Work Text:
Jamie Tartt was known to be made of many things. Ego, talent, arrogance, intensity.
A father with angry fists, though, wasn't something that wasn't a part of that list. Or, at least, it hadn't been, until just a few moments ago. It seemed as though every interaction anyone had ever had with the striker had turned on its axis in just a matter of minutes, as if pieces that no one knew were missing had fallen into place. It wasn't a secret that Jamie had some skeletons in his closet, everyone did. How deeply those skeletons were hidden, though, was. And as the team watched James Tartt Sr. be dragged out of the dressing room, eyes wide with anger and mania, it hit them. This was how Jamie had grown up. Fearful that another encounter with his own father might be his very last. It was clear that this time had been no different, judging by the gut-wrenching sobs that filled the otherwise silent room.
A collective feeling of dread settled in everyone's gut as Jamie trembled in Roy's arms. Only his knuckles were bruised, a deep red and angry mark that stretched over the span of his hand. How many more, they wondered, had been hidden for so many grueling years? How many had Jamie watched turn from an aggressive red to a nauseating yellowish purple? How many different spots on his body had he traced with a shaking fingertip knowing that skin had once been painted with drunken rage? How many times had he struggled for minutes, if not hours, to find any sort of comfort because it hurt too badly to lie down? Had bones been broken? Had skin been split? Had bruises turned to blood? Had pain become soothing? Had comfort become foreign?
Too many questions to ask all to one person, too many questions to ask about one person. Devastation rippled throughout the room as Jamie's sobs only seemed to be intensifying, each man frozen with nausea and guilt swirling deep within them. Roy slowly led Jamie to sit down on one of the benches, not parting from the other, whether it be from Jamie's desperate grasp or his own fierce sense of protection. When Beard briefly re-entered the room, the others seemed to be broken from their trance and quietly rushed to depart. Neither Roy nor Jamie acknowledged any of them, far too caught up in the other. Jamie was practically lax against Roy's side, face still buried in his neck as he gasped quietly between cries for air. Roy still had one arm wrapped firmly around him, the other in his now mussed up hair, scratching his scalp soothingly.
Jamie Tartt was made of many things. Maybe love could be one of those.