Chapter Text
He woke up in a strange bed.
It was the first thing he was aware of, and Jamie laid as still as he could. It never boded well when he woke up in a strange bed with no memory of how he got there.
A mental check of his body didn’t flag anything up. Which was weird for when he ended up in a strange bed with no memory of how he got there. After all, that normally only happened when he’d truly fucked up, and being truly fucked up normally came with hurts.
Instead, he felt… languid. Like his muscles had melted and settled overnight, still a bit gooey and soft. He was wrapped up in softness, fleece brushing gently against his skin and sheets smooth under his palms and cheek where it was resting on the pillow. He didn’t normally wear pants to bed, which meant he hadn’t dressed himself to sleep — so who had?
Lifting his head once he was sure it was silent, no sounds of anyone else nearby, he cracked his eyes open.
And instantly regretted it.
He didn’t have a hangover, but his eyes still protested against the bright light coming from the open curtains, sunlight streaming in. He should have known from the light behind his eyelids, but no one ever accused Jamie Tartt of being clever, did they? Not unless he was a pitch.
Fuck.
Fuck.
They had a match today.
Immediately, his body came to life, adrenaline being pushed throughout his system. Wherever he was, he wasn’t home, he wasn’t where he could go through his pre-match rituals, where he could get ready in peace, stretch and warm up and try to settle the buzzing that lived permanently in his bones.
“Whoa!” a low, gruff voice said from the doorway when Jamie nearly toppled out of the bed, duvet wrapped around his legs.
A low, gruff, familiar voice.
Oh, fuck off.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jamie growled, trying to preserve some of his dignity as Roy fucking Kent watched him try to escape a fucking duvet.
“I brought you home, you muppet,” Roy replied, rolling his eyes and stepping into the room with a pair of mugs, placing them both on one of the nightstands.
That was when Jamie realised where he was.
His own guest room. The one he tried to never go in if he could help it, always worried he’d catch a whiff of alcohol clinging to the fabrics, or a cologne that made his stomach churn, from the one occupant who did use it when he wanted to crash.
And after figuring that out, after looking at Roy and realising he was dressed in soft sleep clothes, at the fact both sides of the bed were mused. He realised. He realised.
“Oh, fuck,” Jamie breathed. “Fuck, no. Not you.”
Row raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t move any closer or try to help him actually get free from the fucking duvet. He just watched him, like a growly creep.
“Given you didn’t remember where the fuck you are,” Roy said as Jamie finally got the fucking thing balled up and tossed back on the bed, the hardwood floor cool under his socks as he stood up properly, hoping his knees wouldn’t give out on him. “I’m guessing you don’t remember what happened last night?”
His desperately tried to bring up anything, but nothing would come. Nothing that would explain how he ended up in bed with Roy Kent and then the wanker spending the night. Nothing he wanted to consider for how he ended up there. And he very much pushed down some deeply disappointed part of himself that couldn’t fucking remember something he had fantasised about more times than he could count.
But even if he couldn’t remember, there was really only one thing it could be, yeah?
“If you tell anyone I’ll fucking ruin you too,” he snapped, hands curled into fists at his side as he let easy fury race through him. It was always easier to give in to anger than anything else. Anger was easy, after all. “I won’t let you fucking slip this to a tabloid, bring me down—”
Now both of Roy’s eyebrows were raised and he folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall. He looked… amused?
“What the fuck is that face?” Jamie demanded.
“We didn’t fuck, Tartt,” Roy said, somehow both too casual and too intense at the same time. It was fucking with Jamie’s head. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
It took a second for the words to sink in, but when they did? Fuck.
His face burned with shame. Embarrassment. Terror. It felt like his stomach was about to burst with the sudden heat, bile rising up the back of his throat.
He’d just — He had just revealed —
“Fuck,” he said, covering his mouth with one hand, and then Roy was ushering him to the en-suite so he could collapse to his knees in front of the toilet and retch.
There wasn’t much to come up, more than he expected but still not much, and he ended up just resting his cheek on the seat when there was a lull, even as he wrinkled his nose. It took a second for him to realise there was a hand running up and down his back.
He should hate it.
He never wanted it to end.
“I don’t care who you fuck,” Roy said, gruff again, but not cruel. “I’m not going to fucking tell anyone if you’re… into… that.”
The awkward way he tried to word it almost had a hysterical laugh leaving Jamie’s mouth. Instead he just retched again, spitting into the bowl. Stomach was empty. The laugh died away as easy as it came, leaving something curdled in his chest.
“You done?” Roy asked, and he felt his annoyance rise again.
“Fuck off,” Jamie said, not in the mood for Roy’s usual bullshit, and finally shaking off that hand as he climbed unsteadily to his feet.
Roy kept his hands out, ready to catch him. He tried not to read into that.
“Okay,” he said, avoiding looking at himself in the large guest mirror. “If we didn’t… then what happened?”
He choked on the word he’d wanted to say, to use it as casually as Roy had. But he just couldn’t. It was like there was a hand wrapped around his throat, keeping it from passing his lips.
“You don’t remember any of it?” Roy asked, sounding more like he was checking than genuinely asking.
He felt like a fucking idiot for shaking his head, but what else was he meant to do? There was no point lying. And maybe knowing would help with some of the dread pooling in his gut.
He waited with his arms wrapped around himself for Roy to fucking explain what did happen if it wasn’t… that, but no answer seemed to be forthcoming. Instead the silence stretched out between them, before Roy cleared his throat.
“I’ll explain over breakfast,” he said, turning to leave the bathroom, obviously expecting Jamie to follow him.
“I’m not cooking for you, twat,” Jamie protested, even as his legs moved to obey the unspoken instruction. Fucking shitty instincts.
“Never asked you to,” Roy replied over his shoulder.
Jamie narrowed his eyes, but his traitorous feet were still pulling him behind Roy like there was a string keeping them attached.
“It’s my house, mate,” he shot back.
“I don’t trust you to cook after seeing the state of your kitchen,” was the reply, and while he felt annoyance rise in him, he decided — for once in his life — not to push.
Even if he’d been cooking for himself and occasionally his mum ever since he was little. He didn’t love to do it, not like Simon, but he could do it. He wasn’t helpless. He could take care of his own fucking self. But something told him Roy wouldn’t be happy with that answer.
So he held off pushing. For a few minutes.
“En’t nothing wrong with it,” he grumbled as they entered, taking in the clean marble, one of the features of this house he hated. He’d rather have… what was it called. The wooden counters. Block something? Whatever. Those. And coloured cabinets. But these were what the house came with, and he couldn’t be arsed with the reno involved to changed them.
“It looks like it’s been prepped for fucking surgery,” Roy said, obviously hearing him and returning to an open cupboard he’d clearly been going through. “Do you own any cooking utensils, or have you been living off the nutritionists meals and takeaways?”
Jamie’s jaw flexed as he held his teeth tight together until he could let out an annoyed huff, having climbed into one of the bar stools and stuffed his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.
“The next cupboard on your left,” he said, hearing the sharpness in his own voice and fighting back a wince.
Roy followed where he’d said, and sent Jamie a raised eyebrow when he found the good shit. Simon had helped him pick it out, Jamie saying he wanted the best, before turning around and buying two of everything to update the laboratory at home at the same time. Simon had tried to wave him off and talk him down, but Jamie had just grinned and raced off with the trolley.
His chest hurt a bit at the happiness of the memory, and he extracted a hand to rub at a spot just over his heart. The Facetime calls where they cooked together had grown few and far between since he’d moved down to London.
“Just because I can tidy doesn’t mean I can’t fucking cook,” he muttered, and Roy didn’t reply to that one. Maybe he didn’t hear it. Unlikely, but Jamie could hope.
“You’re having an omelette,” Roy said, and Jamie prickled under the statement. Because it were a statement, not a question, not a ‘what do you want to eat, Jamie?’, just ‘this is what you’re going to have’.
And it rankled even fucking more because he wanted to give in to being told what to do. He didn’t feel as awful as normal, but there was still an ever-present sensation of wrongness that he knew would be fixed by giving in to his traitorous nature. His body may have been signed over to others ownership at the same time he signed his professional contract, but he could still read it. He still knew it, all the ways it betrayed him.
“Fuck you,” he said, and hated how little heat there was behind it.
“You wish,” Roy shot back, and Jamie’s face flamed. The revelation was still too fresh for him to banter back, falling silent.
He didn’t fucking like this.
He didn’t like doms in his home at the best of times. And feeling vulnerable, unwell and with memories missing, he hated it even more. And he didn’t know where his phone was — hopefully in his kit bag or in a pocket — so he couldn’t even play with it as a distraction.
The only noise in the room was from Roy’s cooking, and Jamie felt his stomach growl as delicious smells started filling the kitchen. He wasn’t a bad cook, thought himself relatively okay, but Roy looked so much more comfortable than Jamie ever had, even in a strange environment.
“Grab some plates and cutlery,” Roy said, nudging the omelette with the spatula in his hand.
Jamie held back a frustrated sound at being told what to do, a habit he’d forced himself to pick up, something he’d noticed doms do if they were ordered around, as he slid from the stool he’d been perched on.
The stuff he needed was to Roy’s right, and their hips touched briefly as he dug out forks, knives and plates. He tried not to jump away immediately, but he felt himself stiffen at the contact as Roy remained right where he was. Sure in himself. Comfortable in his skin, knowing he was exactly what he was meant to be.
The hollow space in Jamie’s chest ached again.
It felt like all too soon they were sat at the table Jamie rarely used, preferring to eat his meals at the breakfast bar. But he diligently cut off a piece of omelette and stuffed it in his mouth at Roy’s expectant look — Roy fucking Kent had cooked him breakfast, his brain was still catching up — and he let out a surprised noise.
“‘S good,” he said around his chewing, choosing to ignore the scoff from the other side of the table.
Once he’d swallowed the mouthful, though, he looked at Roy, waiting. He needed to know what the fuck happened.
Roy took the hint.
“You crashed last night,” Roy said without preamble, cutting into his own omelette and taking a bite. “At the club.”
Jamie’s blood ran cold, his appetite shrivelling up and dying immediately.
Crashes did not happen to doms. When they went into drop, they got more and more amped up. Crashes were reserved for subs, whose hormones — or lack of the right ones? Jamie could never keep it straight — would make them hazy and slow. Pliable.
Forgetful.
“No, I fucking didn’t,” he bit back, even though he knew deep down it would do no good to fight the truth. If Roy was here, if Roy had found him like that, he knew the truth. “Doms don’t crash.”
“No, they don’t,” Roy replied evenly, looking at him with knowing eyes. “Subs fucking do though, don’t they?”
“The fuck are you saying?” he spat, grip tightening on his fork, knuckles turning white. Terror wrapped its fingers around his ribcage.
This was it. This was where it all came crashing down. The precarious house of cards he’d spent a lifetime keeping up, about to be blown apart by Roy fucking Kent.
“You’re a submissive,” Roy said around another bite of omelette, all casual like, as if he weren’t ruining Jamie’s life. “Which you’ve been fucking hiding for some fucking reason.”
“Get the fuck out,” Jamie demanded, slamming his fist down on the table, almost knocking over the glass of water next to his plate. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
“No,” Roy said, still infuriatingly calm. Jamie had gotten used to being able to rankle him by now, this was fucking bizarre. “I’m staying until you explain why the fuck you’re pretending to be a dom.”
“I am a dom,” Jamie said automatically, scowling.
“Hm, not very dom-like when you knelt for me last night,” Roy said, shrugging, returning to his omelette like he hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb.
Ice ran down Jamie’s veins. He’d…? No. No, no, no. Absolutely not, no. He couldn’t have, even crashing he had to have known better than to — Did he, did Roy —
“Whoa,” Roy said as Jamie noticed his breathing had grown fast and loud. “Fuck, Jamie, calm down.”
“F—fuck y—you,” he snapped, finally dropping his fork and pressing a hand to his chest. “Fuck o—off, Roy!”
“Jamie, breathe,” Roy said firmly, although there was still tension around his eyes — don’t make them angry, they just fuck you up more if they’re angry, make it better, make it better — when Jamie dragged his gaze up.
“Fucking — can’t,” he gasped, struggling to take in air, no matter how much he tried.
“You can,” Roy said, still in that same certain, firm tone.
Jamie missed him standing up, but he flinched as arms wrapped around him from behind his chair, one hand pressing flat against his own on his chest, and the other resting on his stomach. He froze, still struggling to take in air and now his heart were hammering in his chest —
“Deep breaths,” Roy said, voice rumbling in his ear, breath warm against his nape. “I’m going to count. One, two…”
It was still difficult, his lungs refusing to cooperate for a moment, but eventually he managed to breathe past the block in his throat, watching the way their hands rose and fell with each intake and release of air. The sick feeling in his stomach felt further away as the warmth of Roy’s palm penetrated the fabric of his top.
“Good lad,” Roy said softly, voice still low and gruff but with something softer in it.
That somehow gave him the strength to throw his walls back up.
“Get off,” Jamie snapped, slapping his hands away now he could do a basic human function again. Fucking pathetic.
Roy didn’t say anything, didn’t even crack him ‘round the head, even though Jamie braced for it. He knew what Jamie was now, it was what doms did, yeah? Took their frustrations out on subs. They were alone, Roy didn’t need to play at being one of them ‘enlightened’ doms who pretended to be nice and gentle. Probably shit behind closed doors though. At least his dad had never tried to play act like that. He pretended to be nice sometimes, sure, but when he were in a proper mood, Jamie always knew it.
“Why the fuck are you pretending to be a dom?” Roy asked, sitting at the table again.
“Mind your own fucking business, Grandad,” Jamie shot back, stomach twisting with victory at the way Roy’s brows pulled together and a low growling noise left his throat.
He could deal with pissed off Roy. He could deal with a dom who was fucking pissed with him for being a prick, who wanted to punch his face in to wipe the smile off his face. Might even take care of his shitty masochist side if Roy rose to the bait.
“I liked you better when you were crashing,” he muttered instead, taking another bite of his breakfast before gesturing to Jamie’s plate with his fork. “Eat that before it goes fucking cold.”
“Fuck you, you can’t order me around,” he said, even as his traitorous hand picked up his own fork.
“Like fuck I can’t,” Roy said, rolling his eyes. “I’m your captain, Tartt, even if you don’t like it.”
“And a fucking dom,” he spat, hunching down in his seat.
“You think I wouldn’t tell a dom to eat his fucking breakfast?” Roy asked, sounding… was he laughing?
Jamie’s eyes shot up to see an amused look on Roy’s face, one brow raised expectantly. It just darkened his own mood.
“Don’t pretend you’re not fucking loving this,” he ground out. “Like this en’t your dreams come true.”
“First of all, prick, I do not dream about you,” Roy said immediately, and Jamie shifted in his seat, spine straightening a little instinctively. “Second, I don’t give a shit if you’re a dom, a sub, a switch or some unknown fucking designation yet to be mutated. You have food in front of you, you need to eat, so I’m going to tell you to fucking eat it. End of story.”
“I’m not fucking doing this,” Jamie announced, slamming his fork down and shooting to his feet. “This is my house, and you need to get the fuck out. Leave me the fuck alone, and if you tell anyone what happened last night I’ll report you to HR for fucking with me.”
Roy’s eyes rounded with surprise, brows shooting up. Had very expressive eyebrows, did Roy Kent, and Jamie hated that he could read them pretty well. This was disbelief, incredulous of what Jamie was saying. But he fucking meant it. He didn’t have to reveal he was a sub to drop Roy in deep shit.
“You don’t need to pretend with me, lad,” Roy said, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, folding his arms over his chest and propping an ankle on the opposite knee. Jamie noticed he was wearing bright pink socks covered in dancing pineapples and felt the hysterical urge to laugh. “I know you must have a reason for fucking lying like you have, and I know what someone cornered looks like too. You don’t have to bark at me, when I know there’s no bite to back it up.”
“Fuck you.” Jamie’s head span with anger. Before he could even think about it, he launched the plate and partially eaten omelette at Roy, taking a sickening sense of satisfaction from the way he almost fell out of his chair to avoid being hit. “You think you fucking know me, you fucking has-been cunt? Get the fuck out and leave me alone! Fucking now, Kent!”
He tried to hold onto that sense of satisfaction as Roy finally stood from his seat, looking at the broken plate and pieces of egg on the floor. Jamie could barely breathe again when those dark eyes met his again, bracing himself for what came next — the beatings, the screaming, throwing things — but Roy just shook his head, more to himself than Jamie, and walked past him to head upstairs, probably to get his things.
Jamie sank back into his chair before his wobbly knees could give out on him. Propping an elbow on the table, he let his forehead rest in his palm, rubbing the other hand against the tightness in his sternum.
The door slamming closed was the only sign he had that Roy had left.