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Jamie had woken up feeling like he’d been tackled by a truck, his throat raw, his limbs heavy. He’d cancelled training and had spent the day alternating between shivering under his duvet and sweating through his sheets.
So when his doorbell rang at five, his first instinct was to ignore it. It was probably a teammate with a get-well-soon gesture that would require him to actually be a person. The bell rang again, longer this time, followed by a series of impatient knocks.
Groaning, Jamie pulled himself up, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders like a cape. He shuffled to the door and pulled it open.
Roy stood there, soaked. In one hand he held a plastic bag from the chemist, in the other, a large takeaway container.
“You look like shit,” Roy grunted, shouldering past him into the house.
“Cheers, mate. Nice to see you too,” Jamie croaked.He shuffled back towards his ridiculously large sofa, collapsing onto it.
Roy followed him, surveying the scene, seeing a nest of blankets, two empty water glasses, and a box of tissues that had seen better days. He dropped the bag on the coffee table with a thud. “Medicine. Paracetamol and that fizzy shit you put in water.”
He then thrust the container towards Jamie. “Soup. From that place Phoebe likes. It’s not poison. We like it.”
Jamie just blinked up at him. “Thanks, Roy.”
Roy grunted in response, already heading towards the kitchen. Jamie heard the clink of a spoon, the running of water. A few moments later, Roy returned, placing a fresh glass of water on the table and unscrewing the lid of the soup. The fragrant, steamy smell of chicken and ginger filled the air.
“Eat,” Roy commanded, sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of him.
Jamie made a weak attempt to sit up straighter, fumbling for the spoon. His hand trembled slightly. Roy watched him for a second, his jaw tight, before taking the spoon from him, filling it with soup, and holding it up. “Open your mouth, Tartt.”
Jamie’s eyes widened slightly, and smiled. “You’re gonna feed me?”
“If you don’t open your mouth in the next three seconds, I’m pouring this on your head. One…”
Jamie opened his mouth. The soup was warm and perfect. Roy fed him a few more spoonfuls in silence. He then shook two paracetamol out of the box and handed them over. “Take these.”
Jamie obeyed, downing them with the water. The effort seemed to exhaust him, and he sank back against the cushions, his eyelids heavy. Roy stood up, grabbing his wet coat from where he’d draped it over a chair.
“Right. Get some sleep.”
Panic, clear and sharp, cut through the fog in Jamie’s head. He didn’t want to be alone in his big, empty house. He wanted the solid, grumpy presence that had just fed him soup.
“Roy?” His voice was a small whisper.
Roy stopped, his hand on the door handle. He didn’t turn around.
“Can you stay?”
Roy’s shoulders, tensed against the cold and the world, seemed to drop a fraction of an inch. He turned slowly.
Jamie looked utterly pathetic, bundled up and vulnerable. Roy sighed, a deep rumble from his chest. “Fucking hell.”
He walked back into the room, dropping his coat on the floor this time. He sat on the opposite end of the massive sofa, his back against the armrest, his legs stretched out. He grabbed the remote.
“There’s shit telly on. Don’t expect me to talk.”
A tiny, grateful smile touched Jamie’s lips. He shifted, sliding down until his head was resting on a cushion near Roy’s thigh, still wrapped in his blanket. It wasn’t a hug, but the warmth and weight of Roy’s presence settled over him like a second blanket.
Roy found a documentary about sharks and turned the volume down low. After a few minutes, without looking away from the screen, his hand came down and rested, heavy and warm, on the blanket over Jamie’s shoulder. He didn't pat him or move; he just left it there, a solid weight.