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jamiesfootball · 5 months

Text

Deleted Scene

For the wonderful @alter-alterego who requested for a gift fic-

"a deleted scene: something that just isn't fitting in one of your fics, but you set it aside, hoping to make it work somewhere else" and "a fun way to repurpose some writing - especially if it was a whole "kill your babies" sort of edit that broke your heart to cut it."

-and also some other words were thrown around like hurt/comfort.

So the thing is that I uh.... did not have any deleted scenes.

So.

I wrote one!

This is a deleted scene from Jamie's pov during ch 1 of Oh God You're Gonna Get It (You Have Not Been Given Love), taking place after the conversation on the couch but before the match the next day.

I would not say it necessarily slots into place - it does not have nearly the runway to hit that level of emotional intensity. Instead, I treated it more like a character study, a way to get down a bit of my thoughts on the where Jamie is at now. Refurbishing some writing thought, if you will.

Unfortunately, I did forget some of the comfort here - but the rest of the fic will have lots of comfort so???

Anyways. Thank you for your delightful request, friend. I hope you enjoy.

When awareness crept in behind his sleep-sealed eyes, a handful of problems offered themselves up to Jamie like unwanted presents. The first was that he hadn't brushed his teeth the night before, and his mouth tasted rank and fuzzy as a result. The next, that dried blood caked the inside of his nostrils, leaving behind an unpleasant, iron-tanged stuffiness. Final and worst came a deep and throbbing pain centered around his nose, passing along the message that something was swollen, if not outright bruised.

He'd been handed these gifts before, but crucial pieces were missing from the set. In their place, he'd been given imposters. Restfulness, when it should feel like he'd run a marathon. Something content beckoning him back towards sleep, instead of a familiar set of knives stabbing him in the chest, urging him to go, get away, anywhere but here.

His head felt weighed down by wet, drooping cotton, and that was new too, and in some ways worse than the distant emptiness he'd grown to rely on. At least emptiness knew how to sort out an icepack. Or a concussion. Or whatever it was that had him feeling floaty and lost.

Where the hell was he?

He cracked open his eyes. He didn't recognize the room — which didn't mean much when everyone he knew had more house than they knew what to do with. Still, there was something familiar about it, something that quieted any lingering panic that he might've woken up in a stranger's home.

It was cozy, but clean. Dark, woodsy room with antique lamps — too tasteful for Colin, too muted for Isaac. Art too boring for Sam. Everything far too clean for Dani.

A fuzzy blanket tickled his nose. In the dim light filtering in through the windows, he could see it was covered in unicorns and rainbows, all of it swirling around in a dizzying pattern. Shutting his eyes tight, he tugged it closer; it was surprisingly warm.

The couch was comfier than his too, cradling his shoulder against the cushion instead of pushing his tendons up into his neck until all he had to show for it was a splitting headache. No, this was lush, pliable with age and use. The blanket worn soft like someone cared for it. Made it feel like this was someone's home that Jamie was invading, and that made him feel like, feel —

A sick certainty settled in his stomach that he'd regret everything more when it was light out. Morning Jamie could sort that out. He didn't envy that guy at all.

He chewed his lip, unable to stop picking at the problem. His mouth tasted sour, and the dry ache behind his eyes sang a familiar song. Nausea twisted low in his stomach, and finally there it was, the tightness circling his chest and pulling into a knot. The room smelled like beer—

"Want to grab a beer later?"

"I thought you said I couldn't have beer anymore."

"Well, you're with me, so you get a pass," Roy had said, and Jamie could've floated off the floor with how it made his chest puff up—

Oh.

This was Roy's house.

That's why his face hurt.

Jamie sighed, the building discomfort releasing in a wave of relief that left him dizzy, head floating above the soft cushions like he was balanced on a cloud.

He'd thought for a second-

He'd-

No. He'd been worried for nothing.

This was Roy's house. Made sense then, that his brain had picked up that he weren't anywhere bad. The dark furniture and the leather everything and the grainy wood; it was like the house and the man had been shaped out of the same men's catalogue from the eighties. Everything looked sturdy and settled in place.

He hadn't noticed the bright purple blanket last night, but then he couldn't have said what he did notice. They'd left the bar; everything past that was a whirlwind.

He owed Keeley an apology.

He frowned, worrying at the blanket with his thumb. He'd apologized to Roy. It'd went well, he thought. He hoped. He shouldn't get ahead of himself. He'd said a bunch of words without thinking them through first, and meaning them didn't stop it from feeling like he'd flayed some soft part of himself open with a knife and held out the scraps as a peace offering.

At least with Roy, he had a chance of being offered something back. Some reassurance, at least, that things weren't beyond repair. Whatever it was that brought that familiar growl down to something softer, still rough around the edges but not mean when he was making jokes, egging Jamie on and listening quiet thought while Jamie's thoughts spun circles across the carpet.

Letting Jamie say his peace. Accepting his apology for his behavior. Saying shit like, like he was proud of Jamie, even if Jamie hadn't done much to earn that lately.

Fuck.

And in the week since he'd sent that text to his dad, he hadn't gotten so much as a read receipt—

—which didn't mean anything, did it? Could be that he'd turned them off—

With a little shifting, he found his phone. He flicked it on, ignoring the familiar spike of panic as he did.

No new messages. Good.

Seven-percent battery life. Not good.

3:30 in the morning. Fuck.

Sighing, he switched it off. Looked like he was getting up.

He didn't move.

For once it wasn't the persistent, leaden feeling holding him down — like they'd taken every weight in the gym and tied it to his limbs when he wasn't looking. No, it was just, maybe if he didn't get up, last night wouldn't've happened.

A sickness, hot and sour, pooled in his stomach.

A week ago, he'd been at his mother's house, curled up and making the best out of whatever comfort he could drag towards him like a dying man. But this wasn't the same. He was a visitor here at best, his extended welcome debatable, and there was no one in this house obligated to brush his hair back and tell him if he was making a mistake.

Didn't mean he wouldn't take what he could get now that he'd earned his way in.

It was early. He was warm. Things hurt, but he was at Roy's. Nothing bad would find him here. Everything was fine and there were no unread messages waiting for him on his phone.

A warmed beer smell lingered in the air, musty and rank. He pushed his face further into the couch to get away from it. The couch smelled like old leather and glitter and fabric softener, and it didn't feel waxy or tacky against his skin and it molded around him like a hug. He didn't want to get up. He was tired.

He was so, so tired.

His undrunk beer sat on the table above his head. Now that he noticed the yeasty smell, it cloyed to the air, sinking into everything it touched.

He'd have to get up soon and deal with it. He had a lot of stuff to deal with. He didn't want Roy to think he couldn't handle it.

Since the boot room, he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that he'd gotten away with something. Roy had been nice. Too nice. The kind that had Jamie looking over his metaphoricle shoulder, waiting for the other boot to hit, because Jamie hadn't been professional about it at all. He'd collapsed in on himself, utterly crushed and incapable of hiding it another second, everything sticking and clawing out of him like a staunched wound fighting back.

But then Roy had been dead nice about it and he'd given him a pass and then he'd kept being nice and he'd invited Jamie out for a drink and Jamie had thought he was off the hook.

Knew better now, didn't he? He was on the hook, squirming as well as any other caught worm. The drinks hadn't been about Jamie, at least part of the niceness had been on loan, and his free pass had burned up in front of his eyes before he even knew he only had the one to spare.

Roy expected better of him.

That was fine. Jamie did too. He was up to the challenge; he knew what to avoid now. So in twenty minutes he’d get up. He’d take care of the beer bottles, rinse ‘em out in case Roy was one of those guys that got offended if you wasted his beer. With his phone battery low, he didn't have the juice to call for a pick up — he’d have to make the thirty-minute trek to his house. Unless he got lucky and stumbled across a taxi, that'd put him back at his own place in just under an hour. From there he’d dig out the white vinegar that he kept on hand for emergencies and see if he couldn’t buff out the stain on his chest. Stone Island wasn’t exactly his brand of choice, and they weren't interested in signing him on as a permanent brand ambassador, but they'd been pleasant to work with and they paid well and he’d only had the jacket for three days and he hadn’t been papped in it yet and it’d be fucking embarrassing for everyone involved if he went crying to them that he’d need a new one cause he’d already ruined the first one.

(He'd still do it if he had to though -- it wouldn’t be the first time a little blood threatened a brand deal.) No, one way or another he’d be getting that stain out, didn’t matter how much scrubbing it took. From there he’d inspect whatever was going on with his face. That didn’t bother him as much. Nothing felt broken, and he knew how to make himself look photo-ready for the match. All the small speed bumps sorted, he’d start in on his match day warmups. Nothing intense, just enough to loosen his muscles up.

His socked foot poked out of the bottom of the blanket. He twisted his ankle experimentally. Slowly, it cranked through the rotations, gummy and awkward like stuck hands on a clock. A lot tighter than it should be. Physios wouldn't be happy with him, but that worry came as an afterthought. He'd play the full ninety. They all knew it.

After warmups, he'd take a shower— His eyes stung, suddenly hot and warm. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. He’d take a shower; do the whole routine. Wasn’t happening again. Loud and clear. From there he’d pop round to Nelson road. Bit early, even for him, but he hoped to catch Ted before the coach got swept up in pressers and the like. He wanted to thank him, properly, for all he’d done to help Jamie and straighten him out over the years. He knew Lasso had a busy schedule and a quick turnaround to get home, and Jamie wouldn’t take up too much of his time. He just- he needed to say it. He had his fingers crossed that it’d be one of their better talks — the kind that left him feeling pleased with himself and a bit like he could float on air — instead of one of the awkward, stilted ones that fizzled out between his fingers and left him feeling wrong-footed and confused, like he'd put his elbows on the table or committed some other social fake paw that he was supposed to know about by now.

But just in case it did go like that, he'd still have said it, and he’d still have left himself plenty of time to screw his head on before the match. He was a professional after all. Give him a few minutes recovery in the storage room that wasn't Higgins' office anymore, and by the time the lads started filtering in, he’d be fine. Then they’d start the real pre-match march. Light workout and pre-game presser. Meal time, then the real warmups, the ones meant to get your blood flowing and your food settled. Cleanup, out of practice kit, into training kit. Let the physios at him again with their magic tape. Into the tunnel to mingle with the reporters: soundbites, heart-warming stories, all the patter ('Why, yes, West Ham has played a strong year, 'course I’ve got my eye on City-always do, don’t I? No I don’t give a flying fuck if Zava’s got a scorpion named after him now, fuck off—") Well hopefully no one’d ask him about Zava. Not a match had passed without some journo brining him up, but maybe the possibility of them winning the league would be enough to shut them up for once, instead of it turning into yet another retrospective on how Zava's head start was the reason the team had made it this far in the rankings. Pricks. Then it’d be speech time. Jamie didn’t understand what it was about gaffers and speeches, but they’d seemed to all agree in their mysterious gaffer ways that it was the one time you were allowed to be emotional in front of the players. Ted usually didn’t have that problem, but he certainly never shied away from the chance to one-up himself with a game day speech. It was sure to be a good one. Then nothing else would matter, cause there’d be the match. Everything made sense on the pitch.

Jamie knew what he had to do on the pitch. Nothing could touch him on the pitch.

No one was ever waiting for him on the pitch. He wondered if they won, if he’d come back to find a message on his phone. He wondered if they lost, if he’d come back to find a message on his phone. He checked his phone again. 3:50am. 6% battery. He turned off the screen and shut his eyes. In ten minutes, he’d get up. Sort out his life. Win the league. In ten minutes. Until then, he’d try to enjoy what he had. Warm blanket. A nice place to sleep. No new messages on his phone. An ankle and a nose that weren’t broken. People who’d welcomed him inside. People who'd forgiven him for his mistakes. It was enough.

He just had to make sure he didn't mess it up.

#gift fic #fic: oh god you're gonna get it (you have not been given love)#jamie tartt #roy kent #ted lasso fic #fuck jamie's dad #injury #fic: deleted scene

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