Archive of Our Own

It's like thistle. Every time he moves his skin feels rubbed raw from the inside, sharp stinging in his hands. He's pretty certain it wouldn't be so intense if he just knew what to do.

It's been two days.

The message sits. Unanswered.

He should know what to do. He should've seen it and had an immediate reaction – the disbelief, then something like relief and excitement, or indignance and frustration.

He's still on the disbelief, waiting for something else to take its place. But there's nothing.

He knows he's not acting right, too. He's distracted waiting for this unpunctual reaction to happen, lost in his thoughts, but not deep enough to really reach anywhere important or decisive enough to do something. 

He can see Beard shooting him glances. He knows beers last night was his extended hand, the question – another one left unanswered. The team too, eyeing him when he's unfocused, each time he misses an opening for a silly joke.

Rebecca especially more than anyone he knows notices he's not right. When her smile goes unreturned because one look at her has his heart tumbling in his chest, bouncing off his lungs unpleasantly for once, his mind an inescapable loop around that disconcerting message.

The timing is so ridiculous, if it wasn't impossible he'd say it's intentional. 

They're on the brink of something, him and Rebecca. His heart pounds when he looks at her. Her eyes linger on him, her smile grows when she sees him. He flirts lightly with her and it comes right back to him twofold. And they've been boomeranging this attraction, this curiosity, this wondering back and forth for a few weeks.

They were, at least. Until two days ago. Until he got a text in the middle of the night – which now that he knows the contents of the message, he knows was a cop out, knowing he'd be asleep. Because now he can't think straight. Now she flirts with him and he misses his cue, misses a beat because that message is tearing at his skin from the back of his mind and he can't keep up. The number of times he's seen her smile falter in the last two days, or her eyes dim, confused by his sudden reticence to play with her, has been unbearable.  

He just…he doesn't know what to do.

"You gonna talk to me?" Beard asks him plainly from across the table.

Ted sighs, eyes dropping. 

"I know there's something. And it's eating you. Bad." Beard continues and Ted looks up at him again. "Is it Rebecca?"

"Why would it be Rebecca?" Ted brows come down and he starts to shake his head – except it takes half a thought to realize Rebecca is a much bigger part of this than he initially considered.

"What is it then?" Beard asks instead of answering, unwilling to be deterred tonight.

He'll feel better sharing this with him. He knows he will. 

He pulls out his phone, opens the text thread without even looking at the message, then turns the phone and lays it in front of Beard.

His brows come down immediately. And then they come down even further.

He hasn't looked at it since the night it came. So he doesn't know the exact wording but he can see it all land on Beard's face with a shock.

His eyes are troubled when he looks up at him, already shaking his head. "Ted."

He shakes his head right back. "I can't even make myself try to come up with a response."

Beard just repeats his name again, looking back down at the phone. "You can't actually be serious."

"You don't know how much I wish it was a joke."

Beard looks up again, his eyes on his for a long moment before he turns, "Mae!"

She responds, then, "Two more rounds over here please."

Getting drunk was not the solution. Because now he's in his flat with a passed out Beard on his couch and a weak resistance against answering with any one of a number of responses. None of them helpful or productive. All of them petty and vindictive. Because now he's sitting in bed, reading the message for the second time and wishing it would just vanish before his eyes. 

His solution? His very helpful and productive solution? 

Tossing his phone across the room to bounce off the wall and land somewhere by the door. 

He dreams of red and white checkered linens. 

The cheap kind his mama always had, the kind he had. The perfect kind for spreading on grass to impress with a picnic and for laying over the tailgate to wait for fireworks and for draping over the patio table for a birthday party. The ones that exist in the periphery of a thousand memories, from beneath piles of sympathy casseroles to the pattern of young love, a joyful holiday, a happy family.

In his dream, it billows like a curtain, moving beautifully, full of mysterious potential – when he grabs the end of it, it falls to the ground emptily, hanging limp. He grips the fabric in his hands and the threads pull apart in a messy tangle, his fingers pushing right through and then it tightens until he can feel unbearable pressure in his hands, like they're ready to pop.

"What the hell happened to your phone?" 

He looks down at the shattered screen. Even the back glass is a spider web of fractures. 

He forgot – he's been trying to keep it to his pocket, avoiding that very question simply because he just genuinely doesn't like lying. But he'd meant to send her some notes yesterday afternoon and bringing her biscuits up this morning reminded him he hadn't. 

"Oh, I dropped it," he says, settling on the sofa across from her. "Damn things are slippery."

It's half a lie – he remembers it coming out of his hand with a little more force than a drop but it's close enough. 

"Did you drop it in a blender?" is what she's saying when he climbs out of the spotty memory of last night, but he misses the chance to respond when he realizes he should, at the very least with a grin.

"We'll have to get you another," she says, her tone shifting slightly, eyes dropping to the phone. "You sort of need a functional one to do your job."

"It's functional," he argues, swiping up and down his emails in demonstration, tilting it down so she can see it works.

She hisses though, reaching down and catching his hand in hers.

"No, don't," she says, turning his hand in hers. "Christ, you're going to slice your fingertips to bits."

He takes the slowest, quietest deep breath he can as she cradles his completely uninjured hand in her own, brushing her thumb over the pads of his fingers. It's almost soothing, the softness of her skin like calamine to the sharp, constant tingling beneath. 

"Oh, you know what? Hold on."

She releases his hand as she stands, stepping to the cabinet behind her desk. He flexes his fingers as he watches her opening drawers and digging through them.

"Here," she says, straightening up with a small envelope in her hands and a little smile of victory.

She sits again, closer to the corner, closer to him, and steals a bite of biscuit before she opens the envelope. She pulls out a screen protector and all the necessary little accessories for putting it on. She takes his phone, locking it and laying it on the coffee table before she goes about putting the protector on. 

"I don't have one for the back unfortunately," she muses as she wipes the screen. "Is that even a thing they make? Hmm."

"I dunno," he mumbles, just watching, letting her put it on his phone. 

"God, I suck at this," she says as she tries to align the protector and smooths it down. "But it'll help until you get a new one. I'll order it today."

"I can buy my own phone, Rebecca," he says, his tone teasing and she looks up with a smile at hearing it. 

"Yes, but will you is the question." 

He tips his head, lifting his brows in a probably not.

She chuckles, waving a hand, "It's nearly a club expense anyway." She wipes the phone again with the little cloth, then hands it to him with a satisfied smile. "There. It looks annoying but at least it won't hurt you. Just mind the back."

The screen protector is on there crooked. He smiles at it. 

"Thanks," he says softly. "I appreciate it."

She shrugs and nods, already looking at her laptop on the cushion next to her, a biscuit pinched in her fingers. 

"What color do you want?"

He just shakes his head, finding his eyes tracing her profile, feeling the prickling along his skin acutely. 

He wants to take her hand again, make it stop. 

"You pick."

He finally looks at it again, discomforted to find it hasn't vanished. Or resolved itself. That there hasn't been a follow up gotcha! or you know what, nevermind. 

But now he looks at it through Rebecca's gifted screen protector and it feels like it's protecting a lot more than his fingertips. Like it's containing all the unpleasant feelings within and keeping them far from him, where he can pluck them out one at a time to be turned over.

And it's easier to read this time. Less unsettling, less shocking and more just plain tiring.

I have been agonizing over whether to do this or not but I can't bear to not try. Ted, I miss you. I think I made the worst mistake of my life letting you go.  

"I'm not gonna lie to you, Beard, I really thought you might have some sage advice for me the other night."

He looks at him across the desks, the locker room dark, the team and staff all long gone.

"Then I won't lie to you, Ted, and tell you I don't know that I can relate enough to give you anything but an outside perspective."

Ted feels his hands claw into his palms, disguising the action by cracking his knuckles. "Your perspective is one I always appreciate, my friend."

Beard pauses, tapping his fingers along the edge of the desk. "You're different since your divorce. Even having known you as long as I have, Ted, I don't think I've ever seen you so…settled. So comfortable with yourself and your circumstances. Even the hard things you've learned about yourself feel like things you never would've had the space and security to try to deal with, with everything you were holding in, everything you were forcing back then."

He can't disagree with him. What he's saying feels true. 

"Did that have to do with her?" he proposes, then lifts a shoulder. "I don't know."

He doesn't know either. Maybe he could take this settled feeling and it…it would rebuild even better than it once was. And maybe it would all dissolve in his hand.

He knows which feels more likely to him.

"And if I'm being honest with you, Ted," Beard says. "I don't trust her. Not with your heart, not again."

Ted drops his eyes to the desk, shaking his head slightly. He doesn't really either, but– 

"I wanted this," he admits quietly. "When I came over here. When it all started to fall apart, all I wanted was this. It feels like such a disservice to myself to not even think about it. Not when he wanted it so badly and somehow I ended up with it."

"Ted," Beard says. "For all the change you've had, all the new highs and lows, all the people and experiences that have affected you just in the last few years? You're allowed to want something different."

Beard stands, starting to pack his things up as Ted's eyes fall to his phone on the desk. The message inside haunts him, but right now he's seeing the tiny corner of screen protector that extends just a little too far past the screen.

"Frankly, Ted," he says. "I really hope you do."

He talks to Henry everyday. And he hears her voice in the background and doesn't feel much of anything but the odd familiarity of something he knew a long time ago, but can't quite figure out anymore.

When he was trying to reconcile his divorce with his broken heart, he forced himself all the time to notice all the ways he was hurt by Michelle. The being too much, the exasperation, the I'm trying to love you again, how steeply and overwhelmingly she just didn't want him anymore.

Now, though, with that message heavy on his mind, opening doors he'd not only shut, but fully dismantled, he thinks of before. Before she fell out of love with him, before she got sick of him. When it was good, when they loved each other and got married and had a little boy, when he never imagined he'd ever lose the title of husband.

That's the thing, though – he did. And he would've very happily kept it. He would've loved her forever, he never would've wondered if it was barely scratching the surface the way he does these days, with new feelings reaching so much deeper. He was in it for the long haul, better or worse, nothing insurmountable. But she wanted out. She said letting him go was her mistake, but he's the one that let her go, because she wanted free, but wouldn't just leave him, staying until his tired heart couldn't take anymore. She's the one that wanted something else. 

And she's changed her mind again? Decided every little thing she stopped liking about him, every nuisance that built up into not being able to stand him is inconsequential now? Like her falling out of love with him wasn't something he witnessed with his own eyes, felt in his own heart?

"I need to tell you something," pushes from his throat in a painful gasp.

"It can wait, Ted," she murmurs, squeezing his hands, green eyes nothing but concern as his lungs fail him repeatedly. "Just breathe."

He shakes his head, almost rambling. "It's all the time this week, I'm always this close to losing it, I can't–”

"Shh, Ted," she says, her voice firm, comforting in its steadiness. "Whatever it is, we'll get there. Right now, just breathe."

She releases his hand and hers lands on his cheek and a breath hitches out of him, sharp and burning.

He'd been coming in from practice. And absolutely nothing happened, but suddenly the thistle was in his lungs and he needed to be somewhere, anywhere this wouldn't be witnessed. His office would be surrounded by players and coworkers and his feet were carrying him up before he could think of the bathrooms, the stands, back out to the pitch. 

He caught her just leaving her office and she was blurry with the tears in his eyes, but she took one look at him and pulled him inside, dropping to her knees in front of him at the sofa.

And now his thoughts are a highway pileup, crashing together one after another. 

I need to text her back –

–keeping secrets– 

– why am I even taking this long–

how dare she even–

Rebecca presses their hands to her chest, the back of his against her sternum where he can feel the expansion of her lungs and borrow their rhythm.

–makin' her comfort me when I haven't even told her–

"It's alright, Ted," she reassures him. "It's okay."

It doesn't feel okay.

He focuses on her voice, tries to let it drown his thoughts, focuses on her hands on his cheek and wrapped around his palm and how nice it feels to be comforted so fully and his racing heart finally stops scaring him with its speed, his thoughts stop overlapping into incoherency.

"There you go," she soothes when he finally gets a breath. 

The bend of his neck deepens with each successful breath as his muscles bleed tension, until his head is hanging, and he hardly notices when her forehead presses against his. She's just finally as close as she feels.

"It's okay," she breathes, her thumb soothing his cheek before moving to the back of his head, stroking his hair.

He breathes in deeply through his nose and whatever it is that makes her smell so nice invigorates his lungs even more.

"Thank you," he exhales. "Thank you."

"You're okay," she reassures – though which of them she's reassuring he isn't certain.

He can't shove this down, bottle it up, forget about it, ignore it. It's not something that will just go away, not when they have a son to co-parent, a reason they need to be able to talk to each other for the next couple decades.

"Just breathe, darling," Rebecca murmurs. And he does.

He didn't tell her. 

He can't. He has to answer first, he has to be able to tell her what he's responded with at the same time. He can't say oh, my ex-wife wants to get back together and then tell her no, I don't really want her back, but yes, I am paying respect to the man that dreamed of this by actually trying to sit with it.

He values her opinion so much in all things and she thinks so differently from him, he wishes he could get her thoughts. But he fears telling her in a way he doesn't quite understand.

He doesn't want to lose her. Ever.

And that dedication to her brings him even more resolution that he even realizes.

He finds a new unexpected and yet totally obvious source of support when Leslie steps into his office.

"Higgins," he says, sounding like he's had a revelation, like he hasn't seen the man in years.

"Ted," he says, matching his tone. 

If there is one thing he trusts from Leslie Higgins, it's thoughtful words on relationships. 

"Can I borrow your ear?" 

He doesn't know what he's come down for but he's always very willingly distracted.

"Of course," he says and Ted stands, closing the door to the locker room.

Higgins watches with interest, moving to half sit in the little window to the gym and Ted resumes his seat, spinning his chair and pulling out his phone.

"I want your thoughts on something," he says as he finds the message, then holds the phone out. "Just react, alright? Won't hurt anything."

"Good grief, Ted, what'd you do to your phone?" he remarks as he takes it.

He doesn't answer, letting him read the short message, as well as the Ted, please just answer me, with anything. Please. that he'd woken up to yesterday, which is what he imagines had his hands cramping and his lungs failing. Not the nevermind follow-up he was hoping for.

"Wow," Leslie says flatly. "Wow."

He hands the phone back slowly, shaking his head a little bit. His brow is knit as he looks up at Ted.

"Ted," he says with shock and sympathy.

Ted exhales a little bit looking at Higgins, knowing he might be able to imagine how unsettling this is. 

Rebecca would get it even more, a voice supplies from the depths of his mind and he shuts it out with a clench of shame and focuses on Higgins.

"You don't just think you've fallen out of love with someone, after more than a decade together, to the point of divorce, and then decide in a couple years you might've been wrong."

Ted feels himself relax somewhat to hear someone else say it. To get the support of a caring, respected voice that he's not crazy for not jumping on this the way he might've a few years ago. Beard's thoughts were immensely helpful, but he's never been one to interfere or voice his opinions on his love life, especially since they just have different wants when it comes to that.

"Don't…" Leslie shakes his head again. "I doubt she misses you, Ted, if I'm being honest. Just being loved by you. Because you're good at it. Better than most."

He nods, then shakes his head. "I haven't been able to even…it's frustrating. I get speakin' your truth, but I moved on and now she's digging around at very old happy memories and a lot of heartbreak and just stirring it all up."

Leslie hums with acknowledgement, looking thoughtful, if still a little taken aback. 

"Maybe that's a good thing," he muses, lifting a shoulder. "If there were too many ashes hanging around. The wondering and the what if and the maybe we could've that lingers when people part. Maybe it's a good chance to air them all out with yourself."

Maybe. Maybe he had more ghosts in his head than he thought, and this just brought them into focus, living lives where different choices were made and different paths were taken. The kind that make him wonder if there was a right one, one that's supposed to be but isn't.

There's not. There's no right one, just the one he's on. 

And the view from this path is so stunning, he couldn't regret it if he tried.

"I think you deserve a lot more than trying to drag something back to life from the past, Ted." 

He brings Leslie back into focus and gives him a nod, feeling…lighter.

"Onward," Higgins adds, lifting a fist.

Ted gives him a grateful smile then takes a deep breath, looking down at the phone, then back up at Higgins. 

"Thank you," he says, reaching out and squeezing his knee. "I appreciate you, Leslie."

He opens his mouth to respond as Ted retreats, but footsteps, then a voice at the outer office door stops him. 

"There you are, Higgins." He looks up to find Rebecca coming in, giving them both a smile. "We having a little meeting of the minds?"

He starts to answer, but Leslie's just a hair faster.

"Just giving a little advice on the Michelle situation."

Ted's stomach drops. 

He turns to Higgins, but he's looking up at Rebecca, and when he turns to her, she's looking between them both, brows drawn. 

"What's happening with Michelle?"

"It's–"

"The whole her wanting Ted back thing."

Fuck.

Rebecca's face goes slack. She turns to him, eyes bright with too many emotions to identify as they meet his own.

"What?"

He takes a deep breath, his heart trembling a little as he lifts the phone, handing it to her to let her read it. 

He's in it now. 

For the first time, he doesn't feel so unprepared to talk to her about it.

She takes the phone, finally looking away from him. Her lips tighten and her nostrils flare as she reads it, her face hardening. He feels like he's swallowed an entire quarry of rocks as he watches her look at it for way longer than it takes to read it.

She hands it back to him, her eyes on the phone, not him. 

"Right," she says, voice tense. 

She gives him a glance, eyes jerking away like it hurts. 

"Right. Excuse me."

No. No, no, no.

Ted's heart pounds harder as she makes a hasty exit and Leslie looks horrified when he turns back, finally catching on.

"She didn't know? Ted, I am so sorry–"

"It's alright," he reassures him as he tears himself out of his seat, then out of the office. 

She should know. She should've known and she should've known it from him.

He climbs the stairs two at a time, his phone still in his grip as he races after her. He steps into her office and she's standing behind her desk, her fingers gripping the back of her chair like a lifeline, staring sightless out over the pitch, face tense.

"Rebecca–"

She turns to him almost with a start, her spine straightening, working her jaw before she speaks. 

"It's probably a good thing you didn't ask my advice," she says, not quite managing to keep her voice sounding normal. "I doubt you would've liked the choice words I'd have about your ex-wife."

She looks around at anything but him, almost like she's lost, or trapped, closing her laptop, then turning to collect her teacup, taking it to the credenza. 

"I'm sorry–" 

"No," she says, the word bursting from her like she can't stop it, her composure breaking. She almost slams the mug down, turning to him, eyes fiery, brows knit. "No. She's right, she did make a big fucking mistake, but she's the one who didn't appreciate you, who had no idea what she had and she doesn't get to just snatch you back up from us when she hurt you!"

She looks away from him, her fingers spread wide at her sides in frustration, and it looks like an admonishment to herself, an I knew it, an I told you so, a never should have let myself when her eyes clench shut and she barks out a, "Fuck."

"Rebecca, I'm not–"

"That is not fucking fair, to anyone, especially y–"

"Rebecca! I'm not getting back together with my ex-wife."

He's not. He doesn't want that. He hasn't for a long time and he's better off for not wanting it. He wants something different, something more, something so much closer in every way.

Something in him shifts, settles into place.

She stops, chest heaving as she looks at him, giving him a tiny shake of the head. 

"You don't even sound like you believe that, Ted. Why would I?" 

"I do believe it," he says with conviction.

"Then why have you left it unanswered for almost a week?" 

She turns away and she's right. His phone is still in his hands, and he lifts it and types out his response. And when he sends it, it's like a gust of air, in his lungs and through his mind, slamming doors shut and whisking them away, picking up ashes and taking them with it. The relief of it has a smile pulling at his lips, a deep exhale shuddering through them. 

Yes. 

Rebecca's getting her things together, her laptop already shoved into her bag, closing her notebook, but he drops his phone on it before she can pick it up and pack it away. 

"And why are you still using this fucked up phone?" she asks heatedly, almost offended. "I bought you a new one."

He knows that – the bag is still hanging on his doorknob at home. He didn't want to use it yet. He didn't want to bring that message into it, still unanswered. He wanted it resolved, so it would feel like the nice, fresh start it ought to. 

And looking at that silly crooked screen protector makes him feel cared for.  

She's looking at him, stubbornly not reading the phone in front of her. He stares back, waiting, knowing she'll either look at it or she won't. And either way, in his mind he's trying to figure out how to make her understand there wasn't any instance where he answered any differently.

She relents with a frown, bowing her head and lifting the phone to read his response.

I'm sorry you're agonizing but there's nothing I can do about it. It's not ever happening, Michelle.

Just like before, she looks at it for a long time before she looks up. Her eyes move over him and she pushes the phone across the desk – not aggressively, just sliding it with her fingertips.

"I was trying to give due deference to an old part of me," he says without looking down. "But it was no use and wasn't worth it, because that part of me is long, long gone by now."

She tips her head, then steps back, moving to round the desk again. "You…Ted, you didn't even tell me. I thought we…you and me were…"

He steps to the corner of the desk, stopping her motion with a hand on her waist. 

"We were," he says, catching her eyes as she looks up, and his voice softens. "We are. If you still wanna be. I was scared telling you would break it before it could really form. But I don't think it's nearly as fragile as I worried it was."

Her gaze moves over his face, pausing at his lips and at this close proximity, it has his heart racing in the most pleasant way possible. She turns her head slightly, her eyes landing on his shoulder and he lifts his hand from her waist to her face. He doesn't pull her back to face him, just smooths his thumb over her cheek.

"I'm sorry."

She sighs through her nose, her eyes closing, and he leans closer. He presses his lips to her cheek, just beyond the corner of her mouth. 

She's not as hesitant. She turns her head and catches his lips and his heart stops – then double times in his chest. She freezes, almost like she hadn't expected to kiss him, and then she's pressing harder and he's pressing back, his palm sliding under her ear. He tilts his head and her arms wrap around him, hands clutching almost desperately at the back of his head and his shoulder blade. 

Beautiful. Her, the sensation of her lips against his, this feeling in his chest, the settling of his heart – old bruises notwithstanding – right into her palm. 

Her lips part as her fingers claw at him, tugging at his sweater at his back. His thumb brushes her ear as the kiss deepens, his other arm wrapping around her waist. 

She breaks away with a soft inhale, tipping her forehead against his. She pulls him closer, her arm circling his shoulders. 

"She can't have you back," she says, squeezing him.

"No," he sighs, sliding his fingers back into her hair, his eyes falling shut.

She takes a deep breath, moving her lips to his shoulder, turning their embrace into a hug.

"Is this what's had you out of sorts this week?"

He nods, admitting softly, "Yeah."

Her hand smooths over the back of his head and she pulls back, the warmth of her leaving his front. He tries to read her, if she's upset with him – he doesn't expect one kiss to undo any hurt feelings. Or even confused feelings. He's hardly able to stand in judgment of having conflicting emotions. 

"Are you…" he asks her, watching her roll her lips into her mouth as her hands ease their hold, sliding down his arms, his own landing on her waist again. "If you're upset with me, I get it."

She shakes her head a little haltingly. "I guess I'm…baffled that you would actually consider it."

"It was less that I was considering it and more trying to…understand how I feel. About her, about myself, how I've changed, you know." His voice softens. "What I want now. Realizing that at some point I really, truly did move on." 

She nods after a moment.

"Plus, you know…just seeing that is so jarring."

"I can imagine," she murmurs. 

The phone buzzes on her desk. 

They both turn to look at it, Ted frowning a little bit. 

"Right. Sending a message usually means getting a response, huh?"

She hums in the affirmative, turning back to him. Her hand smooths against his sweater at his chest as she pauses, then gestures to the phone. "Would you like me to…?"

"By all means."

She releases him and grabs his phone, sitting her hips back against the edge of the desk. She looks up at him for a long moment before she turns her attention to the screen.

She stares at it, her face unchanging.

"What's it say?" he asks, frowning at her lack of reaction.

She looks up. 

"Higgins says he's sorry."

He exhales, shaking his head a little bit as she chuckles, extending the phone to him. He takes it, taking a seat in the chair next to her.

He leaves Leslie's text – he'll catch him before he leaves today, reassure him – and pulls open the thread with Michelle, just to see.

"She hasn't read it," he says, closing his messages and looking up at Rebecca. His thumb brushes along the edge of the phone, feeling the bump of the screen protector.

"What do you think she'll say?" 

He lifts a shoulder. "I don't know. I'm hoping she just hits me with an 'I understand' and lets it go. Or it's gonna get really uncomfortable trying to co-parent."

He can't help but feel Higgins is most likely right about her not missing him. He doesn't know how she could possibly really want him back after everything they went through.

Rebecca nods with understanding, but he can see deep contemplation in her face. He lets her think, his gaze falling to her hand, palm pressed to the desk at her hip, fingers curled over the edge. He can't help reaching out and sliding a fingertip over her knuckles, diving down between and back up again. Her fingers unfurl and he includes them in his mindless ministration.

"So, what…" She pauses, looking down at their hands, her voice quiet and a little careful. "What is it that you want then, Ted?"

He smiles a little bit, laying his fingers beneath hers, brushing his thumb over her perfect pale pink nails.

He wants to see her everyday for the rest of his life. He wants to let her love him and he wants to love her right back. He wants to share everything with her – his time, his space, his heart, his highs and lows. Be a comfort when life gets to her and to lift her even higher when she triumphs.

He looks up at her and she's watching him now, her eyes soft and clear. 

For now he just needs to take one step onto a new path – one he's certain will just brighten the view even more.

"I wanna take you to dinner."

He doesn't know if it's in his face or his voice or what, but her expression melts like she's heard everything he didn't say. Her hand leaves the desk, hanging with his, their fingers tangling together.

"May I take you out tonight, Ms. Welton?"

A smile teases her lips as she nods and his own grin widens. "Yes."

"Oh, lovely," he exhales. He stands in front of her, their fingers still twined, and she smiles up at him from her lean against the desk. 

"What about you, hmm?" he asks.

"What about me?"

"What do you want?"

She lifts a shoulder, shaking her head a little bit as if there couldn't possibly be another answer. 

"You."

He lets out a deep sigh, squeezing her fingers in his, his heart ballooning in his chest. Hearing that is like nothing else. And it just compounds on top of the relief of resolution and he feels so fresh, like he's washed clean of his week digging through the past and is facing forward again, looking right into a very lovely future.

He leans down and presses a kiss to her lips again, packing it full of all the reverence he has for her. He feels her fingertips land softly on his cheek as she kisses him back, tugging at his heart as if it isn't entirely hers already anyway.

"What color phone did you get me?"

He gives her a cheeky grin, bumping his elbow against her side, her hand wrapped around the inside of it as they walk through a slowly dimming Richmond. 

She gives him an unamused look. "You haven't even opened it yet?"

"No," he says. "I'm heartbroken at the thought of your crooked little screen protector leaving my life."

She scoffs. "It wasn't crooked."

"It is so unbelievably crooked," he says. "And I love it."

She shakes her head, a smile pulling at her lips, but she doesn't answer his question. 

"So…"

She turns, lifting her brows at him. "I guess you'll have to finally open it and use it, won't you?"

"Ugh," he exhales, letting his head fall back. "The suspense."

She chuckles, squeezing his arm. "We're almost to your flat."

He just grins, turning to peek at the soft smile on her face as they walk, making their leisurely way to Paved Court.

"And are you gonna come up and supervise? Make sure I get my phone set up and put to use?"

"Do I really need to?" she asks teasingly. "You're that stubborn?"

"No, but that doesn't mean I don't want you to," he chuckles.

She tugs on his forearm, straightening it out as her hand slides down, clasping his own. She gives him a smile, bumping their shoulders. 

"I suppose I better," she jokes. "Because if you come in tomorrow with that fucked up phone, I'm going to fire you on the spot."

He laughs at that as they make their way down the alley. "Just protecting your assets, then. From yourself, but still."

She does come up with him, kicking off her heels just inside his door, pulling off her coat and draping it over the armchair. He watches her as he toes his own shoes off, heart bouncing a little excitedly at her making herself at home here.

He makes the request that she continue to do so and goes back to find his new phone, still on the doorknob to his bedroom. When he steps back out, Apple bag in hand, he has to pause in the doorway. 

There's soft blonde curls hanging over one end of the couch, shapely legs dangling over the other end, crossed at the ankles, toes stretching and curling. He smiles at the sight, moving slowly as he returns to try and sear the image into his memory. 

She rolls her head against the armrest, eyes opening as he rounds the couch. 

"Why is your sofa so small?" 

He scoffs as he sits on the floor, putting his back to the front of the sofa and setting the bag on the coffee table. "You tell me, boss. Why does my furnished, work contracted flat have such a tiny sofa?"

She just chuckles and he reaches into the bag, slowly pulling the box out, glancing over at her with anticipation. "I'll remind you that I asked and you told me to pick, so it's on you if you don't like it."

"Ooh, that means it's something different," he says, whipping the bag away with a flourish. And the slim box boasts an iPhone in a deep smoky purple color that has him letting out another, "Oooh!"

He opens the box as she chuckles, pulling out the phone, turning it his hands. "Oh, that's nice. I like that."

"Yeah?" 

He turns to her, giving her a little look and a slow nod. "That is a sexy color."

She laughs at that, brushing her fingers through his hair. "I'll remember that," she says, giving him a little smirk that has his heart stuttering. "It was this or the colors they always have…black, silver, gold."

"Good call," he says, sliding his thumb over the smooth back. It reminds him of a little, caring emoji heart. "This is fun."

He plugs the phone in and gets it charging, pulling his old phone from his pocket. He hasn't looked at it all evening, his focus gladly taken up by Rebecca and just having a nice time with her. There's still no response, but if Michelle hasn't read it by now, she's probably working, which means it might be morning before he gets one. He's not really worried about it – whatever she says isn't really going to change anything. 

He gets to setting up his new phone, returning it's hello and getting a chuckle from Rebecca. She keeps him company as he enters his information and sets up different features and finally starts transferring everything to his new phone. She occupies herself by combing her fingers through his hair and he finds himself leaning into it slightly like a needy housecat. 

When there's nothing left to do but wait, he tips his head back, resting it against her side, turning to face her. 

"Thanks for the phone, boss," he murmurs, gazing up at her for a moment, then closing his eyes as her little ministrations trail to his face.

"Sure," she says softly, her thumb smoothing over his brow. "Don't drop this one."

He lets out a sigh when her palm flattens on his cheek. "Didn't drop it, exactly. Kinda threw it at the wall."

She hums like that doesn't surprise her at all and he opens his eyes. She's gazing at him with tenderness as her fingertips trace the shape of his jaw. 

"Can't really say I blame you," she says, then shakes her head slightly. He wraps his fingers around her hand, turning his lips into her palm and pressing a kiss to the warm skin there. A little smile pulls at her mouth, her fingers curling against his cheek.

"You must be exhausted," she muses. "Long week."

"Mmm," he hums into her palm, moving his lips to the heel of her hand, fascinated by the softness of her skin against his lips. "Little bit."

He trails on, kissing the inside of her wrist very gently, his eyes catching hers for a moment, just watching him, her breaths even and deep. 

"If you get sick of me and want me to go, just tell me," she murmurs.

An incredulous laugh bursts from his lips. 

"Rebecca, darlin'," he says, grinning against her forearm. "You could be surgically attached to my side and I wouldn't get sick of you."

"Well, that wouldn't be much fun," she says with a frown. "I'd hardly be able to kiss you, let alone…"

She trails off and he gives her a big, cheeky grin. "Let alone what, Ms. Welton?"

She tilts her head, giving him a smirk of her own. "You keep kissing up my arm like that, you might just find out." 

He giggles, pressing another kiss to her skin before he releases her hand and it sinks to his chest. 

"Sorry, baby," he says teasingly, turning his focus back to the phones on the coffee table. "Boss said I had to get my new phone set up." 

She lets out a dramatic sigh that makes him smile, her hand smoothing over his sweater. 

He taps through the last few prompts on the phone but it takes longer than it should. His focus is torn – she's toying with the v-neck of his sweater and the collar of his shirt. Her fingers creep underneath, encountering his undershirt and then sliding under it too, and then her warm fingers are rubbing at his chest, curling into his chest hair. 

He lets her win with a smile, leaving his phone on the table and pushing up, sitting on the edge by her hip and leaning over her, planting a hand on the armrest by her head.

She smiles wickedly up at him, biting her lip, her hands sliding down his torso.

"You are an immensely distracting woman," he states.

"Well, I haven't really succeeded until you kiss me," she says, shifting slightly beneath him.

"Oh, well, if that's all you need–" He leans down and presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Not what I meant," she chuckles.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Here?" He kisses her nose.

"No."

He kisses her cheek, then the other, then her chin.

"Ted," she giggles.

He slows, pressing his lips to the edge of her jaw and lingering there, hearing her gentle exhale. He continues down, kissing the tender skin under her jaw, and she very graciously tips her head back to make space for him. He travels slowly and with intention, kissing down her beautiful neck, his fingers sliding beneath it on the other side and cradling her like precious crystal.

Her hand sinks into his hair as he reaches her clavicle, sliding along to the notch at her throat. There isn't much further to go with her blouse at his chin and he lifts his head as she bats her eyes open, stunning green and glowing. 

Her fingers curl around the back of his head and pull him down. "Come here, you."

He doesn't think about it. All evening. The prickling doesn't persist, the specters in his head are gone and faded and he stops trying to exist in a past version of himself and just revels in the present, patiently anticipates the future.

He's realized what he wants, what he needs, and miracle of miracles, with her hands in his hair and her smile against his lips, he thinks he might just get to have it.

It's already brighter. Even from behind his eyelids. 

He sighs, stretching his limbs and feeling an unfamiliar soreness that makes him smile into the pillow. When he cracks an eye open, the sunlight is pouring through the window and the woman across from him is almost incandescent with it. 

She's on her stomach, hands shoved under the pillow with her curls tumbling over it, the lines of her shoulders drawing his eye. His smile deepens as he reaches out, pushing her hair off her cheekbone and back behind her ear.

He startles when her eye opens without hesitation, finding his, her cheek bunching up with a smile.

"You're awake," he murmurs.

"Of course I'm awake," she almost groans, closing her eyes and arching her back in a little stretch. "This bedroom somehow gets more sunlight than the entire city sees in a year."

He chuckles at that, moving a little closer, pressing his lips to the point of her shoulder.

"Never had that problem before," he says. "Think you brought it in with you."

"Oh my god," she chuckles, shaking her head at his cheesiness, pressing her grin into the pillow. He giggles a little bit, sliding a hand over her lower back under the covers. She sighs, adjusting her head against the pillow, pressing up into his hand. 

"Your phone went off a little bit ago," she informs him softly.

His hand drifts a little further up her spine, her skin warm and smooth under his fingers.

"Mm," he grunts. "I'm busy."

She just hums in acknowledgement, her eyes closing as she relaxes into the bed. He moves his hand over her back, fingertips just ghosting in places, massaging in others, pressing the heel of his hand beneath her shoulder blades. Her breathing deepens, the cadence slow and even and almost soothing sounding as the sunlight creeps over the edge of the bed.

"You have to stop," she mumbles with absolutely no conviction. "I'm going to fall back asleep."

"Okay," he says without stopping.

"I mean it," she mutters, unmoving. "I have to go home and get ready."

"Well," he says, sweeping his hand down the length of her spine, sliding up over her butt. "You better get up then."

He pinches the flesh of her ass and her eyes snap open, her body jerking as she yelps. She smacks his chest with a grin and a muttered, "Asshole," and he chuckles as she rolls to her back. 

He sighs and reaches for his phone on the nightstand as Rebecca groans with a stretch.

Emails, a text from Beard and one from Michelle. He goes for the obvious one.

No chance? At all? One more try?

He shakes his head a little bit.

That ship sailed a long time ago. And the winds aren't ever gonna be blowing that way again. 

Then, for fear if leaving any room for wondering at all–

No chance.

He resists the urge to send another apology – it's not his fault and as sorry as he is that she's getting haunted by regrets, he's not sorry that they didn't stay together.

He turns to Rebecca again, who's just watching him as he lowers the phone. He rolls toward her and pushes up on an elbow, holding it out, brows lifted in question.

"You don't have to…"

He shakes his head. "I want you to know what I'm sayin'. If you wanna know."

She looks at him for a moment before she takes it, tilting her head back and holding it out to read it, which has a smile twitching at his lips. She hands it back after a moment, lifting her eyebrows.

"I honestly can't blame her," she sighs, pushing a hand through her hair. "You just do not let go of you, once you've got…you."

He gives her a look of confused amusement and she smiles, waving a hand. 

"You know what I mean," she says. "It's six in the morning, give me a break."

"I do know what you mean and I appreciate the sentiment." He glances at the time. "But it's almost seven thirty."

"No, it's not," she says, lifting her head in alarm. 

He lifts the phone and nods.

"Fuck," she says, yanking the covers away and sitting up on the edge of the bed, looking around, then stretching for her underwear on the floor. He sits up, watching as she pulls them on, then looks around again, stretching the other way for her bra. She pulls it on and stands, clasping it as she steps towards her skirt by the end of the bed. He's absolutely riveted as she adjusts her bra, then pulls on her skirt. 

"Shirt?" she asks, spinning as she zips her skirt. 

"Living room," he supplies.

"Right." 

He chuckles as she hustles past him out the door, then comes right back in, tugging her blouse on. 

"I have a meeting at eight thirty," she explains, straightening her blouse and pulling her hair from it as she steps to the edge of the bed and leans down, taking his face in her hands to kiss him. He kisses her back, smiling a little bit, squeezing her wrist.

"Sorry," she mutters against his lips. "I didn't realize it was so late."

"No, get goin'," he grins. "I shouldn't have kept you up all night."

She chuckles, palms sliding down his neck. She presses one more kiss to his lips then straightens up, making her way to the door. 

"I'll see you later," she says, twisting, walking backwards a step to smile at him.

"Yes, ma'am," he chuckles, watching her go, then listening as she gets her things and gets out the door.

It's quiet once the door shuts. He sits there on the bed, covers half hanging off from her hasty exit, sun still blazing in, and there's a calm happiness just hanging in the air around him. All he can do is sit there for a long minute and enjoy it – the sunshine, the alive ache in his body, the feelings in his chest, the lack of prickling under his skin. 

He swings his legs over the bed to stand, but he pauses – the tin on his nightstand catches his eye, glinting in the light. The one still housing his wedding ring. And all he can think of as he looks at it is the hard acceptance and unsettling despair of the man that put it in there, still too clouded with the ending to imagine any possibility of new beginnings just ahead, waiting for the air to clear. 

The corners of his mouth twitch up, feeling so starkly the difference in him from then to now.

His phone buzzes on the bed and he turns, hunting for that hint of purple in the sheets, and his smile grows when he finds it.

Forgot to tell you, you really take the cake for sights to wake up to 💜

He huffs a laugh, then taps and holds the message, picking the little heart reaction as another message appears.

Going to need that kind of start to my day from here on out I think .

He sighs, smiling down at the phone and shooting off a response before he stands to get ready for work.

Gladly.