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Jamie doesn’t remember the attack, only the voice that smelled of lager as it whispered in his ear.
City built you up, they’ll take you down again .
There’s pain, like nothing he’s felt before.
Then there’s nothing.
Time moves weirdly afterwards, speeding up and slowing down. He wakes to agony in his chest and lungs that don’t want to function. It’s hard to breathe, let alone shout. But if he doesn’t try… he’s alone in the kit room, no one knows he’s here. He doesn’t want to die.
His legs kick out weakly and the pain steals what little breath he has. Hot, blood seeps through his fingers clutching his side. He doesn’t want to die.
Every breath is a hard won battle but it’s a war of attrition and he’s losing just a little bit every time. The minutes feel like hours. Jamie knows he’s running out of time. He doesn’t want to die.
Please…
Someone…
“Shit, Jamie!”
Time flashes impossibly fast now between the blinks of his eyes. Roy kneeling by his side. A team of worried faces by the door.
“Fuck!”
Fresh agony hits his side and he gasps a deeper breath than he thought possible. Roy’s so much stronger than Jamie, but there’s still so much blood.
“Sorry, sorry, Jamie, but I gotta stop this bleeding.”
Roy’s talking to him, but Jamie decides he’s going to rest now. He’s been found, and breathing is just… so… damn… hard...
“Someone get--”
Beard deals with the aftermath. He sends Roy with Jamie to the hospital, with his shaking hands covered in blood and the hollow look in his eyes, Beard knows Roy’s of no help at Nelson Road. He hustles the players away from the crime scene, leaves them in Isaac’s care, before updating Rebecca and making sure Keeley doesn’t hear about it on the internet.
Beard speaks to the police in short, flat answers because no one knows how this could have happened, or why and yeah, maybe Roy’s not the only one in a bit of shock. Speaking to the police includes bringing up the footage on the CCTV cameras for them. The officer is kind, he can’t remember her name but she doesn’t comment on how his hands are unsteady as he types in the time stamp and clicks play.
The angle isn’t good. They can’t see his face, but height, build and clothing are captured crystal clear. It isn’t James, thank God, but Beard catches a glimpse of sky blue City colours. The camera can’t see into the room fully, just a glimpse through the half open door. It’s not enough for the police, but it’s too much for Beard.
He hears the words hissed at Jamie.
Hears a sharp piecing cry as something glints on screen.
The man leaves and Beard sees Jamie’s legs moving, heels dragging against the floor until they still and stop.
The time displayed on the screen is a cruel reminder of how long Jamie laid there, how long he bled out before anyone wondered where he was, how close they’d got to being too late, to losing him before the paramedics even got there.
Beard watches Roy walk along the corridor, willing him to move quicker, to walk faster, to get to Jamie, despite knowing it’s not going to change anything that’s happened. This isn’t a movie. It can’t be rewritten.
“Shit, Jamie!”
Roy’s shout brings the rest of the team running down the corridor and the camera is obscured by shirts of bright red and deep blue.
“Fuck!” The swear word cuts right across the chatter in the corridor, then-
“Someone get the--”
Roy’s voice is cut off as Beard abruptly stops the video.
“We know what happens next,” he says quietly, his head bowed.
Sam sits alone in his alcove, his sock covered feet pulled up onto the bench as he slouches against the wall. On his phone there’s a half-typed message to his dad but every few minutes he deletes it all and starts again. He doesn’t have the words. He sends off a quick I’m fine, talk later and drops his phone onto the bench.
Life is in limbo, everything and nothing is possible until they know if Jamie is okay. Sam wants to be positive, wants to think nothing but good thoughts, like how Roy had reacted so quickly, how fast the medics got there, how Jamie had been conscious and so painfully aware when they’d found him. Those were all good things.
Jamie’s a fighter.
But there had also been so much blood.
Sam must have washed his hands a dozen times by now, but he still feels like it’s there, on his skin, in the corner of his nails. Clinging to him like the memories that are replaying in his head, over and over again. He buries his hands in his pockets, biting his lip. He wants to hit something, to shout, to take action, to fix this. But there’s nothing he can do, nothing but wait for a message from their coaches.
He can’t get the look on Roy’s face out of his mind. The fear he saw exposed there as Roy bellowed for medics, the same time that Jamie’s hand went lax in Sam’s.
“Someone get the medic.--”
“Sam? You alright, bruv?”
Isaac.
Sam shakes his head, and walks straight over into the hug that’s waiting for him.
Roy shouldn’t be in here. No one has asked him to leave though, at least not yet. Maybe they’re afraid to tell Roy Kent what to do, maybe his sister pulled some strings, maybe he simply looks that pathetic. Who knows. Roy doesn’t care either way because he is not leaving. Not yet. He can’t.
It shouldn't matter? He’s not going to disturb anyone, he dare not touch Jamie for fear of disturbing any equipment. He can’t disturb Jamie, as heavily sedated as he is, with the ventilator breathing for him.
Critical but stable. It’s not the first time he’s heard that, but it is the first time it hasn’t been on a news report about some poor unlucky stranger. This time he cares about what it really means, the details, he needs to know exactly what’s going on. His sister translated it for him. Jamie’s really fucking sick but he’s not dying. He’s young, healthy and a professional athlete. Everything is in his favour to come out the other side of this with a full recovery.
But she couldn’t promise him that.
He could see it in her face that she wanted to, and part of him wishes she would even though they both know he’d see through it in a heartbeat.
Roy nearly hadn’t gone down to that fucking kit room, his knee had been aching all day, texting Jamie would have been easier. He can’t even remember what he’d wanted to ask him. It’s enough to make him feel sick, the thought that that one single decision so meaningless at the time could be the difference between intensive care and the mortuary.
Roy’s throat is tight, his voice hoarse. Over and over he plays the incident in his head. The last voice that Jamie heard was Roy’s shouting, yelling, desperately.
“Someone get the medic. Get the medic!”
Jamie makes it through the night. And then the next. And the next. And then he’s breathing by himself. The doctors start using the words cautiously optimistic and two blue eyes blearily emerge from the pain and drugs.
Two days later and the police arrest a City fan with a history of violence and drinking. It takes the combined efforts of Beard, Isaac and a phone call from Ted to keep Roy from going down to the station himself.
Jamie makes a slow tour of the hospital, moving from ICU to a surgical ward, to a step-down ward, to discharged. Cheeky charm wins him friends at every stop but all Roy sees when the audience is gone is the energy that’s missing, the pain lurking in his eyes, the frustration Jamie holds with his own body.
Roy’s there for everything. He’s there when Jamie opens his eyes the first time. He’s there to relieve Georgie when she refuses to leave her boy alone. He’s rambling on about stupid Chelsea shit from back in the day while Jamie’s fighting the nausea from a bad antibiotic reaction, and he doesn’t say anything when Jamie eventually loses that battle.
There’s good days and bad days.
Days where Jamie’s angry and Roy’s brittle.
Days where Roy goads Jamie into trying to chase him down when he sees him flagging in therapy.
But also days where they manage to sneak a whole fucking football team past the nurses station and Jamie’s laugh lights up the room.
It takes months, but through sheer stubborn determination and a fuck tonne of hard work Jamie is back in Nelson Road, standing with a grin in Roy’s office. He's not even cleared for a full day of training let alone a match, but he's here and he's healthy and he's smiling. Seeing Jamie there, bouncing on his heels, moving freely and pain free, causes a swell of emotions rise up in Roy. The good kind, and not the kind he’s been talking to Doctor Sharon about the last few months. She’s spent a lot of time encouraging Roy to share his feelings with his friends and family but it still doesn’t come easy to him.
“Glad I’m back?” Jamie asks lightly, but behind the cocky tone is a need for reassurance in a way that he never had before.
“Yeah, I am,” Roy’s planning to leave it there. He’s glad. It’s true. He doesn’t need to say anything else. But he almost lost the chance to say anything at all to Jamie, and maybe Jamie needs to hear it. Maybe Roy needs Jamie to hear it so- fuck it.
“Yes, I’m glad you’re back. You’re my best fucking mate, Jamie. And it’s really weird to fucking say that out loud because I don’t fucking know when I stopped hating you and started liking you but somehow that happened. I’m not even fucking mad about it because you’re my best friend. And I’m not just glad you’re back, I’m really fucking happy and- and I’m proud of you,” Roy finally runs out of breath and he’s sure he’s somehow fucked it, because Jamie’s staring at him like he’s grown a second head or something.
Then Jamie’s voice rings out, loud and clear, laughter carried on his words.
“Someone get the medic. Get the medic! Roy’s having two emotions at the same time!”
“Fuck off, you prick,” Roy replies but he’s pulling Jamie in, wrapping his arms around him with a fond shake of his head as Jamie muffles his grin and his voice in Roy’s neck.
“I love you too,” Jamie says.
“That’s not what I--” Roy rolls his eyes.
But he can’t finish the sentence.
Not honestly at least.
Because he does.
He really does.