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Sitting alone on a bench in the middle of Richmond Green, rain snapping against the branches above him, Ted allows the water to soak into the thin material of his jumper. He works at keeping his breathing even and his mind devoid of thought, knowing the moment he lets anything slip through the cracks he’s going to choke on all the things he’s spent the past thirty years refusing to acknowledge.
Grief is a funny, fickle thing, a kind of flame that goes unnoticed until it’s already burning.
It hangs around like an omen, hovers in the background just out of sight, like a television left on in the next room. Sometimes it’s merely decorative; it’s something to be carried around, a piece of who he is, but it remains securely on the shelf. It doesn’t reach out, doesn’t touch.
Other times, sometimes for good reason and sometimes for no reason at all, it makes its acquaintance. It switches off the television, slips out of the darkness, and curls its spindly fingers around his throat. An unfriendly reminder that it’s always lurking, always just beyond the shadowy recesses of his mind where it dwells.
Today is September 13th and the reason for Ted to be gripped in the clutches of grief is clear.
Thirty years to the day. A milestone, though not one he’s too pleased to have reached. Time’s supposed to heal all wounds; that’s what everyone says, but he wonders just how long he has to wait for it to be true. If not thirty, perhaps thirty five. Forty. Fifty.
Time might obscure the grief, its presence less obvious in the day-to-day as he goes about his ordinary activities, but it does not remove it. It doesn’t go away, not when the source of the grief is not finite but ongoing.
And when the day rolls around again, as it does each year despite his attempts to will the 12th to give way to the 14th, it’s like an open wound, as fresh as the day it happened. His emotions are as raw now as they were for his sixteen year old self.
Thirty years and just as his wounds have not been healed, he’s not really mastered the whole coping thing either.
Though, thinking about it, he figures it could be worse. He could be drinking himself into oblivion in his stuffy little apartment. Numbing the pain with a convenient bout of rain has to be at least a step above that.
Ted sighs, eyes slipping shut. Thirty years to the day he came home from school, went up to his bedroom just as he would any other Friday, and—
A crash of thunder shakes him to his core, whacking free the memory of that gruesome bang! coming from downstairs. The screaming, the crying, the frantic dialing of 911 with fingers too shaky and vision too blurry.
Ted blinks through it, eyes remaining closed a beat longer each time.
He’s the only one in the park, save for the few people who wander through on their trips across the way, umbrellas above their heads or hoods held securely in place. If they look at him peculiarly for sitting alone and largely immobile on a bench with no coat and no umbrella, rain pelting against his skin, he doesn’t notice.
He’d been wallowing in his grief in his apartment for most of the day, slumped on his couch with a bottle of whiskey. It happened quickly, the change; all at once he was too warm, the air too tight, too close, too much. It was claustrophobic, the walls caving in and pressing harshly against his already-too-heavy chest.
So, here he is.
Sitting with his grief, mothering it, holding its hand, waiting for it to finish having feelings.
The air is crisper, less dense, more easily sucked into his narrow lungs. He gets an unlucky inhale of rain a few times, splutters a little with it, but he recovers unharmed. It’s comforting in an odd, backward kind of way.
If he’s too cold, too wet, his body too focused on keeping itself warm, there’s no room for any of the other stuff; no energy to be used fighting the shakiness of his fingers, no space in his mind for the images and sounds of that day.
Beard finds him eventually, though Ted’s unsure how. The man’s hand feels like a lead block at his back, pressing his lungs together. They squeeze, unpleasant, feeling like the air compressed with the crush of an accordion.
“Come back to your apartment.”
Ted shakes his head, a wet strand of hair flopping onto his forehead. “Too much.”
“You can’t stay out here,” he says, voice tinny through the rain. “You’ll get sick.”
He’s been out here long enough, he thinks; if he’s going to get sick, the damage is already done. No point going back inside, back to the too-small living room with too-tight air to sit alone with his too-heavy thoughts.
At least out here the rain drowns most of it out. The cars, too, the screech of tires against wet pavement or the splash of water when they run through a puddle.
“Go inside, Beard-o. No need for both of us to get sick on my account.”
Beard’s quiet for a beat, and then: “I’m sorry, Ted. I know today’s hard for you.”
The acknowledgement of it out in the open, outside of the taunt of his brain, nearly bowls him over. His eyes sting but Ted doesn’t cry. He only breathes; short, ragged, intentional breaths.
And then he forgets to breathe.
His chest constricts and it feels as if every ounce of oxygen is sucked from his lungs, a balloon deflating and floating away with a pitiful hissing noise. As he allows it to happen, he wonders briefly if this is what his father felt in those final, fleeting moments; the terrifying lack of air, the blinding panic, the struggle to even gasp for a breath.
He hopes it wasn’t, hopes it was quick.
Breathe.
He won’t, he can’t.
“Ted, breathe.”
It’s Beard.
Ted wonders how he noticed. Maybe he’s shaking with the effort of keeping it all in or from the freezing rain; maybe he’s turning red, excess heat radiating from his skin like a distress signal; maybe he’s turning blue from a lack of oxygen.
He sucks in a deep breath, the inhale rushed and just this side of painful.
“I’m okay,” he says, eyes closed.
Ted stares out at the green, the grass sopping with an overflow of water. He feels the phantom squish of his feet against the damp ground as he digs his toes into the pavement. There’s no give, but his sneakers rustle against the gravel.
When he looks over, seconds or minutes or hours later, Beard is no longer seated beside him on the bench. He squints to his left, to his right, but the paths are all clear. He must’ve listened to Ted and gone home.
Good.
The rain slows, just so, and it’s enough for the onslaught that’s been kept at bay to slip back in unfiltered. The room, the sickening slump of his father’s body, the mess. The buzzing in his ears, the ringing that took weeks, months even, to subside. He still hears it sometimes, the blood rushing, the static of nothingness.
He remembers the feel of the Coors Light can wrapped in his fingers, the condensation rubbing off onto his palms, cooling his burning skin. The memory threatens to resurface every time he curls his hand around a pint at the pub, feeling association of some sort. The taste lingers on his tongue now, even though he hasn’t had one since that day. He’s had beers, sure, plenty of ‘em, but never Coors Light.
The stuff is bitter, tainted.
Slamming his eyes shut, he tries to shift gears. Something light, something happy, something that brings him peace.
Slowly, the image of his childhood home and its dark secrets recede from the forefront, fading into something familiar, something safe.
It’s hazy at first, a distant blur, but as the vision clears it’s an unmistakable pink. Light, soft, biscuit box pink. His chest loosens a little. The frame widens, a camera panning out; Rebecca comes into focus next, all bright yellow and glowing, a wide smile on her face when he pops into her office with that little box of shortbread.
She looks up at him, dazzling eyes soft and appreciative, a delicate blush on the apples of her cheeks, and his lips curl of their own volition. It’s no surprise to him he’s telling people his favorite color is green these days.
Maybe if he goes back to his apartment he can bake; line the sugar, butter, flour, and vanilla in a neat row on his countertop and turn them into the biscuits she loves so much. Maybe he can bring them to her, drop them off as a casual surprise. She gets biscuits and he gets to see that smile, gets to catch the way her eyes brighten and her whole face lights up with it.
(He won’t, of course, because it’s selfish and he won’t subject her to this. This sad, overwrought version of himself. He doesn’t even want to be in his company.)
He’s spared that decision altogether, anyway—he doesn’t have sugar or butter and the flour is running low because he felt too preemptively down in the dumps last night when he was meant to do a food shop. Or, more accurately, a biscuit shop, because there’s nothing else on his list.
So, no baking; instead, he remains where he is.
The rain picks up again and he no longer has to think at all.
He’s not sure how long she’s been here before he notices her. He’s not sure she’s real at first, instead wonders if she’s a figment of his imagination, something he’s conjured to brighten up the place (whether “the place” is his mind or the bench, he’s uncertain).
When the maybe-hallucination mutters a quiet fucking Christ at another crackle of thunder, a deep frown on her face as if the storm has affronted her personally, he decides that she’s real. That was too Rebecca even for his mind to recreate.
Blinking away tears or raindrops, indistinguishable from one another at this point, he furrows a concerned brow.
“Rebecca, you’re soaked,” he says, eyes trailing along her body.
She stands before him, a thin cardigan hugged tightly across her torso. Her clothes cling to her body and her shoulders shake against the chill, hair sticking to her cheeks, her forehead.
“So are you.”
Yes, but the soaked state of his body is intentional. It’s serving a purpose.
He shakes his head. “Where’s your umbrella?”
“Didn’t think to grab it on my way out the door,” she says, droplets of rain falling down her face and dipping between her lips with each word.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” he says. “You’re gonna get all sick.”
She arches her brow as she takes a seat beside him, head twisted to look over. “So now we care about the consequences of sitting in the rain?”
“It’s you,” he says easily. “Of course it matters.”
Something flits across her features for a brief moment before her face softens into something sad. “It matters when it’s you, too, Ted.”
But he shakes his head, wills her to understand that it doesn’t. He doesn’t care if he gets sick because getting sick is a small price to pay for the reward of a free, quiet mind.
“I need—the rain, it drowns it all out. It’s too… it’s too much, it’s too loud,” he grinds out, the words scraping around the lump in his throat. “It’s too quiet in there.”
“Your flat?”
He nods.
Rebecca’s quiet for a moment and he hopes to find her gone when he looks over again, just as he’d done with Beard. Not because he doesn’t want her company—he does, so badly, but he’s not sure how to ask for it without burdening her with too much of himself—but because he really does worry about her out here in the cold, the rain, the wind.
He’s not so lucky.
Before he even has a chance to glance over she’s shuffling toward him, an arm now wrapped around his back and confirming her steady presence. She hugs him to her, the embrace warm despite the chill of their wet clothes, a comforting palm running along his bicep.
They stay like that for a while, Rebecca holding him, the rain leaving no part of them untouched. He can feel it, the cold burrowing deep into his bones and making a bed, settling in. The wind whips, the rain colliding into them sideways; it’s somehow harder now, faster as it’s propelled by the breeze.
If he’s this cold now, Rebecca must be freezing.
“Rebecca, please,” he says, teeth chattering. She holds him tighter. “Go home, get outta the rain.”
She doesn’t respond at first, her cheek pressed against him. Her breath is warm against his shoulder and he holds onto the sensation long after it’s gone.
She gives one more squeeze before she speaks. “You don’t want me to get sick, right?”
“‘Course not,” he says. “That’s why I’m askin’ you to—”
“Right. Well, I’m staying out here as long as you do.”
When he moves to turn toward her, Rebecca lifts her head from his shoulder. His eyes find hers, pleading. “Rebecca…”
“Let me take you back to your flat,” she coaxes gently.
Ted shakes his head, less of a response than it is instinct. His throat is tight.
She leans in, impossibly closer still, her presence all-encompassing as she whispers in his ear. “Let’s both get out of this weather. Can you do that for me?”
He takes a breath, and then nods against her. Or maybe it’s a shiver. “Yeah,” he says, barely audible over the rain. “Okay.”
He won’t do it for himself, can’t, but he’ll try for her. If it gets her out of this weather, if it ensures she’ll be safe and warm, he’ll do it.
Rebecca smiles, so gentle, so affectionate, and a tiny piece of his heart slots back into place. “I’ll be right there with you, and if it’s still too suffocating—well, we can dry off and go somewhere else. Somewhere less wet.”
He chuckles, a broken thing, and lets her pull him up with her off of the bench. His bottom and the backs of his thighs are hit immediately with the chill now that they’re no longer pressed against the bench for warmth.
Taking his hand in hers, Rebecca intertwines their fingers and pulls their bodies close together as they walk out of the green and toward his apartment. It’s a short, quiet walk, the rain doing most of the talking.
He can feel her body jerk against him when the wind picks up and guilt claws at his ribs, takes hold, works around it like thread to a spindle.
“Keys?”
He blinks and they’re standing outside of his place. Fumbling a little, he pulls the keyring from his pocket and unlocks the door, stepping aside to usher her inside.
Rebecca eyes him and he catches the hesitation, the uncertainty.
“I’ll be right behind you,” he promises, earnest. “Just want you gettin’ warm first.”
She steps inside but doesn’t start up the stairs until the door is closed and he’s on her tail. Halfway up she reaches back blindly, and it takes him half a second to realize what she’s asking for. He slips his hand into hers and she closes her fingers around his immediately, tugging him behind her the rest of the way.
Having Rebecca in his apartment, on today of all days, should set something off; it should make him anxious, or nervous, or perhaps it should just feel weird. But it doesn’t. It feels… normal, it feels right having her here.
Having Rebecca here also allows him to focus on something other than himself, other than his grief. He’s sore from it, as if he’s just returned from a run.
Rebecca is cold and wet and shivering, and so he puts all of his energy toward rectifying those three things. He can focus on taking care of her, because he’s good at that. Taking care of other people, even when he can’t—or refuses to—offer himself the same courtesy, the same kindness.
It’s with this in mind that he immediately breaks away from her and makes his way into his bedroom, water dripping along the hardwood as he goes.
Rebecca remains rooted at the front entrance. She calls out, confused, “Ted?”
He returns a few minutes later with a large towel in his hands. Holding it out, he feels that smallest bit lighter at the grateful smile she offers him as she takes it.
“I didn’t want to drip all over your flat, though I suppose that’s moot now,” she says with a small shake of her head, glancing behind him.
He twists to look and finds a very visible water trail leading into his bedroom and back to where he stands. He shrugs. “It’s nice of ya to consider my flooring, but it’s nothin’ a little mop can’t fix.”
When he turns back around Rebecca has the towel dabbing gently to dry her cheeks, her forehead. She pulls it away from her face and her eyes lift to his, but he speaks before she can get a word out.
“I put some clothes in the bathroom for you,” Ted says in a rush, eyes trained on the ground. He only now realizes that Rebecca’s wearing flat shoes, a pair of sneakers. Nicer than his, surely, but sneakers nonetheless. It makes him smile, and he’s more conscious of the way their heights align a bit better now the next time he looks at her. “Just a pair of sweatpants and a crewneck. They’re nothin’ fancy, but they sure are cozy.”
“Ted.”
“You’re welcome to take this towel with ya, but there’re also fresh ones in there. There’s shampoo and conditioner and all that stuff, and a brand new loofa hangin’ in the shower already—”
“Ted,” Rebecca tries again, and it’s the hand on his arm rather than the tone of her voice that halts his ramble. “You’re the one who was out in the bloody rain for who knows how long. Don’t worry about me.”
He shakes his head. “I do worry about ya, Rebecca. Can’t turn that off,” he says, quiet. When he looks up, he can almost feel the desperation emanating from every pore. “Please, let me—let me do this.”
She must see something in the haunted brown of his eyes that makes her relent. “Okay,” she acquiesces softly. She holds out the towel. “Dry off. I’ll be quick, and then you’re going right in.”
He gives a thumbs up.
“And then we’re going to talk,” she adds pointedly, though gentle.
Ted sighs, shoves his hands into his wet pockets. But he nods. “Promise.”
Rebecca makes her way past him, toward the bathroom, and suddenly the air feels tighter.
Inside the bathroom Rebecca makes quick work of turning on the water and, as she waits for the temperature to even out, she leans against the sink. Staring into the overhead mirror, she catalogs her appearance.
She looks, in all honesty, like a drowned rat.
She looks ridiculous and if it wasn’t for her overwhelming concern for Ted, it would make her laugh. Her hair’s stringy and unruly and her makeup’s run, streaks of mascara dripping down her cheeks.
Her worry is joined by affection the moment she catches the pile of folded clothing placed neatly on the closed toilet seat. She runs a finger along the fabric on top, the front to what looks to be the sweater he mentioned; she can make out the beginnings of a logo, but she doesn’t unfold it just yet to see what it is.
While she doesn’t think he’s liable to do anything foolish, especially with her in the flat, Rebecca’s still not too pleased with the fact that Ted’s being left to his own devices out there.
Reasoning that the water’s probably fine by now, she begins to strip out of her clothes.
She’d almost forgotten just how unpleasant divesting herself of wet clothing is. Her jeans stick to her skin and when she finally peels them away from her body, they fall into a heavy heap on the mat. The shirt and undergarments come off easier and she tosses them onto the pile.
Rebecca showers quickly, basking in the warmth of the spray as it hits her skin.
She dries off and gets dressed, pausing when she lifts the sweatshirt and a smaller piece of fabric falls to the floor. Picking it up, her breath hitches.
She’s holding a pair of Ted’s boxers.
Clean boxers, obviously. Boxers he’s so graciously included because he knows every piece of clothing she’d worn is soaked through and it’s not as if she keeps spare underwear in his flat. But still—his boxers.
Forcing the air back into her lungs, Rebecca shakes it off and steps into them. It’s either Ted’s very clean, very dry boxers, or her own drenched underwear, and she has absolutely no desire to tackle that particular venture.
Boxers on, she immediately tugs the sweatpants on and pulls the sweatshirt over her head. Her bra is also soaked so she simply foregos it, refusing to overthink the choice. She’s already wearing his boxers, for fuck’s sake.
When she looks in the full-length mirror, she can’t help the smile that tugs at her lips. The left pant leg reads SHOCKERS in a vertical design, and the sweatshirt appears to be apparel from something called Arthur Bryant’s Barbecue.
It still smells like him, and she allows herself a moment to pull it over her nose, close her eyes, and inhale one deep breath before she leaves the bathroom.
Ted moves into the kitchen when he hears the water shut off, knowing Rebecca will be out soon. He puts water in the kettle and opens the cabinet to his left, pulling down a box that’s tucked behind the ingredients for Rebecca’s biscuits. It’s Lady Grey tea, brand new—well, not brand new, but unopened.
He puts a tea bag into a cup for her, a peek-a-boo mug with a tiny dog figurine at the bottom so she’ll get a cute surprise as she drinks more of it. It always makes him smile.
By the time he can hear Rebecca’s bare feet on the hardwood, her tea is just about ready and he turns with the intention of handing it off. He stops in his tracks when he does, though, because here she is—in his apartment, freshly showered, wearing his clothes.
He’d given ‘em to her, of course, so it’s not a surprise, it’s just… a lot. He has to actively force his thoughts away from the fact that she’s wearing his boxers right now.
Her hair’s still damp, towel dried and falling in loose waves at her shoulders. Her face is bare and he gets a glimpse of a previously unknown Rebecca; she looks beautiful, if not a little self-conscious under his gaze, and he wants so badly to cradle her cheeks in his palms and tell her just how stunning she is.
That’s not something he can do, though, so instead he just smiles. He can manage a real smile for her.
She looks good in his clothes and he tries not to dwell on the fact. The sweatpants are too big on her; in her bare feet they pool at her ankles and he assumes she has them rolled at the waist beneath the crewneck to keep them up.
“I uh—I made tea,” he says, shaking himself out of it. He steps out of the kitchen and meets her halfway, handing off the mug.
Rebecca smiles, soft. “Thank you.” She takes a sip, then arches a brow. “Lady Grey.”
“Oh, um, yeah,” he murmurs. “Good taste buds there, Boss.”
“Did you finally see the light, Ted?”
“No, definitely not. Still garbage water in my book,” he tells her. “I know you like it.”
He trails off, doesn’t say more, but it lingers in the air between them anyway. I bought it for you.
His eyes lift to hers and he finds far too much knowing in them, an understanding of all of the things he’s not saying, and he panics. He’s said nothing at all and somehow it’s still too much.
“I’m gonna—” He points toward the bathroom, avoiding her gaze. “Please, go ahead and make yourself comfortable.” Pausing halfway down the hall, he turns back. “Unless ya gotta get home—I don’t wanna keep ya or anythin’. You can take the clothes with—obviously, I mean, I wasn’t gonna make ya strip—”
“Ted.”
“Thank you,” he breathes, pained.
She waits until he looks at her. “I said I’d be right here with you.”
Nodding with a short, relieved exhale, he turns back and closes the bathroom door behind him.
She’s on the couch when he steps out of the bathroom ten minutes later in a matching pair of sweatpants and an old Wichita State tee shirt. One leg is pulled to her chest, the other curled beneath her, and she cradles the mug in both hands close to her body.
Her head lifts when she hears him and she offers a soft smile. “Feeling any better?”
“I can feel my limbs again, so I think that’s a good sign.”
Rebecca hums. “Won’t lose any fingers or toes then.”
“I think they’re safe,” he says with an exaggerated whew and swipe of his hand across his forehead.
She’s quiet, eyes downcast, before she lifts them to his. He’s taken aback by the concern in them, the emotion, and she’s hesitant when she asks, “Are you?”
Ted signs on an exhale, a rush straight from his lungs. “I’m—yeah, ‘course I am,” he says. He might not feel very okay right now but he’s safe. “I’m real sorry if I worried you before—”
“If?” she asks, incredulous. “Ted, I was fucking terrified.” She leans over to put the mug on the coffee table and then sits back, arms curled around her body. Protective. “I get a call from Beard telling me that you’re not okay, you’re sitting out in the rain in Richmond Green and refuse to go inside, can I please go see if I can get you to listen?”
Guilt resurfaces as he, after a moment’s hesitation, takes a seat beside her on the couch.
“Of course I was—I am—worried,” Rebecca continues, eyes on him now. “I’ve never seen you like that before and I… fuck, what was I supposed to think?”
“I’m real sorry, I know that’s not the version of me you’re lookin’ to—”
She cuts him off. “Stop,” she says, shaking her head. “Ted, no one expects you to be happy all the time. You never have to apologize for feeling otherwise. I just—you are usually so…” She gestures vaguely, but he gets it. “So when you were out there like that, it concerned me.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out to take her hand in his. When she starts to open her mouth, he beats her to it. “Not for how I was feelin’, but for scarin’ you. I’m—I won’t lie to ya and say I’m all right, but I can assure you I’m not—I’m safe.”
She studies him. “You promise me?”
He nods immediately. “I promise,” he says. Ted holds out a pinky.
“Really?”
“It still holds weight with Henry, so I figure…” He shrugs, wiggles the pinky at her.
The corners of her mouth curl upward as she locks her pinky with his.
“I promise, Rebecca.”
Nodding, she swallows around whatever it is she’s feeling. He can see the effort it takes, the way her throat works around it. He hates that he’s put it there, that lump.
She exhales, softly. “Why were you out there, Ted?” she asks, so quietly her voice is barely above a whisper.
Ted licks at his lips, runs a hand through his still-damp hair.
“Beard didn’t tell you?”
“No,” she says. “All he said was today’s a rough day for you.”
There’s something in her face when she says it, a sadness around her eyes that he doesn’t quite understand. He doesn’t think it’s just in response to his state of distress.
He lets out a huff of a laugh. “That’s—yeah, you could say that.”
Ted’s quiet for a long stretch, so long that Rebecca squeezes his hand and tells him, softly, “You don’t have to talk about it if it’s too difficult. All I need to know is that you’ll be okay.”
“No, it’s okay, I want to tell you. If I’m gonna be here for at least a few more years, that means a few more September 13ths to get through and you… well, you deserve to know why I might be unpleasant company.”
She shakes her head. “You’re never unpleasant company.”
“Well, I appreciate ya sayin’ that,” he says with the hint of a smile. “But I think you’ll understand why there’s an exception.”
“Okay,” she murmurs. “I’m here whenever you’re ready.”
With one more deep, steeling breath, he tells her.
The words grate like sandpaper on his tongue and he realizes this is the first time he’s told someone about his father since—heck, probably since he told Beard back in college. It’s not something he goes around tellin’ all the new people in his life.
But it feels—not good, no, but cathartic maybe, letting the words spill out into the open.
He can’t look at her while he speaks, knows the second he sees her face, the sympathy in her eyes, he’ll break. So he trains his eyes steadfastly… anywhere else; on his hands, the couch, the spot just past her left shoulder.
Ted can feel her though. Rebecca’s a calming, grounding presence.
Her fingers intertwine with his, squeezing gently every so often; her thumb runs soothing circles in the space of skin between his thumb and forefinger, back and forth, lulling him into something almost like contentment even as he retells the most horrific experience of his life.
When he’s finished, his throat is tight with the effort it takes to hold in the sob, his eyes are filled with tears, and he has to sniffle around the runny nose.
“Shit, Ted,” she whispers, and when he finally does lift his glassy eyes to hers, he finds her expression pained. There’s no pity in her gaze, which is a relief. “I’m so sorry.”
“S’alright,” he mumbles, voice rough. “I’m real good at keepin’ the thoughts away most of the time, but each year on days like his birthday or the anniversary it’s—well, it’s harder to forget.”
“And today is…”
He nods. “Thirty years.”
“Fuck.” Rebecca moves closer, their bodies connected from shoulder to hip now. “I’m—I have no idea what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he assures her, lifting his eyes to find hers. “Just bein’ here and listening, lettin’ me talk about him… that’s enough.”
She smiles, a gentle curl of her lips. “Tell me more about him?” she requests, and he finds nothing but a genuine interest on her face. She’s not asking to be polite or because she thinks it’ll help him grieve (not just because she thinks it’ll help, at least) but because she truly wants to know. It’s—
Overwhelming. But in a good way.
Ted thinks back on the time he got to spend with his father. Sixteen years seems like a long time, but in hindsight it’s really so, so little, especially considering those first few years don’t really count. He can’t remember those, can’t remember what it was like to be held in his father’s arms or talked to with a silly baby voice.
He hasn’t even had sixteen years with Henry yet, the boy still in the single digits, and Ted can’t imagine only getting a few more years with him.
He tells her about the kind of man he was—a kind man, a good dad, if not a bit (or more than a bit, really) troubled. He was a good man with his own issues, his own demons he tried to fight but eventually became too powerful to contend against.
Ted recalls going to bars with him, an unusual tradition for a father with his underage son, sure. For years he spent those evenings with his dad learning how to play darts, watching with rapt attention as the man won game after game. His dad was good—better than Ted is even now.
He remembers being taken to the playground, the way his father would coax a young Ted onto the bridge and then jump, sending the little boy flying into the air. It was thrilling, the feeling of his heart in his throat and laughter spilling over his lips, eyes bright as he looked up at his dad from his spot, inevitably, on his ass where he’d landed on the bridge.
“Kansas is known for its barbecue, ya know,” he says, a smile in his eyes as the memory hits him. “There was this one food truck I loved as a kid. It wasn’t anywhere near where we lived, it was actually real far outta the way, but he’d— if I was havin’ a rough time, he’d put me in the car without tellin’ me where we were goin’, and then drive us out to that food truck.”
Rebecca’s eyes soften, damp as he speaks. “That’s really sweet.”
“It was nice,” he says. “We’d uh, we’d sit in the park with our barbecue, either on a bench or in the grass, it didn’t matter. Sometimes it was raining so we’d sit in the car, radio on and the windshield foggin’ up ‘cause of the temperature difference.”
“You wouldn’t sit on the bench in the rain?”
He chuckles at her soft jest. “No, can’t say that’s somethin’ I learned from him.”
Rebecca squeezes his hand. “Sounds like he was a really great guy.”
“Fathers, ya know,” he murmurs, letting his head drop back against the couch.
Rebecca hums. “Yeah, fathers,” she says, but there’s something about the way her voice rasps, the way her throat works around the response, that has him rolling his head toward her.
There’s a funny expression on her face, tight, a faraway look in her eyes.
“Are you okay?”
She startles at the question. “What? Of course, fine.” He eyes her, gentle but imploring. “Ted, this is about you.”
“It can be about the both of us.”
“It’s silly,” she deflects with a wave of her hand.
“That look on your face tells me it’s not silly to you,” he counters softly.
Exhaling a deep breath, she licks at her lips. “I just—fathers are difficult,” she says with a shrug. “I haven’t been close with mine in… god, fucking decades.”
Ted gives an encouraging nod, an invitation to continue if she wants to talk about it.
“He cheated on my mother,” she starts, her voice low. “I saw it.”
Ted exhales a tiny gasp. “Oh, Rebecca…”
“My mother was away, and I was meant to be staying the night with Sassy. We stopped at mine to knick a bottle of wine from mother’s drink cabinet, and as we opened the door, I heard—well, I’m sure you can imagine what we heard.”
Ted nods, quiet.
Rebecca takes a breath, heaving it out. “We went to investigate, and there he was—in their room, in all his glory, arse in the air with Mrs. Reynolds screaming his name. And Sassy, she didn’t say anything for the first time in her life,” she huffs a laugh. “He came running after me in his dressing gown, begging me to stop, but I just…”
“That’s a lot to take in,” Ted says.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” she agrees. “The next day when I came back home, he said nothing about it. I’ve just… I’ve been so fucking angry with him ever since, hated him even. I still hate him.”
It’s his turn to squeeze her hand now. “That’s okay, you know,” he says softly. “That anger. It was unfair to let you carry that secret around for him.”
Rebecca doesn’t respond but makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. “It’s funny,” she huffs, “It was actually thirty years ago today, too. Friday the 13th, 1991.”
His eyes widen, lips parting. “Oh, wow.”
“Yeah. What are the odds?”
He’s not sure, but it feels—this feels heavier, more meaningful than a simple coincidence.
“Anyway,” she says with a shake of her head. “Like I said, it’s—it’s not like he’s dead, even if he may as well be to me. It feels silly to grieve someone who’s alive.”
“There are a lotta types of grief,” Ted supplies thoughtfully, “but ours aren’t all that different.”
She looks skeptical. “How do you figure?”
“We’re both grieving who our dads were,” he tells her. “Sure, yours is still physically here, but the version of him you loved and respected died all those years ago. That’s grief, too, Rebecca.”
Her eyes water, tongue darting out to lick at her lips. “Surely not the same,” she counters with a shake of her head. “It’s not even comparable—”
“It’s not a competition,” he interrupts gently. “My grief ain’t any bigger than yours.”
Silence falls, covers them like a blanket. Rebecca lists into his side ever so slightly and he relaxes into it, eventually untucks his arm from between them to loop it around her shoulder. He worries when she stiffens, but the tension abates a moment later and she sinks further into his embrace.
“You know, someone told me years ago that grief never disappears,” he says quietly. “It’s always here,” he taps gently at his chest, “but you grow around it until, one day, it’s not the only thing that’s in your life anymore.”
Softly, she asks, “Do you think you’re there yet?”
“I do,” he nods. “I know the whole sittin’ in the rain thing kinda contradicts that, but it’s—sometimes it’s easier to find something to drown out the sadness. It’s still with me every day, but not to that degree, ya know?”
“I’m glad,” she says. “I wish I could be of more help, wish I could—I don’t know, do something.”
Ted tugs her closer. “You do more than you think. You’re helpin’ me right now.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. And I mean it when I say you help me every day, without even knowing it,” he admits, taking a chance on the truth.
She tilts her head back to look up at him. “I do?”
Staring down at her, he realizes she’s serious; she really has no idea how much of a positive impact she has on him, just how much she makes his day better simply by being in it.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. He pauses, hesitates a moment, before he continues. “When I was outside on that bench, the rain slowed for a little while and the noise wasn’t enough to drown out all my thoughts. I had to focus on something else, something in my life that brings me peace and calm. You know what I thought of?”
Rebecca hums in question.
“You.”
“What?” she whispers, barely a sound at all.
“Rebecca, you—you ground me,” he says. “I could be havin’ the worst day imaginable and then I’ll see you in the hallway or you’ll come down to the locker room for a quick chat or I’ll pop into your office or you’ll yell out your window for me, and for those moments… I forget. I’m not thinkin’ about my problems or whatever happened earlier, because you’re there and you’re brightening the whole room.”
Her lips are parted, surprise etched into the lines around her eyes. “Ted…”
“I’m sorry if this is all too much, I—I don’t mean it to be, and I’m not expectin’ you to say anythin’ really, I just need you to know how much you do for me just by bein’ you,” he murmurs. “I meant what I said that day, Rebecca. You liven up the place. The locker room, the club… my life.”
She’s quiet, but he swears he can feel her heart thumping against him where she’s pressed. It makes him nervous, like he’s been too honest too soon, like she’s about to bolt off the couch and out the door and out of his life, but then—
Rebecca leans up enough to wrap her arm around his neck, pulling him into a gentle, proper hug. He goes willingly, releasing a relieved breath against her skin.
“You could never be too much,” she murmurs, lips brushing the juncture where his ear meets his cheek. “You’re a light for so many people, Ted. I’m glad I can… I’m honored to be that for you.”
He shivers against her and she revels in it.
“You—you’ve livened up my life since the moment you stepped into it, whether I wanted you to or not.”
It warms him and makes him chuckle at the same time, knowing just how badly she tried to rebuff his kindness in the beginning. Granted, she was trying to use him to cause the downfall of the team, so… he understands it.
“Yeah?” he smiles.
She laughs. “Of course, you ridiculous man.”
Pulling back, Rebecca looks at him with so much care, so much awe, so much—if he dares to even dream it, love, that it nearly knocks him over. He knows he’s been looking at her the same way for ages now, unable to reign it in despite his best efforts, but she’s never seemed to notice.
Until now.
“God, I’ve missed it this whole time,” she whispers in disbelief.
She shakes her head, thinking back to all of those little moments, all of those simple things he did or said or the way he looked at her. The fucking biscuits, for Christ’s sake. She’d spent so much time convincing herself that it was just Ted being… Ted, the kind, wonderful man he is.
Ted’s like this with everyone, she’d tell herself. Ted looks at everyone like they’ve hung the fucking moon, she’d tell herself. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism, because surely she doesn’t deserve any of it to be special, specific to her—the gestures, the kindness, him.
He looks at her with wide eyes, if only a little nervous about her reaction; she continues to stare off into the empty space past the coffee table, brows furrowed. He’s torn between that god being a “god, he’s felt the same this whole time” (he should be so lucky) or a “god, now I’ve got to let him down gently.”
Perhaps he shouldn’t have bit the bullet so early, in a moment when he’s emotionally frayed no less, the edges of his nerves sparking beneath his skin.
“Unless I’m completely misreading—”
Oh.
“No,” he’s quick to cut her off. He lifts a hand to her cheek. “No, you’re not. You’re readin’ it just right.”
Rebecca’s shoulders drop, relieved, her face softening into something like wonder.
“I wasn’t exactly subtle,” he adds lightly. “I tried to hide it, but it didn’t—I don’t think I did a great job.”
“Why would you hide it?” she asks.
“I didn’t think it was possible you’d ever reciprocate.” He shrugs. “I didn’t want to risk ruinin’ what he had. Havin’ you in my life as just a friend is better than not havin’ you in my life at all.”
She smiles at him, sad. “You wouldn’t have lost me, Ted.”
“I couldn’t take that risk,” he says with a small shake of his head. “I never woulda imagined that you felt the same—” He pauses, second guesses himself. “You do, right? Unless I’m the one—”
“I sat in the rain with you, Ted.”
“Yeah, but you’d do that for all your best friends.”
Rebecca tilts her head in consideration. “Maybe, yes,” she agrees, “but I would’ve carried Keeley inside after five minutes if I had to.”
“See,” he says, pointing a finger, “that’s why ya stayed out there. Can’t pick me up.”
She laughs. “Yes, that’s why.”
He takes a breath. “So, just to clarify…”
“Yes, Ted,” she murmurs, the corners of her lips quirked. “I have feelings for you.”
His face breaks into a smile, wide enough to reach his eyes. “Well I gotta say, that’s about the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Don’t be silly,” she says, shifting closer.
She leans into him more, letting his side take the brunt of her body weight now. She’s warm against him, a welcomed, comforting pressure.
“I’m bein’ serious,” he retorts. “Though, your reaction to tryin’ my biscuits for the first time is a real contender. Hoowee, that was somethin’ else.”
Her mouth opens, tongue pressed against her inner cheek as she arches a brow at him.
“That—see, I’m hearin’ how that sounded now, and I didn’t mean—”
But Rebecca laughs, eyes clouded with mirth. She pats his hand where it rests on his thigh. “I’m sure that reaction will be one to remember, too, for what it’s worth.”
All of the air rushes out of his lungs in a quick burst and she laughs with it, presses her forehead against his chest. Oh, she’s evil.
“Cruel,” he mutters, her laughter reverberating at his sternum. He can feel it float through him, sending goosebumps to his skin. “Cruel, cruel woman.”
Rebecca hums, easy. “It’s not cruel if I plan to follow through, now, is it?”
Ted thinks about his night so far and can’t seem to reconcile the contrast between two hours ago, sitting in a downpour to drown out his thoughts, and right now, sitting with Rebecca against his chest, their shared feelings out in the open, and her teasing (not joking—he does not think she’s joking) about how memorable their first time will be.
He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about it. She’s Rebecca and he’s, well, he’s only human. It feels less unsavory now that he knows she has romantic feelings for him, too.
The thought alone makes him smile, cheeks hot with emotion.
When he glances over at her, she looks so beautiful it nearly takes his breath away. Her hair’s mostly dried now, loose, unruly waves puffing out in a way he’s not used to. It’s always so styled, so perfectly put together, but he almost thinks he loves this more. Her cheeks look how his feel, flushed, and she’s peering up at him so softly beneath her lashes it threatens to undo him.
“Rebecca,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to her lips before they lift back up to hers.
She nods her consent to his unasked question and he cups her cheek in his hand, leans down, and presses his mouth to hers. A crack of thunder roars the second their lips touch and they startle apart with a laugh. They immediately meet each other’s gaze, though their eyes are dark.
When his lips close over hers again it’s more intense, Rebecca leaning up and grabbing hold of the front of his shirt. One fist balls in the fabric and the other finds its way into his hair, fingers gripping at the crown of his head. Ted’s hand migrates to curl at her neck, the other finding purchase on her waist.
After a few minutes of exploring each other’s mouths, each trying to find the thing that makes the other elicit a breathy little moan, Rebecca pulls back.
“I don’t want to…”
“Take advantage of me?” he asks with a teasing lilt.
Rebecca playfully swats at his chest with the back of her hand. “Yes,” she says.
He sobers, serious when he tells her, “You could never.”
With a soft smile she leans up and slants her mouth over his in a chaste kiss. Her hand lingers on his cheek as she pulls back, thumb brushing over his lips.
“But you’re right,” he continues, lifting a hand to card through her hair. “I don’t want this—us—to be tainted by this anniversary. We deserve our own.”
She grins at that, then pins her bottom lip between her teeth to tamper it. “Anniversary, huh? Sounds pretty official.”
Ted blinks, suddenly second-guessing. “Oh, well, I mean… I’d like to—if you’d like to—”
“Ted.”
“Uh huh. Yes.”
“I love you.”
She knows it to be true the moment the words fall from her lips and out into the open. It should scare her how quickly it comes, how easily it is to say the words. They’ve just had their first kiss mere minutes ago, for Christ’s sake.
But it hasn’t been quick, not really.
Every single moment they’ve spent together has been leading up to this moment, another charm added to the bracelet of their relationship.
Every laugh, every goofy grin, every odd little Midwestern anecdote, every smile line added to the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. It’s all a culmination of things she loves about him, things that, on their own, seemed innocent enough.
They slipped in slowly, unassuming, worked their way around the bitterness and latched onto her ribs like spindly little vines. Where there were weeds sprouted vibrant colors, roses and sunflowers and daisies, a small garden of light in the spaces where only darkness had previously set up roots.
She thinks she’s known it for a long while now, this love. That what she felt for Ted went far beyond friendship, that the kickstart of her pulse every time he walked into her office was more than simple affection.
It wasn’t as obvious to her plotting mind, too preoccupied with using Ted as a pawn to cause the club’s downfall. She thinks it was there back then, too, though, the first sparks of something more.
The softening of her heart, the weaseling of his charm into her daily life, the laughter he’d pull out of her despite her best efforts to remain bitter and vengeful. The way he chipped away at her carefully constructed armor, took down the walls she’d erected brick-by-brick until it was nothing but a pile of rubble that he promptly swept away, built a fence to replace, and stepped right through with ease.
She’s loved him, in a more subtle, abstract way, since the day he soft-shoed into her life armed with nothing but kindness, an open smile, and a little pink box of shortbread. That tiny green army man, her first line of defense… she thinks it was protecting her from herself all this time.
Every day since then she’s fallen a little more in love with him, this soft soul of a man who, despite deserving the entire fucking world, has chosen to love her, too.
“Oh.”
“Oh?” she repeats, brows raised.
“No, I mean—jeez, Rebecca, I’m… you really know how to turn a man’s night around,” he says, and once again the second the words leave his mouth his eyes close, nose scrunched. “That—again, I…”
She laughs, a rich sound that shoots straight to the heart. “I know what you mean,” she promises. “Though I can’t say I’m not thrilled that I can make you this flustered.”
“You’ve been makin’ me flustered for a long while now,” he admits with a laugh. “I gotta say, you’ve got one heck of a knack for it, little lady.”
Rebecca hums, pleased, and knocks her shoulder into his. “Good to know.”
“I love you, too,” he adds on hastily, eyes finding hers. “Ya know, in case that wasn’t glaringly obvious.”
She bites down around a smile. “It is now, but it’s nice to hear you say it.”
“I love you,” he repeats then, eyes bright under the dull glow of his living room lamps. He’s never looked so beautiful.
Rebecca’s quiet but he watches as the emotions roll out, flitting across her face one by one, and he doesn’t think he’s ever loved someone like this before.
He loved Michelle, of course, and the love he felt for her was genuine. But this is different, this affection, so all-encompassing it’s just this side of overwhelming. He feels it throughout his body, coursing through his veins, the urge to keep that smile on her face for the rest of his life.
“Thank you,” he says, lifting a hand to cup her cheek. She leans into the touch, eyes slipping closed and mouth curling gently at the edges.
When her eyes flutter back open, she glances up at him from beneath her long lashes. “You don’t have to thank me for loving you, Ted.”
“No,” he says softly. “For tonight. I never did.”
“Oh.” She settles back against his side. “You don’t have to thank me for that either. You would’ve done the same for me.”
“Of course. Though, if you’re ever thinkin’ about sitting out in the rain, maybe talk to me first? I’d like to be able to help get you outta that pretty little head of yours before it gets to that.”
She presses a kiss to his knuckles, lingering. “Promise. But only if you promise me the same.”
“Deal.”
They’re quiet after that, held in each other’s embrace, content to listen to the sound of the rain outside as it hits against the windows and their gentle breathing. Ted tightens his hold, one hand cradling the crown of her head, thumb brushing delicately over her hair.
“I think I should thank Beard.”
Rebecca laughs, a lovely, airy sound. She twists a little so she can lean up and press a kiss to his jaw. “I think I should thank Beard.”
“Will you stay?” he asks sometime later, running a hand along her forearm. “No funny business, I promise, I just—” I want to be near you.
She lifts her eyes to his. “You don’t need to hide anymore, Ted. You’re not going to scare me off.”
“I don’t want to let ya go yet,” he admits quietly.
“Well that’s convenient, because I don’t want to let go of you yet, either.”
Ted softens as he stares down at Rebecca where she rests her head against his chest, chin tilted upward just enough that if she wants to look at him she can. It still feels like a dream, a figment of his imagination, and he wonders if he’ll wake up and find himself back out in the rain, alone on that bench in Richmond Green.
He thinks that’s at least a third of the reason he wants her to stay; to remind him that this is real, it’s happening, he really does have the woman of his dreams curled against him on what’s previously been the worst day of the year.
He thinks he’ll need to re-work his organizational system, September 13th’s rank.
It’s still at the bottom, still a day he’ll dread as it comes around each year, but there’ll now always be that tiniest hint of brightness weaved in the mix with the reminder that, although this day took his father away from him, it also brought him Rebecca.
And that holds its weight.
“Yeah?” He smiles. “So you’ll stay?”
“I’ll stay.”
They fall asleep tangled in each other, Rebecca’s arm looped over his torso, her leg hiked over his hip and feet twisted between his legs. He maintains a hold on her, his arm wrapped around her back and hugging her closer still. With her face tucked in his neck he can feel each puff of warm air against his skin, each rise and fall of her chest against his body.
He’s never been much of a cuddler in bed; not by nature, but by design. Michelle wasn’t all that big a fan of sleeping intertwined like a soft pretzel, said she got too overheated in the night and needed her space. Ted obliged, of course, didn’t mind forgoing his desire to hold and be held if it bothered her that much.
But he’s missed it.
He’s craved it all these years, the warm weight of a body beside him, all around him. Second only to gift-giving, touch is Ted’s love language. He thrives off of it, both receiving and giving. And not just in a sexual way, ‘cause that’s great too, but just—this. Right here. This simple intimacy with another person.
Rebecca shifts, her nose nuzzling into the soft skin below his jaw, and he lets out a tranquil sigh. He reaches over with his free hand and pushes a piece of hair out of her face where it blows a little with each breath, tucks it delicately behind her ear.
He’s not sure how he got so lucky.
Ted wakes around 6am with a jolt.
His eyes fly open as he tries to figure out what the heck happened and it doesn’t take long for his senses to kick in. His hearing, mostly.
Off to his left, Rebecca is curled in on herself, caught in a coughing fit. His heart immediately clenches, guilt swirling around his spine.
Leaning over onto his side, he places one hand on her hip and the other finds a spot along her back. He rubs soothing circles there, willing the cough away.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “See if you can take a deep breath for me, okay?”
She groans but after a few minutes the coughing does subside and she does as she’s asked. She inhales deep and lets it out slowly, repeats the motion a few times until it doesn’t feel as stilted.
“There we go,” he says.
“I’m fine,” Rebecca tells him, but he’s not all that sure he believes her, both because of the coughing fit and, well…
“I don’t think fine is supposed to have a d at the end, Boss.”
She glares at him in the near-darkness. “I’m fine,” she repeats, nose wrinkling when she hears it herself. “I’m fine. Fine. I’m—for Christ’s sake, I’m okay.”
Ted chuckles sympathetically. “I’m sure ya are, but I’m gonna take your temperature anyway, okay?”
She waves him off, eyes already closing, and he takes that as a sign to go ahead.
When he does, he lets out a low whistle. It’s a mid-grade fever, nothing to be too concerned about but nothing small either.
“Looks like you’ll be spendin’ the day in bed,” he says.
Rebecca hums, does not open her eyes. “Not how I expected our first full day in bed to go.”
“Can’t disagree there,” he says, though he sobers when he notices the way her hair is clinging to her skin. “Are you hot?”
“I don’t know, am I?” she asks, as teasingly seductive as she can.
“Rebecca.”
“I’m fucking sweltering.”
Ted tsks at her for not saying anything but takes off the top layer of blankets. “I don’t want you to get the chills, so I’ll take off the comforter but we’ll keep the sheet on.”
She doesn’t protest, just rolls over onto her side and squeezes her eyes shut. He feels awful; he can tell she’s uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs, pushing the hair away from her sweaty forehead. “It’s my fault you’re all sick.”
“I chose to sit out there with you,” she reminds softly, shimming further into the mattress. “I’d do it again.”
“Even though you got sick?”
“It’s just a cold, Ted. I’ll be sufficiently miserable for a bit and then I’ll be good as new.”
He leaves her for a moment to gather some necessities. From the kitchen he grabs a glass of water; from the bathroom he grabs pain pills, a bottle of cold and flu medicine, and a cloth that he runs under the tap until it’s cool. He wrings it out so it’s not sopping wet, and then brings the collection into the bedroom.
“Rebecca.” She grumbles a little and he can’t help but smile. “Come on, I need you to take this for me.”
She peels open her eyes, looks down at the small cup dose of cold and flu liquid, and scrunches her face. Sheesh, she’s like Henry when he’s ill.
“I know it’s not biscuits or anythin’ but it’ll help you feel better. And then I’ll make you biscuits, how’s that,” he barters, and now it really feels like he’s taking care of Henry.
Rebecca sighs but takes the cup from him, downs it, and makes more of a face than she does when taking shots, which he finds hilarious. Vodka is fine, no reaction. Cold and flu medicine? He might as well be asking her to swallow battery acid.
He helps her lay her head back against the pillow, then places the cool cloth against her forehead. She sighs into it and the corners of his lips lift, pleased it’s at least giving her some relief.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispers. “Get some rest. I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
Rebecca offers a barely-there nod before she drifts off.
He’s surprised to see Rebecca shuffling out of the bedroom around 9:00, a hand rubbing at her tired eyes and hair tousled, the pieces framing her face still damp and sticking to her skin.
“Good morning,” he greets with a smile. “I can get a cup of tea goin’ here, or coffee if you’d prefer.”
Rebecca takes a seat at the counter. “Tea would be lovely, thank you.”
“How’re you feelin’ this morning?” he asks as he puts the kettle on. He pauses, then amends, “Well, later this morning.”
“Better,” she says, leadingly.
Turning away from the stove for a moment, he leans against the lower cabinet and looks at her. She shrinks a little under his gaze, self-consciously pulling his sweater closer to her body, dipping her head, pushing some rogue pieces of hair behind her ear.
“What is it?”
She sighs. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this is all,” she shrugs. Tossing him a sarcastic smile, she laughs, a self-deprecating thing. “I know this isn’t the put-together Rebecca you were anticipating.”
“Hey now, none of that.” Ted steps out of the kitchen and toward her, stopping at the edge of the counter so he’s diagonal to her. He reaches over, places a hand over hers. “What’d you tell me yesterday? You don’t expect me to be happy all the time? Well, I don’t expect you to be put together all the time.”
“Doesn’t feel like the same thing.”
“Sure it is. When I said that I wanted you, I meant all of you. Every part, every version.”
Rebecca chews on the inside of her cheek, lifts wet eyes to him. “Surely this isn’t what you envisioned, though.”
“It’s exactly what I envisioned,” he counters with a smile. “You’re a little worse for wear right now, but you know what else you are?”
“Do I want to know?”
“Beautiful.”
“Ted…”
“I mean it,” he insists, firm. He tips her chin so she looks at him again. “You’re all pale and sick right now ‘cause you cared enough about me to sit out in the rain while I dealt with my issues. That’s beautiful to me, Rebecca. You, your actions, your heart. All of it.”
The kettle hisses and Rebecca chuckles, a watery sound as she sniffles. “You’re being summoned,” she murmurs, a hand ghosting a touch at his cheek before falling away.
As he pours the hot water into her tea, he looks over his shoulder. “How’s your throat?”
“A little sore, but I’ll survive.”
Ted nods and turns back to the task at hand. He grabs the honey from the cabinet and drizzles a tiny bit into the mug, stirring it around with a spoon. He’s not sure if this is a cardinal sin here in the Land of Tea, but it’s somethin’ his mama’s always done for him and what he still does for Henry when he’s got somethin’ of a sore throat.
She breaks into a coughing fit while she waits, groaning with it.
“How are you not the one coughing up a lung?” she asks. “I wasn’t even out there that bloody long.”
“My immune system’s just stronger, I guess.”
“My robust immune system takes offense to that.”
He laughs as he walks back over, tea in hand.
She takes the mug gratefully, curling her fingers around the ceramic. “Thank you,” she says. She takes a sip, swallows, and glances over at him with a tilt of her head. “Did you put something in this?”
“Just some honey, honey,” he says, then scrunches his nose. “Sorry, that was—”
Rebecca hums. “No, I like it,” she decides around the rim of the mug. “In the tea and on your tongue.”
She’s going to kill him.
Despite Rebecca’s protestations that she’s fine—she’s infinitely less intimidating with eyes tearing from the intensity of her cough—Ted manages to convince her to settle back down. Not in the bedroom, because she’s still marginally intimidating and her watery glare was impressively effective, but on the couch.
He props her up with pillows against the side and instructs her to stretch out. Once she does, rolling her eyes good-naturedly when he goes as far as to fluff the pillows, he covers her in a blanket.
“Ted?”
Stopping his fussing for a moment, he pauses and looks at her. He’s bent over, hands fisted in the blanket that he’s now tucking around her. “Yeah? Do you need something?”
“Yes. For you to relax.”
“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
“I have a cold, I’m not at my end of life,” she says with a laugh. “Please sit down.”
“‘Course, sorry, yeah,” he says, nodding.
Rebecca clocks the slump of his shoulders and catches him by the wrist before he can step away from her. “Ted, look at me.” He does. “I love how caring you are, I really do. I appreciate it, I just—you don’t have to go through the trouble.”
He just blinks, doesn’t seem to understand. “It’s not trouble, Rebecca. I like doin’ it, takin’ care of the people I love.”
Her breath hitches, still not quite used to how easily the sentiment flips out.
“I’m just not used to it, I suppose,” she says softly.
“Who usually takes care of you when you’re sick?”
She shrugs. “Myself?”
“Oh no, that simply won’t do,” he says, eyes wide. “Right, so no more of that. I’m real sorry no one’s ever taken care of you the way they should have, but it’s not right for anyone to be miserable and alone.”
She doesn’t say anything, just looks up softly at him from her spot beneath the blanket, seemingly so surprised that he’s saying these things, that he wants to be the one to care for her. It cracks at his heart a little, he won’t lie.
Moving in, he leans toward her, but she stops him with a palm to the chest. “I’ll get you sick.”
He laughs. “I hate to break it to ya, but all that kissin’ last night? If I’m gonna get sick, I’m gonna get sick.”
Heat creeps into her cheeks. “Still, better safe than sorry.”
“I hear ya, I do, but I have a counter offer.”
She arches a brow, lips twisted in amusement. “Is that so?”
“Uh huh.”
“And what would that be?”
“I kiss ya anyway, ‘cause I don’t care if I get sick and I’d really like to.”
She laughs, eyes bright. “Well how can I say no to that?”
“You can, of course,” he says seriously, which only makes her want to less.
“Come here.”
He grins when she tugs on the front of his shirt and pulls him down to her, their lips colliding in a gentle press of a kiss. He can feel her smile into it, her teeth brushing against his lips when she does. Her hands slide through his hair, fingers tickling at the nape of his neck.
He does sit down then, lifting her legs and settling in before he drapes them back over his thighs.
When he hands her the remote with a cryptic, “choose wisely,” she rolls her eyes and hits play on You’ve Got Mail.
“Well done.”
Ted wakes up from their nap six hours later, his chest tight and a deep tickle in his throat. It makes him laugh, which turns into a cough, and Rebecca looks at him with sympathy, eyes soft and apologetic as his face turns red with the effort of it.
He just smiles in response once it subsides, dusting a kiss to her temple.
With a raspy voice, throat rough, he speaks into her skin. “Worth it.”
Rebecca hums, fingers carding through his hair. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She’s silent beside him at that, her soft breathing the only response he gets. When he glances over, he finds her looking up with damp eyes and a gentle smile on her face. She presses a kiss against his shoulder before she curls into him, an arm wrapped around his torso and her palm resting just above his heart.
Ted’s grip tightens, his hand holding her close at the waist.
“Your dad would be so proud of the man you are,” she whispers into his chest.
It doesn’t hurt like it usually does, the mention of his father and the question of what he’d think about how he’s living his life. It warms him now, the sentiment, because he knows she believes what she’s saying. That means something, his gut alight with overwhelming affection for her.
He thinks he believes it, too.
Smiling gently into her hair, Ted can’t help but awe at having Rebecca in his arms, this beautiful woman whose equally bruised heart is willing to be held in his calloused hands. He doesn’t take the privilege lightly.
When she squawks a husky laugh at the press of his cold feet against her shins, mutters a half-hearted and hoarse, “you’ll pay for that one, Lasso,” into his shirt, he’s positive.
Yeah, this is worth it.