Archive of Our Own

I.

Trent doesn’t remember being bitten.  

At least, that’s what he tells people when they inevitably ask about the gnarled mess of scar tissue that wraps around his forearm. 

He was just a child when it happened, he tells them - far too young to remember anything beyond waking up in A&E surrounded by doctors and nurses, all fretting about bacteria and infection, how a dog’s mouth and claws are filled with all sorts of nasty things - let alone a rabid one. 

But of course that’s all a lie; child or not, Trent remembers the night it happened, the night where everything changed and his life would never be as it once was - for better or worse. 

* 

It had been a long, hot summer. The kind of weather traditional to English summers, where the skies are cloudless and the sun beats down upon everyone, the air sticky and hot to the point where you can taste it on your tongue. 

Trent’s father, finally fed up with his only son spending all of his school holidays shut up in his bedroom, surrounded by books and an old Bush radio turned down low - one alternating between commentary for the latest football match and Bruce Springsteen - loudly announced that they were going on a trip, and that he should pack a rucksack. 

After an excruciatingly long drive up the M40, Trent and his father ended up in what seemed like the middle of nowhere - surrounded on all sides by rolling hills and towering forests. 

They’d been having a fairly nice time. His father was being surprisingly quiet, making no not-so-subtle remarks about Trent not being able to make it onto the school’s football team another year in a row, and that if only Trent just tried, for once in his life just tried to be normal , to be like all the other boys his age, then maybe he’d stop getting so ruthlessly picked on for being different.  

They’d set up their tents on near the shore of a small lake and - after some finagling with tangled fishing lines - sat on an outcropping of rocks by the edge of the water, their feet dangling in the cool water, where they fished for the afternoon and well into the evening. Trent had never gone fishing before, but his father had mentioned it was what his dad had done with him when he was Trent’s age, and his dad before that. A family tradition of sorts, he’d said.  

They didn’t end up catching anything in the end, though Trent had come close, losing the fish just as it was surfacing from the lake. His father didn’t seem to mind all that much - saying that he hadn’t caught anything the first time he went fishing either, but that they could try again tomorrow. He’d almost looked proud. 

Trent, well, he wasn’t looking forward to it per-say, but he was enjoying the trip far more than he thought he would. Being out in the sun, feeling the lazy breeze rustle his hair and whisper across his skin was a nice change from his admittedly stuffy bedroom. 

But they wouldn’t get to go fishing again, not that summer, and not any summers afterwards either. 

They’d made a campfire and eaten the food Trent’s mother had packed for them, watching the sun sink down across the water, painting the sky a hazy mix of deep red and vivid purple. All too soon it went dark and the colours faded, leaving behind countless pinprick stars and a wide full moon.  

He remembers the moon, remembers looking at it and liking how it seemed so bright, how it cast soft shadows and how its light reflected across the lake almost as brightly as the sun had earlier in the day. 

Later, when his father had already gone to sleep, Trent had been reluctant to crawl into his own tent - knowing that with how hot it was, even at near midnight, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Instead, he’d stretched himself out on the cool grass and dozed off to the sound of crickets humming and the water lapping against the shore. 

He’d been woken up by something, or more precisely, the absence of something. The forest was quiet, no foxes barking, no bats sounding out their high-pitched calls, and no crickets.  

Only silence.  

Then- 

Something. The sound of heavy footprints and low, growling breaths. The rustle of grass and the snap of dry twigs.  

Something was coming closer, was already close - close enough that Trent could smell it, the sour stench of sweat and something else, coppery and metallic, a smell so thick and vivid Trent could practically taste it. 

Not two months earlier he had been in a woodworking lesson and had accidentally cut into his hand with a bandsaw. It had been bad enough that the school nurse had to give him stitches. It had smelt the same then, like old pennies and damp metal - as the blood had pooled beneath his hand, bright scarlet red and hot , soaking into the flimsy plywood he’d been cutting into.  

Then it had been subtle, masked by the smell of sawdust and varnish, but now it was so heavy Trent would’ve gagged if he wasn’t too busy staring into a pair of sickly yellow eyes. 

The thing was big - a towering, hulking mass of dark fur, rippling muscle, and stretched limbs, with a long snout stained with gore and a wide, panting mouth filled with deathly sharp teeth and a lolling tongue that dripped with foamy red saliva.  

It crouched down, its back hunched over and its shoulders curled forwards as its fingers, claws, dug into the dry earth. Its head was cocked ever-so-slightly, its ears pinned back against its skull. It was snarling, softly first then louder, a dull rumble that Trent could feel in his chest.  

As Trent stood transfixed - staring into its glowing eyes and feeling it stare back into his - he knew, deep down, that if he stayed here, frozen with fear and shock, he would die. This thing was going to kill him. So Trent ran, and he didn’t look back. 

But Trent was just a boy, a terrified boy overflowing with adrenaline, but a boy nonetheless.  

It caught him, tackling him to the ground with enough force to break several ribs, and knock the breath clean from his lungs. It clawed at his back, tearing through the fabric of his T-shirt and cutting through skin and muscle like a hot knife through butter. Trent screamed. He kicked and screamed and managed to roll on his stomach, just in time to see its jaws open wide before they bit down on the arm Trent had raised to protect his head. It clamped down, mouth snapping shut and locking around his forearm like a bear trap, its teeth sunk deep enough to pierce bone. 

Everything was white-hot pain, sharp and angry and burning.  

The thing did not let go. It did not let go even as Trent shouted and shouted and shouted , begging for it to stop, to let go - that it hurts, that it fucking hurts, please . He begged for his father, for his dad, for the man who seemed always to be frustrated with the child Trent turned out to be, the disappointment of a boy who was too quiet, too different, too queer.

It was there, with death pinning him to the ground and on the verge of passing out from the sheer agony, with those sickly eyes staring into Trent’s soul, that he felt something else. Something that sunk into his veins like tar, spreading through his body and brain like a corruption. Something that silenced the racing of his heart and ringing in his ears, something that languished in the blood and the sweat and the pain. Something that preened under the light of a full moon. 

The next thing Trent remembers is father crying out his name, frantically waving around a torch, shouting and swearing at the thing to get the hell away from my son, then his heavy hands clutching desperately at Trent, and his gasps of relief as Trent moaned in pain - hurt, yes, and badly so, but still alive.  

He remembers fading in and out of consciousness - the sound of sirens and the flash of red and blue lights, then that distinct smell that all hospitals seem to have, antiseptic and cheap soap, and a mixed cocktail of industrial cleaner and bodily fluids. Everything seemed so vivid, so bright and bold and overwhelming . The sounds seemed too loud and the smells too strong.  

He’d woken up in A&E surrounded by doctors and nurses, with thick bandages wrapped around his arm and itchy dressings strapped to the gashes on his back. It was so strange, the doctors had said, there were five of them, four relatively close together and one off-set slightly, almost like a hand had done it. But no, they said, that would be impossible - no human had the ability to cut through flesh with their bare hands like that.  

It was a dog - a very big, very rabid, and very sick dog. 

“It wasn’t a dog, I know it wasn’t.” Trent had told them. His father was slouched in the chair next to his bed. 

“It was a dog, Trent.” He’d said, his eyes were blank. 

“It wasn’t!” He had shouted, “I was there - It wasn’t a dog!”   

His father turned to him then, his voice hard and eyes gaze even moreso, and if they weren’t in a room with other people Trent thought he would’ve hit him. “It was a fucking dog.”  

Countless tests and injections of antibiotics and painkillers later, Trent was discharged and he and his father began the long drive back home.  

They did not speak. There was nothing to say. 

* 

II.

Thirty-something years, a master's degree in English Language, a wedding to the supposed woman of his dreams, an absolutely feral daughter, a miserable divorce, and a career-killing move later, Trent finds himself in the Richmond car park, scrolling through twitter and trying not to lose what remains of his composure.  

He should not be here - surrounded by people who, at best, couldn't care less about him beyond what he writes, and, at worst, would very much like to see him thrown to the wolves. Metaphorical wolves - at least in this case.  

But nonetheless, he is here, and with each passing second Trent is forgetting why, and with each passing second he is regretting ever thinking it was a good idea to come back here - a place he will never be able to set foot in again. Because there will be no more press rooms, no more articles, and no more Trent Crimm, The Independent.  

He is saved by Ted - right, that's why he's here - walking out, bringing with him that air of quiet determination that he always seems to carry with him, one that is seemingly contagious if Richmond's win and subsequent promotion is anything to go by. 

Trent calls out to him, and having Ted's attention solely focused on Trent makes his stomach flip, a breathless knot tangling in his gut and making everything else seem infinitely less important than keeping Ted's steady gaze on him. 

Apparently no longer being a journalist means that Trent's mouth-brain filter has ceased to function, and their short conversation is clunky and filled with too many - one, in Trent’s case, being too many - personal truths, and then Ted is leaving, walking away and out of the car park, and the sudden realisation that he will never see Ted again hits him like a truck. 

He and Ted only ever really interacted because of their respective jobs, they only spoke because it was necessary - part of the bloody and fraught, but ultimately codependent relationship sports journalists and football clubs have - and that now Trent is very much unemployed and searching for something deeper, whatever that's supposed mean, they'll probably never interact again. There will be no reason to, and that knowledge makes the knot in Trent’s stomach pull tight.  

"Do you want a ride?" Trent asks - a last ditch effort by all accounts, but he doesn't know what else to do, doesn't know what else to say that will make Ted stay. He didn't even get the chance to apologise, he was too busy running his mouth about bicycles. 

Ted pauses and Trent can see the polite refusal forming in the air, so it's a bit of a surprise when Ted agrees with a soft smile and strolls back over, making some comment about English weather that Trent doesn’t even hear because he's too busy trying to process the fact that Ted said yes.  

"Real pretty," Ted says with a low whistle, and if Trent didn’t think Ted was suffering from some kind of spontaneous concussion when his accepted Trent’s invitation, then he certainly is now - but Ted just looks over to Trent’s Mercedes, then back to Trent, grinning, "What year is she?" 

Trent swallows, trying not to think too much about the way Ted is smiling at him, sly and sharp and just a little bit cocky, and it's a look Trent has never seen on Ted before - it's more than his patented Midwestern charm, more than anything Trent ever saw from him in the press rooms or on the pitch. It's something new, a part of Ted that Trent has never been privy to before, and that knowledge alone makes something spark sharply in his chest. 

"Um," Trent says eloquently, and mentally slaps himself, trying to get back some kind of control over whatever the hell is happening right now, "'86. It looks lovely, but some of the charm wears off when you're trying to strap a squirming toddler into a car seat that barely fits in the back." 

Ted laughs, light and airy, and something sparks in Trent's chest, warm and bright. "Gosh, I remember when Henry was like that," He says, but his voice is quiet when he continues, looking out towards the pitch as he speaks. "Me and Michelle would play rock-paper-scissors on who would have to wrangle him into his seat - and that was in our SUV. Can't imagine what it's like in that thing." He pauses, turning back to Trent - and that smile is back, softer now but still very much there. "Still. She's a beautiful thing.” 

Trent just stares blankly at him, suddenly wondering whether he's the one who's been spontaneously concussed. It certainly would explain some of his actions these past few days. 

"Right," Trent says, deciding the best possible plan of action is to just act like nothing's wrong, that Ted agreeing to a lift from Trent is a perfectly normal thing that happens all the time. Things go decidedly not normal about five seconds later when Trent tries to open the car door and it doesn't budge, and then sees his keys sat innocently on the seat, taunting him. 

"Shit," he mutters, and Ted seems to realise too, then, because he barks out a laugh and peers through the passenger side window. 

"Well," Ted says after a moment, "I guess we're walking." 

* 

They end up at the Crown and Anchor , the place at least a little quieter than it probably was a few hours ago. There are still more people than usual, though, so they decide to settle themselves into a booth in the back room, away from prying eyes. Not that there's much to see - they're two beers in now, sharing a bowl of chips and idly discussing Rupert Manion and West Ham. Trent has very pointedly not brought up Nathan Shelley. Ted seems to be grateful for it. 

"What was it like?" Ted says suddenly, and Trent cocks his head, questioning, "When he was at Richmond." 

Trent takes a long pull from his pint, thinking. "It depends when, I suppose," He finally says, "If you mean during his divorce, then the place was a bloodbath. Prior to that - well, you've met Rupert, and you've met George Catrick. They cultivated a certain… atmosphere - in both Richmond as a whole and in the press room specifically." 

"Ah," Ted says knowingly, "Boys club." 

"Something like that," Trent takes another sip of his drink, "Back then I'd only been following Richmond for a year or so, but I'd gotten a good enough read to know that Rupert was a fine enough manager and Catrick was going to be a fine enough coach. He wasn't going to revolutionise the team, but he also wasn't going to run it into the ground," Ted laughs quietly at that, " Shit, I-" 

“It's fine,” Ted interrupts, “Ain't nothing I've not heard before.” 

“Still,” Trent says quickly, then quieter, “I suppose you did both, in the end.”  

Ted looks at him, then - his eyes bright, staring at Trent like he’s just said something completely left-field. Ted laughs, a breathless chuckle that sounds like it’s been knocked out of his chest, “You- you really mean that, don’t you?” 

Trent suppresses the urge to lunge across the table, grab Ted by the collar and shake him, because of course he means it - Ted has changed Richmond in such a way that every corner of the club, every tiny nook and cranny, has his fingerprints all over it. He got even the most egotistical and bull-headed players to act as a cohesive unit, he got his boss, one of the most stubborn and relentless women Trent has ever met, to see past her grief and anger and work to make Richmond truly great. He got Trent to torch his decade-long career, all because he seemed to think Trent was… good. That he was more than Trent Crimm, The Independent . That he was someone worth believing in.  

Trent still doesn’t know what Ted sees in him, but surely he must know how much Ted has changed him, changed Richmond, changed everyone he comes into contact with. “Ted,” Trent begins, “You have done so much good here, more than you know,” 

“I got the team relegated,” Ted says quietly. 

“Yes, but you also got them promoted - on your first try,” Trent says, but Ted still has that look in his eyes like he doesn’t believe him, “You’ve done more than just help the team, Ted, you make people better. You made me better. 

“I made you lose your job," 

Trent rolls his eyes and downs the rest of his pint in three long gulps. Ted's gaze seems to linger on his throat and he turns a lovely shade of pink, and Trent finds himself wondering how far it goes down. The deeply entrenched smell of beer and greasy pub food fades away for a moment as something else seeps through, warm and earthy, softly familiar and strangely comforting, but the smell fades before Trent can think more of it, just as Ted’s flushed skin returns to normal. 

"You asked me what I loved, once," he says, "And I think you made me realise that I didn't love my job - I love writing, yes, but I didn't love my job. Not anymore. I’d felt stuck for a long time, going through the motions and being-” 

“A brilliant writer with fantastic hair?” Ted jumps in. 

“-A filthy, blood-thirsty, waste-of-space journo. One who stands up in front of bigots and bastards masquerading as coaches and managers, tearing them apart with a few carefully selected words. One who ruins people’s careers and lives without a second thought, because that’s the job - and who cares if it means publishing another person's very personal, very private, problems.” Trent finishes, his words spilling together and tumbling from his lips with no input from his brain.  

Ted is quiet, and Trent very much wishes he didn’t just finish off his pint. He’s just about to stand up and get them another round - for the excuse to leave this uncomfortable, heavy silence more than anything. He even makes it halfway out of his seat before Ted clears his throat and gives Trent a look , and Trent reluctantly sinks back down. 

“I sense a but, ” Ted says and he’s smiling, but it isn’t like earlier, it doesn’t reach his eyes and Trent - not for the first time this evening - wishes he’d just kept his mouth shut. 

“I did not like that person - did not like that I had to be like that to keep up with everyone around me. I’d made a name for myself as relentless, for being all those things and more, but it suddenly became much harder when I was doing it to someone truly good.” He says slowly, “I thought it was an act, at first - that all your kindness was false, that everything about you was just an act,” 

“That I was just doing it for the money.” 

“Yes,” Trent says, “But it wasn’t - it isn’t. You are who you are, Ted. You helped me realise that I didn’t want to be that ruthless, uncaring, absolute prick of a journalist anymore.” 

“Trent,” Ted breathes, barely more than a whisper and, god , does Trent want to do something incredibly stupid - wants to make him see how much Ted has done for him, how much he’s still doing , even after everything Trent did to him.  

“I don’t think I ever really apologised,” Trent says in a rush, because he needs Ted to know, desperately, that he did not want to hurt him - not purposely, not like that. “For the article, I mean.” 

Ted just looks confused, “There’s nothing you need to apologise for, Trent,” He says, “You did what you had to do.” 

“I still hurt you, Ted,” Trent says, “I could have simply refused to write the story in the first place - but I didn’t,” 

“If you didn’t write it someone else would’ve,” Ted points out, “Someone with far less tact.” 

“Still,” Trent says, because yes, realistically, if he had refused - if he spat in Nate’s face and told him he was making a mistake, that Ted was a good person and never in a million years did he deserve what Nate was going to do to him - Nate would have just gone to someone else, would have found another journalist to write his hit piece, someone who cared far less about how Ted came out of it than Trent did. “I’m sorry. Truly.” 

“Well, thank you, Trent,” Ted says, “I appreciate you sayin’ that, even if it's not needed.” 

Trent gives him a short, sharp nod, unsure of what to say now. A weight seems to have been lifted from his shoulders, one that Trent hadn’t even known was there. They are both quiet, but it is not like earlier - the silence is softer now, the air between them both, if not entirely cleared, is at least less heavy with unspoken words.  

Trent thinks about Ted, about how, for all the encouraging, rallying speeches he must give to his players, to his fellow coaches, to everyone around him - the second those same affirmations are returned, Ted balks and does everything in his power to deny anything positive, instead effortlessly shifting the focus to someone else deserving the affection originally aimed at himself. 

It’s a little sad, really, that Ted seems to feel like he doesn’t deserve praise, like he doesn’t deserve to feel proud of his achievements. 

“So,” Ted says, breaking their mutual silence and derailing Trent’s train of thought in one fell swoop, “How’s little Lottie doing these days? Last I saw of her she was kickin’ your ass - sorry, arse - at football.”  

“She’s a menace, as always,” Trent says, both unwilling and unable to suppress the smile that forms when he speaks about his daughter.  

Their conversation is distinctly lighter, after that. Trent talks about Charlotte and Ted talks about Henry, about how he’ll be staying with Ted over the summer holidays, and how Henry plans on visiting every single London tourist attraction known to man, and a few more to boot. Ted asks about Trent’s future, ‘something deeper’, plans - but Trent can’t bring himself to confess that he has absolutely no idea what he’s going to do next. 

They get kicked out by Mae at closing time - both veering closer to drunk than tipsy. Before they part ways however, Ted pauses, swaying slightly, and pulls Trent into a hug that makes him feel hot all over, surrounded by the scent of beer and Ted’s aftershave, and something earthy and unfamiliar that makes Trent’s head spin and stomach clench. 

“G’night, Trent,” Ted mumbles, his face pressed into Trent’s shirt. Trent can feel him breathing, can feel the rise and fall of Ted's chest against his. Trent doesn’t want to let go, he should - and does, after a moment longer - but even when they’re stood apart once more, Trent finds himself wanting to hold onto Ted for as long as he will let him.  

“Goodbye, Ted.” Trent says, “Love our chats.” 

Ted leaves grinning like an idiot and, Trent thinks, happy.   

* 

III.  

Trent gets a month into his self-imposed stint of unemployment before he breaks. The additional time he gets to spend with Charlotte is wonderful - better than wonderful, even. Of course he knew that his work would mean seeing her less, would mean he would miss the simple things like picking her up from reception most afternoons, but when she came running into his arms, her hands full of drawings and completed worksheets, shouting for her dad, Trent had nearly cried.  

On her days off they go for walks around the park, stopping every five minutes for her to say hello to all the passing dogs and give them a stroke - all whilst Trent stands by smiling, unable to hide his joy at seeing his daughter happy and healthy. He’d been so worried when she was born, terrified that she would end up like him, but so far Charlotte is a perfectly normal five-year-old with an obsession with small animals and all things pink and glittery.  

But as much as Trent loves his daughter, loves spending time with her regularly without his job getting in the way - he misses his work. Or, more precisely, he misses writing. He’s always wanted to write a book, though on what he’s never really decided - but now, after AFC Richmond have clawed their way back into the Premier League with blood, sweat, tears, and an enigmatic American coach, Trent wants nothing more than to follow them - to follow Ted, to see up close his style of coaching and how it makes the team work so well together. 

He hadn’t expected everything to fall into place so quickly. He certainly hadn’t expected to be sat across from Rebecca Wellton, in all her glory, pitching her his idea - nor did he expect for her to actually agree so easily, but she did, and suddenly Trent is thrown into the world of publishing and book deals and deadlines. He is given full access to the club, to its players and staff and coaches, and is able to write what he likes.  

And like just that, Trent is stepping back into a world he thought he would never see again. 

* 

Two months of working at Richmond pass in the blink of an eye. Two months of watching and waiting, observing anyone and everyone and writing down every scrap of information Trent can get his hands on. Most of it - the majority of it - will never make it into his book, but Trent writes it all down anyway - recording every moment, big and small, the good and the bad.   

He does not fit in, not at the beginning at least, but that's nothing new - Trent has been an outsider for most of his life. He feels like an outsider in his own body once a month. He has been an unwelcome presence in nearly every room he’s ever been in, especially as an adult, so it is not a surprise that people are wary of him - but Ted’s open and easy acceptance of Trent is entirely unexpected. They’d made up, for the most part, that night in the Crown and Anchor, but Trent had not expected Ted to be so welcoming so quickly. Not that he is complaining - it’s just surprising that Ted is still so willing to see beyond Trent’s past and his actions. 

After making nice with Roy and settling a fairly reasonable, in Trent's opinion, grudge he’d held against Trent since he was seventeen - the rest of the team and staff soon follow in Ted’s footsteps. It is strange at first, being welcomed. Even at The Independent, in his job he’d done since he was twenty-five, he’d never felt like he truly belonged. He did not necessarily fit in with his colleagues - did not want to fit in with them. Most were not nice people. They were ruthless and bloody and that was the only way in which Trent was like them. Casual homophobia was part of the job description - they were sports reporters, after all - and every little comment and joke left Trent feeling increasingly isolated, even if, at the time, he did not understand why.  

All of that is to say Trent is not used to being part of something. He is not used to being part of a place. Some days he finds himself wondering when it will all be taken away, wondering what he will inevitably end up doing to ruin this fragile new life he is building for himself.  

It is on those days he feels it the most - the pull of the moon and the beating heart of the beast inside his bones. 

* 

Trent grimaces as he swallows down another gulp of his coffee, then very nearly falls out of his chair when Ted, who has magically appeared and is leaning against the doorframe, lets out a low whistle.  

"Boy howdy, Trent," Ted says, "You've been jumpier than a jackrabbit today. You feeling alright?" 

Trent breathes out a laugh - if he tries to tell Ted that, despite it still being light outside, Trent can feel the gaze of the moon heavy on his back, its unerring presence pushing down on him like a physical weight - well, Ted would probably think he was going mad. 

Trent takes another sip of his coffee and lets the bitterness blind his senses, at least for a moment. "I'm fine," Trent says finally, but Ted just raises one firmly disbelieving eyebrow, "Well, I've been better." 

Ted hums, "You've been downing coffee like it's water in a desert all day, I'm not surprised you're feelin’ a little off."  

"It's not that," Trent says, then immediately wishes he didn’t, because it's enough for Ted to move from his post at the door frame and into Roy's chair opposite him.  

"Then what's up, buttercup?" Ted asks. 

Trent exhales a long and shaky breath. With Ted so close, legs spread with his elbows perched upon his knees, Trent can hear Ted’s heartbeat, can feel its steady thump pounding in time with the throbbing headache that’s been building behind Trent’s eyes. He can smell him, too - his body wash and shampoo and the same woods-y cologne Ted uses every single day without fail. “Really, Ted, I’m fine,” 

Ted eyes him, his gaze sweeping up and down Trent’s body before settling on his hands - watching carefully as they refuse to stop shaking.  

“It’s not that, either,” Trent says softly. He knows what Ted is thinking, can practically hear the cogs whirring away in his head as his pulse picks up, but Trent’s words seem to settle him, at least a little.  

“Sure,” Ted’s voice is quiet, speaking to himself more than he is to Trent, but he seems to come back to himself a moment later, “You gonna make me play Twenty Questions? Because you should know right outta the gate that I am a Twenty Questions champ.” 

“I’m sure you are,” Trent says, “But no, not today. I’m just feeling a little… anticipatory.” 

“Oh? What for?” Ted cocks his head just so and a piece of his meticulously slicked-back hair falls across his forehead. Trent wants to brush it back into place. He wants to run his hands through Ted’s hair, wants to feel it beneath his fingers, wants to pull on it just-so and hear the way Ted’s breath catches.  

Christ.  Ted is straight, he reminds himself. Ted is his co-worker. Ted is practically the subject of his novel. Trent can’t want him, not like that - it is a recipe for heartbreak. 

Trent runs a shaking hand through his own hair, sweeping it up and back, letting it drift down to his nape. The room suddenly smells like something warm - fresh and earthy and almost sweet, like a field of fresh wheat on a hot summer day. It's that same thing he smelt that night outside the pub, but stronger now, richer and more vivid. 

“Nothing interesting I assure you,” He says with a sigh, “I just can’t wait to get home.” 

Ted frowns, a slight crease forming between his eyebrows, but it vanishes in a second. He does not press Trent any further, and Ted must see the relief written across Trent’s face because he smiles softly, “I know the feelin’” Ted says, and Trent pushes down his disappointment as Ted leans away from him, sitting backwards in his chair, “It’s time we all got off for the day aways I suppose. You got any plans for tonight?” 

“Not really,” Trent says as he stands, flexing his hands in a futile attempt to stop their trembling. Trent honestly doesn’t know if it’s the unholy amount of coffee he’s drank today or the adrenaline that’s been thrumming through his veins since he woke up this morning. “You?” 

Ted stretches his arms and locks his fingers together behind his head. His jumper and polo-shirt combo rides as he does so, revealing a sliver of surprisingly pale skin and the waistband of Ted’s boxers. Trent swallows thickly, trying to stop the flush that crawls up his neck by sheer force of will. “Other than my call with Henry, not much,” Ted says, “I might make my way down to the Crown and Anchor for dinner afterwards, though. You’re welcome to join me.” 

God, Ted sounds so hopeful. On any other day, any day at all, Trent would say yes. But he can’t - not tonight. “I’m sorry-” He begins, but Ted doesn’t let him finish. 

“I know, I know - you can’t. S’alright, Trent,” Ted smiles. Trent feels awful. “You best get home, it’ll be gettin’ dark soon.” 

“Right,” Trent turns and snaps his notebook closed with a dull thud, “Don’t be too late either, Ted.” 

Ted hums and closes his eyes, “I know, I know,” He mumbles. He’s silent as Trent packs away the rest of his things, but he opens up one eye just as Trent’s about to step out into the darkened hallway. “Y’know, It’s a full moon tonight. There’ll be all sorts of monsters runnin’ about.” 

“There’s no such thing,” Trent says seriously.  

Ted huffs out a laugh, “Oh, don’t worry, I know there’s not. But still - it’s fun to think about.” He gives Trent a lazy wave as he leaves, “G’night Trent, have a good evening.” 

“See you later, Ted.” 

* 

When Trent goes back to his empty flat that evening - Charlotte seconded safely to her mother's for the night - he throws his curtains open wide and sits in the centre of his living room. He watches the sun set and feels the moon rise before he even catches sight of it. 

Later, as Trent slips into unconsciousness, deep beneath his skin, in his bones and in his blood - something wakes up. 

* 

IV.

“I was in the park last night,” Ted says, out of the blue, breezy as anything. 

They’re alone in his and Beard’s office, Ted swaying back and forth in his chair slowly, half-heartedly reviewing footage of Arsenal’s offensive and defensive plays, whilst Trent leans against the window behind him, sipping his too-cold tea and doing his best to ignore the dull aches that course through his body, offering the occasional observation on the game.  

That causes him to pause, however.  

“Been having some trouble sleeping, lately,” Ted continues, “Woke up at god-knows-when in the night - or maybe it was morning - and decided to either take a walk or crack open a bottle of whiskey and settle in on the couch and watch some those telemarketing programs y’all show over here at silly-o’clock. And, well, the only whiskey I had was that lovely bottle you got me a few months back, and that’s far too nice for something like that, so I decided to go for a little stroll.” 

Trent wants to say something about how irresponsible it is to go out walking in the middle of the night in London, but he keeps quiet, half because Ted seems to be very intent upon continuing - even if he sounds almost aggressively nonchalant - and half because a cold sense of dread has begun pooling in Trent’s stomach. 

“Wasn’t sure where I was going but, boy, did it feel nice to get some fresh air - even if it was a little strange, seeing everywhere all shuttered and quiet.” Ted says, “Anyway, I ended up going a heck of a lot further than I intended - ended up down by the big nature reserve park, where me and Henry had gone a few times when he’d come down.”  

The cold dread feeling in Trent’s stomach deepens, and he suddenly knows where Ted is going with this. 

“Was pretty spooky if I'm being completely honest - there are a bunch of deer ‘round there, and their eyes reflect the moonlight. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I first saw one of them staring back at me, like something outta a horror movie.” 

“I’m sure,” Trent murmurs. His mind is rapidly running through ways for him to leave this conversation as soon as possible. Ted - luckily - isn’t looking at him, instead he’s still watching his laptop screen, speaking to Trent like they’re discussing the weather and not like he’s confessing to seeing someone, some thing, very much not human. 

“After a while I thought I should probably head back to my place, I’d gone out to try and feel better and I had done, minus any deer-related scares, of course.” Ted turns around, then, his eyes suddenly fixed on Trent. “I was just leaving when I saw something.” 

Trent thinks that if he tries to leave now it’ll be incriminating enough, but somehow he thinks Ted won’t let him off that easily. But maybe this is just a big misunderstanding, and Ted is talking about something else, something completely different and entirely unrelated to what Trent was doing in the exact same place less than twelve hours ago. Maybe he’s just being paranoid.  

Trent swallows down the lump in his throat. “What did you see?” He says, trying to match Ted’s tone but instead he thinks he just sounds nervous - like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, which, well, he is.  

Ted, apparently oblivious to Trent’s steadily building internal crisis, continues on, “I thought it was just another deer at first, but deer don’t usually scrounge around trash cans like that, but I thought it was maybe just really hungry, or stuck, or somethin’ like that. I was about to make my way over, but got about two steps in before its head shot up and it was starin’ right at me.” 

Ted is still looking right at him, looking into him. “It was starin’ right at me and I was starin’ right back at it,” Ted says, and, jesus, if Trent wasn’t frozen before then he certainly is now - his feet glued to the ground as his pulse ratchets up, “And for a moment I was pretty darn terrified, this thing was big, lot’a black fur and mean looking claws, but it wasn’t moving towards me - wasn’t even growling or snarling or nothin’. It was just watching me with a pair of the sharpest eyes I've ever seen, golden yellow and bright, like a pair of spotlights trained right on me.” 

“Really?” Trent says, taking another shot at being nonchalant and only fairing slightly better than before. He feels like he’s walking on a knife-edge - where one wrong step, one wrong move or word will send him spiralling. At least Ted doesn’t seem scared - beneath his calm Ted seems intrigued, curious even - his heart isn’t racing anywhere near as fast as Trent’s and there is no sickly sour smell that comes from fear-sweat and adrenaline, just traces of Old Spice and after-shave. 

Ted smiles then, gentle and a borderline pitying, “Trent,” he says softly, so soft that Trent can’t help the way his body relaxes a little. “I wasn’t scared, then - I think I should’a been, but I wasn’t. I think some small part of me knew, knew those eyes and knew that look. I’d seen it a hundred times before in press rooms and interviews, in this very office. I don’t think I'll never not recognise that look, Trent.” 

A loud, emphatic, shit, is the only thought running through Trent’s head - screw being relaxed, Trent can’t hear much beyond the rushing of blood in his ears. He opens his mouth to speak but for once in his life Trent doesn’t know what to say - the words just won’t come, they’re all jumbled, bleeding into each other in his mind until there’s nothing comprehensible left.  

He wants to explain, to tell Ted that the thing he saw last night was not the Trent, not really, it was just some parasite, a disease, a monster that has sat just beneath the surface since he was fifteen and forcefully rears its ugly head every full moon. He wants to apologise, because no one, let alone Ted , should have to see such a creature; he wants to beg forgiveness because Ted very easily could have been injured last night, and that if something had gone wrong and Ted had been hurt, then it was all too likely that Ted wouldn’t be sat here now - worse still if he was sat here, sporting a brand new bite mark and a curse flowing through his veins.

But Trent can’t say any of that, instead he wills his feet to finally move and shuffles over to Beards chair, promptly collapsing into it with a total lack of dignity that feels rather apt for his current situation. “Ted…” 

“Trent.” Ted’s is still calm, so infuriatingly calm. It would be so much easier, Trent thinks, if Ted was angry - if he was yelling and shouting, if he was being outright hostile and violent - because at least then Trent would know what to do, would know how to react. Those feelings, those emotions, are familiar ground for Trent - but this , Ted’s placid and empathetic smiles only seem to unsettle him more. 

“I-I,” Trent begins quietly, “I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what you want to hear.” 

“There’s nothin’ to say, Trent.” Ted says, and for a moment Trent is struck with sickly panic, but it fades just as quickly as it came.  Ted still is not cursing him out or regarding him with abject horror, he is merely giving Trent a look of such overwhelming acceptance that he has to look away. 

“What you saw last night, it wasn’t - it isn’t-” Trent huffs and cuts himself off, he needs to make Ted understand - desperately needs to make him see that what he saw wasn’t Trent, not really. “That… thing is just a cruel twist of fate. It is not me, it is not who I am - not really. It never has been, and it never will.” 

Ted frowns, mulling over Trent’s words for a moment before he cocks his head and asks, “You ever spoken to anyone about this?” 

Of all the questions Trent was expecting, that certainly wasn’t one of them. “No, no I haven’t. My father was there when I- when it all happened. But he never said anything, afterwards - I suppose he wanted to pretend that nothing was wrong, that I hadn’t nearly-” 

“Nearly what?” Ted’s voice is so, so quiet, and Trent aches . 

“Died,” He breathes out, “He wanted to pretend that I hadn’t nearly died - that what had I’d been attacked by wasn’t something wrong , that it was just a dog.”  

A very big, very rabid, very sick, dog.  

Ted nods, “But you’ve never told anyone?” 

“What am I supposed to tell people?” Trent says, “‘Oh just to let you know, I was bitten by a monster when I was a teenager, and once a month I unwillingly turn into a big, angry, werewolf’, god knows how that would go down. I didn’t tell my father, my mother - I didn’t even tell my wife . My daughter only found out because, by sheer bad luck, she saw it.”  

“Now wait just a moment,” Ted says, “When I saw you, you were big, sure, but not angry - not by a long shot. You scarpered without a peep before I could even get close, Trent, skittish as anything. I know you want to paint yourself as some sorta villain here, some terrible monster, but I know for a fact that you’d never wilfully hurt someone, even when you’re like that.” 

“You can’t possibly know that,” Trent protests, but it’s half-hearted at best. Trent has learned from experience that trying to convince Ted to change his mind when it's dead set like this is pointless, and no matter how hard Trent argues that he is dangerous, that he has the potential to kill or corrupt someone, Ted will not listen, not when he has seen otherwise.  

Trent is saved from hearing Ted’s response by Roy heralding his arrival into his and Trent’s shared office by forcefully slamming open the door, hard enough that Trent is genuinely worried about it coming off of its hinges. The door holds, however, and it’s clear to both himself and Ted that their conversation is firmly over - at least for now, anyway. Trent is dreading whenever Ted decides he wants to continue it, knows that, Ted being Ted, he will have far too many questions and that he won’t be fully satisfied until he gets answers for them. They’re similar in that way, Trent thinks. 

Trent gets halfway out of the door before he pauses, “Ted?” 

Ted turns to look at him, head cocked just so, the ghost of a smile on his lips, “Yeah, Trent?” 

“Are we,” Trent begins, praying the emotion in his voice does not betray him too much, because, despite everything Ted has said to him during this excruciating talk, despite all the care and kindness and patience Ted has shown him today - however undeserved it truly is - he suddenly, desperately needs to know, “Are we okay?” 

“‘Course Trent,” Ted grins, “We’re okay.” 

* 

V.

Trent walks into his office two days later and stops dead in his tracks. "Ted," he says, his voice deathly calm. Ted, who is lounging in his chair, shoots up so fast his knees pop, "Why does your office smell mistletoe?” 

“Damn, I didn’t think it would actually work,” Ted eyes Trent with a curious mix of frank disbelief and awe. Trent glares. “I- Well, you see, I’ve been tryn’a get more acquainted with all your wonderful British culture - help understand some of those fascinatin’ little references y’all are so fond of - so I started off with a lil’ Doctor Who - though I bet you’d call it Doctor Whom .” 

“That’s not how that works,” 

Ted smiles, “Good job you’re the writer then,” He says, “Anyway, I came across a certain episode featuring the good Doctor and Miss Tyler running around a fancy estate with a…” Ted pauses, looking a little sheepish, “Werewolf. Well, they think it’s werewolf but it’s actually an alien spore thing-y that crashed to earth some three hundred years prior and had been buildin’ itself up over all that time, and it only looks like that because-” 

“Ted” Trent cuts him off, normally happy to listen and follow along with Ted’s ramblings, but not right now, and certainly not about something like this. “Why does your office smell of mistletoe.” 

“Because in the show it repels werewolves,” Trent’s eyebrows shoot up and Ted looks instantly guilty, “Not that I was trying to repel you! No, Nothin’ like that - I was just curious. People say it ain’t supposed to smell of anything at all and I… Well I just wanted to see if you’d notice.” 

“Well, you certainly accomplished that,” Trent says with a sigh, before taking in a deep breath through his nose, “It doesn’t smell like much - a little musty, a little sweet. You hid it inside your desk, next to the Tower of London teddy-bear keyring Henry left behind.” 

Ted’s guilty look is quickly replaced by something else, wide and open and beaming . “Damn - you got any other secret talents all squirrelled away, Inspector Crimm?” Ted says, grinning, “Besides the whole-” Ted puts his hands on his head, his palms facing Trent, like dog ears, then mimes a little howl, “-Wolf-y thing.” 

Trent stares - just looks at Ted for a long moment of disbelief. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t know how, Ted is being so blasé about all of this. “I-” Trent begins, but stops himself before he says something utterly and embarrassingly honest. The less Ted knows about Trent and his ‘wolf-y thing’ the better.  

Unfortunately, Ted sees right through him. He’s gotten rather good at that lately. “You’ve an open invitation to tell me to back off about all of this,” Ted says, “But I’ve always liked knowing what makes you tick, Trent, and this whole thing just makes you all the more intriguing.”  

Trent does not, absolutely does not, blush like a schoolgirl. “I have very good hearing,” Trent admits, “And well, my body is annoyingly sensitive to the lunar phases - besides the obvious, of course,” 

“I see,” Ted says, “Thank you for tellin’ me that,”  

“Right…” Trent says, feeling distinctly off balance in the way only Ted seems to make him. “You aren’t going to do any more little experiments, are you?” 

Ted winks, “‘Course not, sweetheart.” 

* 

Ted does not conduct any more experiments. Ted makes a list.  

Trent doesn’t know what's worse. 

It covers an entire sheet of A4 paper and every time they find themselves alone he beckons Trent into his office, into Beard’s chair, and pulls it out. Trent is beginning to suspect that Ted is sending everyone else home a good half-an-hour early, allowing for ample interrogation opportunities. Past Trent, the blood-thirsty, prick of a journalist, would be proud - but the Trent of now finds it absolutely infuriating, finds it physically painful to say no to Ted and his idiotic and mildly insensitive questions, but whenever he goes to refuse Ted’s eyes lose their lustre and his lips twitch into a sad, puppy-dog frown, and the words never leave Trent’s tongue. 

Tonight, Ted’s first question is, “Can you see ghosts?” 

“No.” Trent says, not even bothering to look up from where he’s typing up his scrawled short hand notes from the past few days.  

Ted leans over and snaps Trent’s laptop closed and Trent opens his mouth to very loudly, very aggressively protest such actions, but Ted’s face breaks out into a sharp smile that’s all teeth. He knows exactly what he’s doing, knows just how to wind Trent up and get him to pay attention. Though, Trent thinks, that’s not a particularly hard thing to do - Ted is on his mind constantly, whether because of his work or because of the annoyingly persistent and frankly pathetic crush he apparently has on the man.  

Ted repeats his question and Trent scowls. “The answer is still no, Ted.” 

Ted, seemingly satisfied, crosses a line through one of his many bullet points and searches for another question. After a moment he lets out a little ‘ah-ha’ noise and smiles, “D’you have an inherent hatred of vampires and other supernatural creatures?” Trent rolls his eyes, but Ted continues, unperturbed, “Or d’you happen to know of any dreamy lookin’ two-hundred-and fifty-year-old vampires with,” Ted winks, “ Angelic names?” 

“ Christ,” Trent breathes, “Dreamy? Really?”  

Ted shrugs, “Mr. Boreanaz is a mighty fine lookin’ gentleman, and anyone who says otherwise is lyin’ to themselves.” 

“Right…” Trent has no idea what to say to that - his mind is stuck on the idea of Ted Lasso finding David Boreanaz, a man, attractive. Now is not the time to be contemplating the fact that Ted might not be entirely straight. There will never be a time to contemplate that, not if he wants to stay sane. “No, I do not have an ‘inherent hatred of vampires and other supernatural creatures’ - ignoring the fact that neither actually exist, you’re getting your references mixed up again, vampires and werewolves never really interacted in Buffy.”  

“Trent Crimm! Always knew you were a true nerd at heart,” 

Trent pointedly stares at Ted’s full-page list of what basically amounts to pop-culture references. Ted grins. “Whatever - look,” Trent stands, begins pacing up and down the small stretch of office, “I’ve been like… thi s, for the past thirty-odd years and it still feels like I know nothing about any of it. 

“Well, how ‘bout we start with what you do know, then?” Ted says, then quickly adds, “‘Course if you just wanna let this be I won’t bother you no more.”  

Trent shakes his head, “No, it’s fine - it’s good… I think. To talk about it, I mean.” 

“Right then,” Ted says, and crumples up his paper and throws it artfully into a nearby bin, then turns his full attention to Trent, “How’d it happen?” 

“How did I become a-” Trent grimaces, “-Werewolf?” 

Ted nods. Trent's first instinct is to say that he doesn’t remember, he even gets halfway to doing just that before he has to cut himself off. Ted deserves better than a worthless lie Trent has been telling people since the day he was bitten. “When I was a teenager my father took me camping - on our first night out there something attacked me. A month later, on the night of a full moon, I turned into… well - you saw what it is.” 

“Is that where it bit you?” Ted asks, gesturing to the pale mess of scars that twine themselves around Trent’s forearm.  

Trent pauses, fighting the urge to cover his arm, “It- it is, yes.” 

“Can I… Can I touch it?” Ted asks, then almost immediately backtracks, “ Shit, sorry - ‘m sorry, that’s mighty rude of me to say. Not sure where that came from,” Ted says with a nervous laugh. 

“You can - if you’d like to,” Trent says quietly. 

After a second of deliberation, Ted scoots back in his rolly-chair, allowing just enough space for Trent as he slips into the gap between Ted’s thighs and perches on the edge of his desk. From where Trent is sat he can see Ted’s throat bob as he swallows, can see his pulse thumping beneath his skin even as its drumbeat echoes around the deathly-silent office. He can see the way Ted’s face glows with a bright red flush, high on cheek bones and trailing down beneath his shirt collar.

Trent holds out his arm, watching the way Ted’s fingers twitch as he gingerly raises his hand and lets the pads of fingers ghost over Trent’s skin. Ted’s touch is hot - an electric heat that shoots right through Trent’s limbs and skates down his spine, and he has no time to suppress the way he flinches, a full-body shudder that makes Ted’s hand snap backwards like he’s been burned.  Before he can do so, however, Trent reaches out and grabs Ted’s wrist, so quick Trent doesn’t even realise he’s done it until he feels Ted’s heartbeat stutter, running rabbit-quick beneath his fingers.  

Ted lets out a long breath and looks up at Trent, licks his lips in a luxuriously slow movement that must be reflexive - a motion that makes Trent’s head spin violently as his blood hastily redirects itself southwards. “It’s alright,” Trent murmurs, sounding far more relaxed, far more put-together than he truly feels.  

Slowly, softly, Trent lets go of Ted's wrist and he holds his arm out once more. After a moment - seemingly steeling himself, if the way he subtlety rolls his shoulders back is any indication - Ted brushes his fingers against Trent’s forearm, tracing the rise and fall of deep puncture marks, circling the individual scars that make up the whole twisted mess of poorly healed tissue, doing so with such care, such reverence.  

When Ted eventually pulls away Trent feels positively punch-drunk - his arm tingling and his whole body burning up. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, and for a second Trent is reminded of a particularly awful hangover he’d given himself in university on the night of his graduation. The urge to reach out catches in his throat, bubbles up from the pit of his stomach and threatens to drown him - the urge to slip forward into Ted’s lap and just touch , just feel. Trent wants - so much it hurts, an ache in chest that pulses in time with his own heart, it is a want so deep it settles into his marrow, a need so strong it reminds Trent of the moon, of its pull, of its blinding light and the way it consumes his very sense of self. 

“Well,” Ted says, sounding dazed and looking at it too, but his expression hastily shifts back to his usual carefree smile, a look that feels increasingly hollow the more Trent learns about him.  

“Well,” Trent repeats. He is surrounded by Ted, by his sound and his smell, by the way Ted’s legs sit open, bracketing his own thighs, mere inches apart. He is trapped. It does not scare him as much as it probably should. “Did you… Did you have any more questions?” 

Ted clears his throat, “Nothing’s comin’ to mind at this very moment,” 

“Right.” 

“Right.”

Trent can’t help it, can’t help the breathless little laugh that spills from his lips. Not five minutes ago he was working on his book and now he’s sat on Ted Lasso’s desk, the man himself looking up at Trent with an expression he cannot place. Trent must be dreaming, must’ve fallen and hit his head when he’d stood up - both are the only rational explanations for whatever the hell is happening right now. He dreads to think what someone would think if they walked in, both of them sat like they are, the mirrored flush on their faces and the horribly love-struck look Trent knows he’s probably sporting.  “I should be going,” Trent says, glancing over to the clock.  

“Right - yes,” Ted says, hurriedly shifting his chair back so Trent can hop down and step away. He picks up his satchel and starts throwing his things inside, not really caring how messy it is, how he’ll inevitably have to rummage through it later to find his keys. 

“See you tomorrow, then,” Trent says, bag slung over his shoulder and half-way to the door. Ted is still sat there, in his chair, gazing at Trent with such a gentle, knowing smile that Trent has to turn away. He knows he’s fleeing - but if Trent stays he doesn’t know what he’ll end up doing. Something incredibly stupid and potentially self-destructive, if his past actions concerning Ted are anything to go on.  

“Have a good evening, Trent” Ted says, and Trent leaves - slips away with an ache in his chest and the ghost Ted’s touch burned into his skin.  

* 

VI.

Trent knows something is wrong as soon as he wakes up.  

He sleeps awfully, which, while nothing particularly new - he’s had trouble sleeping since he was a teenager, another side effect of his condition, he supposes - but last night he’d tossed and turned, had woken up drenched in ice cold sweat and haunted by dreams he could not remember. 

He can’t bring himself to eat any breakfast, and his normal pre-transformation routine of drinking so much coffee he can’t tell the difference between the anxiety from being over-caffeinated and ‘my body is going to forcefully rearrange itself before the day is over’ type anxiety, is halted when he cracks open his tin of dirt cheap coffee he owns strictly for this occasion, and nearly throws up in his sink. It smells strong, which sounds obvious, but even on days like this - where his senses go into overdrive and he can pick out the exact type of perfume Rebecca Wellton has chosen for the day, all whilst he is sat in his office - it's never anything like this, never to this extent, never this early. 

After a long moment, clutching at the corners of his sink for dear life, Trent shuts the lid and decides to blame the overpowering smell on it being past its use-by date, and chucks the can into the bin.  

He gets dressed and ready as best he can, ignoring the squirming feeling of unease that settles heavy in his stomach.  

* 

Trent stumbles into the clubhouse half an hour late, a twitchy, sweaty mess. He’d had to pull over twice because of how much he’d been shaking. He makes a bee-line for his office, but nearly runs headfirst into Ted as he walks out of the toilets. Ted, taking one look at him, turns right back around and practically drags Trent with him. 

The toilets reek of bleach and lemon scented artificial cleaner, and the rattling whir of an extractor fan echoes off the white and Richmond-blue tiles. Trent can hear the droning buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights like it’s inside his skull. He wants to leave, wants to go back to his office and hide away from anyone and everyone until whatever is happening to him this morning stops - but he can’t. Trent has never been good at walking away from Ted.  

In the end he settles for pacing the length of the room, desperately hoping it comes off as impatient rather than restless. Ted stands in front of him, his back to a row of pristine sinks, hands white-knuckled in their grip on the countertop. Besides Ted’s early departure from his match against Tottenham, it’s the most tense Trent has ever seen him.  

“Trent, what the hell happened to you?” Ted asks, “You look like death warmed over,” 

“‘M fine,” Trent says. It's probably the stupidest thing he’s ever said to Ted - and that’s including his drunken Casablanca antics, his horribly embarrassing bicycle-related admission, and his 'Sorry, I’m actually a werewolf and I could’ve killed you last night’ confession. Of course he isn’t okay. A rock has enough critical thinking skills to see that Trent is clearly not fine .  

“Jesus, Trent. Yeah, ‘Course you’re fine, what was I thinking, pulling you in here - you’re perfectly alright, tip-top and tickety-boo.” Ted says, his voice growing more fervent with each word. He’s angry, Trent realises with a start, truly angry at him. “I should’ve just let you keep walking, should’a just ignored the way you’re tremblin’ like a leaf.” 

Trent steels himself, “Yes,” He says, sounding infinitely more confident than he feels, “You should have. You don’t have to worry about me, Ted - I am a fully-grown adult who is perfectly capable of looking after himself.” 

“Right.” 

“I am-”  

“For someone so goddamn smart you’re real stupid, ” Ted interrupts, sharp and fierce, “I know you’re capable of takin’ care of yourself. I know I don’t have to worry - but why can’t you get it through that sharp brain of yours that it doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”  

That stops Trent dead in his tracks. Ted is looking at him, really looking at him, and Trent can’t tear his gaze away from Ted’s face, frantically searching for any indication that Ted doesn’t mean what he’s said - but there is nothing, just a sad look of resignation and something else, fondness perhaps, or maybe something more, something Trent daren’t name - even in his own head. “Ted…” He murmurs, voice whisper soft and so, so fragile.  

“I care ‘bout you, Trent,” Ted continues, quieter now, “And maybe you think you don’t deserve it, by you do. I think you deserve it more than most,” 

“You… fuck, you really mean that. You really fucking mean that,” Trent breathes, “How can you mean that, when you know what I am?” 

Ted laughs, really, properly laughs, a deep rumbling noise that calms Trent’s nerves like a balm. “Trent,” Ted says, “You bein’ what you are don’t change a goddamn thing. It’s just another part of you, another little thing that makes up who you are - and I ain’t never gonna hold that against you.” 

Trent has always been good with words, made a career out of it, but now - in this overly sterile bathroom, standing frozen in front of a man who, two years ago, Trent essentially called a fucking joke - he does not know to say. He does not have the words to describe how Ted makes him feel. He doesn't think he will ever have the words.  

Trent wants to hug him, wants to grab hold of Ted and never let go. 

Ted, ever the mind reader, steps forward and wraps his arms around Trent in one smooth motion, pulling him in close. Ted is warm and solid and suddenly all Trent can smell is Ted - his skin and his sweat, his cologne and soap. There's that earthy-fresh scent, too - the one that has been ever present since the Crown and Anchor - and with every breath it fills Trent’s head, wrapping around his mind like fog. Trent wants to bury his face in Ted’s neck, at that spot just above his pulse-point, and just breathe. He restrains himself, but only just. 

Trent doesn’t know how long they stay like that, Trent’s head on Ted’s shoulder - Ted’s buried in Trent’s hair. It is too long, Trent thinks idly - too long to play it off as two friends simply comforting each other, but he finds he does not care, not now, surrounded by Ted’s heat and his thumping heartbeat.  

When they pull apart after Trent’s world rushes back into crystal clear focus. Everything is too sharp - the sounds too loud and smells too strong. Trent so desperately wants to pull Ted back, wants to revel in his comfort, in the way Ted’s presence seems to calm him right to his bones. Instead Trent crosses his arms tight across his chest, his fingers digging in the skin of his palms - the dull bite of his nails distracting him, at least a little, from the urge to reach out once more. 

“So,” Ted says, clearing his throat. His cheeks are pink, a scarlet flush that starts at the top of his cheekbones and trails down his neck, standing out all too clearly under the blinding fluorescents. Trent feels a distinct sense of déjà vu.  “I’ll ask you again now, and if you say you’re fine one more time I’ll never talk to you again,” 

“You’re joking,” Trent says slowly, doing his best to not make it sound like a question. 

Trent smiles. It’s the first time he’s smiled since he’d dragged Trent into here and it hits Trent square in the chest - a kick right to his heart. “I might be, I might not be. Now then - what happened to you Trent? Why do you look like you ain’t slept a wink for a month straight?” 

Trent sighs, running a hand through his dishevelled hair, searching for some easy way to explain everything. But there isn’t one, he supposes - not when, even after thirty years of all this, Trent himself still doesn’t know how or why any of it happens, not really. “Things get, well, I suppose ‘more intense’ is the best way to describe it, on the day of a full moon - like everything has been turned up to eleven. Normally it’s fine, coffee helps with smells, and I’ve gotten used to blocking out most sounds,” 

Ted frowns, “If you’re so good at handling everything then… why?” 

Trent laughs, bittersweet and raw, “I don’t know, Ted. I just woke up to everything feeling too much, off-balance - like when you know something bad is coming, but you don’t know what it is or when it’ll happen.” 

“Sounds like a mighty fine recipe for a panic attack,” Ted says, eyes steadily following Trent as he resumes his pacing. 

“I suppose so,” Trent says, “Though, transforming is a little like a panic attack. Too much adrenaline and tension bouncing around inside you with nowhere for it to go, growing stronger and stronger until it all spills out.” 

“I don’t usually come outta my panic attacks with a set of furry ears,” Ted chuckles, “But I’ll be sure to check next time - just to be sure.” 

Trent arcs an eyebrow but Ted just grins at him, wide and brilliantly bright . Trent catches himself in the mirror, sees the way his own face goes several shades darker, and ends up looking away so quickly that his neck spasms. “This is serious, Ted,” 

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” Ted says, and if Trent wasn’t blushing before then he certainly is now. Ted doesn’t seem to notice his slip-up, however, and ploughs on, “I know you’ll probably shoot this down all quick-like, but why don’t you come over to mine later?” 

Trent, for the second time during this conversation, is struck dumb. Of course he wants to shoot down Ted's idea - it’s absolutely foolish and Ted should know better than to suggest such a thing. He’s seen Trent’s little alter-ego with his own eyes, has been on the receiving end of countless warnings about how dangerous Trent - the monster - is, but Ted still stubbornly refuses to believe him. 

But, god , does part Trent want to agree - it’s the very same part that wants to crawl back into Ted’s embrace, that wants to run his hands through Ted’s hair and pull . The part of Trent that he does his damndest to ignore, because if he doesn’t he’ll end up throwing himself at Ted and kissing him absolutely senseless - screw the consequences, screw the inevitable rejection - he just wants to feel Ted’s bare skin beneath his palms, wants to take him to bed and have Ted still be there the next morning, bed head and bad breath, Trent doesn’t care - he wants all of it, wants all of Ted.  

Trent huffs, “You know I can’t do that - I’m not going to tell you that it’s a colossally bad idea because you already know that. I can barely predict what I’m - what that thing - is going to do when it’s on its own, let alone when it’s close to another human being.” 

Ted frowns, his eyebrows screwing up and his moustache twisting just-so as his mouth tightens. “Y’know, I don’t allow negative self-talk amongst the team, Trent - you know you’re part of this team, a damned important one, if I do say so myself - so you certainly ain’t an exception to that rule.” 

Trent had known, he supposes, in a strange, abstract sort of way - but to hear Ted say it out loud , that he is part of this, part of the tight-knit and compassionate community Ted has so lovingly cultivated during his tenure makes something in Trent’s chest squeeze. 

“Right. Sorry.” He says quietly. Trent doesn’t think he can say much else without causing even more of a scene than he already has. 

“S’alright,” Ted says, his expression softening as he stretches an arm out to seemingly pat Trent on the shoulder - but Ted falters, drops his arm to hang lamely at his side. “It ain’t me you should be apologising to. Anyway, look, I know you think it’s a bad idea and all that, but if you’re feelin’ all funky I really don’t think you should be alone,” 

“I’m always alone, Ted - tonight will be nothing new. Strange feelings or not.” Trent says simply, because it’s true - he’s been alone for practically every full moon since he’d been bitten - besides a handful of unfortunate events, including the one with his daughter - but Ted’s looking at him like he's a puppy Trent has just metaphorically kicked, like Trent’s statement is something deeply depressing and not the simple reality that comes with turning into a monster once a month. 

Ted smiles, dejected, “Just think about it, okay? I ain’t gonna be offended if you say no, but if you’re saying it because you’re scared you’re gonna do something to me then you’ll need to find another excuse.” Ted says, “Now, considering you turned up in the first place I’m guessing you ain’t gonna take kindly to me telling you to head home early-” Trent nods, he’s always done his best to not let his condition affect his work, and he isn’t about to start now, “-So why don’t you go get yourself settled in your office. Roy’ll be out with me and Beard - we’ve got a whole lot of planning left to do for the match this Saturday, but we’ll do our best to keep the noise down.” 

“That- that’s very kind of you,” Trent says, “Thank you, Ted.” 

Thank you , Trent thinks, if not nearly enough. They are just two little words - words that pale in comparison to the things Ted has said to him this morning alone.  

“It ain’t no trouble,” Ted says, strolling over to the door and holding it open. He grins, adding, “I’ll even make you a cup of horrible leaf-water before they arrive, if you’re so inclined.” 

Trent laughs. His senses are still in overdrive, his body still thrumming with steadily building adrenaline, hanging in suspense, but the dread and anxiety and sickly unease is gone - banished by Ted’s heartfelt words and comforting embrace. He doesn’t feel good, not by a long shot, but he feels better. More grounded. 

“I think I’ll pass,” Trent says, summoning up his usual wry smirk like it’s armour, and follows behind Ted as they step out into the club once more, “Especially when you insist on calling it ‘horrible leaf-water.’” 

* 

The rest of the morning passes in a blur, the hours ticking by like seconds. Ted, Beard, and Roy are all crammed into the main office, taking turns crowding around a large whiteboard covered in coloured little magnets and barely legible scribbles, frantically preparing for a match against Aston Villa later in the week. Trent does his best to stay out of their way, alternating sporadically between sitting huddled up at his desk and wearing holes into the carpet with his pacing. True to his word, Ted and his fellow coaches keep the noise to a minimum, and Trent is incredibly grateful. 

As the others break for their lunch - though from what Trent can see, they’re still arguing and proposing new tactics while wolfing down sandwiches - he slips out and makes his way down to the empty pitch.  

The stands are empty - rows upon rows of seats, and not a single soul in any of them. Trent is alone, standing right in the centre of it all, revelling in the quiet and emptiness around him. Inside, beneath the surface of his skin, he is a screaming mess, too much and nowhere for it to go - not yet. 

When Trent looks up he can see the moon, though just barely - hidden behind layers of drizzling clouds and deep, blue-grey sky. He can feel it, a buzzing tingle in his fingertips, a whispered breath on the back of his neck. The hairs on his arms stand on end as the thing inside him sirs, yawns, then settles back down. It is patient. It will wait ever-so calmly, even whilst Trent himself feels strung tight enough to snap.  

After several long minutes staring up at the sky and breathing in the smell of the wet, freshly cut pitch, Trent heads back inside. The coaches are back at it again in full force, but as Trent sinks back into his chair Ted sticks his head through the doorway and takes a long, long look at Trent - his gaze travelling up and down Trent’s body in a way that makes his skin itch and his cheeks heat alarmingly. Ted doesn’t say anything, just eyes Trent with quiet concern - his face crumpled slightly as he frowns, his brows pinched and mouth turned down.  

Trent wants to say something, to reassure Ted that he is fine, that he’ll be alright, but after this morning he knows such words would, at best, do the opposite, and at worst, would be a downright insult - a frank breaking of all the trust and care Ted has shown him.  

Ted disappears back out with a wry smile before either of them can say anything, Roy calling out Ted’s name and managing to fit in a surprising amount of swear words as he does so. 

Trent drags his hands down his face, digs his heels into his eye-sockets. He is too old for this. For his condition, and for his irresponsible feelings towards annoyingly handsome, unreasonably caring, and utterly ridiculous Midwesterners. 

* 

Trent leaves at five o’clock on the dot. He nearly knocks over his chair in his rush to leave and he doesn’t even notice Ted standing in front of him until Trent runs smack dab into him. 

“Ah, fuck,” Trent bites out, planting his hands firmly on Ted’s chest as Ted’s hands find Trent’s hips, anchoring him in place as he sways dramatically. He can feel the heat from Ted’s palms through the thick fabric of his jeans, a blazing warmth that sends a shiver down his spine. “Shit, sorry - I didn’t see you there,” 

Ted looks down at him and smiles. Standing this close Trent can see the faint smudges of purple beneath his eyes, can trace the lines on his face like roads on a map. He is beautiful. “You’re fine, Trent, don’t worry ‘bout it,” Ted says, “I shouldn’t have surprised you like that,” 

“No, no - I wasn’t paying enough attention,” Trent replies. Ted still hasn’t moved his hands, if anything his grip has tightened, his thumbs settling into hollows of Trent’s hip bones like they were made to fit together.  

Beneath his palms Ted’s heart is pounding like mad and Trent has half a mind to step away, pry himself away from Ted’s grip - but he doesn’t, because Trent can’t move, not now, not when the only smell is the room is that same goddamn one that’s haunting him every time he’s around Ted, the same one that makes his face burn scarlet and calms him to his very core - it’s everywhere, hovering thick in the air around himself and Ted and growing stronger with every passing second.  

Trent opens his mouth to ask Ted if he can smell it too, but barely gets a word out before Ted takes a hurried step backwards - his eyes glued to the floor. “I’ll, uh - I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Trent - if you’re still dead set on bein’ on your own later.” Ted glances up, adding, “‘Course, my offer is still open,”  

“I… I can’t, Ted,” Trent says. He can still feel the ghost of Ted’s touch, the wonderful burn of his fingertips. He wants to agree, wants to just say yes, wants to indulge in the care and kindness Ted is offering him - but for the sake of Ted and his safety, for the sake of Trent and his pathetic heart, “I just can’t.” 

Ted nods, “I understand,” He says simply, and pulls out his phone in one swift motion, “Still - I’ll send over my address, ‘case you change your mind.” 

Trent’s phone buzzes softly in his pocket. He doesn’t touch it. “Goodnight, Ted,” He says finally, “Thank you again, for this morning,” 

“Anytime, Trent. Anytime."

* 

VII.  

Trent does not drive home - he barely feels in control of his own limbs at the moment, so driving one and a half tonnes of metal at speed is strictly off the table - and the idea of taking the Tube at rush-hour, in a tightly confined space surrounded on all sides by people, makes his skin crawl. Instead Trent opts to walk back to his flat. It isn't far, twenty minutes at most - fifteen if he really books it - and he decides the fresh air will do him good.  

But almost an hour later and Trent still isn’t home. He doesn’t know where he is, trapped by rows of Georgian townhouses that all look alarmingly similar to the one he grew up in. There is not a soul in sight, no cars running up and down the streets and no people out walking their dogs or making their own way home.  

Everything is shockingly quiet and Trent has to pause, suddenly overwhelmed by memories of a silent lake shore and an empty field surrounded by towering trees, of the coppery smell of his blood, of blinding, white-hot pain, and sickly eyes gazing deep into his own. 

He is promptly dragged back to reality when a car stops about two inches from his face, the driver yelling obscenities and slamming their horn with blatant disregard for both Trent and the surrounding residents - some of whom are already peering out of their windows, trying to get a good look at the twat making so much noise and the lunatic standing frozen in the middle of the road.  

Trent hurriedly slopes off to the pavement and sinks down onto the kerb as the driver races past him, swearing up a storm and giving Trent a few choice hand gestures. Trent just takes a deep breath, doing his best to ignore the ringing in his ears and the increasingly insistent tingling spreading up from the tips of his fingers. Under his sleeve the twisting mess of scar tissue on his forearm itches, sensitive and hot against the silky lining of his blazer as it throbs with dull, phantom pain. 

Trent pulls out his phone, stares for a moment at the image of Charlotte riding on his shoulders, her hands buried in his hair, both of them grinning like mad as the sun shines bright behind them. Ted had taken that photo a few months ago - back when Trent had first started following Richmond again, when Charlotte had refused to go into school and Trent had ended up taking her to work with him. The team adored her, even if Charlotte had been wary of so many new people, but she’d visibly brightened upon seeing Ted, running up to him and asking - demanding, really - more biscuits. Later, Ted had snapped a not-so-sneaky photo of them both watching the team practice, and he’d grinned as he sent it over to Trent, saying he’d never seen Trent so happy - so carefree. 

With a soft sigh Trent thumbs open his messages, reading over and over the text Ted had sent him earlier - then pulls up the location. From where he is now, Ted’s flat is closer than his own by a good twenty minutes.  

The sun has almost set, hovering just above the horizon - burning the sky a kaleidoscopic mix of colours - deep blues and purples, vibrant reds and oranges. Trent is running out of time. He can either worm his way out of this maze of houses and try to find some place quiet and secluded to wait out the night, hoping he doesn’t end up wandering, doesn’t end up hurting some innocent bystander - or he can go to Ted’s. 

Trent thinks about what Ted had said to him, about how he cares - really goddam cares - and how he seems to have accepted Trent’s condition more than Trent himself ever has, how he once said he knew Trent would never hurt someone, even when he isn’t truly himself. He thinks about the way his heart kicks up whenever Ted walks into a room - and how, sometimes, Ted’s does the same. He thinks about that afternoon in Ted’s office, nearly a month ago now - thinks about the heat of Ted’s fingers as they traced Trent’s arm, about how he was so painfully gentle , like Trent was something to be cherished and looked after - like he deserved all those things and more.  

Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Maybe he’s reading too much into too little. Maybe he’s seeing something that isn’t there to begin with. Maybe, maybe, maybe.  

But - perhaps there is something there. Perhaps Trent is not as alone in his feelings as he first thought.  

Trent stands, phone in hand, and begins to walk. 

Ted Lasso has his heart. He has had it ever since Trent torched his career and ever since they’d stood alone, outside an empty pub, and had held onto each other like there was nothing else in the world that mattered. 

Objectively, it is a bad idea. It is a horribly bad idea - foolish and stupid and could end with something going very, very wrong. 

But, Trent thinks, when it comes to Ted, he’s never been very good at being objective. 

* 

Trent doesn’t know how he gets to Ted’s. One moment he is twenty minutes away, surrounded by identical houses, the next he’s standing in a quaint but cramped little street lined with independent shops and cosy looking cafés. He glances down at his phone, re-checks the street name, re-checks the number for Ted’s flat. The paper insert next to the bell has Ted’s name on it, the same scrawled writing Trent has seen hundreds of times before on whiteboards and stray bits of paper, alongside a tiny emoticon-style smiley face, and it’s such a small thing but it makes Trent smile all the same. Ted is nothing if not consistent.  

After a minute or so of lingering on Ted’s doorstep and getting a few troubled looks from passersby, he rings the doorbell. He hears Ted before he sees him, hears the thump-thump of footsteps as he makes his way down the stairs.  

“Trent,” Ted says, opening the door, blatantly surprised by Trent’s arrival. His hair is damp, dripping onto his faded shirt, the soft fabric clinging to his chest, to his biceps. It strikes Trent that he has never seen Ted like this, dressed down, wearing an old T-shirt and well-worn joggers. He looks comfortably rumpled. “You… You came.” 

“I came.” Trent replies, shuffling forwards slightly to lean against the door. 

Ted just stares at him, his gaze darting up and down Trent’s body. God knows what he sees. “You look…” 

“Like shit?” Trent finishes with a laugh.  

Ted goes to reply but he never gets it out, interrupted as Trent doubles over and gasps out a choked-off breath. It feels like his bones are breaking, one by one, in slow-motion. He does not scream, but it is a near thing. 

“Trent? Trent!” Ted is shouting but Trent cannot reply, can’t do anything except cling to the doorframe and ride out the pain, waiting until it fades just enough for him to move, to speak. His nails are digging trenches into the wood, peeling away the paint in long, thin strips that catch on his fingers. 

“M’okay,” Trent mumbles, when he can finally breathe again.  

Ted glares at him - properly glares - and jerks a thumb out behind him. “Upstairs.” 

With Ted’s assistance Trent makes it up and into Ted’s flat. The first thing Trent notices as he steps inside is the smell - vanilla and shortbread and Ted . There is also, faintly, whiskey. As they walk into the living room Trent sees the latter of which comes from a hastily closed bottle, sat half-empty on a coffee table, with a clean, unused glass beside it. Trent obviously interrupted something, or the start of something, anyway.  

Trent sinks down onto the sofa - a tasteful but incredibly uncomfortable white thing that Ted would never have willingly purchased - and shucks his blazer, throwing it somewhere behind the cushions. Ted sits on the table in front of him, one leg bouncing up and down relentlessly. Ted doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it. “Now,” Ted begins, “We’ve been through this whole honesty thing before - happened this mornin’ if I recall - so I ain’t gonna say it all again.” 

“I know,” Trent says, and meets Ted’s eyes. “Look - very soon, very, very soon, I am going to… change.” He swallows, trying to ignore the way his body is shaking, trembling so violently his teeth are chattering. “It will not be pleasant - not for either of us. I don’t know what will happen, I don’t know if it’ll attack you, or try to kill you or bite you or-” 

“Sweetheart,” Ted whispers, “Breathe for me, yeah?” 

Trent breathes. He can feel it, can feel the echo of moonlight as it rises, buzzing beneath his skin.  Ted reaches out, clasps Trent’s hands in his own, winding their fingers together. “You’re gonna be alright, Trent,” Ted says, “I’m here - you ain’t gotta be alone anymore.” 

“God, I should be - I’m going to hurt you, Ted,” 

“Nobody deserves to be alone when they’re hurtin’ - and you ain’t gonna do anything of the sort,” Ted says - and, in one swift motion, he slips off the table and pulls Trent off of the sofa and into his embrace, holding him close, one arm wrapped around Trent’s waist, the other resting on his nape - haphazardly pressed chest-to-chest, their legs tangled together. Ted’s body is cool against his feverish skin, and soon the rolling maelstrom inside of him quietens to a low drone.  

Trent sighs, buries his head in the crook of Ted’s neck, breathing in the scent of his skin, his soap and shampoo and then something oh-so familiar - something soothing and bright, something that fills his mind and quickens his pulse. It is damp grass and fresh dirt, ozone and petrichor, clear golden skies after roaring thunderstorms. It is quiet conversations in empty offices, lingering touches and long looks. It is familiar and it is foreign. It is arousal and attraction. It is something more, something deeper. It is- 

Oh.   

Trent is an idiot.   

Ted pulls Trent’s head back, stares at him for a moment. His expression keeps shifting, morphing between emotions that Trent can’t seem to parse. “ Trent, ” Ted’s voice is quiet, a breath of sound that ghosts against Trent’s cheeks. 

“Ted, ” Trent murmurs, “I’m an idiot,” Ted is still staring - eyes flicking over his features before landing on his lips, bitten red and raw. This entire evening - the entire day - has been a string of bad ideas one after the other, so what’s one more? 

Ted’s lips are chapped and a little rough. Their noses knock against each other, their teeth clack. Ted kisses back almost immediately, slowing Trent’s hurried, desperate movements to a slow, languid rhythm - a mutual push-and-pull, fading in and out like the moon conducting the tides. Trent drowns in it, in the feeling of Ted’s mouth against his own, in the way his moustache pricks against Trent’s skin, in the low gasp Ted lets out when Trent bites his bottom lip with too-sharp teeth, in the soft exhale as he soothes it with careful swipes of his tongue.  

Trent does not want to stop - would gladly never breathe again if it meant he could keep kissing Ted, could keep drawing out such lovely sounds - but the ache in his bones, his limbs, his everything, is building so sharply Trent wants to be sick - spreading out through his blood and oozing through his veins like black tar.  He pulls away as a vicious shudder wracks him, disentangles himself from Ted’s grasp and crawls to the middle of the room, toeing off his sneakers and socks. Ted is moving towards him and Trent wants to shoo him away - but he just can’t bring himself to, not when Ted settles in front of him, helping Trent pull of his sweat-soaked shirt, running gentle hands up and down Trent’s spine, over the deep, claw-mark scars that stretch across his back. 

Ted does not stop touching him, does not stop muttering a reassurances, even as Trent hunches over onto all-fours, his face buried deep into the carpet as pain and adrenaline overwhelms him, stealing the air from his lungs and filling his ears with nothing but the hammering of his own heart, rushing so fast it seems to echo around the room.  

“Ted, ” Trent groans, blood flooding his mouth as he bites into his tongue, metallic and hot. His head is spinning, skin burning, his muscles rigid and pulled taught - body ready to snap in two. 

“S’alright, sweetheart,” Ted says, voice far away and hazy, honey thick, “You can let go now,” 

As sweet agony blossoms behind his ribs, Trent’s mind slips, and everything goes black. 

* 

VIII.  

Over the past few weeks Ted has watched a lot of supernatural TV shows and movies, all of them different in the way they portray their werewolves and wolf-men and everything in between. He thought he’d have some idea of what was going to happen - full-moon comes out, person goes through some sort of physical change before becoming the titular beast. But seeing something on a screen is nothing compared to witnessing it in real life, and nothing could have prepared him for this. 

He can see when it happens, can see when the Trent he has come to know - come to care so wholly and so deeply for - fades. His eyes roll back and when he blinks they are not the deep brown Ted is so used to getting lost in, instead they are a murky yellow - the colour of old, tarnished gold. Ted thinks back to that fateful night a month prior, seeing such a creature and knowing, without a doubt, that it was Trent. It was the eyes that gave it all away, the look of such sharp knowing, like he was taking everything in and cataloguing it all, like he was mulling over a question, a comment, that would shatter the composure of whoever he’d aimed it at. He can see it again, now - that sharpness, so fierce and acerbic and intelligent .  

Things seem to happen very quickly, after that. He watches as Trent’s body shudders, muscles convulsing as bright red splotches start to litter his skin, his joints, and Ted’s seen enough football injuries - both American and English - for him to recognise fresh bruises. Ted grits his teeth and slowly, ever-so-slowly, climbs to his feet, placing himself between Trent and the front hallway as the muffled crack of bones breaking fills the air, the grinding and scraping as they shift and stretch. He does not turn around as he backs over to the door, does not take his eyes off Trent as thick columns of steam coil and twist around him, only looking away to double-check the lock and slide the chain across.  

Trent is gone when he turns back to the living room. There is no-one there, werewolf or otherwise, and for a moment Ted is struck with such sudden, all-consuming panic, that he has to press a hand to the wall beside him, has to ground himself - feeling the chill brickwork beneath his fingers. He takes a deep breath, holds it in his lungs for several seconds before exhaling it in a steady stream.  

“Everythin’ is alright,” Ted mutters, more to reassure himself than anything else. He didn’t hear anything breaking - no windows smashing and no cries of pain or distress - though, come to think of it he can’t hear much of anything anymore. His flat is silent, deathly so, and that unnerves him more than the nails-on-a-chalkboard adjacent noises he heard just a minute ago.  

When he steps back inside he sees that no, Trent is not gone - but there is a mighty big werewolf hunched up in the corner. It is all long limbs and dark, ashy brown fur, its, no - Trent’s - ears pinned tight against his skull, and when he sees Ted he starts to growl, a low, bass-drum sound that settles deep in his chest. Ted is now very much reminded of all of Trent’s comments about how dangerous he can be, how unpredictable.  

Trent’s growl is getting louder and louder, lips peeling back from his long muzzle to reveal rows of pale teeth in a manner Ted has only seen in nature documentaries - packs of wolves snarling and snapping, their faces stained red with blood after downing their prey.  

But, Ted thinks, standing here, he does not feel like prey - if anything, Trent looks infinitely more scared than Ted himself is, still crouched as far into the corner of the room as he can possibly be. Trent seemed to think he was a danger to others, that he could hurt Ted, but right now the only thing Ted can think about is how terrifying it must be for Trent - living with a disease that puts his body through unimaginable trauma, where he is not awake, not conscious, as he turns into a powerful creature built for hunting, for chasing and running and killing - how horrible it must be to wake up alone and scared after a night trapped inside your own body, no knowing whether you’d hurt someone. 

No wonder Trent sees this part of himself as a separate entity - as some sort of parasite, some sort of monster.  

After a moment, a few deep breaths, Ted takes a slow, heavily telegraphed step towards Trent. He lets out a series of rough, howling barks - a warning if Ted has ever heard one - but Ted ignores him, ignores his better judgement and the small, instinctual part of him that is screaming for him to run, and he takes another step forward.  Ted is close enough to feel Trent’s hurried pants as they ruffle his hair, close enough to reach out and run a gentle hand down the side of his muzzle. 

For a second, for what seems like forever, everything is silent. For a second, everything is fine. 

Then Ted’s wrist is in Trent’s mouth - delicate bones trapped between solid jaws and achingly sharp teeth. Ted stands there, frozen, caught between being absolutely terrified and feeling like the world's biggest idiot - what was he thinking, nonchalantly walking up to a scared creature and sticking his hand in its face. How did he think that was going to play out? But to Ted’s surprise, Trent does not bite down, just holds Ted’s wrist in his mouth, his breath hot and humid - staring at him with those piercing eyes, looking right into his soul and not moving an inch.  

Ted does not move either, just stands as still as he possibly can. “Trent,” His voice is little more than a whisper but Trent hears him all the same, his ears flicking upwards as that deep growl starts to build once more, vibrating against Ted’s skin. “You gotta let go,” Ted says, steady, “You gotta let go, and you’ve gotta calm down - I ain’t gonna hurt you.” 

The hold on Ted’s wrist tightens, almost gentle pressure building to something more, sharp and insistent. Trent’s teeth do not pierce his skin, not yet, but it is a near thing. He is oddly expressive, like this - even more-so than usual. Trent is always expressive in his own way, the pointed flick of an eyebrow and a disbelieving smirk - and, more recently, the soft quirk of a smile he cannot contain, the way his whole face lights up, bright and bold. But here, now, Ted can see clear as day the way Trent is fighting against his words, against his reassurances - because even when he is like this Trent still can’t truly believe that Ted wants to help him, wants to care for him, that he deserves such things. 

“Trent.” Ted says, much louder now, almost chiding, “Let go.” 

Trent falls silent, his head cocks to the side, taking Ted’s wrist with it, and his ears fall forward. Ted sees the exact moment Trent seems to realise what he has just gone, sees the shame and guilt settle themselves in his mind, and he releases Ted with a whine. “Hey now,” Ted murmurs, and, because apparently he’s learned nothing, he raises his hand and holds it up, just in front of Trent’s face.  

Trent just looks at him, golden eyes narrowing, flicking between Ted’s hand  

and his face, disbelief strikingly apparent - but after a moment, after an experimental sniff, Trent pushes his damp nose into Ted’s palm. “There you go,” Ted hums, “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” 

The tension bleeds from Trent’s body as Ted runs his fingers through the short, coarse hairs on his muzzle and the longer, silken tufts on the side of his face - his stubby tail thumping lazily against the wall as his eyes slip shut. Ted breathes him in, the warm scent of him - sweat and blood and musk, then faintly, tea tree and peppermint.

This will not be easy, Ted thinks - Trent has been through too much, been alone for so long, hiding a part of his personality, his body, away from everyone, from himself - pushing it down and locking it up tight since he was little more than a child. Ted cannot fix years of trauma and denial, years of pain and fear - but, with time, perhaps he can help Trent reconcile with it all, can help him see that this part of him is not a curse, that he is not a monster, and that this is not some separate entity - that it is simply another piece of him, something that makes him him, the fiercely passionate and whip-smart, adorably dorky man that he is.  

The man Ted has fallen head-over-heels in love for.  

* 

Trent calms, and whether it is because of Ted’s presence, his words, or because he has had time to settle into this new form, he doesn’t know - though Ted likes to think it’s a little of both. He soon sets about exploring Ted’s flat, shuffling around with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. 

He tears apart Ted’s kitchen, nosing open cabinets and spilling their contents onto the floor. Ted is reminded of their very first interview, Trent scanning his office for dirt, and he can’t help but smile. Trent soon moves on, though, wandering back into the living room, clambering all over Ted’s furniture and leaving claw marks in the cushions of the sofa, scratches on the walls. He settles in front of Ted’s wide bay-windows and stares at the closed curtains before turning pointedly to Ted, who lingers behind him. Ted gets the message eventually and throws them wide open. 

It's past midnight now, and only a few scattered streetlamps are still turned on, leaving the sky dark, a deep blue marred by the amber glow of London’s light pollution. Above it all, hanging stark in the night, is the moon - full and whole, its cold light glistening off the damp rooftops and rain-slick streets. Even Ted is a little entranced, staring up at it with wide eyes, but Trent is consumed, enraptured as he gazes up at it, his fur shimmering. He crouches down, throws his head back, and howls.  

Ted grins, wonders how many noise complaints he’s going to get, come morning. 

* 

IX.

Trent wakes to the smell of coffee and frying bacon. For a long moment he does not know where he is, sprawled out on a sofa in a nest of pillows and blankets, his head pounding something chronic. It all comes back to him, though, when Ted strolls into the room wearing a hideously patterned apron with a pair of steaming mugs in one hand and a plate of bacon, eggs, and freshly buttered toast, in the other.  

Right. He’d ended up at Ted’s flat last night, and in some fit of hysteria he’d kissed the man - and Ted had, well, he’d kissed him back.   

“Mornin’, Trent,” Ted says as he lifts up Trent’s legs and plops himself down on the sofa, letting Trent’s legs rest over his thighs. “How you feelin’?” 

Trent swallows. His mouth tastes awful, old blood and saliva heavy on his tongue. He very much wants to spit it out, but he doesn’t think Ted would really appreciate it if he spat blood all over his cream carpets - so instead he slowly sits up and gestures for Ted to hand over one of his mugs, and takes a gulp of too-hot coffee. 

“I’m okay,” Trent says, taking another, slower, sip and sets his mug on the floor. “I feel good,” It’s not a lie, either - headache aside, he does feel good, his body boneless and relaxed, his mind blissfully quiet.  

The feeling fades, however, when he looks around and sees the claw marks that litter the walls and the sad remains of Ted’s coffee table - crumpled and splintered on the floor, a handful of books and magazines slumped beside an upturned bottle of whiskey. When he turns back to Ted, apologies already slipping from his lips, he freezes. There are teeth marks on Ted’s wrist - angry red imprints, stark against his skin.  

“Ted-”  

“What?” Ted frowns, then looks down to where Trent is staring, “Oh! That ain’t nothin’ to worry your little head about,” 

“It bit you, Ted - of course that's something to fucking worry about,” Trent shouts, stumbling to his feet, “I told you this would happen - I knew it was a bad idea, I knew it, but I just… I didn’t want…” He cannot swallow down the lump in his throat, it is stuck, heavy and choking. He feels sick.“I was selfish and you got hurt because of it, and I'm so, so sorry, Ted.” 

“Hey now,” Ted soothes, “It’s alright, Trent. You were freaked out and I spooked you, ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for.” 

“It - I bit you! I could’ve killed you, I could’ve made you like me ,” 

“Could’a, should’a, would’a,” Ted says, putting down his mug and plate, before pushing himself upwards and pulling Trent into his arms - holding him close, rubbing slow circles at the base of his spine. “You were scared - rightfully so might I add, bein’ like that in an unfamiliar place - and you lashed out, but you didn’t hurt me, Trent,” 

“But-” 

“Nu-uh,” Ted hums, nose buried in the riotous tangle of Trent’s hair, “None of that. You let go when I told you to, you realised what you were doin’ and you stopped - that’s what matters.” 

Before Trent can protest further, before he can make Ted just listen - Ted shifts back and places a kiss between the furrow of Trent’s brows, the tops of his cheekbones, the violet bruises beneath his eyes. “Call yourself as many names as you like, tell me a million times that you’re dangerous - I’m still gonna be here,” Ted says, lips trailing down his throat, and all Trent can do is wrap his arms around Ted’s neck and just hold on, “I’m still gonna be head-over-heels for you, and I can say it as many times as you need until you finally start believin’ it.” 

Trent sniffs, clears his throat and drags Ted back upwards. He does not know what he did to deserve this man - this hurricane enigma of a man who somehow saw all of Trent’s sharp edges, all his flaws and misdeeds and the crippling secrets he keeps tucked behind his ribs, and thought that is the person I want to be with.  

“I- I don’t know what to say,” 

“There ain’t nothin’ to say, sweetheart,” Ted says, and kisses him, slow and deep and absolutely perfect.   

When they finally pull apart, panting, their lips swollen and shining, faces bright red - Trent asks, “Why ‘sweetheart’? You’ve been calling me that for a while now - I thought it was just a reflex but…” 

Ted grins, “Well, I suppose it’s because you’re mighty sweet , and you’ve got my heart.”   

“Christ,” Trent groans, “That’s awful,”  

“Mmhm - you better get used to it, you’re stuck with me now,” Ted says. Trent smiles, soft and frighteningly honest - despite the terrible puns, he doesn’t think it’s so bad, being stuck with Ted Lasso. “‘Suppose I’ve always been taken, you made a pretty unforgettable first impression. But if I had to pinpoint the moment I knew, well it’d be the night we went to the pub after you locked yourself outta your car - an easy mistake to make, might I add.” 

“I see,” Trent remembers that night like it was yesterday. He remembers the feeling of Ted’s arms wrapped tight around him, his muffled words against Trent’s chest. It was the first time he’d noticed it, the earthy scent that would cling to Ted, comforting and confusing Trent all at once. In retrospect, he supposes Ted wasn’t entirely subtle with his feelings, and for someone who’d been a journalist for twenty years, Trent was remarkably oblivious - blinded as he was by his own fears and insecurities. 

“Now then,” Ted says, pressing a kiss to Trent’s jaw before sinking back down onto the sofa, motioning for Trent to join him, “You had a long night and your food is gettin’ cold,” 

As Trent slips down next to him, pressed together from hip to shoulder, and takes his plate. He sits and eats, Ted stealing the occasional forkful of eggs and strip of bacon. The sun streams through the open curtains, casting the living room in a warm, golden glow.  

Trent does not know if this feeling will last, the soft heat that fills his body and warms him from head to toe, does not know if it will all come tumbling down - but for now, on this bright morning, he cannot find it in himself to worry.  

Here, with Ted, he feels safe, and he feels loved. 

And that is more than enough.