Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's hard to believe that the first time they did this, it took Jamie twenty minutes of preamble— begging Roy not to take this piss, and insisting that his therapist told him about it and it wasn't something he thought of himself, and that's why it's so stupid and weird and embarrassing— to even bring the idea up.

And now it's so innate that they hardly ever say it out loud, just find their way into it as easy as breathing, on the rare instances it comes about. 

It's like— they get home, and there's a tension in Jamie's shoulders that's been there all day, and Roy can just stop there in the doorway and hold him. And Jamie will let him; even though he's broader and stronger than Roy is, he'll shrink in Roy's arms and be held.

"Long day, yeah?"

Jamie nods. Sniffles. Hides his face in Roy's neck.

"Do you need a nap?"

Jamie shrugs, slow and uncertain.

"Yeah," Roy sighs, taking that answer for what it means. "I reckon you should have a kip before dinner. Let's go upstairs; leave your bag here, I'll tidy up later."

Jamie drops his kit bag beside him, and takes a deep, tired breath, not moving just yet. Roy slides a hand up his back to give the nape of his neck a gentle squeeze.

"Is this okay, Jay? Can I look after you tonight? I'd like to, if you don't mind it."

After a long moment, Jamie nods.

It's been a while since they've done this, and Jamie eases into it better when Roy makes it clear that he likes it too, that it's helping them both unwind. Because he really does like it— likes what it does for Jamie, of course, but gets a lot out of it himself, too.

"Yeah," Jamie finally mutters. "I'm knackered. A nap is good."

"Good." Roy kisses his temple lightly. He smells fresh and clean from the shower he took back at the stadium, but with a note of that ever-present grassiness from so much of the day spent on the pitch. "Upstairs, then. Let's go."

He keeps a hand on the small of Jamie's back as they walk, gently steering him along, and Jamie goes easily under his touch.

He'd been a star in today's match, which they won thanks to his skillful-as-ever command of their plays, but Roy could see the exhaustion under surface the whole time— he's not sure what's triggered it, whether it's the beginnings of an out-of-the-blue depressive episode, or if something more tangible is weighing on him, but nevertheless, there's something off. Jamie needs a little extra care tonight, and Roy is happy to give it to him; they've got nowhere to be until active recovery in the afternoon tomorrow, so they've got plenty of time to relax.

"Nap time," Roy repeats when they get to the bedroom. "I'll lie down with you until you fall asleep, and then I'll go make dinner and come wake you up when it's ready. Does that sound alright?"

A tiny, timid nod from Jamie. Roy knows he likes clear instructions and a set plan when he gets like this— he wants Roy to decide what's happening and tell him exactly what to expect.

"Can I have..." Jamie starts, but then cuts himself off, turning and hiding his face in Roy's chest, having to duck his head to do so. "Never mind."

Roy knows what he's asking for.

"Go on, babe," he says, giving Jamie another hug, rubbing his back. "Tell me what you want, yeah? It’s alright."

Jamie fucking whimpers. It's the sweetest thing.

"Can I—" His voice is very small, against Roy's shirt. "Can I have my dummy?"

And there it is, exactly what Roy was pretty sure they were doing.

Jamie's therapist, some specialist Sharon referred him to, had called it age regression. It's like, Jamie’s brain naturally does this: goes to a younger state of mind to get out of his head, because he went through so much fucking trauma as a kid. Apparently, indulging the habit— doing it safely, with a partner, letting himself relax into it instead of trying to push past it— is about, like, reframing the shit experiences he had as a kid and healing his inner child, or whatever.

Roy can't say he fully gets it, but he's a perfectly fucking willing participant, because it puts all his smothering, overly-attentive instincts to good use. 

"You can have it," Roy says, giving a quick kiss to Jamie's hair. "Of course you can."

"I want it," Jamie mumbles, still talking into Roy's chest, visibly embarrassed. Roy rubs a hand up and down his back. "I just want— I want it while I sleep. And I want my animals."

There's some stuffed animals that live on the armchair in the corner, ones Jamie's collected over the years as souvenirs from different places he's travelled. Most days, they're just decor— along with the model Transformers he keeps on a shelf, and the ceramic ducks he's lined up on the kitchen counter, now that most of his stuff has migrated to Roy's house— but he grabs them for a cuddle when he needs them.

"You put your animals on the bed, then, and I'll get your dummy out. Do you want to change, too? Get all comfy to sleep?"

Jamie nods. He chews on the side of his thumb; that's why they bought the dummy— it was fucking with his nails, the fact that he can't keep his hands away from his mouth sometimes, especially when he’s little. Roy went online and ordered him a little pack of pacifiers in a few different colours; he hadn’t known they came in adult sizes, but at least the fact that there’s a demand for them means Jamie isn’t alone in this. 

Jamie turns and places some stuffed animals on the bed, tucking them lovingly under the blankets, while Roy grabs his dummy and a jumper from the closet.

"Here." He squeezes Jamie's shoulder, approaching behind him and holding his dummy out. "There you go. Let's get you changed, now— nice and cozy, yeah?"

Jamie takes the dummy, sticks it in his mouth, and immediately looks so, so young. He's clearly tired and sad, and Roy just wants to fucking hold him until everything's better.

"Arms up," Roy instructs. He pulls Jamie's shirt off him— some expensive designer thing, which the brand probably sent him for free in hopes he'd wear it for match day walk-in photos someday. He gets a shocking amount of his clothes that way, and hardly ever actually goes shopping. The more he wears a brand in public, the more shit they send him, so he's got a good wardrobe of his favourites built by now. "Good lad."

The jumper Roy grabbed is one of his own— it's old, a bit threadbare in places, and came in the wrong size when he first got it, so it's always been a bit big on him. Roy's clothes are usually a touch too small for Jamie's slightly broader frame, but this is one of his favourite pieces to steal, because it hangs off him like a boyfriend's jumper should.

"There you go," Roy continues, prattling on as he eases Jamie's arms through the sleeves, talking just to fill the air. "That's better, yeah?"

Jamie nods, sniffles, and rubs his eyes.

"M'tired."

He sounds very small, now, talking around the dummy in his mouth, and looks small too, swallowed up by the too-big shirt.

"I know, love." Roy pulls him close and kisses the top of his head. "Kick your trackies off and get into bed, yeah? We'll cuddle. I'll just change first."

Jamie wraps his arms around Roy's waist and clings.

"Baby," Roy laughs, petting his hair. "Let go of me for two seconds, I just want to put some joggers on. Get into bed, alright?"

Jamie shakes his head.

"Don't wanna."

Roy kisses the top of his head.

"Don't wanna go to bed, or don't wanna let go?"

Jamie shrugs.

Roy— not without some struggle, because Jamie is eleven stone of solid muscle, and Roy's a few years removed from the athlete he used to be— hoists Jamie into his arms.

Jamie makes an undignified noise, the dummy in his mouth likely the only thing keeping him from cursing.

"Shhh." Roy carries him to bed, and plops him down on the duvet. "Get comfortable, you little fuck."

And Jamie briefly shoots him a look, but he does roll over to wriggle under the blankets and settle in.

Roy sheds his jeans and climbs in beside him.

"Right then, nap time," he says. He slots himself in next to Jamie, who's quick to lean over and put his head on Roy's chest. "You did so well today. I'm so fucking proud of you."

Jamie takes a breath.

"Been sad today," he mumbles around the dummy. "Dunno why. We won. I should be happy."

Roy pets his hair.

"That's alright. Doesn't always need a reason, yeah? Sometimes you're sad." He taps Jamie's temple gently. "Fucking brain chemistry."

Jamie sniffles. Pulls the dummy out for a moment.

"It's shit."

Roy sighs.

"I know." He kisses Jamie's hair again, and takes his dummy to press it back into his mouth. "Take a nap. You'll feel better."

And Jamie might still be sad when he wakes up, but he'll at least be less tired, and that'll be good for something.

-

"Roy?"

Jamie's walking into the kitchen, rubbing at bleary eyes with one hand, holding his dummy and a plush shark in the other.

"Hey, you," Roy says, looking up from tossing a salad. There's two minutes left on the chicken in the air fryer. "Had a nice sleep?"

Jamie sniffles a little.

"Yeah." He pouts. "But you left."

Roy sighs.

"Come here." He holds an arm out for a hug. Jamie folds himself easily into his side. "I had to come down and start dinner, yeah? You're alright."

Jamie shakes his head.

"Wanted to cuddle you."

He sounds so fucking small. Jesus Christ. It's fucking adorable.

"We'll cuddle all night, I promise." Roy kisses his head. "Dinner's ready in two minutes. Do you mind setting the table?"

Jamie's still a bit too sleepy for that, or possibly too far into his younger headspace, because he just huffs into Roy's shoulder and pops his dummy back into his mouth.

"Alright, maybe not." Roy pulls him into a proper hug. "Are we still sad?"

Jamie nods.

"Anything I can do to make it better?"

A timid little shake of his head.

Roy sighs softly.

"Okay. We can just feel fucking sad, then, yeah? Nothing wrong with that. We'll have a sad fucking dinner, and then a sad fucking cuddle on the couch. How's that?"

Jamie huffs a quiet laugh into the side of his neck, which is exactly what Roy was hoping for.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Okay."

Roy hugs him tight and kisses his head, and the air fryer beeps for their attention.

"Right. Wash your hands, and go sit down."

-

At one point, Roy had wondered if a sippy cup would be taking it too far. 

There was one in the back of the cupboard, from when Phoebe was little, and he hadn’t quite been sure if Jamie would want to use it, or if he’d feel like Roy was teasing him by even offering it. He’s not really sure where the boundaries of this age thing even are, or how deep into it Jamie’s mind really goes— is he just an adult sucking on a dummy, or is there a part of his head that actually thinks he’s a toddler? How much care does he really need?

He did finally pull out the sippy cup a while ago, though— adorned with Winnie the Pooh characters all over— and Jamie had been fucking thrilled. It’s a staple now, innit, when Jamie’s regressing, and Roy tries to make sure it’s always clean and available. 

"Here," he says, setting it down next to Jamie’s plate, where the food is all cut up into bits. "Water first, but you can have some chocolate milk once you finish it. Gotta get hydrated. Sound alright?"

Jamie’s busy staring down the plate— chicken breast, brown rice, and a salad tossed in a low fat vinaigrette, the same boring shit that suits his meal plan. He pushes it away.