Work Text:
The living room was too quiet without Martin in it.
Declan sat on the edge of the sofa with a giant mug of peppermint tea between his palms, his knees bouncing in rhythm with the clock on the wall. He was wearing his thickest grey Arsenal sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that strictly belonged to Martin—the sleeve cuffs swallowed his knuckles, smelling faintly of Martin’s clean, woodsy cologne.
Having pulled out of the England camp with a tight hamstring, Declan had thought a quiet weekend at home would do him good. Rest, ice, Netflix, maybe a nap.
Instead, he was perched ten inches from the television screen, staring intensely at a green pitch in Oslo.
"Come on, Martin," Declan muttered to the empty room, his eyes locked on number ten in the bright red Norway shirt. "Turn him. That’s it. Lovely."
Norway was holding their own against Portugal, and Martin was playing like poetry. Every touch was crisp. He dropped his shoulder, slipped past two midfielders, and sent a neat pass through the lines. Declan grinned, taking a satisfied sip of tea. He loved watching Martin play for Arsenal, of course, but there was something captivating about seeing Martin wear the armband for his country, with that focused, serious look in his blue eyes.
Then came the eighty-eighth minute.
The ball was already away. Martin had laid it off cleanly toward the flank. The play was done.
Out of nowhere, Bernardo Silva lunged in from behind, lunging hard, his studs catching the back of Martin’s left ankle with a spiteful, swinging snap.
Martin went down immediately, his body twisting as he hit the turf, hands instantly flying down to clutch his ankle. His face pinched into a tight grimace of sharp pain.
"No, no, no," Declan gasped, the mug nearly slipping from his hands. He slammed it down onto the coffee table, sloshing tea over the edge, and jumped to his feet. "Ref! Are you blind?! Ref!"
His heart hammered against his ribs. He stepped right up to the television screen, both hands pressed flat against the glass, eyes darting over every frame.
Not the ankle, Declan pleaded silently. Please not the ankle again.
On screen, the Norwegian players swarmed, furious. Martin stayed curled on his side, his forehead pressed against the grass, breathing through his teeth.
"Get up, Martin. Come on, love, please get up," Declan whispered, his voice cracking with sudden panic.
He lunged for his phone on the sofa cushion and unlocked it with shaking thumbs. He opened WhatsApp and typed furiously:
Dec: Martin
Dec: Baby are you okay???
Dec: Please tell me you’re alright
Dec: Was that the left ankle???
Dec: Answer me as soon as you’re off the pitch please please
Back on the screen, Martin was gingerly being helped up by the physios. He was testing his weight on the foot, limping noticeably, his jaw clenched tight in anger. Declan let out a shuddering breath, his chest tight. Martin didn't go off—he insisted on finishing out the final seconds of stoppage time, but every single limp sent a spike of dread straight into Declan's stomach.
The whistle blew. Norway had lost 2-1, but Declan couldn't care less about the score.
He paced the rug, his socks making muffled sliding sounds against the wood floor. He checked Twitter. Arsenal fans were already in full meltdown, clips of the tackle circulating like wildfire.
And then, five minutes later, a quote popped up on Declan’s feed from the post-match mixed zone.
Martin Ødegaard on Bernardo Silva’s tackle: "It doesn't belong on a football pitch. It's a shame that people behave like that. Just kicks me down long after I've played the ball away. And he didn't even apologize."
Declan’s blood simmered. "Didn't even say sorry? Are you having a laugh?"
Then came the follow-up tweet quoting Bernardo Silva with a cheeky shrug:
Bernardo Silva's response when asked about Ødegaard's frustration: "It's football, my friend."
Declan stared at his phone screen in pure disbelief.
"'It's football, my friend'?!" Declan yelled at the empty room, waving his arms. "It’s football?! You kicked him two seconds late, you moron! Wait till you come to the Emirates! Just wait! Big Gabi and I are going to have a little chat with you in the tunnel, see how much you like 'football'!"
Right in the middle of Declan's passionate one-man tirade, his phone buzzed violently in his palm.
Incoming FaceTime call: Martin ❤️
Declan swiped green so fast he nearly dropped the device.
"Martin!" Declan practically shouted.
Martin’s face appeared on screen. He was sitting on a treatment bench in the away dressing room, his red kit stripped off, wearing a grey training vest. His hair was damp and messy, and he had a slight, sheepish smile on his lips despite the exhaustion in his eyes.
"Hey, Dec," Martin said softly. His voice was raspy from ninety minutes of shouting orders.
"Don't 'hey Dec' me!" Declan demanded, leaning close to the camera. "How is it? Let me see! Turn the camera down right now, Martin, I swear to god!"
Martin let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Breathe, Declan. Take a breath first."
"I can't breathe! You got hacked down by that rat! Did you hear what he said to the press? 'It’s football my friend'! I’m going to two-foot him into the third row in December, Martin, I swear on my life—"
"Dec," Martin said again, softer this time. "Look at me."
Declan stopped his rant, blinking into the screen. "What?"
Martin angled the camera down. His left ankle was heavily wrapped in an ice bandage, elevated on a stack of folded towels.
"The team doctor checked it," Martin explained patiently. "Nothing is torn. Nothing is broken. It’s just a hard knock. A bruise on the bone. It stings, but it’s okay."
"Are you sure?" Declan asked, his voice dropping from loud indignation to raw, sweet worry. "You’re not just saying that so I don't freak out?"
"I’m sure," Martin said, angling the camera back up to his face. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners. "It hurts, yeah. He caught me late and it made me mad because it was stupid. But I am okay. I promise you."
Declan blew out a long breath, slumping back onto the couch cushions. "Bloody hell, Martin. My heart stopped. I was standing right by the telly ready to fight through the glass."
"I know," Martin murmured, his expression turning fond. "I saw your six messages when I took my phone out of my locker."
"I was worried!"
"I like when you worry," Martin teased quietly, a pink blush dusting his cheekbones. "A little bit. Not too much. You looked very angry in your texts."
"I was proper fuming! And I’m still mad at Bernardo. 'It’s football my friend'—what kind of rubbish answer is that?"
"A stupid one," Martin agreed, tilting his head back against the locker behind him. "I told him off on the pitch, anyway."
"Well, you need to come straight home," Declan said firmly, sitting up straight. "When are you flying back to London? Tomorrow morning? I’ll pick you up at Heathrow. I’ll bring a pillow for the car, I’ll carry your bags, I’ll cook—"
"Dec," Martin interrupted gently. He bit his lower lip, looking slightly apologetic. "I’m not flying home tomorrow."
Declan froze. "What?"
"I’m staying here. In Oslo."
Declan stared at him as if Martin had just started speaking in Norwegian. "You're staying?! Martin, you can barely put your boot on! You were limping across the pitch like a pirate!"
"I was not limping like a pirate," Martin muttered, though his ears went red. "Listen to me. Ståle spoke to our medical team, and they spoke to Arsenal's doctors already. Mikel knows. Everyone knows. We have another Nations League match in three days, and I am the captain. I have to stay with the squad."
"Are you insane?!" Declan gasped, throwing his free hand in the air. "Did Mikel actually agree to this? Mikel is going to fly to Norway himself, rent a car, drive to your hotel, and drag you by your ears onto a flight back to Colney!"
"Mikel said it’s fine as long as I don't risk anything," Martin laughed softly. "I’m doing light rehab in the pool tomorrow, lots of ice, resting the joint. If the swelling goes down, I train. If it doesn't, I sit on the bench. But I’m staying with the boys, Declan. You know how important this break is for us."
Declan slumped sideways on the sofa, letting out a dramatic, pathetic groan. "No. This is terrible. I have a sore hamstring, you have a bruised ankle, and you're twelve hundred miles away."
"Declan, it’s only four more days."
"Four days without you is four years, Martin! Who is going to make sure you keep your foot elevated? Who is going to bring you your tea? Ståle isn't going to tuck you in, is he?"
Martin burst out laughing, pressing his palm over his eyes. "No, Ståle is definitely not going to tuck me in."
"See? Unacceptable." Declan pouted, resting his chin on his knees. "I don't like it. What if someone kicks you again in the next match?"
"Nobody is going to kick me," Martin said, his voice dropping into that sweet, private tone he only used when it was just the two of them. "And even if they try, I’ll run faster. I promise I’ll be careful, Dec."
Declan looked at him through the screen, sighing softly. "You better be. Or I’m booking a private jet and coming to sit on the Norway bench in a disguise."
"You wouldn't blend in at all," Martin smiled, his eyes crinkling. "I have to get on the team bus back to the hotel now, Dec. Everyone is waiting."
"Fine. But you call me tonight before you sleep. Promise?"
"I promise. Love you."
"Love you more. Ice that foot!"
Over the next three days, Declan took his job as long-distance personal nurse very seriously.
Every morning before his own rehab session at Arsenal's training ground, Declan would text Martin:
Dec: Morning cap ❤️ How does the ankle feel on a scale of 1 to 10?
Dec: Did you sleep with it propped on a pillow?
Dec: Send pic of the swelling or I don't believe you.
And Martin, sitting at the breakfast table in the Oslo team hotel, would roll his eyes with a fond smile, snap a quick photo under the table showing the yellow-blue bruise fading into dull green, and reply:
Martin: Good morning. It's a 3 today. Much less stiff.
Martin: Yes, on two pillows.
Martin: Go stretch your hamstring, Declan, stop mothering me.
By Wednesday night, the evening before Norway's next fixture, Martin called Declan from his hotel bed.
Declan was lying in their bed in London, flat on his stomach, his chin propped on two pillows, holding his phone up with both hands.
"Show me," Declan demanded the second Martin answered.
"Hello to you too, Dec," Martin sighed playfully, but he obediently flipped the camera down.
The ankle still had a light ring of yellowish bruising around the bone, but the swelling had almost completely vanished. Martin wriggled his toes and rotated his foot in a slow circle.
"See?" Martin said, flipping the camera back to his face. "Full range of motion. I trained with the team today. Full session. No pain, just a little tight."
Declan scrutinized the screen like a doctor reviewing an X-ray. "Are you starting tomorrow?"
"Yes," Martin said proudly. "Ståle asked if I felt ready, and I said yes. We need the points."
"Okay," Declan said slowly. Then he pointed a stern finger at the camera. "If any midfielder gets within three yards of you, you pass the ball and jump out of the way. Do you hear me? No fancy pirouettes. No nutmegs."
"Declan, my whole job is fancy pirouettes," Martin laughed, pulling the hotel duvet up to his chest. "You cannot ask me to play ugly."
"I can and I will! My blood pressure can't take another Bernardo Silva incident. I spent three days yelling at my television."
Martin smiled warmly, resting his cheek against his pillow. "You are very dramatic."
"I care about you!" Declan said softly, his voice dropping. He reached out and tapped the screen where Martin’s face was. "The bed is too big without you, you know. It’s cold on your side."
Martin’s gaze softened into pure fondness. "Did you spray my cologne on my pillow again?"
Declan turned instantly red. "Shut up! Who told you that?!"
"Bukayo told me," Martin chuckled quietly. "He said you were complaining at Colney that you missed my smell."
"Bukayo is a snitch and I’m tackling him in five-a-side on Friday," Declan grumbled, burying his nose into the blanket. "Whatever. It's lonely here. I want you home."
"I’ll be home right after the match tomorrow night," Martin said gently. "We fly out early Friday morning. I’ll land at midday."
"I’m picking you up. For real this time. No excuses."
"Okay," Martin whispered. "You can pick me up."
"Good. Now get to sleep, captain. You've got a game to win."
"Goodnight, Dec. Miss you."
"Miss you more. Kick someone for me tomorrow."
"I will not," Martin laughed softly, and hung up.
Thursday night was pure torture for Declan.
He sat on the living room sofa, clutching a pillow to his chest, barely breathing every time Norway’s opponents went into a tackle. But Martin was sensational. Moving freely, gliding across the pitch, distributing passes with pinpoint accuracy, completely unfazed by the knock from three days prior. When the final whistle blew and Martin gave a victorious post-match wave to the Oslo crowd completely unscathed, Declan collapsed back onto the couch and let out the loudest breath of his life.
"Thank god," Declan gasped to the empty room. "He survived."
Friday afternoon at 1:30 PM, the front door of their London flat clicked open.
Declan didn't even wait for the door to swing all the way inward. He bounded out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon still in one hand and practically threw himself into the hallway.
"Martin!"
Martin barely had time to set his duffle bag down before Declan’s long arms were wrapped tightly around him. Martin let out an oof as Declan lifted him two inches off the ground in a crushing, warm hug, burying his face directly into the crook of Martin’s neck.
"Hey," Martin laughed breathlessly, hugging Declan back just as tightly, his hands gripping the back of Declan’s Arsenal hoodie. "Hey, put me down, you giant."
Declan set him down, but didn't let go of his waist. He leaned back just enough to inspect Martin’s face, taking in the tired smile and the bright, happy blue eyes.
"You're in one piece," Declan said, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
"I told you I would be," Martin replied, shaking his head with an amused sigh. "How is your hamstring?"
"Fine! Completely healed! Who cares about my hamstring?" Declan reached down, took Martin by the hand, and began tugging him toward the living room. "Shoes off. On the couch. Now."
"Dec, I played ninety minutes yesterday, I can walk to the kitchen—"
"I don't care. Sofa. Now."
Martin rolled his eyes, but a wide, hopelessly smitten smile broke across his face as he kicked off his sneakers and let Declan guide him to the sofa.
Declan had prepared everything. Three pillows were stacked neatly at the end of the sectional, a thick cashmere blanket was laid out, and the whole flat smelled richly of garlic, tomato sauce, and melted cheese.
"You actually made pasta bake?" Martin asked, raising an eyebrow in pleasant surprise.
"Of course I did! I told you I would, didn't I?" Declan knelt down on the carpet in front of Martin. With practiced, surprisingly gentle fingers, he lifted Martin’s left foot and rested it on the pillows. He pushed up the cuff of Martin’s sweatpants.
The ankle looked clean. Just a tiny yellow shadow where the bruise had been, but zero swelling.
Declan leaned forward, pressed his lips softly against the front of Martin’s ankle right over the mark, and then looked up at him with huge, earnest hazel eyes.
"Nan's rule," Declan said innocently. "Kisses heal bruises."
Martin burst out laughing, dropping his head back against the sofa cushions. "You are ridiculous, Declan Rice. Truly ridiculous."
"Did it work or not?"
"It worked," Martin whispered, his laughter fading into something warm and quiet. He reached out with both hands and tugged on Declan’s hoodie. "Come here."
Declan didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled up onto the couch, pulling the cashmere blanket over both of them, and wrapped his arms securely around Martin’s waist.
Martin melted instantly against Declan’s broad chest, tucking his face into the soft cotton of Declan’s collar, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of mint, laundry detergent, and home.
"Better than the Oslo hotel?" Declan murmured into Martin’s blonde hair, gently rubbing his thumb across the back of Martin’s neck.
"A million times better," Martin mumbled against Declan's chest, his eyes fluttering shut in sheer relief. "Nobody kicked me yesterday."
"Good. Because if they did, I was already drafting a complaint letter to UEFA."
Martin let out a quiet giggle, his shoulders shaking slightly. "UEFA would have ignored you."
"Mikel wouldn't have. Mikel would have gone to war for you." Declan paused, his voice softening into something entirely serious. "And so would I. Always."
Martin tilted his face up. In the warm afternoon light filtering through the living room windows, his eyes were bright, soft, and completely unguarded. He reached up, cupping Declan’s jaw with a warm hand, and pulled Declan down into a slow, sweet kiss.
It tasted of warmth, comfort, and the deep relief of finally being back together after a week of chaotic press conferences and medical scares. Declan kissed him thoroughly, shifting closer until there was no space left between them, his hand resting tenderly against Martin’s hip.
When they parted, Martin rested his forehead against Declan’s, his breathing soft and steady.
"Still mad at Bernardo?" Martin whispered, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
Declan scoffed softly, his thumb tracing Martin’s cheekbone. "Always. 'It's football, my friend'—ridiculous."
"Forget Bernardo," Martin said, smiling against Declan's cheek as he nuzzled closer. "You have me here now."
"Yeah," Declan whispered, wrapping both arms tight around Martin and pulling the blanket up to their chins. "I have you here. And you’re not leaving this couch for the rest of the day."
"Deal," Martin sighed, his eyes closing as he relaxed completely into Declan’s embrace. "Wake me when the pasta is ready."
"Not a chance," Declan smiled, kissing the top of Martin’s head. "Sleep, cap. I've got you."