Work Text:
Suppose we did our work
like the snow, quietly, quietly,
leaving nothing out.
Like Snow, Wendell Berry
⋆⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆ ❆ ⋆∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋆
“Rebecca, have you seen my beard oil?”
“It’s on the counter!” Rebecca shouts. She’d normally get up to help him—he’s just in the bathroom, but it’s too cold, the bed too cozy. And her book is too good; she adjusts her glasses and keeps reading.
“You sure? All I’m seeing is about forty new face serums—nope, sorry, some of these are eye creams. Remember when I thought those were scams?”
“To be fair, the one my mother gifted you was a scam. I’m still convinced it was repackaged olive oil, and not particularly high-grade.” She laughs to herself, a hand coming to her chest at the memory of her mother. “Though the bottle was pretty,” she adds.
“Still not seeing it!”
Rebecca closes her book, keeping one hand inside as a temporary bookmark.
“It’s on the—” Rebecca starts, turning her head toward the door. Her eyes catch on the nightstand, the container peeking out from behind her water carafe. “Oh, it’s out here.”
“Knew I didn’t need glasses.”
Ted saunters into the bedroom, looking pleased. Rebecca sets her book aside, pulls the covers up, and shimmies deeper into the bed.
All these years, and she’s still smitten with the sight of him.
It’s not her fault—it’s always like this in December, when the beard he starts growing around the August Bank Holiday has come in. It’s more white and grey than brown now, matches his mustache, and she might love it more than the grandkids do. He’s not fooling anyone—they know he’s not the real Santa—but they play along when he dresses up anyway. Six and four, and already accomplished actors.
Ted spots the oil and picks it up, sitting down on the edge of the bed nearest her. Rebecca sits up, gestures for the bottle. She squirts two pumps into her hands and rubs them together, brings them up to inhale—cardamom, pink pepper, oud. She threads her fingers through his beard. He’s watching her intensely, but she focuses on the task at hand. She takes her time distributing the product evenly, loves doing this for him. When she’s done, she rests a hand on his cheek, strokes where his mustache meets his beard with her thumb. He turns, kisses it. She blushes.
It’s sickening, really.
“What time do we have to be at Henry’s again?” Ted asks.
“Anytime after three.”
“Perfect, plenty of time for my present then.”
Ted moves quickly, jumping onto the bed with a spryness she envies—her knees aren’t nearly as limber anymore, though she starts each day with yoga. Rebecca yelps out a laugh as she’s pushed back onto the pillows.
“Ted slow down! We’re not spending Christmas in the A&E again!”
“Oh that was a fun year, huh? I mean, once the scans came back clear. A team outing.”
“I’ve never witnessed a more preventable car accident. I mean Christ, was your mother even going a mile an hour?”
“True slow-motion horror; I didn’t even realize she stole the car until she was, well not zooming, crawling by.”
“At least it was our car and not Colin’s. Can you imagine?”
Ted laughs, rolls onto his back to lay alongside her. He fusses with his hair, lets the back of his hand rest on his forehead. Rebecca turns on her side to face him, fighting the duvet to get a blanketed leg up and over his bare one. She loses the battle, chilled air hitting her back where the blanket refused to stretch, but it’s worth it to be closer to him. She snakes an arm up his undershirt for extra warmth. Ted shivers, but she knows it’s put-on; her hand isn’t that cold.
“We’ve had some lovely holidays,” she muses. “At least that one’s a good story.”
“I’m partial to the year we found Jesus.”
Rebecca laughs at the memory—she does every year. The utter panic at the sight of a newborn on her front stoop when they glanced at the CCTV early one morning, followed by complete confusion when she opened the door to a plastic model of Jesus—clearly stolen from an unlucky nativity scene—is an emotional whiplash she’ll never forget. Rolling back the security footage revealed Paul, Baz, and Jeremy dropped it off the night before, lord knows why. They never confronted them, assumed it was drunkenness or superstition or both, but they display it (inside) every year.
It’s quite the conversation starter.
“Your first year back in Richmond might be my favorite,” Rebecca says, her hand stroking a nondescript pattern through his chest hair.
“Can’t argue with that.”
He rests a hand over hers, threads their fingers together as best he can through the thin shirt, and squeezes.
⋆⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆ ❆ ⋆∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋆
Ted’s trying something new. I’d been Sharon’s (direct) suggestion, though he’d known for a while he should give it a go.
He isn’t overthinking things.
It’s going better than he thought it would, this latest attempt to not catastrophize everything good in his life. He wasn’t perfect at first, doubts he ever will be. Perfection isn’t the goal, but that’s his coaching style, so he’s used to it. Always remarkable what applying the same expectations you have for others onto yourself can do.
It helps that things feel different this time around. Being back in Richmond, with Henry? Able to tuck his son in at night and walk into Rebecca’s office every morning?
Life-changing.
He’d been doing pretty well, feeling settled. By the time Sharon asked him what he honestly thought would happen if he accepted he was happy, he’d been more than ready to try. Ready to start saying “yes” again. Ready to mean it. Ready to, when the pretty brunette he’d been flirting with in the coffee pick-up line asked for his email, respond with:
“Well I love a new unread email notification as much as anybody, but why don’t we start with numbers?”
They’ve been on a few dates since.
It’s going well with Dawn. He likes that her name seems to fit her—warm, reassuring. He’s not in love with her, but they have fun together, the conversation flows without too much stalling, they have chemistry.
She smells nice.
He doesn’t know if it’s going anywhere, but it's been decades since he last let himself date even semi-casually. More importantly, he’s not in a rush to introduce Henry to anyone new. The kid’s thriving despite all the change, but he doesn’t want to push it. Dawn isn’t invited to the full Richmond holiday shindig, but she’s joining him for his neighbor’s solstice party. Apparently they were known for it; he certainly doesn’t know everyone in his new postcode, but everyone he talked to assured him it was a bash worth attending. Rebecca especially, though he still can’t quite believe they live in the same neighborhood now.
Ted’s looking forward to it as he leaves work the day of. Feeling grateful that Roy is picking Henry up from school—gives him time to shower—he pushes the door to the parking lot open.
“Ted!” Rebecca calls from the other end of the lot. She’d been leaning on her car, but she stands as Ted jogs over. Ted wonders if she was waiting for him.
“What’s up Boss? Did Leslie ever find you? I hope not; that stack of documents did not look fun.”
“Someday Ted, there’ll be an excel sheet that captivates you, I promise.” Rebecca smiles, but it’s soft, the one Ted knows means she’s not serious.
“Quit yankin’ my chain; if a love of paperwork hasn’t found me yet it’s not gonna happen.” He doesn’t know why he goes full-Kansan, but Rebecca laughs so he considers it a success.
“I’m going to ignore that expression for now, though maybe someday you can explain it,” Rebecca says, her eyes glinting. “I’ll see you tonight at the Thompson’s?” She looks expectant, and Ted’s glad they’re proper friends again.
“Of course! Still can’t believe they’re related to the Emma Thompson. You really think she might show?”
“She usually does,” Rebecca says.
Ted whistles. “Roy’s watching Henry tonight—can’t say I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s vocab lesson—I’m planning on letting loose.” He does a shuffle, stops abruptly, his expression changing. “Unless it’s more introspective, reflective, that kind of thing.”
Rebecca snorts, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Ted, they’re into the aesthetic more than they are connecting with our roots. The place looks gorgeous—dark but warm, filled to the brim with candlelight—but it’s really just an excuse to throw a party. They love hosting.”
“Got it. Just grateful for the community.” Ted beams at Rebecca. If it wasn’t so cold out, he might think she was blushing. Whatever it’s from, the flush on her cheeks brings out the green of her eyes. He blinks, suddenly unsure what to add to the conversation. “Well, I’ll definitely see you there!”
It comes out as a stammer.
“Ted I—” Rebecca pauses. She turns slightly, wrings her hands before grabbing the door handle and pulling it open. Ted puts his hands in his pockets, rolls on the balls of his feet as he waits for her to continue. He’s starting to think maybe it wasn’t important when she turns back, a smile on her face.
“I’ll see you there Ted.”
⋆ ❆ ⋆
“You can’t ask me to choose a favorite dumpling, that’s like making me choose a favorite child.”
“You told me you have one son,” Dawn replies.
“Got me there. Barring any still-to-come revelations, Henry’s my only kid. I do regret taking that Ancestry DNA test—not because I’m scared to find a secret child—who knows how that data’s stored. Wasn’t thinking long-term when I sent off that spit tube.”
“I never fell victim to the ads.” Dawn’s phone rings in her purse, and she stops walking to retrieve it.
“What’s your favorite dumpling? No rush.”
“Pierogi,” she responds, phone in hand. “It’s work, I have to answer, sorry.” She holds up a single finger, turning as she accepts the call. “Dr. Powell?”
Ted gives her privacy, looking ahead to the Thompson’s drive. They’re only about half a (US) football field from the end of it. The pine garland that’s draped along the roof and windows is beautiful—lush and verdant, wrapped in a single strand of white Christmas lights—and Ted can’t wait to be close enough to smell it. He picked out a real tree with Henry this year, his first in a long time (Michelle was allergic), and he didn’t realize how much he missed the scent. A tap on his shoulder draws his attention back.
“I’m so sorry,” Dawn starts, and she looks it. “I have to go in. Peak flu season, and they’re short-staffed.”
“Well hey, that’s no problem. Comes with the territory, I’ll walk you back to your car.”
“No that’s alright, I can still see it from here. I’ll text you when I can?”
“Sounds good.”
Dawn hesitates, then gives him a quick hug before jogging off, keys in hand. Her perfume lingers, and Ted smiles as he inhales. He’s not sure what it is exactly—a floral note he can’t decipher, some spice—but he likes it. He can’t place it, but he knows he’s smelled it elsewhere. There’s a sense of comfort in it. Ted waves as she gets in her car and drives off. He’ll still have fun without a plus one.
Rebecca will be there.
⋆ ❆ ⋆
She finds him almost immediately.
Ted’s barely taken off his jacket when he spots Rebecca beelining toward him, drink in hand. She looks gorgeous in the maroon dress she’s chosen for the occasion. Her hair is down, falling in soft curls on her shoulders, though he notices it’s parted in the middle tonight. She’s visibly excited to see him, and his stomach does an involuntary flip as she nears.
He ignores it.
She stops just long enough to chug the remainder of her drink and place the empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter.
“Ted! You’re here!”
Rebecca pulls him into a hug. He reciprocates; they’re no strangers to touch, but it’s been a while, and he’s missed it. She doesn’t let go right away, and he drinks in her scent. Her hair smells fantastic—expensive is the only word for it—layered with her perfume. He allows himself to turn his head inward, inhaling closer to the pulse point behind her ear where it’s stronger.
Floral, a spice.
Oh.
She turns her head, pecks him on the cheek before releasing him, giggling.
Oh.
She shrugs, pointing upwards. “Mistletoe.”
Ted wants to follow the line of her finger to the ceiling, wants to look up, to see the familiar sprig in all its glory. He can’t. He’s looking at Rebecca, really looking. She’s stunning—almost otherworldly so. And she was right about the ambiance of the place—the soft glow of candlelight dances across her features. A timeless beauty. He hasn’t let himself get lost in her looks since the first day they met, though he remembers thinking his new boss was a smokeshow. Chalked the intensity of the thought up to the lack of sleep and the looming divorce and his near-perfect vision and left it there.
Seems absurd now—the idea that he’d be able to bury any attraction forever. Not with their years of history and their strangely parallel journeys and the way she always seems to know what he needs. Not when she’s looking at him like that—has she always looked at him like that? He can’t tell—he’s feeling too much, doesn’t know if it’s wishful thinking or if he’s missed something big. He knows he should say something, do something, knows the expression on his face is dazed, thinks he’s at least smiling. But she’s right there, always has been, and she smells like—
“Ted? Everything alright?”
No.
“Did I break you?”
Yes.
She’s smirking, and Ted has to repress the sudden urge to pull her back, wipe the smugness off her face with a kiss of his own.
“Oh yeah, everything’s fine. Not broken at all, still adjusting to the temp in here, way hotter than the walk over,” he says instead. It’s not a total lie—he’d love to be able to shed his sweater right about now, but he’s pretty sure that’d be a major faux pas.
Maybe later.
Rebecca smiles, grips his tricep, and starts leading him down the hall.
“Good, because there’s someone here that’s been dying to meet you. I’ve done nothing but sing your praises.”
⋆ ❆ ⋆
All in all, Ted thinks he’s done a halfway decent job of holding it together. There’s no rulebook for what you should do when you realize you’re in love with your boss. He’s sure he’s not the first person to wish there was, though he wonders if anyone else has ever come to that realization quite like this.
It certainly feels like one of those original experiences the internet says don’t exist.
Ted takes a sip of the mulled wine in his hand. It’s normally not his favorite, but Rebecca insisted he try it, and he was powerless to put up a fight. She was right, of course; it’s got a nice sweetness to it, and he’s glad they added brandy. He should probably head back to one of the main areas—he'd wandered down a side hallway when Rebecca excused herself to find a bathroom. The decor seemingly encouraged it—though most people were congregating in the same two rooms, every inch of the house was decorated, and he’d followed a line of pine and pomanders to a small library.
He needed a place to think, reregulate.
He’s really glad he hasn’t slapped a label on this thing with Dawn yet, that it was too early to warrant any. It’ll make things easier when he breaks the non-relationship off. There’s no other option—if he were a different man, he’d probably just ghost at this stage. There’s no earthly way he could give Dawn a fair shake now, even if Rebecca doesn’t reciprocate.
But he thinks she might.
He’s trying not to overanalyze, read into things that might not be there, just reviewing the facts. Her venture to the restroom is the first time they’ve been apart since he arrived. She’s been touching him a lot. Nothing inappropriate, just more than usual. And though her humor’s always been blue—born from a culture less steeped in that healthy mix of Catholic and Protestant shame than his own—she seems looser with it tonight, like she’s aiming more of it in his direction.
Like she’s flirting.
“There you are, I thought you left me.”
Ted turns, drawing his gaze from the shelf of books he was pretending to skim over to the doorway. Rebecca’s leaning on the frame. He wonders how long she’s been watching him, she looks settled. Ted grins.
“Would never dare leave you again, once was enough for this lifetime.”
Rebecca smiles, ducks her head as she bites her lip. Ted knows she’s blushing. Warmth bubbles in his chest, feels like belief. Rebecca looks up, holds eye contact. One hand is hidden behind her back, and she draws it out, producing an orange.
“Nicked it myself.”
“Is it stealing if they’re on the snack table?”
Rebecca blows a raspberry. Ted wants her to do it again. She crosses the room and sits on the loveseat opposite him, patting the cushion next to her. She digs her thumb into the skin of the orange and starts to peel. Ted gulps down the rest of his wine before joining her, holding out the empty glass for scraps. She ignores it, and Ted watches her. She’s peeling in a perfect spiral, the tip of her tongue poking out as she concentrates.
“Hidden talent?” he asks.
“It’s a lot easier with a knife, but it’s always fun to tr—bollucks.” She sighs, placing the broken peel in Ted’s cup. “Here, you try.”
Ted takes the orange, makes an honest attempt to start a new spiral, and immediately rips off a chunk.
“Guess my fingers lack the dexterity for this, better suited for other endeavors.”
“Oh?“ Rebecca raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Nope, not falling for that.”
“Come on, tell me, what talents do Ted Lasso’s fingers possess?”
She’s staring at him, her eyelids heavy, and leans so her head rests on the back of the couch, her face angled toward his. Ted wouldn’t be able to hide the way his gaze drifts along her collarbones and down to her neckline from this proximity, so he doesn’t try. The position she’s in pushes her breasts up while the dress restricts them; he watches in awe as a slight flush blooms on her chest. He’s warm again, but this time it starts lower.
At least Merino is breathable.
He returns his eyes to hers. Her mouth is open, just slightly. She bites her bottom lip again, and Ted knows the energy is charged, that he could lean in—
“I can play the ukulele with the best of ‘em.”
He’s an idiot.
But Rebecca laughs. She sits up a bit, rearranges herself to be even closer, grabs the orange back, and rests her head on his shoulder. He drapes an arm on the couch behind her, it feels right. She sighs, burrows deeper into the crook of his neck. He’s consumed by her—her scent, paired with the sharp sweet citrus of the orange—he freefalls, lets his thumb begin to rub in circles on her shoulder. He knows it’s safe, feels so obviously at home here. It’s unbelievable he didn’t associate the smell with her sooner.
It’s so obvious.
Rebecca finishes peeling the orange, splits it, hands him half. He can’t eat it, not without removing his arm from behind her or looking like (more of) a fool trying it one-handed, but he watches as she peels a segment from hers and pops it in her mouth. He can still hear the party happening elsewhere, but it’s dimmed; they’re in a snowglobe, the sound muffled by glass. The relative silence is comforting, and he doesn’t feel the urge to try and fill it, content to let her finish eating. He lets his head rest on hers.
“I looked up winter solstice traditions on the ride home today,” she says eventually.
“Yeah? Anything good?”
Rebecca hums affirmatively.
“A lot of reflecting—on the year past, on new beginnings.”
Ted feels her lift her chin, tilt her head so she’s looking up at him. He looks down; her gaze is unmistakably on his lips.
Kissing her is the most natural thing in the world.
⋆⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆ ❆ ⋆∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋆
They’ve shared thousands of kisses just like this; languid, lazy. Whole weeks of mornings spent doing nothing else. Before retirement, after. Sometimes it escalates, sometimes it doesn’t.
It never gets old.
Rebecca knew from the start it never would. Knew before he did, though he’s spent ages making up for that fact—considers it something of a moral failing. She doesn’t agree, but teases him anyway.
It’s fun to rile him up.
She breaks the kiss, moves a hair’s breadth away, whispers, “I still can’t believe you broke up with her via text.”
Ted groans. “Rebecca, I cannot have this conversation again.” He rolls back, falls on the pillow. “We weren’t dating—there was barely anything to break off—and she was slammed at the hospital. There was no way I was going to waste even more of her limited free time.”
“You could have called her, at the very least.” Rebecca’s smirking, but Ted’s hands are covering his eyes at the moment—a mixture of old embarrassment and current frustration, she’s sure—he can’t see her face.
“Babe, it was more than twenty years ago, please let it go.”
Rebecca smiles, pushes herself up, and straddles him. Her knees creak as she goes, but she’s learnt to expect that.
“Oh stop.” She pulls his hands from his face. “You know yanking your chain is my favorite pastime.”
“Sounds a lot like a euphemism when you say it.”
“It sounds like a euphemism when anyone says it.”
Maybe it’s all the reminiscing, but she’s glad that his toothy, goofy grin is the same one she fell in love with twenty-odd years ago. So many other things have changed. His hands reach for her waist, brace her upright as he bucks his hips. She laughs, bends down to kiss him again. Movement through the window catches her eye, and she sits back up.
“Oh.”
Ted’s eyes follow hers. “It’s snowing.”
He pulls her to his chest, strokes her hair. She rearranges herself more comfortably. They’ll get up soon, get ready for Henry’s—Ted wants to bring a fresh batch of biscuits along with the gifts. It’s just them this year, three generations of Lassos, and she’s looking forward to it. But she’s content to stay like this a while longer. Rebecca listens to the familiar drum of Ted’s heartbeat as they watch the snow fall.
It’s rare, especially this time of year.
“It won’t stick; it never does.” She sighs.
“You never know, maybe this time it will.”
⋆⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆ ❆ ⋆∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋆