Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s an early autumn evening, about three months after Ted leaves. The immediate, visceral pain of his absence has settled into more of an ever present dull ache deep in her bones that pretends to allow itself to be forgotten momentarily. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t already thought of Ted a dozen times that day alone, but he’s far from her busy mind at the moment, when the message pings up on Rebecca’s computer. 

She’s just come home from the clubhouse, settling in to review employee renewal contracts with a glass of wine and a slapped together plate that the internet tells her is “girl dinner.” She has a busy half day of work planned the next day; Keeley’d been begging for some bestie time and was also courting a new client based in skin care, so they were off to the spa for the afternoon. Rebecca was looking forward to the pampering, and less so to the time alone with her thoughts. Although Keeley, lovely prescient Keeley, would probably be several steps ahead of her and would fill their treatment time with light hearted chatter and silly gossip, because she was a really fucking good friend.

 So even though she’d really rather do almost anything than work at present, she’s grateful at least, as she’s been the past three months, for the occupied mind, and Rebecca hunkers down onto the lounger, slides on her readers, and opens her computer. 

Warning! Your free trial of unlimited storage is about to expire! Please login to update your information!

Rebecca sighs, clicks on the link out of habit and a dose of middle-aged ignorance about blindly following pop-up links (Nora would have her head) and sighs again as her e-mail log in page loads.

Used saved password for this account? The little box in the corner of the screen chimes at her, and with a frown, Rebecca clicks again, ready to see the familiar list of names in her inbox, the one at the top from Leslie that she needs to open anyway with updated figures for renewals.

But it’s not her email. It is absolutely, emphatically not her email inbox that loads on the screen in front of her. 

No, her email certainly doesn’t have 48 unread messages, thank you very much - and more certainly, her email doesn’t have 48 unread messages from Ted Lasso (no subject). Her heart jumps into her throat as her disbelieving eyes dart around the screen, trying to make sense of it all. Her pulse hammers in her chest, the heartbeat of Ted, Ted, Ted that is as familiar as anything these days. She finally lands on the greeting at the top of the screen,

Hi, TedBecca69!

Oh, Jesus Sodding Christ on the Cross.

It comes back to her in a flash, she and Ted shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee on the couch in her office, as they so often could be found this past year, giggling late one night over Thai food, creating a new email address (it really was quite simple, actually, to do) to sign up for a contest West Ham had going on, something about getting onto the voting committee for their new training facility.

  They hadn’t really cared one way or the other, just thought it was funny and silly and a bit mischievous, because being around Ted made her remember how to be all of those things, and it was Ted who had come up with their username - “gotta make it easy to remember, Boss,” with a wink, “An’ nothing’s easier than our names!”  And when Google had claimed that straight [email protected] was already taken, he’d asked her for a number, and the incredulous delight on his face had been well worth the lazy joke.

Obviously, [email protected] has lain dormant for over a year, completely forgotten by Rebecca, who frankly has no clue what the password is or how to even access the account at all. Except somehow she has, or her computer has, or whatever. Something has happened here. And maybe it is technological ineptitude, or maybe it’s fate, because, although Rebecca had definitely forgotten about it all, it is, as she’s scanning the screen in front of her, becoming readily apparent to her that Ted in fact had not.

There are 48 unread emails from him, the one at the top sent two days ago, and the first one dated about four days after he returned to Kansas. She scrolls through, up and down the page, desperately wanting to read them, nauseous at the thought of doing so, terrified they are going to disappear or be some sort of phishing thing (both she and Ted had almost fallen victim to one last year; Keeley’d looked at them like prize idiots and Ted had reassured her that being trusting wasn’t a bad thing, except, you know, when it was, like for example, a strange email offering her millions in a currency she’d never heard of and probably didn’t exist.) 

So yes, these 48 emails could easily just be another scam. Or even a prank! Who knew what the kids were doing these days for pranks, anyway? Surely not Rebecca.

But somehow, Rebecca knew they were from him. Because they had to be. She needed them to be. But what on earth could he have written? Forty eight fucking emails? And why on God’s green earth would he send them here, to this long dormant inbox?

She glances at her phone, fingers tapping against each other as she weighs calling him. They’d kept in touch - not a lot, but a safe amount, an amount that felt balanced in terms of helping to fill the monumental void his absence had left in her life, but not so much that she couldn’t bear the distance any longer. It was her least favorite math equation, perfecting that balance. She’d thought briefly about cutting him out cold turkey, putting each brick he’d slowly and surely torn down back around her heart. But she couldn’t bear it, the thought of a completely Ted-less existence. No matter how much she was hurting, she knew that that hurt would be insurmountable. 

So after she’d left the airport, after she’d run into the pilot and his sweet daughter, which in a different universe might have felt like fate but in this one felt more like a funny coincidence, after she’d fled to Keeley’s and curled up in Keeley’s bed and cried herself to sleep, after she’d woken up to Keeley’s gentle, nonjudgemental face and spilled her feelings about Ted and just how far gone she was into loving him, after Keeley had hugged her so tightly and so fiercely it slotted her heart back together the tiniest amount, and after she’d allowed herself to think about Ted and the heavy load she could tell he was carrying, and after she resolved that maybe he needed her to be there for him where he was like he had been so many times for her, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and picked up her phone.

Hope you landed safely. Miss you already. 💜

And his reply had been near instantaneous, a selfie of him and Henry, his eyes crinkled with the delight of being in the same time zone as his son, but tired and Rebecca couldn’t help the heartache that stole her breath.

Because she was so, so glad he was with Henry. But she was also so, so sure that he belonged in Richmond. And she’d tried to get him to see that - not for her sake, but for his own, because Ted, more than anyone, deserved to be happy. But Ted, more than anyone, was stubborn, and he’d gone.

So they texted here and there, and she heart-reacted all the pictures he sent and haha’d all the gifs, and tried to take a moment within each day to send him something in return. She tried valiantly to think of him as a sweet friend, a holiday-card receiver type of friend, someone dear but not close, rather than the love of her life, which she was more certain with each passing day he was. She failed at this task constantly.

So, theoretically, she could’ve picked up her phone, called him or sent him a text, asked him what the fuck was going on with [email protected]. And theoretically he could give any number of answers, such as, he recently remembered about the account and thought it would be funny to send a little something but then he hit the send button 47 extra times accidentally. Or there was some sort of glitch, naturally Google wasn’t perfect. She’d get a perfectly reasonable explanation, surely, if only she’d pick up the phone.

But she doesn’t.

The forty eight emails sit there, unwavering, in bold print, waiting for her. Ted, sitting there, waiting for her. 

Fuck it, she thinks, scrolls to the bottom, to the first email, and clicks quickly before she can lose her nerve.

So Doctor Sharon isn’t technically allowed to be my therapist any more because she’s based in the UK and I’m based in KC now/again/currently, so don’t go reporting her to the Geneva Convention, okay? But she’s kindly agreed to keep helping this guy out so long as I kept being honest with her, and that was a deal I just couldn’t pass up. It was her idea, these emails. Well, she suggested journaling but you know how my hand cramps and the left handedness makes it smear and I get crabby about all that, so I thought typing made more sense. 

But then I didn’t want all my jumbled up thoughts sitting on some word doc on my computer that just anyone (Henry, the little snoop) could find, so I thought, why don’t I just send them off somewhere? And then I remembered this email and I thought it would work perfectly. Because even though you’ll never read these, it feels kinda right to be writing “to” you, Rebecca. Because you’ve always listened to me. You’ve always seen me. Because there’s so much I should’ve said to you and so much I want to say to you, and so much I will want to say to you (I think I could talk to you forever, and I know you’re rolling your eyes because you think I could talk to a lamp post forever, but I can’t, not like this.) So thanks, as always, Boss, for being an unwilling receiver of my emotional upheaval. As always, I appreciate you.

Rebecca reads through the words fully twice before she can stop herself, hearing them all in his voice, his slight twang, knowing exactly which word in a sentence he’d emphasize. It’s like having him in the room with her, almost, and that’s calming in a way that startles her in its intensity.

She has missed him so terribly, so deep in her bones, and it’s only surprising in how unsurprising it is. Because of course she had fallen in love with him, how could she not? And of course she hadn’t been enough, she never was. She never thought she could be, especially not with his son thousands of miles away. And so he left. And she can’t fault him for it, not truly, because it was for Henry, and one of the many, many reasons she loves him so dearly is because of how good a father he is, and always tries to be.

She doesn’t quite know what to make of his last paragraph - she’s thrilled, proud, touched that he’s chosen her as his recipient - even if it’s a virtual her, but she knows what he means when he says he could talk to her forever, because that’s exactly how she feels about him. She had tried so hard, in the beginning, not to give anything away to him - any piece or measure of herself - but he’d so easily and consistently wound himself into the fabric of her life that, by the time he left, she truly wondered - wonders, sometimes - if she’d be able to go on. But needs must, she had so far, and she’d been doing rather all right, she’d thought, at stuffing the dull ache near her heart down enough to get through the days. Survive not thrive and all. 

It’s not particularly healthy, as Keeley has pointed out and Roy’s grunted about and Leslie’s gagged about, but it’s where she’s at.

But that ache is sitting heavily with her now, the one she thinks feels rather like grief more than anything, brought forth by his name and his words and the conjured sound of his voice in her head. And at the same time, it’s soothed by those same things, and so it is really no wonder that she can’t help but exit the first email, take a deep breath, a big swallow, and click on the next. 

I’m feeling pretty guilty that I didn’t say thank you. Or that if I did, it wasn’t clear just how much I was thanking you for. So here’s a non comprehensive list (it turns out I really like making lists)

Thank you, Rebecca

For changing my life

For chasing me down after that first panic attack

For making me laugh

For being the Dolly to my Kenny at karaoke that one time 

For believing in me

For trusting me

For introducing me to Eton Mess, even if it’s not my favorite

For talking sense into me constantly 

For letting me tag along at Christmastime both years

For appreciating the biscuits

For helping me pick out that one green sweater - jumper, whatever - that does in fact make my eyes pop

For always buying 

For that snazzy frappuccino maker

For helping Henry with his reading when he visited

For surprising me

For tolerating all my dad jokes

For understanding and making peace with my inability to Girl Talk

For letting me be a mess

For not making me feel (too) guilty about leaving

For making it clear you wanted me to stay

For letting me go.

Oh, Ted. She reads the list again through bleary eyes, wishing she could reach through the screen and the elapsed time and shake him or kiss him or yell at him, or more probably all three in rapid succession. 

The pang in her heart intensifies as does her desire to read more, to consume more of him, hear more of him, have more of him. After the first two emails, she clicks and clicks and clicks, eyes blurring with tears as she greedily makes her way through the inbox. 

Some of the messages are short and silly - little things about life in Kansas, updates about Henry and his own search for a job (tried out a job in the supermarket for a day just to see if that would fit. No shade to grocery store workers, but as much as I enjoyed talking to everyone, I don’t think it’s for me. Not sure what is, except coaching, but I dunno if I’m ready to do that on a scale larger than Henry’s soccer team at the moment. Feels a little fresh, is all.) 

Some of them are just short paragraphs clearly derived from some exercise Sharon’s had him do, one is very clearly things that help when he’s having a panic attack - (naming five things I can see, hear, feel, a glass of ice water, counting backwards from 100 by 2s, naming people I know care about me (you’re on there Rebecca, don’t worry!)) - one must be a list of ways to connect with Henry as he gets older (I don’t care if he’s into Dungeons and Dragons or baseball or freakin outer space, I just wanna make sure he knows I care), and one looks to be a grocery list of heart healthy foods. 

These ones she reads and tucks away with a smile and only a small measure of heartbreak, knowing she’ll revisit them over and over eventually, because they’re nothing if not little pieces of the man she loves, but she doesn’t linger on them like she does with some of the others.

I wanna be real clear, Becca. I had to go. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t gone. I owed it to myself not to spend the whole rest of my life wondering if I did the right thing by staying here (there. In my head most of the time, “here” is where you are.) But I had to go. And I did, and now I know. My dad left me and I know I didn’t leave Henry and as the Doc says over and over again, it’s not the same situation, but I had to go back so I could know for sure, you know? Now I’ve gone and said ‘know’ so many times I have whatever the written equivalent of semantic satiation is, damnit.

This one pulls at her because she can hear the truth in his words, along with the turmoil. They’d gone back and forth on this point so many times, and she’d finally been forced to leave it, to let it be, that day in the stands when she’d all but begged him to stay. Her most haunting thoughts of the past three months are the ones in which she imagines what could’ve happened had she not let it lay.

But then she gets to his next email, and her breath hitches almost immediately and she feels sick as she reads.

So my dad didn’t leave me, exactly. As you know, he died when I was sixteen. What you don’t know is that he killed himself. What you don’t know is that I found him. What you do also know is that my mom doesn’t believe in therapy so you can imagine how long it took to unpack and process all of THAT, shout out Doctor Sharon! I had bottled it all up for so long, so many years, until your dad’s funeral, actually. Sparked something in me that couldn’t be tamped down any longer. 

Historically I don’t tell people about my dad, his life or his death, because it’s too painful. But I think I could tell you, Rebecca, because unfortunately I think you’re not a stranger to that kind of pain. And because you would know I wouldn’t want to be pitied. Sometimes I think you’re the only person who truly sees me. I don’t think Michelle ever did, and my mama only sees what she wants. Beard sees me but lets me get away with a little too much hiding. You never have. It’s kinda infuriating. I don’t know if I can live without it.

This one crushes her breath, absolutely obliterates her heart. Good god. His hurt was always so palpable to her but he kept it so tightly guarded. She weeps for him, that he’s had to carry such a burden and that he’s done it alone. Her brave, stupid Ted, who never wants to cause anyone else a moment’s discomfort, even if it kills him.

She takes some small solace in the fact that he’s right - he saw something in her that she tried to let loose but so often felt she failed at - she cared about him. She saw him. She understood him. He didn’t have to hide the broken bits from her, in fact, she was almost a bloodhound the way she could sniff them out of him. He’d marveled at that, when she was the only one who knew what was happening when he fled the pitch with a panic attack, that, just as in Liverpool, it was Rebecca’s eagle eye that had caught what not even Beard had been able to. And when he’d finally broached it with her, she was afraid she’d been too stern, practically yelling at him for shouldering it alone, not returning her calls or answering her texts. He’d been a bit surprised by her tenacity, she remembered, and then his eyes had gone soft and he’d cleared his throat a bit, and then thanked her again, for caring and for calling him out and for being on his team, both metaphorically and literally.

She’s just wishing now, that she’s reading these emails, that she would’ve known sooner about his dad, could’ve done anything at all to soothe that hurt or simply existed within it with him. There’s not a lot she’s unwilling to withstand if it means she’s standing with Ted.

She swipes at her eyes, rereads the email. Wonders a bit guiltily if she even should be reading these – they’re to her, yes, but they’re also… not. But then, she reasons, Ted’s not stupid. He knows there’s a chance, however small, that Rebecca (or more accurately, Rebecca’s computer) would stumble back upon this inbox and these messages some day or some time. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe he’s not quite brave enough to send them to her directly, and this is a nice little workaround. It’s something she would do, honestly, Rebecca surmises, and she and Ted have always understood each other in this way. 

So she takes a deep breath and keeps going, devouring every word, making mental notes, hearing Ted right beside her, reading his words into her ear.

Things About My Dad:

 (still vibing on the list thing in case that’s not clear)

• Loved football. My kind of football, but dabbled in your kind during World Cup years, which I had forgotten about until I came to Richmond.
• Always had music playing on the record player. Said Rumours by Fleetwood Mac was the best album ever made and definitely had a crush on Stevie Nicks (to be fair, who doesn’t?)
• Hated roast beef, loved mac and cheese, let me eat popcorn and twinkies for dinner on the nights my mom went out for her church’s women’s group 
• Said “goodnight son” to me every night without fail when I went up to bed, usually sitting in his recliner watching some sort of detective show
• Had a complicated relationship with alcohol.
• Never embarrassed me for sharing my feelings but never ever shared his. Modeled keeping it all bottled up tight. (Not healthy, I’ve learned!)
• Had a bolo tie he wore on special occasions sometimes even though my mom hated it. Maybe because my mom hated it?
• Flirted with waitresses and grocery store clerks, but not in a skeevy way, he just liked to make people smile
• Once got so mad at me (absolutely warranted, Ronnie Fouch and I went out egging houses the Halloween I was 13 and we hit this old widow’s house by accident) and he just absolutely let loose on me. I’d never heard him swear that much - hell, I’m pretty sure he invented some new ones - and when he was done and all purple in the face and I was crying and apologizing, he just looked at me, saw my tears and said, “All right now, that’s enough. I love you, Teddy and some bone headed stunt with eggs ain’t gonna change that.” And then he took me over and made me apologize in person. 
• Didn’t have a good relationship with his own parents. I can count on one hand the number of times I heard him mention his dad, and he died before I was born. We’d have Christmas with my grandma but it was always stilted and uncomfortable, and I never knew why.
• he was really good at accents and voices, and told the best scary stories.
• I think he tried really hard to be a good dad and I think he thought he wasn’t. I wish I would’ve been able to tell him he was, he was doing his best and it would have been enough
• I think he would have loved you. Actually, I know he would’ve. He would have delighted in your razor sharp wit, I guarantee that for sure. Would’ve swooned mightily at your singing, too, seeing how you give Stevie a run for her money (Actually, are you richer than Stevie Nicks? I think you might be, which is kind of insane. Not to money-shame you, or anything.)

On the subject of lists,  I started to make a list of all the things I miss about living in Richmond but it got too long and made me a little too melancholy, so just - succinctly, I miss it all. When I was over there, there were precisely two things I missed about over here - Henry and the food. And we both know Henry counts for a hell of a lot of reasons, and he’s number one on any list I make. But still. Not very balanced, is it?

Hearing your voice was a balm to the soul. Thank you for calling, Rebecca. Please keep calling. Maybe I’ll call you next week, after I drop Henry off. Maybe we can make it a regular thing. Maybe it’s gonna keep me afloat, talking to you on the regular.

Beard says he forgives me. You’ve said you understand. I dunno though if I do - forgive myself or understand what the hell I’m doing. I’m trying, though, I promise. I’m trying to make sense of everything swirling around in my brain and I’m trying to listen to the voices in there that sound the most like the people I trust the most. (You’re one of them.) (you’re often the loudest.)

Henry asks about you near constantly. I guess I didn’t realize how close the two of you got during those weeks he’d spend with me in Richmond, but in retrospect it makes sense. He, like his father, can’t resist a pretty blonde. 

Gah, I keep saying these things that I mean to be compliments but end up sounding so… trite? Underwhelming? Offensively insufficient? Can’t think of the word I mean but what I’m getting at boss, what I mean is, he can’t resist a powerful, kind, clever, passionate, silly, fierce, loyal, beautiful inside-and-out blonde.

Anyway, Henry misses you. Wants to know if you’ll come visit. Told him I dunno how you’d feel about the midwestern humidity and lack of access to anything remotely posh. He said he thought you wouldn’t mind, thinks you’ll enjoy trying all our American cookies (sounds like you guys had a serious debate about this at some point. I guess I’m also wondering how I missed y’alls friendship, maybe I was just too caught up in my own bullshit) and then he said he thinks I’d be a lot happier if you were here because I’m always happier when you’re around. That kinda hit me like a dart to the chest, for one because I don’t want him thinking coming back here to be with him has made me completely miserable, and for two because kid’s one hundred percent right.

Rebecca pauses here, tries to collect herself. Because though she is her own toughest critic, Ted has always, always encouraged Rebecca to see her best qualities, to name them and feel them and take pride in them. But the way he writes about her is something else entirely, it feels like he is the only person in the world who sees Rebecca for the whole of everything she strives to be, everything she aspires to embody, everything she always feels she’s fallen short on. His words make her feel like he is maybe as adrift without her as she is with him, and she can’t deny that means something.

I’m worried I disappointed you, by leaving. I’m worried you think I didn’t care about you enough to stay. I’m worried you’re mad that I didn’t listen to all your ideas and suggestions about how things could shake out. I’m worried that, if I did belatedly try to fix this mess I’ve made, it’ll be too late. 

Remember that day right before I left, in the bleachers? It’s seared into my memory, and I’m sorry if it’s seared into yours, too. You were so lovely, Rebecca, so full of wonderful, logical solutions that I was too stubborn to hear. Sometimes I wonder what life would look like if I had said, yeah, tell me more about these schools for Henry. Tell me more about hiring a custody lawyer. Tell me more about our future here, together. Tell me more. 

But I didn’t do that, did I? And while I don’t regret coming back to Henry, I regret leaving you, and I think I’m now realizing that it didn’t have to be either or. Doesn’t, maybe.

It’s here that the messages turn a bit in a way that Rebecca feels covetous about, a way that has her heart racing and something that feels a little bit like hope ballooning in her chest, along with the familiar heartbreak of loving Ted and having lost Ted, poor sweet Ted who is trying so hard, on the other side of the computer and the Atlantic, to figure out the right way forward, and god Rebecca hopes at some point he comes to the conclusion that it’s with her, not at the exclusion of anything else, but in addition.

Sometimes I think about that night at your house, the gas leak night. Kinda think a braver Ted Lasso mighta put the moves on you. Would be lying if I said the coward Ted Lasso wasn’t thinking about it. (Constantly, for like a year at that point.)

I know you’re not reading these but I still feel a lil guilty about that last one. To be clear, my feelings for you at that point of the gas leak went (go) way beyond putting moves on you. 

This one takes her breath away, stunned by his honesty. Because while all these emails have come over the course of months, she’s digesting them in real time, the fact that he’s so open about his feelings for her. It had taken her over a year and extreme amounts of gentle prodding for her to acknowledge her feelings for Ted, and even then, she truly didn’t admit to herself the magnitude of them until he was gone. But by the sound of it, he’d had feelings - or rather, he’d known about his feelings - for much longer. A desperate notion of what could have been claws at Rebecca, and she feels completely unmoored, and the pulse in her veins sounds less like Ted, Ted, Ted, and more like maybe, maybe, maybe.

Sometimes when I’m feeling particularly sad about our absolute bummer timing — in another life, boss, it’s you and me doing the thing every which way and twice on Sunday (by the thing I mean life!!!! Not sex!! (...But sex too…)) — I think that maybe the silver lining is that you showed me the kind of partner I want and deserve and in my dreams I was able to do the same for you. 

Unfortunately for me over here, I kind of think the universe only created one of those for me, and you're all the way over there.

She’s weeping now, her tears silently streaming down her face. These emails, his words, the way he writes about her and them, it’s all just bursting with affection and romance and hunger, and Rebecca feels such an acute sense of longing to have him in her arms, to whisper responses to every kind thing, every wish of his own, every doubt in turn. Even as he’s being so astoundingly sincere, he makes her laugh just a bit, blush just a little bit, yearn for him just a little bit. This man is my soulmate, she thinks.

There’s a plan forming in Rebecca’s mind, machinations whirling as she continues to process what she’s read, tries to play catch up with him, tries to figure out where he’s at now with everything. There’s one more email left, the one dated two days ago, and Rebecca feels a rush of maniacal laughter, because she’s so suddenly clear on her next steps she almost thinks she doesn’t need to read it, it wouldn’t change anything at this point. But he wrote it, he wrote it and he sent it, and of course she opens it, wiping her eyes for the hundredth time, determined, ready, sure.

I feel like Sharon, and maybe you, and maybe Beard, and maybe even me a little bit when I got here, kind of thought I was trying to figure out what I want. But what has become so clear to me I can’t escape it is that I so clearly DO know what I want. It could not be more clear, Rebecca. I want to be in Richmond, coaching your football team. I want to walk around the green with you, maybe reach over and grab your hand, if I’m feeling brave. Snuggle into a booth at the pub with ya, listen to you pretend to moan about the lack of options at Mae’s when we both know you’d eat her fish and chips nightly, happily. I want my son to have a proper room in a bigger flat, and I want him to call Richmond home just like I do. I wanna hear him pick up words with your accent, I wanna snuggle up with the both of you for movie nights, and I wanna watch the two of you read together (he hasn’t shut up about Harry Potter since you mentioned it on FaceTime last week; summer reading had been a freaking nightmare until then, are you an actual magician? I could totally see you as a young McGonagall…?) (wait also ps, are we allowed to read Harry Potter these days? Am I gonna get canceled? I’ll ask Keeley. I did already own the books, for the record, no new money was spent. God Ted, this is so NOT THE POINT. Sorry, you know how I get.)

Speaking of Keels, I wanna watch Roy and Keeley build their future together and I wanna watch Jamie flourish into an awesome man and a true leader on the team. I wanna help Beard get the fuck away from Jane, I want to properly meet Colin’s boyfriend. I want to watch you and Keeley start that women’s team you mentioned. I want to actually learn some set pieces, I want to win the Champions League. I wanna coach coaches, actually, someday. I wanna do all that and then come home at night and talk to you about it in a bed that we share in a house that we share, that’s full of your shoes and my shoes and Henry’s shoes and my barbecue sauce and your fancy handbags and so much love you can see it from outer space.

So yeah, I know what I want. I just don’t know if it’s mine to have. I hope it is. But you know what they say, right boss? It’s the hope that kills ya.

(Rebecca is very, very glad she doesn’t skip the last email.)

Chapter Text

“Should I do something batshit?” Rebecca blurts without preamble as soon as Keeley answers the phone on the third ring, despite it being close to ten at night.

“Hi babe,” Keeley says, preternaturally cheery. “Depends. What type of batshit?” 

“What do you mean?” Rebecca asks with a frown, fingers tapping the computer in front of her with impatience.

“Well, are we talking bad badshit, like, I dunno, fucking Rupert, crazy batshit like maybe shaving your head, or good batshit like going to Kansas and dragging Ted’s fit arse back?” It’s silent for a beat too long, and Keeley breaks it with a concerned sounding, “Rebecca?”

“How the fuck do you do that,” Rebecca exclaims, and is answered by an ear-piercing shriek.

“Fucking hell,” she hears Roy mutter from the other end of the line as Keeley seemingly quiets to take in more air to let it loose again, and Rebecca sighs.

“Wait just to confirm,” Keeley comes back, breathless, “you mean, I’m right and you’re finally going to bring Ted home?”

“No, I’m going to shave my head,” Rebecca answers drily, and she can practically see Keeley roll her eyes.

“Oh babe, thank God,” Keeley moans. “Okay, what’s going on? Tell me everything, right now, and we’ll make a plan, yeah?”

Rebecca gives Keeley (and Roy, she’d wager almost anything that he was eagerly listening in though would never admit it) an abbreviated version of what has transpired at her home in the past - god, three hours - since she opened bloody TedBecca69, and when she finishes, Keeley gives a dreamy sigh.

“God, Rebecca, it’s all just so romantic, isn’t it? I mean, yeah it’s shit that you’ve both been sad and pining for all these months, but you’re about to get your happy ending and that must feel so fucking good, yeah?”

“Well, we’ll see,” Rebecca says, biting her lip with nerves, having lost a bit of the bluster she’d gathered reading Ted’s final emails.

“Are you mental?” Keeley laughs, and Rebecca feels a bit petulantly caught out. “Babe, you two are proper soulmates. Like, you are cosmically destined for a happy ending. The universe is literally telling you that!”

“Well if the universe says it,” Rebecca replies, drolly and a bit defensively. Keeley’s tone instantly softens, even over the phone she’s able to read Rebecca well.

“Rebecca Victoria Welton. I have never been more sure of anything in my life than I am that you and Ted bloody Lasso are destined to be together. And I have been waiting very patiently for one of you to realize it and fucking do something about it. And now that time has come and it will be absolutely fucking spectacular, because like, there is no other option. So just believe in yourself, and in Ted, and in the two of you together, okay?”

Rebecca feels a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I love you,” she responds. 

“Enough to let me read the emails?” Keeley asks hopefully, and Rebecca laughs. 

“Absolutely not. Now, what the fuck do they wear in Kansas?”

Seventeen hours later, Ted’s puttering around the house he’s renting in Michelle’s neighborhood (hasn’t yet gotten around to buying anything, and he knows exactly why even if he won’t say it aloud whenever Michelle or his mom ask) putting together an afterschool snack for Henry to eat before his soccer practice, when the doorbell rings. He frowns a bit to himself, he’s not expecting anyone, and frankly, he’s not really up for company, so he heaves a sigh that gets caught in his throat as he swings open the door.

Later, when they tell this story, he’ll say his heart stopped dead in his chest when he saw her. But that’s not really accurate, because in this exact moment, when he opens his front door and sees Rebecca standing there, hair tied into a messy ponytail, jeans and trainers on, eyes red rimmed, posture a bit defensive, but altogether the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, his heart begins to beat wildly in his chest, faster and faster until it relaxes, settles, as Rebecca gives him a shy, guarded smile.

He only realizes he’s still staring, dumbfounded, completely confused and also so, immediately and irreversibly happy to see her, when her smile drops a bit and he startles violently trying to find action again.

“Bec - boss, Rebecca,” he stumbles, a bit stupidly. “Gosh, sorry, okay, first of all, hi! Come in, please, watch out for Henry’s sneakers - trainers - sorry, um, can I get you anything?” He asks, opening the door wider, not really sure the etiquette when your former boss who is also most definitely the love of your life shows up unexpectedly on your doorstep months after you’ve broken both your hearts, but finally he just gestures for her to follow him inside. She does so, glancing about, and he’s suddenly very aware of just how… beige everything is inside.

“Yeah, I know, it’s a lil bare-bones, still,” he begins to ramble. “But, ya know, I’m renting until I find a place I fall in love with, and it didn’t seem worth it to figure out what to frame and all that, or get too much furniture just yet, we’ve just got this table here for the legos,” he points to a large dining room, empty save for the aforementioned table, and Rebecca’s following him back through to the kitchen, and he’s still talking, and she’s still quiet, and he truly is just still so really gobsmacked by her presence. Giddy, puzzled, gobsmacked.

“A water would be lovely,” she says when he eventually stops talking about sconces, and he almost forgets what she’s referring to, but manages to grab a bottle of water and hand it to her before leaning back against the counter to face her, taking in the state of her, the most perfect sight for his very sore eyes.

“Not that I’m not thrilled to see you here,” he says, softly, because thrilled doesn’t even really begin to cover it. “But uh, what exactly are you doing here?”

Over the past few years, Ted had liked to think he had gotten pretty good at reading Rebecca. She liked to think herself inscrutable - certainly she could be, to those who didn’t know her - but Ted, he liked to think he knew her pretty well. He was always secretly chuffed with himself at how easily he could read her. Because his Rebecca, she wore her heart on her sleeve. And if you knew what to look for, if you cared to look for it, like Ted did, it was typically glaringly obvious what Rebecca was feeling.

But today, with her stood in his shitty beige Kansas City kitchen, looking determined but wary, he really can’t pull much. She looks at him appraisingly for a moment, clears her throat.

“Do you remember that contest West Ham did last year, about naming their training center?”

“I do,” Ted replies slowly, wondering where she’s headed, why she felt like she needed to come all the way here to ask that of all things. She nods once, as if something’s been confirmed, then gives him a weary smile.

“Do you remember what you and I did when we heard?” She asks carefully, and Ted’s brow furrows.

“Yeah, course, Boss, we made up that -,” and then the shoe drops, or maybe that’s Ted’s stomach, because all of the pieces are slotting together in his mind, the email address, the emails, all of the words he’d written and all the thoughts he’d finally given voice to, all the things he’d been too afraid to say to her, all his fiercest wishes and darkest secrets, all sitting in an inbox, she, judging by her appearance in Kansas, must’ve found.

He’s ironically unable to find any words, mouth opening and closing as he tries to work out exactly what all he’s put down to paper, and more importantly, how she feels about having received it. Because of course he understood on some level that sending those emails that to address meant there was a chance she’d see them. It was part of the reason he chose to go that route, call him a coward, but at least he was self-aware. But being faced now with the reality in which she’d found them, presumably read them, he was speechless.

And relieved. He could hardly believe it, but there was absolutely a sense of relief mixed in with the franticness of his mind. Because there was no take backs. He said what he said and he had to be ready to own it. He owed that to himself, and to Rebecca. And to any future he desperately wished the two of them could have together. And she was here, at least, facing him in person, so something he said must’ve compelled her to action. 

“Rebecca,” he finally gets out around a big swallow, and he looks up at her, searching, lost, and he sees the resolve in her as her eyes move over him appraisingly, wishes he knew what she was planning with it.

“Right,” she says. “I got your emails. All of them,” her voice wavers slightly, and she takes a pause, looks directly at him once more, and he’s pretty sure her eyes are starting to fill with tears, so he starts to move out of instinct, concerned, but she just holds up a finger. 

“One moment,” she asks for, and of course he acquiesces, but he’s confused when she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. She taps a few times, and then looks back at him, mouth set in an anxious line, and then he can hear the ding of a new email on his phone.

Oh. Oh. 

He pulls his phone out, sees a new email - Rebecca Welton (no subject).

“Should I…?” He starts, holding up his phone, and she nods, once, sure and hesitant all at the same time.

“Please,” her voice is practically a whisper, and with trembling hands, Ted opens what she’s sent.

Dearest, darling Ted,

I’m not sure if I have the patience or the nerve to sit here and write 48 answers to your 48 emails, but rest assured I would (I will.)  I hope you’ll forgive me if I opt for quality over quantity in my singular response. I also… I am going to try to be as brave as you have been in your words, in what I say here, to be as clear and open with you as you were, even perhaps unintentionally, with me. Give me a little grace if I fall short, but don’t let me off the hook completely. I might need a little help along the way, but I will always be brave for you, I promise.

I have missed you so terribly, Ted. I have missed you in a way that suggests that I haven’t just missed you the past three months, but rather, I have been missing you the way I am supposed to be having you for my entire life and am wholly incomplete without you. Make of that what you will, but I believe Plato might have some ideas. 

I want to be very clear on one very important point. Ted, I do not and will never blame you for leaving, because I understand why you felt you must. You are an excellent man who is an excellent father, and that is precisely why you had to leave. Coincidentally, it is also one of many reasons why I love you, and why your leaving left me shattered. So please, stop apologizing. Stop agonizing. You left because you needed to at the time. It is my dream that you come back. If I may be hopeful for a moment, it seems like it might be yours as well.

You asked me, in one of your emails, to tell you more about the future we could have. Ted, I could fill novels with the daydreams and dream-dreams and hopes and wishes I have for our future together. Each vision is different - sometimes we’re on holiday in Greece, with Henry scrambling up the steps of the Acropolis ahead of us, and we’re holding hands and the sun is warm on our necks and the day is bright ahead of us. Sometimes we’re at the pub, my fingertips tracing the little hairs at the nape of your neck, the ones just starting to salt and pepper, while Roy and Beard have a conversation that neither of us can follow on the other side of the booth. Sometimes we’re in my office, halfheartedly arguing over something insignificant and silly, like which Thai place is better or if Jamie’s going to be wearing a shirt to the gala, and neither one of us is seriously upset but we’re taking sides like we’ll ride at dawn, just to make the other laugh. Sometimes we’re in my bed, and everything is quiet and we’re peaceful and sated and content. In every single one, all of them, we are together. A team, a family. In all of them, there is more love than I know what to do with. But it’s not overwhelming or forced or saccharine. It’s just right. (It’s a little saccharine, and we’re all perfectly fine with that.)

The last thing you wrote to me was,

“So yeah, I know what I want. I just don’t know if it’s mine to have.”

Ted, it is all yours. It has only ever been yours. I am all yours. Please come home to me. Anything that needs sorted, we will sort. Together. We will figure out custody and jobs and flights and time and space and everything in between. I let you go once, Ted, and I can’t say I regret it, not when it looks like it’s given us both some much needed clarity. Because I’ve come to realize, and I think you have too, there’s quite a difference between going and leaving. I’ll always let you go, wherever you need to, for as long as you need to, so long as you promise to return to me when you can. But I will never again let you leave. I will never again allow you to leave me. To leave us. To leave your home. Hopefully you’re amenable to that distinction.

I admit now that while there’s so much more I could write, so many paragraphs of honesty and surety inspired by your own, patience has never been my virtue and I fear that if I don’t stop now and hit send and get on the jet, I might surely combust.

I’m coming to get you and I’m not leaving without you. 

I love you. 

💜

His immediate, first, stupid thought, that they’ll laugh about later, is oh, yeah, that’s right, she studied English in Uni. Because he’s pretty sure that’s just straight fucking poetry she’s sent him, like, frame it and put it in a museum kinda written art. And then his brain and his heart sync up again, and he thinks he too might combust.

He looks up, eyes bright with tears and hope, and catches her worrying her bottom lip between her teeth the way she does when she’s nervous, and he can’t have that at all, not when she’s been so brave for him, because while he’d poured his heart out to her over the past three months, he’d been able to hide behind a screen and a continent and the knowledge that several unlikely pieces would have to fall together in order for to actually receive it. But she’d matched him and bested him, and she stood silently there, afraid yet determined, watching in real time his response as her soul was revealed to him in one singular, perfect email.

He’ll read it again later - and again, and again, and he’ll have it memorized soon enough, and he’ll want to get it printed and she’ll tease him - but for now, one line sticks out at him - “I might need a little help along the way, but I will always be brave for you, I promise.” And she seems incapable of meeting his eyes at present, gaze still studiously downcast, fingers ghosting over cuticles, that perfect swollen lip caught between teeth. He takes one moment to himself, to capture this image of her, the very last in this series and the very first in the beginning of a new one, and then he’s not sure where his phone lands but it’s out of his hands, and the noise of it thunking down onto something startles her and her eyes jump up. She sees him crossing the distance between them and he can see her shaky intake of breath before she’s crumpling against him, curving her body into his as he hugs her fiercely. 

She’s trembling, he can feel, and he knows he’s crying and thinks she probably is too, and her body against his is the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, he’s sure, because he feels light enough to float. He realizes belatedly and obviously that with her in her trainers, she’s at the height where he’s able to rest his chin in the crook between her neck and shoulder and breathe her in. One of her hands is crushed between them, his shirt clutched tightly in her fist, and the other is at his waist, desperately clinging to a belt loop, as if she’s looking for any way to tether herself to him completely (she is.)

Eventually, he feels her take several slow deep breaths, and pull back slightly, and it’s him then who grasps at her to keep her near. She looks into his eyes then, finally, searching, and he hopes she can see everything he’s feeling - all the love and pride and softness and gratefulness - and he think she must, because she offers him a small smile that he can’t help but return.

“Hi honey,” he whispers, the term of endearment slipping out unbidden and unremorseful. Her tremulous smile grows into a grin that threatens to overtake her whole face.

“Hi Ted,” she says with the fondest exasperation, and for several beats they stand there, almost nose to nose, until Rebecca raises one exquisite eyebrow at him, and Ted lets out a loud laugh, reading her perfectly.

“Alright, alright,” he murmurs before leaning in and kissing her, gently, sweetly, a kiss that promises all the time in the world.

For all the build up and all the feelings, it’s frankly a rather unhurried kiss, Rebecca notes, which almost makes her swoon in the realization that it’s because it’s the start of forever and nothing needs hurried at all, everything is able to be savored. 

And so they stand there, together, bodies pressed closely, hands exploring softly as they kiss, as they pause and take moments to reassure themselves that this is real, that the other is real and tangible in front of them. Ted’s no Lothario but he’s had his fair share of first kisses, but there’s something deep within him that slots into place when he kisses Rebecca for the first time. 

It’s only when the front door slams and Henry’s voice calls out to his father that they pull apart more than a couple inches, Ted glancing at the microwave clock, shocked that it’s already time for Henry to be home from school. He doesn’t have time to say anything to Rebecca - not that there’s really any thought in his head other than her name - before Henry’s skidding around the corner into the kitchen, no doubt in search of a snack.

“Rebecca!” He exclaims when he sees her, and her name in his sweet little boy voice that will surely change all too soon seems to snap her out of a contemplative trance. She glances quickly at Ted, and he can see just a little bit of uncertainty there, now that the bluster and bravado has worn off just a bit, and he reaches out with a hand to brush her lower back, provide some measure of support and soothing. She relaxes into the light touch, tries to appear normal (though she’s not sure she has ever felt more wonderfully off-kilter) for Henry’s sake.

“Hello, Henry,” she greets him warmly, if a bit nervously, but Henry’s bright smile and the way he slides over to wrap his arms around her waist for a hug have both Rebecca and Ted exhaling in even further relief. 

“Dad, did you know she was coming?!” Henry asks, almost petulant to have potentially been left out of something, but he’s mollified when Ted shakes his head.

“I most certainly did not, buddy,” Ted replies. “Kind of an awesome surprise though, isn’t it?” He shoots Rebecca a sly grin, doesn’t think the apples of his cheeks could really get any higher if he tried. They have a lot to talk about, a lot to work through, he knows, but the fact that Rebecca Welton is in his kitchen, and moments ago, was in his arms, have him giddy in a way he’s never felt before.

“The best!” Henry agrees. “How come you’re here?” he asks, looking up at Rebecca, who flounders for a moment before speaking.

“I really, really missed your dad,” she says simply. “And you, of course,” she tacks on immediately, gratified by the bright smiles that brings about on both Lasso faces.

“Dad really, really missed you too,” Henry says around a mouthful of apple he’s snagged from the counter. “I was gonna send you a letter and ask you to come visit, but I don’t even need to anymore because you’re already here!”

“You were?” Ted and Rebecca ask simultaneously, and Henry nods. 

“Yeah, wanna see it? I finished writing it but I needed to get your address, so I didn’t send it yet. Hang on, it’s in my room,” he darts out of the room the way only a boy can, all limbs and flail but somehow graceful, and Ted and Rebecca are left together again in a somewhat stilted silence.

He glances her way and while she seems more relaxed than when she first arrived, he can still see some tension, some nerves, and frankly the past ninety minutes have been kind of insane for both of them, he knows they’re both dealing with a rollercoaster of emotion.

He reaches for her hand, worries his thumb over the back of her hand, and doesn’t miss the way her eyes flutter closed at his touch. 

“Hey, I can call Michelle and see if Henry can head over there this evening,” he starts to suggest, but Rebecca furrows her brow at him.

“No, Ted, don’t. I’m - it’s - fuck, it’s a lot easier to do this in writing,” she admits with a frustrated huff, and he laughs lightly at that.

“Take your time,” he says softly, and Rebecca sighs. 

“I don’t want it to be you and Henry, and then you and me. I want it to be you and Henry and me, all together.”

He kisses her then, suddenly and succinctly, catching her a bit off guard.

“Gonna need to kiss you any time you say something like that,” he warns her. “Because that’s pretty much heaven on earth in my eyes, the three of us all together. My two favorite people on this big blue marble makin’ a sandwich outta little old me.”

She purses her lips in the way that means she’s trying not to let on how delighted she is, but Ted knows, of course he does, and then Henry’s back, waving a slightly crumpled piece of lined paper triumphantly.

“Here ya go,” he says, handing it to Rebecca. Ted stands over her shoulder, reading along with her.

Dear Rebecca,

I know you are very busy in Richmond, because it’s the off season and you guys are making roster moves left and right. That’s what Uncle Beard says. But I think my dad really misses you. I know he moved back here because he loves me a lot, but I know he loves you a lot too so if you could come visit I think it would make him really happy.

Also when youre here, can you talk to my dad about some stuff? He always listens to you, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings. But I wish he still lived in Richmond and still coached for you. Because he was really happy when he was doing that, and I was really happy when I came to visit! Right before he came back, I told mom I wanted to do middle (intermeddiate) school over there, even, because Pheobe Phoebe told me it starts when you’re nine and that’s this year! But then mom said “We can talk about it” and then dad said he was moving back so we never did. 

I miss you, Rebecca. I hope you had a good summer. Remember last summer when we went to the Tower of London together and then we read that spooky poem? That was so cool. I told all my friends about it and they were so scared! 

Please come visit. My dad and me will be so excited.

Sincerly,

Love,

Henry Lasso

“Are you crying?” Henry asks in alarm, and both adults look up from his letter, both of them, in fact, teary-eyed.

“Happy tears, pal,” Ted clarifies as Rebecca swipes at her eyes. “You’re a real great kid, ya know that?”

“Yeah,” Henry answers with the perfect amount of eight year old arrogance. “Is Rebecca gonna come to soccer practice?” he asks, and Ted hesitates. 

“Hey, Hen, that’s right, go get your soccer stuff. Give me and the Boss a minute here, okay?” Henry scampers off, yelling, “Rebecca you can show my team how you can dribble up to 100,” and Ted files that information away for later as he pulls her to face him.

“Boss, I - look, shit, you’re right, this is a lot easier from behind a screen,” he halfway jokes. “I have so much I still wanna say to you, okay, and I know we got a lot of stuff to figure out, but you’re here, and I just - that means everything to me, okay? I want you to know that,” his voice is thick with sincerity.

“I do know that,” Rebecca says softly. “It’s alright, Ted. Let’s take Henry to his footy and have some dinner and pretend we’re normal people, and then we can do all the scary bits,” she says with a wry smile that Ted can’t help but match.

“Nothing normal about you, Rebecca. You’re extraordinary,” he says, somehow smooth and not cheesy at all, and Rebecca blushes, and Ted kisses her again, and again, and then Henry’s footsteps are thundering back and Ted’s finally wondering if Rebecca needs anything, is she jetlagged, did he ever actually hand her that water, like his brain has rebooted from the shock of her arrival, and she just laughs at him, bright and cheery, as she follows Henry with his boots clacking out into Kansas’ autumn air. 

They take Henry to footy, Rebecca gets to watch Ted coach again, but this time from some very uncomfortable bleachers, and this time when he sends a wink in her direction, she allows herself to swoon. She snaps a picture for Keeley, ignores the nine hundred exclamation points she gets back. She waves back when Henry waves to her. She thinks she might just burst from pure happiness, being here, exactly where she belongs.

Because yes, she’s on a hard metal bleacher in middle America, and on those points she’s not particularly stoked. But she’s with Ted. They’re together and they’re on the same page or paddling in the same direction or whatever haphazard metaphor he’d like to use. They are finally, finally, in sync with each other, and it feels more right than she could’ve ever imagined.

They have dinner together, the three of them, and Henry’s enthralled by Rebecca’s explanation of certain roster moves, and Ted is too, honestly, and then Henry and Rebecca start talking Harry Potter and Ted’s too besotted by their interaction to chime in, but he reaches under the table to grasp her hand, grounding himself, and she squeezes back, wrapping her elegant fingers around his.

He catches her yawning over a bowl of ice cream (“Dad, Rebecca’s here, it’s a special occasion, can we please make sundaes?” And he’s generally powerless against Henry’s pout face, but against his plus Rebecca’s he stands no chance) and nudges her gently. 

“Did you sleep at all on the way over here?” He asks, and she shakes her head.

“Was running on pure adrenaline, I think,” she admits. “And borrowed confidence from Keeley. And the several glasses of wine I consumed reading your emails.”

“Alright, Henry, we gotta get going to bed or Rebecca’s gonna turn into a pumpkin, you hear?” But no matter how tired she is, Rebecca can’t resist when Henry asks her to read with him, and if Ted snaps a photo of the two of them curled up together in Henry’s twin bed, well, that’s his business.

Finally, the door to Henry’s room is closed and Ted’s leading an exhausted Rebecca to his bedroom, before stopping suddenly in the door frame.

“Sorry, hey, I was just bringin’ you here on autopilot, but I can definitely take the couch, or bunk in with Henry,” he starts to ramble, but the piercingly annoyed look Rebecca gives him comes through loud and clear.

“Or we can share,” he hastens to add, and Rebecca nods her approval. “Just didn’t want to assume.”

“Ted, from here on out, please assume that I would like to be as close to you as humanly possible at all times, yes?”

“I can definitely do that,” he says, joy bubbling through his body at how open she is with her feelings for him. He leads her to the bed, sitting her down on the edge and rummaging in the dresser for a shirt and some shorts for her to wear, as she’d boarded the jet with just her handbag and her hopes.

She heads to the ensuite to wash her face and slip into clothes that smell deliciously like him, and when she comes back bare faced and bashful, Ted plants no less than twenty kisses on all the exposed skin of her face, making her giggle, before he places one final right right on her lips, giving her hip a little squeeze, and then heading away ito pull back the blankets for her.

“Ted,” Rebecca yawns, dropping back onto the pillows as soon as she’s made it to the bed. “I know we have a trillion things to figure out, and we will - I’m very rich and I’m very motivated on this front - but can we please do it tomorrow?”

“Yeah, of course,” he answers easily, sliding into the bed next to her, both of their bodies immediately turning in toward the other. “I’m not going anywhere anymore, okay?”

Her eyes open and he can see the vulnerability in them and in her voice when she asks,

“You’ll come home with me? To me?” He reaches his hand out to stroke down the side of her face, and she can’t help but nuzzle her head into his touch, and she reaches out one hand to grab his other, bringing it to her heart.

“Yeah, honey, I will,” he promises, voice sure and final,  and Rebecca’s eyes flutter closed in contentment.

“We can have sex tomorrow, too,” she adds, as a half-delirious afterthought, only realizing what she’s said when she hears the little choked off noise come from Ted. She blushes fiercely and when she cracks open an eye, she can see Ted’s cheeks are pink as well. 

“Please forget that I said that,” she pleads with an almost embarrassed laugh, and Ted looks at her incredulously.

“Baby, that’s gonna be impossible,” he says with a silly, salacious grin, recovering nicely from the shock. “But hey, no rush, okay? We’ve got all the time in the world, you and me.”

“You’re very romantic,” she murmurs as he kisses her palm, and he grins.

“Me? That move with the email you pulled earlier? That was some serious rom-com business, Boss.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” she threatens with a lazy, tired smirk.

“What, that Rebecca Welton’s a sap? Nah, I think I’ll keep that one for myself,” he teases. “But hey, that reminds me, what was the part about Plato?”

“Oh,” Rebecca hums tiredly. “He has this whole thing about how humans start as some sort of a ball with two forms, but the Gods didn’t like how strong we were together, so they split us in half. And so now humans spend their lives looking for their other half, their soulmate. Ask me when I’m not jetlagged. Or ask Beard,” she suggests, but Ted thinks he’s heard enough. 

“Hey,” he says softly, and Rebecca opens her eyes once more to meet his, jade meeting amber. “You are, without a doubt, my soulmate, Rebecca Welton.”

“And you’re mine, Ted Lasso,” she whispers, rolling into him, securing his arm around her body, feeling him pressed along her back, the gentle weight of him providing more comfort than she can remember ever feeling in a bed.

It’s quiet for a moment, she’s almost asleep, so truly at ease, and then -

“Wait, Becca, one more thing,” and she rolls her eyes, he knows she does even without seeing her face, but there’s no anger or annoyance, and he knows that too.

“Teeed,” she groans. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“Fraid not,” he answers, and she rolls a hand down her face and her eyes pop open one last time to meet his, bright and shining and she can see the joy beaming out of them, even in the dark of the room.

“Yes?” that ever present, most fond faux-impatience in her voice, and Ted just grins.

“I love you, too.”