#Jamie Tartt is literally Roy Kent's biggest fan | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

darkmacadamien · 7 months

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Whumptober 2023, No. 4: "You in there?"

“Bruv, I dare you to drink it,” Isaac says, pointing to the crystal decanter containing a mysterious purple liquid sitting on Coach Beard’s desk.

Jamie scoffs. “Fuck off, man. I ain’t got a clue what’s in there. What if it kills me?”

“Then we will remember you fondly, Jamie Tartt,” Dani proclaims.

Jamie pretends to think about it for a moment, then rolls his eyes. “Uh, nah. Still ain’t doing it.”

“Okay then, boy-o,” Colin interjects, “how about this— I double dare you to drink it.”

“Oooh,” the whole team choruses.

“You cannot turn down a double dare, my friend,” Sam says. Colin and Isaac nod in agreement, the fucking traitors.

“That ain’t fucking fair,” Jamie protests. “Why’re you picking on me, anyway? Richard’s the one with the iron stomach.”

“You were standing closest to me. Sorry, bruv,” Isaac apologizes, though he don’t sound very sorry.

“Philistines,” Jamie grumbles, but he picks up the fancy glass anyway. Unfortunately, Sam is correct: you can’t just not do a double dare. It’s practically one of the Ten Commandments, or something.

Jamie pops the cap on the bottle and gives the contents a cursory sniff. It smells cloyingly sweet, like those shitty perfume samples you get from magazines. “I think this might be alcohol,” Jamie says, running the bottle under his nose again. The scent is so strong it makes saliva well up in his mouth.

“All the more reason for you to drink it,” Jan Maas points out.

“Mate, you know I’m a lightweight. Roy will literally fucking kill me if I show up to training drunk.”

“Sorry,” Colin says, faux sympathetically, “but rules are rules.” He claps Jamie on the shoulder. “Drink up.”

Jamie sighs but concedes the point, and downs the shimmering purple liquid in one quick swallow. It tastes surprisingly light, like green tea, with hints of earthy spices, but it goes down like liquid fucking fire.

It’s worse than the highest-proof alcohol Jamie’s ever had, which had nearly made him vomit from one sip (there’s a reason he drinks vanilla vodka, for fuck’s sake).

Jamie chokes on the aftertaste, coughing and spluttering like he’s drowning. “Water,” he croaks, and a bottle is immediately thrust into his hands. Jamie guzzles it down, but it does nothing to soothe his burning throat.

A strange warmth begins emanating from his stomach where the liquid had settled like a ton of bricks. Jamie clutches at it, suddenly feeling faint.

“Something don’t feel right,” Jamie says.

Then he explodes into a large cloud of purple dust.

“Shit,” Isaac says grimly, when the dust settles. “I think we killed him.”

Where Jamie had once been standing, a figure lies crumpled on the ground.

“Jamie,” Dani cries, diving towards his friend and turning him over. When he catches sight of Jamie’s face, Dani jumps back like he’s been shocked. “Ay, Dios mío,” he shouts, crossing himself.

Colin puts his finger firmly on his nose, and says, “I am not explaining this to Roy,” because there, lying on the ground, is an unconscious child-size version of Jamie Tartt.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Isaac goes to find Ted, because Dani has devolved into hysterics and Ted is the least likely to start shouting and make things worse.

“Watch him,” Isaac orders Colin, pointing at child-Jamie, who’s still (blessedly) unconscious. Then he leaves Sam in charge. “Whatever you do, do not let Roy or Coach Beard into this room. If Roy starts threatening to punch dicks, call Keeley.”

Sam nods grimly. “I understand, Captain.”

“You’re a brave man,” Isaac tells him, and then he’s off.

It doesn’t take long to find Ted; he’s where he usually is at this hour, which means he’s riding around the pitch on the lawnmower.

“Coach! Coach, we have an emergency!” Isaac shouts, waving him down. Ted shifts the lawnmower into gear and rides over at an excruciatingly slow pace. Five minutes later, he’s pulling over in front of Isaac and killing the engine. “What’s up, buttercup?” he chirps.

“It’s Jamie,” Isaac says. “He drank the magic purple stuff on Beard’s desk and now he’s a kid.”

“Well,” Ted says, blinking slowly, “I must admit, I’m a little confused. Do you mean kid, as in…?”

“A child. Like, a youngster, or whatever they say in America. He can’t be any older than thirteen.”

“Oh, wow,” Ted says. “I think this might be a little above my paygrade. You said he drank something off of Coach’s desk, right? Sounds like we need to track him down and see what he has to say about all this.”

“Wait,” Isaac barks. “Won’t he be mad that we messed with his stuff?”

“I’d say it’s probably his fault for not putting a ‘No Touch’ sticker on it, wouldn’t you?”

Isaac shrugs. Fair enough.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“It’ll wear off in about twenty-four hours,” Beard tells the team, standing ominously over Jamie’s unconscious body.

“And there won’t be any weird side effects?” Isaac asks.

“Nope,” Beard says. “Once he switches back, he’ll be exactly the same as before.”

The team lets a collective sigh of relief.

“Why’d you even have something like that laying around, Coach?” Isaac asks.

“I didn’t,” Coach Beard says. “Jane must have snuck in and left it for me.” He sounds properly charmed by it, the bastard.

Out in the hallway, Roy passes by the dressing room and then promptly turns around once he realizes the entire team is gathered inside, still fully kitted out. “Oi, what’s this? Are we having a fucking party or some shit?”

The team moves in unison to hide Jamie’s unconscious body. “Nothing unusual is going on here, Coach,” Sam says, sounding like he’s reading directly from a script.

Roy shifts, widening his stance and squaring his shoulders, looking as if he’s rearing up for a fight. “I didn’t say I thought something unusual was going on,” he says evenly. “Out with it, then. What the fuck is going on here?”

When everyone remains stubbornly silent, Roy sighs, sounding put-upon. “Okay, let’s try this again— either someone speaks up, or I start punching dicks.”

The team parts like the Red Sea. Roy’s eyes immediately snap to Jamie’s unconscious figure. “Is that Tartt?” he asks. He walks over and pokes him with his foot.

Isaac clocks the exact moment Roy realizes that Jamie is about a foot shorter than he’s supposed to be.

“What in the ever-loving FUCK have you muppets—”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Roy reams the entire dressing room out for a good ten minutes. Not even Coach Beard and Lasso are spared, which in other circumstances might’ve been comical, but mostly it was just terrifying.

So terrifying, in fact, that no one notices a tiny Jamie Tartt come to consciousness and sneak out of the changing room.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Thirteen-year-old Jamie Tartt has no idea what to think when he wakes up in a strange dressing room with a much-older-than-he-remembers Roy Kent ripping into a team that he vaguely recognizes as AFC Richmond (although the kits look a little different than he remembers, too).

Jamie spares a thought to wonder why he’s lying on the ground, and then another to wonder how in the fuck he got here, because last time he checked, Richmond was hours away from Manchester.

The last thing Jamie remembers is his dad knocking him around the head, which might explain why he was unconscious, but past that, all semblance of sense goes right out the fucking window.

So, Jamie starts devising a plan to get the fuck out of there, ‘cause even though he was basically Roy Kent’s biggest fan, watching the man have a bitch-fit in person was much scarier than it was on TV.

And also, maybe, he’s just a little afraid that Roy Kent might start yelling at him, too. So, Jamie plays unconscious for a few moments longer, opening his eyes just a tick so it looks like they’re still closed, and scopes the room out, noting the nearest exit. Jamie maps out the quickest route to get the hell out of there, which doesn’t take long ‘cause Jamie happens to have a lot of practice escaping precarious situations.

Roy Kent has the team (and what looks like two coaches, what the fuck is that about?) cowering with their backs turned, so Jamie rolls over, shifts into a crouch, and creeps out of the room, real light on his feet. The moment he hits the hallway, Jamie sprints for the exit.

Well, he tries to, but a wave of dizziness sends him careening into the wall. His vision blacks about for a moment, and when Jamie comes to again, he’s half-sprawled on the floor.

Apparently, he’s in much worse shape than he thought.

Further down the hallway, the doors to the entrance fling open, and a tall blonde woman comes strutting in, heading straight towards Jamie. She hasn’t spotted him yet, but he’ll be impossible to miss once she looks up from her phone, so Jamie makes a dive for the nearest storage closet. There ain’t no way he’s making it past her without getting caught, and for some reason, she scares Jamie more than The Roy Kent, so it really ain’t worth risking it.

He clicks the door quietly behind himself, plunging the tiny room into darkness, and turns the lock. His jumping pulse thrums just below the surface of his skin. It’s much quieter in here; the only things that Jamie can hear are his own labored panting and the muted sound of the scary woman’s heels clicking past the storage closet and down the hallway.

Jamie presses his ear against the door and sighs in relief when the footsteps finally fade into silence. He leans back, slouching against a set of metal shelves.

Now that he has a moment to catch his fucking breath, Jamie does the exact opposite and starts panicking. He has no fucking clue how he’s going to get back to Manchester, but the first, most obvious step is to find a phone and call his mummy, ‘cause she always knows what to do, ‘cept Jamie doesn’t have a fucking phone on him, and after a cursory check of his pockets, he finds he don’t have any change on him, either, so a payphone is out, too.

The only person he knows in this entire building is Roy fucking Kent, but the thought of getting yelled at by him makes Jamie literally want to throw up, like. And Roy Kent had seemed pretty angry, and Roy Kent is the type of guy to yell at the sun if it shines too bright, so. Roy Kent is probably out, too, unless Jamie wants to send himself into early cardiac arrest, or whatever.

Jamie seems to be doing a pretty good job of inducing a heart attack all by himself, though, if the pain in his chest is anything to go by. It’s just— he can’t fucking breathe, and his head is on fucking fire, so Jamie reaches back to touch the crown of his head, where the pain is emanating, and his fingers come back wet. He can’t fucking see anything ‘cause the room is pitch black, so he sticks a finger in his mouth, and yeah. That’s the taste of iron, which means the sticky viscous liquid coating his fingers is blood. Jamie is bleeding.

Fuck.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It takes approximately five minutes after Roy stops yelling for everyone to realize that Jamie had somehow disappeared, and then another five minutes after that to organize a cohesive search party (mainly because Roy had started yelling again and it had taken Isaac, Colin, and Jan Mass to calm him down). They trample out of the room like a herd of elephants, each player heading to a different part of the complex to search. Ted hangs back for a second, long enough to catch his breath. Thinking about a tiny version of Jamie Tartt (hardly older than his own son) wandering around alone and confused makes his chest feel tight.

Hell, even thinking about adult-Jamie getting upset is enough to raise Ted’s pulse or make his breathing go all staccato-like.

Down the hallway, Ted can hear Roy and the rest of the team shouting for Jamie at the top of their lungs. Ted forces himself to relax; Jamie can’t have gotten far, and with twenty-some people looking for him, it’s unlikely that he’ll stay lost for long.

Then Ted notices that there’s blood on the floor, and his heart drops into his stomach.

It might not be Jamie’s blood, Ted rationalizes. They’d just wrapped up practice, after all, and scraped elbows and knees practically come with the territory. It could just as easily be Zoreaux’s, who had taken a nasty dive in the goal today. Or Sam’s, who could’ve re-opened the wound on his hand from when he’d helped out at his restaurant the other day. What Ted’s trying to say is: the blood could be literally anyone’s.

But somehow, Ted knows it Jamie’s. It sticks in his mind like caramel in your teeth when you eat a Snickers bar.

It’s not even that much, either. But Ted worries.

So, he follows the trail of blood out into the hallway, stepping around it carefully so it doesn’t get on his shoes, until it leaves him standing in front of a supply closet just a skip away from the locker room.

Not far, indeed.

Ted gently knocks on the door. “Jamie, kiddo? You in there?”

It’s silent for a long moment; long enough that Ted considers trying the handle, but then, he hears rustling behind the door.

“How th’fuck d’you know my name?” Jamie spits.

Ted sighs silently in relief. Target acquired. Now, for some damage control.

“Ouch,” Ted jokes. “You sound about as angry as a trampled-on copperhead, which I would know, because I’ve stepped on one before. Luckily for the both of us, I know a thing or two about venomous snakes. Now, I bet you’re real confused right now, but that question is going to need a lot of explaining and it might be easier if we have this little chat face-to-face, if you get my meaning.”

There’s the telltale snick of the lock disengaging, and then the door swings open, revealing Jamie, brandishing a broom like a weapon. A thin line of blood is trickling down the side of his neck, saturating the collar of his shirt.

God, but he looks so young, with lanky arms and legs that he hasn’t quite grown into. His face is still soft with baby fat, and his hair is longer than Ted’s ever seen it, falling over his forehead in dark waves.

“I only opened the door ‘cause I can’t understand you with that stupid American accent,” Jamie says. “Try anything funny and you’ll regret it, swear down.”

“Whoa there, buddy, I ain’t gonna hurt you. Why don’t we set that broom down, huh?” Ted suggests, holding his hands out placatingly.

Jamie doesn’t move— in fact, he tights his grip on the handle, staring at Ted distrustfully.

“Or not— hey, I can work with that. You ever see that movie Alice in Wonderland?”

Jamie’s face twists up in confusion. “Mate, what the fuck are you on about?”

“Nevermind,” Ted says, waving dismissively. “I don’t know why I started with that. Bad metaphor. Anyway, long story short, you used to be an adult, but then adult-you drank a magic potion that turned you back into a kid.”

“Oi,” Jamie barks. “M’not a fucking kid.”

“My mistake,” Ted concedes. “A distinguished young gentleman.”

Jamie looks at him with thinly veiled disgust, but at least he sets the broom down. “Are all Americans this fucking weird?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Ted says. “Anyway, older-Jamie currently plays in the Premier League for AFC Richmond, and so that’s how I know your name.”

“AFC Richmond?” Jamie asks, miming a gagging noise. “Jesus, why? Did they get rid of Man City, or something?”

“Oh, no, Manchester City is still a thing,” Ted assures him. “You had your reasons for coming here instead, though. We can get into that later, but first I think we ought to get that bump on the back of your head looked at.”

“Nah, I’m good,” Jamie says. “Hey, uh, was that really Roy Kent in the changing room?”

There’s a curious inflection in Jamie’s voice when he says Roy’s name— like he normally adds the in front of it, like The Roy Kent. “Uh oh,” Ted says. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a fanboy.”

“No,” Jamie bluffs, in the way that all teenage boys do when you accuse them of having a special interest. His cheeks flush immediately, though, giving him away. “Well, I mean, I’ll watch his matches if they come on the TV, but like. It’s football, you know? Of course, I’m gonna fucking watch it.”

When Ted fails to say anything, Jamie coughs awkwardly. “I mean, like, he’s a pretty good player. Objectively, or whatever. Like, that’s what I’ve heard other people say.”

“Mhmm,” Ted agrees, struggling to hide his grin.

Jamie sighs, giving up the façade altogether. “Actually— yeah, I’m kind of his biggest fan. I have a poster of ‘im and everything. Do you think he’d sign something for me?”

“Buddy,” Ted says, “if you come and see the doctor with me, I’ll get him to sign whatever you want.”

“You can do that?” Jamie asks. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Who, little old me? I’m the coach around these parts, but you—” Ted points to Jamie, “—can call me Ted.”

“Holy shit, you’re the gaffer?” Jamie says, disbelieving. “Man, football has changed.”

“Hm, yeah. So, what do you say? We got a deal?”

“Yeah, okay,” Jamie says, still looking a little shell-shocked.

“Awesome!” Ted shouts, pumping his fist. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Patching Jamie up doesn’t take long; he sits on the treatment table and follows the doctor’s instructions obediently. The cut doesn’t need stitches, luckily, but it still needs to be cleaned and bandaged. In the meantime, Ted unlocks his phone and shoots Roy a text:

Found Jamie. He’s fine, send everyone home

And then, remembering his deal with Jamie:

You mind stopping by the treatment room on your way out?

Roy likes the message but otherwise doesn’t respond.

He arrives a couple of minutes later, just as the doctor is putting the final touches on the bandages wrapped around Jamie’s head. “It’s a little bruised, so I’d recommend icing it when you get home,” the doctor tells Ted. “He’s also got a concussion, but you don’t need me to explain how that works, so I’m heading out. Have a good day, everyone. And for the record, this is so weird.” Then she packs up her supplies and leaves.

“What the fuck am I doing here?” Roy asks.

“Jamie wanted to ask you something,” Ted tells him, looking at Jamie entreatingly.

“Traitor,” Jamie hisses. “You said you’d ask him.”

“Don’t twist my words, young man,” Ted says firmly. “I said I’d make him do it if he told you no.”

“Oi, nobody is making me do anything,” Roy interrupts. “Hypothetically, though, what am I supposed to be doing?”

Ted continues to look at Jamie pointedly, who averts his gaze and scuffs the toe of his shoe on the floor. He mumbles something, low and quiet.

“Fucking what?” Roy barks.

Jamie snaps his head up, glaring at Roy furiously. “I said, can I please have your autograph?”

“Well, fuck, why didn’t you just say so,” Roy says, whipping a pen out of his pocket. “What am I signing?”

Jamie’s face shifts from anger to surprise, like he didn’t think he’d get this far. “Uh, I don’t know. I ain’t go anything on me,” he says sheepishly.

“How about this?” Ted suggests, holding up an old receipt he’d dug out from one of his pockets. Roy shrugs and gestures for it, and then spreads it flat on his thigh so he can sign it. “How’d you hit your head, anyway? Run into a fucking wall or something?” Roy asks casually, uncapping the pen.

“Roughing about with me mates,” Jamie replies instantly, and Roy’s hand freezes. It’s eerie, Ted thinks, how practiced that response sounds. The worst part is, it’s actually a pretty decent excuse, and it probably would’ve worked on anyone else, but after two years with Jamie, Ted is pretty familiar with his nervous tics, and one of them is the way he runs a thumb along his eyebrow when he’s lying. Which he is currently doing, the offending appendage still picking absentmindedly at the thin hair along his brow.

And if Ted picked up on it, then Roy, who spends practically every hour of the day with Jamie, absolutely noticed it.

“Wanna try that again?” Roy asks evenly, finishing his signature.

“Eh?” Jamie asks.

“You fuck with your eyebrows when you’re lying,” Roy says. “You’re doing it right now, which means you just lied straight to my fucking face.”

Jamie snatches his hand away from his forehead like he’s been burned. “How the fuck do you know that?” he asks.

“I’m your best fucking friend, you muppet,” Roy bites back. “I know lots of things about you. For example, I know that your dad’s a fucking deadbeat, who doesn’t deserve you, and I also know he likes to knock you about, so I’m willing to bet everything that I own that he’s the reason you’re bleeding out the back of your head right now. Am I wrong?”

“You don’t know shit about me,” Jamie hisses. “I don’t know what adult-me told you, but he’s fucking lying. About all of it!”

“He didn’t have to tell me shit, because I saw it with my own two eyes,” Roy roars back. “That’s how I know it was your fucking dad, because you only fucking lie for him!”

“So what if it was? It doesn’t fucking matter, man! Why are you making such a big deal about it?” Jamie shouts back, and then immediately bursts into tears.

Roy sighs, like the sight of tears is enough to immediately drain the fight out of him. Ted finds it amazing, how quickly these two can wind each other up and then let it all go. “It does matter, Jamie, because you don’t deserve to be treated like that,” Roy says quietly, and then wraps Jamie up in a hug.

“This is fucking humiliating,” Jamie sobs into Roy’s shoulder. “You’re like, my hero. I’m not supposed to be crying, I had so many questions I wanted to ask, and—”

“Stop,” Roy commands. “Look, we’ll go get ice cream or something, and then you can ask all the stupid fucking questions you want.”

Jamie leans back, still sniffling. “Really?”

“Yes, you little prick,” Roy says fondly. If Ted were a romantic, he might call his tone fond. “Come on then, up you get,” he says and helps Jamie off the table.

“Lasso, you’re with us,” he barks when Ted fails to follow them down the hallway. Ted scurries to catch up.

“Ope, my bad. Looks like I misread the situation there, fellows. I thought this was just gonna be a Roy-and-Jamie event—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Yup.”

(And if the next day, after Jamie turns back, he hangs the signed receipt up in his locker, nobody says a word.)

(Also, nobody touches anything on Beard’s desk, magic potion or otherwise, ever again.)

#whumptober 2023 #no. 4 #“you in there?”#ted lasso #fic #referenced child abuse #jamie tartt #roy kent #afc richmond #sad jamie tartt #hurt jamie tartt #age regression #de aging #hurt/comfort #angst #happy ending #Jamie Tartt is literally Roy Kent's biggest fan

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