Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

sometimes we forget when people are sick or hurt that what they most need is to feel connected, to be loved, to be touched.

Trent is not used to being taken care of when he’s sick.

Or taken care of at all, really. He was always an independent child, quiet and easy and disappointing: it wasn’t that he was difficult or particularly burdensome, he just wasn’t what his parents had wanted. Particularly his father.

So he’d been left to his own devices, more often than not, allowed to keep his nose in a book or his pen on a page, curled up alone at his secondhand little writing desk crammed into the corner of his room.

And when he’d gotten sick, well—

As a teenager, when it was just him and his father, he was left to his own devices. He might get off of school, if it were bad enough, but even then, he’d need either a fever or vomiting to prove it was “bad enough”, so generally, he’d just go to school sniffly and miserable and sneezing constantly.

It was fine. He could make himself soup, or get tissues, or whatever else. He wasn’t a burden; and all the adults had always said he was such an old soul, like a little adult, such a smart and reasonable child, so independent, his parents must be so proud.

(If only.)

When he was younger, well, his mother hadn’t really been the maternal type in a lot of ways, and the idea of a snotty, weepy child clinging to her skirt was not one she found appealing.

So she usually left it up to Trent’s father, who had been slightly more lenient when Trent was small. It was, after all, acceptable to dote a little on a child, a little one, at least, and so he had allowed himself some small bit of softness.

Still, though, Trent could only recall with any clarity a single time he had been taken care of when he was sick. There were probably more, when he was younger, but they were lost to him. No, all he remembered was this:

He’d been sick enough to stay home that day. He’d been exhausted and his head was pounding and his nose was stuffy, and he’d felt utterly miserable.

He fuzzily remembered his father turning off all the lights. He remembered being tucked into bed—he couldn’t quite recall his father carrying him there, and in fact, he might have stumbled there himself, but sometimes he liked to imagine that he had been scooped up and carried to the warm pile of blankets like a smaller child than he’d been—and he remembered a cool, damp cloth being laid on his forehead, and calloused hands, a gruff but tender touch. His father had gotten him some sort of sports drink—something about electrolytes or boosting his system—and he’d gotten Trent’s favorite flavor (the blue kind, it wasn’t as if they tasted like whatever they said they were on the bottle, but Trent had rather liked the flavor of the color blue) and the room was dim and the cloth on his forehead was cool and he’d felt—

Well, honestly, that was about all Trent could remember.

(Safe? Was safe the right word? He’d been so small, and so sick, that he hadn’t been able to even process where he was. Just that everything hurt, and that his father was making it hurt a little less. That someone cared about him.)

It was a vague half-memory, and so long ago that Trent wasn’t even sure how much of it was real. It was only the once; he had other memories even that young of being sick and apparently whiny, and going to school anyway, or trying to hide it.

Sometimes he thought perhaps he’d dreamed it, because he can’t imagine it happening now. Can’t imagine his father being so gentle, once upon a time, emphasis on the once; can’t imagine being taken care of.

He’s never needed taking care of, after all.

He wasn’t sporty and manly, but he was strong in other ways.

Later on in life, for a while, there was simply no one to try. Trent was an adult, and while it wasn’t as if he talked to no one and knew no one, he wasn’t close enough with anyone to have them notice he was sick, outside of perhaps peers or later work colleagues who didn’t really care, and he certainly wasn’t calling anyone.

If it was bad or he was contagious, he would stay home, and simply withstand it until it was over. Indulge in ordering soup or sick-foods, delivered to his door, and drink water, and watch old movies or binge ridiculous TV shows. When sick, he’d grown particularly fond of murder mysteries, the kind of meandering, longer ones that he could fall asleep to if he must.

And then with his wife, Diana—when they were dating it just sort of fell into place. Trent had at first been reluctant to be sick around her, to be vulnerable and gross and disheveled and hardly capable of… performing. He couldn’t be funny or smart or intimidating when he was too busy painfully coughing up a lung or sneezing constantly like a drowned kitten or looking like an utter disaster, pale and dark circles smudged under his eyes and constantly blowing his nose and hair sticking up in every direction. But she quickly caught wind of this, and like many things, it became an assumption their relationship was built on: by the time Trent was comfortable enough with her that he wouldn’t have minded her there, that he even, although he would not admit it, wanted her there, their routine was already established. When Trent was sick, she would sometimes pick him up food or supplies, but she would leave him be to recover alone. She teased him about holing up in his sick den like a grumpy animal hibernating, and she seemed relieved to not have to be part of it. She wasn’t fond of being around sick people anyway, she told him, so it was good that they were such a perfect match.

He hadn’t the heart to tell her that secretly, he did want her there. Just as there were other things that he kept locked away, this, too, he couldn’t bear to reveal. It was a silly, ridiculous desire, to be taken care of like a child, and not befitting of a grown man. He didn’t need someone to stroke his hair or make him soup or hold him, and anyway, it would only be liable to get them sick, too.

(There are other ways that they are not a perfect match.)

So he says nothing. When he’s sick, he wraps himself in blankets and watches old murder mysteries and leans against the side of the couch and idly, his mind will picture that he is leaning against her, her hands in his hair, or that he is a child again and when he falls asleep on the couch his father will scoop him up and carry him to bed, or, buried under all this, that he is leaning against a man with a strong arm around him, faceless, nameless, in some future Trent will never have.

He shakes these away. They’re ridiculous. He’s fine, and this, too, will pass. Sickness is temporary, and however miserable he feels now, it won’t be forever.

He doesn’t need to be held.

(Diana rarely gets sick, but the few times she does, she at first tries to tell Trent that he’s welcome to leave her be, but he can’t help it—even if she would truly rather be alone, he fusses, makes her soup or noodles, and eventually when he keeps checking in she tells him to just join her if he’s going to be ducking his head in every five minutes, and he sheepishly does, and she mumbles into his shoulder that he’s sweet but a total mother-hen. She doesn’t sound upset, though, just sort of amused, and maybe a little pleased, and she looks so tired and her nose is red but she’s smiling. She lets him fuss and doesn’t complain. It’s different, of course, because—well, just because. Still, though, after a while, even she gets impatient, and shoos him to fuss somewhere else. Maybe it hurts because he thinks that if someone were to fuss over him, he couldn't imagine chasing them away—but then, that person wouldn't be him, would it? He could hardly blame her.)

When they have a daughter, she is the light of Trent’s life. And when she first gets sick, he’s a little shocked by how scared he feels about it. She’s just so tiny and fragile and he wants to make her feel better, wants her to feel safe.

And when she’s a little older, old enough to understand, well. His wife was right—he’s a bit of a mother-hen. He fusses over her, brushes her hair from her sweaty forehead and kisses it gently and he scoops her up and carries her to her bed and tucks her in and thinks that it’s unthinkable he only has one memory of this, because carrying his child to bed and caring for her and making sure she’s safe and comfortable is a privilege, and it’s a little frightening, yes, but it fills him with warmth, and he can’t imagine ignoring her like this. She’s so small, and she needs him, needs her parents, and he knows that no matter how old she gets if she ever needs her dad, he wants to always, always be there for her.

(He never wants her to feel like he did. Does, some days.)

It’s not that Diana doesn’t take care of her, too, of course she does; she’s a wonderful mother—but Trent’s the mother-hen, and she always gives him such a fond look when he fusses over her and insists on spoiling her; even if it means that she has to put her foot down when Trent is a pushover at the first sign of her not feeling well.

(It’s maybe a little ironic that one of the things Diana seems to actually like about him is that hidden soft side, even when she never seems to stop being surprised by it. He’s Trent Crimm, after all, he’s built his whole life and persona on being untouchable, cool as a cucumber, smooth and sharp and intimidating—but all that crumples around Isadora, his daughter, and while she’s missed many cracks over the years, this one yawns like a chasm, and apparently she doesn’t hate the person she can see peeking out from inside—even though he’s not the man she married.)

And then he couldn’t hold back the tides anymore, and the cracks burst open, and while he never told her the full scope of it—the secret, shameful desires, often childish, to be held or touched or kissed—she knew enough. That he couldn’t love her the way he was supposed to, the way she deserved, that he’d been lying to himself so long that he’d lied to her, too.

It's a miracle that she doesn’t resent him, really.

Life goes on: when he’s sick, often, she will take their daughter for a few days and bring him soup as she does, but sometimes Isadora will wriggle from her mother’s arms and insist on throwing herself into Trent’s side and say she wants to stay with her daddy, he isn’t feeling well, she can be his teddy bear, she always feels better with a teddy bear, see? And his ex-wife will laugh and tell her that her dad likes to be alone when he’s sick, and the lie will catch in Trent’s throat but he never corrects her.

Isadora is more perceptive than they give her credit for, Trent thinks, because she looks doubtful, but she leaves him her fluffiest plush animal and tells him he is under strict doctor’s instructions to cuddle it as much as possible until he’s better.

And then he’s alone again, but stupidly, the stuffed animal makes him feel a little better. He follows Dr. Crimmlet’s orders.

A lot happens. Trent doesn’t get sick for a while, and he has other things to worry about. And then he’s working at Richmond, and it’s the most bizarre working environment he’s ever been in, and—uh, once he works things out with Roy, anyway—possibly the safest, too.

Still, though, in some ways, he is alone.

So when he gets sick, he doesn’t really—think much of it. Diana actually already has custody of their daughter for the weekend, so it’s not much work to call in sick and wrap himself in blankets and prepare to be miserable for a few days.

He ignores his phone, because he’s feeling particularly wretched and light makes his head hurt worse and he’s even turned off the TV, and then he ends up having to stumble hurriedly to the bathroom, because he stupidly hadn’t thought to bring a bin or something, so he’s slumped over the toilet, miserably gasping around the sour taste in his mouth, when he’s struck by the thought that he desperately wishes he wasn’t alone right now.

It's a sharp sort of thought, the kind of realization you have over and over again but it never seems to stick: he’s so lonely in that moment he wants to cry. He’s so miserable and exhausted and he just wants—wants to not be alone. Wants to be held, or comforted, or taken care of.

Everything hurts and he isn’t even sure he can get back to the couch without some embarrassing crawling, and he has the horrible, embarrassing desire to be carried, or at least helped.

He’s scolding himself for this in his head—he’s being ridiculous, what good would it do to have someone here watching him retch, anyway, it’s childish and needy and even if he had someone to call who on earth would want to stay with him like this—when as if answering a hopeless prayer he didn’t send, the door creaks open.

“Trent?” someone asks, low and worried. “Heya, Trent, you—aw, jeez, you don’t look too hot.”

Trent squints with bleary eyes, feeling vaguely he should be more alarmed by this than he is. “…Ted?”

“That’s me,” says Ted Lasso, who looks spick and span and cheerful and entirely out of place standing in Trent’s bathroom while Trent—oh, god, wearing an oversized t-shirt and an old pair of worn sweatpants full of holes—slumps on the floor by toilet.

“What are you doing here?” Trent asks, and he sounds—wrecked, to be frank, voice rough and low and confused and possibly a little slurred.

“Well,” says Ted, helpfully holding up a bundle Trent can’t quite identify, “you called in sick, and then you weren’t answerin’ any texts, and—we got a little worried.”

“…we?” says Trent.

“Oh, it’s only me here right now,” says Ted, “didn’t wanna risk overwhelmin’ ya, but I’m gonna text them and tell em you’re still alive, and all.”

He holds up the bundle again, with a little smile. “Soup,” he says. “Among other things. Beard helped me make it; it’s our specialty chicken noodle. Many a sickness has been coaxed out with this bad boy.”

Trent can barely even parse this sentence, far too caught up in the surprise of Ted Lasso in his bathroom, let alone Ted Lasso in his bathroom bringing him soup because he’s sick. He doesn’t even wonder how Ted got in—he probably guessed where Trent kept the spare key, it wasn’t exactly a genius hiding place; either that, or Beard had picked the lock—he just stares in a sort of disbelief.

And then he is promptly distracted by the feeling that he’s about to hurl again, and he turns—god the taste is fucking awful and he can’t think of a less pleasant sensation—and then suddenly before he can even really process it Ted’s at his side, kneeling, too, bundle apparently spirited away or set down somewhere, and one hand swiftly but gently pulls Trent’s hair back, the other arm draping over his shoulders. Trent doesn’t even have time to react—he’s too busy retching, shaking—but Ted is making soothing noises, murmuring hey, it’s alright, I gotcha, and when it’s over Trent sort of makes an ugly, wet gasping noise, and god it really does taste truly fucking awful, it never gets better, and Ted—rubs his shoulder sympathetically. Doesn’t pull away.

Trent’s holding himself up with shaking arms and one of them buckles—the one he was leaning too much on—and he tilts, falls, really, and—

Ted catches him. “Whoa, there!” he says, with some alarm, but he catches him, and Trent just sort of… slumps against him, shuddering.

He’s exhausted and his head is pounding and his mouth feels dry and sour and his throat hurts and he feels cold and achy and everything is just miserable and awful and—and Ted Lasso is holding him. Ted Lasso is holding him. He is being held.

Ted adjusts so that his arms wrap around Trent a little more securely, and he says, “you alright, there?” and Trent should really get up the strength to push himself up, to pull away, to stop being a burden, to say something, to fucking apologize and pull away, but he just can’t. He can’t make himself, because Ted’s arms are warm around him and he cares. Trent is leaning into him, just taking in a juddering, rattling breath, and Ted’s hand rubs his back and Trent shivers again and melts under it, eyes fluttering shut, and Ted says, quietly, “alright, then, alright, I’ve got you,” like he knows the shape of the creature clawing in Trent’s chest. Like maybe he understands.

In that moment, slumped in a miserable pile on the bathroom floor, sick and in pain and leaning into Ted Lasso’s chest, Trent has never felt more cared for. Which is probably, he will think later, really more a sad indictment on his life than anything else.

“S’rry,” he mumbles, and he wants to pull away but can’t, and he isn’t sure if it’s a weakness of the body (his muscles ache and everything feels cold and shaky and weak) or a weakness of the mind, of the heart (he does not want to, he does not want to).

“It’s alright,” murmurs Ted again, “c’mon now, let’s get you to bed, alright?” Trent feels the hacking cough bubbling in his chest, but he can’t stop it, his whole body spasms with it and still he doesn’t pull away.

“Jeez Louise, Trent, you’re not doing so well, huh?” says Ted gently, and he slips an arm under Trent’s, ready to help him up. Trent tries to cooperate but whatever strength he had has fled him and he is supremely unhelpful.

“Ted,” he says, a little more clearly than before, at least, then manages, “’m gonna get you sick, y’shld…go.”

“And leave you to fend for yourself?” says Ted, with faux-offense, “Not likely, Mike Lee!”

Trent wants to snort and ask who on earth Mike Lee is, even though he’s certain the answer is Ted made him up on the spot, but instead he just sort of snuffles.

“Y’know I can take care of myself,” he says instead, and he still sounds rough.

“Yes,” says Ted patiently, “but you don’t have to. You hungry, or you just want to rest?”

“Not g’na be able to sleep like this,” admits Trent. As much as he’d like to, he could barely relax with this many distracting, painful symptoms, let alone actually sleep. “But my head hurts too much for TV.”

Ted makes a sympathetic noise. “Alright, you think you can keep anything down?”

Trent shrugs. “Was g’nna make myself tea,” he said. “Or cocoa.”

“Mm, I know tea is supposed to be good for sick people, but I just do not see it,” says Ted. “Nasty leaf water. But I guess it is warm.”

“Cocoa’s fine,” says Trent. “M’actually not that much of a tea person. Just fits the vibe n’ it’s warm.”

“Ha!” says Ted, sounding truly delighted. “A man after my own heart.”

That’s truer than Ted could possibly know, Trent thinks.

“Alright,” says Ted, “now: Brace yourself.” And before Trent has time to ask him what for Ted is scooping him up into his arms. Trent makes an undignified yelp, but to be fair, the sort of middle-aged dad groan Ted lets out as he lifts Trent up—Trent is pretty sure his knees or some joint popped—isn’t exactly the most dignified either. “Oof,” says Ted, a little breathless, “don’t take that as anythin’—I’ve lifted far heavier boys than you, but I’m gettin’ on in my old age, eh?”

Trent doesn’t even know what to say to that, for multiple reasons, which include but are not limited to he is currently swept up in Ted’s arms bridal style.

He wonders if this is a dream; if all of his fantasies are the pathetic kind of men who don’t love him taking care of him, whether they be family or would-be-lover or friend. Being cared for, being carried—vulnerability that’s protected rather than punished.

Trent’s too shocked to even protest as Ted carries him—god, he has the embarrassing urge to giggle, because it’s ridiculous and sweet and for some godforsaken reason his brain conjures up the image of him in a wedding dress and Ted carrying him over the threshold, which is extremely unhelpful and weird, thanks—around a corner, navigating carefully around an unfamiliar flat to find Trent’s bedroom.

Ted lays him down almost painfully gently, and Trent immediately ruins the moment by sneezing loudly. He fucking hates being sick.

“Be right back,” says Ted, and then Trent’s alone.

Trent feels, vaguely, like this must be a fever dream. He’s been alone in his bed this whole time, hallucinating Ted Lasso arriving with noodles and carrying him from the bathroom, but it’s over now, and he’s alone again. Everything feels cold, and he pulls the blankets tighter around him.

And then, what could have been an hour or a minute later, Ted bustles back into the room, two steaming mugs in his hand, and a book tucked under his arm.

Trent blinks heavily at him, but he stubbornly continues to exist.

Ted sets one of the mugs down on the table beside the bed, and then awkwardly grabs the book and sets that down, too—Trent only catches the author, Agatha Christie of all things—before Ted is holding out the other mug to him.

“Think you can hold that?” he says. Trent only holds out his hands—shaky, but not so shaky he’ll immediately drop the mug—in response, and Ted gently presses the warm mug between Trent’s palms, makes sure his fingers wrap around it to cup the mug entirely before letting go.

When Trent just—holds the warm mug, staring at Ted, nonplussed, Ted says, “That’s—that’s for you, darlin’, mine’s the one on the table,” and Trent would be kicking himself over missing something so obvious if his mind hadn’t tripped over the world darling and immediately face-planted into the ground.

He’s pretty sure it just slipped out, the kind of endearment Ted would use for anyone, but it doesn’t stop him from blushing. Thankfully, there are limited advantages to being sick: if his face is flushed, one can safely assume it is because he is, in fact, sick, and not because he’s hopelessly in love with the man in front of him. Even if it’s both.

“Right,” he croaks, and he lifts the mug and takes a sip and it’s—warm, and perfect, and he is almost completely certain that this is not the powdered sort of hot cocoa he had in his cupboards. He peers curiously at Ted from over the mug, and Ted just smiles.

“Well, budge up,” Ted says, and he carefully moves to sit by Trent on the bed, lifting the covers.

Trent lowers his mug. “Wh—Ted!”

This half-yelped exclamation is because Ted promptly scooted directly into his space, barely crammed onto the bed at all, and Trent had to scramble to make sure his mug didn’t spill everywhere.

“Sorry, sorry!” says Ted, but now he’s settled in, comfortably under the blankets and very, very close to Trent. They’re practically pressed together, and it’s dizzyingly warm, and Trent, who still feels chilly and is, despite his best efforts, trembling minutely, can’t help but lean into it.

“Fuck me, you’re warm,” slips out of his mouth before he can stop it, and then he squeezes his eyes shut and hopes Ted will take that as the normal exclamation it was.

“Now Trent, you’re a little too sick for some strenuous activity like that,” says Ted, and he’s joking but there really is some sort of—undercurrent there, that Trent cannot even fucking begin to analyze right now. That’s just too much—it’s enough of a miracle that Ted is here, that anyone is here, that he’s in some bizarro world where when he’s sick someone makes him soup and hugs him, that Ted Lasso carries him to bed, there’s no possible fucking way that Ted is also flirting with him. What is this, Give-Trent-Everything-He’s-Ever-Wanted Day? Like, what, is the universe going to dig up his father’s love and respect somewhere, too? Jesus fucking christ.

“Ted,” says Trent into Ted’s shoulder, because god Ted really is so fucking warm and Trent wants to lean against him forever even though he is suddenly painfully aware of just how much of a goddamn mess he is right now. “You don’t have to stay.”

(He’s pale and sweaty and his hair is mussed and his eyes are unfocused and red-rimmed and—and just like with his ex-wife, all the things that make him interesting, all the things Ted likes, the quickness and sharp wit and even the goofier humor, are drained and gone and Trent is a hollow little thing, unattractive and messy and so, so tired—)

“I know,” says Ted, and he gently takes the mug from Trent’s loosening grip and sets it back on the table, then drapes an arm around him. “I want to. C’mon, being sick alone is the worst feeling in the world.”

His hand curls around the back of Trent’s neck, gentle, and calloused fingers—almost hot against his cold skin—card through the short, damp hair there. Trent can’t help how he shivers again, eyes slipping closed. It feels so, so nice.

“I know, I know,” murmurs Ted, and Trent thinks he might have made some noise—small and pathetic—but can’t bring himself to care, because he feels so content. Even with all the aches and pains. He could almost drift off, if not for the insistent headache and occasional coughing fit. And then Ted says, “hey, I know you said your head hurts, but—just checkin, how about I read to you?”

Trent blinks heavily, lifting his head to squint at him.

Ted helpfully holds up the Agatha Christie book—a Poirot mystery—and says, “You said you watch murder mysteries when you’re sick, so I figured—no TV, a book might be good, then?”

“When did I tell you that?” Trent wonders to himself, and only realize he’s said it out loud when Ted laughs and says, “I dunno, it was a little while ago. I wasn’t sure you’d be well enough for TV, so I figured a book might—I don't know, it was just a thought.”

Trent cannot believe that this man is real. This might be one of the most considerate things anyone’s ever done for him. He wants to cry.

“It’s a lovely thought,” Trent says quietly. “Thank you.”

“I got a Poirot book,” says Ted with a grin. He mispronounces Poirot with the aplomb of someone doing it on purpose so that their friends will correct them, and he pulls an expression like he’s trying to wiggle his mustache and failing supremely. “Figured we had somethin’ in common.”

“Mm,” says Trent, staring up at him with a considering look, “you’re both very kind.”

Ted blinks, taken aback, and Trent, almost distantly, says, “I always liked Poirot. He’s not perfect; he can be fussy and exacting and petty, but—he’s unfailingly kind, even in the face of things that are considered unacceptable. He does what he thinks is right. He doesn’t—judge.”

“Curious, not judgmental,” says Ted softly, and Trent hums an agreeing note.

“’course,” says Trent, turning his face into Ted’s shoulder again for a moment before turning back to speak, “shamefully, I must admit, I’ve only read a few of the novels. Suchet’s Poirot is a top choice for watching while sick, though, and I’m told they tend to capture the spirit of it, if nothing else.”

The look Ted gives him is unbearably soft and fond, and Trent can’t believe that someone is looking at him like that, that Ted is looking at him like that, so he turns his face back into Ted’s shoulder, like he’s looking away from the sun.

“Well, then,” says Ted after a beat too long, “can’t hurt to hear some of the original thing, huh?”

Ted really shouldn’t be here, but Trent is tired of trying to say no to something he wants just because he doesn’t deserve it. He’s sick and sad and tired, and he just wants to be a little selfish.

So he just hums, and nods, and Ted awkwardly props the book open with one hand and leaves the other at the nape of Trent’s neck, thumb gently rubbing circles there.

Ted reads well, and even does voices, but nothing too grating, and Trent finds himself drifting off far sooner than he’d like. At some point his hand wanders up to gently stroke through Trent’s hair, and it’s so soothing Trent can barely even move, now simply an ex-journalist-shaped puddle in Ted’s arms. Sleep really should have been the goal, but he fights it, because he wants to stay in this moment forever—slumped against Ted Lasso, drifting to the sound of his voice.

He remembers nothing of the murder mystery when he wakes up, but remembers every moment of Ted’s thumb gently massaging his skin, of the weight of Ted’s arm around him, of a hand carefully carding through his hair.

He feels safe, and loved, and the last thing he remembers before falling asleep is lips pressed gently to his forehead.

Chapter Text

i: through ted’s eyes

Trent manages to look beautiful even when he looks utterly terrible.

Terrible in the sense of gosh, Ted just wants to wrap him in a blanket and feed him soup, not in the sense he actually looks bad, although he does, a little bit, but in a sort of cute way. His hair is mussed and hanging in his face, he’s pale and there are dark smudges under his eyes like he hasn’t been sleeping, and really, Ted just wants to squish him in a hug, potential contagiousness be damned.

(And yet he’s got dark, pretty eyes, and his hair actually kinda looks nice like this, all disheveled and wavy, and honestly, even the fact he’d probably sneeze directly into Ted’s face doesn’t make him look any less kissable, which is… slightly a problem.)

Still, Trent acts like no one’s ever brought him soup before, and he looks utterly miserable, and—yeah, no, Ted’s not leaving. He’s already a bit of a mother-hen, as Beard can attest to, and he knows it can be a little much, all the fussing, but he can’t help it, he worries, and—well, for one, Trent seems to need someone worrying about him, and for two, he’s—he’s Trent.

Ted likes him. Ted likes him a lot. And taking care of him, well, it’s not exactly a chore.

(Some part of him, some selfish, ugly part of him, likes seeing Trent like this—vulnerable, and turning to Ted for comfort. Ted likes to make him feel better, to comfort him, and the fact that Trent is vulnerable and sick and letting Ted see? It’s—Ted finds it selfishly delightful, because Trent trusts him, and Ted gets to see him like this, and it’s a kind of privilege.)

Trent keeps insisting Ted can go, but it’s the kind of insistence that says, you don’t need to do this for me, it’s okay, I don’t want you to get sick just for me, I can do this alone, I am used to doing this alone, not I want you gone. Actually, it says the opposite of that, really, because Trent keeps leaning into him and his breathing goes funny when Ted puts an arm around him like he might cry and Ted is going to hunt down every single person that’s ever hurt this man and give them—a stern talking to. And also maybe a baseball bat to the knees. But that’s neither here nor there.

He scoops Trent up in his arms and he makes a cute, squeaky little yelp, clinging to him in his surprise, and he really must be tired because he barely even protests.

(Ted can admit to himself that he gets a little thrill out of that, too, carrying Trent to bed—not really in a sexual way, mind you, not with Trent looking like a sick teddy bear, but just—the domesticity of it all. It’s nice. Yeah, this is not helping Ted’s—growing feelings.)

He puts the soup in the fridge and makes some hot cocoa for them both—thank god there was an option other than tea, because Ted would have made it for Trent’s sake, but he wouldn’t’ve liked it—and sits in bed with him and pulls him close.

Trent’s shaky and sniffly and sneezy, but he leans into Ted (Ted makes some nervous, flirtatious innuendo, but Trent doesn’t seem fazed, at least, as far as he can tell) and when Ted shows him the book he brought, he seems wide-eyed and quietly touched.

(And he says you’re both kind, with such blunt sincerity, like it’s obvious, and Ted’s heart stutters a little in his chest, because he doesn’t get, sometimes, how Trent thinks so goddamn highly of him.)

Trent curls under his arm and relaxes, and he dozes off pretty quick, but Ted keeps reading for a while anyway, only pausing to indulge in the harmless urge to press a kiss to his too-warm forehead.

Ted almost feels like he’s getting away with something he shouldn’t, stroking Trent Crimm’s hair and seeing him all mussed and vulnerable and sick, but he can’t bring himself to care.

In the morning, he’ll reheat that soup—or maybe make more, it is better fresh, but will he have the supplies? He could ask Beard to bring them; and oh! He has to text Beard, doesn’t he—but for now, he just lies there with Trent asleep on his chest, and thinks: this is nice.

He’d worried he’d come on too strong, being too fussy, hovering too much—he could be suffocating, apparently—but Trent had seemed, while hesitant at first, to bloom under the attention, slowly relaxing more and more.

Ted didn’t know how he got lucky enough to be here, snuggling with Trent Crimm—who was apparently quite the cuddlebug when sick or asleep, which was delightful—but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

ii: later, among other friends.

Colin sits at the foot of Trent’s bed, on top of the covers, cross-legged and beaming, and there is a fat orange cat in his lap.

The cat is a gift—apparently organized by multiple members of the team and led by Nate of all people—although there is a back-up plan for if he can’t take him.

Trent already adores this cat. His name is Theodore, which was not Trent’s idea, but secretly pleases him.

(Ted, for one, immediately charmed his fuzzy namesake with a scratch behind the ears.)

Trent’s slightly less miserable than he was yesterday—he hasn’t needed to puke, despite the helpful bin Ted had put by the bed in case of emergencies that he hadn’t even noticed before—but he’s still wrapped in blankets and definitely not fit for work.

But Ted isn’t his only visitor, now—a few players have stopped by, albeit briefly, and even Roy had appeared in Trent’s kitchen and nearly scared the shit out of him before silently offering him a hot toddy.

Colin was his latest visitor, although he stayed longer than most.

Trent didn’t really know what to make of it, having visitors—he was only out from Richmond for maybe a week, but he’d gotten several utterly sincere well wishes and altogether far too much homemade soup.

His hands idly pet the large cat purring away in his lap, the purring soothing.

Colin catches his still disbelieving gaze lingering on a few of the cards that Ted had left on his bedside table, and says quietly, almost smiling, “We miss you at Richmond, you know, boyo.”

“Part of the team,” says Isaac from the doorway. He’s less comfortable here than Colin is—in fact, Trent wasn’t sure if he’s here for Trent or for Colin—but nonetheless, his words are sincere.

“I know,” says Trent, even though he hadn’t, until now, and he feels like something’s stuck in his throat. That is, an emotion, not phlegm.

He isn’t used to people caring.

iii: what goes around.

Ted does, actually, end up getting sick. Which is what happens when you cuddle with a sick person and kiss their forehead and accidentally drink from their cocoa mug like three times.

At this point, Trent’s mostly recovered, so he immediately volunteers to play nurse. He all but has a powerpoint prepared, as if anyone was going to argue: he was just sick so he should be fine, and anyway, he’s just returning the favor, and he has a daughter, you know, he’s taken care of sick people before, and—well, one of the points he doesn’t make out loud but he’s pretty sure they all know is he is madly in love with Ted, and therefore will be giving him his full attention.

Anyway, it’s Trent’s turn to take care of Ted.

It’s odd, because they’re similar, in some ways, and seeing Ted reluctant to accept affection he clearly needs makes something funny twinge in Trent’s chest. It’s heartbreak; it’s familiarity.

So Trent takes a deep breath and tries to let go of all the things he tries to be. He trusts Ted, after all: he can be tender, or soft, or silly, and Ted isn’t going to judge him. He never would.

Trent brings him cocoa, too, and soup, and they end up watching rom-coms until Ted nods off on his shoulder, and Trent kisses his forehead, and his heart is so full of love he could burst.

Ted leans into him, too, Ted leans into him and sighs softly, contently.

Trent thinks maybe they can be happy.

iv: a brief meeting.

Ted meets Diana a few times, for obvious reasons, and he gets it. She’s sharp and beautiful and her and Trent really seem like peas in a pod, except in all the ways they aren’t.

But really, she is a wonderful lady, and formidable, too, and Ted can definitely see how important she was—is—in Trent’s life.

And it’s not that Ted is judging her. He’s not. He doesn’t know how her and Trent’s relationship came to be or how it ended, other than the most basic of sketches; he doesn’t know the full story, and what he does know is that when someone is fixin’ to hide a part of themselves from you, it’s not always easy to find it in the dark.

But still, it throws him when the topic comes up. He mentions, almost offhandedly, that not long before they’d gotten together, Trent had been sick for a week.

“You know how much of a cuddlebug he is when he’s sick,” he says, grinning, expecting her to be in on the joke, the mutual affection and knowing of a person they both care about, and she gives him an odd look, confused, like she’s missed a step on the stairs.

She says that Trent’s always preferred to be alone when he was sick, and she’s never known him to be particularly cuddly at all.

For a moment, the implications don’t hit, and Ted assumes it’s a misunderstanding, somehow—he’s confused, he says, well, you know, Trent’s real clingy when he’s sick, it’s kind of adorable, really, he doesn’t initiate it much but he really melts into it. He likes affection, after all, he likes being touched.

And there’s something like understanding settling over her face, and she says, very quietly, that Trent had never told her that.

And Ted—Ted isn’t judging her. He’s just sad. Sad for both of them. Sad in general.

He can’t help but think about it; about how many times Trent had been sick and tired and in pain alone. He thinks maybe she’s thinking about it, too, because she looks pained. It’s not the only breakdown of communication between her and Trent, but sometimes there are these aches that are simply unexpectedly tripped over, and they still hurt, even years later. Perhaps even more, because of the years.

It’s a brief conversation, but they’ll both remember it, and Ted goes home and hugs Trent and Trent laughs but leans into it and asks what this is for and Ted says no reason, love, I just want to hold you. Trent is almost never the one to pull away from a hug first, and this is no exception; he stays in Ted’s arms, content to hum and let Ted rock them back and forth a little, for what feels like hours.

v: reprise.

Whatever persona Trent might have had had cracked away entirely long ago. And over the years, it had become easier to accept comfort, and almost more familiar to be held than alone.

Loneliness was still an old ache in his bones, but it was more often than not soothed, and it wasn’t a shock, anymore, that when he woke with a headache and sore throat that Ted would be there.

Asking came easier, too, and Trent was no longer nearly so afraid of rejection, abandonment.

Ted, for his part, loved how much more shameless Trent was now—he was a bit of a clingy menace, and Ted loved it. Really, they were as bad as each other, they were frequently heckled by the others (particularly Roy and Beard) but Ted couldn’t even bring himself to be fondly annoyed, only fond.

Besides, wasn’t it a privilege to see Trent feel comfortable and safe enough that he could be practically demanding snuggles (adorable!!! Ted was going to have heart palpitations!!) and if sometimes that included chubby old Theodore curled between their legs or a worn stuffed animal gifted by Isadora under Trent’s arm or even Isadora herself, pretending to be grossed out by her ridiculous dads and gathering blackmail material for her mother, well, that really made it all the better. Although Trent tried to limit the last one if only so that Isadora wouldn’t get sick—Ted, he’d given up on, it was just accepted that if one of them got sick the other would likely soon follow.

Anyway, it was a far cry from the withdrawn, hesitant, quiet man he’d held on the floor of the bathroom—seeing Trent let himself be more of a drama queen, dramatically implore Ted to come to bed (practically whining, it should not be cute) lest he perish is just… wonderful.

And Ted still reads him Poirot, sometimes, and when Ted is sick, Trent fusses over him, too, and really, they’re such a good match, these two clingy, fussy, slightly bossy, over-affectionate cuddlebugs.