Chapter Text
She has a headache.
He can see it in the lines of tension around her eyes, the slight pinch between her brows that’s highlighted by the soft morning light trickling in from her office window. She’s frustrated – and taking it out on her keyboard it would seem, furiously typing away and leaving him in silence since he’d ambled upstairs to give her her biscuits.
She mutters something under her breath, her mouth falling into an annoyed scowl, and Ted catches something that sounds remarkably like arsehole on the tail end of her sentence. Her demeanor is unsettling, her frazzled energy palpable in the air; most concerning, however, is the pink box that’s remained untouched on the corner of her desk.
“Hey… you feelin’ alright?”
Her typing never ceases, the only indication she’s heard him the flick of her eyes up at him over the rim of her reading glasses; the silence drags on, but still, he remains undeterred.
“You know, I was thinkin’–”
She cuts him off. “Not now, Ted, please.”
It’s when her hand comes to rub at her temple for the third time in the past two minutes, her thumb and forefinger coming down to pinch the bridge of her nose that he decides to try again.
“You sure you’re doin’ okay?”
“Ted, please, could you just…” she holds up a hand, her eyes fluttering closed as she lets out a long sigh. “Could you come back up here after you’ve finished training?”
“Oh yeah, I — yeah, sure,” he replies, nodding, voice surprisingly level. “I’ll, uh — I’ll get out of your hair then.”
Beard gives him a sideways glance when he wanders out on the pitch, brows raising slightly when he flicks his eyes down towards his watch. Ted’s sure from the frown on his face that he’s noticed that he’s made it down to the pitch about twenty minutes earlier than usual — a record by about, well, twenty minutes.
Shoot.
With the sounds of training droning on in the background, he thinks back carefully over the past week. She’d been staying with him — a big step in their fairly new relationship — her boiler dying unexpectedly and leaving her house without hot water.
“They said it was going to take at least a week to get all of the parts in — bloody inconvenient if you ask me,” she’d grumbled. “Now I’m scrambling to find a hotel that can take me without notice.”
“You could stay with me,” he’d offered, heart pounding in his chest. It felt monumental; he’d thought it was the right move… and now?
He’s worried they’re moving too fast.
For him? Heck no.
For her? Well, he’s not too sure.
It’s Roy’s voice that startles him from his thoughts “Why the fuck are you so quiet?” Ted’s head snaps to the side to see Beard reprimanding him with his eyes to which Roy merely shrugs. “What? It’s fucking unnerving.”
Ted opens his mouth to respond but Roy’s attention is already back on the team, the sharp shout of Whistle! ringing in his own ears as his eyes track his line out onto the pitch, pointing wildly as he gives direction to Jamie, gesturing for Isaac to pull in closer for the play. Beard, however, isn’t so easily distracted.
“You alright, Coach?” He waves him off.
“Oh, yeah,” he replies sheepishly, rocking up on his heels. “Right as rain. Musta got lost perusin’ with my thoughts there, sorry.” He’s not sure how he gets the words out past the lump in his throat, proud of the way his voice refuses to waver — small mercies and all’a that.
Beard’s eyes track up and over his shoulder, towards the windows of a certain office. “She alright?”
He blows out a long breath and tries to ignore the way his hands shake, balled tightly into fists and crammed haphazardly into the pockets of his training joggers.
“‘S just a headache… she’s not feelin’ too hot and just wants a little space, that’s all.” He emphasizes the words with a slow nod, his mouth pulling to the side as he tries to convince himself.
Beard frowns at him sympathetically, choosing his next words carefully. “She’s not Michelle, you know.”
And boy, if that doesn’t make his insides twist uncomfortably.
His jaw clenches and he lets his eyes drift upward, watching the fierce wind pushing the clouds in from the east, their gray features beginning to blanket the sky on the horizon. He knows Beard’s right, but dang it, she asked for space – from him. The vice in his chest tightens its grip threateningly, his next breath coming with a painful hitch.
“Yeah,” he replies lamely, his tongue running over his top teeth as soon as the words leave his lips, a bitter taste settling in his mouth.
It’s just a headache though, right? There’s nothing else goin’ on here; asking for space is a perfectly normal thing to do when you’re not feeling well. Heck, he’s been known to get a bit short when his head’s pounding. She’s not Michelle. She’s not pushing him away.
Everything’s alright.
He repeats his mantra in his head, holding onto it like a prayer.
—
His usual knock on her office door comes out stilted, awkward, and he stalls outside on her landing, waiting for her acknowledgment before poking his head into her space tentatively, weary of what’s waiting for him on the other side. Her soft call of come in beckons him fully into her office and she rises to greet him.
She looks better, he thinks -– there's a bit of color in her cheeks and the pinch between her brows is gone, the tension in the line of her shoulders has vanished. Glancing over her shoulder he can see that she has a steaming cup of tea on her desk, her customary biscuit box empty, a few crumbs remaining at the bottom. He lets out a quick sigh of relief, standing up a bit straighter, his hands finding their way to the straps on his backpack.
He breaks the ice. “You’re lookin’ like you’re feelin’ better.”
She smiles at him, honest to God smiles, and the tightness in his chest begins to abate, pushed back by the shift in her disposition.
“I am, definitely,” she replies, gesturing towards the couch. He tucks himself into the corner and she slots in against his side, her head resting on his shoulder as she puts her feet up on the cushions. He presses a kiss to her temple, draping his arm over her shoulders and pulling her closer
“I’m sorry I was a bit… testy this morning. I didn’t mean to be so short with you.”
“Nah, I get it,” he replies, carefully pinching the fabric of her blouse between his thumb and forefinger. “Never apologize for how you’re feelin’ – I’m just glad you’re doin’ okay.” She hums contentedly against him and he takes a deep breath, his eyes flicking up towards the ceiling in relief.
Everything’s alright.
“You headin’ home soon?”
“I have a few more contracts to sign but hope to be heading home in another hour or so.”
“Want me to wait up for ya?”
“You’ll do no such thing, Coach Lasso,” she replies sternly, sitting up. “If I recall correctly you have a very important match against Brentford this weekend; I need my gaffer in top form. That requires you to be well-rested.” She emphasizes with a manicured nail poking into the center of his sweater, just above his heart.
“But–”
“No buts, Ted. You’ve housed me unexpectedly for a week and I know you were in early for a coaches meeting this morning; you’re exhausted. Go home,” she instructs. “Get some rest.”
It’s almost comical, the timing of his yawn, so long his jaw actually cracks. She’s got him there.
“Alright, alright,” he concedes, moving to pick his backpack up from its place on the floor. “No burnin’ the midnight oil — I hear ya loud and clear, Boss.”
She offers him a knowing look as he heaves himself up from the couch with a groan, letting out a quiet oof when his back pops in a few places. He turns at the threshold of her office, resting his hip on the wood of the doorframe.
“Hey… we still on for tomorrow night?”
She nods, smiling up at him from her place on the couch. “Absolutely.”
“Shepherd’s pie?” he asks, quirking his eyebrow.
“With cheesy top?” she replies, her voice hopeful.
He winks, a grin spreading across his face as he casually tucks his hands into his pockets.
“Darlin’, don’t you know it.”
—
They are, in fact, not still on.
The moment Ted walks through the door to her office late the next morning he knows something is amiss. Maybe it’s in the way she’s slouched over her desk, her head resting heavily in her hands; or maybe, he considers, it’s how she doesn’t look up when he raps his knuckles on the wood.
“Hun?” he asks tentatively, something uncomfortable settling in the middle of his chest.
Her head snaps up, startled at his seemingly sudden appearance – the movement is a bit too hurried it seems, and her head tilts listlessly to the side, too heavy to hold up properly.
“Oh — Ted, hello.”
“Are you feelin’ alright?” he asks, cautiously approaching her desk. “You’re lookin’ a little pale.”
She waves him off, gesturing for him to take a seat.
He places her customary biscuit box on her desk and instead of reaching for it, she leans back, stretching her legs out beneath her desk, her hands resting on her stomach; it’s the closest she can get to reclining in her office chair. Now that he’s closer he can see the tension in her jaw, the crease between her eyebrows seemingly permanent. He frowns.
“You’re up here later than usual,” she breaks the silence, trying to make conversation, eyes still closed.
He hums glancing down at his training getup. “Storm’s rollin’ in,” he informs her, his eyes flicking towards the foreboding clouds hanging outside her window. “Tried to get the boys out on the pitch earlier this morning but no dice.
“Beard ‘n Roy are gettin’ them started on some play reviews and they’re focusing on conditioning; we figured today was good a day as any to give ‘em a bit of a break.” He shrugs, tapping his forefingers on the armrest of his chair.
There’s a beat of silence and she winces, rubbing her temples in slow circular motions.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks, quieter. “A paracetamol or somethin’?”
“I’ve already taken two,” she sighs. It’s then that she sits up and reaches for her tea, the glass sitting towards her right. The movement is sweeping, too arced, and rather than her fingers reaching for the handle the back of her hand makes contact with the cup, effectively sending it off the side of her desk.
Oh boy.
“Shit,” she curses, the same time that he hops to his feet to round her desk and retrieve her mug as it rolls away.
“Don’t worry, I got it,” he assures her crouching down, waving her off as she moves to stand. “No harm no foul — it didn’t break,” he observes, holding up the clear glass. “You got a towel I could use to help soak some of this up?” He gestures towards the growing wet spot on the carpet.
“Yes,” she sighs. “In the cabinet just over here.”
He’s glad he’s looking up because he’s able to notice her sway the moment she’s upright, her heeled foot staggering backwards in a weak attempt to steady herself. She makes an attempt to grab for her desk, her hand reaching for the polished glass, and he can feel it deep down in his gut that it’s going to happen before it does.
He surges forward, a sound of alarm barely making it past his lips before Rebecca’s knees give out, her body slumping towards the floor. He intercepts her descent as best he can, one arm wrapping haphazardly around her waist, the other aiming to cushion the back of her head. He cracks his elbow on the side of her desk on the way down, his hip hitting the floor at an awkward angle so forcefully he knows he’s gonna be sporting a nasty bruise tomorrow.
“Rebecca?” he starts, panic leaching into his voice. Her head lolls against his shoulder, falling towards his bicep when he shifts forward; his movements are a bit clumsy, his hold on her uncoordinated, and it’s hard to sit fully upright with her arms hanging limply between them.
“Oh shit, okay.” He lays her down as smoothly as he can, his hand splayed on the back of her neck, her hair teasing the tips of his fingers as he supports her head, twisting his body so that he’s leaning over her from her supine position on the floor.
Her breathing isn’t labored but he unbuttons the top button on her blouse for good measure, another hand finding her shoulder and giving it a firm shake; his breath catches in his throat when it does nothing to rouse her, his hands searching his pockets for his cell phone. He falters when Rebecca groans, brows scrunched over closed eyes.
“Oh fuck,” she moans, and well, he couldn’t have put it more eloquently himself.
“Rebecca?” The relief is evident in his voice and his hands flutter nervously by her face. “Talk to me — what hurts?”
“Jesus, the room’s still moving.” Any reminisce of color that might’ve been in her face seems to have drained, leaving behind a spectacularly ghostly pallor. She squeezes her eyes tightly closed and breathes heavily, seemingly fighting against her off-balanced equilibrium from her spot on the floor.
“Okay, let’s just take a sec,” he breathes, a hand coming up to fist at the front of his training jumper, the reverberation of his pounding heart echoing in the skin of his palm. Letting out a long breath, he focuses on releasing his clenched grip, splaying his fingers and rubbing soothingly against the tension of his chest.
He’s proud that his hands don’t shake when he reaches for her wrist, his pointer and middle finger pressing gently into the crook.
“What are you doing?”
“Debating whether I need to call 999.”
“Oh please,” she scoffs, batting at his hand weakly.
“Uh huh,” he replies unimpressed, fingers never leaving the inside of her wrist. “If you sat up right now who would win: you or gravity?” The glare she fixes him with is telling enough.
Her pulse is fast but steady, and he lets his fingers linger for a moment longer to gather his own bearings. He brings a hand up to his cheek as he considers his options, mulling over his next course of action.
Right, okay.
Rocking up on his knees, he drags her office chair across the carpet; once he’s maneuvered it into the proper position, he lifts her legs and rests them gently on the cushion, elevating them above her heart.
“This is completely unnecessary,” she mutters quietly, bracing her forearm over her eyes again to block out the overhead lights.
“Humor me, please.” He runs a restless hand through his hair before settling on the floor, his hand pressing tenderly to her crown.
“Did you hit your head on the way down?”
“No,” she replies, swallowing. “My head’s just pounding.”
He grimaces. “Room still spinnin’?”
Her so-so wave of her hand is vague and disjointed at best, but he gets the message.
He frowns. “You sure you won’t at least let me call someone from medical up here?”
“And have them do what, Ted? Tell me I stood up too quickly?”
“That’s what you pay them the big bucks for,” he offers dryly.
“Ted.”
He tuts noncommittally, shifting his legs into a more comfortable position, refusing to be persuaded either way. “Yeah, well — all I know’s that I’ve gotta have a conversation with Higgins because I can’t believe he let you take a meeting feelin’ like this.”
“He’s out,” Rebecca groans, the tips of her fingers pressing deeply into the sockets of her eyes. “Julie’s ill — she’s got the flu or something.”
“Yeah, and if I was a betting man I’d say you got it too.” He presses the back of his hand to her forehead, then her cheek, surprised at the lack of warmth there. If anything her skin feels a bit cool, maybe even clammy. The most concerning part, however, is that she doesn't even attempt to bat his hand away. He frowns, letting out a discontented hum.
“You sure it’s the flu? You’re not warm.”
She shrugs one of her shoulders in reply, one of her forearms coming to drape over her eyes again.
“Any possibility that you could’a eaten something that’s not agreeing with ya? Roy told me that you ‘n Keeley were thinking about tryin’ out that new tapas place by the river.”
“For the love of God, Ted,” Rebecca moans, hand clenching over her stomach, fisting the delicate material of her blouse. “Please don’t mention food.”
Ted grimaces from his place on the floor, brushing back the hair that’s fallen in her eyes. “Sorry,” he replies, running his fingers through her hair. “Definitely noted.”
There’s a beat of silence between them before he asks, “You gonna be sick?”
Her mouth presses into a thin line and she swallows reflexively. “I don’t know.”
He reaches behind him for the trash bin under her desk just in case.
“Want me to call Arthur?” he asks, his fingers feather-light at her hairline. “Have him take you home?”
“No, not yet.” she swallows thickly, her face paling. “Oh God — I don’t think I could get into a car right now.”
“That’s alright,” he soothes. “We’re gonna take this at your pace.”
She cracks a bleary eye. “Can I at least get up and off the floor?”
He helps her sit upright and the movement is smooth enough — but it’s the next bit he’s worried about. Standing doesn’t go as smoothly.
“Woah there,” he starts when she sways, her hand gripping his bicep like a vice, his own tightening at her elbow and waist.
“I’m alright,” she assures him, but the way her eyes are dizzyingly roaming around tells him otherwise.
“Okay,” he agrees, shuffling her forward. “Let’s do this nice ‘n easy.”
He gets her seated on the couch, her body boneless once she hits the cushions; she immediately rolls to her side, stretching out her legs and placing one of her decorative pillows under her head.
“Didn’t you wanna get rid of these?” he teases, pulling at the side of the pillow case. “Somethin’ about them being’ ‘unreasonable’ and ‘criminally drab?’ Now look who’s comin’ in handy in your time of need.”
“Shut up,” she groans back, but it’s said with a smile. Mission accomplished.
“Hey, your words, not mine.”
She shivers and he moves to retrieve the blanket he knows she keeps in a bin on the other side of the couch. He pulls out his phone and begins tapping out a message, bumping his shin on the coffee table in his lack of focus.
“Damnit,” he curses quietly under his breath, draping the blanket around her torso, typing on his phone in his left hand.
She opens a bleary eye, squinting at him. “What’re you doing?”
“Letting Beard know it’s just gonna be him and Roy for training today.”
“But–”
“Hey,” he starts, raising his hands placatingly. “It can be me or Lynn from medical — take your pick. But there’s no way in hell you’re sitting up here by yourself after taking that tumble.”
She grumbles something, her words muffled as she turns, pressing her face into the pillow. He pulls the blanket up and over her shoulders, tucking it closer to her before he settles down on the floor, stretching out his legs and kicking off his shoes. Her hand emerges from her cocoon, searching, and he slips his hand into hers; she sighs, tucking her chin and burrowing down even further. It isn’t long before her breathing evens out and she’s pulled into the throes of slumber.
He lets her sleep, his thumb brushing tender lines across her knuckles; Lord knows she needs it.
—
The grocery delivery he’d placed while she napped is waiting for them on her stoop when they arrive late that afternoon. He doesn’t let go of her hand when he bends over to pick it up, nor when he unlocks her door with the key she’d given him a few weeks back.
“You wanna lay on the couch or head upstairs?” he murmurs, helping her remove her scarf and shrug out of her coat. Her heels are next, her hands holding onto his forearms as she steps out of them, a shiver wracking her frame.
“Bed, please,” she replies, and he can feel it in the way that she’s listing into his side that she’s dead on her feet. He guides her upstairs, a hand planted firmly in the small of her back, only two steps behind her. He passes her a matching pajama set as she sits on the bed, her hands working to remove her earrings; she changes quickly, his hands hovering nearby.
Her eyes are already closed when she stretches out under her duvet.
He bushes a piece of hair back from her face then moves forward to place a kiss on her lips; a hand on his chest stops him.
“No, Ted,” she murmurs, turning her face away from him. “The match — you can’t get sick.”
Oh.
He’s pretty sure something in his heart breaks a little.
“Hey, uh — you hungry?” he asks, clearing his throat, fighting past the tightness that seems to have overtaken it. “I was thinkin’ I could make you some soup.” He doesn’t wait to hear her reply before clearing the room.
In the hallway he can breathe a little easier, pulling in a few quick breaths before he’s able to gain control of his breathing, working on slowing the racing of his heart.
In for four — hold for seven — out for eight.
She’s not Michelle; she’s not pushing him away.
They’re alright.
Right?
He decides to make a classic chicken noodle soup, taking his time pulling apart the meat and finely chopping the vegetables. Doing something with his hands, being busy in the kitchen, it feels right; it’s where he does his best thinking. Except the bad thing about making broth from scratch is that it takes a good long while – and right now it might be doing him more harm than good.
When he’s got the soup simmering on the stove he starts scrubbing the sink, moving on to wiping down the counters, then the cabinets, and pretty soon he’s digging around in the cupboard looking for her mop. He stops himself then, catching himself in his spiral by leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest.
What the hell is he doing?
“Damnit,” he sighs, thumb and forefinger pressing into the corners of his eyes to stave off the headache he can feel brewing; worrying himself in circles will do him no good. He does another round of his breathing exercises in an attempt to loosen up some of the tightness in his chest – it doesn’t help.
They’re alright.
When everything is good and ready, the cutting boards and pots washed, the dishes put away, he takes a bowl and a glass of water up the stairs. She’s sleeping when he enters, and doesn’t stir when he places everything down on her bedside table, flicking her side lamp on in the process. He rouses her by placing a hand on the side of her face, thumb smoothing the seemingly permanent crease between her brow.
“Hey, hun,” he whispers. “Brought you some soup and water. Think you could try a few bites?”
She shakes her head grimacing, pulling the blankets tighter around her frame.
“Sure you don’t want me to stay? I can sleep on the couch downstairs,” he offers.
“No, ‘s alright,” she replies. “Please go home… get some rest.”
And boy howdy does that make his heart sink.
It’s been pouring off-and-on all day, the air heavy and the wind that’s blowing in from the east slightly warm; it’s feeling he’s well-accustomed to after more than four decades in the midwest. It feels almost poetic that the heavens decide to open up on his way home, the tumultuous downpour matching the churning of his emotions.
After he’s traipsed up the stairs, toeing off his shoes and dropping his backpack by the door, he changes into a t-shirt and sweats, pulling on a thick pair of socks up and over the elastic bands at his ankles. Sitting on the couch he pulls out his phone, tapping out a quick message and pressing send.
(19:32) Let me know if you need anything, alright?
He scratches his cheek with the back of his fingers, his nails dragging along the stubble there. Quickly, he adds:
(19:32) I’m just a phone call away
It takes a couple of minutes before he receives her reply.
(19:37): 👍
Well, shoot.
—
He isn’t sure what wakes him.
It could be the rain pelting relentlessly against his window, or equally the twinge in his neck from the awkward angle he’d inadvertently fallen asleep in on the couch.
Or maybe it’s the vibration of his phone against his thigh.
His hand reaches for it, searching blindly, and it slips further down the couch cushions when he sits up properly. He squints at the too-bright screen that’s only adding to the sleep-addled bleariness in his eyes.
(23:48) Thask for I
(23:48) Is ood
He drags a hand over his face, giving the text messages another glance and this time he can confirm that his conclusion from his first pass was correct – the message is indiscernible.
He taps out a quick message and hits send.
(23:49) Is everything alright?
Yet in the stillness of his flat, the only noise the tap of rain splatter against his window and the squeak of his couch as he readjusts, he grows a bit restless. He gives her another moment or two, rolling his phone in his hands before he gives in. Opening up his favorites list he taps on her name, the ringback tone droning on in his ear.
She doesn’t answer.
Shit.
His mind is already made up, anyway.
(23:52) I’m on my way
Pushing back the tangle of a blanket from around his legs he stands, running a hand through his hair; he pulls gently at his roots for a moment, weighing his options. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, a heavy sigh falling from his mouth as he gets his bearings about him. He’s saved from his thoughts by his cell vibrating in his palm, Rebecca emblazoned across the top.
He answers on the first ring.
“Rebecca? I’m headin’ on over.”
“No, Ted, ‘s’okay,” she replies, voice muffled. “S’okay, m’alright.”
It’s something about her tone, he thinks – nine years of being a father and he’s seen his fair share of illness. Or rather it’s the cadence, perhaps the vulnerability that reminds him of the time Henry’s temperature got dangerously high back when that nasty stomach bug was going around his second grade classroom. Him and Michelle had taken him to the ER and ended up spending the night in the pediatric unit; it seemed like a study dose of IV antipyretics and uninterrupted rest had done the trick.
“No, I’m on my way,” he replies, his tone gentle. “Do you have a thermometer? I’m thinkin’–”
She cuts him off. “No, Ted — shhhhh.”
“Darlin’ I think you’ve got a real high fever,” he soothes, grabbing his sneakers from by the door and padding back over to the couch. His insecurity and own health be damned.
“But it’s alright,” he continues, pressing his phone between his shoulder and his cheek and pulling one shoe on. “I’m grabbin’ some things and headin’ on over; we can go from there.”
He has a feeling he’ll immediately be bundling her up in the back of a taxi and taking her over to the ER but he’s woe to tell her that.
“‘S cold…”
“What’s that darlin’?” He asks, swapping his phone to his other ear. He struggles to pull in his other shoe, his eyes darting around the room looking for his jacket.
“‘M cold, Ted.” He can hear her shaky inhale of breath in the other line. “My arms’re buzzing…”
That gives him pause.
“Buzzin’?” His brows draw together in confusion.
She lets out a long hum. “Can’t feel my fingers…”
His breath stalls in his chest, the bottom dropping out of his stomach.
“What?”
“I’m tired,” she sighs, and his mind spirals with the implication of this new information, the trepidation that something far more sinister is at play. His mind kicks into high gear, racking his brain through years of basic first aid training, his line of questioning becoming more urgent as the seconds pass.
“Does your chest hurt?” He can barely get the words out.
“‘S’okay, Ted.”
“No — Rebecca, this is important. Does your chest hurt?”
“It’s tight,” she admits.
He blanches, a high-pitched, jolted acknowledgment of a sound falling from his mouth, his fingers clenching around his phone like he’s holding on to a lifeline. Oh Lord — is she having a goddamned heart attack? And suddenly it’s hard to breathe.
“Oh boy, alright — that’s okay, we’re gonna figure this out.” He’s scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to composure; he knows he’s toeing the line on coming across as damn near hysterical, but dammit he’s doing his best to keep it together.
His eyes flick towards his side table, towards the landline he doesn’t have, and he’s trying to figure out how in the hell he’s going to be able to call 999 without hanging up on her, he can’t seem to find his fucking coat and then –
She giggles, honest to God giggles, and the drastic dissonance makes his hair stand on end.
“Ted? When did you get here?” her tone is dreamy, unbothered, and it’s only contributing to the growing feeling of dread in his gut.
Something isn’t sitting right.
What the hell is he missing?
The realization comes to him slowly then all at once.
Her kitchen — the goddamned boiler.
He had a headache.
Aw hell.
“Carbon monoxide.” It comes out on the tail end of an exhale, breathy, his next gasp of an inhale catching in his throat.
“Get out of the house,” he instructs, tone panicked. “Rebecca — Oh Jesus, it’s carbon monoxide.”
He slips when he bursts out of his door and onto Paved Court, the stones slick with the rain that’s roaring down relentlessly. Water rolls down his neck and his t-shirt chafes uncomfortably where it clings to his skin, and he has to push back the hair from his eyes by the time he breaks onto the grass on the Green.
There’s a flash of lightning in the distance, followed by a roll of thunder that reverberates in his bones, and yet somehow the epitome of the raw power of the Gods has nothing on the thundering of his heart in his chest.
Please Lord — not her.
“I’m almost there,” he pants into the receiver. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“S’all okay — m’okay,” she replies, and damnit he can hear the smile in her voice.
Jolts of pain flash up his legs with each thundering step, the harsh impact of his footfalls kicking up water when he stumbles through a puddle entrapped in the uneven surface of the sidewalk; he’s never run so fast in his life.
And yet somehow he knows it’s not fast enough.
He trips on the last step up to her entry way, his hip clipping the handrail as he’s thrown off balance, but he makes it to her front door unscathed, reaching for the door handle, twisting, using his momentum to carry him forward, and–
His body collides with the firm surface of the door. It’s locked.
The all-encompassing panic he’s been keeping at bay slowly begins to claw its way up his throat as he shakes the knob in his firm grip, testing the integrity. It doesn’t budge.
Taking a step back it’s hard to get the words out past the dryness of his mouth. “Rebecca, can you open the door for me?”
His key to her flat is looped on his keyring, tucked next to his own, nestled between his Sparks Card and a crocheted lopsided heart Henry made him last Summer at camp – resting idly in the pocket of the jacket he couldn’t find.
“‘M’tired,” she sighs. “In a bit.”
“No — please, darlin’,” he begs, his hand pulling harshly at his hair. “Please, you have to open your door.”
He’s met with the sound of shuffling on the other end, something brushing up against the speaker of the phone, and for a brief moment he thinks she might be getting up – that she can get up – and he listens with bated breath for her next words, for movement, for anything.
All he hears in the resounding thunk of her phone dropping to the floor – then eerie silence.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” The side of his fist connects with the door, shaking, sparks of numbness spreading from the impact sight; it’s a moment before he’s able to relax his fingers, splaying them out onto the cool wood.
He knows she can’t hear him, but he exhales shaky reassurances into the receiver. “I’m hangin’ up now but it’s gonna be okay, I promise.” Then quietly, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”
His thumb misses the end call button twice.
He takes a few calming breaths while he dials 999, tamping down against the throes of panic digging its fingers into his chest, fighting against the vice of tension squeezing his head and the dark spots appearing in the corners of his vision. His palm finds its way to his forehead before trailing down the side of his face and then to the center of his chest, his fingers clenching the front of his sodden shirt.
“Emergency, which service–”
“Ambulance.” He has to shout a bit over the howling of the wind picking up behind him. “I need an ambulance at 1 Pembroke Villas, Richmond, TW9 1QF.” There’s another flash of light behind him, and he can barely make out the tapping of a keyboard over the immediate rolling of the thunder
“Thank you, sir. What’s the emergency at this address?”
“Carbon monoxide poisoning,” he replies, a hand coming to pull over his mouth before finding its way back to his chest.
“How many people are experiencing symptoms?”
“Just one – she’s been feelin’ unwell since Tuesday,” he replies. “They boiler went out; they put in a new one and somethin’ must not be connected right.”
“What’s the patient’s age?”
“She’s forty eight,” he replies, turning to look out briefly towards the Green; there isn’t another soul in sight.
“Are you and the patient both out of the house?”
“No – God, she’s still inside,” he informs them. “I was on the phone with her. The door’s locked and I can’t get her to get up.”
“Do you know if she’s conscious?”
“I don’t know.” He thinks back to the sound of her phone dropping to the floor and the silence that followed. “Shit, I don’t know.”
“That’s alright – was she complaining about chest pains or having any difficulty breathing?”
“Yeah, she uh, she said her chest was tight… and that her fingers were goin’ numb.” There’s more typing and he has to breathe through the tightness in his own chest.
“Alright sir, I have an ambulance en route to your location. I’ve gone ahead and contacted the local fire brigade to test the levels in the house. At this time I’m going to have to advise you to stay on the line and wait outside for emergency services to arrive.”
There’s a flash of lightning behind him and for a moment the world is illuminated by a palpable rush of raw energy; the immediate rumble echoes in his chest, traveling all the way down to the vibration in his fingertips, and for a brief moment he’s sixteen sittin’ out on his family’s porch watching a storm roll in, a resounding crack of thunder overhead, his hands plastered over his ears to block out his mama’s wails.
“No,” he replies, shaking his head. His mouth pulls into a long frown and drags a hand over his mustache. “No ma’am – I’m not waitin’.”
He slips his phone into his pocket, the line still open, and for once in his life he’s thankful for the things he’s accidentally overheard coaching twenty-something-year-old men for a living; a few months back what had started as a friendly disagreement amongst some of the boys had ended in a lively demonstration. It wasn’t the first locker room door he’s had to replace – and he’s sure it won’t be his last – but nonetheless he learned something important that day: aim for the weakest spot.
His eyes land on the wood just below the lock.
He steels his right foot behind him, his sneaker squeaking as he slips slightly, the entrance of her front stoop slick with rain. Breathing deeply he leans backwards and slams the heel of his left foot into the door; it doesn’t budge.
“Fucker,” he grunts under his breath, glaring, before glancing backward as he takes a small step back, giving himself more room to get a bit more power behind his kick. Standing on the very edge of her cramped porch, his heel hanging off the back, he takes a deep breath and thrusts his leg forward, putting all of his weight into his foot.
And somehow, it gives.
His shoulders sag in palpable relief, his head thrown back for just a moment before he surges forward, pushing the door inward with such force that it crashes into the wall behind it.
“Rebecca!”
He takes the stairs two at a time, the rubber on his wet soles echoing in the stillness of the house, only one thing on his mind: get in, then get the hell out.
He breaks into a sprint when he reaches the landing, eyes focused on the double doors to her bedroom; one is slightly ajar, a warm glow seeping out from under the wood. A flash of lightning illuminates the hall for just a moment, the deafening crack of subsequent thunder ringing in his ears like a gunshot.
Mama?
Mama, it’s Daddy…
You need’ta come home.
Bile rises in his throat and he has to choke back a gag when pushes the door inward – he’s expecting to see red splashed up the walls, painting her sheets.
He’s surprised when he doesn’t.
She’s laying on the bed, blankets strewn about her, one hand handing off the side of her mattress, the other resting palm down on her chest, fingers splayed. The reverberation of the door hitting the wall must startle her because she jumps, her eyes rolling dizzyingly in their sockets before resting on him.
“Ted?” she gasps, her brows pinched together. “”S not… I don’t…” she trails off, her eyes flicking between the ceiling and him.
“You’re okay,” he pants, shaking hands fluttering over her prone form. He tucks one under her back another behind her neck and helps her sit upright, the change in position seemingly throwing off her equilibrium as she lists to the side. He throws both of her arms over his shoulder, tucking his body downward; he slips one hand under her thigh, her chest resting on his upper back and lifts.
His back screams in protest, the full weight of her resting on his left side. He wraps an arm around her thighs, another reaching upward to plant itself on her lower back, the tips of his fingers brushing against her cold skin when her shirt rucks up.
Get in, get the hell out.
“Talk to me sweetheart,” he instructs, cutting across the landing in seconds, more in favor of taking his time on the narrow stairs. His hand skirts the handrail for a brief moment to steady his descent, his dread growing in her silence. He gives her a firm shake, his voice loud and clear. “Rebecca, talk to me.”
He can see the shadow of the trees bending violently in the wind, the open door taping against the back of the wall with each gust. When he enters the foyer he slips, losing traction on the water that’s accumulated on the floor; he grits his teeth, his hand reaching out for the wall to steady himself, breaking out into the raging night.
And for a brief moment the world slows.
“Okay, you’re alright,” he starts as he maneuvers his arm around the back of her legs, his other supporting her back as he tips her forward into a sloppy bridal carry. “Nice ‘n easy now.”
In the cramped space on her stoop his back slams up against the wall and he slides down it in a barely controlled slump. One of his legs is tucked under him, the other extended as he holds her across his lap, his body curling protectively over hers to shield her from the rain.
His shaking hand finds her carotid, and his chest heaves when he’s confronted with the racing of her heart, her body working in overdrive as it’s starved for oxygen from the inside out.
Somehow his other hand finds his pocket and is able to retrieve his phone, putting it on speaker and tossing it to the side.
“We’re out,” he informs the operator. His fingers never leave her pulse.
Rebecca’s breath hitches, the next one coming out in more of a stifled gasp and his blood runs cold; she’s hyperventilating, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession.
“Breathe,” he begs, his own breath catching in his throat, before turing back to his phone, “How much fucking longer?”
“Sir, paramedics should be two minutes out.”
Jesus Christ.
“Oh God – darlin’, please keep breathin’ for me.” He tips her head back against the crook of his elbow, effectively opening up her airway but he knows it won’t make a lick of difference. She’s suffocating with the wind whipping against her skin, the ghost of reprieve futilely touching her lips — and all he can do is watch. She blinks up at him, chest heaving as she pulls another gulp of air into her lungs.
“That’s it — just keep breathing,” he pleads. The irony isn’t lost on him.
The voice of the operator on the phone grabs his attention. “Sir, do you know how to perform CPR?”
That seems to be the moment his brain decides to stop cooperating, and for a split second the world around him tilts on its axis, blending together into a mass of light and sound.
“Sir?” The honorific pulls him back to the present.
“Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah, I do.”
Two minutes is a long time.
He’s startled by a hand on his shoulder, jumping, and somehow he’d missed that his world had descended into a kaleidoscope of blue, the flashing of the emergency vehicles out on the street sending long streaks of color across the pavement. The hand on his shoulder tightens, then gives him a firm shake, and he can see that her mouth is moving but he hears what she’s saying over the roar of his blood in his ears.
Where’s your Daddy, son?
“What?” he asks, his voice strained.
“Can you please let go of her arm, sir?”
Everything after that is a bit jumbled in his brain, the speed and urgency of the first responders work around him making his stomach churn. The only thing he remembers from the back of the ambulance was how cold her hand was in his.
He tries to follow them back as they wheel her through the emergency department, the lights and sounds loud and echoing in his ears. She had an oxygen mask obscuring her face, ECG leads covering her chest, and the stillness of her body frightens him.
He’s stopped by a hand on his bicep. “Sir?” He can just make out the muffled words over the ringing in his ears. “Can you fill out these forms for us, please?” she asks, a clipboard being shuffled into his hands. She ushers him towards a seating area, the rows of chairs sterile and gray, and all he can do is stand there for a moment in the wide expanse of the space.
His clothes are damp, his sweats rucked up on one side exposing his ankle where his sock’s been pushed down; he can feel the way his shirt clings to him uncomfortably, too tight where it’s been plastered to his skin, drying awkwardly in some places. Water squelches in his shoes when he shifts his weight from left to right.
He doesn’t even have his wallet.
He shuffles over and sits down in one of the uncomfortable looking chairs and clicks the pen he’s been given a few times, breathing deeply. His thumb takes to flicking the plastic clip, his eyes roaming over the forms that’ve been shoved into his hands.
Accident & Emergency Patient Intake Form.
The vibration starts in his jaw before seeping throughout the rest of his body. He tries to fight it, his eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched as he pulls staccato breaths through his mouth, his nostrils flaring. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, tears dripping off the end of his nose as he attempts to stave off the panic that grips the back of his neck like a vice, tightening its grip on him and pushing him down towards the floor.
He all but bursts forth from the hospital chair, his movements swift, if a bit jolted, his hand finding the wall to steady himself. Somehow he finds the exit, the automatic doors whooshing as they open, a burst of cold air hitting him, and he stumbles forward into the night.
The bile burns his throat as he vomits into the bushes.
He takes a few moments to steady himself, shivers violently wracking his frame, and he does the only thing he can think of.
“Hello?” It’s groggy, and one of the rare occasions that he can tell he’s woken Beard up; hell, he doesn't even know what time it is.
“Coach?” It’s then that he realizes he’s been silent for too long. He takes a deep breath to calm himself, tears welling in his eyes with a renewed vigor; he brings the back of his hand to his face, hastily attempting to brush the tears from his face, his hand tightening around his phone.
“Beard?”
—
That’s how he ends up with a too-hot paper cup of stale drip coffee nestled in his hands at quarter past two in the morning; he’s holding on to it to hide the tremor in his hands more than anything else.
“Is she allergic to anything?”
“Hazelnuts,” he whispers, his leg bouncing.
Beard, hums, marking something on the clipboard. “Any family history of heart disease?”
“I don’t — I don’t know.” He pulls on the strings of the hoodie Beard’s given to bring the fabric a bit closer to his neck, fighting off the tremors that seem to have taken control of his limbs.
“Cancer?”
He shrugs a shoulder, pulling in a shaky breath through clenched teeth.
“Y’know, that’s okay,” Beard replies, writing UNKNOWN in bold letters in the margins of the intake forms. “We can come back to this part later.”
Ted’s hands shake when he crams them into the pockets of the borrowed hoodie, stooping down further in his chair.
Beside him Beard clears his throat. “Did you two talk about, uh…” he trails off, swallowing. “Did you two ever talk about extraordinary measures?”
He gives a minute shake of his head, almost indesirable, he’s sure, through the tremors wracking his frame. He sinks down in his chair, restless hands fluttering over his chest before coming to rest on the back of his neck.
Maybe if he closes his eyes it’ll all go away.
Beard’s hand squeezes his leg just above his knee.
“I’ll go call Deborah.”
—
Deborah Welton is a force to be reckoned with, especially at three in the morning.
He hears her before he sees her, her heels clacking on the linoleum, and there’s something in the cadence, a calming rhythm that reminds him of Rebecca.
For a brief moment he smiles.
He stands when he sees her round the corner, Beard following suit, and he’s not at all surprised to see her hair perfectly coiffed, her elegant blouse tucked deftly into her starched trousers. The expression on her face tells him she’s all business, but he sees a small crack – and it’s another old pattern he knows all too well.
Ted knows a battle suit when he sees one.
“Now boys,” she starts, waving her hand dismissively. “Don’t stand on my account.”
Beard does all the talking, his own mind shutting down the moment they start speaking in hushed tones. His eyes wander, landing on a worn spot on the floor. He shuffles his feet beneath him, the sharp squeak of the rubber of his sole against the tiling making him jump, the movement morphing into a shiver that he can’t quite seem to contain.
“Ted?” He looks up to find two pairs of eyes staring at him, waiting. The apology all but falls from his mouth, the words tripping over themselves as his brain tries to keep pace with his frayed emotions.
“Deborah, I’m so sorry, I should’a–” She holds up a hand to stop him.
“Coach Lasso, I want you to listen to me and I want you to listen well,” she instructs as she turns fully towards him, her eyes full of quiet fury, a manicured pointer finger stabbing him directly over his heart.
“Not one ounce of this is your fault. Understood?”
Being raised the only son of a spitfire southern woman, not a fear in the world ‘cept the Lord Almighty, Ted Lasso has learned and learned well when it’s right and proper to hold his tongue.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good,” she replies with a curt nod, her hand smoothing the front of his hoodie, pulling delicately at one of the pull strings. There’s something tender in the moment, motherly, that has his throat tightening. He swallows.
“Coach Beard told me that you knew something was wrong — that you called 999.”
He nods.
“And that you ran to her? That you took care of her?” she asks, her voice tight.
He takes a deep breath and exhales harshly, a ghost of a mirthless chuckle haunting the sound. Tears well in his eyes and pressing his mouth into a firm line, he nods again. “Yes ma’am.”
Deborah’s lip quivers and she quickly brushes away the tears that have begun to spill over, her palm hovering over his chest before planting itself near his sternum. It seems to take all of her will power to look up and meet his gaze, her voice hardly audible.
“Was she scared?”
Not trusting his own voice he begins to shake his head, the motion disjointed as his shoulders begin to shake, his lips curing under to hold back the sob that’s burning in his chest. Tears pour from his eyes and he wraps an arm around his torso, trying to physically hold himself together, the other coming up to cover his mouth.
The force at which Deborah grabs a fistful of his sweatshirt and pulls him to her throws him off balance, her arms wrapping around his body and suddenly it feels like he’s the only thing keeping her upright.
“Thank you,” she sobs, arms tightening around him. “Thank you.”
His hands shuffle across her back, seeking purchase, his grip on her like the prayer of a desperate man that has nothing to lose.
He fears he’s lost everything already.
—
Ted prides himself on being a curious man, always interested in learning new words or facts – but he never wants to hear the phrases ‘concerningly high carboxyhemoglobin concentrations,’ ‘potential need for hyperbaric oxygen therapy,’ or ‘delayed neuropsychiatric syndrome’ ever again.
“And will this help her?” Deborah asks, gesturing to the emergency room physician that had handed her the clipboard. “The intubation and sedation?”
“We think so, yes; our primary goal here is to avoid full respiratory collapse. Her impaired mental status and decreased respiratory effort after receiving high-flow normobaric oxygen is very concerning to me. I’d be happy to go back over any of that risks if –”
“No,” Deborah cuts him off, raising a hand to her forehead. “No, it’s just…” she waves the pen in her hand vaguely before signing the line at the bottom of the page with a swoop and a flourish.
She passes the forms back to him. “Take care of our girl, will you?”
The three of them sit together in silence, Deborah wringing her hands in her lap, thumb smoothing delicately over the skin on the back of her hand. She lifts her chin and takes a deep breath; her face is lax but it’s her eyes that give her away.
She looks haunted.
He reaches over the armrest and slips his hand into hers, the warmth from her skin seeping into the chill that seems to have permeated his body.
“Ted,” she asks, staring straight ahead. “What’s the time in Kansas?”
He glances at Beard before flicking his eyes up to the analog clock on the wall, clearing his throat before responding. “Just shy of ten in the evening — why?”
“Go call your Mother,” she instructs, eyes sad. “She doesn’t know it yet but she probably needs to hear your voice.”
—
“Mama?
“No, Mama, it’s Rebecca…
“It’s, uh — it’s real bad.”
—
Shock is a funny thing, really.
He feels everything and absolutely nothing all at once, his thoughts racing but his mind blank; he can’t seem to stop the shaking in his hands, but at this point he can’t tell if the adrenaline is from anxiety or something else. But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
Shock is a funny thing — but, he supposes, trauma is too.
He can’t seem to get the tangy reek of copper out of his nose.
He splashes more cold water on his face, running his fingers through hair to try and tame some of its disheveledness. Bits of it sticking out at odd angles, some more lopsided than others, and he looks like a man that’s spent too much time with his head in his hands, fists pulling at the roots.
He turns the tap back on, letting the freezing water drip through his fingers, staring at the way it trails through the basin before disappearing down the drain. He stoops forward, cupping one of his hands and bringing it to his lips, the coolness of it soothing the bitter taste in his mouth. Closing his eyes he drags the back of his hand over his lips, pulling air deep into his lungs and exhaling as slowly as he can.
When he looks back up into the bathroom mirror it’s his father’s face staring back at him.
—
The voice of the operator on the phone grabs his attention. “Sir, do you know how to perform CPR?”
“Yeah,” he croaks, his world falling apart around him. “Yeah, I do.”
Rebecca stops breathing approximately two minutes before the paramedics arrive; he knows because he’s able to press the heels of his interwoven hands into her chest close to two hundred and forty times.
He feels her ribs crack around sixty two.
He tilts her head back for the eighth round of rescue breaths, his right hand pinching her nose, his eyes watching to ensure that her chest is still inflating when he feels a hand on his shoulder; he hadn’t heard the approach of the sirens over the roar of his blood in his ears.
“How long has she been down?” one paramedic asks, another entering his periphery.
“Two minutes,” he grunts, his whole body protesting as he continues his count.
Two minutes is a long time.
He feels it seeping into his sweats first, the warmth pooling around his knees before spreading down his shins and towards his ankles. He leans in for another two rescue breaths, tilting her head back and pinching her nose; when he pulls his hand back it’s tinged with red. His vision blurs for a moment, the scene before him shifting nauseatingly, and when his eyes land on her face he can tell he’s not comprehending.
Somehow he can’t seem to tear them away.
The air reeks of rust, it’s matting the hair at the back of her head, and oh — he realizes quite belatedly that he’s kneeling in it. His hands flutter uselessly over her torso, one grabbing onto the front of her pajamas, the other coming to cradle the side of her slack jaw.
It’s her eyes that keep him staring – they’re half-lidded and vacant, the green of them brought out by the blood pooling around her head like a halo.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep but he remembers waking, Beard’s hands on the sides of his face, the hospital chair digging uncomfortably into the small of his back.
For the first time in a long time he wakes up screaming.