Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

 

I want to know every part of you,
every scar,
every bruise,
I want to trace the map of you,
my fingers a compass,
your freckles the constellations
which in my heart I will chart
so when I close my eyes
I’ll have you in my stars forever.

– Atticus, The Dark Between Stars

 

_______________________

The knock is light, almost ceremonial at this point. He never waits for the answer anyway, not that Rebecca minds.

Ted leans into her office, his grin already in place.

“Gooood morning, Boss.”

He steps fully inside, arms spreading wide like he’s about to address a stadium instead of a single person.

“I considered openin’ with a full Good Morning, Vietnam! situation, but I figured that might feel a tad aggressive for a Tuesday.”

Rebecca looks up.

There it is – the familiar curve of her mouth. It’s a bit smaller than usual, but it still feels real, and her eyes have that little twinkle. He feels like he hits a bullseye every time he manages to draw that look out of her. He thinks of what to say the entire walk to the club, every day. Not that he would ever admit it. 

But today, he knows right away that something is off.

He moves closer to her desk, and sees the slight pinch of her face. The light in her eyes is not as bright as usual. And when he holds out her biscuits, her hand is slower than usual. Her fingers linger on the box by his, but he forces himself into the chair across from her desk like always.

As she opens the box, she presses two fingers lightly to her temple, almost absentminded, as though she hopes he won’t notice.

But he does and his grin softens at the edges. He finally takes moment to look around her office. 

Half of the overhead lights are off. Only the desk lamp glows, casting the room in a warmer, dimmer light. That’s definitely new. She usually prefers brightness in the morning and saves the soft light for when she’s working late.

Ted watches her blink. Once. Twice. Slower than usual, like it takes effort.

He keeps his tone light. “Going for ambiance this mornin’? I feel like I should’ve brought a string quartet.”

“It just felt… bright,” she says with a shrug. 

They fall into their usual morning routine — updates about training, a mild dig at Higgins’ tendency to over-apologize in emails.

“He knocked on my door earlier to ask if it was a good time to ask if it was a good time.”

Ted exhales softly through his nose. “That sounds like elite-level courtesy. Almost midwestern if you ask me.”

“He looked genuinely relieved when I said yes.”

“Pretty sure he’d RSVP to a fire drill.”

She lets out a real laugh at that. It’s softer than usual, but genuine.

“I think somethin’s goin’ on with Beardo. He was pretty weird yesterday.”

“Jane?”

“Nah. I mean, yeah. On, off. I can’t keep it all straight. But different weird. I don’t think he’s sleepin’. He did this once back in college.”

“As in on purpose?”

“Oh yeah. Like a self challenge.”

“That man is so bizarre. It’s like he goes out of his way to operate differently than the entire human race.”

“Yeah. He’s a good guy though.”

“I’m certain he doesn’t actually sleep. Just goes into a meditative state and recharges like a particularly intense appliance. I told you he was sleeping with his eyes open at that away match last season.”

“That tracks. I once found him watchin’ film at 3 a.m. He blinked at me like I was interrupting him.”

“I suspect time functions differently for him.”

Rebecca is sharp and present. But the conversation definitely feels like it's taking a considerable amount of effort.

Down the hall, a burst of laughter rings out. Her shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly before she pulls them back down. She smooths a hand over a crumb on her desk.

“You alright?” he asks, gentle enough that it could pass for idle concern.

“It’s nothing,” she says smoothly, pulling a biscuit from the box. “Just a headache.”

It all makes sense to him now. The slight tension around her eyes, the way her jaw sets and releases.

She takes a bite, chews, and swallows deliberately. Then she opens her desk drawer and retrieves the small bottle she keeps there.

“I haven’t eaten yet,” she adds, as if anticipating him. “I was waiting to take something until I did.”

“Hold on now.”

Her brow lifts slightly.

“You do know,” he says carefully, “that you can eat breakfast before I arrive with my biscuit delivery?”

A faint, almost offended crease forms between her brows. “I do know how mornings work, Ted.”

“Just checkin’. ‘Cause I would feel real bad if you were sittin’ up here starvin’ like some Victorian heroine waitin’ on a suitor with scones.”

Despite her headache, her mouth curves. “I was not starving.”

But she leaves off the question she really wants to ask. Are you a suitor?

He studies her, still a little concerned. “Teasin’ aside. You don’t have to wait on the biscuits.”

“I know,” she says, gentler now. “I wasn’t waiting because I had to.”

He tilts his head.

“It’s simply…” She gestures vaguely to the box between them. “Routine.”

“Routine,” he echoes.

“Yes. I like starting my day this way.”

The words land quieter than she intends. He feels that one somewhere deep in his chest.

“Oh?” he asks, light but not entirely.

She meets his eyes for half a beat longer than necessary. “With the biscuits,” she replies smoothly.

But the corner of her mouth gives her away.

Ted nods solemnly. “Well. In that case, I am honored to be part of a balanced breakfast.”

He watches as she taps two tablets into her palm. She lifts her tea with both hands. There’s the faintest tremor — or maybe he imagines it. He can’t seem to stop himself from dramatizing her discomfort. He wants to help her. Ease the pain, the outside factors that might make her feel worse. 

She swallows the pills and closes her eyes for a moment afterward, breathing through it.

When she opens them, she looks at him directly.

“I promise, Ted. It’ll pass.”

There’s something almost apologetic in it, as though she hates the idea of being perceived as fragile. As though competence is something she must maintain even here, even with him.

He believes her. Mostly.

“Okay,” he says gently. “We trust in modern medicine.”

“And carbohydrates,” she adds.

“And carbohydrates,” he agrees solemnly, nudging the box closer to her.

They talk a little longer. He keeps his voice softer than usual. He lets the conversation settle instead of filling every silence. He’s careful not to laugh too loudly, careful not to let his chair scrape the floor.

Rebecca notices, like she always does when he does something for her benefit.

She notices the way he adjusts himself around her without commentary. The way he leans back instead of forward like he usually would with excitement. The way his eyes flicker to her face when the hallway grows noisy again. And something in her chest warms at the quiet reassurance of being accounted for.

It’s subtle, the way things have changed between them. Not dramatic. Just closer. Easier. The kind of closeness that grows from a hundred small, intentional choices.

When he finally stands, he smooths his hands over his thighs.

“Well,” he says, “I’ll let you get back to bossin’.” She manages a small smile at his comment. 

“I appreciate that.”

Ted walks to the door but hesitates instead of leaving.

“I’ll come up and check on you later. See if you need anything.”

“That’s unnecessary,” she replies, but there’s no bite in it. “It’s just a headache. You don’t need to waste your time on me.”

He nods once, but he doesn’t move.

His hand rests on the doorframe, thumb tapping lightly against the wood. When he turns back to her, the teasing look is gone from his expression

“I know,” he says quietly. “I just…I’m gonna check anyway. If that’s alright, Rebecca.”

Her name lands softer than usual. 

She feels the way his gaze holds on her and she understands it isn’t about obligation. It isn’t about being her coach or her employee. It’s about him wanting to. About the way he looks at her like she is worth the time it takes to look.

And she realizes, that this is for him as much as it is for her. He wants to be the one who checks. Who notices. Who shows up.

The thought makes her feel something she isn't ready to examine yet.

“Alright,” she agrees quietly.

He gives her a small smile — not the big, dazzling one. Just the one that belongs to her lately.

“Okay. And Rebecca? You could never be a waste of my time.”

He steps out, closing the door gently behind him.

And from the other side, she presses her fingers to her temple again briefly before straightening in her chair and forging on.

The medication will kick in soon.

______________________________

The medication does not kick in.

It lingers at the edges of her pain instead — dulling nothing, only offering a moment of peace before the pain resurges.

Rebecca makes it through two emails before the light begins to sharpen again. The edges of the desk feel too defined. The sounds of the building settle behind her eyes.

She closes her laptop.

The overhead lights go first. Then she lowers the blinds halfway. She leaves only the lamp on her desk, the warm light not as offensive. Yet. 

She tells herself it’s fine.

Escalated, perhaps, though still manageable. Taking a break will help.

By the time the nausea and blurry vision creep in, she’s already moving to the sofa.

She leans forward, elbows on her knees for a moment, and covers her eyes. Pressure helps sometimes. The pulse has settled deeper now, and it's becoming insistent. Her jaw tightens against it. She swallows carefully, trying to keep everything calm. 

But the stabbing at the base of her head has started and that is a pain she can’t manage on her own. 

It will crest.

It always crests.

There’s a light knock on her door, and she almost laughs at the predictability of him.

Rebecca leans back and tries to block out more of the light. And though the sofa catches her, nothing about her posture is relaxed. She places a hand on her stomach hoping to quell the wave of nausea, but she can’t summon the volume to tell him to come in. 

Ted’s voice is soft, and she knows he’s taking in the state of her office. The lights, the blinds, her presence on the sofa. 

“Hey.”

She pulls her arm down from her face and manages to peel one eye open to see him. 

From the doorway, he takes her in carefully. The blinds are half-drawn but probably not enough for how uncomfortable she looks. The overhead lights are off, but the desk lamp is still on, too bright for someone lying down. She’s folded in on herself, and one hand is pressed flat to her stomach, the other shielding her eyes.

He closes the door gently behind him, trying to mute the hallway, and crosses the room. He reaches for the lamp first, clicking it off. Then he adjusts the blinds another inch, cutting the harshest line of daylight. 

Her skin looks a touch paler. There’s a faint sheen along her hairline that wasn’t there before.

“Ted,” she says, but the word takes longer to arrive. “You really didn’t need to.”

“I know,” he replies softly. “But I said I would.”

The contrast of him against the doorway makes her squint. She hates that he can see it — the wince she can’t quite mask, the way her jaw locks between pulses.

“I’m…fine,” she insists.

The sofa tilts slightly when she shifts her weight. The nausea swells and retreats in waves. She swallows again.

Ted watches Rebecca press her fingers into her temple briefly. Much harder than this morning. And he notices how high her shoulders seem despite her attempts to push them down every so often. 

“That medication not doin’ its thing yet?” he asks carefully.

She takes a moment before responding.

“It escalated,” she admits. “A migraine of which I probably ignored the signs. I don’t have the proper medication here,” she continues, quieter now. “I thought I could stop it before it settled in.”

“That’s why you moved over here?” he asks gently, gesturing to the dim room.

“Yes.”

Her voice is tight with the omission. She couldn’t walk any further. The nausea had stopped her in her tracks and her vision went too blurry to safely go anywhere else.

She pushes herself upright, a rush of pride making her feel the need to demonstrate competence. To prove this is contained.

But the moment she stands, the world shifts violently sideways.

The floor doesn’t move, but her balance does.

Her breath hitches and she barely reels back the rush of nausea at the jolt. 

One hand reaches for the back of the sofa and misses before correcting. Her knees wobble once, almost imperceptibly.

Ted is there in two strides placing a hand gently at her elbow and one behind her.

“Okay. Hey – ”

“I’m fine,” she tries again, but it breaks halfway through.

The pain spikes — sudden and white-hot behind her eye. A tear slips free before she can stop it, tracking down her cheek. 

“Let’s get you back down on the couch, yeah?”

She can’t manage the nod, but hums a quiet agreement.

“It’s…it’s just a migraine. I thought I could fight it off,” she admits.

“Rebecca, sometimes your body just needs a break. It’s not the end of the world.”

Ted sits with her and doesn't talk, because talking would mean she has to respond and she shouldn't have to do anything right now except breathe.

He watches her breathe and wince and breathe again, and thinks about what else he can actually do here. There's the medication at home she mentioned. He could go get it, maybe. But that means leaving her, and he really doesn’t want to leave her alone.

He thinks about what he knows. Which is not a lot, honestly. He knows dark rooms help. He knows noise makes it worse. 

He knows she didn’t admit she was in pain until she absolutely had to.

He knows she needs to get home.

Rebecca suddenly pulls her shoulders up so high they’re practically at her ears. She slams both hands to the base of her skull trying to press into it, her eyes are squeezed tight and she lets out a pained whimper that he has never heard come from her mouth before. 

“Rebecca,” he says, closer now, voice low but urgent. “Tell me. Please. How can I help you?”

The pain surges — blinding, nauseating. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes before she can stop them. She hates that part most. The loss of control.

A sob breaks loose, small and startled, like it surprises her too.

“It – it hurts, Ted.”

“Where?” he asks immediately. “Show me.”

She lifts one trembling hand from the base of her skull and presses her fingertips against her eyes, stopping at her temples, then drags them weakly back toward the base of her head. “Here. It’s –  it’s all back here, and my eyes.”

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

He shifts closer to her.

“I’m gonna try somethin’. You tell me if it makes it worse, alright?”

She nods once, eyes still closed.

He brings his hands up carefully, thumbs resting just at the base of her skull where her neck meets her head. His fingers spread gently along the sides of her neck. He presses the way he once saw a trainer do with a player nursing tension headaches.

Rebecca inhales sharply at the contact.

“Too much?” he asks immediately.

“No,” she breathes. “Don’t stop.”

So he doesn’t.

He adjusts slightly, using his thumbs to apply slow, firm pressure in small circles at the base of her skull. The muscles there are tight and he can feel how hard she’s been bracing. He wonders how long it’s been this bad before she admitted it to herself.

He softens his voice to match the motion of his hands.

“Just breathe with me, okay? Slow in. Slow out.”

She tries.

The next pulse still comes, but it’s dulled at the edges. The pressure of his hands helping to ease the pain for a moment.

A shaky exhale leaves her.

“That’s…helping,” she whispers, surprised.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Helping’s good.”

He keeps the rhythm steady, thumbs pressing, releasing, pressing again. He moves one hand slightly higher, fingers tracing gently along her hairline to her temple, applying careful pressure where she indicated.

Her shoulders begin to lower a bit.

The tears don’t stop immediately, but they do taper off. She leans into his hands just slightly.

Her breathing evens out enough that she can form full sentences again.

“It feels like -” she swallows, steadier now. “Like someone’s driving something through the back of my eye.”

He winces in sympathy but keeps his touch steady.

“Okay,” he says softly. 

He keeps up a slow, steady rhythm at the base of her skull. The pressure helps a bit. Not enough to erase the pain, but blunting it enough that she can breathe through the spikes.

“It - it’s going to come back,” she tells him. 

“Okay,” he says, calm as ever. “Then we’ll be ready for round two.”

She huffs at his certainty. 

“That isn’t how migraines work.”

“Well,” he murmurs, adjusting his touch slightly, “I’ve been wrong before. Nothin’ new there.”

Another pulse builds. He feels the muscle tighten under his hands before she even flinches.

“You said the better medication is at home?” he asks.

She nods once. “Yes.”

“You don’t keep it on you?”

“No. It’s very strong, I couldn’t take it here if I had it anyway. Besides, it wasn’t this bad this morning.” Her voice thins with frustration. “It was manageable. I’ve worked through worse.”

She can handle herself, and she wants him to know. She needs him to know. But he already believes that. 

“But it escalated,” she adds after a moment, conceding the word. “And when it does, my vision gets–” She hesitates. “Blurry. The light fractures and things aren’t quite what they seem.”

That explains the blinds. The lamp. The relocation to the sofa.

“I was waiting,” she continues quietly. “For it to settle enough that I could drive safely.”

“But it didn’t.”

“No. And it didn’t feel responsible to get behind the wheel like this.”

Ted nods slowly. “Yeah. That’s real smart.”

She exhales, almost irritated by the praise.

“I didn’t want to make it a production,” she adds. “It’s a migraine. I’m not dying.”

He hates that she is minimizing this, because if the roles were reversed she would have already sent him home or drug him out the door herself.

Ted shifts so he’s kneeling in front of her now, and he catches the pained look on her face.

“Rebecca.”

She opens one eye halfway.

“Let me take you home.”

She resists on instinct. “Ted, you don’t have to –”

“I know I don’t have to.” His voice is gentle, but firm. “I want to.”

She presses her lips together.

Another wave hits. Harder.

Her stomach lurches. She leans forward abruptly, hand flying to her mouth. She squeezes her eyes shut. Her breathing goes shallow and tight, as she tries not to let the room tip sideways again.

He rubs a slow circle between her shoulder blades without thinking.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I think we’re done negotiatin’.”

When she finally manages to open an eye again, she just nods her agreement. 

__________________________

Rebecca doesn’t argue again, and that’s how he knows it’s bad.

She willingly takes his hand and he rises slowly with her, keeping one hand light but steady at her elbow. She sways once when she straightens fully, and he steps closer without comment.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

They move toward the door carefully. He opens it slowly, already dimming his own expression like that might somehow soften the hallway lights.

The brightness makes her recoil. Her eyes squeeze shut. Her shoulders jump up toward her ears.

“Okay,” he murmurs immediately, shifting slightly so his body hopefully blocks some of it. “Easy. We’ll take it slow.”

The corridor feels longer than it ever has. Staff glance up as they pass, but Ted’s posture says everything — nothing to see here, just taking care of business. His hand remains steady at her back.

The stairs are slower.

He steps down first, turning so she can brace against him instead of the railing, and her fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulder.

Halfway down, she pauses, breathing through her nose.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

“For what?” he asks, keeping his voice low and even.

“For being… difficult.”

He shakes his head gently. “Rebecca, this isn’t difficult. I’ve seen you run transfer deadline day like an air traffic controller during a thunderstorm. Phones ringin’, agents shoutin’, Higgins lookin’ like he might faint — and you just stood there and made it all line up.”

A small smile flickers and fades from her face.

“You’re not difficult for havin’ a headache.”

When they finally reach the lobby Ted pushes open the front door. The afternoon light floods in, and hits her like a physical blow.

A sharp, involuntary sound tears out of her that she cannot swallow back in time.

Her knees buckle slightly.

“Ted.” 

Her free hand flies up to shield her eyes, but it’s too late. The brightness splinters across her vision, white and blinding. The nausea surges immediately.

“Shit, okay,” he says, instantly pulling her slightly to the side of the entrance where the building casts a shadow.

She folds toward him, one hand gripping his forearm with surprising strength. The other presses flat against her stomach.

“Just breathe.”

Her breathing turns shallow and uneven.

“I’m - I'm sorry.”

He keeps one hand firm at her back, anchoring her, the other braced around her forearm so she doesn’t tip forward.

“We’re good,” he murmurs. “We’re just standin’ here. No rush.”

Another small, involuntary sound escapes her — softer this time and she hates that he hears it.

“I hate this.”

“I’m not real fond of it for ya. But you gotta stop apologizin’ for not feelin’ well. Honestly. What's the worst that can happen?”

She pauses and considers his question, fighting through the last of the wave.

“Right now? The worst thing would be if I vomit all over your trainers.”

He chuckles, but reins in the laugh he really wants to let out. 

“Honey. I’ve got a twelve-year-old son and I’ve been a coach for well over a decade. If you think a little puke scares me, you’ve got another thing comin’.”

Her grip loosens a bit.

“‘Sides. Puke shoes just sound like a whole excuse to get a new pair. And you love shoppin’. So it wouldn’t be all bad.”

That earns the faintest, breathiest huff from her — not quite a laugh, but close enough to count.

“And I would absolutely hold that over you later,” he continues softly. “Mid-season slump? ‘Hey, remember that time you baptized my sneakers?’ So really, you’d be handin’ me leverage.”

Her eyes open a fraction despite the light.

“You’re the last person who should be using the word ‘baptized’ in my presence,” she murmurs.

He pauses. Then winces. “Okay, in my defense – ”

“You spat an entire mouthful of water directly into my face.”

“I was surprised!” he protests gently. “That was a reflex situation.”

“You choked.”

“The bubbles! You know this about me.”

Despite the pain the corner of her mouth lifts.

“And,” he adds, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “if memory serves, there was also a certain celebratory… spray situation directed my way not long after.”

She narrows one eye at him — the one that doesn’t hurt as much.

“That was strategic.”

“Mm,” he hums. “That’s just a nicer word for intentional.”

The moment sits between them. The shared history, shared humiliation, shared something else neither of them names.

Her grip loosens a little more.

“See?” he says gently. “We’re square on accidental bodily fluids.”

She almost laughs for real that time, but the wave finally begins to recede.

When she nods faintly to signal she can move, he doesn’t let go. He guides her towards her car slowly, shielding her from the light where he can.

He opens the passenger door and helps her inside — and doesn’t even crack a joke about the wrong side of the car.

________________________

Ted doesn’t start the engine right away.

“You good to go?” he asks quietly.

She leans her head back against the seat, eyes still closed, fingers splayed over her thighs for the moment. 

“Mmhmm.”

It’s about as much of a response as he’s going to get. She used most of her energy getting down the steps and trying not to share her biscuits with his trainers.

Ted keeps the radio off. No music. No chatter. He pulls out slower than he normally would — no quick turns, no sharp acceleration. It’s so different from the way he drove her around this summer. After a quick trip back to visit Henry, Ted had confided in her that he missed driving, and knowing his way around, but that Richmond felt more like home now. So they spent a day each week just driving around. She took him all over the place. Well, he took her, she just directed. Until he didn’t need her to any longer, and then she just sat back and enjoyed it. 

But she knows his preference is to drive with music on. That his thoughts can be the loudest when nothing else is filling the space. So the silence is a clear offering in an attempt to make her feel better. 

At the first red light, he glances over.

She’s holding the inside door handle, knuckles pale. Her other hand rests against her own wrist, like she’s steadying her pulse. Her breathing is shallow but measured.

He reaches for the control and cracks her window open an inch. Cool air slips inside.

“Too much?” he asks.

A tiny shake of her head. “No. That’s… good.”

He keeps his eyes on the road and his foot light on the accelerator, as he thinks about how she said I didn't want to make a fuss like sitting alone in a darkening office with a migraine that had taken her vision was a reasonable alternative to asking for help.

“You know,” he says gently, eyes still on the road, “for the record… you’re allowed to feel bad.”

She exhales slowly. “I am aware.”

“I just mean — you don’t gotta treat it like a personal failure.”

“I don’t.”

He gives her a look.

She sighs. “I don’t mean to.”

“I’m real glad you didn’t try to power through and drive yourself,” he says.

She swallows. “When I drove in this morning it was only a dull headache. But then my vision started… blurring, like I said. About an hour ago.” Her voice tightens slightly around the admission.

“And that’s why you didn't go home,” he says softly. Not a question.

“It was too late.”

“Well,” he says gently, “that is some top-tier decision-makin’ right there.”

“I stayed because I thought it might pass.”

Lie.

“Uh huh.”

“And I didn’t want to make a fuss.”

He shakes his head, but remembers her eyes are closed. 

“Rebecca,” he says, quieter now, “you could set off fireworks in the parking lot and I still wouldn’t call it a fuss.”

Her mouth twitches a bit at that.

They hit a stretch of uneven road and he slows even further, steering around a pothole instead of through it. He takes the next corner wide and carefully, but despite his best attempts, every bump on the road feels like part of her skull is being removed with a chisel.

Ted watches her jaw tighten at the bump he couldn't avoid safely. Watches her breathe through it. Watches her not say anything.

At the next light, he looks over again, because she’s gone suspiciously quiet.

She’s pressed back into the seat now, taking extremely slow, controlled breaths. Her eyes closed and her jaw looks tight.

“You nauseous?” he asks.

She doesn't respond for a moment.

“Yes.”

“Scale of one to ‘new sneakers’?”

“Nearing a shopping trip, but no official plans yet.”

“Alright,” he says calmly. “You tell me if I need to block my schedule.”

He opens the window a little bit further to let more air in.

She swallows again. “I hate being like this.”

“I know,” he says simply. “Just one more turn, then we’ll be done.”

She only nods and tries to pretend she can’t feel the pounding in her head.

_____________________________

Once Ted gets Rebecca out of the car and inside, he helps her up the stairs. He doesn’t think she actually opens her eyes once, just grabs the railing and hoists herself up, following the risers with muscle memory. She squeezes his hand every once in a while, and he keeps the pressure firm on her back with his other hand so she knows he’s right there. 

When they finally get to her bedroom, Ted looks around the space. It’s as pristine as he expected, with everything he knows about how she likes to keep her house. But this room is much warmer, inviting even. It feels so much more like Rebecca than the other spaces. 

There’s a thick throw folded neatly at the foot of the bed, pale blue against crisp white sheets. A faint scent of something floral lingers in the air — not perfume exactly, but something that he immediately connects to Rebecca. There are books stacked on her nightstand, not arranged for show but clearly in use.

“Alright, let’s get you over on the bed, yeah? Lights are all off in here if you wanna try openin’ your eyes at all.”

She manages a nod, and then lifts an eyelid as little as possible to test the light. 

“Thank you. For getting me up here.”

“No sweat. Here, sit on down, and just point me in the direction of those meds.”

He guides her carefully to the edge of the mattress, one hand steady at her elbow until he feels her weight settle fully. She exhales as she sits, shoulders sagging forward like she can finally accept her fate today. She presses one hand lightly to her temple.

“They’re above the sink. Prescription bottle.”

“Got it. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

He steps into the en suite and fortunately manages to find the softer vanity light instead of the overhead. He finds the prescription bottle easily, scanning the label to double-check the dosage. 

Take two tablets at onset. May repeat once after two hours if needed. Maximum four tablets in 24 hours.

“Okay,” he murmurs to himself. “These ain’t your garden-variety headache helpers.”

He twists the cap, taps two tablets carefully into his palm, then glances back at the instructions — checking the milligrams, the warnings, making sure he’s not about to overdo anything. Satisfied, he sets the bottle back exactly where he found it.

He fills a glass of water at the sink. Then, because he can’t quite help himself, he pulls his phone from his pocket and types in quick migraine relief at home. He scans over the top two articles and makes a mental list.

• Cold compress on forehead.
• Heat at the base of the neck or lower.
• Cold and heat work best in combination.
• Dark room.
• Quiet.

He considers that. For a split second he pictures those instant snap ice packs trainers keep in coolers on the sidelines — crack, shake, slap it on. He almost smiles. Rebecca definitely does not have a plastic bucket of emergency sports supplies under her sink.

Freezer, then. Probably one of those soft gel packs. Maybe he can wrap it in a tea towel.

And heat — that makes him think of a hot water bottle. He hasn’t seen one yet, but he’d bet good money someone who folds throws this neatly probably owns one. Linen closet, maybe.

He files the information away for phase two.

Water in one hand, pills in the other, he heads back into the bedroom. But when he comes back to her room, Rebecca is still on the edge of the bed. Still clearly in pain, but looking even more dejected than he expected. 

Her shoulders are slumped and her head is tilted back, a look of frustration on her face.

“Rebecca? You okay?”

She exhales shakily.

“I can’t – I forgot these fucking shoes have buckles and I can’t just slip them off. But when I bend down to undo them my head starts pounding. I just. I - hate this.”

He hands her the pills and water when she’s ready, and takes the glass back after she swallows both. Then he lowers himself down in front of her, one knee touching the carpet.

“Alright if I help you?” he asks quietly, hands hovering near her ankle but not touching yet.

She blinks at him, then nods. “Yes. Please.”

He gives her a small, reassuring smile before gently lifting a foot, resting her heel lightly against his thigh to steady it. His fingers move carefully to the tiny buckle.

“Dang,” he mutters under his breath. “You pay extra for Fort Knox security on these bad boys?”

She huffs out a laugh. 

“No. I pay extra for them to make me look good.”

Ted glances up at her as he works the strap free, brow furrowing slightly in mild confusion.

“Well,” he says simply, “pretty sure it’s not the shoes doin’ that job.”

And he goes back to concentrating on the buckle, both of them completely unaware of what he’s just done to her pulse.

He eases the first shoe off and sets it carefully beside the bed.

Her foot flexes instinctively, relief visible in the small drop of her shoulders.

“Halfway there,” he says lightly.

She hums in response, eyes still closed.

He shifts to her other foot, lifting it just as carefully, resting her heel against his thigh again. This buckle is tighter. He works it loose slowly so he doesn’t jostle her.

The strap slips free.

He slides the shoe off, and that’s when he sees them.

Three small birds.

White ink — delicate, almost hidden against her skin unless the light hits just right. They arc lightly along the outside of her ankle bone, wings mid-flight.

Rebecca feels the pause and opens her eyes a fraction.

“What?”

“Nothin’,” he says softly.

He brushes his thumb once across the outside of her ankle as he lowers her foot to the floor.

She exhales slowly. The contact is oddly soothing, a touch from him in a place she’s never felt his hands.

Then the medication hits that early strange edge — the moment where the pain doesn’t disappear but shifts.

She inhales sharply.

Ted looks up immediately. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” she says automatically.

She’s not, but she pushes her palms into the mattress and tries to stand anyway.

The second she tips forward, the pounding surges — a wave behind her eyes so strong it steals her balance. The room tilts but Ted is already moving, one hand at her waist before she can fully pitch.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “What do you need?”

"I need to get out of this bloody dress," she finally admits. "I just —" She stops. "I don't think I can stand long enough to manage it myself."

Ted pauses. He has no problem helping her with anything. But this is a big deal. He is very aware that she has handed him something here and is waiting to see what he does with it.

"Alright." No hesitation. "Tell me where to look."

She blinks.

"Clothes," he says, with a small gesture. "Where do you keep 'em?"

Something shifts in her expression. 

"Wardrobe," she says, after a moment. "Left side. There should be a grey shirt — soft one, it'll be folded. And there's a drawer at the bottom. Sleep shorts."

He follows her instructions easily, and finds the grey shirt quickly. Holds it up.

"This one?"

She opens one eye a fraction. "Yes."

He lays it on the bed beside her, then crouches to the drawer. He tries to be brief, respectful, not to rifle, before he surfaces with a pair of dark shorts.

"These ok?"

"Yes."

He sets them beside the shirt and stays where he is, hands loose at his sides. He's aware of the particular quiet in the room. The trust it has taken her just to get to this point. Rebecca Welton, who runs a football club and does not ask for help, drove herself to work this morning with a headache, and stayed at work with a migraine because she didn’t want to make a fuss. This fierce, strong woman is sitting on the edge of her bed likely unable to stand up long enough to undress herself, and she’s letting him see it.

"Okay," he says, keeping his voice easy, "what else can I do for you?"

It's the right question. He can tell it's the right question from the way she exhales.

But it still takes her a minute to work up to the response.

"The zip," she says. "And then — I don't think I can —" She stops. Tries again. "If I try to stand to step out of it, I'll fall."

"I've got you," he says quietly. "We'll figure it out as we go. You just tell me."

She nods, carefully. He helps her stand back up, and for a moment she just pauses to take in the strangeness of this reality. Ted, in her bedroom, helping her undress. Not at all the situation she'd imagined this happening in. 

"Can you turn for me?"

She slowly turns until her back is toward him. And he looks, for just a moment, at the line of her spine visible at the top of her dress, thinking about the easy way she gave him her back, and his chest does something he doesn't examine.

Then he finds the tab and draws it down. One slow, deliberate motion. He is very aware that he has thought about being in this room before. Not often. Not in any way he'd say out loud.

He’s thought about what it might mean to be close to her in a space that was hers.

But it looked nothing like this. It was never her in pain and him trying not to jostle her. It was never prescription bottles and nausea and buckles she couldn't get undone.

He sets all of that aside, because she is standing here trusting him and that is the only thing that matters right now.

His knuckles barely graze her skin and he lifts his hands away the moment it reaches the end.

"Alright," he says.

Rebecca turns back around, and feels his arms caging her in gently, just hovering around her. But when she looks up at his face, she sees that his eyes are closed. 

She almost says something.

The words form and dissolve before they reach her mouth. Because she has had men in this room who did not bother with this. Who helped themselves to whatever angle they wanted and called it nothing. Who mistook proximity for permission and never once thought to offer her something as simple as this — a pair of closed eyes, a body made into a safety net, the quiet message that he is here for exactly one purpose and it is only ever going to be her.

She almost says something, and then she doesn't, because there isn't a version of it she could say right now without her voice doing something that would give her away.

So instead she slides the dress off one shoulder, then the other. Using his arms to brace herself. She lets it fall to the ground, and his arms are still loose around her as she reaches for the grey shirt from the bed. And he keeps his eyes closed and his gaze averted while she pulls it over her head.

Ted is overly aware of her every move. It’s almost as if he can see her even with his eyes closed. The shift of the dress falling. The sound of fabric dropping away. The way her weight adjusts slightly against his arm, finding her balance. The warmth of the space between them. But he keeps his eyes closed and stays exactly where he is

When she reaches for the shorts, he steps back slightly, giving her the space to manage it. But the rush of pain is so drastic. The surge behind her eyes is so sudden and total that her vision whites at the edges, and the sound she makes is involuntary — barely anything, just a sharp exhale through her nose — but her hand flies out and finds his arm before she's decided to reach for him.

"Okay," he says immediately, low and calm. His hand is at her waist before the word is finished. "I’ve got you.”

She straightens slowly, eyes pressed shut, breathing through it. Her fingers are still wrapped around his forearm.

When the worst of it passes she loosens her grip. Doesn't let go entirely.

"I can - I'll figure it out,” she starts.

“Rebecca. I promise I won’t look. But let me help you. Please.” 

She honestly could not give two fucks about whether he looks at her right now. But the embarrassment and shame of needing his help with something so basic is making her feel so miniscule.

She keeps her eyes closed for a moment longer than she needs to.

"Okay," she says. "Thank you."

He kneels down again, holding the shorts out for her.

"Foot," he says quietly.

She puts her hand on his shoulder. He waits as she steps in, and he draws the shorts up to her knees and rises — his eyes politely averted — and pulls them the rest of the way without making a fuss.

Rebecca has to look at the wall for a moment.

She's not sure what to do with care that asks nothing back, that doesn't keep a tab, that doesn't make her feel the weight of owing something in return.

"Right," he says, straightening. His voice is a little quieter than usual but she doesn't think he notices. "Hop in, get all cozy. Well, as much as you can with that stabbing eye pain.”

She manages to lie down. But the effort alone seems to drain what little energy she has left. She draws her legs up slowly and lets herself fall back against the pillows.

She presses the heel of her hand to her brow.

Ted watches for half a second longer than he means to. What he really wants to do is just hold her, press the pain away from the back of her head, wipe her tears and frustration away. But he doesn't do any of that.

“You all set?” he asks.

Rebecca nods, already turning her face toward the darker side of the room.

She expects him to leave.

Instead, she hears his footsteps heading away from the bedroom.

Down the hall. The stairs. But there is no sound of the front door opening.

She's lying in the dark listening to him move through her house. The sounds from downstairs are unhurried. A tap. A cupboard. Something being moved. Then the faint sound of the freezer opening.

She frowns slightly, eyes still closed and she drifts a little.

The pain hasn't ebbed. The medication is doing something, but the deep throb remains, and her eyes are hot and heavy and even the slightest twitch is too much to handle.

That's when the tears come. She doesn't make a sound. Just feels the slow track of them across her temple and into her hair, and presses her lips together, and breathes.

She doesn't hear him come back in, but she feels the faint dip of the mattress near her feet and then his voice, very low.

"Hey."

But she can’t manage a response. He doesn’t ask if she's alright, because he can see perfectly well that she isn't.

There's the soft sound of something being set on the nightstand — she smells the faint cold of the compress before she feels it, and then his hand is gentle at the side of her face.

“Cold comin’ in,” he murmurs softly.

He sets an ice pack gently against her forehead.

"Cold up top," he murmurs. "Heat a little lower. Article said it should help - somethin’ about the veins and blood flow."

She exhales shakily, because if she does more than that, she’s going to fall apart. 

He doesn't comment on her tears. He just reaches past her carefully to tuck the hot water bottle against the back of her neck where it meets her shoulders, and the warmth spreads there immediately, loosening the muscles so drastically that she wants to cry all over again.

Her fingers reach up blindly and catch his wrist.

"Ted," she says. Her voice comes out smaller than she intends.

"Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Nothin’ I'd rather be doin’. Honest.”

"You can go home whenever you need to."

He pauses, trying to figure out if she's truly asking him to leave. 

"I know," he says.

After a few minutes, he pulls the bedside chair close and sits.

She wants to tell him again that he doesn't have to. That she's fine. That she's had migraines before and managed perfectly well alone and this is not his responsibility and he should go home.

She doesn't say any of it.

His hand finds the back of her neck just where the hot water bottle sits, at the base of her skull, and his thumb begins to move in slow, careful circles. The same thing he did in her office..

She's not sure when she drifts off. One moment she's aware of him, and then she simply isn't.

Her grip on his wrist loosens gradually and her breathing finally deepens.

At some point, her hand slips away entirely.

He waits a few minutes, just to be sure. Moves a small trash can next to her bed just in case. Checks to make sure she has enough water if she wakes up thirsty.

She doesn't know how much later it is when she stirs. Not quite awake, just a dim awareness of the room, and the sound of Ted, somewhere else in the house. His quiet footsteps. The distant, low sound of something in the kitchen. The smell of something comforting.

She sinks back down before she can wonder about it.

____________________________

Ted isn’t sure exactly when he decides not to leave. He just keeps not leaving, and at some point it's been long enough that it seems worse to go than to stay. He tells himself it's practical. She's unwell. The house is big and quiet and she didn't look good when she finally fell asleep.

He should go.

He stands by her front door for another minute, and thinks about her waking up. The medication could wear off at some odd hour, the house would be dark, and she could be disoriented. He thinks how nobody knows where she is. Nobody else knows to check.

He turns back around and heads to her kitchen. Everything is exactly where you'd expect it to be. He puts together a few things, options that will be there when she wakes up and needs it.

Rebecca comes downstairs in the morning and finds him asleep on her sofa.

He's folded at an angle that can't possibly be comfortable — one arm tucked under his head, legs too long for the cushions — with her throw pulled loosely over him. His phone has slid onto the floor beside the sofa. His shoes are still on, which makes her throat tighten for a reason she can't explain.

She stands in the doorway for a long moment.

The kitchen smells faintly of something familiar. There are clean pans on the drying rack. A glass of water and two of her tablets set out on the counter with two sticky notes in his handwriting.

In case you need them. Eat something first. You took the first dose at 3:30.

Soup and pasta are in the fridge. 

She stands there and reads the notes twice.

Then she looks back at him with his too-long legs, the shoes still on, the throw covering him haphazardly, and something rearranges itself quietly in her chest.

Rebecca doesn't wake him. She just makes herself a cup of tea and puts on the coffee for Ted before she folds herself into the armchair across from him, and waits.

She lets herself look at him for a moment.

He is, objectively, very handsome. She's always known this. But in the quiet of her living room in the early morning it becomes harder to keep at arm's length. She looks at the line of his jaw. The way his lashes sit. His ridiculous hair, slightly flattened on one side. All things that she has absolutely no business noticing.

Ted wakes in stages. There’s a long exhale, his arm moves and stretches. Then he opens his eyes and finds her, already there, both hands around her mug, watching him with an expression she's done her best to arrange into something neutral.

He blinks before he takes in the room. The morning light. His own shoes he forgot to take off.

"Hey," he says. His voice is low and rough and she finally feels well enough to register the way it affects her. 

"Good morning."

He pushes himself upright slowly and scrubs a hand over his face. There's a crease along his cheek from the cushion seam. He looks, she thinks privately, unfairly good for someone who slept on a sofa in his clothes.

His eyes find hers.

"How's your head?"

It catches her slightly off guard, even though it shouldn't. "Better," she says. But she knows he can see through that half truth. 

"There's usually a day after. A kind of -" she makes a vague gesture, "- hollowed out feeling. Heavy. The pain is mostly gone but my body hasn't quite forgiven me yet."

He nods, absorbing this. "Hungover without the fun part."

"Exactly that." She pauses. "I probably won't go in today."

“That sounds fair.”

“You really could have gone home.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Yeah.”

“And yet.”

A small shrug. “Didn’t feel right leavin’ you.”

“Ted. You logged the time of my medication."

"Well." A small shrug. "Someone had to keep track."

She looks at him over her mug. "The notes were very thorough," she tries to tease.

"I didn't know when you'd wake up. Didn't want you to have to think too hard about anything." He pauses. "Did you eat?"

"I slept straight through," she says. "The medication does that sometimes."

"Okay." He nods, filing it away. "So we should probably get something into you soon."

The morning sits around them both, comfortable in a way she wasn't expecting, and she thinks - not for the first time recently - about how strange it is that this has become one of her most familiar spaces. Him, in a room, with her. 

He asks about the migraine hangover with actual curiosity, not just politeness, wanting to understand how it works, and she finds herself explaining it properly rather than deflecting.

"So the medication knocks it back," she says, "but there's still — residue, I suppose. For a day or so. My brain needs to catch up to the absence of pain. Everything feels a bit muffled."

"Muffled," he repeats.

"Like the volume's been turned down on the world. Which is not entirely unpleasant, honestly. Just strange." She pauses. "It's why I can't work when I take it. My concentration is unreliable. I'd make errors. And honestly, it makes me so incredibly tired, I likely couldn’t manage anyway."

“If you’re sick enough to take that much medicine, you probably shouldn’t be makin’ yourself work anyway.”

She purses her lips, but accepts the truth of his statement.

"Can I ask you somethin’?"

She raises an eyebrow and nods.

"The tattoo. On your ankle. The birds."

Something shifts in her.

"You noticed," she says.

"When I was takin’ your shoes off." He pauses. "They’re so light with the white ink, I almost thought I'd imagined it at first."

"Most people do," she says, and means it to come out lightly. It does, mostly. But there is something underneath it, something she doesn't say. She turns her mug in her hands.

"When did you get it?" he asks with genuine curiosity. It's so Ted, wanting to know more about her. She's honestly surprised it hasn't come up before in his morning inquisitions.

"After university. Everything before felt very fixed. Very mapped out. Other people's ideas about what came next." She pauses. "And then I finished, and there was just…open road. In every direction. For the first time."

She looks down at her ankle.

Three small birds. Nobody, in however many years, has ever noticed them.

Ted found them in the half-dark, taking off her shoes, didn’t press her for information, and instead he sat with that knowledge all night.

His gaze drops to her ankle then, like it followed their discussion, and she feels it the way she felt the pause last night. His hand moves slightly, the same way it did when he was taking off her shoes, some instinct in his fingers, and then it stops. He catches himself.

She shifts slightly in the chair and tucks one foot beneath her, so she can extend the other ankle toward him.

He looks up at her first, checking.

She tips her head in a slight nod.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and looks at them properly. The three birds, white ink, wings mid-flight along the curve of her ankle bone. In the morning light they're barely there — you could look a hundred times and miss them.

He looks at them for a long moment and feels something he can't quite name. Something implicitly tied to her bravery, and her willingness to share this part of herself with him.

“I like ‘em. They look free.”

“That was the idea.”

He nods slowly, still studying them like they’re telling him something.

“Feels like they’re headed somewhere,” he adds. “Not flyin’ from. Flyin’ toward.”

Rebecca wasn’t prepared for that. She takes a long beat to just watch him.

“Yes,” she says, quieter now. “Toward.”

She pulls her foot back gently and straightens in the chair.

"Are you hungry?"

"I could eat, yeah."

"I'll make breakfast." She's already moving.

"Rebecca, I can -"

"You made dinner. Two dinners, really. It's the least I can do."

"Hey." He says it easily, not stopping her but making her pause. "I was thinkin' — I could call in, too. Let Beard take the morning at least. You shouldn't have to be on your own all day feelin' like this."

She looks at him from the doorway.

The team needs you, she thinks. That's the right answer. The sensible answer. The answer that doesn't require her to admit that the thought of him leaving has been sitting uncomfortably in the back of her mind since she came downstairs and found him still here.

"The team needs you," she says.

"Beard's more than capable of a mornin' session. Probably prefers it, honestly." He tilts his head slightly, catching the look on her face. She isn’t saying what she meant. 

"I could stay a couple hours. Make sure you're alright. Head in after lunch."

"If you're sure Beard can manage," she says, with the tone of someone being very reasonable about something.

"Positive."

"Then I suppose." She turns back toward the kitchen. "A couple of hours with company might be nice."

She doesn't see the small smile that settles on his face as she goes.

He reaches for his phone to text Beard, and then gets up and follows her into the kitchen. Because this — her, the kitchen, breakfast on a Wednesday — feels like something he didn't know he was missing until it was already happening. And he chooses not to examine that right now either.

____________________