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He doesn’t know who throws the first punch.
All he knows is there’s a sudden uproar in the locker room — clenched hands fisted into teammates jerseys, harsh words and insults flowing like the Thames — and he’s moving before he can stop himself, shoving his way into the fray, when someone’s fist connects solidly with his temple.
Things get a little hazy after that.
There’s an inky darkness blotting out his senses, his world receding in a sweeping rush that’s mildly concerning to him — but the thought disintegrates as soon as it arrives, unraveling in his head like a spool tossed into the churning depths of the sea.
And just like that he’s gone with the tide.
He drifts, a peculiar sort of comfort ebbing and flowing around the edges of his consciousness. There’s a gentle hum lapping around the periphery of his awareness — a simple, encouraging sort of constant that beckons him deeper. Ted allows himself to sink.
Time is a funny thing, really — especially when you’re descending further into yourself.
He’s not entirely sure where he is when he breaks the surface, a burning cough bubbling past his lips. Testing the waters he cracks an eye open just a touch, immediately regretting his hamfisted decision when a piercing crack of pain all but rams itself into his head. A pained groan falls from him unbidden and he tries to twist, squinting in an attempt to shield himself from the bright lights overhead.
The amount of hands on him are overwhelming, conversation being shouted over the top of him that’s doin’ absolutely nothing for the pounding in his temples, but he’s grateful when someone leans across him, their body casting a blissfully dark shadow.
Someone’s rolled him onto his side, he realizes, as he sputters, trying to clear the sharp metallic taste from his mouth. His tongue feels heavy and awkward as he attempts to run it across his teeth, mouth pulling into a grimace.
Calloused hands start running across his head, fingers probing his scalp, and he can’t hold back his gasp when they hit a particularly tender spot.
“Christ, he hit his fucking head on the way down.”
“Two for one,” he mumbles, and dangit, his voice sounds slurred to his own ears.
The body in front of him shifts, leaning down into his field of vision, and he’s met with Beard’s worried eyes, mouth set in a tight line.
“Welcome back,” he offers, and Ted smiles briefly, a lopsided mess of a thing, eyes drifting upward.
“S’good to be back,” he mutters, letting his eyes fall shut. Beard’s fingers incessantly tapping at his cheek have him grumbling but complying, his gaze heavy-lidded, squinting at someone's shoes. The hand on his bicep tightens.
“Hey Beardo?” he starts, frowning against the pounding in his head. Beard hums in response. “We can go ahead and cancel the rest of trainin’.”
“We’re at a match, Coach.”
“Oh,” he starts, because boy, that sure is news to him. “We winnin’?”
His best friend frowns, some sort of emotion flashing in his eyes; it’s one he’d normally be able to place, he’s sure, but right now he’s focused on not losing his lunch.
Or would it be his breakfast?
He frowns, fighting past the bitter taste coating the back of his tongue. Hell, who are they even playing?
Beard’s tapping roughly against his cheek again and it takes him a moment to realize his eyes are closed. He prizes them open again, gaze roving wildly in their sockets as he fights to focus on any one thing, the room fading into some syrupy mess.
“Ted, what day is it?”
“C’mon,” he gripes, swallowing thickly. “Could’ja at least sit me up before goin’ through concussion protocol?”
“Oi,” Roy cuts in, and suddenly he realizes who’s got him secured in the recovery position. “Answer the fucking question. What day is it?”
Ted smacks his lips and hazards a reply after a telling pause. “Saturday?”
Beard sighs. “Lucky guess — how many fingers?”
Ted blinks, the suspended digits roving nonsensically in his field of vision. He stares, willing them to quit doin’ the samba and settle down long enough for him to wrap his head around counting again.
“Ted?” Roy prompts.
“Stop wavin’ ‘em,” he grumbles. “‘S makin’ me dizzy.”
“Fucking hell,” Roy says, and Beard throws another question his way.
“Who’s the Prime Minister?”
“I don’t know that one on a good day,” he groans, his stomach suddenly very insistent on lurching up towards his throat. “Shoot, ‘m gonna be sick.”
That’s how Rebecca finds him, propped up haphazardly between Beard and the bench with a trash can between his knees.
“Howdy, boss,” he grins sheepishly, his half-hearted attempt at a salute more reminiscent of a vague hand-flap of a salutation.
Her jaw falls open at the state of him, hand tightening on the handle of her purse before she’s crouching down beside him. It’s an impressive feat, he thinks — her crouchin’ down like that in those mighty fine shoes of hers — but the words never quite make it past his hiss when her hand gently probes at what must be one heck of a bruise just below his eye socket.
“Right then,” Rebecca winces, glancing up towards Roy. “Ambulance?”
Roy hums in agreement, pulling his mobile from his pocket.
“Now wait just’a–”
“Hush you,” she says, holding a manicured finger to his lips. “I think you’re quite outvoted on this one, darling.”
Darling. It falls from her lips so easily, coupled with her brushing the hair away from his brow that's makin’ his head spin more than it already is.
Rebecca takes the coolpack from Beard’s hands, pressing it firmly against his temple. With all he has, Ted tries to focus on the cool drop of condensation trailing down the side of his neck; the whirring hum of the overhead lights; the muffled sounds of the stadium above them.
Anything to not think of the traitorous goosebumps that rise on his forearms the second Rebecca’s soft hand finds his jaw.
When the medics finally roll in, heavy bags full of medical equipment slung over their shoulders, well — Ted is more than grateful. He swallows when Rebecca shifts, pressing more firmly into his side.
“How ya doin’, fellas? The boss here thinks I might need a lift.”
—
“Where’d that come from?” he asks once he’s settled in A&E, a nurse drawing the curtain closed to give them a bit of privacy while they wait for one of the doctors to come through.
Rebecca looks up from her phone over her reading glasses, a perturbed look pinching her brows together when he glances downward.
“Christ, you really have rattled things around, haven’t you?”
“It sure is beautiful,” he admires, holding out his hand in offering for her to rest hers in his open palm. The diamond ring on her fourth finger glints under the harsh reflection of the overhead lights. He lets out a low whistle, the sound stilted from the awkward pull on his chapped lips.
“That’s one heck of a rock — that fella must really love you.”
“He does,” she replies easily, and Ted can’t help but look up at the sound of a smile in her voice. She’s gazing at him so openly it makes his heart skip in his chest, stumbling slightly over its next beat.
“Good,” he murmurs, trailing his thumb lightly over the band before releasing his grip. “You deserve the world, Rebecca. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.”
Her expression turns fond. “You might’ve told me that once or twice.”
Maybe it's the pain medication rolling through his veins in droves or the probable concussion, but he’s doesn’t remember tellin’ her that. Thought about it? Sure. A whole heck of a lot. He just hopes he was able to get through that conversation without tripping over his tongue.
“Really?” he questions, accepting the straw she urges into his mouth. The action is awfully familiar, maybe a touch intimate, but heck, he’s rolling with it.
“Really,” she echoes. “You remind me often — though I’m partial to the way you told me on our wedding day.”
And despite himself Ted chokes, pulling in a shocked intake of breath but coating his lungs with water instead. He sputters, floundering in more ways than one as he fights to find some sort of footing. A cough tears itself from his throat, the involuntary response doing absolutely nothin’ for the pounding behind his eyes.
“We’re married?” he rasps, because knock to the noggin or not — he’s havin’ a hard time wrapping his head around this one. He points to her and back to himself in rapid succession.
“You married me?” he asks incredulously, and Rebecca sighs, shaking her head fondly. She taps his ring finger with her pinky and sure enough, there’s a gold-toned band circling his digit.
“Yes, you daft man, you.”
“Oh my God — I married Rebecca Welton.”
She laughs, a hearty sound pulled from the very depths of her chest. Gently she strokes the pad of her finger over the bridge of his nose. “Rest your eyes, darling. They said we might be here for a bit.”
“This ain’t just some dream?” he questions, settling back against the pillows. “You sure you’re still gonna be here when I wake up?
“Absolutely,” she replies, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “There’s no getting rid of me.”
She takes his hand in hers, taking a brief moment to press her lips to the flesh of his palm. Ted’s enamored, eyes flitting back and forth between the way she’s peering at him through her lashes, down to the way the warm metal of her ring fits between his fingers.
“Well I’ll be damned.”