Work Text:
It’s going terribly.
No matter what he tries, he can’t get comfortable. The Tom Ford suit Keeley got him is beautiful, but the collar feels tight and his skin is itchy for no reason. The flash keeps making him blink. They’ve tried putting him in all sorts of poses—sitting, standing, leaning. They give him a stool he nearly falls off, a chair that makes him feel like he’s sinking.
He feels unmoored—the suit so formal, the tie at his neck almost suffocating, and the studio in London proper with white walls and a backdrop and dozens of people swooping in to tame his hair or readjust his makeup or tell him to turn this way and that is making him sweat.
He’s just nervous. Can’t seem to shake the tingling out of his hands, the anxiety in his stomach.
Rebecca had made the photoshoot sound so easy, and he supposes, for her, maybe it is. Maybe she’s just used to it, the attention and the cameras and the photographer, telling him to smile or not smile or turn.
He can tell people are getting frustrated, which doesn’t help. He’s been there too long, and they clearly don’t have a single shot worth using yet, and he finds himself apologizing again and again, thanking people for their time and effort.
The makeup artist smiles at him reassuringly, tells him not to worry and it’ll all be fine and over soon, her eyes kind and patient; but others are watching him piercingly, and he knows they’re finding him lacking.
That his jokes are falling flat and his inability to sit still and just take one damn photo are driving them crazy.
He has no idea how people do this for a living.
The call came in a few weeks ago—World Soccer Magazine was doing a spread on the “15 most influential men in football,” and wanted him, of all people. For the team building he’s done in Richmond, for bringing them back from relegation in just one season, for being open and honest (to a point) about his mental health.
Keeley had sat him down before he left, and they’d found a way to pivot the conversation away from him explicitly and more towards the general issue of mental health in sports. Over the last season, they’ve held two fundraisers for organizations that help athletes, young and old, with depression, anxiety, eating disorders. He’s given a few interviews, kept the party line steady: “It’s not about me,” he always says, “It’s about these young people with incredibly public, stressful careers gettin’ whatever help they may want or need. It’s about recognizin’ that there’s a problem we aren’t addressin’, and workin’ toward fixin’ that.”
It’s something Rebecca said to him, the first time he had to publicly speak about his panic attacks. She’d kept him in her office before going down to the press room; sat him on the sofa and put her hand on his knee and told him he didn’t have to say anything he didn’t want to say, or tell any story he didn’t want to tell. She’d given him some lines he could use, offered up questions she assumed they would ask—and they had, she’d been right about almost all of them—except for the last one, a short woman from The Guardian who looked at him rather kindly, he thought, and said,
“Off the record, how are you doing, Coach Lasso?”
Ted hadn’t expected that, his eyes flickering to Rebecca; she’d nodded—it was okay—and Ted took a deep breath.
“I’m doin’ a lot better, I appreciate you askin’. Got a great support system here, and a lot of people willin’ to stand by me.”
She’d smiled, sat down, didn’t write anything in her little book, and then Ted had blinked and it was over and he was back in Rebecca’s office with a whisky in hand and she didn’t touch him this time—kept her distance, the way she so often does when they’re at work. But there were moments, sitting on her sofa, her body turned towards him, their knees almost touching, that he’d thought, for a moment, she wanted to. Her hands would flutter near him, and then pull away, and he’d wondered at that.
Wondered at the desire that prickled his own skin, the loss he felt keenly every time she turned away.
It started happening more and more after that.
Any time they were alone, or, somehow, every time he started to feel his panic get the better of him, Rebecca was there. She’d stand by him, or sit next to him, and sometimes she just started talking—a random anecdote about a meeting with a shareholder, or some past Boxing Day adventure with Sassy; other times, she’d sit quietly, ask him if he was okay.
She always seemed to know what he needed—a moment, a distraction, the warmth of her body so close to his. He’d wanted, so many times, to lean into her. To press himself against her side, feel her arm around him, lean his weight on her shoulder and be held.
But even then—even before they were… whatever they are now—they didn’t do that. Not after the last year. After unanswered voicemails and distance and Sam and Kansas.
He thinks, sometimes, that they probably should have cleared the air first. Probably should have spoken about everything unsaid. But they hadn’t, and they still haven’t, and by now he’s not so sure it matters anyway.
He’s already terribly in love with her.
He’s not sure when it happened, exactly. Sometime after he returned from Kansas. He’d felt better, really had, having spent the summer with Henry. Having spoken to his mother, having faced some old ghosts. He’s continued therapy, and it’s done wonders for feeling steady, feeling more grounded in his life and in his relationships.
So when he got back, he’d done his best to close the distance between them again: longer Biscuits with the Boss, hanging around the club to walk her out each night, inviting her to coaching brunches and the occasional movie night, where she’d curled up on his sofa and admitted she’d never seen Pride and Prejudice and he’d been aghast, played dumbfounded in an effort to cover just how right she looked, sipping a glass of wine, his Kansas City Chiefs blanket over her lap, toes sticking out.
He wasn’t certain at first if she was doing it because she wanted to—spending more time with him—or if it was some kind of pity; until about a month into the season, when she’d invited him to a luncheon with her mother and her mother’s friends, a gossip, tea-filled afternoon, and when they’d finally made their escape she’d leaned into him, clutching his arm in the crook of hers.
“Thank you for doing that,” she’d said as they’d made their way toward her car. “You have no idea how much more bearable that was with you there.”
He hadn’t been certain how to take that—if she’d just invited him to make it better for her, or because she actually wanted him there.
He’d shrugged, tried to put a feel-good spin on the whole thing; but as they’d reached her car, Rebecca had let go, stopped, turned and looked at him and it was like she could see it—all the apprehension and uncertainty, and she’d taken a short breath.
“Ted, I mean it. I know it isn’t—I know an old ladies luncheon probably isn’t your idea of a good time, but it—it means a lot to me that you came anyway.”
He’d swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to smile. “Course, boss. Always here for you.”
It felt like too much, then, for the way her eyes tracked over his face, the way she’d frowned rather than smiled. “That’s true for you as well, Ted,” she’d said quietly. “I hope you know that.”
He’d thought of voicemails and texts and unanswered phone calls and Christmas and press briefings and her quiet, steady presence. He’d looked at her, tried to read on her face what she wasn’t saying, but he couldn’t—something was shadowed, unknowable, and he had no idea what to do with it, what to say, other than a quiet thank you.
She’d reached for him, and he hadn’t been able to stop himself from holding his breath, devastated when she caught his eye for a moment, and saw something there that made her drop her hand, curling her fist against her thigh.
“Come on,” she’d said, “I’ll drive you home,” and the drive was short and sweet and she’d made a joke about Deborah’s psychic that made him laugh and the tension ebbed somewhat; and when he’d went to get out of the car, she’d smiled at him, so sweetly he felt like he might fall over just looking at her. She’d thanked him again, so sincere, and the next morning she’d brought him a mocha and croissant from his favorite cafe to thank him again and he’d packed a few extra biscuits in her box to thank her for thanking him and she’d moved a meeting so he could be home in time to talk to Henry and he’d bought her a book he saw in a shop window he thought she might like and they started doing little things for each other, at least once a week, small, silly gifts or treats and he started going down to the office every day with a dumb little smile on his face that made Beard smirk and Roy say “for fuck’s sake.”
And then he’d gotten the “award” for the magazine—photoshoot, interview, gala, the whole nine yards.
Colin got called up, too, for the work he’s done this past season advocating for Welsh independence, and the team has been supportive and kind and he was excited at first—pleased and humbled, and absolutely enraptured by Rebecca’s proud little smile.
He thinks of that smile now, tries to center himself, tries to focus on what his face and hands are doing but there’s just so much noise, everything too loud and too sharp. He feels his hands begin to shake, and stuffs them in his pockets on instinct.
“Hands out,” the photographer, Bryan, says sharply, and Ted apologies, removes his hands from his pockets but doesn’t know what to do with them. “Relax,” Bryan says again, for what must be the tenth time, but clearly his instruction isn’t working, because Ted feels tighter and tenser than he had when they started.
He should have asked Rebecca to come with him.
Almost had.
He’d admitted, last night, both of them in the dim light of her room, almost touching but not quite, that he was nervous. About the photoshoot, the interview. What he was going to say and how to say it and she’d reassured him she knew the interviewer, that he was professional and kind—not much sense of humor, she’d admitted, but that Ted always came off well and he had nothing to worry about.
He’d nodded, but wished he could turn—wished he could reach for her hand or bury his face in her neck. Could lull himself asleep to the sound of her breathing.
Instead, he’d thanked her, got up, found his clothes. Rebecca had walked him to the door, the way she always does, hands fiddling with the tie on her robe like she wanted to say something and didn’t.
She’d wished him good luck, closed the door softly behind him, and he’d walked home in the dark, street lamps illuminating his way, and it feels hollow every time.
Feels like he’s saying goodbye, even when he knows he’ll see her again.
But every time he leaves, he knows there’s a chance there will never be a next time. That she’ll meet someone. That she’ll call it off. That she’ll finally tell him he’s not what she’s really looking for.
He hates it, the way it makes him feel so empty, so pointless—the contrast so stark to the way he feels when he’s with her, either in her office, or out with Keeley and Roy, or in her bed, his hands smoothing over her curves and his lips on her neck and her body warm and flushed against his.
He knows he shouldn’t have let it get so far. Knows he should have barricaded his heart a bit better.
But they’d been spending so much time together, relearning each other, learning more. When they’re alone everything feels so bright, and he can pretend, for a little while, that what they have is real. An actual relationship, where he gets to stay.
It started after they beat West Ham on their own turf. 4-1, an absolute trouncing, and Rebecca had been elated. Her smile bright and gleaming and Ted had realized that night with a sucker punch to his chest that he’d do literally anything to see her happy.
He’d grinned at her and she’d grinned back and there had been drinks between them but just a few, and they’d walked back to the hotel together and she’d invited him in for a nightcap and then they were kissing on the sofa in her suite and then they were in bed and he was touching her and in the morning they hadn’t talked—they should have talked, he knows that—but he’d been too scared to tell her the truth. To tell her what he wanted, and Rebecca hadn’t said a word.
It was a bit awkward, a bit strange, gathering his clothes, slipping back to his room in the early hours before the team was awake. But somehow things had been fine between them, and even though they hadn’t talked about what it was they were doing, it happened again.
And again.
And again.
He can’t seem to stop—can’t give up even the fraction he has of her, and he knows it’s going to break his heart someday. It already is.
But he doesn’t ask for more and she doesn’t offer. Doesn’t seem to want anything else from him besides his friendship and a warm body some nights, and he knows he needs to find a way to be okay with that. Be okay with her boundaries.
If there’s a little voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Sharon, telling him to respect his own boundaries, too, he tries to shut it out.
For now, he’ll take what he can get, even though he wants more.
Wants all of her.
Part of him knows it’s unrealistic. That he’s daydreaming at this point. He knows his baggage is too heavy, his past too scarred. Knows he isn’t like the men she’s dated in the past—that he’s too folksy and too talkative and too much. That he isn’t fit and handsome like Sam, wouldn’t make a gorgeous picture, standing next to her at a gala.
Even in the most expensive, tailored suit he’s ever worn, he’s still just Ted—the outwardly chipper, ridiculously mustachioed man from Kansas who never gets anything right.
He’s not enough, not in the way she needs, and the thought is so sobering he feels his eyes start to burn.
He hears Bryan curse, then shout at everyone to take ten minutes. He turns, gesturing wildly and talking to someone next to him, and Ted can’t quite stomach watching Bryan talk about him with the others; so he slips away into the green room, stands in front of the vanity and stares at himself in the mirror.
He tells himself it’s not worth getting worked up over, but it feels like all his inadequacies—in his job, as a father, with Rebecca, with Nate—are all bubbling to the surface in the face of bright lights and strange clothes.
He thinks about the interview he still has to give, if he ever gets through this part. Despite Rebecca’s reassurance, he’s still nervous as hell, and he wishes she were here.
That he could call her. That he could text her just to say hi, I miss you or drinks tonight? but he can’t and it’s all starting to weigh on him, the easy things that come with the type of relationship they don’t have.
That he can’t have, because it’s not what she wants.
She doesn’t want him. All of him, at any rate.
That even if she were here, it’s Coach Lasso she’d be proud of, and not Ted. Her employee she’d be praising, and not her partner.
He tells himself to get a grip, tries a few more breathing exercises; and then there’s a knock on the door and it opens and he turns to say he’s ready to try again—
But it isn’t the assistant Devon, or Julie, the makeup artist, or Bryan.
It’s Rebecca, peeking in, a hesitant smile on her face.
Ted blinks, like she’s a mirage.
“Hey, boss,” he manages, the title stodgy in his throat even as surprise colors his tone, and Rebecca steps into the room, closes the door behind her. “What’re you doin’ here? Not that I’m not pleased as punch to see you.”
Calm down, Theodore, he scolds himself; but Rebecca just shrugs, leans against the door, looks him up and down for a moment before she says,
“As if I’d miss your Tom Ford moment,” she says, and he forces himself to smile.
“Whatcha think?”
Her eyes soften, but he doesn’t know how to read her expression, the way she opens her mouth, then pauses, says, “It looks good on you,” like that wasn’t what she’d planned.
His chest feels heavy, and he wants nothing more than to fall into her for a moment. To feel her arms around him, to breathe in her gentle perfume, the skin of her neck.
Beneath her blouse, he knows, are little marks, ones he left two nights ago, already fading.
He launches into telling her about all the people here and how they’ve set up the interview portion for tomorrow (he doesn’t tell her he’s been taking too long with this) and he should be wrapping up soon, and that it was mighty kind of her to drop by, take time out of her day, and he knows he’s rambling by the way she shifts, pushes slightly off the wall.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’,” he lies, even as he drinks her in—her soft eyes, her pale blue blouse, tight skirt and heels and his mouth feels abruptly dry. “Just takin’ a breather.”
She nods, studies him for a long moment, in a way that makes him feel both nervous and settled. It’s like she can see him, knows him, reads somehow in his face what he isn’t saying, when she admits with a small smile, “I’ve always hated these things, too.”
Ted releases a breath in a rush, looks down a moment before meeting her gaze.
“Is it always this nerve-wrackin’?”
Rebecca nods. “For me, at least.” She shrugs. “I’ve never been comfortable on camera.”
He wonders at that—thinks of how beautiful she is, how regal. How every photo he’s ever seen of her, she seems to glow. How even the terrible pap photos are stunning, but he imagines they take their toll. Being followed, hounded. A few weeks ago The Sun ran photos of her trying to grocery shop, a still of her on page nine holding a carton of eggs and frowning. He’d thought it was cute. She’d been embarrassed.
“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “Think I’d rather be behind the camera than in front of it.”
Rebecca hums, takes a step forward and then sways away.
“Anything I can do?”
Ted blinks. “What?”
She shrugs, looks down for a moment. “You’re always so good at pep talks. I just—was wondering if there’s anything you need?”
His heart clenches like a fist, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to ask for a hug, but he swallows it.
That’s not what they are, what they do.
And yet, she’s looking at him cautiously, and he’s watching her back so closely he sees her barely noticeable flinch when he shrugs, says,
“I’m good, but I appreciate it.”
Her face shutters, and she takes a step back, and he can’t bear it, says, without thinking,
“It’s real nice to see you, though.”
Rebecca looks up, startled, and he tries for an easy smile.
“I just thought I’d drop by,” she says. And then, quickly, “If I’m in the way—”
He doesn’t want her to leave. “No, no, you’re good,” he promises, tries to think of what to say next when there’s another knock, and Julie pokes her head in.
Rebecca moves away from the door, lets her through, and Julie apologizes for interrupting; but he’s needed back soon, and can she fix his makeup, and Ted nods, watches Rebecca move further out of the way. But she doesn’t leave, and he lets out a breath, sits on the little stool while Julie putters around him, fixing his foundation and his eyelashes and he makes small talk, introduces them, tries to breathe normally but the thought of going back out there with all the lights and cameras and people makes his throat feel numb and his hands stiff.
He catches Rebecca’s gaze in the mirror, sees her frown, and he’s about to ask when she interrupts him, a gentle,
“Julie, could you excuse us for a moment?”
She’s mid putting something on his cheeks and pauses, looks to him and then Rebecca and back again before she smiles.
“Sure thing.”
“Thank you,” Rebecca says, at the same time he says,
“Thanks, Julie, appreciate you.”
He sees Rebecca smile faintly in the mirror, but by the time he turns to look at her, her brows are furrowed, and she moves to lean against the vanity, half facing him.
“Ted,” she says softly. “What’s going on?”
“What?”
She reaches out, and lays a gentle hand on his leg, stilling it immediately. “You’re jittery.”
He flushes, looks down at her hand and desperately wants to take it. Wants to turn and press his face to her stomach, to feel her hands in his hair, makeup be damned.
“Too much coffee,” he says, but it’s half a question, an excuse, and Rebecca just looks at him, patient, and he thinks of Sharon’s lessons in vulnerability and he if there’s anyone he trusts it’s her and he thinks of her flinch—does she always do that, and he’s just never noticed?—and he sighs, shoulders dropping, eyes on her hand over his thigh. “I dunno,” he admits. “I thought it was gonna be a breeze, y’know? Come in, take a few shots, get back in time for Sandwich Switcharoo.”
“But?”
He shrugs. “Can’t seem to get comfortable, I guess. All the lights and—just…” He trails off, not sure how to explain. Not sure he even knows.
But Rebecca nods, like it’s obvious, and then says, “It makes sense, especially given the last time you were in the spotlight.”
He hadn’t thought of that—of equating this to all the stories about his panic attacks. Knowing the interviewer is going to ask, knowing that despite going over answers with PR and Keeley, he’s tired of talking about it. Doesn’t want people looking at photos of him or reading about him or asking him questions. Doesn’t want to say the wrong thing.
He doesn’t want to be judged—for the pictures, his anxiety, any of it—and it settles uncomfortably in his stomach, the realization.
“Yeah,” he says, and Rebecca squeezes his leg.
“You have control this time, Ted,” she reminds him. “Anything you don’t want to say, you don’t have to. Any pictures you don’t want, they don’t run. If you want to call the whole thing off, that’s alright, too.”
He swallows. “It’s good press for the team.”
“The team doesn’t need good press. It’s doing just fine.”
He looks up at her. “You think I should quit?”
Rebecca shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant. Only that whatever you’re putting yourself through to do this, it’s not necessary. No one is going to blame you if you want to change your mind.”
He smirks slightly. “Bryan might.”
Rebecca rolls her eyes. “I’ve worked with Bryan before, he’s an asshole.”
Ted laughs, and Rebecca smiles so fondly he’s not sure what she’s looking at, what she’s thinking about.
He wishes he could make her feel that way.
He sighs, and looks back at himself in the mirror, and winces.
He looks tired.
“I don’t wanna give up,” he admits, and feels bereft, for a moment, when Rebecca removes her hand from his leg; but then she resettles it on his shoulder, rubbing softly through his suit jacket, and he resists the urge to close his eyes, to lean into the touch. “Guess I just—don’t want people to be…”
“Judgmental?” she guesses, and he nods.
“Yeah.” He starts to run a hand through his hair, then stops, pulls away so as not to undo all the product. “All this—it’s great, y’know, and it was real nice of Keeley gettin’ me this suit, and I’m sure Bryan’s great at what he does, makin’ us average folk look like pop stars, but it don’t—” He looks in the mirror again, and knows that no amount of makeup, no pressed suit, can make him anything other than what he is—a joke.
He’s a joke of a father and a joke to the team and probably a joke to Rebecca, too, who wants him in her bed but not on her arm and he can’t even blame her for it. Understands why.
But it hurts.
Nate’s words echo, and he hasn’t told her about them. Hasn’t repeated what Nate said to anyone, even his therapist.
But it bubbles at the surface now, as he stares at the lock of hair that never stays in place and his mustache and the tight collar of his dress shirt and Rebecca, so close to him but so far away and he doesn’t realize his mouth is moving until he hears the words spill from his lips,
“I’m tired of havin’ to try so hard.”
Rebecca stills, but she doesn’t pull away, her voice too even, “So hard to what?”
He shrugs, and her hand slips from his shoulder, falls to her side. He regrets it instantly, but can’t ask for it back, and she doesn’t touch him again. His eyes sting and he takes a deep breath, tries to center himself, but when he looks in the mirror again her eyes are on him, brow furrowed, and she looks so concerned, for him, that his chest tightens.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Be a good dad. A good coach. A—” partner, he wants to say, “better friend.”
Rebecca’s frown deepens. “You are all those things.” She tilts her head. “What makes you think you’re not?”
He doesn’t want to tell her. Doesn’t want to say the words out loud, doesn’t want to burden her with any of it, but he’s so tired, and it’s all so heavy, he hears himself speak before he really registers that he’s doing it,
“Nate told me I don’t belong here. Before he left. Said I was a—a joke. Made a crack about Henry, and I—”
He stops, tries to swallow the words back down, feels guilty for sharing them, like somehow he’s betrayed Nate again, and he tries to talk over himself, to explain,
“I dunno, I guess doin’ all this—the press and the award and talkin’ about things, it just—don’t seem like something I earned, y’know? Not after last season, at least, and I don’t want people thinkin’ I’m gettin’ somethin’ I don’t deserve, or—”
“Stop,” Rebecca says, her voice somewhat strangled, and he blinks, looks up, and she looks devastated. Her eyes are bright, like she might cry at any moment, and he thinks back over what he’s said, tries to figure out what would hurt her so much, or put that expression on her face.
He starts to apologize, but she shakes her head.
“No, I—I meant, don’t you dare talk about yourself like that.”
He blinks in surprise, drops his eyes from her face and finds her hands tangled together in front of her, thumb pressed harshly into her palm, and he wants to reach out and separate them, to hold her hands gently in his own; but he hesitates, eyes flickering back to her face.
“Rebecca—” he starts, not quite sure what he’s going to say, but she interrupts him.
“You’re not a joke,” she says, somehow jumping straight past everything else he’s said, right to the heart of it all, and Ted flinches. He swallows, doesn’t know what to say, and when he doesn’t answer, she continues, “You’re not a joke of a father, or a friend, or a coach. You may have more humility than most, but even you must see what you’ve done for this team, this town. All these people—you brought them together. You made this team what it is. You built something here, with hope and kindness and determination.” She catches his eye. “You’re not just some bloke getting an award he doesn’t deserve. You earned the honor, tenfold.”
She sounds so serious, so severe, it startles him. He knows Rebecca can be direct and intense but he’s never quite been on the receiving end of it, never quite heard the way her voice tremors as she speaks, full of such fierce belief and passion—for him.
He licks his lips, tries to meet her gaze, her eyes burning into him in a way he’s never seen before, and it sends a shiver down his spine.
“I’m tryin’ to remember that,” he says finally, and then, quietly, “Sometimes it doesn’t feel real. Just feels like I’m—like I’m…” He looks for a word, looks in the mirror, sees his face staring back at him. He thinks of Henry, trying so hard to be there for him from so far away, and failing. Thinks of Nate and the team, how in his head he was last season, all the things he missed.
He thinks of Rebecca, the beautiful thing they could have, if he weren’t so scared, and he says the first thing that comes into his head,
“Feels like I’m uglyin’ everything up.”
Rebecca stares at him, that bright sheen still there, and she whispers the word,“‘Ugly,’” like she doesn’t understand. “You couldn’t be ugly if you tried, in any sense of the word.”
Ted offers a tight smile, his heart fluttering. “I appreciate you sayin’ that.”
He expects her to roll her eyes, to huff, to tease him but instead she just stares, says too seriously, refusing to let it go, “I’m not just saying it.”
Ted looks away, can’t bear the expression on her face—like somehow, he’s hurt her by hurting himself, and the thought is paralyzing.
It doesn’t make sense, but she’s looking at him like the weight of the world is on her shoulders.
“You really don’t know, do you?” she asks softly, and Ted frowns, looks up at her.
“Know what?”
Rebecca swallows. She opens her mouth a few times, tries, he can tell, to say something—and then she touches his elbow, tugs him gently to his feet.
“Turn around,” she says, and Ted frowns, huffs out a confused laugh.
“What?”
Rebecca doesn’t smile. “I can’t say this to you if you’re looking at me so just… turn around.” She meets his gaze, eyes beseeching. “Please?”
As if he’d be able to deny her. As if he’d even want to.
Ted turns his back to her, catches a glimpse of himself in the floor-length mirror on the other side of the room, and feels his stomach churn again, the thought of going back out there, when he feels so raw, so close to breaking.
Rebecca’s quiet so long he wonders if she’s changed her mind about whatever she wants to say. If he’s suddenly put too much pressure on her somehow, and he fights the instinct to turn and put her at ease—to give her a wide smile and pretend that he’s fine, that this is all fine.
And then she clears her throat, her voice low and a bit unsure,
“I’ve met a lot of ugly people in my life,” she starts. “Rupert—” She stops, and he can almost hear the way she steels herself. “We used to attend an event almost every weekend. Celebrity birthdays, private auctions, fundraisers for the who’s who of politics and pointless parties just for the sake of showing your face. I always hated it.”
She pauses, and he wishes he could see her, could read her expression—could reach out and touch. He doesn’t know if she’d even want it. Feels adrift, not being able to read anything on her face, in her eyes. But he wants to be there for her, wants to be so much more for her, and he feels his throat close up as she continues,
“Rupert would tell me what to wear, who I could speak to, what I could say. We’d sit at these horrible dinners and listen to some of the most famous, attractive people in the world talk about their problems—too many yachts or how hard it was to find an accountant or—just. Terribly dull, inane conversations. Ralph Finnes once went on a rant about how difficult it was to date as a celebrity, after he’d cheated on the woman he’d cheated on his wife with, and everyone just… sat there and smiled and pretended they didn’t know.” She pauses, her voice quieting, “They pretended they didn’t know about Rupert, too. Looked me in the eye and—”
She stops, and Ted clenches his hands into fists, keeps his feet locked to the floor to keep from turning around.
“The point is, I’ve met some of the most accomplished, award-winning, aesthetically beautiful people in the world and it doesn’t mean shit if the only thing you care about is yourself.”
There’s a slight self-censure there, and he opens his mouth to soothe her. To remind her she isn’t like them, not even close. He starts to turn, but she speaks again, halting his motion.
“When I first met Rupert, he was so charming. Attractive. He had that charisma that just made everyone around him feel so… glamorous. So honored just to be in his presence. And everyone loved him so much, so instantly, that I thought—there couldn’t be anything wrong with—that the things he said, the things he made me do. I thought they were a kindness. That he was… fixing the parts of me that needed to be fixed, the parts that weren’t good enough.”
Ted swallows the acid in his mouth, his voice raw and tight, “You don’t need fixin’,” he says, and he can hear the small smile in Rebecca’s voice, the way it gentles.
“I know that, now. But at the time… I didn’t realize that everything that makes him so attractive to people—his looks, his confidence, his charm—that it’s all just… smoke. To mask who he truly is.” She lets out a short, shaky breath. “So many people are like that,” she says. “Not to the same extent, of course, but—”
She pauses again, and when she speaks, it’s like she’s picked up a thread somewhere, something she’s thought before, but never voiced,
“You know when you first meet someone, and they’re just—gorgeous and fit and then—and then you actually talk to them, and five minutes later realize they’re arrogant, or obnoxious, or simply dull as a post?”
Ted laughs softly—he knows what she means, but all he can think about is meeting her for the first time—gorgeous, and fit, and funny and awkward and everything he had no idea then that he’d need, but how enraptured he was right from the start.
He wants to tell her—wants to lay it all at her feet and see what she’ll do, what she’ll say—if this is as real for her as it is for him—but she continues, a bit less frantic,
“Luca was like that. John was like that. Nice to look at, probably decent men, in the end, but not… the outside didn’t match the inside, you know?”
Ted winces a bit, tries not to think about any of them; about Sam, about Rupert. About the people she’s been with, himself included, who haven’t told her how beautiful she is. Who haven’t made her realize her worth. He’s part of the problem now, one of those people, and it sits so heavily on his chest he feels breathless; and then she continues, voice soft and unbearably fond, for reasons he doesn’t understand,
“But when we first met—you saw me right away. Saw all the hurt I was carrying and you—you cared. You didn’t even know me. But you—you were the first person who asked me how I was doing. The first person who actually meant it.”
His heart feels like it’s on fire—a sweeping anger at Rupert, at the press, at anyone else who treated her unkindly. But before he can say anything to it, she adds,
“Sometimes, very rarely, you meet the Roy Kents of the world, of course—good looking and kind. But even then you have to scale a fucking…. fortress of grunting before he’s an actual human man.”
Ted laughs outright this time, can picture so clearly Rebecca’s wrinkled nose, can hear the fondness in her voice, but it doesn’t make him nervous—he knows what Roy and Rebecca are to each other, knows how much she loves him, and loves Keeley, but he’s never even thought to be jealous, except maybe of the easy way they seem to understand each other. The way, sometimes, Roy will throw her a look across the room and she’ll sigh, like she knows what he’s saying, even though it goes right over Ted’s head.
Still, he says, “He does do a pretty accurate Oscar the Grouch impersonation.”
Rebecca lets out a breathy laugh.
“He does,” she says, and then she’s quiet a moment, seems to be gathering her thoughts and he lets her, though he tries to shift his stance subtly so he can see her reflection in the mirror; but she’s facing away from him, and all he can see is the line of her shoulders, her back, her long legs and calves stretched taught in her heels and he tears his eyes away, focuses on the back of her head, her delicate updo.
When she doesn’t speak, and the silence stretches, he chances a gentle, “Rebecca,” half a question, and she takes a sharp breath, interrupts whatever he’d planned to say,
“And then there are other people. People you meet and at first you think, well, they’re not terrible in any way, but maybe—they don’t seem your type, or you’re distracted, or just… not seeing clearly.”
He frowns, feels a pit in his stomach. Knows, somehow, that she’s talking about him. About how she saw him—not terrible,—and he feels his hands begin to tremble slightly, curls them into fists and takes a few slow breaths.
“But then you get to know them,” she continues, before he can spiral, “Really know them. All their… genuine kindness. All their sorrow and joy and—and determination to wake up every day and be the best version of themselves they can be, and you realize how—inspiring they are, showing others how to do the same. How caring, and curious and funny and intelligent and—and they do things just because they’re kind. Not for some expectation of reward. Just because that’s who they are. Just so, unbearably good.”
She stops, breathes out slowly, and his heart is pounding, torn between wondering if she’s about to let him down in what might be the cruelest way ever, and the traitorous hope building in his chest that maybe, just maybe, this is exactly what it sounds like. The reassurance he needs, the belief in him that she has, all at the surface. That maybe he isn’t on an entirely different page like he thought. That maybe they’re both just too stubborn or too scared and maybe she feels a fraction of what he does, every time he opens his eyes and she’s there, next to him like some sort of daydream.
“And slowly all of that,” she continues, and he holds his breath, “everything they are—just… starts to show. You can see it on their face. Like their whole personality sort of… becomes them.”
It’s half a statement, half a question, and Ted thinks of apologies and her laughter at his terrible jokes and the way she curls into him in sometimes, her fluttering hands, the way she touches him and the way, very rarely, she lets him hold her to his chest and he thinks about her smiles and the little lines around her eyes that she hates but he loves and he swallows tightly, nods.
“I think I know the feeling,” he says softly.
In the mirror, he sees Rebecca nod.
“And that happens, and the person you thought was just a colleague or a friend or just—and they become so… beautiful. In every way.”
All the air leaves his lungs and he can’t quite breathe, can’t move. Her words echo, with a softness he can almost feel on his skin, everything so bright and he feels his hands tremble for an entirely different reason, the desire to touch so strong and he turns around; but she’s still facing away from him, her head bowed. This time, he can see part of her reflection in the vanity mirror—sees her hands, tangled together in front of her. Sees her downcast eyes, the way her thumb moves over her other palm nervously.
“I know this isn’t—what we have, it isn’t what you’re looking for,” she says, doesn’t realize he’s looking at her, that he can see the pained expression on her face, the aching sadness he wants so desperately to brush away.
But he stands frozen, hears her words but doesn’t understand them, doesn’t understand how she doesn’t know, how she hasn’t figured it out, how the words coming out of her mouth are so foreign he wants to cry.
“I know eventually you’ll find someone who’s perfect for you, someone who’s sweet and kind and—and you’ll be happy. And I want that for you,” she says, and it’s genuine, he knows, but her eyes are closed and she swallows, takes a ragged breath. “But I think in the meantime you should know that you—there isn’t a single part of you that’s ugly. Inside and out, you’re—to me, I mean, you’re—”
She stops, swallows, seems to be steeling herself, and he doesn’t know why until she says, softly to the floor,
“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever met.”
Ted freezes, eyes blown wide, heart hammering in his chest and she’s saying something else, but he doesn’t hear her. Sees her lips move but all he can think about is how much he fucking loves her and she doesn’t know it.
That all this time she’s been looking at him, standing by him, standing with him, hand outstretched and he hasn’t taken it because he’s an idiot. Because he thought she was just being nice. But she’s staring down at the floor, neck bowed, her expression so broken—like she’s just given up the last piece of her heart to someone she truly believes doesn’t want it, just to save him from himself and he hopes, prays, are going to have a very hard, very long laugh about this someday but for now all he manages is her name, strangled in his throat.
She must sense him closer, because her head jerks up and her eyes are wide and terrified, like she’s been caught out and she opens her mouth and he can see the apology there—for going too far or being too much—and he wants to reassure her that nothing could be further from the truth.
Wants to tell her she’s the most beautiful person he’s ever known, for all the same reasons and more but his mouth won’t form the words and she looks so frightened, so vulnerable, so brave.
His feet move before he registers the motion and then his hands are on her cheeks and then he’s kissing her. Cups her face in his palms and for the first time, kisses her outside her home, kisses her with everything he’s held back for months, maybe even years.
Rebecca startles, but she sinks into him instantly, like it’s instinct or second nature, lips parted and her hands on his arms and she lets out a small whimper that goes straight to his heart. She kisses him back, almost desperately, fingers gripping his suit jacket like he might pull away. Like he might leave her.
“Stupid,” he mumbles to himself, and when she stiffens he adds, “I’ve been stupid.”
He tries to pull back, but he feels like a magnet, drawn too tightly to her, and can’t stop kissing her, eager, frantic kisses against her lips, even as she asks,
“What?”
The sound is breathless, and her hand tightens around him when he drags his lips along her cheek, her jaw.
“Thought this was a one-sided thing.”
Rebecca shudders, her eyes closing, her voice so small. “Isn’t it? You don’t—you don’t want me.”
Ted’s heart cracks, and he tightens his hand around her waist. “Of course I do.”
Rebecca shakes her head. “No, I mean you don’t want—”
She stops, and the silence drags.
“Want what?” he asks gently, and when Rebecca looks up at him, shrugs, he feels like he’s going to cry.
“All of me.”
“Rebecca—” He takes a shaky breath, and tells himself to be brave. For once, for this moment, just be brave. “I’ve wanted all of you for a long time, now. Longer than we’ve been doin’... whatever it is we’ve been doin’.” He brushes his thumb over her cheek as she stares at him, her eyes wide and uncertain.
“You have?”
He nods, and she frowns.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t think you felt the same,” he admits. “Didn’t wanna pressure you, or—or lose what we had. And I—I guess I was just scared.”
Her eyes soften. “Of what?”
“Losin’ you. Thought I could just… be with you however you needed me, until you didn’t need me anymore.”
Rebecca’s eyes are bright with tears, and she lifts a hand to his hair, brushes it back from his forehead so tenderly his eyes sting.
“Stupid,” she murmurs, and Ted huffs out a laugh. “I’ve been throwing myself at you for two years.”
“I’m a little slow on the up-take,” he says, and for the first time, Rebecca cracks a smile, and suddenly he thinks of Christmas, her nervous hands, her hesitant smiles, the way she kept coming up with ways to stay with him longer. He thinks of their biscuit time, always set aside for him. Thinks of every time she’s reached for him and then pulled away and every time she’s been there and every time she’s looked at him before he left her house, the shadowed expression he hadn’t known how to read so clear now, and it aches.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks back, and Rebecca looks away, parrots his words, so casually it makes his heart break.
“I didn’t think you felt the same. Was afraid of losing you.” She shrugs. “I thought I could just be with you however you wanted me, until you didn’t want me anymore.”
Ted closes his eyes, leans his forehead against hers for a long moment.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs finally, pulling back to kiss her temple, her cheek, her lips. “I’m so sorry I made you doubt—”
“Ted.”
“I already have who I’m lookin’ for,” he says, feels her body tense slightly, and moves to kiss her nose, her forehead. “Someone perfect, and sweet, and kind.”
“Ted—”
“Someone who knows me, really knows me. Someone who makes me happy.”
He pulls back, looks at her, her bright eyes and trembling lip, and he smiles, lets all of it show, every ounce of affection and love clear on his face as he brushes his thumb over her cheek.
“Someone so beautiful.” And then, just to be absolutely certain, he adds, “I’m talkin’ about you. In case that wasn’t clear, or—”
Rebecca lets out a sound that’s half a laugh, half a sob. “I know,” she murmurs, looking up at him with the faintest hint of a smile. “Though I appreciate the clarification.”
“I think maybe we’ve been gettin’ our wires crossed a bit too long, now, don’t you?”
Rebecca sobers, her voice tentative, almost frightened: “You really want this?” she asks, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear. “You want—”
He thinks about some grandiose words and thinks about standing on a precipice afraid to jump and in the end he simply nods,
“All of you. Very, very much.”
Her eyes water, but no tears fall, and she looks at him like she’s never seen him before. Like this is all brand new. Both of them stumbling around in the dark, looking for a light on the other that was afraid to shine.
“Ted,” she murmurs, and she’s said his name like that before—when he hands her biscuits, when he makes a terrible joke, when he touches her, kisses her, but this time he can hear it, all of it, all her longing.
He swears to himself he’ll never make her long for anything ever again, and then he’s kissing her, hot and open-mouthed and Rebecca melts into him, doesn’t protest when he backs her against the vanity, when his hands start to roam, over her sides, her back, her thighs.
She clutches him to her, licks into his mouth and he grunts, pushes his hips against hers, and her breathy moan sends a shiver down his spine and he can’t get close enough. Without warning, he hoists her up on the vanity, hears her laugh against his mouth when something clatters, but her arms come up around his neck and she doesn’t part from him, tries to hold him even closer but his plan backfires, her skirt too tight.
Ted grumbles against her, delighted in the breathless way she laughs again, the way it sinks into a moan when he moves his hands to the hem of her skirt, pushing up. Rebecca opens her mouth at the feel of his hands on her bare thighs, a breathy question of his name.
Ted forces himself away from her, drops his hands and she looks confused and uncertain, until he turns and locks the door.
He looks back at her intently, a question in his gaze, and Rebecca shudders, her eyes snapping to his and if she tells him no, if she shakes her head, if she gives any sign this isn’t what she wants he’ll unlock the door and he thinks she knows that. Knows, by the way he keeps his hand on the lock; by the way her body relaxes, and after a moment she holds out a hand.
He’s across the room in seconds, one hand in hers and the other at her jaw as he kisses her again, mouth sliding over hers and she opens to him like she’s been waiting, wanting. His hands slide back to her legs and he pushes her skirt higher, bunching it at her waist so he can step easily between her knees, chest to chest. He feels like he’s been lit on fire, her nails dragging against back. She reaches them up to tangle in his hair, then catches herself, curls her fingers into the lapels of his jacket instead.
Gently, he takes her hand, guides her fingers into his hair and she starts to protest, but he shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. His lips are already bruised and he doesn’t know what’s going on with his makeup and he’ll cancel the whole damn thing if he can just feel her, if she’ll touch him the way she wants to touch him.
“Ted,” she starts, but he captures her lips in a bruising kiss, slides one hand up the inside of her thigh and she shudders, tightens her hand in his hair on instinct. He smiles, and knows she can feel it because she huffs.
“Julie is going to murder you,” she says, even as her other hand curls against the back of his neck as he mouths at her jaw.
“Worth it,” he says, and swallows her moan when he tugs her closer to the edge of the vanity, their hips pressing together. He stifles a groan, cock twitching as she wraps a leg around his, and he hears her heel fall to the floor. What an image they must make, he thinks, and wishes briefly the mirror were placed differently, so he could see them. What they look like, together.
Maybe another time, he thinks, files it away, keeps one hand on her thigh and ghosts over her breast with the other so she whimpers. He keeps kissing her, drawing her in again and again and they’re both breathless and panting and her arms have looped around his neck, fingers curling over and over again through the hair on his nape and the feeling of it is so good and so right he shudders.
Rebecca hums, pulls him even closer with her leg around him, and he jerks his hips into hers, hears her whine, wants nothing more in that moment, then, to see her fall apart. Wants, maybe selfishly, his name on her lips, her voice in his ear, and he moves his hand between her legs, fingers seeking.
She startles, eyes flying open, and he pulls back enough to meet her gaze, a question in his only for a moment before she nods, and he grins, and kisses her, and slips the lace aside, finds her already slick and she hums into his mouth.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, “Gotta be quiet, sweetheart.”
Rebecca shivers, either from his touch or the endearment, he isn’t certain; but she nods, and holds him to her so she can keep kissing him as his fingers find her clit and he starts a slow, tantalizing pattern, circling her and then moving away, dipping his fingers just a touch inside her and then coming back. Rebecca jerks her head away, buries her face in his neck and he can feel her mouthing at his skin, careful not to leave marks.
He wants her to. Wants her to leave as many marks as she wants, to claim him in whatever way she so chooses, but he knows for now, it’s wise, though he angles his head a bit so she has more access. His fingers continue their slow slide and her free hand, that isn’t tangled in his hair, wraps around his shoulders, clutching him to her, his name whispered against his ear.
He’s so hard now it’s almost blinding, and he knows they don’t have as much time as he’d like. Rebecca, he knows, is sometimes slow to work up with his fingers, but his mouth usually does the trick and when he pulls back just enough to start sinking to his knees, her breath catches.
He looks up at her, the desire in her eyes, her flushed skin and slightly frizzy hair and her breathless, “You’ll ruin your face.” She blinks when he laughs. “Your makeup, I mean, you—”
He presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then noses at her clit. Rebecca jerks, bites down on her lip, and he waits, a question in his eyes, until she slips her hands back into his hair and nods.
He smiles—probably woolfish, probably terribly pleased—but whatever she might have said about it is broken off in a whimper when he pushes her knickers to the side and flicks his tongue against her clit. Her breathing is fast and harsh and he wants so desperately to take his time, to wind her up, to bring her so close and then pull away and he’s going to, he promises himself, next time he’s going to tease and tease until she can’t bear it; but this time, he slips a finger inside her, licks at her clit with the flat of his tongue and relishes in the way she grips him, his scalp stinging.
“Fuck,” she whispers, and then again, when he slides another finger alongside the first and curls them up just slightly. “Ted.”
He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing his name said like that, never tire of the way her legs start to tremble. He doesn’t stop, just drives her higher and higher and loves the way she keens, so softly, the way she tightens around his fingers.
It’s enough to make a shock of arousal go through him, so strong he almost falters; but Rebecca tugs at his hair again and he smirks, curls his fingers again and licks at her clit over and over until her thighs clamp around his head and she comes, breathless curses falling into the air between them.
He’d rather let her come down slowly. Rather ease away, rather let her catch her breath; but there’s an urgency under his skin that isn’t just the thought of getting caught, of taking too long. It’s her, her taste on his lips and scent in his mustache and he staggers to his feet, captures her whine with his mouth and hauls her closer, hands at her hips and then everywhere, roaming and touching—her arms, her breasts, her legs, everywhere he can, almost frantic.
Rebecca gasps into his mouth, but she seems just as desperate, shifting closer, her hands falling to the button on his trousers and before he can think she has them pushed down along with his briefs, her hand wrapped around his cock and he jerks forward, tears his mouth from hers and nearly bites down on her neck.
They haven’t been leaving visible marks. Nothing anyone could ask about. He starts to move away, but Rebecca reaches for his head again, pins him with one hand while the other strokes over his cock, and she tilts her head so he has as much access as he needs.
He moans, can’t help it, can’t help licking at her skin or sucking a mark just below her jawline, nipping at her with his teeth and her hand tightens around him, her breathless gasp like a shot of adrenaline, “Please.”
Ted pulls away, meets her gaze, all his desire echoed back at him—but love, too. The thing he never noticed before, too blinded by his own. Reaching out, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fingers drifting over her cheek, her temple.
She’s so beautiful it makes his chest ache, and he can’t quite breath when she tilts into his touch.
“Rebecca,” he murmurs, because he has to—because she’s here and this is real and she kisses him, sweet and gentle.
A knock on the door makes her freeze, her hand stilling on his cock, and Julie’s voice cuts in, a slightly concerned,
“Coach Lasso? Is everything alright?”
He meets Rebecca’s gaze, watches as her eyes drop to his cock, then back to him and she bites her lip to keep in her laughter.
Ted nearly chokes, clears his throat as she throws him a devilish smirk, and then slowly starts moving her hand, and it’s by the grace of god that he’s able to call out, relatively evenly,
“Just fine, Jules! Be with you in a minute.”
“Bryan’s getting a bit antsy,” she warns, and Ted tries to answer but Rebecca’s thumb brushes over the head of his cock and he shudders, eyes dropping closed.
And then he nearly laughs out loud when Rebecca calls back, far too steadily, “Please remind Bryan he gets paid by the hour, and that Coach Lasso will be with him when he’s ready.”
“Yes, Ms Welton,” Julie calls back, and he can hear her walk away, hears quiet. Ted raises an eyebrow and Rebecca shrugs, and then they both dissolve into giggles, hushed against each other’s lips.
“Bryan ain’t gonna be happy,” Ted says, and Rebecca rolls her eyes.
“Bryan can deal with it. You have more pressing matters to attend to.”
Ted smirks. “Do I now?”
Rebecca nods, resumes her stroking, licks at his jaw and down his neck. “You started this, Coach Lasso,” she murmurs, and there’s something about the way she says his title that makes his eyes roll back. “Care to finish it?”
When he can see straight again, she’s smirking at him, but it’s so soft, so besotted that his heart jumps to his throat.
“No,” he says thickly, and Rebecca freezes, her expression stunned for a brief moment, until he says, “I hope it never ends.”
She stares at him, her eyes softening, body relaxing back into his touch, and part of him wants to strangle anyone who’s ever made her doubt and part of him wants to say sweet, sappy, romantic things like that to her for the rest of their lives. Until she’s so used to it she does nothing more than roll her eyes or swat his shoulder. Until someday, she stops looking at him like he’s a gift she doesn’t deserve.
“Ted,” she murmurs, touching his cheek briefly. And then she shifts, spreads her legs further and strokes him up and down one more time. “I want you.”
He nods. “You have me,” he promises, and she closes her eyes, keeps them closed as he moves closer, shifts their bodies so she’s balanced on the edge of the vanity and he can slip her underwear down her legs. So he can slide inside her. Her breathing stutters and so does his and he thinks he probably should be embarrassed about having sex in the green room of a London studio, but all he feels is joyful.
That she’s here and she loves him and he loves her and he breathes out on a gasp when she wraps both legs around his waist, shifts him deeper inside her. Her arms wind around his neck again and he keeps one hand on her hip, the other braced against the mirror behind her and they have to go slow. The items on the vanity wobble and the mirror creaks slightly and they both laugh breathlessly, both moan and she feels so good, so perfect. Even this languid, this slow, little sparks are shooting up his spine at every thrust and Rebecca is nearly quivering, and he loves that he can kiss her this way. That he can keep kissing her, his tongue in her mouth and all of her around him.
He loves her soft pants and her quiet moans and the way she clenches around him; loves the feeling of her fingers weaving through his hair, over and over again. Loves the lingering taste of her on his tongue and loves the slow slide in and out and the way she’s getting close. Loves the way her hips jerk when he drops his hand from her hip to touch her clit in slow circles.
He knows if he looks up, looks behind her, he’ll see himself, and he doesn’t want that—doesn’t have much interest in seeing himself come undone. But he hadn’t remembered, until she suddenly lets out a gasp and clenches around him so tightly he nearly comes right there, that there’s a full-length mirror behind him. The same mirror he tried to see her in. The mirror she’s just realized she can watch them in now.
“Rebecca,” he groans, his hips moving just a touch faster at the thought, her breath ghosting over his ear. She turns her head back towards him, and he kisses her fiercely, feels heat ratchet up his spine and he moves his fingers faster, wants her over the edge.
It’s only another few moments, and then she tightens around him and buries her face in his neck, hands tight around him as she shudders. Ted squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to come with her, but he’s losing control. He tries to slide out, but Rebecca holds him to her, lifts her head and looks into his eyes in a way that should scare him, but it doesn’t.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “If you want.”
He shudders. “Are you—”
“I’m sure.” She brushes her hand down his spine, then up through his hair, along his neck, her palm resting finally on his cheek. “Let go.”
He nods, barely manages a few short jerks of his hips and then he’s coming, and shaking, and Rebecca is there, her arms around him and her voice soft in his ear and he doesn’t realize he’s taking great, heaving breaths until he hears her say, “It’s alright, love. You’re alright.”
He’s trembling uncontrollably, everything so bright and perfect and beautiful and when he looks up, Rebecca is smiling at him, so soft and so fond it makes his breath catch. And then she kisses him, achingly sweet, seeming in no rush to make him move, and he gives in—wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her neck, lets his eyes close and just breathes her in, the way he’s wanted to for months now, maybe years.
Rebecca strokes his spine, nails gentle against his scalp, and it’s a few, blissful moments before he finally manages to move. He pulls out slowly, watches her face for any sign of discomfort; but Rebecca just reaches to her left and grabs a box of tissues. They both clean up as best they can, and after he’s rearranged his suit back into a semblance of normal, he drops to his knees, helps Rebecca shimmy back into her knickers, helps her smooth her skirt, helps her back into her shoe and presses a lingering kiss to her ankle as he does.
Her breathing hitches, and he files that way for another time. When he stands, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and has to laugh.
His hair is a wreck. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are red and swollen and the suit is disheveled as can be. With a glance at Rebecca, he notices she’s not much more put together—her skirt is wrinkled and there’s a purple bruise blooming on her neck and her hair looks like she’s been shocked. They look at themselves, then each other, and then they’re both laughing, both breathless and exhilarated and a little embarrassed, he thinks, if the flush on her cheeks and chest is anything to go by. But she sways into him, and he loops his arms around her, can’t keep himself from kissing her again.
Rebecca’s laughter quiets, her lips meeting his, and she holds him with a reverence he’s never felt before, not from anyone, especially when she brushes his hair back from his face, smiles when it flops forward again.
“Everyone and their mother is going to know you’ve just been thoroughly shagged,” she says, and Ted nods.
“Pretty sure they’re gonna know who did the shaggin’, too.”
Rebecca shrugs. “There are worse things to know about me.”
Ted grins. “Oh yeah, like what?”
She hums. “I like pineapple on pizza.”
“Fancy that,” he says, “So do I.”
“I’m a terrible grump before my first cup of tea.”
“Lucky for me, I always have some on hand for the locals.”
Rebecca smiles. “I don’t care for dogs,” she says, and Ted pretends to let go of her.
“Oh, well in that case—”
She laughs, and smacks his chest, but he catches her hand and brings her in close again, one arm around her waist as he nuzzles his nose against hers.
“Can’t wait to learn everything about you,” he says, hears Rebecca’s sharp, quiet breath.
“It’s not always pretty,” she says, almost a question, and Ted presses his forehead to hers.
“Maybe not,” he murmurs, ghosting his thumb over her cheek. “But I’m willin’ to bet it’s always beautiful.” He kisses the tip of her nose. “Just like you.”
Rebecca breathes out a laugh, shaking her head, but her smile is a mile wide and he put it there, and his chest blooms with pride and delight.
“Oh, you’re going to be an unbearable sap, aren’t you?” she asks, and Ted nods.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She huffs, but keeps him close. “Well, lucky for you I love saps.”
His smile widens, joy bursting in his chest so much it feels like fireworks, like it can’t be contained, and he doesn’t really mean to say it, but the words spill out, and he doesn’t regret them at all,
“I love you.”
Rebecca blinks, looks momentarily startled, and then she softens, her eyes so bright, like starlight.