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Diary
It’s not a diary, really. At least, not in the traditional sense. It’s supposed to be an appointment book—a gift from Keeley, so she’s not having to text him reminders all the time. He’s promised to use it, and is surprised that it’s actually mad convenient to help remember events, so he starts using it for other things, too.
Just little things at first—stuff he hears and would maybe like to remember later. Grocery lists, and the like. Dog breeds he wants to google on his days off. Whatever the fuck reference Ted has just made. It’s simple, little things like that scribbled between whatever day plans he’s written out. Unsurprisingly, however, it evolves from there—turns out, theres a lot of things that Jamie would like to remember, and not all just to waste time searching on the internet.
It starts with a scribbled missive about a wildly expensive bourbon that Dani mentions that can only be found in a tiny pub in Cornwall. Then Colin has started to collect model cars, and Jamie thinks that’s fascinating enough to notate between ‘grape jam’ and ‘potato crisps’ in his grocery list. And a week later Isaac reveals that He is learning to make a new dish now that his moms a vegetarian, and Jamie finds his hand moving to add that down on his calendar as well. In case it comes up later, or something.
It doesn’t seem like such a big deal, just things he’d maybe like to not forget, or could bring up in conversation on long bus rides. He’s trying to get better at listening to other people instead of talking about himself, and even though the doc isn’t there to see his progress he thinks she’d be proud of the initiative anyways—or think he was really fucking odd, but she’d say it more kindly than that.
He doesn’t thinks it’s a bad thing, really, keeping a running catalogue of facts in his daily planner—which, really, he hasn’t used so much for it’s intended purpose, now, if he’s thinking about it. It feels nice, though, learning things about people, and being able to look back on it after a long day to realize he’d written something a day before that made him smile to read before he went to bed: That Jan declared that he didn’t believe in meditation when the year started, but had still joined Richard in trying it in July. He wrote that Isaac was getting stronger at delegating tasks, mostly as an afterthought, and that Colin was handling turns better in his Lamborghini. It was stupid, tiny things like that, but it felt good to be involved in some small way.
Nobody had asked him about the way he’d occasionally slide the booklet out into view, scribble a note, and put it back again, and it didn’t seem to matter after a while. It was becoming a bit of a habit to flip through it when there was a lull in the locker room, just to give him something to reminisce about. It didn’t occur to him to be embarrassed by it until Roy interrupted his musing one morning to ask loudly, startling Jamie from his reverie as his voice reverberated through the room, “I look fit in fucking blue? Is that what you’re really writing right now?”
It immediately startles him into looking up, and now the entire room is fixated on him with bewilderment. It takes several seconds for what Roy has just said to penetrate his brain, and when it does he can physically feel his cheeks turning hot with mortification. Okay, so maybe the team had taken note of his new habit. He’s not really sure what to say about it, with so many startled, curious eyes on him, and it ties an uncomfortable knot in his gut. Unfortunately, his silence doesn’t cause the stares to relent, and they’ve entered an awkward lull of waiting for Jamie to respond to Roys accusation.Trouble is, his tongue is cemented to the roof of his mouth and his throat feels hot with embarrassment.
Ted, luckily—blessedly—appears to understand his predicament, and eases in with a chuckle, “Well, I could have told you that, Roy. Brings out your inner sparkle.”
“Bullshit,” He grunts, and points a finger towards the open book still in Jamie’s lap, “and why the fuck is Tartt writing about my sparkle in a day planner?”
It’s not meant to be as accusing as it sounds, Jamie knows, picking up the genuine bewilderment in the question, but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a sound of startled defense as he cries, “Oi, I didn’t mention any sparkle.”
Roy opens his mouth to counter, but Ted is stalking genially up to Jamie and the action silences them both. He gestured towards Jamie’s notebook, and asks good-naturedly, “You mind if I take a gander, Jamie?”
He’s got that stupid, disarming smile that makes Jamie want to do whatever he asks, so he’s only half surprised that he thrusts the open notebook flat into the gaffers waiting palms. Beard is watching with curiously narrowed eyes from across the room, Jamie can feel it, but he can only make himself watch the flickering of emotions on Lassos face as he delicately flicks the pages, his mouth twitching into one of his annoyingly fond smiles. He is several pages in by the time Jamie starts to regret handing it over, with all the stupid secret-not-secrets he’s given away, but Ted stops his reading after a second and holds the book aloft, announcing with a brilliant smile, “Bumbercatch, I never knew you could play piano.”
All eyes are on Ted, now, thankfully, besides Bumbercatch, who is frowning at Jamie in the same confusion as Roy had. But Ted just keeps going happily, as if he’s oblivious to Jamie’s inner turmoil, “And Dani, you are the only person in your family that doesn’t have a middle name? That’s fascinating stuff, there. It’s good you keep track of it, Jamie. Shows you really care about your teammates.”
Which. Okay, maybe he wouldn’t have said that himself, but he does, he supposes. Keeping track in small ways, but in the ways that matter all the same. They’re all smiling a bit, now, and Colin is looking especially mushy, all dewy-eyed and over impressed by the once private gesture. Lasso asks Jamie belatedly if he can pass the book around, and he can’t do anything but shrug his consent. He feels helpless to stop it, but not in a bad way. The tight knot of doubt has been unraveling since that stupid mustache twitched into a smile over his words.
Thierry takes hold of it first, and half the team form a huddle behind him to try and read over his shoulders. Jamie can only sit and watch in mild fascination and great horror. Every so often someone will throw out one of the facts he’s written, little conversational side pieces that he’s immortalized, and a murmur of conversation will spark from it. Sometimes they find something humorous, and there’s gentle laughter, or whenever Colin’s driving is mentioned they all give a hearty cheer and Colin tries to look offended that he’s a terrible enough driver that Jamie has taken to commemorating his improvements.
By the time they’ve all finished reading, he’s pretty sure Roy has forgiven him for the comment about his color pallet, because he’d finally stopped glowering after Isaac thanked Jamie loudly for thinking he had a great reading voice. Which, truthfully, he didn’t remember writing, but was embarrassed to have said all the same. The entire room is a buzz of conversations related to things that they’ve discovered in his not-quite-diary, and even once they’ve finished with it everyone is grinning and trading facts they’ve read or marveling over Jamie’s opinion of things they’ve done or said.
They all appear to be endeared to him; beaming at him and remarking at the things he’d noted—some things which they thought nobody saw about them at all. It’s Jan Maas who has the last word in all of it, bringing the moment to a close by stating simply, “Jamie had a childhood dog named Klondike.”
They all go silent and confused, because Jamie hadn’t written that, before teds big stupid smile starts forming again and he adds softly, “Used to paint his moms fingernails for her when she broke her wrist.”
Jamie can feel his face get impossibly hotter. Fuck. He forgot he even told that story to anyone. And all of a sudden he’s having dozens of facts and thoughts about him pouring out from all angles, and he can’t possibly pick out any one voice from the group, but he can tell they’re all positive things, and it makes him feel a prickly warmth behind his eyes that each of them cared enough to stockpile anecdotes and information about him. He hadn’t really thought of the fact that keeping up with his notebook was an act of caring until it was directed back at him, and now he feels struck by the fact that they’ve all made the effort to remember things about him—even the small, stupid, insignificant things like his quiet affinity for grilled asparagus.
When it finally lapses back into near silence, and the conversations start branching off again to that familiar buzz of the locker room, Roy nudges him with an elbow and says, without looking at him, his face entirely devoid of emotion, “Fucking pink is your best color. If we’re keeping track.”
It’s gruff and emotionless—and vaguely homicidal, to be completely candid—but Jamie feels remarkably touched by it as Roy immediately turns his back, slings his bag over his shoulder, and marches out of the locker room towards the car park.
He thinks maybe he’s done something right, for once, by sharing these things instead of keeping them hidden. For letting himself care enough to keep track in the first place. Fuck it, Doctor Sharon would be proud as shit for him.