Work Text:
Garrett
Wellsy: Currently laying silently in bed in the dark because it feels like my brain is exploding.
Wellsy: So if you want to go out with the guys, tonight would be a good night.
I don't answer Hannah's text, because fuck that. If she's having one of her migraines, the last thing I'm going to do is "go out with the guys." I'm making one stop on my way home from practice: McDonald's, for caffeine and nuggets.
I unlock the front door as quietly as possible, and, just like she said, the house is dark.
I take my gym bag to the laundry room before heading upstairs to our bedroom with the food. We're not usually big "eat-food-in-bed" people - except when Hannah's sick or has a migraine or is on her period. Or when I'm sick or injured or if we have an off week during the season and are too lazy to get up...okay so maybe we are '"eat-food-in-bed" people.
I knock just in case Hannah hasn't heard me come in, and I immediately regret it when her answer is a pained whimper. Shit, this one must be bad.
It's bad. I can tell as soon as I open the door. The bedroom blinds are closed, and I can see a lump that might be my girlfriend lying in the dim light that's still peeking in. She's got an ice pack over her eyes, and she hasn't moved an inch, but the weak wave she offers lets me know she at least knows I'm there.
It breaks my fucking heart to see her like this.
I leave the nuggets and soda on my nightstand and just slide into bed. I'm not even settled when Hannah rolls toward me, burying her head into my shoulder like she's trying to suffocate the light from the room. The ice pack slides off her head, and I make a mental note to get her another one as soon as possible. One of the perks of being a pro hockey player is that we have a dozen of these in the freezer at any given time.
"Hi," I breathe into the top of her head and reach over to stroke her hair.
"Whyahoohe?" is her mumbled reply.
I chuckle. No "hi" back from my woman. Just "Why are you here?" As if I don't also live here.
"Wanted to spend time with you," I murmur.
"Mshicomanyrinow."
"You aren't shit company right now," I tell her as firmly as I dare. "I don't want to be anywhere else."
She doesn't respond, just nuzzles closer into me, and I'm really glad I showered at the rink.
We sit like this for a while, and I honestly don't mind the silence. There was a time when I would have, when I would have done anything to avoid it - to avoid rest. Because if I was resting, I wasn't working, and if I wasn't working, I wasn't going to make it.
Well fuck you, Phil Graham. Because I made it, and I figured out that you need rest sometimes. And I'm really fucking lucky to have a partner who understands and encourages that. So why the fuck wouldn't I be there for her when she needs rest?
Not that Phil would know shit about supporting anyone other than himself.
I'm trying not to stew in thoughts of my father, because I'm realizing that he's not worth my energy. I have more important things to care about, and, right now, the most important is Hannah.
"Hey," I whisper, letting a finger trail down her cheek. I can't tell if she's dozed off, but I don't want to startle her.
"Mm?" She doesn't open her eyes.
"Can I get you another ice pack?"
I feel her nod against my shoulder. "Please."
She rolls over and promptly covers her head. I can't see her face, but I take a decent enough guess about where her forehead is and kiss that general area of the pillow.
"Love you. Be right back."
I'm at the sink putting water in Hannah's custom One Direction Stanley tumbler that Allie gave her for her birthday last year when Logan calls. I put the cursed cup - that Allie casually tucked Harry Styles: Live on Tour tickets inside of, which fucking outdid my gift of a family photo session, by the way - and turn it around for good measure. I don't like the way the blonde one is looking at me; I can feel his eyes.
"Yo," I answer, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder as I pad around the kitchen.
"G, where'd the fuck'd you go, man? You just bolted after practice!" Logan is yelling so loudly - presumably to be heard over whatever the fuck is going on in the background of wherever the fuck he is - that I pull the phone away from my ear to avoid adding "hearing loss" to the list of long-term conditions I'm already developing from hockey.
"Wellsy's sick," I say at a normal-ass volume. "Migraine."
"Ah shit, that sucks, man. And to think that you're usually the biggest headache in her life."
I shake my head, and Logan must move because now I can clearly hear a "One Kiss" remix blaring through some speakers. "Dude, where even are you right now?"
"The Royale. Grace is stuck at the station because the late-night producer called out sick, so I came out with McAvoy and Coyle and some of the guys. Was calling to invite you, but if Wellsy is DFTC, I assume you're staying in."
I can't figure out what "DFTC" means in Logan-speak, but, ultimately he's right.
"Yeah, man. She can't even move right now. She's blacked out the bedroom windows and is laying in bed with an ice pack on her face. Next time, though. I know I don't see the team much off-the-clock."
"You're a fuddy-duddy, G. Just admit it."
"I'm a fucking what?"
"A fuddy-duddy."
God, I hope Grace drove herself to the station today. Or that she can at least get a ride back. Because I think Logan is gone. Maybe I should text her.
"You're making shit up."
"I'm not. 'Fuddy-duddy' means boring. Face it. You're a shacked up, fuddy-duddy professional hockey player."
I snort, because John Logan sure is one to talk. I've never seen that dude happier than the day he told me he and Grace had signed the lease on their apartment. "Well, that makes two of us, then," I tell him. "Three if you count Marchy. I assume he's not there."
Logan laughs over the music. "Fuck no. He told us - and I quote - 'I have a wife and 2 kids at home. Why the fuck would I want to be with you knuckleheads?'"
"Just take it easy. It's Detroit this week, and Larkin is hot right now."
"Yes, Dad. Should I text you when I get home, too?"
I immediately say "yes" and then pause. "Actually, have Grace do it. I trust her more than I trust you."
Logan gasps. "G! After everything we've been through? I'm hurt!"
"You'll get over it."
"Okay well since you're clearly not coming out now or ever again, give Wellsy my love. I hope she feels better soon, dude."
"Will do. And same. See ya, man."
I hang up, and the dull roar of the Royale is replaced by the silence of my kitchen, and I'm struck by how much I prefer the latter. Three years ago that wouldn't have been the case, but now? There's no place I'd rather be than home with Hannah waiting for me upstairs.
Speaking of...
"Hey, babe," I whisper, pushing the bedroom door open as quietly as I can. "Got you an ice pack and some water." Hannah's exactly as I left her, and I'm kind of worried that she's self-suffocated under the pillow, but she must hear me because she raises a hand in greeting.
At first, I think it’s just a wave and then I see it’s a gesture: thumb, pinky, and forefinger up, middle and ring fingers down - American Sign Language for "I love you."
It started when we saw A Quiet Place and decided that there was no fucking way Logan would survive. Or Dean. Or Allie. We pretty much concluded that Tuck and Sabrina would be fine, Tuck because he's got sense and Sabrina because she'd be fluent in sign language within a few months. Grace could survive as long as Logan didn’t take her out with whatever idiotic thing gets him killed. We're not even sure Dean and Allie would try.
"Would we survive?" Hannah had asked.
I shrugged. "'Course we would, babe."
"But how?"
"Well, you'd have to be a lot quieter when we fuck."
And thus began Wellsy's obsession with sign language. She downloaded an app and started practicing her alphabet and basic phrases. "I love you" was literally the first one, and the guys would tie me to the net by my ballsack if they heard me say this, but we still sign it back and forth to each other all the time.
I settle down in bed, and Hannah immediately rolls into me, laying her head back on my chest.
“I love you, too,” I murmur.
I think we’re just going to cuddle until Hannah’s feeling better or I have to piss—maybe I can get a nap in—when I feel Hannah frantically tapping my chest.
“Hm?”
Then I see she’s spelling something with her free hand. My sign language isn’t great. I know the important ones: “yes,” “no,” “I love you,” “blow job,” and “hamburger” (which is way too similar to the sign for “marriage,” something I found out the hard way). But I do know the alphabet, so I see what she’s trying to do.
P-R-A-C-T-I-C-E
“How was practice?” I clarify.
She signs “yes,” her face still shoved into the joint of my neck and shoulder like she’s trying to burrow into my skin.
“It was good,” I say. “Cap’s looking fucking sharp as always. Logan’s really starting to mesh with Charlie on the D-line, and shit, Wellsy, I still can’t believe I’m on a line with Patrice-fucking-Bergeron. Two seasons in, and it hasn’t sunk in yet.”
It’s slow going to get her response. Neither are us are anywhere near fluent, and I definitely miss a letter somewhere and make her start over, but I eventually spell it out.
P-R-O-U-D-O-F-Y-O-U-Y-O-U-E-A-R-N-E-D-T-H-I-S
And, dammit, I’m a little choked up. I twist around to kiss the top of her head. “Thanks, babe.”
H-O-W-S-P-A-S-T-A
“Could be better, could be worse.” I grimace, which Wellsy can’t see. “It’s an MCL tear, and we were hoping it was just a minor one, but it looks like he could be out 4-6 weeks.”
T-H-A-T-S-U-C-K-S
“Yeah, but he’s a tough kid; he’ll bounce back. Locker room talk is that he’s seeing a new girl, so at least he’ll get to spend some time with her.”
L-O-O-K-I-N-G-F-O-R-A-N-E-W-W-A-G
Hannah tickles my ribs to let me know she’s teasing, and I catch her hand in mine, twining our fingers together.
“Only WAG I want is you, Wellsy. Forever.”
Seeing as I have her hand incapacitated, she settles for planting a kiss on my collar bone.
“Do you want to get some rest?” I ask. “I can shut up. Dick around on my phone for a while and then order some dinner.”
She shakes her hand free of mine, which would normally break my heart a little bit, but seeing as it’s her primary method of communication right now, I guess it’s fair.
M-Y-M-I-N-D-I-S-A-W-A-K-E-I-J-U-S-T-C-A-N-T-M-O-V-E
“I’m sorry, babe. I wish I could fix it. Do you need another Tylenol?”
She signs a quick “no” and then spells out: J-U-S-T-T-A-L-K-T-O-M-E
“Okay, what about?”
A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G
So I launch into anything I can think of: that Dwayne the rink security guard just bought a house; our winger Senyshyn has the worst taste in music and all the guys give him shit for it; I need to grab more stick tape next time I’m out; I even tell her about Logan’s phone call from earlier.
“If Grace can get off work at the station, maybe we can all get dinner with Tuck and Dean and Sabrina and Allie when we play the Islanders next month.”
That gets me a very enthusiastic “yes” knocking against my chest. I know she misses the girls. Hell, I miss the boys. We lived together for 4 years and saw each other through everything. As much as I love living with Hannah—and I really, really love living with Hannah, like, more than anything—that four-bedroom house in Hastings, Massachusetts will always have some special memories. And, yeah, I see Logan most days, but then we go home to our own places. No middle-of-the-night conversations in the kitchen. No sneaking a hookup out as quietly as possible so the other guys won’t hear. No always having someone to sweet talk into going out for late-night fast food or to hit up a party. It’s why I secretly like road series, because it’s the closest Logan and I get to living together again.
And I know Hannah must miss Allie just as much. She’s been lonely since we moved to Boston right out of college, even if she tries to hide it. She works so hard at this record label, and I know her big break is coming; I just wish it would hurry up and get here, because she’s too fucking talented to keep slogging away as an assistant. And then with hockey, the only other WAG she’s really close to is Grace, and since she’s still in school, she hasn’t made it to many games. Wellsy’ll never tell me she’s frustrated, though, because she knows I’d do anything or move anywhere to make her happy. She wants to be in L.A. for the music scene? Trade me to the Kings. New York to be closer to Allie? I can go to the Islanders or the Rangers—even Jersey! And if hanging up the skates was the only thing that would make her happy, I’d do that. But she’d never ask me to. So, for now, we just wait. But goddamn I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else.
“Okay, okay, I’ll set it up,” I chuckle. “I promise.”
That earns me another “I love you.”
“Love you, too.” Because, fuck, I really do.
I absent-mindedly stroke a lock of hair back from her face, more to have something to do with my hands than anything. It’s something I vaguely remember my mom doing for me when I was sick as a kid. I don’t know if it helped me then or if it’s helping Hannah now, but it seems like the right thing to do. Her forehead is warm in the “I’ve-been-under-blankets-all-day” kind of way, which reminds me.
“Baby, do you want your ice pack now? Maybe sit up and drink some water?”
I feel a much less enthusiastic “yes” against my chest followed by Hannah’s hesitant shifting. I’m praying that I didn’t just make things worse with my suggestion, and I literally hold my breath as she sits up. When she does, I see her face for the first time since I got home. Objectively, she looks like shit—dark hair going every which way, flushed cheeks against sallow skin, exhausted green eyes that are missing every ounce of their usual sparkle.
“I look worse than I feel.” Her voice is barely audible even in our otherwise-silent bedroom, but at least she’s talking. I really fucking love her voice. “But I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, so the bar isn’t high.”
I lean over to kiss her cheek. “Can I kiss it better?”
That makes us both smile, hers a little more strained than mine. “I won’t stop you from trying.”
So I kiss her other cheek. And her forehead. And her nose for good measure. And then she’s making grabby hands at her Stanley on the bedside table.
“You used my favorite mug,” she whispers.
“No one can deny my love for you,” I deadpan. “But I stand by it. The blonde one has crazy eyes.”
She takes a sip. “Don’t say a word against Niall. And don’t make me laugh too hard. I’m fragile.”
“You’re tough as goddamn nails, and we both know it.”
“Actually, pound-for-pound, spider webs are stronger that steel.”
I kiss her on the lips this time, long and slow. “Then you’re as strong as spiderwebs.”
“I love you,” she says out loud. And damn do I love hearing her say it.
And now it’s my turn to sign it back to her.