Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The factory closed in 1967.

Dad had worked there since he came back from the war, like, and then Jamie left school at fifteen to work there too, and then it fucking closed.

And so did half the fucking factories in Manchester, and the ones that stayed open were firing people left and right, and no one could find any work, and everyone was poor and unhappy and on the drink, and their neighbourhood was violent and dangerous, and everything was shit.

And Jamie was a kid. He liked listening to rock and roll music, which Dad hated, and he wanted to be a footballer more than anything, but was stuck just trying to make ends meet, with no time to even think about playing silly games.

They moved to London in 1968, him and Dad.

Mum stayed back in Manchester, looking after Nan and working at the same beauty parlour she always had, and Jamie wanted so badly to stay there with her, but he weren't soft enough to say that out loud. He was a man, and he had to go with Dad to make something useful of himself. When Dad was sixteen, he'd lied to an enlistment officer about his age and gone to fight the bloody Nazis, so Jamie certainly had no right to pout about just moving down the country.

Jamie put on a brave face, said goodbye to everything he knew, and went away with Dad.

A lot of good that did him, in the end.

They were there two months, and Dad killed him. Came home pissed out of his mind, to their tiny flat (which they could hardly afford on Jamie's salary, but Dad hadn't yet found a job), and threw a heavy, full bottle at his head.

Jamie doesn't think there was even a reason for it, at least not that he can remember. He's not sure what happened that night, after the bottle hit him.

He knows, though, that as he was losing consciousness on the kitchen floor, laying in a mess of whiskey and broken glass, unable to move his body anymore, he wanted his mum.

And then things went dark.

-

It was dark for a while— there's an empty patch in his memory where he thinks he might've been good and properly dead— but he remembers watching Dad get evicted from the flat.

He was there, Jamie, but he wasn't. He could walk around, he could see Dad scrubbing at the old, dark bloodstain in the kitchen while all their stuff was in boxes, he could read the notice on the door that said they had to be out in two days or the police would come. But he couldn't touch anything— his hands passed right through— and he'd tried talking to Dad, but couldn't be heard.

He remembers shouting, stomping his feet, doing everything to say: I'M RIGHT HERE, but it was all fucking useless.

His obituary, cut out from the newspaper, was taped to the fridge.

-

James G. Tartt Jr.
5 December, 1951 - 12 May, 1968
In a tragic accident Tuesday night, a young life was lost too soon. James will be dearly missed by his mother, father, grandparents, and friends. A brief memorial will be held at St. Paul's Church in Manchester on 19 May at noon.

-

Jamie stares at it for a moment.

It's terribly short. It says he died in an accident, but he doesn't think that's true. It weren't very accidental, what Dad did.

There's a small photo of him smiling, which he remembers Mum borrowing the neighbour's camera to take, just before him and Dad moved away. He'd been really, really sad that day, but he'd smiled for the picture.

Then Dad stands up, the bloodstain almost fully gone, and dumps the bucket of soapy water down the sink. He walks over to the fridge, walks right through Jamie, and rubs his thumb over the photo.

"You were a good lad. You've no idea how much I fucking miss you. I'm so sorry, Junior."

He takes down the cutout, folds it up, and puts it in his wallet.

He starts carrying boxes out the door.

Jamie tries to follow him, tries to go out to the car with him, but gets stuck in the doorway. He can't go past it. It's like an invisible wall— he can press up against it, he can ram himself into it, and it won't break. He's trapped.

And then Dad takes the very last box, locks the door behind him, and leaves.

Jamie is alone.

-

In 1984, there's a couple living in the flat. They're about to be married.

Jamie quite likes them, more than most other people who've lived here since he died. He spends more time with Stella than he does with Robert, seeing as she's at home for more of the day while he goes off to work in an office, but they both seem nice.

Stella can't see Jamie, has no idea he's there, but she plays music that he likes on her cassette tapes, and she paints as a hobby, and she keeps the flat really nice and tidy, so he's gotten quite attached to her. She's the closest thing he's had to a friend in years.

She goes to visit her mum in Leeds, two weeks before the wedding. (Jamie's been counting down the days on the calendar they hang in the kitchen. He's excited for them.)

While she's away, Robert brings home a girl. Makes her dinner. Tells her they need to keep it a secret.

Jamie's watching them from the living room, arms folded across him, utterly fucking pissed off. How dare he go behind Stella's back like this? And right before the wedding?

His eye twitches in irritation... and the lights flicker.

Robert looks up, startled. His date frowns.

"That's odd. I should talk to the landlord, have the wiring looked at."

And maybe it was a coincidence.

But then they leave the dirty dishes on the table, and they start heading for the bedroom, and anger bubbles up in Jamie's chest, betrayal on Stella's behalf, and—

Pop.

A lightbulb in the living room shatters above them, sparks flying all around it.

All three of them, Jamie included, jump out of their fucking skin.

"What the fuck?" Robert shouts.

Jamie simply stares with wide eyes, becoming rather sure that he just did that. He hasn't been able to do fuck-all in years, and now he's just gotten so angry that he broke a lightbulb with his mind. Fucking hell.

Still quite enraged, and ready to press his luck, he marches right back to the kitchen and tries pushing their dirty plates off of the table. To his utter surprise, his hands make contact with cold ceramic, and the plates clatter to the floor, breaking into pieces.

In total shock, he bends down to try to pick up the shards, scattered around the new flooring that was put down to cover his bloodstain, and his fingers pass right through. Whatever happened has already worn off, and he's back to being useless.

But it did happen, didn't it, and that's something.

Robert's date storms out, annoyed and scared, and then he's such a shit liar when Stella asks him later about the plates missing from the cupboard, that he confesses his entire longstanding affair.

Stella kicks him out, and she moves out herself not long after— Jamie's sad to see her go, but is also quite glad to have helped her dodge what was going to be a terrible marriage. He's happy he was able to do something, for once.

-

He doesn't like the next tenants— they're loud and messy and argue all the time— but he gradually learns that when he's angry, he can harness enough force to interact with the world somewhat. (Luckily, these people make him quite irate, so he gets lots of practice.)

Lights flickering, cold spots, things being pushed off of shelves... they leave within a couple of months, insisting to the landlord that the place is haunted.

And Jamie's quite satisfied with that.

He keeps practicing, gets better at moving things and controlling the lights, and scares out a fair few residents. Some take more convincing than others, but he makes it into a game— sets a record of three days as the shortest tenancy, with a funny young fellow that ran out screaming in the middle of the night. Eventually, there's a new landlord who warns people when they move in that this unit is allegedly haunted, though he doesn't seem to believe it himself.

It's just past the turn of the new century— Jamie keeps track via people's calendars, and newspapers they happen to leave sitting out— when an older woman moves in, all alone, and brings her cat with her. Apparently the new landlord allows pets.

Jamie hates the cat.

It's a stupid little orange menace. Everything he tries to do— knocking things about, making noises, even the lights going funny— the woman, Mildred, blames on the cat.

"A cat can't even do that!" he finds himself shouting one day, after she'd brushed off the sound of him rattling the fucking pipes. "Get a fucking clue, Mildred!"

But she can't hear him, can she, so she just keeps on making her tea, and then walks right through him to go turn on the telly.

He follows her with an annoyed groan, ready to go start pressing buttons on the stupid thing to make her notice him... but then, when she turns it on, she puts on a football match.

Jamie takes some pause. It's been ages since he's seen one— hardly anyone who's lived here has had much interest in it, not since Dad. He sits on the floor, in front of the screen, and stares. It's Richmond away at Chelsea— he's always been a City lad at heart, but he'd grown fond of Richmond in the short time he'd lived here. The pitch looks so green on a colour television. He hasn't seen grass in ages. He doesn't touch a single button.

Mildred's on the telephone behind him, chatting to someone as the match kicks off— by overhearing one end of her conversation, Jamie finds out that her grandson plays for Richmond, and she's never missed watching a match.

"I do think it's settled the ghost down, too," she says to her friend, in her posh fucking accent. "Maybe the poor thing just needed something to watch. It's a terribly restless wee soul."

Jamie whips around to look at her. She seems well pleased with herself.

Has she been fucking messing with him the whole time, blaming the cat when she knew she was being haunted? Has she outsmarted him at his own fucking game?

He frowns, stares at her a moment longer, then realizes he's not even all that mad. Fair fucking play, that.

At least he's got football to watch.

-

As Mildred gets older, Jamie tries to help her more.

It takes him some time to be able to use anything other than anger to interact with the material world— his efforts are fruitless for a while, but when she has a fall one day, after many years of cohabitating and watching football together, he panics, and finds himself suddenly able to pick up her cordless phone and bring it to her so she can call for help.

She looks surprised, but not scared, when it floats into her hand.

"Thank you, love," she says, looking right through him. "I knew you were still around here somewhere."

And when she comes home from the hospital, moving carefully around on her hip replacement, Jamie realizes he can do more. He can carry her tea to the living room for her, and he can draw the curtains for her at night, and he can refill the stupid cat's water bowl. It's hit or miss, innit, the things he can and can't do, but he tries.

One day, she sets a pen and paper on the table and says:

"I'd love it if you could tell me your name, my dear."

Jamie reaches for the pen straight away, but his fingers go right through it. He tries a few more times, but all he manages to do is make it wobble a bit— he never can touch it for long enough to actually pick it up.

"That's alright," Mildred sighs, though she's clearly a bit disappointed. "I'll leave it out, though— maybe it's easier for you when I'm not looking."

And Jamie doesn't think that has anything to do with it, but once she's gone to bed, he stands at the kitchen table and stares at the pen. Tries to make himself angry— thinks, for the first time in ages, about the fact that his own dad murdered him when he was only sixteen years old, and that wasn't fucking fair, was it? He should've had a life, a real life, but he's been trapped in this fucking flat for forty years instead, locked away from the world, all by himself. Can't even talk to anyone or do anything. It's shit.

And the burners on the stove all turn on for a moment— he thinks that might be a sign that he's upset enough to get something done.

He grabs the pen, which feels solid and real in his hand now, and scrawls out: JAMES GEORGE TARTT in the messy, left-handed penmanship that he used to get the strap for in school. Frowns at it for a moment, then crosses out his first name and replaces it with JAMIE.

That's better.

He adds: 1951-1968, just like on his obituary, to tell her a bit more about him. Thinks a moment longer, then writes: I like football

He loses his grip on the pen before he can even add a period to the sentence, and it clatters to the table, passing right through his fingers.

The stupid cat, Ginger, is sat right behind him, staring at him, when he turns around.

Jamie glares at it.

"Oh, piss off, you little twat."

Ginger runs away.

-

"My goodness," Mildred says in the morning. "You're born the same year as my daughter! You're just a young little thing— I must admit, I was picturing someone much more spooky and Victorian."

And that makes Jamie frown, because there's an invitation hanging on the fridge for her daughter's sixtieth birthday party. Sandra has come to visit plenty before— she's the one whose son is a footballer— and she doesn't even seem that old. She's still got a job, and she ran the London Marathon a few years ago, and she comes by often to check on her elderly mum, and— fuck. Mum and Dad might still be alive. They'd be about Mildred's age, wouldn't they... old, but not, like, senile or nothing. If Jamie were sixty, like Sandra, he'd probably be checking in on them and taking care of them, and his children would be grown up and starting their own families, and he'd be happy and loved and fulfilled like Sandra is.

But no, he's here. He's still sixteen, and he's never going to know what's happened to his family or friends, and he's never going to leave this fucking flat.

The lights flicker with his bad mood.

"Jamie George," Mildred sighs, looking fond. "Enough with the lights. I thought we were past this." She shakes her head. "Shall we put the telly on? Chelsea is playing in Germany today, and you know I quite like the look of that Roy Kent fellow."

And Jamie can't help but laugh, because he quite likes Roy Kent, too. He sits beside her on the couch, and for once, he's sure she knows he's there.

-

She calls her grandson, Andrew, the next day, and asks him to bring over a spare football when he has the chance. She tells him she knows a kid in her block of flats who might like to use it.

It's not until Andrew leaves, and Mildred gently nudges the football into the centre of the living room, that Jamie realizes the kid is him.

He's so overjoyed when he tries to touch it that his foot actually makes contact— for the first time, it's not fear or anger that are letting him get through to the material world, it's pure happiness— and he immediately starts doing keepie-uppies right there. He hasn't touched a football in decades, but it comes right back to him, like he's playing ball games outside the old house in Manchester all over again.

Mildred laughs out loud.

"That's it, Jamie George! Well done!"

To her, it must look like a floating football, bouncing around her living room, but she cheers him on anyways while he messes about with it. She doesn't even scold him when he kicks it into the coffee table by accident.

"I imagine it's been a long time since you've been able to play like a child," she says, later on, once he's exhausted himself. (He didn't even know he could feel tired anymore.) "I do hope I've been able to bring you a bit of joy, love."

-

Some years later, Mildred falls ill.

Jamie doesn't know what's wrong— she goes to lots of appointments with all kinds of doctors he's never heard of, and Sandra and Andrew keep telling her she should move into a care home.

"I simply can't leave Jamie all alone," Mildred tells Sandra one day. "I won't leave here. Not a chance."

It's the first time she's mentioned him by name, or spoke about him in any other way than joking about her haunted flat.

"Who on Earth is Jamie, Mum? What are you on about?"

"He's the little boy that lives with me," Mildred says. She's been getting more confused, lately, always forgetting things, and she spends much of her time in bed. "I can't see him, but I know he's here. I won't leave him."

Sandra sighs.

"Are you talking about the ghost, Mummy? You know that's not real."

The lights flicker. Jamie doesn't much appreciate being dismissed.

"That was him!" Mildred says. "Hello, Jamie George. I hope you're well today, my dear."

Jamie walks over to sit on the edge of her bed. He can't touch her hand, not quite, but she's told him his presence makes the air feel cooler. He hopes she can feel him now.

"Mum..." Sandra breathes. "Please. You're really starting to worry me."

"I'm fine, love. Really." Mildred smiles at her daughter, and Jamie gets a strange, creeping sense that maybe she's not fine. Maybe she knows that. "Get on with your day. I'll be here."

And Sandra doesn't seem to want to leave, but she checks her wristwatch and sighs.

"I'll come back later, alright? I'll bring by some meals for you."

"That would be perfect. I love you, dear."

"I love you, Mum."

Sandra leaves, and Mildred falls asleep soon after, and Jamie elects to pace around the flat and worry. He really doesn't want anything to happen to his favourite person. He needs her to be okay. He's too stressed to even kick his trusty football around.

Once he's finally settled in on the couch, to sit there and fret instead, he's not sure how much time passes before he hears a noise behind him somewhere. He turns around to see Mildred, up and out of bed, moving better than she has in ages, and looking right at him.

"Jamie George," she says. "There you are."

Jamie stands. Moves towards her, and doesn't bother to mask his shock. Instinctively, he smoothes his shirt and tries to fix his hair.

"You can see me?"

He hasn't spoken aloud in a long time, nor has he been seen in even longer. He doesn't really remember what he looks like, it's been so long since he's seen his reflection— he has no idea what she's going to make of him. (He's wondered before if his ghost looks how he did in life, or if he's stuck all beaten and bloody and bruised, the way he died. He hopes he looks healthy and presentable.)

"It's so nice to finally put a face to the name," Mildred says. She walks right up and pinches his cheek; her hands are warm. Jamie hasn't felt touch in decades. "Aren't you ever a handsome young man?"

"I— I don't—" Jamie stammers, at a loss. "How can you touch me?"

She shakes her head, and pulls him into a hug. To his utter horror, he immediately breaks down crying— it's warm and solid and perfect, and he really misses his mum and his nan, and he really cares about Mildred, and he's realizing that she must be a ghost, too, and something in him is breaking.

"Oh, Jamie," she sighs, rubbing his back. "You're alright, my dear. It's okay. I've waited a long time to finally do this."

"I'm sorry," he sobs, overwhelmed and unable to stop. "I just— I never thought I'd have a hug again."

She holds him for a long time, doesn't seem to even care that he's crying like a child. She shushes him and soothes him, but eventually pulls back and says:

"I don't think I can stay much longer."

Jamie frowns. Wipes his eyes.

"Why? Where are you going?"

She smiles a bit sadly.

"I can feel a sort of pull... perhaps it's the great beyond. I think it's my time, love."

"No." Jamie grabs her hands, he can't let go of her yet. He's still crying. "What? Why don't I have a pull? I don't— I don't want to stay here anymore. Why do you get to leave, and I'm stuck?"

She squeezes his hands.

"You must not be done here. There's got to be some kind of purpose for you, yet."

Jamie shakes his head.

"I don't want a purpose. I want my mum. I want to go home. I want to be done."

Mildred sighs. Hugs him again.

"Jamie... I can't claim to know why you're here, but I need you to know that you made an old woman's life much less lonely." She wipes the tears off his face. "I'll miss you very much. I do hope you'll be able to cross over soon and leave this place behind."

She's already fading away.

"Please don't leave," he sobs. He holds onto her, even as his hands starts to pass through her again. "Please. I don't want to be here by myself anymore."

But it's useless.

She leaves, disappearing right in his arms.

-

He scares away the next tenants quite easily.

He's so angry all the time that the lights and the stove and the thermostat all have minds of their own— two shattered lightbulbs and a near-miss of a kitchen fire from the burners all coming on is enough to send the young couple searching for something else. And the man after them, and the lady and her dog after him, who all stay less than a year in the flat.

It's bad enough that the unit sits empty for a while, the landlord clearly at a loss. Jamie doesn't mind that too much, having the place to himself— with no furniture in the way, he can kick his football around as much as he'd like. (He hid it in a wee secret cupboard at the back of the linen closet when Mildred's family was cleaning out her things. He's quite attached to it.)

His anger ebbs and flows, but he finally finds himself feeling quite resigned again, and also getting a bit lonely. He still needs to find whatever purpose Mildred thought he had, and he's not going to come across it while he's wallowing in his misery. The next time the landlord comes by, Jamie doesn't make any sort of scene— not even a single flicker of the lights.

"I really do think it'll be perfect for you," the landlord's saying into a telephone— one of the fancy new kind that Jamie's not familiar with, as Mildred never had one. "It's quaint, yes, but as you stressed the importance of location, I think you'll be quite satisfied."

"Well, I'm excited to see it in person. You just go right on ahead and send the lease over, and we can get this show on the road. I'll have some folks from my new job swing by and grab the keys— they're a real kind bunch, offered to get furniture and all that moved in for me before I land."

Jamie blinks.

That's an American on the phone, isn't it, talking fucking loud enough for Jamie to hear.

He's never met an American in real life— outsiders didn't tend to roam around the shit part of Manchester he was from, and then after moving to London, he wasn't really here long enough to go meeting all sorts of people.

The people in Richmond were proper posh, right, and him and Dad were well out of place, but Mum's cousin owned the shop where Jamie was working and had helped them get the flat. (Of course, Dad thought himself too manly and important to work in a wee grocer's shop... and didn't manage to find any sort of suitable job while Jamie was alive. He was more interested in being on the drink full-time anyways.) But Jamie worked long hours in the back room of the shop, and didn't know many people here, so he kept mostly to himself.

And now he's going to have an American in his flat— quite exotic and thrilling, that.

"Very well, Mr. Lasso," the landlord says. "I'll ensure everything is arranged. I'll have my secretary send the you lease this afternoon."

"Well, mercy buckets, Mr. Puckett." Jamie can hear Mr. Lasso laugh through the phone. "Don't you just love a good rhyme? You've got a perfect name for it."

Mr. Puckett's face pinches, annoyed. Jamie snorts.

"Will that be everything for today, sir?"

"Oh, I'm just getting started," the American chuckles. "I've got a goldmine of puns right here, and you've just struck it, Puckett."

The awkward silence is painful.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Jamie mutters to himself, despite knowing no one can hear him.

Because, like, he'd sworn to himself he'd not do any real haunting to the next person to move in. He's been alone in this flat for too long, and he needs another tenant to actually stay and keep him company this time. He's not going to fuck this up for himself.

But, fucking hell, this Lasso lad sounds like a piece of work.

Chapter Text

After all the new furniture is moved in, and a number of suitcases are dropped off, Jamie spends the whole day watching out the window and waiting.

(He can't even go out onto the fucking balcony, which is a shame. His invisible boundaries keep him thoroughly trapped inside.)

He was chuffed to have a television in the flat again, when they brought it in a few days ago, but he can't sort out how to turn the bloody thing on. It's far too thin, and it has no buttons or dials, and he hasn't the faintest clue how to make it work, even when his hands decide to cooperate by actually touching it.

There's stuff he wants to know, is the thing. Being alone means he's not had any news, nor has he had a way to track the date— in all honestly, the biggest question on his mind is whether Roy Kent is still playing football, because he'd been quite the fucking player. He was Jamie and Mildred's favourite, because he was a good and proper old-schooler; he never faffed about with diving for fouls or bending the rules, he just played the bloody game.

Of course, the state of the world could be nice to know, too, like whether Queen Lizzie is still alive, or if perhaps another world war has started... but Jamie's always been a bit more interested in football than anything else. It's not like anything really affects him, not when he's stuck here.

He hums to himself, sitting at the window and watching the world. There's some songs he remembers from when he was alive— Mum quite liked The Beatles, and Jamie himself loved The Rolling Stones. Dad thought rock and roll was silly, and thought the local bands Jamie liked to go out and watch on the weekends were a bunch of poncey, useless fucks making too much noise. He thought Jamie's tight jeans looked stupid, and was strict about how he was allowed to wear his hair— Dad hated everything young and cool, and Jamie had plenty a row with him about it.

It's drawing on evening when an ugly little green car pulls up— or rather, it slows down, stops a bit down the block, then reverses until it's stopped in front of Jamie's building.

A man with a moustache steps out, waves to the driver and to someone in the back seat, and looks up at the building. Looks right at Jamie's window, in fact— if Jamie didn't know better, he'd think he were looking straight at him.

This must be his new roommate.

Jamie stands up, wanders towards the door.

He's going to be nice this time, isn't he. No fucking with the lights or the stove or the thermostat. No clattering about, and no banging on the pipes. He's going to be so quiet and so good— he'll be so well-behaved he'd even make Nan proud. He's going to enjoy having a living person around, hopefully watch some football, and maybe even learn a thing or two about America.

He hears Mr. Lasso before he sees him.

"Aw, heck." There's some rattling of keys in the hall, and the sound of the lock jiggling. "What do they put in the locks over here? Super glue?"

Jamie does try to unlock it from the inside— be a good roommate and all— but he can't get his fingers to land on it. They pass right through, and Mr. Lasso continues to fight with the lock until he finally un-jams it and the door swings open.

The man with the moustache comes practically tumbling into the room. Jamie jumps out of the way; even though it's not like Mr. Lasso could actually crash into him, it still feels funny to be walked through, so he prefers to avoid it.

"Well, would you look at that service," Mr. Lasso says to himself, looking around. He whistles lowly. "Apartment furnished, bags delivered, kitchen stocked... call me Prince William, 'cause they sure do treat a fella like royalty."

His accent makes Jamie giggle a bit to himself— he sounds like a cartoon character, and it's dead funny.

He watches Mr. Lasso walk around and take it all in; they stop in the living room, Mr. Lasso looks at the floor, and Jamie suddenly realizes he forgot to put his football away after playing with it this afternoon. It's still sitting out.

Mr. Lasso chuckles.

"Pulling out all the stops with a welcome gift, right on theme. I respect it. Maybe I'll learn a trick or two."

And bless him, Mr. Lasso does really seem to try, when he steps closer to the ball and gets his toes under it to kick it up... but he immediately loses control of it, and it thuds against the window.

"Hm. Alright." He stares at it. "Maybe I'll get the fellas at work to give me some pointers."

Jamie wonders what kind of job he does, where he could get football tips at work. Sounds fucking mint, that.

"Alright, Ted," the man says to himself, after he's explored all the corners of the small flat. (Ted Lasso, Jamie thinks to himself, sounds like a ridiculous made-up name for an American.) "Here we are. First day in the new digs." He checks his watch. "Put on some football, order a pizza, call Michelle, and it'll be just like home."

Jamie thinks it might be a bit late in the evening for a match to be on, but he could jump for joy at the thought of finally getting to watch something to do with football again, even if it's just pundits talking their usual shit. He's missed it more than he realized.

He watches as Ted uses his fancy, tiny telephone to order his dinner— making puns and joking with the pizza shop employee for far too long— waits around for it to arrive, and then finally settles in on the couch after eating. He uses the world's smallest remote control to turn the television on, then does something with his phone, and makes a screen that says NBC Monday Night Football appear.

"Welcome back," an announcer with a rather jarring American accent says. "If you're just joining us, we're at the top of the second quarter, and the Chiefs are up seventeen to six against the Denver Broncos, in this decisive final regular season game."

Jamie frowns. He's never heard of these teams, the score sounds absolutely mad, and he's not sure when they started using quarters instead of halves. Something's not right.

Ted doesn't seem bothered, though, still doing something on the little screen of his telephone. Probably calling whoever Michelle is.

The announcers carry on, saying something about playoffs and wild cards, and Jamie stares at the telly. They finally cut to the pitch, and he realizes why it seems all wrong— the players are in massive helmets, lines are painted all over the place, and that's not a football that they're passing around.

To his horror, it dawns on him that this garbage on the screen is American football.

"Fucking hell!" Jamie shouts. Stands up to hover over Ted. "Are you having me on? I wait years to watch a bloody match, and it's this!?"

The lights flicker, and the television shuts off. Good.

Ted frowns, confused.

"I must've hit a button by accident," he says, into the device. There's a woman's face on it, a little kid next to her, whom Ted seems to be talking to. "The TV just shut off. Whatever. Anyways, gimme all the updates. What did I miss today?"

"You fucking rodeo clown American prick!" Jamie continues, every promise to himself about being nice long-forgotten. "This is bullshit!"

He crosses the room and kicks Ted's suitcases, which tumble over like dominoes.

Ted glances over and seems startled, but not all that scared.

"Well, heck, I'm starting to think there might be a ghost in here," he laughs.

"England's really old," the little boy's voice says, through the telephone. "There could be ghosts everywhere. What if your apartment really is haunted?"

Ted chuckles and shakes his head. Jamie rolls his eyes.

"I sure hope it ain't, but hey, if it is, that just means I've got a new friend."

"Dad! No! Ghosts are scary. You can't be friends with them."

"Oh, you know what they say," Ted sighs. "They're more scared of you than you are of them."

"I think that saying is about wild animals, Ted," the woman, who must be Michelle, says.

"Either way, ghost or no ghost, being kind will get you a long way. Open mind, open heart, Henry."

"I know, Dad."

And Jamie catches himself having gone very still, listening to this, with a bit of a sneer on his face at the softness of it all. Is that really how a dad should talk to his son?

Jamie himself was always a bit soft, but Dad hated that about him, and would try to make him tougher at every chance he got. He certainly would never have sat there and preached about kindness and whatnot. Most lads Jamie knew back home had equally mean dads, as far as he knew— their parents's generation had been through the war, served their country, and wouldn't tolerate their kids not being grateful for the sacrifices they made.

The gentle fucking smile on Ted's face is a bit off-putting.

"I should be getting to bed," Ted says. "I did not sleep a wink on the plane, and it's been a heck of a long day."

"I saw you on the news," Henry says. "They were talking about you. It's like you're famous now!"

Ted rolls his eyes.

"Little old me? Famous? I don't think so."

"Say goodnight, Henry," Michelle sighs, exasperated. "It's late over in England. Your dad needs his sleep."

Jamie folds his arms over his chest. He's not sure why this happy wee family is irritating him so much. Maybe he's just upset about the football situation.

"Fine," the kid sighs, all dramatic-like. That sort of tone would've earned Jamie a smack around the side of the head, once upon a time. "Goodnight, Dad. I miss you already."

"I miss you too, Mr. Magoo," Ted says. The man really seems to love rhyming. "Have a good rest of your day, alright? Send me pictures if you get up to anything interesting."

Jamie walks away, into the kitchen. Tries to shove the empty pizza box off of the counter, but his hand goes right through it.

He flips Ted off, instead. 

-

"Hello there, ghost!" Ted greets, when he gets home from work the next day, all chipper and shit.

Jamie's renewed his whole being nice thing. He's going to try again today. He didn't even fuck with Ted at all this morning, just stayed out of the way and watched, and now he's going to do the same tonight.

"I'm not sure if you're really there, but it gives me someone to talk to other than myself, so I'm jumping headfirst into this ghost theory," Ted rambles, as he sets down his backpack. "I feel like I should give you a name. Would that make me crazy? I guess talking to a ghost already does."

Fucking hell, this man can talk.

Jamie's a bit distracted, though, because he's just noticed Ted's jacket, which he's taking off to hang up.

There's an AFC Richmond crest on it. Jamie eyes it curiously. Maybe Ted is a fan of real football, after all.

"I think I'll call you Jerry," Ted says, walking into the kitchen. "A good, solid name. Yeah, I like it."

Jamie doesn't. The lights flicker.

Ted startles.

"Oh boy, you're not a fan— either that, or I need to call an electrician." He shakes his head. "Alright, maybe I'm way off. Maybe you're a spooky little Victorian girl. How 'bout Elizabeth?"

Jamie rolls his eyes. The lights go again.

"Okay," Ted hums. "Let's shoot straight down the middle. Gender neutral. How's Alex?"

That's... inoffensive, Jamie decides. He can deal with that. He doesn't like it, but he's not sure he's going to like anything other than his actual name, and the chances of Ted guessing it correctly are slim. He can deal with Alex.

Ted waits a moment, and when the lights don't flicker, he grins.

"Well, Alex, I'm mighty glad to keep your company. I'd shake your hand, but I don't exactly know where you are." He offers a wee salute instead. "My name is Ted Lasso, and I come in peace."

He's quite odd, Ted, but Jamie has to smile a little. It's sort of nice, having someone know he's here and not be scared of him.

-

Ted talks an awful lot, but Jamie finds him quite easy to listen to, if a tad obnoxious and annoying at times.

In fact, when Ted is gone for most of the day, Jamie finds himself looking forward to him coming home. It's disgusting. It's only been a few days, and he's getting proper attached.

He's learned a fair bit about Ted, over the days they've lived together.

Ted likes to bake, so the flat often smells amazing. He makes little biscuits that Jamie wishes he could taste.

Ted has a very stressful and important job, but he's not yet explained much about what it is. He seems to like to talk about anything but work when he's at home, which is fair considering how long his days are.

Ted has a wife and a son— this much, Jamie had figured out from that first night, but Ted confirms it by talking nonstop about Michelle and Henry, and phoning them daily. Jamie hasn't spent much time around kids since he was alive, but he thinks Henry is a sweet wee thing, though he still thinks Ted is far too soft with him.

Jamie has also learned that it's really annoying him to be called Alex. Of course, Ted doesn't know any better, but it's driving him mad, bit by bit.

So one night, when Ted happens to leave a pad of note paper and pen on the counter, Jamie stands there a just like he did for Mildred, thinks really hard about how fucking shit it is to be murdered, and works up the energy to write Ted a message.

my name is Jamie. you are very nice. thank you for talking to me.

His writing is even messier than it used to be, even more years out of practice, but it gets the point across well enough. The pen falls through his hand before he can draw a smiling face, but he supposes that weren't all that necessary anyways.

In the morning, Ted looks a bit scared, for the first time.

He goes quite pale as he reads it, and Jamie begins to worry he may have fucked this all up. Ted had been talking to an imaginary ghost as a joke with himself— of course he didn't actually believe someone was there. Now Jamie's gone and spooked him, and he's going to leave, and Jamie will be all alone again.

Slowly, though, Ted nods.

"Hey there, Jamie," he says, looking around, somewhat unsure. "I appreciate the note. You, uh... you're real, huh?"

Jamie's not sure how to answer that, or if he can answer at all, but he tries his luck and attempts to push the pen off the counter. Surprisingly enough, it actually moves, and clatters to the floor.

Ted jumps a bit, startled, but ultimately laughs.

"Ah, there you are. Right in front of my nose. Alright." He peeks at his watch. "You know, I'm running late right now and I need to hustle, but let's chat later, okay? I'd like to get to know you."

And Jamie feels a bit, like... warm.

That's nice, innit. His note worked. Ted wants to talk to him more. He's not sure if he'll be able to do much answering, but he'll try.

-

"Hiya, Jamie!"

Jamie startles at the sound of his name. It's a bit fucking weird to hear it out loud. He's spent most of today just sort of resting in the bedroom; he doesn't sleep, hasn't in a long time, but he's good at zoning out on the floor and letting time pass.

He hops up and rushes to the entryway— or rather, he tries to, but when he goes to pass through one of the walls, he slams right into it.

"What the fuck?" He stumbles back, utterly confused. Rubs his head— it doesn't hurt, like, but it's just plain odd to feel anything at all. "How did that happen?"

"Was that you, banging on the wall?" Ted calls. "You know, the upstairs neighbour just caught me in the hallway, on my way in. She told me to keep it down." He laughs. "We'll have to come up with a different way for you to let me know where you are."

Jamie hadn't meant to be loud, had he. He's just always been able to go through the walls.

He puts a hand on the wall, and it stays. He can feel it, solid, under his fingers. He presses and presses, and he doesn't pass through it.

Fucking weird.

Going through the door this time, he makes his way out to where Ted is. He picks up a book from the coffee table— can actually hold it and everything— and hopes carrying it around, until this weird moment of suddenly being solid passes, will let Ted see where he is.

"Now, that's genius," Ted says, lighting up. "There you are. That's a good book, too. Have you read it?"

Jamie looks down at the cover.

The Beautiful and Damned

It looks old-fashioned, in the cover and that. Maybe Mum would've read it, way back when. Jamie was never much one for books, though— hardly touched even the ones he was meant to read for school, since he never really planned on graduating anyways.

He walks back to the notepad in the kitchen. He's able to pick up the pen, so he writes.

no. bad at reading.

"Huh," Ted says, reading over his shoulder. Or, like, reading right through him, since he can't see him. "Well, if you ever feel inclined to pick up any of the books around here, have at 'em. This one here, my buddy gave me today."

He opens his backpack and pulls out a book titled: Coaching Soccer for Dummies.

Jamie blinks. Stares at it a moment.

its called football, he writes.

Ted laughs. Jamie catches himself smiling, too— he's not had a real conversation in ages.

"You wouldn't be the first person to tell me that this week," Ted says. "You know, you would be the first ghost, though."

that's mad innit

Jamie pauses. Adds a bit more.

also i can't normally touch things for long so sorry if i stop answering i dunno how long the pen will stay in my hand i mostly pass through things and can't hold them but i been able to grab stuff better lately dunno why

Christ, is his writing ever messy. It's embarrassing.

But the pen is still in one hand, and the book is still in the other, so he's going to count his blessings for now.

"Being a ghost sounds mighty complicated," Ted offers. "But I'm glad you're able to talk to me, even if it's not for long."

are you a coach? Jamie writes. or just reading for fun

Ted chuckles.

"Well, Jamie, you're looking at the head coach and manager of one AFC Richmond. That's the local soccer— no, sorry, football— team around here."

An American, who's reading a book about coaching for dummies, is the manager of a professional football team.

The world has certainly changed since Jamie's been outside.

that's my favourite team, he writes. well i like man city too but richmond is sound

"Man, I forgot y'all's teams have all been around since the eighteen-hundreds," Ted laughs. "Of course you know who they are."

im not that old

"Well, how old are you, if you don't mind me asking?" Ted pauses. "Is it impolite to ask a ghost when they died?"

died 1968 i was 16

Ted reads that, and his moustached face tugs into a wee frown.

"I'm very sorry to hear that, Jamie." He pauses, goes a bit distant for a second. "I think you would've been born the same year as my dad, if my math's right."

And then he clearly starts to think about something a bit upsetting, because his eyes stay all distant and unfocused, and Jamie doesn't know what to do, so he writes some more. Decides to mind his manners a bit better.

i love football so much i think its very nice that you are a coach and i would like to hear more about your job if you don't mind please Mr. Ted

Ted seems to reappear— he reads that, laughs a little, and shakes his head.

"God, you really are just a kid," he chuckles. He still looks a bit sad, but he's clearly doing his best to smile. "Yeah, I'll tell you all about it, Jamie."

And Jamie finally loses his grip on the pen and the book, his body feeling quite bloody tired from being solid for so long, so Ted just goes about making his dinner and chatters away about the kinds of things he does in a day.

Jamie listens.

It's nice.

Chapter Text

They chat a lot, after that.

Ted talks, and Jamie listens. Jamie writes, and Ted reads it. Ted even buys him a new, special notebook— it's got footballs patterned all over the cover, and the pages are bigger so he doesn't have to try and write so small. There's a load of pages, too, so sometimes Jamie will just sit there when Ted's not around and doodle little pictures.

Because that's the thing: he can always hold this notebook, for as long as he wants, and his hands never pass through it. The only other thing that's like that is the football Mildred got him; he's starting to think that maybe because they're the only things in the world that actually belong to him, he's able to interact with them better. (He might have to see if Ted will get him his own pen, too, if that's the case. Sometimes he's got his notebook in hand and just can't get his fingers around the stupid pen. It's annoying.)

"I didn't know you were an artist!" Ted says, when he gets up one morning and Jamie's accidentally left his notebook open to one of his doodles. "This is really nice, Jamie. Who's it meant to be?"

Jamie feels a bit embarrassed, but picks up his pen and scrawls at the top of the page:

me playing footie with roy kent

Ted lights up.

"You know Roy? Man, I didn't realize he was that old."

Jamie rolls his eyes.

i seen him on the telly before not when i was alive though but he's my favourite does he still play?

"Heck yeah, he does!" Ted beams. "He's my team captain— he's a bit of a grumpy butt, but I think I'm making progress with him. He did leave me a note the other day that told me to choke on a Big Mac, though."

That's a nice surprise, Roy Kent playing for Richmond. (Jamie does wonder what he's doing there— Richmond has always been incredibly mediocre, and Roy is, like, the greatest player ever. It seems odd for him to have downgraded from Chelsea.)

i dunno what a big mack is

"Oh, right. Of course you wouldn't." Ted shakes his head. "Anyways, this is what you look like, is it?"

He takes a closer look at the drawing.

Jamie is shit at drawing, right, so it looks more like a bad cartoon than anything like a real person, but it's sort of got the gist of what he thinks he looks like. His memory's honestly a bit fuzzy in that regard— turns out you don't have a reflection when you're invisible, so the last he's seen of himself is the photo in his obituary that Dad took with him, fifty years ago. He's lost some of the details over time.

Ted mulls over it like it's a piece of fine art, though, and nods.

"It's sure nice to finally see you, Jamie." He points to the Man City kit the little Jamie is wearing. "I take it you played football back in your day?"

Jamie frowns a little.

i always wanted to but couldn't cos i had to work a lot

Because even before he dropped out of school, he spent most evenings working— he helped Mum clean at the salon when he was really little, and then when he was older, the grocer next door had asked him to start doing deliveries on his bike, so he'd go all over the neighbourhood bringing people what they'd ordered. Of course, he'd stop and play with his mates every moment that he possibly could, but those were simply few and far between. Once he'd started on at the factory, right, there'd been no free time left; the days were too long, and he'd come home exhausted, and everything was boring and miserable. Football was mostly reserved for daydreams, at that point, and for when Dad would sometimes take him to matches on the weekends.

"Ah, right. Child labour," Ted sighs. "That's no fun."

just how things was innit

"I suppose so, kid." He slaps his thighs as he stands up from the couch. "Well, I should get myself together and head out soon. You have a fantastic day, alright Jamie? Kick that football around a little if you can."

And Jamie thinks he will. He'll imagine he's playing with real-life Roy Kent— he'll have to ask Ted all about him later.

-

Ted starts to watch a lot of football.

The real kind, thankfully.

It comes with the job description, perhaps— he watches match tape of his own team, reviews the ones they're going to play, and bless him, tries to sort out the rules.

Jamie does his best to help; he makes little notes during the matches, tries to help explain the rules, and just chatters about whatever he thinks of. It's good fun, being able to say what's on his mind.

They're a few weeks into both their roommate arrangement and Ted's manager-ship, about the middle of the season... and Richmond's been losing. Like, a lot. Every week. The fans don't seem too chuffed with Ted so far, if the chants during matches are anything to go by, and Ted's clearly getting a bit worried.

"My philosophy is always not to care about the wins and losses, and just focus on the players as people, you know?" Ted says, while pulling up the footage of yesterday's loss against Sheffield United. "But I think the players are starting to get pretty darn frustrated about not winning. We've really gotta figure this out." He sighs. Rubs his forehead. "Y'know, Roy told me today that he'd rather be thrown into the Thames than embarrass himself in a Richmond jersey again next week."

Jamie laughs.

i think it's good you are doing your best, he writes. but maybe you should try harder

He's never quite had a way with words, Jamie. He often got in trouble as a kid for being too blunt— that's why he started with a compliment this time, so hopefully he's not hurt Ted's feelings or nothing.

Thankfully, Ted laughs.

"Yeah, I guess you're right, kid. Let's watch this game, and you can help me out some more."

He hits play on the match, and Jamie feels proper important and official, taking notes and whatnot. He may as well be part of the coaching staff— Ted even said so last week, which made Jamie get that warm feeling all over again.

Twenty minutes in, Sheffield scores, and it's blatantly offside.

"Oi, referee!" Jamie shouts, unable to help himself, when a call isn't immediately made. It'd be more useful to write it, he knows, but he's feeling quite passionate, like a real coach. The lights even flicker with how riled up he is. "Offside! That should be disallowed! Open your fucking eyes!"

The call finally comes, and Jamie drops back to the couch, satisfied. He turns to pick up his notebook and help poor Ted understand what's just happened.

"Jamie?" Ted says, looking rather confused.

"Yeah, I know," Jamie huffs. "I'll write it. Gimme a second."

His pen's not cooperating with his hand, though, for some reason— he can't pick it up, and it's really fucking frustrating. The lights flicker.

"Jamie," Ted repeats, like he's trying to get his attention.

"Could you wait a fucking moment?" Jamie snaps, despite knowing he's talking to himself. "I'm trying. This pen's not bloody working."

He stands up to try to find a different one. He's already halfway out of the room when Ted calls:

"Jamie, I can hear you!"

Jamie freezes. Turns back to where Ted's still on the couch, but looking in his general direction, probably having followed his voice.

"...What?" he breathes. "You can hear me? Like, actually?"

Ted nods.

"Either that, or I've got a voice in my head pretending to be you, which would be a whole other kinda crazy."

"I—" Jamie looks down at himself. Starts to get a bit worried, because the last time someone could hear him, he was talking to another ghost. "Can you see me? And are you sure you've not just died?"

Ted blinks. Frowns. Looks around.

"Well, I don't see you... and I imagine I'd be able to feel it if I were dead. Can't say I know much about what it's like to die. Does it hurt?"

Jamie snorts.

"Yeah. Fucking awful."

To be fair, he supposes, he did get his skull smashed open with a bottle— maybe dying peacefully on your couch doesn't hurt so bad. Still, though, he does think Ted would probably know if he were dead. Maybe he'd have a pull, like Mildred.

"Well, I think I'm in fine fighting form, then. I didn't feel anything," Ted chuckles. "Maybe it's just my sixth sense finally setting in. I always did think I might be the next Zak Bagans."

Jamie doesn't get that reference— this happens often with Ted.

"Right," Ted continues, clueing in immediately. "Famous American quote-unquote ghost hunter. His whole show was a load of dookie, if you ask me."

"Well, I wouldn't much appreciate being hunted," Jamie offers. "Already got killed once, didn't I."

And Ted's never asked how he died— probably doesn't think it polite, like, 'cos he's the nicest person ever. Maybe Jamie will tell him eventually, but he'd honestly rather not talk about it for now.

"I must say," Ted laughs, "you've got one heck of an accent, kid. It's just great."

Jamie huffs.

"You're the one with an accent, Mr. American."

He does still talk quite Manc, he thinks, so Ted probably has some sort of point, but still. If anyone's got an accent in this room, it's Ted.

"Point taken." Ted finally turns and pauses the match. "So, have you been able to talk this whole time, and you just didn't tell me?"

Jamie rolls his eyes. 

"I were talking the whole time. You just ain't heard me until now. I couldn't tell you why, though— no one's ever heard me before."

"Huh." Ted nods, seems to think it over. "You know what? I think I know someone who might be able to help us get to the bottom of this."

And Jamie's not even going to ask, honestly.

Ted's a fucking odd one, isn't he. Of course he knows some kind of ghost expert.

-

Usually, when the man with the beard comes over, Jamie makes himself as scarce as possible.

He tells himself it's just to be polite— don't want to intrude on Ted chatting with his friend, right— but he also finds the lad quite fucking off-putting. There's something about him, like. He always fucking looks straight at Jamie for a moment, as if he can see him, but he's never once acknowledged it. He just looks. It's creepy.

And he's doing it again now, because Ted called him over to see if he knows much about ghosts.

"So, I've told you all about my ghost situation," Ted says, where the two of them are sat at the kitchen table. "Haven't I?"

The bearded man— Jamie doesn't know his name, so he'll just call him Beard for now— nods.

"That you have, Coach."

Jamie waves a hand in front of his face. Beard doesn't flinch, but doesn't look away neither.

"Well, we've got a bit of a new development," Ted says. "Jamie, why don't you say hi?"

Jamie sighs. This all feels a bit silly.

"Hello. I'm here."

Beard has no reaction.

"Oh, come on," Ted huffs. "You didn't hear that? Adorable little British ghost boy voice?"

Jamie pulls a face at being called adorable.

"Negative, Coach," Beard replies.

"Well, darn," Ted sighs. "You're really missing out, you know. Jamie's great. But... heck. I can suddenly hear his voice tonight, and we've got no idea how that happened. Got any ideas?"

Beard leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, and hums, clearly thinking.

"Why would he know?" Jamie asks Ted. Perches on the edge of the counter. "Has he had a ghost before?"

"Not that I know of, but Beardo here once dated a professional parapsychologist," Ted replies. "And no, that's not a fancy word for a therapist who can't walk— it's the science of all things ooky and spooky."

Jamie blinks.

"Right. Okay. I ain't knew that were a real science."

"Quite frankly, I don't know that it is."

Beard sits back up.

"What is it you always say about ghosts, Ted?"

Ted frowns.

"That sometimes I get scared there's one standing over me, watching me poop?"

Beard sighs.

"No. The other thing you always say."

"Oh. That I believe in ghosts, but more importantly, I think they need to believe in themselves."

Jamie snorts. That's fucking dumb.

"Bingo, baby," Beard says.

Ted nods.

"So, you figure I can hear Jamie because he's getting more confident? Believing in himself?"

"That... or maybe the fact that you believe in him is helping him feed off your energy. Making him stronger, or maybe... making him real."

Jamie rolls his eyes.

"What's he on about?" he scoffs. "I'm not a bloody vampire, feeding off you. And I certainly don't watch you poop, neither. This is stupid. I'm not real, that's sort of my whole thing."

Ted half-laughs, half-sighs.

"Thanks for the input, Jamie," he chuckles. He looks back to Beard. "He's not convinced."

Beard, again, looks right at where Jamie is sitting.

"Well, Jamie, maybe you just need to believe a little harder."

It's like there's some weird hidden meaning there that Jamie doesn't get— he fucking hates feeling like someone's trying to pull one over on him.

He's been doing this for fifty fucking years; he doesn't need to believe any bullshit from a living person who's got no clue. Beard's smiling at him all knowing-like, and Jamie hates it. He's wrong, isn't he. Jamie's not going to become real or any kind of bullshit, because he's dead, and he has been for a long time. It's not fucking fair, but it's stupid to act like it's ever going to change.

"Right, fuck this." The burners on the stove all flash on for a moment after he hops off the counter. "You don't know what you're talking about. Leave me alone."

He slams the bedroom door behind him— he can do that, now that he's more solid than he used to be— and ignores the two of them for the rest of the night.

-

"I'm sorry, Jamie."

Ted is talking to thin air in his living room, the next morning.

"Beard can be... opinionated. And, frankly, a little creepy sometimes. That was probably a lot to throw at you."

Jamie says nothing, but moves into the room from the kitchen. Bumps into a shelf on purpose, letting Ted know he's there.

"There you are. Now, I can't tell if you're giving me the silent treatment, or if I can't hear you anymore— I really hope you're just icing me out, because I'd love to hear your voice again, kiddo. I really didn't mean to overwhelm you, or to make assumptions."

Jamie, quite honestly, has never really been apologized to before. It's strange. He doesn't mind it.

"It's fine," he says. Ted's head perks up. "Just freaked me out, like, 'cos he were wrong. I ain't becoming real or nothing. I can't. I'm dead. Was real when I were alive, then I got killed, and now I'm not. It's fine."

Ted's face does something funny.

"You got killed, huh?" he asks, all sad-like.

Oh. Jamie hadn't meant to say it that way. He's not very good at the whole talking out loud thing.

"Yeah. I— I'd rather not talk about it, if that's okay."

"Of course." Ted nods. "I just—" He pauses. "You don't have to answer, but can I ask if they ever caught whoever did it to you? Only because, y'know, in a lot of ghost stories, an unsolved murder can force a spirit to stick around."

Jamie swallows. He didn't know that. He's never thought about it that way.

"I know who killed me," he finally says. Fidgets with his fingers. "I remember it. But, no, I don't think no one ever found out what he did."

His obituary had called it a tragic accident, hadn't it. Jamie was a young life lost too soon. That's all it said about him. He weren't nothing special, and Dad knew that— knew he could kill him, call it an accident, and get away with it. No one would ask questions.

(Mummy would've wondered, probably, if Dad had done something awful. But who was she to accuse her own husband? And what would she even do? Try to leave him? He'd never let her. They likely just stayed together and never talked about it. Jamie hates to think about that.)

"I'm sorry to hear that, Jamie," Ted sighs.

"I suppose I don't really know," Jamie offers. "Maybe he got caught after he left here, somehow. Not likely, but... you know. I don't get much news, stuck here."

Ted nods.

"Gotcha." He pauses. "Would it be alright with you if I looked into it a little? I mean, I'm no investigator, but we've got this handy little thing called Google these days. I could search your name and see if anything comes up."

Jamie frowns. He's not sure what to make of that. He doesn't know if he wants Ted looking into nothing, right— it's all so long ago, and there's nothing it'll change now anyways, since Dad's probably long dead, too. There's no use digging up all that shit, is there?

But Ted looks so earnest, right, like he really does want to help, and—

"Okay. Yeah, we could try that."

So they're sitting with Ted's computer some time later, since it's his day off, and they type in: James George Tartt obituary London 1968 as somewhere to start looking.

Jamie's not sure why he's so shocked when it comes up right away.

James George Tartt, 1951-1968
publicrecordsearch.co.uk

"That's me," he gasps, without even meaning to. "Can you— the top one, can you go to it?"

And when the page opens, it's the very same writeup as the one Dad had— it's got the picture Mummy took of him, the funeral details, and everything.

"It's nice to put a face to the voice," Ted says. "You're a handsome young kid, Jamie. I bet you were breaking hearts, back in your day."

Jamie snorts.

"No. Definitely not. Had some girls I was friends with, like, but... no."

He can't look away from the photo. It's grainy and black-and-white, but that's his face. He really had forgotten what he looked like— it's almost like looking at a stranger.

"A tragic accident," Ted reads. "I'm guessing it wasn't really that accidental?"

"No." Jamie pauses. "Or, like, he probably ain't meant to kill me, but it was on purpose, what he did."

And he won't say who he is, and he won't say what it was, because it fucking hurts to think about it still— really, physically, makes the back of his head ache— so Ted will just have to guess for now.

"Should we take a look if anything else comes up under your name?" Ted asks. "Maybe there's records about your autopsy out there, or some more information about your family."

And Jamie's chest feels a little tight, which is strange. (He doesn't feel much of anything, usually.) He stares at the little photo of himself, and shakes his head.

He should want to know more, shouldn't he? He should want to know what happened to Dad and Mummy, or if he's got any relatives still alive out there— his cousins, or their children, or something— or if anyone ever found out it was Dad who killed him.

But it all feels a bit overwhelming, like.

He accepted it long ago that he'd never know any of that stuff, and he's happy in his little bubble, away from the world. He doesn't really want to make it real, the fact that the world has carried on without him.

"No... I don't think I like this," he finally says. "I don't want to."

Ted nods. Looks disappointed, but clearly tries not to show it. Smiles a bit.

"Alright. Yeah, we'll leave it at that."

"I'm sorry," Jamie adds. "I just— I don't know. I can't do it."

"It's okay," Ted says. "I don't wanna do anything that makes you uncomfortable, kiddo. I'll keep my nose out of your business."

And that's another thing that's sort of new for Jamie— setting a boundary and having someone actually respect it. He can just say no. That's nice, innit.

"Should we finish watching that game from yesterday?" Ted offers, putting his laptop aside. He accidentally sets it right onto Jamie, who moves out of the way. "I could still use your help with the second half."

Jamie hesitates a bit, finds himself still waiting for the other shoe to drop, but when it really does sink in that Ted's not upset, he nods.

"Yeah, okay. That sounds nice."

And it is nice, when Ted pulls the match up on the television again, and Jamie can talk out loud with him about it. Strange, but nice.

-

A few more match weeks go by— Ted shows Jamie a lovely feature about him in The Independent by his friend Trent, and then there's a night where Ted stresses about what to wear to a gala, which sounds posher than anything Jamie's got any frame of reference for, but he does his best to be helpful.

And it's fun, innit, having someone to talk to.

Ted still talks a lot— he tells about how he's been trying to get Roy to be a good leader on the team, and about how some of the players like to tease the kit man, which ain't very nice, and how he just wants to help the lot of them get along and be good lads. He thinks Jamie would like Sam Obisanya, one of the younger players on the team, and says he wishes he had a way to introduce them to each other.

Jamie doesn't have too much to tell him in return, but sometimes Ted asks him about when he were alive— what subjects he liked in school (history), and what kind of car he would've wanted to drive one day (a 1968 Aston Martin DBS), and if he could go to any city, where he'd want to go (probably Amsterdam). It makes him feel strangely real and alive, chatting about things outside of this fucking flat.

(It sort of makes him miss living, but he only lets himself get all sad about it when Ted's not home.)

-

Michelle and Henry are coming to visit.

They've been talking about it lots on their video calls; Henry was counting down the days until his big plane ride, and Ted was frantically trying to plan all the things he'd do with his family. He's bought a Lego set of a double-decker bus, and he's made a list of foods for them to try, and he's determined that this will be the week they finally a win a match, with his good luck charms in town.

Part of Jamie is excited for them to be here, and part of him's a bit sad that he's just going to have to pretend not to exist for a weekend— it's not like Ted can just talk to thin air with his family here, and Jamie wouldn't want to intrude anyways, so he's decided he's just going to stay out of the way.

However, the first thing Henry says when he walks in, is:

"Hello, ghost!"

Jamie startles. Doesn't even mean to make the lights flicker, but they do.

"Wow," Michelle laughs, when it happens. "You weren’t kidding. Maybe this place really is haunted."

Ted grins.

"Hey, Jamie. I hope you don't mind some company for a couple of days."

Jamie frowns, a bit confused.

"You told them about me?"

Henry's eyes go wide, and he tugs on Ted's sleeve, which makes Jamie recoil a few steps.

"Dad! I heard it!"

Fucking... what?

Michelle rolls her eyes, though, obviously not on the same page as Ted and Henry.

"I'm sure you did, sweetheart." She gives Ted a fond look. "You even gave your little ghost a name? That's adorable."

"M'not adorable," Jamie huffs. "I'm scary."

Henry peers around the room, looking for him.

"I don't think you're scary, Jamie-ghost. I think you're cool."

Ted chuckles.

"The only time Jamie is scary is when little boys don't go to bed on time. That's when he really gets to haunting— let's keep that in mind for tonight, alright?" He ruffles Henry's hair. "Now, why don't you go check out the big ol' present that's sitting there on the coffee table?"

Henry runs into the living room to unwrap the Lego set, and Jamie can't help but follow him.

This weekend might be more fun than he expected.

-

Ted always leaves the television on when he leaves for a match.

Jamie's not good at interacting with electronics is the thing— he's never managed to turn on the bloody thing by himself, even with being more solid lately. The television and the lights seem to have minds of their own with him, and he can only ever control them by accident.

So Ted always sets the telly to the right channel and leaves it on for him, and Jamie gets to watch Richmond absolutely fuck themselves in real time, week after week.

But then the morning of the match is... bad.

It's like— everything was going fine, yesterday. Ted and Michelle and Henry built the Lego, then went out exploring, and then they all slept in Ted's big bed. And Jamie was a bit confused by it all, like, because he's never seen a happy family like that except in television programs.

(He still thinks Ted is too soft with Henry... though that does lend to wondering if maybe that's how things should be, and maybe it were Dad who was too hard on him, all along. Dad did, like, fucking kill him, after all. Maybe all dads are meant to be more like Ted.)

But on Saturday morning, after they've all had breakfast, Michelle comes into the living room, where Jamie is sat.

She faces the window, and she's crying.

And Ted comes in and talks to her, and she says she's trying so hard to feel like she's still in love with him, and Ted looks really upset, and Jamie is just there, knowing he should leave them be, but unable to look away, and—

Henry bursts in, interrupting them. He's wearing a massive Sam Obisanya kit, with little bare legs poking out from below it, and exclaims he's ready to go.

It bursts Ted and Michelle's little bubble, and they go back to getting ready for the day.

Jamie stays in his spot by the window, frowning. It weren't like Mum and Dad, right— when they were upset with one another, it was screaming and yelling and hitting, usually more from one than the other, while Jamie hid away in his room. Jamie doesn't think they were in love with each other, is the thing. They were married because they had a kid together, and that was that. They were stuck with each other. Jamie was a problem come between them, wasn't he.

But with Ted and Michelle, Henry seems the opposite of a problem. Even though they're upset, he makes them smile and forget it and move on, and Jamie's not sure what to make of that.

(He made Mummy smile, he knows. He thinks she loved him a lot, and he adored her in return. It was just that Dad didn't much like neither one of them, most of the time, and he was always glad to make that clear.)

-

He catches Henry alone, once his parents have sent him to go put actual trousers on, and just says:

"Oi, kid. Your mum and dad really love you. Don't ever forget that, yeah?"

Henry looks around the empty room, and shrugs.

"Okay. I won't, Jamie-ghost. I love you."

Once again, Jamie is caught off-guard by this fucking kid.

"Uh, cheers. Yeah. I, uh— I love you, too, I guess."

And wee Henry's pleased with that, running off to go get his shoes on and wait by the door, so Jamie just nods to himself.

That was nice.

-

When they leave for the match, they forget to put the television on for him.

It's too hectic, trying to get everyone out the door on time— making sure Henry and Michelle's bags are ready, since they're leaving tonight, only able to stay two days— and Jamie's sure he doesn't even cross Ted's mind at all.

So Jamie spends his day alone, in silence.

He tries not to feel sad about it. He's used to it, from before Ted. He tries not to really, really miss being alive and having a family and going places and doing things.

He wipes his eyes, sitting on the couch by himself. He didn't know he could cry solid tears. That's new.

He's fine, though.

Can't really be anything else, can he.

Chapter Text

Even without the television, Jamie can tell the moment Richmond wins.

He's been peering into a flat across the street like a total creep, where he can see a group of lads in blue and red kits gathered in front of a screen. He can't see the match, but he can see their reactions, right— he sees the moment they all jump up and hug each other, and he can hear someone cheering somewhere else in his own building.

Well, cheers to Ted, then.

Would've been nice to see it.

But he can't stay mad when people start pouring into the street, out of the pub down the block, all celebrating and cheering. It's been ages since he's seen this many people, and it's bloody fascinating to watch them all.

(There's a group of teenagers passing a football around, and Jamie wishes so badly that he could be out there with them. He can only entertain himself with his football in here for so long.)

We know we are, we're sure we are, we're Richmond 'til we die!

The crowd is chanting, and there's Richmond kits everywhere, and it just looks like such fucking good fun.

It's so fucking special, innit, being alive. Jamie leans his forehead against the window and wants.

-

Ted, Michelle, and Henry only pop back up to the flat to grab the suitcases.

It's late, and they're rain-drenched and smiling, probably having gone out for dinner after the incredible match. Henry's too-big kit is still hanging off him, and Ted's carrying him under one arm, making the kid giggle so hard he can hardly breathe.

"Goodbye, Jamie-ghost!" Henry shouts, before they leave. "I'll miss you!"

"I'll miss you, too, kid," Jamie chuckles. "Was nice to meet you, yeah?"

Henry grins.

"I hope you're still here when I come back."

And then he's being ushered out the door by his parents, and Jamie smiles.

He hopes so, too.

-

He watches Ted and Michelle out the window.

They're standing there under umbrellas, and they're talking, and Henry's having a kickabout with one of the teenagers that was out here earlier.

A taxi pulls up, and Henry comes running back over, and him and Michelle both give Ted big hugs, and they get in the car. 

Ted stands there for a long moment, watches them go, looks really sad, and then walks over to a bench. He sits, and then Beard walks up, out of fucking nowhere— was he hiding round a corner that whole time, that fucking weirdo?— and hands Ted a pint.

Jamie can hardly see them from his window now, so he gives up on watching. He's got his football out, and he gives it another kick.

There's only so much he can do in the confines of the flat, but he thinks he's getting quite good at most of it— he can keepy-uppy for ages, and not actually needing to breathe (on account of being dead, and all) means he's got unlimited stamina. If he could just go outside, he'd probably make a great footballer.

He'd quite like to play with Roy Kent, or Sam Obisanya. It doesn't even have to be a real match, right— he's got this daydream of somehow being able to get out of the flat and go to training with Ted, where he'd play two-touch or rondos with the team while they warm up, and they'd all tell him how he'd make a great footballer someday.

It's a joke, innit. It's just something to think about to pass the time. It's stupid.

But pass the time, it does. Jamie startles when Ted gets home, too caught up in his thoughts to have even heard him coming down the hallway.

"Cheers, gaffer," he starts to say, getting up and heading for the entryway. "Congratulations on the— oh."

Ted looks a mess. His hair's a bit frazzled, and he's soaked from the rain... and he's holding a bottle.

That's the one, Jamie's brain is screaming. It looks the same.

The back of his head starts to throb, and he can smell the drink wafting off of Ted, and he can still see the spot where the bloodstain used to be, even though the flooring's long been replaced. This is the very kitchen that he died in, and it was that very same bottle that killed him, and now Ted's drunk and holding it, and—

A lightbulb shatters. The stove flares on. The television begins to blare at full volume.

Jamie hasn't had to breathe in a very long time, but he's being uncomfortably reacquainted with the fact that he can't. He's trying to, is the thing, and he can't get a breath in, and he's suddenly aching for it, and it hurts. He can't breathe, and his head hurts in the spot where his skull got smashed in, and he can remember the feeling of dying on this floor in a pool of blood and whiskey, and he doesn't know what to do.

He runs for the bedroom, lights flickering behind him all the way. He hasn't even looked at Ted since the moment he saw that bottle— it was instantly all he could see.

"Jamie?" Ted says, confused. "Hey, kiddo— what's going on?"

Ted's drunk. Jamie doesn't want to be around him. He's fucking terrified.

He runs straight into the wall in the bedroom, having forgotten in his panic that he can't go through them anymore. He's cornered, Ted's coming into the room, there's nowhere to go— he slides to the floor and drops his head between his knees, trying to make himself small.

The lights are still going crazy, and the kettle has started to whistle. The television is rapidly flipping through channels, out in the living room, and the digital clock beside Ted's bed is cycling through hours like it's on fast-forward.

"Go away. Please."

"Jamie, did something happen?" Ted's not going away. Ted's coming closer. "Are you alright?"

"No," Jamie groans. "Leave me alone."

He peeks up, and Ted's still carrying that horrible bottle. Jamie drops his head again and hugs himself. He hasn't felt scared in a long, long time, and it's awful. He doesn't have a heartbeat, but he can almost hear a ghostly version of one pounding in his ears.

"Go away," Jamie repeats, when Ted doesn't move. "I'm trying to stop the lights and shit, I swear, I just— you have to leave me alone. I can't control it."

Another lightbulb pops, right over their heads— Ted jumps out of the way with a startled yelp.

Jamie feels the glass land on him. It doesn't hurt, but it's strange. It feels real.

"Now, Jamie, I— I'm a little drunk right now," Ted says. He comes closer again, with the bottle, looking in the direction that he must've heard Jamie go. He stumbles a bit. "I'm not having the best of nights, kid. I know— I know we finally won a game, but— I lost something tonight, y'know? Bigger than football. And you're upset, I can tell, and it's stressing me out, man. I just want to help."

And he comes too close.

The bottle swings right next to Jamie's head.

"Get away from me!"

The whole flat goes dark— Ted stumbles backwards and drops the bottle, which thumps harmlessly down on the rug. He looks terrified, in the glow of the streetlights filtering in through the window.

Jamie hadn't known his voice could go so loud— almost like it was distorting the sound waves around it and taking up the whole room. He immediately feels badly for scaring Ted, but he needed that fucking bottle out of his space.

"Jamie—"

"I'm sorry," he cuts Ted off. His voice is shaking. He's flapping his hands, in that annoying way that Dad hated. "I'm so sorry. I ain't meant to. I'm not— I'm really scared right now. I can't stop, with the lights and the telly and the— I dunno what to do. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Ted says, even though it certainly isn't. He's backing away slowly now, hands out in front of him like he's scared Jamie's going to pounce. "You're okay, kid. Is there any way I can help?"

Jamie shakes his head, but then remembers Ted can't see him.

"No. Just— just some space, yeah? I need to—" He pulls his own hair. "I need to calm down. I can't."

"Okay." Ted nods. It's like he's staring right at Jamie, not through him like he usually does. His eyes are still wide and scared, and he still looks woozy and inebriated. "I'll go back to the kitchen. You take as much time as you need."

He walks away, a touch unsteady on his feet.

He leaves the bottle lying on the rug.

Jamie stares. Feels the impact all over again. Remembers Dad drunk and shouting at him, after he'd crumpled to the floor, but can't make words out of it— something about being worthless and lazy and stupid, all the usual things.

And then... Come on, lad. What are you doing still on the floor? The fucking drama with you, I swear. Get the fuck up.

Morning light is streaming in, and Jamie doesn't feel it when Dad kicks him.

He's watching from the outside, he realizes after a moment. He's not in his body anymore.

He remembers his last twitch of movement last night, once Dad had stormed into the bedroom and left him there in the kitchen. He remembers knowing he'd reached the end.

Junior? Come on. Get up, boy. Don't just lie there.

The body's eyes are open, and his lips are parted, and he's very pale. He looks cold and tired and young and scared.

Slowly, Dad seems to realize what he's looking at. His annoyed expression melts into something horrified.

Jamie... come on. Wake up, son. Look at me.

He drops to his knees. Touches Jamie's lifeless face, which shifts his head just enough to reveal the sticky pool of half-dried blood and whiskey behind it.

No, no, no. Fuck. What've you done, James? Fucking hell. Jamie, please wake up. Please.

The body's empty eyes stare into space.

Jamie watches his dad from behind.

He feels numb.

He picks up the bottle, turns it over in his hands. It's half-drunk, not as heavy as the full one that killed him. It's the same brand of whiskey, the same shaped glass, but the label looks different. It's not entirely the same.

This isn't the bottle that killed him. Of course it isn't. It's been nearly fifty-two years. That bottle's probably in a landfill somewhere, under piles and piles of trash and rot. It's as dead as he is.

This is Ted's bottle, and he's drinking because he's sad that his family's gone and that Michelle's not in love with him anymore. The events of the day come rushing back all at once.

The lights are back on, and the television is quiet. There's a strange calm— like the way the rain water sits in pools on the sidewalk after a storm, the only evidence of the chaos that brought it there.

Jamie holds the bottle. Stares at it a moment longer. Steels himself, and decides to go speak to Ted.

-

"You wanted to know how I died."

Ted looks up. Startles. He seems to have sobered up a bit, sitting on the couch.

Jamie's carrying the bottle, so that Ted can see where he is. Ted's looking a bit above it, though, his gaze lined up with Jamie's face.

"I— I was curious," Ted says, "but I promise I didn't look into it any further after we saw your obituary that day. It's your business, Jamie. You deserve some privacy."

Jamie swallows. Might as well come right out and say it.

"I got smashed over the head with a bottle. It was this same whiskey. That's why I got upset." He gestures to the kitchen with it. "It happened right there. I died on the floor, and my dad ain't even checked on me 'til morning."

Ted looks so sad.

Sometimes Jamie forgets how tragic his story actually is.

"God, Jamie," Ted breathes. "I'm really, really sorry that happened to you. And I'm sorry I brought a reminder of it in here— I'll get rid of that bottle and never bring anything like it into the apartment again, okay? I must've really scared you, kid."

Jamie frowns.

"It's okay. I ain't meant to freak out, like. You can have whatever drinks you want. I won't get scared, next time. Promise."

Ted shakes his head.

"No, this is your home, too, and you deserve to feel safe. I love a good whiskey, but I can enjoy it anywhere but here. It's got no place here if it makes you uncomfortable."

Again, Jamie's chest feels warm. Ted is so fucking nice. It's mad.

"I appreciate that," he says. Turns the bottle over in his hands. "Um, well done on the win today. Was exciting, watching everyone go out in the streets cheering."

Ted smiles.

"Thanks, Jamie." He pauses. Looks at Jamie, takes a moment, and nods. "Now, I didn't want to tell you this while you were upset, but I don't wanna drag out not saying it either, so this feels like a better time— when you yelled real loud and the lights went out? You sort of... appeared. I can see you."

"You— wait, what?" Jamie looks down at himself. He looks the same as ever. He doesn't feel any different, neither. "You can see me?"

Ted nods.

"Hardly, but yeah. You're pretty translucent, but the shape of you's definitely there."

Jamie frowns.

"What's translucent?"

"Like, see-through." Ted waves a hand, as if to illustrate. "You look like a ghost right out of a movie. I can make out your face, and your body, but the details are a little fuzzy."

Jamie blinks. This is new.

"You won't set things on me anymore," he says, utterly stupidly. "Or walk through me— that feels dead funny, don't it."

Ted grins.

"Nice pun."

Jamie shoots him a look, then remembers that Ted can see that now. He'll have to be more careful about not showing everything on his face.

"Dead funny," Ted continues. "Get it?"

Oh, fucking hell.

Jamie rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, cheers. Very funny."

But they both laugh, and it's good. Jamie's pleased.

-

Being looked at is weird.

It takes some getting used to— he still doesn't make any sound when he walks, Jamie, so he's often popping up and scaring Ted without meaning to. He has a reflection now, too, and it catches him off-guard every time he passes a mirror.

His hair looks the same, he notices. He'd always wanted to grow it out longer, like the Beatles or Mick Jagger, but Dad said it made him look like a stupid hippie— he'd kept it quite short and tidy, always perfectly styled, but sometimes he'd pull a couple strands out into a wee curl on his forehead that made him feel like Elvis Presley.

He's not in the same outfit he died in, thankfully— how embarrassing, to be stuck in his pyjamas for so many years. No, he's in the sort of clothes he would've worn to work, once upon a time: plain jeans, a button-down shirt, braces over his shoulders, and work boots on his feet. Boring and plain, just like him.

"Would you believe it, Jamie," Ted says, when he comes home from work the next day, "I found out today that the treatment room over at the Dog Track supposedly has four hundred ghosts crammed into it!"

Jamie quirks an eyebrow. Imagines being stuck in a room with a fuck ton of other ghosts— that would be shit.

"Four hundred? Seems crowded."

"That's what I'm thinking," Ted chuckles. "They're angry ghosts, too, apparently. Our new striker, Dani, twisted his knee real good, and all the fellas figure it was a ghost that tripped him."

Jamie snorts.

"If ghosts could trip people, you'd have been flat on your face about a hundred times by now." He immediately feels a bit bad for saying that, even though it's true. "No offense, mate."

"None taken," Ted replies, with a laugh. "If you ever learn how to trip me, I'll be real impressed."

"I am getting more solid lately," Jamie offers. "I can't go through walls anymore, and I'm getting good at holding things. Fucking odd, that things would change after all this time."

(He remembers what Beard said, that one night: that maybe Ted believing in him so hard is making him real. He tries not to wonder if it might be true.)

"Well, it'll be harder to trip me, now that I can see you, but feel free to try." He's pulling things out to make dinner with. "We're thinking we'll try to break the curse tonight, set all those fellas free. They got enlisted to World War One right there at the stadium, y'know, thinking they were showing up for football tryouts. I'm thinking if we all sacrifice something, out of respect for their sacrifice, it might help them move on."

Again, Jamie forgets to keep his facial expression in check, and gives Ted a bit of a look.

"You think?"

Ted shrugs.

"It's my best bet, but you're the expert. What do you figure?"

"Ted, if I knew how to get rid of a ghost, I'd not still be sitting around your flat, would I."

"Fair point."

Jamie heaves a dramatic sigh, and flops down onto the couch, leaving Ted in the kitchen.

"Let me know if your curse-breaking thing works. Maybe you can bring the team here and try it again for me." He pauses. "Not that I don't like living with you, right, but I ain't slept in fifty-two years, and I'm bloody tired. And I've been sixteen this whole time— fucking endless puberty, innit. My voice still cracks, somehow, and I don't even breathe, so I've got no clue how that's meant to even work. It's brutal."

Ted laughs.

"I'll keep you posted. I have my doubts about the stadium even being haunted in the first place, but if this whole shebang makes the fellas feel better, I'll call it a success."

Humans are funny, Jamie thinks. Four hundred ghosts is absurd, and sacrificing random shit to get rid of them is even crazier, but the thought behind it is sweet.

He's really starting to like people again, which feels a bit silly.

(Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing, if he were turning real again.)

-

When Ted leaves for the away match against Everton, he leaves a gift box on the table.

To Jamie,
Open before the game on Saturday. Have a great weekend, kiddo :)
Ted

Jamie's been eyeing it all day. He's not sure what counts as before the game, but he's thinking an hour before it starts seems fair.

The last person to give him a gift— all wrapped up and proper like this— was Mummy, on his sixteenth birthday. She gave him a watch, a ghostly version of which is still on his wrist and still tells the time. He'd been well chuffed to receive it, and felt like he really weren't a kid anymore. (It's a grownup thing, innit, having a nice watch.)

He sits and stares at the box for a bit, counting down the minutes 'til it feels right to open it. Having something to look forward to is a fun and unfamiliar feeling, so he revels in the anticipation and excitement. Ted got him a gift, and it's a surprise. This is fucking amazing.

When the pundits on the telly finally start talking about how Richmond's got no fucking chance against Everton, Jamie decides it's time.

He picks up the box, and his hands don't pass through it, and he rips open the paper, unable to stop grinning. He hasn't even seen what's inside yet, but he's excited.

His mouth drops open when he does.

A Kent #6 Richmond shirt, and it's signed.

"Holy fuck," he whispers.

There's a little note in the box.

Jamie,
Lasso tells me you're Richmond's biggest fan. Good lad. Hope you like the kit. I'll try to do you proud in it.
Roy Kent

A signed kit and a personal note from his favourite footballer. He offers a mental apology to Mummy, wherever she is, because this definitely beats the watch for his favourite present ever.

He holds the shirt up to stare at it— he reckons it'll fit, but he's never tried changing his clothes before. He's got no idea if he'll be able to put it on. (Even so, he'll keep it forever as a souvenir, because he can at least hold it.)

"Roy Kent knows who I am," he mutters to himself, reading the note over again. "Roy Fucking Kent. That's mad."

He wonders what story Ted told to get this. There's no way Roy signed a kit for a ghost, right, so maybe he thinks Jamie is just some friend of Ted's, like one of those neighbourhood kids who play footie outside on the green. Roy must think he's like any other teenage fan— couldn't possibly know that Jamie's been watching him play since he first came on for Chelsea, years ago.

By the time Jamie actually jerks back into motion to try the bloody thing on, the match is kicking off.

(Ted had been nervous for this one— said Richmond's not won at Everton for, like, decades, so the whole team's in their heads about it. Apparently Roy's been even grumpier than usual, which says something. He'd still signed the shirt and written the note, though.)

To Jamie's absolute surprise and delight, he's able to switch his old shirt for his new one. It stays on, which he certainly hadn't been expecting. He feels more solid than ever, and the feeling of the fabric on his shoulders is an odd one.

He's immediately enraptured in the match— from the very first minute, Roy is playing like a man possessed. He's running faster than he has in years, and he's showing that same skillful command of the ball that made him stand out when he was younger. Jamie can't look away.

Dani Rojas is incredible, too. He's fast, and his accuracy is absolutely mental— every touch leaves his foot going exactly where he wants it to go. Sam Obisanya looks focused and determined, always in the right place at the right time, and Isaac McAdoo is taking out any player that tries to come near Richmond's net. They look like an actual team, for once.

And on top of all that... they fucking win.

Jamie jumps off the couch and shouts when the whistle blows. He rushes to the window to watch all the people pour out into the street again; sure enough, there's a sea of Richmond shirts within minutes. Everyone's hugging and cheering, and Jamie imagines what it'd be like to join in on it like a real-live person. It must be so warm, all those bodies in one big clump on the road, and so loud with all their voices echoing the Richmond chant.

Jamie looks just like them, doesn't he, in his new shirt, and he cheers from the window as if he's part of the crowd.

Richmond til we die, we're Richmond til we die! We know we are, we're sure we are, we're Richmond til we die!

(And after we die, Jamie supposes. Has himself a little laugh about it.)

He's had so much fun laughing and chanting and cheering, right up against the window, that he doesn't even notice it until later on. He thinks back, once he's settled for the night, and the realization hits him like a fucking lorry.

While he was chanting, his breath had fogged up the glass.

Chapter Text

He sleeps, that night.

After spending a long time sitting there, just thinking about the fact that he's breathing, he fucking falls asleep on the couch.

That's never happened before.

And he must have five bloody decades worth of sleep to catch up on, because it seems that's all he can do. He's exhausted. He doesn't even know how much time has passed until he's waking up, finally feeling rested, and Ted's already home.

"There you are," Ted says. He's sat at the kitchen table, looking at his mobile. "Holy heck, kid, I thought you went and died all over again."

Jamie blinks. Frowns.

"I dunno what the fuck just happened, mate."

"You slept for about four days, that's what." Ted chuckles. "I remember when you told me you didn't need to sleep."

"I don't," Jamie breathes. "Or, like, I didn't. I've not slept since I was alive. I just— after the match, I was so tired, and I laid down, and— I slept. What the fuck? Four days?"

He's still wearing the Richmond shirt, when he looks down at himself, but that's not the most remarkable thing about what he sees. There's some colour to his skin. He's hardly even see-through. He looks real.

"Do I look different?" he asks, standing up and moving over to Ted. "Less like a ghost?"

Ted eyes him carefully.

"Hm. I think you might. I remember you being a lot harder to see, before."

He feels warmer. Feels more solid.

He presses two fingers to his neck to check for a pulse... but there's nothing. He's still dead, he's quite sure, but something has changed about it. He's breathing.

It's then that he catches a whiff of whatever Ted's cooking, in a pot simmering on the stove. It smells fantastic, and his stomach growls.

He hasn't eaten in fifty-two years, and he's suddenly fucking starving.

"Mind if I poke around the fridge?" he asks. "I'm, like, really hungry."

Ted gives him a quizzical look— probably because Jamie hasn't eaten, as long as they've known each other— but simply shrugs.

"Be my guest. Chow down on whatever you want. This is your home, too."

It's a bit overwhelming, looking at all the things he can suddenly try. He hasn't tasted anything in fifty-two bloody years, has he, so he doesn't even know where to start. He's not even sure if he can eat, but his stomach is telling him he needs to at least give it a shot.

"Been a while, huh?" Ted says, when Jamie stands in front of the fridge for too long. "There's ice cream in the freezer— might be a fun place to start."

Jamie's stomach growls again. That sounds amazing. He swings the freezer door open, and his eyes go wide.

"Chocolate fudge brownie extreme," he reads, on the colourful little tub. "Bloody hell. What's so extreme about it?"

Ted chuckles.

"It's extremely delicious. Grab a spoon and try it— you can eat right out of the tub."

Well, Jamie doesn't need to be told twice. He does just that.

"Holy shit," he breathes, once he's swallowed. "That's amazing."

It feels so, so strange, but it's not like he's forgotten how to eat over the years or nothing— he's right back to it, as he'd never died at all. He still fucking loves ice cream. Feels like a little kid.

"Hits the spot, huh?" Ted grins. "I'll make you some dinner, too, but go to town on that ice cream for now. Ain't nothing wrong with a sweet treat after all this time, huh?"

Jamie shovels more into his mouth as he nods.

"I dunno what the fuck is happening, but I'm dead chuffed about it. Eating and sleeping are awesome."

"It really is the simple things, isn't it," Ted chuckles. "I do love to eat and sleep."

And they sit and have dinner together, later on— admittedly, the soup Ted makes is way better than anything Mummy used to cook, or anything Jamie would throw together when living with Dad— and then Jamie falls asleep on the couch again while they're watching some match tape, and he finds he's really, really happy.

-

"Well, I think it's worth experimenting," Ted offers.

Jamie's been staring at the door all morning, just wondering... if he's doing all this other new stuff, is there a chance he could go through it? Could he go outside? Could other people see him?

"I just don't wanna be wrong," Jamie sighs. "Like, I'll be so sad if I get all excited and then I can't do it. I'd rather just not know, I reckon."

Ted sighs a bit sadly, the same way he did back when Jamie told him he didn't want to know what happened after Dad left here. He'd just rather avoid things that might disappoint him, is the thing— it'd be shit to keep being stuck here to sit with a bunch of bad news or painful feelings. It's easier just to be as he's always been.

"You sure love your comfort zone, don't you, kid?" Ted's smiling, but doesn't seem all too happy. He's confusing like that sometimes. "You know, I don't blame you one bit. I'm sure I couldn't understand what it's like to be in your shoes."

Jamie sits down on the couch, tucks his knees to his chest, propping his chin on top of them.

"Am I being a baby, Ted? I'm just nervous, like."

Ted walks over to sit next to him.

"I certainly don't think so. Being nervous is fine. Heck, I get a little nervous every day when I walk into work, because I still don't think I know what I'm doing yet. I know all the fellas on the team get nervous before big games— even Roy, but I know he doesn't like to show it. Ain't nothing wrong with getting your jitters on." He pauses. Looks all smart and shit for a moment. "But I think it's what you do with those nerves that counts. If my team backed down when they were nervous, we'd never even make it on the field."

"The pitch," Jamie corrects, halfheartedly.

"Right. But heck, if I gave up when I got nervous, those boys wouldn't even have a coach. I wouldn't be in London at all, and I wouldn't know you. Can't all be bad, getting nervous."

Jamie sighs. It's really annoying when Ted makes sense.

"So you think I should go try the door?"

"I think you'll be kicking yourself later on if you don't."

Jamie stares at it a bit longer.

"Not yet. Later."

Ted nods.

"Alright. What do you wanna do in the meantime? I don't have to go into work until later this afternoon, the boys are having a rest morning."

Jamie hums, thinking.

"Can we bake biscuits?" He twists his hands together. "I always wanted to try those ones you make— and I can eat, now, so..."

Ted grins at him.

"Well, that is one heck of a great idea if I've ever heard one. Let's do it."

And Jamie gets this childish little excitement in him that he hasn't felt in ages, as he follows Ted to the kitchen. He used to bake with Mum and Nan when he were little, so he's thrilled to give it another shot.

-

He's quite shit at baking, so he's not much help, but the biscuits are phenomenal.

"You boss gets to have these every day?" he asks, his mouth still full. "Holy fuck, Ted. These are amazing."

Ted chuckles.

"I'll start making enough for you, too, then. It's always nice to spread a little joy in whatever way I can, y'know?"

There's something a bit frenetic about Ted today— maybe he's still a bit frazzled by the whole Michelle situation— and it's a little unsettling, but also sort of fun. Jamie's feeling energized, with the whole being real thing he's got going on, so he's just enjoying that Ted's got some energy too.

"I'm gonna try the door, now," he says, standing up before he can lose his nerve. "I think I can do it."

"Even if it doesn't work," Ted says, "I'll be so proud of you for giving it a shot— I know it's scary."

And, like, it's scary in that he doesn't know if he can get out or not, and he'll be upset if he can't... but if he can, that's terrifying, too. The world is fucking big, and he's been confined to this flat for so many years, and he doesn't know where he'd even start. Maybe he'd go with Ted to the football stadium, just to look around, or he'd simply go walking around the neighbourhood, or he'd take the next train to Manchester and finally go home, or—

Shit, there's so many possibilities.

He could be free.

It's a bit overwhelming.

"If I can get out," he says, hesitating by the door, "can I still live here with you? Or do you want me to leave?"

Ted's mouth drops open.

"Jamie... of course, you can stay. I mean, I'd want you to go out and explore anywhere you'd like to go, but this is your home, kiddo. It was your apartment before it was mine, so you've got every right to live here for as long as you'd like."

Jamie nods. Feels a bit better, knowing that.

"Okay. Yeah. I think— I think I'll try."

He's just got this feeling, right.

It's gonna work. It has to. That's what all this weird shit has been leading up to. He's solid, and he looks real, and he can breathe and eat and sleep, so he's doing it, he's opening the door and walking out, and—

He walks right into the invisible wall, the same as that first day he'd realized he was dead.

Disappointment starts welling up in his chest. It's that tight feeling, like when Dad drove away, or when Mildred faded into nothing, or when Ted and his family left for the match that one night and he was stuck here by himself.

He stumbles back from the open door, from the stupid threshold that he just can't cross, and he really doesn't want Ted to see him cry, but his face is getting hot and there's a lump in his throat and he's just so fucking sad about it.

"I'm sorry, kid," Ted sighs.

Jamie breaks.

"It's not fair," he whispers, his eyes getting cloudy. He wraps his arms around himself. "I don't— what was the point of everything changing? How come I can do all the other things, but I can't get out? I just— I just wanna live. I want to see grass, and smell fresh air, and meet real people, and, and— I don't understand."

"Oh, Jamie."

Ted's coming over to him.

Jamie is good and properly crying. He feels so fucking stupid.

"Kiddo, come here," Ted continues. "You're alright."

He's pulling Jamie in for a hug, and it's warm and solid and real. It's stupid. Jamie doesn't even want it, if it doesn't mean he gets to be a person again. He should just go back to being invisible and fucking scaring people, because that's all he's good for, isn't it.

"Just breathe," Ted's muttering. "It's okay. Maybe you just need some more time. Things have been changing a lot lately, hey? Let's let it settle in for a while, and give it another shot on some other day."

Jamie sobs into Ted's shoulder, and Ted rubs up and down his back. It's almost time for Ted to leave for work, innit, and Jamie will be alone in this stupid flat again, just like always.

"I thought I was turning real, like Beard said," he mumbles, after a bit, once his breath starts to even out a bit more. He's still crying, but not as hard. "I'm so fucking stupid."

"You're not," Ted breathes. "You're really not, Jamie. You're a really bright kid, and I'm so darn happy to know you, alright? You've taught me a heck of a lot about soccer, that's for one thing."

"Football," Jamie huffs.

"Right," Ted chuckles. He squeezes Jamie even tighter. "You know more about football than anyone I know, and that's saying something. And you've got so much freakin' heart— I'm happy to come home every day, because I know I'll get to spend some time around a really nice kid who genuinely likes listening to me yap about my job. I'm so lucky to know you, Jay. I love you, kid."

Jamie takes a deep breath. No one's ever been this nice to him before.

He tries to stop crying.

He feels something thump, deep in his chest.

Feels it again. And again. And again.

His breath catches.

"Thank you, Ted. I— I think I need to try again," he says. "One more time."

He pulls back from the hug, and Ted looks worried, but nods nonetheless.

"Okay, yeah. Go for it. You got this."

Jamie nods back.

He counts his breaths. He looks down at his hands— real and solid and healthy and human.

His heart beats a little louder.

"I got this."

He runs towards the door, like a fucking crazy person, because he's too excited to just walk normally... and he crash lands on the carpet in the hallway.

Past the threshold.

"Ted!" he gasps. He's sat on the floor, and his shoulder hurts from falling, and he's out of the flat. He wipes at his eyes, teary all over again. "Ted, I did it!"

"Holy cow, you did!" Ted laughs, following him out the door. "Would you look at that!"

He offers a hand and helps Jamie up.

Jamie looks down at himself— mostly to make sure he's presentable for going outside, and he's in the same outfit he's been wearing for decades, so it's fine— and he makes a break for the stairs. Out of the flat is one thing, but he needs to make sure he can actually get outside, and—

The wind, and the sunlight, and the sounds of the city street hit him like a train as he runs out the door.

"Oh my god," he laughs, probably looking like a total maniac with the giant grin on his face. He looks around, takes it all in, and doesn't even feel that scared. "Holy fuck. I can't believe it."

Ted finally catches up to him, meets him out on the sidewalk.

"Now, this is exciting. I am so proud of you, kid."

And Jamie wants to run and explore and do so many fucking things that he's missed over the past half a century... but what he really wants to do is:

"Can I come to work with you, Ted?"

Ted lights up like a bloody Christmas tree.

"Well, of course you can!" He checks his watch. "We really should head out right away, though. Hang tight for two minutes, I'm gonna pop back upstairs and get ready."

"Sound, yeah."

Jamie sits on the front step to wait for him, watching people go by, and simply enjoys the sun on his face and the breeze in his hair.

-

Ted introduces Jamie to the team as his cousin's kid, come down from Manchester to stay with him, and everyone except for Beard believes it easily.

(Beard stares at him. When Jamie finally gets the nerve to make eye contact, Beard simply winks, and then looks away. Fucking weird.)

"He's gonna be with me for a while, so I figured I'd bring him along to meet you fellas," Ted's saying. "Why don't you go start warmups and show him around the field?"

"The pitch," Jamie corrects, on instinct, and the whole team starts laughing.

"Good lad," Roy Kent tells him. He even smiles. "Come on, then."

And Jamie gets to run with the team, out onto the pitch, and he's never felt happier in his life.

-

He messes about with a spare ball, off to the side while the lads are running drills— just practises the tricks he's been working on over the past decade since Mildred got him that football, able to do them a little better now that he's got more space.

He stops when he realizes he's being stared at. A group of players near him have paused what they were doing to watch.

"That is very impressive," Sam Obisanya tells him. "Come over here, Jamie— you know how to play rondos, yes?"

Of course, he does.

Jamie nods, too starstruck to speak.

"Vamos, Isaac!" Dani Rojas calls. "Into the middle, and Jamie joins the outside."

Holy shit.

"Um, I don't wanna get in the way," Jamie finally says, hovering outside the edge of the circle. "I dunno if I can keep up with professional footballers, like."

Isaac McAdoo waves a hand.

"Don't think too hard about it, bruv. It's keep-away, just for fun. I'll take it easy on you."

Jamie nods, still alight with nerves, but rather excited, too.

"Okay. Cheers, yeah. I'll try it."

Colin Hughes kicks him the ball, and they're off.

-

"That... was not... easy," Isaac huffs and puffs, after Ted finally blows his whistle for a water break. He jostles Jamie by the shoulder. "Where did you come from, kid? It's like you've been playing for decades."

Jamie has a little laugh to himself at that, and simply shrugs.

"Never even been on a team, have I? My dad wouldn't let me... I reckon maybe Ted will, now that I'm staying with him."

"It would be a crime if he did not," Dani says. "Dios mío, you are very gifted."

Roy had been doing some physio exercises on the sideline, instead of taking part in the drill, and as they get closer, Jamie can hear him talking to Ted.

"...so you need to get this kid signed to the fucking academy today. Fucking hell. I mean, he's got a right foot kissed by God— the fact that he's related to you is making me question my fucking faith."

Ted chuckles, and nods.

"Yeah, he's really something. I'll talk to him about it, see if that's what he wants." He pauses. "Between you and me, Jamie's had a heck of a hard life, so I'm all about just letting him do what he wants to do, now that he's got the freedom to do it, y'know?"

Roy nods, pensive, then says:

"Well, if he doesn't want to be a fucking footballer, with talent like that, he's out of his fucking mind. But it's fucking up to him, I guess."

Ted laughs.

"I think maybe he'd like to hear all that from you, Roy. He's a big fan— I think he'd love your input."

Roy's eyebrows do something complicated.

"This is the Jamie I signed that kit for, is it?"

"The one and only."

Roy glances over, and Jamie looks away to try and not look like he's eavesdropping.

"You said he was ill?"

Jamie frowns, a bit confused.

"Yeah," Ted sighs. "He's— well, it's a long story. For most of his life, really, he wasn't doing so hot... and he's pretty much been stuck at home for the past few years, but he's on the mend. He's really come back to life lately."

Jamie nearly laughs. Fucking hell, Ted. The fucking wordplay.

"Good," Roy says. "That's good. Yeah, I'll fucking— I'll talk to him. About football."

"Great," Ted chuckles. "He'll like that. You're a good guy, Roy."

"Fuck you."

-

Jamie, quite frankly, has no idea how Ted manages to get him enrolled at Richmond's youth academy, considering the fact that he's got no form of identification whatsoever and doesn't even technically exist in this century... but he's not going to question the finer details, because it's amazing.

(Probably, the simple fact of having both the manager and the captain of the first team vouching for him was enough to get the U16 coaches on board without asking too many questions.)

They've brought him on in the middle of the season, and he's training with a great group of lads, and he only feels a bit like a grandad around real fifteen and sixteen year-olds.

(He's been pretending to understand what Instagram and Snapchat are— he's able to blame a lot of his confusion on his made-up excuse of being homeschooled back in Manchester, telling them his parents were crazy and he weren't even allowed a cell phone until he moved in with Ted. It's certainly been a learning curve, but he even knows how to TikTok dance now, so he thinks he's doing quite well.)

"Coach Wolfe thinks the U21s might offer me a contract for next year," Jamie says, over dinner. "Apparently I've got a mature play style and an old soul."

He can't help but giggle at that. If only the coaches knew what they were really saying there— it's exciting stuff, though, that they think he's good enough to jump straight to a professional team.

Ted snorts.

"You know, I had a scouting report on my desk this morning that was saying the exact same thing."

Jamie's jaw drops.

"Scouting for your team?"

Ted nods. Looks proper chuffed.

"You betcha. And the scouts don't even know you and I are, quote-unquote, related— they just think you're one heck of a natural talent that we need to grab while we can."

"You're kidding."

"No, sir. You've certainly been making a name for yourself, this past month. I'm sure there'll be other teams throwing their offers in by the end of the season, too, once you've played a few more matches and shown 'em what you can do. I've been told you're a once-in-a-generation type of diamond in the rough."

Less than a year ago, Jamie was alone and invisible in an empty flat, and now he's got Premier League scouts watching his every move. He can hardly wrap his head around it.

He sits with the feeling for a moment.

"I need to tell my mum," he blurts, suddenly. "I— maybe she's still alive, or maybe she's not, but— I need to tell her."

"Okay," Ted says. He seems a bit confused, but largely unfazed by the change in topic. "We can find that out, I'm sure. Should we see what ol' Google can tell us?"

Jamie nods.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I wanna know, now."

Ted smiles.

"God, I am so freaking proud of you."

He says that a lot, Ted, but Jamie's not sure he'll ever get sick of hearing it.

-

"...and, like, I don't really know much about my family, since I were in care my whole life, but I did some research for a school project, and I think Miss Georgie is, like, my great aunt. I'm just really pleased to meet someone I might be related to, you know?"

He's making it up as he goes, talking to the nurse that's leading him to Mum's room at a care home up in Manchester.

They found her through a news story that was posted online— there's a primary school nearby that comes to visit the residents here, and they'd put in a quote from Georgia Ann Tartt, telling about how she'd lost her son when he was young, so she loves when the children are around to play with, since it makes her think of him.

And now Jamie's here to see her, after all this time, on the first weekend of the offseason.

"I would certainly believe it," the nurse says. "She's got a photo or two of her son hanging up— he passed away as a teenager, which is so sad— and you really do look exactly like him. It's almost uncanny."

Jamie has to try very hard not to laugh.

"Do I? That's mad." He stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Um, what happened to her son?"

The nurse sighs softly. Looks quite sad.

"It's quite tragic," she sighs. "Her first husband was an awful, abusive man— he took their wee Jamie down to London with him to look for work, when he was only sixteen, and then murdered him one night, right there in their flat. He'd called it an accident, but Georgie didn't believe him; the truth all came out when they were getting divorced, he ended up dying in prison a few years later. Really terrible stuff, all around."

Jamie nods, taking that in.

Mum got away from Dad, and she knew what really happened. She still has photos of him, and tells his story, and— fuck. Dad's long-dead. Good riddance. Hopefully he's stuck haunting the prison he died in, invisible and ignored and bored out of his mind.

"That was her first husband?" he asks.

"Yes, yeah," the nurse says, as they turn a corner. "She remarried, and she's been with Simon for over forty years now— he's actually moving into the home here with her next month, now that they've sorted out selling their house, and that. He's quite spry for eighty-five, so he's been reluctant to come into care, but she needs the extra bit of help we give her here, and I think he just misses her too much to keep living on his own. They're very sweet."

Thank fuck. That's so good for Mum, that she weren't all alone for so many years. Jamie might honestly cry.

"That's really nice," he breathes. "She sounds great. I'm really chuffed to meet her."

They stop outside a door.

"This is her room, here," the nurse says. "Now, I should tell you that she's got a bit of dementia coming on, these last few years— she's alright most days, but can get confused sometimes, and I think there's a good chance she might mistake you for her son, seeing as you look so much like him." She smiles. "It'll likely be easier just to go with it, and let her call you Jamie; I'm sure she'll be thrilled to tell me later about how her little boy stopped by to visit. You'll really make her day."

That makes Jamie's heart ache a little, but the thought of Mum excitedly telling people he was here is so sweet.

"Can I go in?"

"I'll just knock and make sure she's awake— she might be napping."

So Jamie waits with bated breath until the nurse comes out and tells him he can head right in and see her; he's careful not to go running through the door, but he doesn't have it in him to go very slowly, either.

"Hi," he breathes, once he's in. "Hello."

She looks at him— she's older, of course, but still looks much like herself, sat in an armchair by the window— and her brow furrows, and she gasps:

"Jamie?"

And he rushes to her, a choked laugh falling out of his mouth.

"Mummy."

He's crying, and she's crying, and they're hugging, and it's been so fucking long since they've seen each other.

"You're real," she whispers, brushing her fingers through his hair, which he's finally been growing out the way he's always wanted to. "Baby, how are you here?"

"I don't know," he breathes. Shakes his head. "I've no idea how it happened, Mummy, but I was dead for a long time... and I'm just not anymore. I came back. I had to come find you."

She holds him as tight as her frail arms will let her.

"I'm so glad you did, baby." She kisses his cheek. "You're so beautiful. You look just how I remembered."

"Mummy, I missed you so much," he mumbles. He takes a breath. "And I— well, I wanted to tell you about— I'm a footballer, now, just like I always wanted. I played for the U16s at Richmond this year, and they just offered me a contract for next season on the first team... like, the actual professional squad with all the grown-up players. I'm really doing it."

"Oh, Jamie..." She pulls back from the hug to get a good look at him. "I can't believe you're here, my love. I'm so happy for you."

He sniffles. Takes in the wrinkles and lines of her face, her aged features that are still so much the same.

"I'm happy for you. I— I was hoping for so long that you were safe, and you got away from Dad, and the nurse told me you got married again and you're happy, and— I'm just so glad, Mummy. I was scared."

She holds him close again, and he feels young and small and safe.

"I'm okay, baby. Everything worked out just fine." She rocks him a little in her arms. "I missed you so dearly, but you're here now. We're alright."

He nods into her shoulder.

They're alright.

She's had a good life, and his life is just getting started, and everything's going to be okay.

He spends the rest of the afternoon with her— tells her all about Ted, and his teammates, and the weird little friendship he's built up with Roy Kent, of all people.

(Roy checks up on him a lot, like, seeing how he's getting on at the academy, and that. He's retiring this summer, Roy, because he fucked his knee in Richmond's last match, but he's offered to do some extra training with Jamie and coach him a bit while he's recovering from surgery. He's taken Jamie for ice cream with his niece a few times, too, which is really nice. Phoebe's lovely.)

She tells him about Simon, and about all the friends and neighbours and aunts and uncles that Jamie remembers, and she tells him how she never forgot him and still puts flowers on his grave every Sunday.

(And Jamie knows she'll probably keep doing it— probably won't remember this conversation or believe that he's really alive once he leaves here— and it's weird to think that the first version of him is dead and buried, but it just makes him feel so fucking loved, the fact that she still cares.)

When he's leaving, once Ted's here to pick him up and take him back to the hotel, he tells the nurse:

"She did think I was Jamie, yeah, but it was really nice. I learned so much about her, and she was so sweet. I'll have to come back again when I can."

And later that night, he runs his fingers over an old photo that she gave him to keep— it's the two of them when he was about six years old, in grainy sepia tones, smiling wide at the camera on the front steps of their house.

He misses life back then, he thinks, but he's quite happy with life now, too.

-

He keeps the photo tucked in his pocket when he sits in the press room at Richmond, a few weeks later, and signs his first real contract as part of the senior men's team. He thinks of where he came from, and how he got here, and he laughs when the birth year on all his paperwork reads 2004 instead of 1951.

Ted sits beside him for the press conference, dodges any of the more difficult questions with ease, and then gives him a big, strong hug when they're out in the hallway.

"Life's pretty crazy, huh?" Ted chuckles. "Who woulda thought you'd be here?"

And it's still their secret, of course, the ghost thing— as far as anyone else knows, the official story is: Jamie's parents were distant relatives of Ted's, they died a few years ago, and Jamie bumped around the foster system until Ted, having come over here to coach, found him and was able to get custody. Some fancy lawyers of Ms. Welton's made it all look real and legal; apparently she owed Ted a favour, so she threw enough money at the situation to get it all sorted, and now Jamie actually exists, and Ted's actually his foster dad.

And it's mad, right, but it's amazing, and it's everything he ever dreamed.

They've moved out of the flat, too, into a bigger one with Jamie's own bedroom (which he'll share with Henry when he visits,) and lovely big bay windows, and a nice kitchen with no secret bloodstain on the floor— one where he's not afraid every time he walks in that this might be the time he gets stuck again. He can breathe easier, in his own space, and someday he'll get a place of his very own, but for now, he's quite happy living with Ted.

So he's okay. He's happy, and he's loved, and he gets to play football.

It only took half a century, but Jamie Tartt made it out alive.