Chapter Text
Nobody has ever accused Jamie Tartt of being a genius, but it doesn't take a genius to figure sleeping after Wembley would be a difficult task. He's in Roy's spare bedroom. The spare bedroom in Roy Kent's house. On Roy Kent’s street. Up Roy Kent’s staircase. His spare bedroom. The one he offers to guests and stuff, and based on the fluffy pink unicorn staring at him from the assortment of pillows, one Phoebe often stays in. Which, mental, right?
He's not even entirely sure how he ended up here. There was Wembley, obviously. Roy. The coach home. Roy again, here, there and every fucking where and taking his buzzing phone from his hands and pocketing it without looking at it. Jamie’s halfway to his car at Nelson Road when Roy takes him by the neck like a misbehaving kitten and frogmarches him to the G-Wagon. Jamie is too tired to even flinch at the sudden contact, but not tired enough to stop the dull acceptance ringing behind his ears that he's just trading angry men. Swapping over which one is going to take him behind closed doors without the peeping eyes falling out of his teammates heads or whatever. The thought stills him, stumbling on a step and catching himself on the door handle to the car. This ain't like that. Roy ain't like that. It's. Well, different, innit? Roy is looking at him, hand hovering over his arm and twitching like one of them waving Japanese cats Keely has on her windowsill. His frown looks close enough to concern that Jamie can kid himself into believing it and suddenly different don't seem like big enough a word but it's the only one he's got.
He dislodges the unicorn from its perch and debates long enough about where to safely put it that Roy comes back in the room, freshly showered and standing stiffly in the doorway like he's the uncertain guest and not the other way around. Jamie almost wants to laugh, tries to even, but his mouth has forgotten how to make sound. Roy's hand buzzes and Jamie suddenly remembers he still has his phone. Is holding his phone. Roy’s hands are twitching again.
The sound dislodges whatever it is in Jamie's head that’s messing with his speaking. “Sorry mate,” he says, and he isn't quite sure what he's sorry for. The ringing in his head is telling him being accountable matters so before Roy's frown can get deep enough to reach the core of the earth he gives the unicorn a little shake, “I dunno where to put this.”
It must have been the right, or at least not wrong thing to say because Roy's facial expression settles and he exhales a huff of air. “Wherever you like,” he grunts, “he's not goin’ anywhere.”
“He?” Jamie asks, looking back at the unicorn. It's got longer eyelashes than him, which is saying something thank you very much, and is wearing a sparkly tutu. He shouldn't have assumed really, you know what they say. Something about asses, though an ass is meant to be a donkey so who really knows.
“Yeah,” Roy huffs again though this time it sounds like laughter, “you're in the presence of King Bradley Ballerina Benson.”
Jamie stares at the toy, which stares back at him. He grins. “It's an honour, your Maj.” He says as he tucks it under his arm. Can't exactly go putting the King on the floor now can he? That's like treason.
“You gonna be okay in here?” Roy asks, and his tone is heavy enough that Jamie can tell he's asking about fifty other indecipherable questions at the same time as the one he said aloud but again, no one's ever accused him of being a genius.
“Yeah,” he nods. “Got the King don't I?”
Roy huffs again. He glances down at Jamie's still buzzing phone. “Do you want-?”
He doesn't. He shakes his head quick enough it might fall off his shoulders and bounce down the stairs. “Nah,” he mutters, holding on to the king a little tighter. “Nah. Can you uh, keep it for tonight? No screens before bed and all. Bad for the eyes.”
Roy’s nodding like Jamie made the right decision and he preens a little at that. The phone is slipped into his joggers. “Knock if you need me yeah?” He says, “I'm just down the hall.”
“Sure thing, coach. Roy. Roy Kent. Mate.” Jamie grins, though it must not be believable because Roy narrows his eyes a little, his mouth opening like he expects the words to just crawl out and make themselves known. When they don’t (thank God,) he nods and grunts his departure, leaving both Jamie's door and his own door open. Were he not exhausted, the thoughtfulness of it all would have probably set him off crying again.
Spurred by the sounds of Roy shuffling around and settling in, Jamie blinks down at the change of clothes left on the bed and wonders when they got there. He gently places King Bradley back on his cushioned throne and pulls his shirt off, staring at the blue fabric of his kit. Did he not change? He glances down at his shorts and remembers Roy pointing out the bathroom to him. Remembers him saying something about the shower. The water was running and Roy was looking at him with those wobbly eyebrows and Jamie couldn't figure out what he wanted so he sat on what he could safely assume was Roy's sofa until Roy gave up and went to shower himself. There’s something else too he thinks, Roy’s hand on his elbow, pushing him towards the steam curling out of the room. Thick enough he couldn't see behind the shower glass. He’s a dead weight in Roy’s arms and then he’s on the sofa and that’s when the eyebrows happen.
Right. He can't exactly go sleeping in Phoebe’s bed all sweaty and muddy. He’s sure Roy will wash the sheets regardless, but King Bradley would know and he’s not having a toy unicorn holding that over him. On heavy legs he drags himself to the bathroom, the door left open with the light still on. A haphazard array of shampoos and conditioners have been dumped on the counter and none of them look remotely like the 15-in-1 deal Roy probably uses. There’s a few brands he recognizes as ones Keeley likes and he picks the first two his hands fall on, shuffling into the still wet shower and fiddling with the controls until blissful heat scorches his back. He groans and sets himself to going through the motions, crawling back out before the heat can turn him into the puddle he so wants to become. Probably best he doesn’t sink down the drain and into London’s sewer system he now knows far too much about. He shimmies into Roy’s clothes and looks at himself in the mirror on Phoebe’s wardrobe, the black making him look like he’s in mourning. He kind of is, he supposes.
King Bradley is where he left him, which is good that. He hasn’t got the energy for Toy Story shenanigans and he’s frankly only hanging on by a couple of threads. Woody and Buzz being real would send him right over the edge. The bed is soft beneath him and he slips under the covers, head hitting the pillow and welcoming in the all encompassing blackness that is sure to follow.
Except it doesn’t, does it. Cause that would be easy. Nothing about Jamie Tartt’s life has ever been easy. It weren’t supposed to be. Life was meant to be hard fought and hard won, just like everything else. Hard. Like him. Like he was sposed’ to be. Like he was, once. Before Ted. Before the curse and the show and the tail between his legs. Right hard he was now yeah? Tucked up in big man Roy Kent’s spare room with a toy unicorn under his arm. Proper soft stuff that. Sleep feels about as far away as his mum’s flat in Manchester does. That JoJo girl was right, Karma’s a bitch. He should have known better.
Maybe his dad is waiting for him. He should probably go home. Quit being a pussy. If James Tartt Sr wakes up his neighbours again they’re gonna call the police and no amount of hampers from John Lewis will fix it. Just go home and get it over with. Man up. He thumps his closed eyes with the heels of his palms and squeezes until the pressure brings him back into his body.
Shit.
Here he is, still holding a unicorn, in Roy Kent’s spare bedroom whilst his father hosts a three man parade in his driveway. His father who waltzed right into the changing room, at Jamie’s invitation, and who berated the entire team whilst Jamie just stood there. Didn’t say nothin’ till his dad had moved on. Till it were about Denbo and Bug and something about the pitch. Couldn’t stand up for himself or the team could he? Pathetic that. What was the point of all the work he was doing to be better if it didn’t bloody change anything.
He’d thought he was getting somewhere too. Slowly like, but getting there. The lads were warming to him. He’d had a few FIFA nights with Sam and Colin. He even went with Isaac to see his niece in that play. He didn’t try speaking to the actors either. He was doing better. He was better.
Fat lot of good it did him. They know what he is now and he doubts they’d even humour a hamper. They know he’s weak. Pathetic. Too soft to even go to his own bloody house and electing instead to have a meltdown about a bit of glass in Roy fucking Kent’s bathroom. The tiredness that was weighing down his bones now tingles every muscle like a fireworks show he has neither approved of nor been invited to. He turns, attempting to find the ache of sleep again but instead rolls into the memory of Roy's arms wrapped around him and isn't that just a kettle of fish. Whose fucking smart idea was it to put fish in a kettle in the first place, fucking dangerous that. Stupid saying. He rolls to the other side and the ear not stuffed into the pillow tingles with all the vitriol he's sure his phone is still buzzing with.
Jamie spends most of the night rolling between both sides until he tires of the conflict and lies dead centre, watching the sun peek through the sides of the curtains and listening to the creaking in the hallway that tells him Roy's awake. The footsteps pause outside of his door before eventually carrying on and limping down the stairs.
He sighs, pulling his worn body out of the warm bed and nestling King Bradley back in his place. He changes out of Roy's clothes as much as he would love to live in them forever and probably stitch them to his skin. It’s easier to not overstay his welcome if he’s dressed ready to go from the start. The sound of bowls clattering downstairs. An expensive coffee machine whirring.
When he finally descends it’s to a bowl of half made oatmeal abandoned on the side in favour of two steaming omelets, like it’s a treat or something. Like they’re celebrating. He watches Roy watching him, spatula held tight in his grip like he could gut someone with it. Roy doesn’t bother asking him how he slept, cause he knows, don’t he? Mans probably got a sixth sense for everything that goes on in his house. Plus the bags under Jamie’s eyes look like they could probably pass as a carryon for a British Airways flight, which isn’t helping.
“Eat up,” Roy says instead of ‘Get out’ or ‘Fuck off’ or, worst of all, ‘Let’s talk about it’ and Jamie is grateful enough he does so without complaint.
“Didn’t fancy you for a chef,” he says in between mouthfuls. “Thought you old folks had to eat like, gruel or something.”
“Or something.” Roy growls, though he’s smiling.
The kettle of fish is fucking boiling.