up to the pitch. It had almost been innocuous compared to the violence it could have been when Tartt Senior had pushed Jamie to the ground with a firm shove to his shoulders. There was no fabric protecting Jamie’s knees when he went down, leaving his legs to get busted against the cement of his front doorstep and start bleeding everywhere.

So what if Roy went a little fucking nuts? Or a lot fucking nuts? Or downright fucking ballistic?

He swishes his swollen hand through the bubbling water right in front of him like he’s batting away his own memory. When Roy stands from his crouch and walks back over to Jamie, it’s to find Jamie staring at the array of grooming products that Roy has on his countertop. Some cologne, some aftershave, his leccy razor. Again, Roy reaches for Jamie’s shoulder because it seems like the safest place to land.

“Jamie?”

Jamie licks his lips absently and smacks them. “Yeah, whatsit?”

There’s something a lot bigger than pity growing in Roy’s esophagus, because pity is small and bratty, but whatever Roy is feeling right now takes up space and takes up love. It also takes a lot out of him to admit that to himself. For as much growing up as Jamie has done over the last two years, Roy thinks he’s done just as much.

Which is why he doesn’t tell Jamie he needs to start undressing if he wants to take this bath. Instead, Roy reaches down for the hem of Jamie’s shirt. He tugs it away from the nest of hands and fabric that Jamie has turned it into.

“There you are,” Roy says plainly as he starts pulling the shirt up and over Jamie’s head. Jamie doesn’t offer any resistance, just raises his arms when he needs to so that the shirt can come off. The movement makes Roy hide a cringe. Christ, he really needs to get some ice for his knuckles.

“Feel like a kid,” Jamie grumbles.

It makes Roy freeze from where he was just about to bend to reach for Jamie’s colorful socks. He starts to back off. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, though, innit?” Jamie’s gone blank in the face again. Roy takes a deep breath to hide how scared he is about all of this.

“Yeah, it’s alright,” he agrees.

Jamie jerks his chin in a nod, which Roy takes as a cue to continue what he’d been doing. His knee is in decent spirits for now, unlike his hands, so it’s not too difficult to lean over for Jamie’s socks again. This close to the ground, Roy can smell the iron from the blood coming off of Jamie’s knees.

He taps his pointer finger against Jamie’s left ankle. “Up.”

Jamie lifts his foot, and even though he should be able to balance on his own, Roy feels a hand come down on either one of his shoulders as Jamie steadies himself. Roy rolls the blood-soaked sock off carefully and throws it to the side.

“Next,” he grunts. Jamie lifts his right foot now. “Good lad. How do your knees feel?”

“Um. Okay. They hurt.” Jamie doesn’t say it like he’s being a smartass, though, he says it like those are the only words he can get out.

“I figured.” With that, Roy stands up and Jamie’s hands fall back to his sides again. “Leave your trousers on for now. Go take a sit on the toilet.”

Jamie does as he’s told without any fuss while Roy turns back to the steadily filling tub. It’s just about full, and he gives it one more moment before he shuts off the tap. Satisfied with that job done, he moves to start rifling through his under-sink cabinet for the first aid kit that he knows he keeps stocked in there. It’s hiding behind some candles that are definitely Keeley’s. He hadn’t had the heart to return them once they broke things off, and now he’s unsure of needing to return them at all since they’ve made up. He pushes them to the side and retrieves his prize.

Roy shuffles his way over to where Jamie has let himself go a little boneless. He looks so fragile here. Shirtless with his tan skin on display. All of the muscles he has do nothing to make him look any stronger. It’s not about strength, Roy supposes, it’s about all your insides being pushed to your outsides. Roy can sympathize with not liking that feeling very much at all.

He’s kneeling at Jamie’s feet on his thankfully spotless bathroom floor, looking up the line of Jamie’s nose. He doesn’t know how he got himself into this mess- and he doesn’t even mean the Tartt Senior incident, he means this whole fucking friendship with a boy who’s a man who’s a boy again. And how that makes Roy feel like he’s stretched as thin as Jamie’s skin looks.

When he pulls out some alcohol and cotton wool balls, he says, “Your knees are a right state. Gonna sting a little when I clean ‘em up.”

Jamie doesn’t answer. Roy keeps going like that doesn’t freak him the hell out. Douses a cotton wool ball in the alcohol before diving in with little preamble. He starts at Jamie’s ankles first. There’s a line of drying blood like dirty shower grout that creates a ring on Jamie’s skin from where the elastic of his sock has been resting, and Roy takes care of it with a sweep of his muddled hand. He keeps following the path of the blood up, through the fine hair of Jamie’s shin, until he’s at the source of the waterfall. With a dissatisfied click of his tongue, Roy reaches to wet another ball.

It takes a minute or two before Jamie is sound. There had been dirt and outside shit that had gotten stuck in the wounds, and the fact that Jamie hadn’t made a noise during the procedure was worse than if he’d thrashed and thrown a fit. In fact, Roy thinks he’s actually the one in a worse state once Jamie’s knees look more approachable.

Roy gets up and his knee only pops a little bit. And with a night as shit as this one’s been, even Roy is gonna consider that a success.

“Can you stand?” Roy asks and then gets his answer in the form of Jamie rising to his full height.

They’re very close to each other now in a way that’s uncomfortable due to the fact that it’s never happened before, not the fact that it feels like it shouldn’t be happening. But Jamie doesn’t have anywhere to go with the toilet behind him and Roy doesn’t step away in the opposite direction, so they stand less than half a meter from each other, breathing air together while Roy reaches for the waistband of Jamie’s trousers. They fall down Jamie’s legs with no fanfare, along with his shorts. Jamie is left standing tan, sweaty, and buck nude- nothing that Roy hasn’t seen a million times. None of this is sexual, but the intimacy of it almost lingers longer than sex would have. The damn violin in Roy’s head starts playing a long note again, though this one is a little deeper and nicer to listen to than the last one had been.

Maybe part of the new tension is because Jamie doesn’t crack a joke to break it. Instead, Jamie stares at Roy and then through him. Roy finds himself accepting being alone in a bathroom with Tartt and all of the strange implications something like that comes with.

But Tartt can’t find out about all of Roy’s secrets, can he? So Roy is still squinting a little when he says, “In you go,” with a jerk of his head.

Again, Jamie doesn’t put up a fight. Doesn’t ask for Roy’s help either, just unselfconsciously climbs over the lip of the tub and then in. It’s deep enough for all of Jamie’s body to be submerged if he were to lie down. That’s one of the reasons Phoebe loves it so much, because it’s practically an indoor swimming pool to her. Jamie doesn’t lay down, though, he just sits up with hunched shoulders and raised, bruised knees that peak over the white suds like two orcas on the bay of Wales.

(Ted would have loved that one, therefore Roy resolves to never speak of the thought again.)

Roy sits down on the toilet lid that Jamie has just vacated and folds his arms over his chest. The bathtub is just adjacent to him as he watches carefully now that Jamie’s at least half occupied with the bath. There’s a long stretch where Jamie just stares down at the bubbles, the sound of water trickling and splashing back into itself as Jamie’s arms move through a nonexistent current. It’s fucking unnerving how vulnerable he is right now. The way he’s acting, the way he’s been all hollow, is so private that it makes Roy want to look away. And there’s a part of Roy that grinds its teeth, thinking about how it was a terrible idea for the universe to put him in charge of something this important, delicate. But then when he imagines anyone else seeing Jamie like this, it makes Roy want to bite through lead-painted pipes, so he guesses for the second time tonight that he just needs to get over himself.

The energy of the room shifts suddenly as Jamie’s eyes widen. It’s as though he’s just waking up, looking around quickly to get his bearings straight- as if he doesn’t remember coming to Roy’s house at all. Maybe he doesn’t. When his startled expression finally lands on Roy just off to the side, Jamie’s eyebrows raise even though his shoulders relax. He looks down at the bath again.

“What’s this?” Jamie asks as he combs a hand through the beer head of bubbles on top of the water.

“A bubble bath,” Roy says gruffly. He stares straight forward at the open-faced cabinet in front of him that has piles of fresh black towels on each shelf.

A pause. “You put me in a bubble bath?”

“Look, it’s not like it was my golden option- You were…- It’s Phoebe’s soap- Your legs were covered in blood-“ and then Roy realizes he’s building up steam for no reason when Jamie is literally just staring at him, so Roy deflates rather rapidly and concedes, “Yeah, I did.”

“Oh.” Jamie looks more confused than he does unhappy now. His top lip curls back. “What’s the flavour of this?”

“Excuse me?”

“The flavour? Of the soap, mate? Strong as anything, but I sorta like it.”

Roy’s eyebrows furrow to his nose. “It’s… scented. Soap isn’t flavoured, it’s scented.”

“Eh?”

“Things that have a smell are scented. Things that have a taste are flavoured.”

Jamie’s whole face twitches into a sort of attitude that’s just recognizable enough to have Roy damn near kissing the ground in thanks of the scariest part of this being over. Still, instead of bitching the way he usually would, all Jamie responds with is, “Yeah, alright.”

Roy’s eyes scan Jamie’s profile, along a strong jaw and over a nose to a head full of hair that’s a tangled mess from the windsweep of their run. Down to the knob of Jamie’s back, right at the top of his spine. Jamie is so utterly human that even Roy’s urge to rush the rest of this encounter along and get things back to normal leaves him. He sighs and resigns himself to the long haul in the privacy of his own head, which is actually a lot fucking harder than you’d think it’d be, thanks very much.

“It’s frosted berry scented. Don’t think that frosted berries are a real thing, but it’s Phoebe’s Frozen soap, so Disney had to keep it on brand or whatever it is those fucks are doing over in America.”

“Yeah, that’s… Phoebe’s bright. Got good taste for being such a wee thing.”

“She’s got more brain cells in her head than the majority of England’s population,” Roy agrees like an afterthought, because he’s really thinking a lot harder about Jamie right now than Phoebe.

Jamie hums in response and then goes quiet again. His fingers swish back and forth through the bubbles aimlessly, like he’s trying to tickle them. Light grazes that barely disturb the soft layer. There’s a bit more color in his face, but even after their little chat just now, Jamie is still looking around Roy’s bathroom like he’s not entirely seeing it.

Roy doesn’t know what to do. It’s worse that he gives a fuck, innit? Because that means that he cares, and since he cares that means that if he royally screws Jamie up somehow, he’ll feel guilty. Worse than guilty. Guilt is something that Roy can plague upon himself and live with if he thinks he deserves it, but hurting Jamie would just be hurting Jamie. After the fact, Roy could punish himself for it all he wanted, but he’d never be able to undo his actions. Never be able to un-fuck Jamie up.

“Fuck,” Roy mutters under his breath.

In his periphery, he sees Jamie tilt his head to the side.

“You alright, Coach?”

Roy can tell that his expression is absolutely dumbfounded as he looks over at Jamie again. Like, is the lad taking the piss? After all of this, Jamie’s asking Roy if he’s alright? But Jamie is looking back at him, all wide-eyed and sincere, and Roy thinks there might not even be enough left of Jamie at the moment for him to be able to make a sarcastic joke like that. No, Jamie’s just soft and tattered, having a wash in Roy’s bathtub. It’s almost like that knowledge is enough to have Roy softening, too. Like he’s getting away with something he usually wouldn’t.

Which is what has him admitting, “I’ve got not one fucking clue what I’m doing right now.”

Jamie’s eyebrows raise and he does that little move where his shoulders jump in surprise, his mouth coming into a considering pout. He looks the most like himself that he has in the last hour.

“What’d’ya mean?”

“I mean that I’m-” he pauses and then looks to the ceiling for help as he strains out the word- “feeling- like- like you’re clearly not well, and I’m clearly not the most sensitive person on planet Earth, and…” Roy trails off. Sticks his tongue deep into his cheek before he admits with a growl, “I’m… worried… about you. When it comes to things like this, I’m usually the one that bollocks the entire situation up so badly that a second paramedic has to be called to help the first paramedic.”

Jamie clicks his mouth. “Sounds like that’s coming from personal experience.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Right, well. There’s nothing to bollocks up, eh?”

“Like fuck there isn’t!”

“There isn’t!” Jamie insists. “Don’t gotta do nothing, just sit here with me and all that.”

“What, like some useless prick?”

“It’s not useless.”

“It feels useless,” Roy scowls. “Fuck. I’m fucking this up already.”

“Don’t give yourself that much credit, Kent,” Jamie says with enough bite that the personality of it in the middle of all this quiet surprises Roy. But Jamie’s face doesn’t look angry, it just looks passionate, like that game in the Arsenal locker room the very first time any of them thought Total Football would work, and it was all because of Jamie. Special little prick. He’s such a special little prick. “You didn’t fuck up nothing. You’ve done a proper job, first, and second, you don’t gotta do nothing because you being here ain’t useless because I want you here.” Jamie looks around again. “And also ‘cause it’s your house.”

Roy’s left hanging out to dry on a laundry line. How did he fucking end up here with Jamie Tartt in his master suite bathtub? He rubs a hand over his forehead even though his headache doesn’t hurt as badly as his hand does so the whole thing’s a bit moot. What he wants to say is You scared the shit out of me just now, but none of this is Jamie’s fault and Jamie doesn’t deserve to feel like it is, so Roy says, “I just don’t...”

“Listen,” Jamie starts. His voice is serious and his gaze falls away from Roy and back down to the safety of the bath under him. He shifts his legs a little and waves of water ungulate from the source of movement out towards the walls of the tub. “Here’s the thing about… about me dad. A lot of the time it’s not about me dad at all.”

There’s a moment of quiet when Jamie pauses. Roy doesn’t know what to say and he doesn’t want to interrupt so he just watches Jamie to let him know Roy’s listening. Talking, Roy is bad at, but he can listen until the ‘cows come home’ as Ted is so fucking fond of saying.

“I still talk to Dr. Sharon, ya know. Video calls. She helps me get it all sorted in my head, when I think I mean one thing but I actually mean something else without realizin’. And it took me a while but I figured out that sometimes I was actually less afraid when me dad was around than when he wasn’t. Didn’t make any sense. Thought I was proper fucked in the head, with, like, Stockholder Syndrome or something.”

Roy decides now’s not the time to correct him.

“But then me and the doc hashed it out, see, and I realized that I… As much as I were scared of what my dad would do to me when I could see him, I was terrified of what he was doing when I couldn’t. Because if I didn’t know, I couldn’t defend myself. Couldn’t prepare for it. When I got scouted and moved up, finally got away from the old man, it was even worse than when I was home.” Jamie’s voice has started to shake. Roy clenches his jaw and pinches his lips against the ache in his chest. “I was so used to being sharp. Listening for him coming home drunk at night, whether or not he was laughing or yelling. Always watching him and using body science to see if he were gonna throw me around. When I finally moved out, I realized I couldn’t stop. I was always on edge waiting for him. Watching every closed door and waitin’ for it to open even when he weren’t there.”

“I’m sorry,” Roy says lowly, and he means it.

Jamie doesn’t respond or look up. He seems to be taking a moment to collect himself, though, as he keeps playing with the bath bubbles.

Finally, he continues, “Dr. Sharon and I have a name for it when my anxiety gets bad like that. We call it my invisible man. It’s not even always me dad. It’s just like there’s- there’s someone right behind me, all the time. Watchin’ and waitin’ to punish me. Stands so close to me it’s like he’s breathin’ down my neck. And if I turn around to try to stop him, he just circles around with me. Like I’ve got a bomb strapped between me shoulder blades.”

Roy gulps the lump in his throat. “That sounds terrible.” At the mention of shoulder blades, Roy finds himself once again looking at the hunch of Jamie’s bare shoulders that peek above the bathwater, and the way that Jamie is a man. Masculine at the same time he tries to make himself small. Growing into himself right in front of Roy’s eyes.

“Ain’t fun, no,” Jamie agrees. “But the doc and I were looking for solutions, right, which is what a good therapist is supposed to do. I googled it. And she asked me if I’d ever tried having someone else look for the invisible man. I thought that was brill. Ya know, if he was standing too close to me for me to see him, that doesn’t mean someone else couldn’t. I told her I thought that was a right good idea. Then she asked me who I felt real safe with, who I could trust would keep him away since I couldn’t even see him in the first place. Ya know what I said?”

Something massive is dawning on Roy. It’s really not funny. The whole of the Heavens are starting to drop down onto his back with a weight of the realization that this entire time- This entire time that Roy has begun to care so terribly for Jamie Tartt, Jamie Tartt has started caring right back for him. Jamie thinks that Roy is safe. Doesn’t see Roy the way that Roy sees himself sometimes, which is as a miserable old bastard who doesn’t know when it’s quitting time even though he pretends that he does. When he looks in the mirror he sees every day of his age and none of the wisdom. Wishes he was better at feeling and better at talking and better at living like a human being, and he sort of assumed that Jamie wished the same but was just too polite to say anything about it these days. Instead, Jamie had been telling his therapist-

“Me,” Roy says to himself. He blinks and then more loudly adds, “You told her about me?” and he can’t help the way he sounds completely incredulous.

Jamie chuckles in a puff of air. “I said, That’d be one Mr. Roy Kent and one Ms. Keeley Jones. Best you’ll ever meet, those two.”

Roy’s chest is compressing and Jamie just keeps talking like he doesn’t know he’s putting a bowling ball through Roy’s sternum.

“Me fighting meself, with the invisible man and all, went about as poorly as you could imagine. But Doc asked me, Now would Keeley Jones back out of that fight? and I said, No, she would not,” Jamie emphasizes almost defensively, almost like all of this is obvious, until it reminds Roy of an overbearing parent of one of Phoebe’s classmates absolutely refusing to believe that their prick child had done anything wrong. “And then Doc asked me, Now would Roy Kent back out of that fight? and I said No, the fuck he would not. But that don’t mean either of ‘em would be stupid enough to start up an imaginary fight in the first place. And Dr. Sharon, that dog, you know what she said to me?”

“No,” Roy responds, feeling like he’s having a midlife crisis severe enough to make him take up DJing, even though he’s pretty sure Jamie’s question was rhetorical.

“She said When have either of them given up on you before? And she was right, wan’she? She weren’t sayin’ it just to make me feel better, she was really askin’. And the real answer was that even after all the shit I pulled, bothaya are still here. Helping me out.”

Jamie goes quiet rather suddenly in a way that throws contrast to how much speaking he’d just done. It seemed like he’d still had so much to say, but the words coming out of his mouth just stop right there at the end of his sentence and don’t pick back up again. The faucet of the tub leaks just barely. Plink, plink, plink, the little waterdrops fall from the spout to their bubbly doom.

Before Roy has gathered his thoughts enough to respond, though, Jamie has decided to add, “What I’m tryin’ to say is… you being here ain’t useless, Roy. It just ain’t.” He looks up from the bath water to meet Roy’s eyes and suddenly Roy is the one who feels pinned in. “You bein’ around never has been. It meant somethin’ to me at least.”

Now that’s a crock of shit, Roy thinks. He’s been useless plenty of times. Fucking things up with Keeley, afraid of fucking up with Phoebe, fucking up his knee, fucking up feeling things right because he’s a grown fucking man with the emotional capacity of an earthworm. Even when he tries-

“No, you weren’t useless then, either.”

Jamie’s staring at him. Roy wants to hide. This is what he’s been afraid of- someone seeing him.

“What?”

“I know those eyebrows, Coach. Voted Most Expressive Facial Feature by Old Twat magazine. They’re a dead giveaway.”

“Oh yeah, a giveaway of what?” Roy challenges.

“You bein’ all mean to yourself.”

The immediate urge is for Roy to puff up in a tragic mess of feathers and a beak that bites people's fingers off. He wants to put distance between himself and Tartt both emotionally and physically. They’re on the second floor, but maybe Roy would survive jumping out the window if he figured out the right position to land in. Because the way that Jamie so easily found one of Roy’s weaknesses means the prick can just as easily exploit it.

Get away from me, Roy thinks while sitting in his own bathroom. And the worst part is, he pathetically means it. Because he’s scared. The same way he’d been scared the other week when he’d been celebrating Uncle’s Day with Phoebe. As much as he’d complain, it’d all been so pleasant, being able to catch up with his sister and with Phoebe at the same time. His sister’s kitchen was his pearl in the oyster, providing him a precious place to land that was safe from all expectations and the need to protect himself. That unguardedness had been broken by the sound of Jamie’s voice floating down the hallway.

Because that had been Roy’s Good Thing with people that he loved dearly and that he knew loved him regardless of how grumpy or ungrumpy he was, and now Jamie was nosing his way in, and what would Jamie say? As much as Roy had loathed to admit it a little bit, Jamie meant something to him. Roy hadn’t known if he could handle a snide remark from Jamie over something like this, a moment where Roy is just Roy with his family in a way no one else is allowed to see. And worse than being pissed off, he thinks if Jamie would have even looked at the Uncle’s Day banner the wrong way, it would have crushed Roy a little bit. Would have made him retreat back to the rock that he has only just barely started to feel brave enough to peek out of.

But Jamie hadn’t laughed at Phoebe’s sweet albeit trite efforts to make Roy feel appreciated. Instead, Jamie had gotten him a gift.

The Jamie that is currently in Roy’s bathtub is watching him earnestly with a frown and warm eyes. The little prick doesn’t even seem afraid of what he’s revealing by doing it, either. Fuck.

“Right,” is what Roy finally lands on saying, and then feels like a proper shithead for not thinking of anything better.

“You put me in a bathtub for Christ’s sake,” Jamie says as he lifts his soaking arms up and out of the water as though to exaggerate his point. White suds cling between his fingers. “Took care of me, yeah? I like the flavour of the bubbles and everything. I’m still not all the way sound in the head for tonight, but I will be after I get some sleep. You did alright.”

They look at each other a moment longer, but there’s only so much of this tender honesty that Roy can take, so he pinches his lips and stands up from his toilet throne so that he’s looking down at the top of Jamie’s head. He clears his throat. When he speaks, he makes sure to not sound upset because he’s not upset by Jamie’s words. Just… processing them.

“I’m gonna go take enough painkillers to tank an elephant and then get something frozen to put on my hand. You’re staying here tonight. I’ll be back with a change of clothes for you in a second.”

Roy says it with finality to let Jamie know it’s the end of their conversation, but as he’s walking towards the bathroom door he hears Jamie say, “You didn’t have to do that, ya know?”

Eyes narrowing, Roy looks back over his shoulder to figure out what Jamie is talking about exactly. He’s met with the sight of Jamie peering at Roy’s purple knuckles. Despite the insinuation of the words, Jamie’s expression isn’t upset. He looks very quietly pleased from under his eyelashes.

Maybe Roy feels a little pleased himself. “No,” he grunts in agreeance. Then he furrows his brows as the corner of his lip ticks up. “But I wanted to.”

He leaves the words floating in the room behind him as he exits. He makes his rounds to the kitchen where he finds a pack of paracetamol in his cabinet and a bag of frozen peas in his freezer. Grabbing both, he makes the trek back upstairs. Once he’s in his bedroom again he tosses his wares to the side and goes about getting Jamie something to sleep in. When he opens his drawer full of shirts, he finds the England kit that Jamie had gifted him sitting folded right on top. Roy softens at the sight of it. He glances towards the bathroom where he can hear water splashing as Jamie gets out of the tub, and then snatches it up before he can think too hard. Starts hunting down a pair of trackies to go with it. Only after a second of hesitation does he grab Tartt a pair of pants, too, considering Jamie had done two hours of semi-strenuous exercise in the ones he wore here, and even Roy isn’t cruel enough to make Jamie put them back on.

His return to the attached bathroom is met with the sight of Jamie drying off from his bath after apparently having helped himself to one of the many black towels that live on the shelves in here. Jamie looks up at Roy’s entrance.

“I’m all pruney-like,” Jamie complains.

Roy throws the clothes onto the counter space of the sink. “Well, you’re not using my lotion.”

Then he exits back to the bedroom again, turning off the bedside lamp so that the only light in the room comes from the bulb in the bathroom bleeding out from the doorway. He sits down in the armchair he has a few feet off to the side of his bed with a grunt that turns into a hiss when he positions the frozen peas on his hand. Ouch is an understatement, but Roy’s always been the type to suffer quietly, hasn’t he?

As expected, Jamie comes out to join him once he’s all sorted in the bathroom, turning off the bathroom light as well so that the room falls well and truly dark.

It’s both surprising and worrying when Jamie doesn’t make a single comment about the kit that Roy had given him to wear. Roy had sort of been hoping that Jamie would have fully returned to himself, enough to take the piss out of Roy for regifting, but instead, Jamie just looks tired standing over where Roy is sitting.

“You got a guest room I can sleep in?”

There’s not a chance that is Roy taking his eyes off of Jamie right now, not when he’s still clearly rattled like this. He jerks his head in the direction of his made-up bed. Jamie follows the movement with his gaze before staring back at Roy again looking aghast.

“No, mate, no way.” Jamie goes to ball his fists up in the hem of the kit before realizing it isn’t his. Roy wouldn’t have minded Jamie doing it, but he doesn’t say that. Instead, he watches as Jamie starts nibbling on his thumbnail as an alternative. “I’m not taking your bed.”

“I still have to watch highlight reels from the Essex game since we’re playing them on Saturday,” Roy lies easily and without shame. He’s already watched the highlight reels. “And this chair is better for my knee,” which is at least kind of true.

“Is it bothering ya?” Jamie asks with big eyes.

Fucking hell.

“Lay down, Tartt,” Roy instructs. Finally, after a little more hesitation, Jamie makes his way over to the bed. He shoots Roy a look as he pulls back the duvet, then another as he climbs under it, like he thinks Roy will suddenly change his mind and tell him to fuck off.

It’s only once Jamie is settled in Roy’s maroon bed sheets that he realizes he’s been holding his breath. He has no control of the situation or how to handle it and it makes him feel lost. He’s trying his best even though his best doesn’t feel like enough, and he’s not even sure what would. Keeley would know. She wouldn’t be as jaded as Roy is, no, she’d cuddle right up to Jamie and rub his back and coo over him. All Roy is capable of is sitting in a fucking chair with a bag of frozen peas on his bum hand and with an ottoman under his bum leg. But at least he can keep his eyes on Jamie now.

Roy breathes in deeply through his nose. Jamie’s right here and he’s safe and he’s still a little on the quiet side, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to blow away in the wind anymore. It’s not useless that Roy’s here. His being here is helping Jamie feel better, Jamie said so. Even told Dr. Sharon all about it. Right. Roy nods to himself and when he looks over to the bed he almost jumps out of his skin when he realizes Jamie has been staring at him the whole time.

The lack of lighting mixed with the lack of anything containing vibrancy in Roy’s bedroom makes the air between them a static gray. Jamie’s eyes are usually this strange dull green color- clear at the same time that they’re not pale at all- but now they stare down Roy like two bullet holes. One stacked above the other because Jamie is laying on his side. Bruised almost, little period marks at the end of a sentence. Jamie doesn’t blink. Roy shifts his jaw just slightly to resettle his own teeth.

“Okay?” Roy asks.

“Yeah, alright,” Jamie responds in a way that does little to add to Roy’s confidence that Jamie is actually okay.

“It’s-” Roy clears his throat awkwardly as his voice strains- “It’s okay if you’re not.” He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he means it.

There’s a long enough pause between them that Roy can hear the peas inside the plastic bag start to creak as they dethaw and fall apart from their clumps. Finally, Jamie says, “Don’t know what I am.”

Now that the panic is gone, Jamie being so small doesn’t scare Roy as much as it makes him feel incredibly tender, like he’s cradling some little bird in his hands. Its feathers are all mussed up. Roy bites his lip and keeps holding Jamie’s eyes because it’s important that Jamie is held right now. And fuck him for making Roy take fucking accountability for himself. After all these years, he can’t believe it’s his fondness for Jamie Tartt that makes him start to own up, start to fill the fucking shoes he built for himself, start to feel a little kindness and not run away from it.

“You’re alright,” Roy says it quietly as he nods. “It’s alright, Jamie.” I’ve got you, Jamie. “Go to bed.”

“Am in bed,” Jamie replies like a force of habit.

“Jamie,” Roy repeats, his voice lilting up. “You can go to sleep now.”

There’s the quiet noise of Jamie breathing in and then breathing out, but he very pointedly doesn’t do anything else to indicate that he heard Roy’s words, let alone listened to them.

“I mean it.”

“I just-”

“Close your eyes, mate.”

Jamie’s expression pinches as he bites at the inside of his lower lip, enough tension put on it that Jamie’s whole mouth wobbles like something sour. Maybe he’s scared, Roy thinks. And then Roy thinks that even a blindfolded twat with cataracts could see that Jamie’s scared, because of course he’s scared. Of course he’s frightened. Hadn’t he just spelled that out for Roy in great detail not all of twenty minutes ago?

“It’s alright,” Roy prompts one last time. He can’t explain the way that for once in his life, he feels every bit of patience he’s learned in his forty-odd years of living. Just this once, Roy feels like maybe he’s actually figured out enough in this life to take care of someone else properly.

And, finally, Jamie’s blacked-out needlepoint eyes flutter shut.

Roy hums to himself. He nods his head in Jamie’s direction with a jut of his chin even though he knows Jamie can’t see it. “The world didn’t end, did it? Nothing’s changed. Same old room. Same grumpy old twat Roy. Still got my knee propped up, got some frozen peas on my hand. Just ‘cause you closed your eyes doesn’t make any of that go away.”

“Right,” Jamie agrees like he’s also just reassuring himself. Sounds like he’s actually starting to believe it.

And now that Jamie isn’t looking at him, Roy lets his gaze fall square on Jamie’s face. The seashell curve of his closed eyelids. In the privacy of his own head, even Roy can admit to the softness that’s creeping its way into his stomach as he watches Tartt look so small in Roy’s maroon sheets until Roy wants to- wants to tend to him. Makes him remember Phoebe’s class project when she was in Year One and she had to grow a pea plant from some bean or something, out of some miserable plastic cup with a wet paper towel at the bottom of it.

Jesus, it’s insufferable, almost. That little flame in Roy’s chest flickers like a candle. He feels like he should be able to look down at himself and see it in all of this dark, and the way that it’s yellow warm, and the way that it’s domestic in terms that Roy doesn’t entirely understand.

“Go on,” Roy instructs quietly, gently, “flip over on your other side, then.”

This time Jamie doesn’t hesitate, just does as he’s told. His back is to Roy now.

“I’m watchin’ the door. Still closed and it ain’t gonna open. Not this door or my front door, because I’m not a fucking moron that leaves my key under the mat. Didn’t invite any guests over because I don’t like it when people assume they can wear shoes in my house. It’s just the two of us miserable wankers.”

Roy’s eyes flicker from the door over to Jamie’s back, where it seems like Jamie’s breathing has slowed just slightly. He can tell that Jamie’s still awake, though, because his feet are moving back and forth under the covers in a fidget that appears habitual instead of antsy. Roy looks at the spot between Jamie’s shoulder blades that pulls the white fabric taut right below the bold font of the word KUNT. So it’s all true, isn’t it? That’s Roy Kent’s best friend. He feels his bottom lip tremble and where there’s no one to see him, he lets himself feel all of it. Stops hiding from his own wants, his own affections, his own worries. He stares between Jamie’s shoulder blades through the burn in his eyes.

“There’s no one behind you, Jamie. Just me,” Roy says at last. “Have a kip.”

It’s like Roy cut Jamie’s strings with his words because any left over tension in his bedded body melts down into Roy’s mattress. And Roy swears he can see it; the invisible man that’s always between Jamie’s shoulder blades leaving him like something physical. Roy blinks. He also swears that he won’t let the invisible man come back.

Only when he’s positive that Jamie is asleep does Roy move. He’s quiet down his own stairs and into the kitchen where he pulls out his coffee maker from the corner. It gets more love these days than it used to when he practically lived with Keeley and was using her Nespresso every morning. He wonders how their being back together again will change things, but it’s more of an idle passing thought as he sets about brewing himself a quad shot than it is something he’s going to worry over.

It’s with little fanfare that he makes his way back upstairs where he closes his bedroom door very softly behind himself before reestablishing his position on his chair. With a frown, he scoots it so that it’s turned to face the closed door, then he reaches down to scoop up the bag of frozen peas off of the ground and puts them back on his right hand. Glancing over to be positive he hasn’t woken Jamie, Roy settles back for the night shift, sipping on his coffee and pulling his phone out with his left hand to start watching highlight reels from the previous day’s games.

The quiet is nice. Roy loves quiet. In his opinion, it’s grossly underrated, much like many science-fiction short stories written by women in the 80s. And this quiet right now might be even better than the usual quiet because- God help him- Jamie’s breathing in the background. It’s constant and unwavering, a soundtrack to the Essex game that Roy is watching silently.

And every thirty minutes or so, Roy will look over at Jamie’s shoulder blades, and then he’ll look over at the bedroom door, and then he’ll nod to himself in satisfaction.

It’s 2:24 according to the numbers in the corner of Roy’s phone screen when Jamie starts to shift underneath Roy’s duvet. He makes this little noise- sleepy in the back of his throat- that’s so ludicrously precious that it makes Roy want to punch a wall. Not another living fucking soul will know he just had that thought. Roy schools his expression as Jamie fully rolls over to face his direction. When Jamie’s squinted eyes land on him, Roy grunts in acknowledgment.

“What time’s’it?” Jamie asks.

“Early. Go back to sleep.”

But Jamie just ignores him and frowns. “Whatcha even still doing up, man? Can’t be good for your back, all this.” Before Roy can answer, or more like weasel his way out of answering, Jamie is examining Roy’s position on the chair and the way that he’s very clearly moved it so that it’s facing the closed bedroom door. Jamie takes a sharp breath in before saying, “Roy,” almost a little astonished like.

It makes Roy turn back to stare holes through his phone and leaves him feeling fucking shy of all things. “What?” he growls even though he knows what.

There’s a long enough pause that Roy gives up on trying to hide behind his fucking five-inch phone screen, so he pauses the highlight reel and finally raises his head. The expression Jamie wears is open and brutally present. It’s not like a few hours ago in the bathroom when it seemed like Jamie had lost all ability to protect his insides and so he had no choice whether he was being honest or not, instead, it’s very obvious that Jamie is aware of the affection he’s wearing. Doesn’t hide it while he looks at Roy like he’s really seeing him. Just like in Roy’s sister’s kitchen the other day when Roy had opened Jamie’s gift, they lock eyes with each other. Stare.

“Don’t have to do that,” Jamie says after a million beats have passed.

Roy nods with a jut of his chin. “Yeah, I know,” he defends gruffly, feeling a little bit like a sulky child.

Jamie narrows his eyes at Roy for one more second before he seems to let the whole thing go. He sinks back down into Roy’s maroon sheets and splays himself out like a starfish, like he owns the place.

“I like your pillows,” Jamie’s voice floats up, emphasizing pill- and going lofty on -ows.

“Got them imported from Spain,” Roy grunts absentmindedly as he turns his eyes back to the paused reruns of the West Ham match. He hears Jamie scoff a laugh into said Spanish pillows, making Roy look up with a sharp expression. “Oi.”

“I’m sorry, but what sort of fucking prick gets pillows imported?”

“The sort of prick who has a meticulous physio regime to follow if he wants his body to be in working order, which includes the shit he sleeps on,” Roy bites back even though the real reason he bought the pillows is because he thought they were soft.

“Right. And what, ya get your towels imported from Turkey and your turkey imported from Maine?”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

Jamie makes a tutting noise that just about sends Roy through the ceiling. “Don’t know if I can explain culture to ya, lad, it seems cruel and unusual, dunnit?”

“I’ll shank you.”

“That right?”

“I’m going to come over there and smother you in my three-thousand pounds worth of Spanish pillows until you’re coughing up duck feathers and quacking.”

“Ahh, Roy, you make me melty. Come give us a cuddle then.”

“Fuck no.”

“What if I said please, though? What if- Nah, what if I said pretty please?” Jamie turns his head to watch Roy now, the blonde highlights of his shaggy hair fluffing up against the pillowcase. Roy makes a point to keep his face completely blank as he growls. However, this seems to have the opposite effect of what Roy had intended because Jamie’s eyes widen in a terrible sort of glee. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Tartt-”

Jamie shifts up onto one elbow and raises his eyebrows while his mouth hangs open far enough that Roy can see the gleam of his teeth. “You like me so much it makes you look stupid.”

Roy’s lip pulls into a sneer. “It makes me feel stupid, too.”

“I bet,” Jamie responds. The teasing creases beside his needlepoint eyes disappear after a moment though, leaving Jamie with nothing but a soft smile on his face. Roy still doesn’t know what to do with it, or why Jamie thinks Roy deserves to have that look directed at him in the first place, but he makes himself take it in even though all he feels like doing is running away because he enjoys it too much. Then Jamie’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Well. Night, Coach. And, uh, thanks for all of this.”

“Yeah. It’s nothing,” Roy responds to cover up the sickly sweet tug in his chest. He doesn’t think it works though, because the It’s nothing sounds a lot like Sleep well.

The two of them resettle into the dark of the bedroom, with Roy repositioning his pea bag and Jamie rolling back over onto his side to lay the way he had been before he’d woken up. The air is still and peacefully quiet. There’re only cold dredges of espresso left in the bottom of Roy’s mug, but he sips a little at them anyway because he likes habit. He feels in control of his habits. Very much unlike how he has no idea what to do with the new development of Tartt sleeping in his bed now that the majority of the panic from the previous evening has subsided. Now that both of them are just okay and present and here. It’s weird.

Kinda nice, as well.

He’s just about to hit play on the West Ham highlights when Jamie starts to stir again, his feet fidgeting like cricket legs under the duvet. Roy raises an eyebrow at Jamie’s back.

“Roy?”

“...Yeah?”

A pause before Jamie, timid as fleece, says, “Pretty please,” to the window he’s facing.

Goddamnit all to fuck. Roy may as well be one of those yappy girls from Frozen with the way that he’s melting into puddles that don’t want to be dried up no matter how much Roy is trying to keep them inside of his body. It reminds him of the very first day he held Phoebe when she was just a baby, swaddled up with a tuft of blonde hair peeking out from the blanket. She’d looked right ridiculous like most babies do, but Roy had started crying anyway. Roy doesn’t start crying now. He looks at Jamie’s back, wearing Roy’s botched kit. He looks past Jamie to the window where the moon is hanging low in the shape of a crescent.

What does Roy have to lose? He already put the git in a bubble bath, didn’t he?

With that train of thought, Roy tosses the frozen peas to the ground and shifts his left knee carefully as he rises. One step, two, three, then he’s climbing up into his own maroon sheets behind Jamie’s body. Before he can let himself think about it for too long, he throws an arm loosely over Jamie’s waist, being careful to leave a few inches between the rest of their bodies.

“Do not,” Roy enunciates, “breathe a fucking word of this to Keeley. She’ll never let me hear the end of how precious she thinks we are.”

“We are precious,” Jamie says like the word Duh. Also like he’s offended that Roy would imply that the two of them- grown men holding each other awkwardly in a King-sized bed- are anything other than little angels of light. “And that’s an amazing idea, lad. Let’s invite Keeley next time.”

Before Roy can growl at that, Jamie’s continuing on.

“‘Sides, gotta get her in here to teach you a lesson on spooning. You’re terrible at this. Do you hold Keeley like she’s a sack of potatoes as well?”

“No, Tartt, I don’t hold my girlfriend the way I’m doing with you right now.”

“Hurts me feelings.”

“I don’t care.” Roy glares over Jamie’s shoulder at the window moon. If this were a week ago, two days ago, six hours ago, Roy would have been extremely confused at how he got into this situation, and then once the situation dawned on him he would have told Jamie, If you wanna be a prick about it then get out of my bed so that I can actually sleep. Little bitch beggars can’t be little bitch choosers-

“Well, as the big spoon, you really should care, mate. I’m being, like, super vulnerable with you right now.”

The thing is, Roy knows Jamie’s saying it just to push his buttons, but it also doesn’t make it any less miserably true. So he rolls his eyes and grinds his teeth and growls, “Fuck off,” even as he pulls Jamie’s shoulder blades tight against his chest to close the gap between them. Jamie’s skin still smells like frosted berries.

The sudden force of it is enough to make Jamie yelp. Once he’s figured out what’s going on, however, he sounds very pleased with himself as he says, “Oh, cheers. I can see how Keeley could get used to this. You’re a rugged fella, ain’t ya?”

What Roy doesn’t say is that this isn’t how he holds Keeley at all. She likes to feel small and likes to have someone be careful with her, so Roy is very conscious when he wraps her up. Mostly he’ll cuddle her in to lay on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. This is not how he holds Keeley, it’s how he holds Jamie. Gives in to every protective urge and affectionate omen that he’s ignored ever since he started to consider Jamie a friend. The grip he has on Jamie is a little bit cagey, a little bit desperate, his arms too tight around Jamie’s waist and his left leg kicking to fit in between Jamie’s calf because the locked position of it is better for Roy’s knee. Roy holds Jamie close the exact way he’d wanted to after seeing Jamie there on his knees against the concrete of his front doorstep that’s now surely stained with streaks of blood.

Roy lets himself feel that love and the world doesn’t end. But Tartt can’t find out about all of Roy’s secrets, can he?

“Go the fuck to sleep, you muppet,” he grumbles against Jamie’s ear.

His eyes are more tired than he thought they were, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he’s actually out before Jamie is even with all the espresso he drank. He startles back to awakeness when he feels a gentle touch to the back of his right hand that’s splayed open across Jamie’s belly. Jamie’s fingers are a whisper on Roy’s knuckles.

“I’m sorry about your hand,” Jamie murmurs like he’s been wanting to apologize all night.

Roy thinks about Jamie’s hollow gaze earlier this evening and Roy thinks about the man that he’ll see in the mirror in the morning, with the same bushy eyebrows and beard but maybe with a little more kindness around the eyes.

“It’ll heal up.”