If Rebecca was able to think of anything beyond Ted, she probably would’ve expected the overblown media attention to Ted’s health crisis. The British media are fucking immoral vultures at the best of times, and Ted, from practically the moment he landed on the shores of the UK, has been a target for more attention than your usual football manager, and when he only went and won the fucking Premier League with Richmond, he became an out-and-out celebrity on a level that few managers ever achieve.

So yes, Rebecca likely should have seen it all coming—the headlines, the bulletins on Sky Sports and the BBC, the pack of photographers stationed outside the hospital, shouting at everyone that walks in, everyone that is remotely connected to Ted or to AFC Richmond.

She’d left the hospital early in the morning to shower and grab some new clothes—she’d meant to go home for sleep, but had ended up dozing in that horrible hospital chair to wake up with a stiff back and a crick in her neck. So after a hot shower to work through the worst of the aches, a quick change into a cozy jumper and her favorite pair of jeans, cramming her laptop and her phone charger into a briefcase, Rebecca calls for her driver and heads back to the hospital.

She puts on her sunglasses and her Airpods before exiting the car, music blasting in her ears as she steps out, but it doesn’t matter—the noise and the flashing cameras cuts through all her defenses anyway.

She has to stop and duck into a corner once she’s past the hospital doors, just to catch her breath, give her racing heart a chance to slow down. Inhale for four counts, hold for four counts, exhale for four counts. Repeat. Repeat.

Once she’s composed herself, Rebecca quickly makes her way to Ted’s room, where she finds him awake and joking cheerfully with the nurse that’s come to take his breakfast tray. She’s sure that the nurse has her rounds to get to, and yet the nurse looks utterly enthralled by Ted’s cheerful story of first coming upon the British version of Shredded Wheat his first week in London, and having absolutely no idea how to eat it.

His smile is as wide and as charming as ever, it’s everything else (the hospital bed and gown, the IV still in his arm, the pallor of his skin) that leaves Rebecca disquieted.

Ted is the first to catch sight of her, and the knot in Rebecca’s stomach eases just a little, at his alert gaze resting on her, his smile growing just that little bit bigger. “Hey there, boss.”

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Rebecca says.

“No, no, we were just finishing up,” the nurse says, smiling at them both. She takes Ted’s breakfast tray with her as she leaves; Rebecca eyes the half-eaten meal with worry, but reminds herself that Ted is already in hospital, and surely the nurse would say something if Ted wasn’t eating enough, if his lack of appetite was a problem.

And still, Rebecca finds herself saying, “We can bring something else for you to eat, if the hospital food isn’t good. Well, it’s hospital food, it’s disgusting, I’m going to have someone bring takeaway from that cafe you like—”

“Rebecca,” Ted mildly interjects, “The hospital food’s fine. I’m just not that hungry this morning. Stop your worryin’, Mandalorian.”

Rebecca eyes him up at that, but Ted just looks back at her placidly, and so there’s nothing for Rebecca to do but grumble and concede—for now, at least.

Instead she starts setting up her little workstation, and Ted watches this in silence for a moment, forehead creasing before he asks, slowly, “Boss, are you going to be working here all day?”

“Obviously,” Rebecca says.

“Don’t you have a whole office to work in?”

“I prefer this working environment,” Rebecca says serenely, and when Ted opens his mouth to no doubt protest, Rebecca levels him with her best glare and says, “Theodore.”

Ted shudders dramatically and says, “It’s incredible how much you’re channeling my great-aunt Peggy right now.”

Truthfully, Rebecca doesn’t actually get much work done, because not before long, Ted’s hospital room becomes a hive of activity, between the flowers being delivered and the Richmond players (current and former) showing up to visit their gaffer. Before long, the sanitized hospital room has more flowers in it than Kew Gardens, and there’s always two or three footballers in the room with them, hugging Ted gently, sitting by his side as they ask how he is, if he needs anything, that they hope he’ll be back soon.

Isaac, Sam and Jamie are the ones that stay the longest by far. Sam is perfectly at ease, sitting by the bed and showing Ted photos of his twin baby girls (he has a dozen new photos every time Rebecca sees them, and she’s delighted to see each one). Isaac’s quieter, but he still reassures Ted that the team’s going to be fine, no one’s too upset over the loss, that they’re all thinking of him and that the team will come together behind Beard and Roy, no need for Ted to worry.

Jamie, poor thing, is far less easy, visibly worried at how ill Ted looks, his eyes darting around the room as he stands awkwardly to one side, hands shoved in his pockets. At one point, while Sam, Isaac and Ted are talking about the charity event that Sam’s wife and Isaac’s partner are organizing, Jamie moves over to Rebecca’s chair, leans in and asks, pitching his voice low, “How is he, for real?”

“Hard to say,” Rebecca admits. “I know he’s in good hands, but it’s Ted. He’d tell you he was fine even if he’d just had a leg sawed off.”

Jamie pulls a face. “They know when he’ll be released?”

“Not for four more days, at the least,” Rebecca says. “But even then it’ll likely be a while before they’ll clear him to go back to work. He had a heart attack, it’s not—it’s not the sort of thing you come back from right away.”

“Yeah,” Jamie says quietly, glancing at Ted. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

What also makes sense is Rebecca having to run out to the hallway to join the call where Higgins divulges that Beard doesn’t actually want to be caretaker manager of the team, and that they think it’s a good idea to make Roy the caretaker manager.

“Roy?” Rebecca spits out in disbelief, lowering her voice only when she sees a doctor looking curiously at her. “But you hate dealing with the press. And, forgive me, but dealing with the press is a major part of being a Premier League manager.”

Roy grunts, but says with clear reluctance, “I could...learn to be better.”

“Honestly, I don’t think the press will be a problem,” Higgins jumps in. “Frankly, Ted’s bought us enough goodwill with the press over the years that we have leeway now, not to mention the situation is such that—well, I’m sure no one will give Roy a hard time.”

“So long as he doesn’t actually punch anyone,” Rebecca says, still dubious.

“It can’t be me,” Beard cuts in, his voice quiet, but still clear as a bell. “I’m sorry, I just—I can’t fill Ted’s shoes on this team.”

There’s a moment of silence, Rebecca flashing back to last night, seeing Beard’s heartbroken face in that press conference, his vulnerability exposed on camera for everyone to see.

“Okay,” Rebecca says at last. “Roy, you will need to go through media training—no, I mean it,” she insists, as Roy growls at the thought. “We don’t need a media firestorm on top of everything else that’s happening right now.”

“Fine,” Roy concedes, because he’s stubborn but he does actually want the best for the team, even if that means having to learn to keep his temper and hold his tongue in front of the British footballing press.

“Should we, I don’t know, release a statement?” Rebecca asks.

“I’ve got one already being worked up by the publicists, we’ll release it later today,” Higgins says, reassuring. “And, Rebecca—”

“Yes?” Rebecca prods, not liking the hesitation in Higgins’ voice.

“I’m sorry, I know this is awful timing, but you do have the meeting with the minority owners scheduled for tomorrow—”

“Cancel it,” Rebecca says. “I’m not sitting with any of those idiots and tolerating their nonsensical bleating, not this week of all weeks.”

"I'm...not sure that's the best idea," Higgins says slowly. "Given the, ah, general upheaval that's happening with Ted's absence from the club, the minority owners will have to be handled very carefully—"

"We've been handling them carefully and it's gotten us absolutely nowhere," Rebecca says bluntly. "The only thing we've accomplished is indulging Bex Mannion's delusions of grandeur and I, for one, am done indulging her."

Of course, the first person Rebecca sees when she heads back to Ted’s room is Bex Mannion, looking angelic in a white blouse and pencil skirt, blithely smiling at Ted as she gently placed a potted orchid down in the one remaining spot on a nearby table. (They’ve already had to clear flowers out once today, and Rebecca’s expecting it to be an ongoing issue.)

“Rebecca,” Bex says, straightening up and flashing that perfectly pleasant smile of hers. “How good to see you, I should have realized you’d be here.”

Over the last few years, Rebecca has gained a hard-won equanimity when it comes to dealing with Bex, either on her own, or when she’s on Rupert’s arm. Time and distance from Rupert has helped, and there’s only so much either of them can do to bother her at this point—Richmond is Rebecca’s, and her success and the club’s success are beyond question.

And yet.

Rebecca gives a quick smile that feels like a grimace on her face, and says, “Bex. I didn’t realize you’d be stopping by.”

“Well, I had to check on our manager, of course,” Bex says, smiling at Ted, and Rebecca twitches a little. Our manager. Fuck’s sake.

Ted’s gaze flicks towards her, but he says, as smooth as he always is when he’s papering over the cracks on Rebecca’s behalf, “Well, I appreciate that, Bex, I do. Just like I appreciate that orchid.”

“Flowers,” Rebecca says lightly. “How original.”

Bex smiles tightly at her, while Ted quickly says, “Well, it’s better than what I tried to get Beard to sneak in for me. Somehow I don’t think Dr. Bhamra would appreciate me eating a steak at this time.”

“You didn’t,” Rebecca says immediately, outraged for an entirely different reason now, and she’s only partly mollified when Ted winks at her and says, “No, but you believed it for a second there, didn’t you?”

“God, you wretch,” Rebecca grumbles, but the tension is eased as she settles back into what she already thinks of as her chair, which is what Ted’s goal was in the first place.

At least, that’s until Bex settles into a chair of her own, as if she’s actually going to stick around. Rebecca stares at her in disbelief, as Bex folds her hands in her lap and asks solicitously, “What have the doctors been saying?”

“They’re saying he had a heart attack,” Rebecca says shortly.

FInally there’s a crack in Bex’s demeanor, as she rolls her eyes like a teenager to Rebecca and says, impatient, “Obviously I’m asking what they’re saying when it comes to Ted’s recovery. How long will he be out?”

“We don’t know yet,” Rebecca says. “They want to keep him here for several more days, see how he improves.” Rebecca’s half-afraid that Ted will put his usual bravado on it, crack a joke about how he’ll be out in the technical area in a week’s time, even if he has to show up with a hospital gown and an IV—but he’s quiet, letting Rebecca take the lead. “We just have to wait and see,” Rebecca finishes.

Bex nods knowingly. “Of course, of course.” She looks to Ted and says gently, reaching out to squeeze his hand, “I’m so glad you’re all right, Ted, truly. Don’t feel any rush to come back before you’re ready.”

Ted’s mouth twists a little, but he says, with all apparent sincerity, “Oh, I’ll take it easy, don’t you worry.”

“You’ll take it easy if I have to tie you to that bed and make you,” Rebecca warns, and Ted’s answering smile feels like it’s meant for her specifically.

*

Dr. Bhamra stops by soon after Bex finally exits, a portly South Asian man with glasses and a kind demeanor. Rebecca likes him immediately (even as she’s making notes to dig up his resume and credentials) and when he asks if Ted’s comfortable with Rebecca sticking around for their consultation, Rebecca relaxes when Ted says immediately, “Oh, no, it’s fine, Rebecca can stay.”

“Very good, very good,” Dr. Bhamra says affably, and takes a seat. “Obviously, your surgery was successful, but your recovery itself is going to take more time. I’m part of your cardiac rehabilitation team, you’ll be working with me, your nurses, a dietitian, a physiotherapist and an exercise therapist. What I’d like to do first is just get a picture of your usual routines, where you were at before you had the heart attack.”

Ted’s mouth twists a little, and he admits, “Well, I clearly wasn’t doing as well as I thought I was doing. But yeah, let’s get this consultation started.”

“What does your typical diet look like?” Dr. Bhamra asks. “Do you cook for yourself, or do you tend to eat out more?”

Ted wrinkles his nose. “Don’t have the time to cook as much as I’d like.”

“But you’re a fantastic cook,” Rebecca says without thinking, and holds up a hand in apology when Dr. Bhamra looks at her over his glasses. “Sorry, I’ll stay quiet.”

“No, no,” Dr. Bhamra says. “It’s always good to get perspective from the family and loved ones, as much as from the patient.”

Reassured, Rebecca settles back into her seat, taking notes of her own on her laptop. The reassurance doesn’t last long, as under Dr. Bhamra’s gentle questions, Ted admits that his breakfast in the morning mostly consists of coffee and protein bars, that when he does eat lunch it’s usually something from the club’s kitchens, and then that most nights he just has dinner at the local pub. “Real pity y’all don’t have barbecue over here—”

“We have barbecue,” Rebecca protests, and Ted looks at her and repeats, pointedly, “As I was saying, it’s a real pity y’all don’t have actual barbecue over here, but I’ve learned to appreciate fish and chips and all the other classic British food y’all got.”

Dr. Bhamra chuckles, but he’s jotting something down in his notebook. “So a lot of pub fare, I see. And alcohol, how many drinks would you say you have on average?”

Rebecca wants to think the brief pause Ted takes is just her imagination. “Like, per week, or…”

“Per night,” Dr. Bhamra says.

“Okay. I’d say...one to two, maybe?”

“Mhm,” Dr. Bhamra says. “And exercise? How active would you say you are?”

“He walks everywhere,” Rebecca offers. “Five years and he still refuses to learn to drive in England.”

“Me behind the wheel on the left side of the road is something you don’t ever want to see,” Ted replies, grinning. “But no, I like to walk, uh…keeping up with the boys at training has me in a sweat, I’ll tell you that.”

“Mhm,” Dr. Bhamra says, jotting more things down. “I don’t envy you trying to keep up with professional footballers.”

“They keep me on my toes, that’s for sure,” Ted agrees.

“Now, I know this might be a ridiculous question, given the work you do,” Dr. Bhamra offers, gesturing with his pen, “But how much stress would you say you’re feeling, in a typical week?”

Ted laughs outright at this, incredulous. “I mean, it depends. Are we playing a Champions League match that week? Or is it a local derby? Or a match that means the difference between staying in the top four or playing in the Europa League or no European football at all?”

Dr. Bhamra smiles, but says, “So, stressful then.”

“I wouldn’t be doing the job right if I wasn’t stressed,” Ted says calmly. Rebecca’s stomach lurches as Ted nods in her direction and adds, “She’s not paying me millions a year just to chill out and take each match as it comes, you know?”

“Ted,” Rebecca protests before she can stop herself, and Ted turns to her, concern appearing on his face, for her, as he says apologetically, “No, hey, Rebecca, you know I don’t mean it like—”

His hand is outstretched towards her, palm up, and Rebecca can’t resist, she takes it even as she reassures him, “No, it’s fine, I know what you mean.” She squeezes his hand even as she turns to Dr. Bhamra and explains, “Ted’s very dedicated to his job. That means a lot of time spent reviewing matches, handling training, the media, coordinating with our academy to make sure we’re promoting our youth players, not to mention dealing with the scouts and agents about transfers—”

Her mouth is going a little dry as she speaks, realizing all over again just how wrapped up Ted is in Richmond, how much of the club revolves around him. How much work has been placed on his shoulders these last few years, without Rebecca ever quite recognizing it, just happy to have Ted there to lean on, depend on—

She swallows and tries to smile. “Ted’s dedication to the club is...beyond question.”

Her stomach twists at the gratified look on Ted’s face, his obvious pleasure at hearing that.

“I see,” Dr. Bhamra says.

“But obviously we understand that changes need to be made,” Rebecca blurts out. “Major lifestyle changes, work changes. And we all support that, one hundred percent.”

Dr. Bhamra nods, kindly, but says, “There will be time for us to talk about what changes need to be made, don’t worry. Ted, I know you’re already on medication to handle your blood pressure—”

“Along with every other fifty-year-old,” Ted jokes.

“But we’ll likely be prescribing blood thinners as well, just to prevent any blood clots from forming.” Dr. Bhamra clicks his pen and closes his notebook, smiling at them both as he makes his goodbyes, cracking gentle jokes with Ted and shaking Rebecca’s hand before he leaves.

Rebecca watches him go, and turns to find Ted watching her, his expression calm but oddly unreadable. Hoping he can’t see her unease (but knowing he can) Rebecca smiles and says, “Excuse me, I’ve just got to make a quick phone call to Keeley. The press, you know.”

“Sure,” Ted says, and Rebecca hastily leaves the room, not to make a phone call to Keeley, but to quickly chase Dr. Bhamra down the hallway, her heels clicking on the tiles.

“Sorry, sorry,” Rebecca says, as Dr. Bhamra pauses to wait for her, an inquisitive expression on his face. “I just...I just wanted to say, about Ted, the heart attack, he…”

She falters, but Dr. Bhamra’s expression is kind, and she says, “He thought it was a panic attack. He’s had...so he just thought it was another panic attack, and that’s why he ignored it until, well, until he couldn’t.”

“Has he had panic attacks before?” Dr. Bhamra asks mildly.

Rebecca nods. “He’s, um. We just found out he’s been managing them with some Xanax prescription from the States, I hadn’t realized things were that bad, but—”

“Sorry,” Dr. Bhamra says, holding up a hand. “What Xanax prescription? That’s not in his medical records.”

“Oh,” Rebecca says, dumbly.

Dr. Bhamra quickly reassures her, saying, “Well, I’m glad we have that information now, it’ll be of great help when dealing with his recovery. Mental health is just as crucial as physical health when it comes to a patient’s well-being.” He pauses before saying, “And I’m glad that you told me. I mean what I said—it’s important for us to have a full picture of Ted’s health.”

“All right,” Rebecca says, dimly aware that she’s wringing her hands and not sure how to stop. “Well—thank you.”

*

Rebecca tracks down something approaching a meal in the hospital’s commissary, idly stabbing her salad while she reluctantly goes through the articles and news Keeley’s been sending to her email.

She ends up clicking on one of the articles Keeley sent, the one where she’s added a note of this one is really nice about Ted <3

The article is from Lara Adebayo at the Guardian (Rebecca’s always enjoyed her writing, while trusting her as much as she trusts any journalist, which is to say not at all), and it details the outpouring of concern and support on social media the minute that Ted’s heart attack hit the news.

But perhaps the reaction should have been expected, after all. Richmond have long been a favorite of the neutrals, gaining widespread admiration not just for their miraculous Premier League title win in the 2022-2023 season, but for the way in which they seemingly embodied so many virtues long thought gone in the age of oil-rich oligarchs and English clubs being used as PR statecraft for autocratic countries with dubious human rights records. A club where players’ loyalties to their club and its fanbase still are paramount (see Jamie Tartt refusing to leave Richmond for supposedly greener pastures such as Chelsea or Manchester United) where the club places a premium on blooding and nurturing young talent, where it truly seems linked to the local community and to the fans.

This is not to say that other clubs don’t share these virtues, or that Richmond is an organization without fault. But often it seemed that way, as though somehow this American interloper had managed to tap into every supposed English virtue of football and bring it into being in this club, with its polite and friendly players, a manager whose charm is somehow even more potent in person than it is on camera, and a club that managed to win time and time again, even with a fraction of the budget and resources of its nearest rivals. And they didn’t just win, they didn’t just compete, they made it look easy. They made it look fun.

Rebecca closes her eyes, the memories of dozens of matches flitting through her mind—their first match back in the Premiership, the first time they beat Manchester City, the game that won them the league title, the first FA Cup Final that they won, the first Champions League match Richmond had ever played in their history, all those successes, all those triumphs—did she start taking it for granted, these last few years? Did she look at the miracles Ted performed and consider them all nothing more than her due?

“Here you fucking are,” someone says, sounding both very exasperated and very Scottish, and Rebecca knows who it is before she even looks up and sees Alistair Crane walking towards her table, several books under his arm and an annoyed look on his face. “Been walking all over this damned hospital looking for you.” He looks at her salad and pulls a face, saying, “Jesus, Rebecca, are you actually eating that? You’ll get fucking salmonella, everyone knows hospital food’s dangerous as hell. They’ve got infections here that aren’t even worth thinking about.”

“Tactful as ever, Alistair,” Rebecca says with a sigh, noticing the junior doctor who’s eyeing them both up warily. With their luck, that’ll end up as a front page headline on the Daily Mail: AFC Richmond Owners Insult NHS Hospitals. “Wait, why are you looking for me, aren’t you here to visit Ted?”

“Of course I’m here to see Ted,” Alistair says, scoffing at her. “Need to get the dirt from you first though, don’t I?” For half a second, Rebecca can almost forget their surroundings, the reason that they’re here, and just look at Alistair’s grizzled face and well-tailored suit and think that they’re having another business meeting about the club.

But they’re not in a Michelin-starred restaurant, they’re in the commissary of an NHS hospital, and the fluorescent lighting sets the wrinkles on Alistair’s face into harsh relief, dulls the shine of his white hair and neatly-kept goatee.

“What do you want to know?” Rebecca says.

Alistair looks at her, and asks grimly, “How bad is it?”

“It was a massive heart attack, Alistair,” Rebecca says to him. “Of course it’s fucking bad. Not that you’d be able to tell, from how Ted’s acting.” She swallows and looks down at her phone, clicking a button so that the screen goes black, the words disappearing before her eyes. “This has been coming for a while, and none of us saw it.”

Alistair doesn’t speak for a second, and Rebecca thinks that if she hears a word from him about the team, about their position in the league, about the Champions League match that’s coming up in two weeks—forget how many witnesses there are around them, forget how soon this will be front page news and blasted all over Sky Sports, she will actually start shrieking like a banshee and never stop.

But Alistair surprises her. “Right then, so it’s our job to go and fucking fix it now, isn’t it, Welton?” he offers up, and when she gapes at him, just glowers down at her until she nods and says blankly, “Right, yes, of course.”

“Of course I’m right,” Alistair says. “Now show me where his blasted room is already, I’m getting a cramp carrying these wretched books.”

“Why did you bring the books?” Rebecca asks as they make their way out of the commissary. “And what books are those?”

“They’re for Ted, obviously,” Alistair says grumpily. “Can’t fucking bring him a nice bottle of Scotch or a box of cigars—” his usual presents, Rebecca remembers, he hands them out to everyone regardless of religion or smoking habits or teetotalism, “And I’ll be damned before I hand him one of those fucking tablets you lot are forever carrying with you, a book should have pages that you can turn, it should have heft to it—”

Having heard Alistair give a variation of this speech before, Rebecca is both amused and unsurprised. “What books did you pick for him?”

“Hmm? Oh, I got Persuasion, cliched though Austen is at this point—”

“Don’t let Ted hear you say that—”

“—at least it’s not Pride and Prejudice, and the man could use a old favorite around while he’s cooped up in this hellhole—”

“Don’t call the hospital a hellhole where people can hear you either—”

“I’ll do as I please, thank you, and there’s some le Carre because that’s fucking obvious, and I brought Val McDermid because the woman’s a national fucking treasure—”

“Bit grim, isn’t it?” Rebecca says, glancing at the copy of A Darker Domain that Alistair’s got tucked under his arm, and the ensuing argument that comes from that lasts them all the way right up to the doorway of Ted’s room, where both of them fall silent at the sound of Ted talking on the phone, agitated, his accent thicker than normal.

“Henry, Henry, it’s all right, listen, if you and your mom can’t come right away, it’s not—son, come on—” A pause, and then Ted starts speaking again, more coldly this time. “Well, if you say Jennifer can’t come, then that’s it, I suppose. Yes, I’m fine.” A brief pause. “Doctors say I’m doing fine, Michelle, I don’t know what you want to hear from me.”

Rebecca’s stomach twists, and she leans her weight back on her heels as though to back away, except that when she tugs on Alistair’s arm he looks at her as though she’s gone daft.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll talk to you both soon. Mmhm. You too.” Then finally there’s nothing but silence, and Alistair and Rebecca stare at each other until just enough time has passed that it’s hopefully plausible that Ted will believe they didn’t overhear any of that excruciating conversation between him and his ex-wife.

Rebecca holds her breath as she knocks before entering, saying lightly as she walks in, “You have a visitor, and I would like to apologize in advance for the truly depressing catalog of books he’s brought with him.”

If she hadn’t been there to hear that conversation, she wouldn’t have thought anything was wrong (aside from the obvious reason why Ted’s in the hospital to begin with). Ted breaks out into a beaming smile the minute that he sees them, drawling out, “Well, hello there, sir, you didn’t have to stop by like this but I sure appreciate it.”

“Of course I fucking did, don’t be ridiculous,” Alistair retorts, setting the books down on the table before leaning in to clap Ted gently on the shoulder. “How are you, lad?”

“Oh, I’m doing okay,” Ted promises, and Rebecca glances down to where he’s still holding his phone tightly in one hand.

“They taking care of you here?” Alistair prods, and Ted nods reassuringly.

“Yes, sir, nationalized medicine has turned out to be a delight,” he says dryly, and Alistair cackles.

“You’re fucking welcome, you Yankee,” he says, before growing serious. “Ted, listen—I mentioned this to Rebecca earlier, but I want you to know, I can have the jet ready and out there to Wichita in the snap of my fingers, all right? We can have your lad and his mother here in the blink of an eye.”

Rebecca takes a breath, not sure if this is the right approach given what they’ve just heard—but Ted looks between the two of them, sighs a little, and says, “So y’all heard everything over that phone call, huh?”

“What phone call?” Rebecca tries, opening her eyes wide as she tries to sound as innocent as possible.

Ted just looks at her, and says calmly, “Rebecca, sweetheart, I don’t know how you think you’re ever going to be sneaky when you’re walking around on tile floors in those heels, I can hear you coming down the hallway five minutes before you’re at my door.”

Rebecca grimaces, glaring down at her feet—she knew she should’ve put on the trainers today, fucking hell.

“So,” Alistair says, settling himself in a chair, clapping his hands on his knees, “What’s the issue, then?”

Something in the no-nonsense way he approaches it makes it seem less impossible for Ted to answer, as Ted sighs and says slowly, lips pursed, “Henry’s struggling because...well, not just with me being here and all, but because there’s...gonna be a delay before he can come and visit.”

“Why a delay?” Rebecca asks, confused. “Surely his teachers would understand him being away from school.”

“It’s not about his school,” Ted says, shaking his head. “Jennifer—that’s Michelle’s wife—she’s got a big court case that’s wrapping up, can’t get the time off work to fly over here, not just yet.”

“Okay,” Alistair says slowly. “But why can’t Michelle and Henry come over here first, and then Jennifer can come over once her big trial’s over and done with?”

Ted takes a big breath through his nose. “Michelle doesn’t feel comfortable coming over here without her wife as support,” he says, very evenly. “And she doesn’t want to send Henry flying over on a transatlantic flight on his own, so—there’s a delay.”

Rebecca opens her mouth, catches Alistair’s warning eye, and shuts her mouth on the first five things that want to spill out of her mouth, all starting with some variation on that is totally fucking ridiculous and let me get on the phone to Michelle, I’ll make her see reason and I don’t care how long it takes me.

Alistair hums to himself then says, thoughtfully, “You’ve always gotten along well with Michelle, I thought. Far better than I have with any of my ex-wives, anyway.” Rebecca snorts a little at that, and Alistair grins cheekily at her for a moment. “I know, I know, not hard to manage, given my track record.”

“We do a good job co-parenting Henry,” Ted says, which is not exactly an answer to Alistair’s question…except for how it is, Rebecca realizes slowly. “But you know, divorce is hard. And to be fair to her, I think me being here in the hospital’s thrown her for a loop.”

“Yes, but you’re the one in the hospital,” Rebecca says, unable to help herself. “And you’re Henry’s father, you—” Ted looks at her, not impatiently, but with such a weary look to his eyes that Rebecca finds herself choking on her words again, helpless to do anything but seethe about how unfair all of this is, that Ted of all people should be—

“Well,” Alistair says briskly, “The jet’s waiting for them whenever they’re ready to come over. And let me tell you something, Theodore, if you don’t take advantage of my generosity, I will be very fucking offended, do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Ted says obediently, a reluctant smile coming to his lips.

“Good lad,” Alistair says, satisfied that he’s been heard and will be obeyed. “Now, since my usual go-tos of cigars and Scotch are apparently verboten so long as you’re in this festering trap—there aren’t any witnesses around so I’ll call it what I like, Rebecca—I’ve brought you some actual physical books so you don’t go raving mad from boredom.”

“I see that,” Ted says, smiling as he cranes his neck to read the spines. “What have you got there?”

“Books that’ll send you straight into a depression,” Rebecca tells him, and Alistair waves a hand at her dismissively as he blithely enthuses about his selections, Rebecca interjecting dry asides whenever she can, both of them playing it up in the hopes that it’ll make Ted laugh, cheer him up even a little.

And it works. Ted’s laughing at their antics, his smile bright enough to almost distract from the still-present pallor to his cheeks, the stubble on his face that hasn’t been shaved yet because the nurses are concerned with far more important things, the fact that he’s here in this hospital bed at all—his smile is bright enough for Rebecca to almost forget all of that.

But then she looks at Ted’s hand, still curved around his phone, the IV taped to the back of it, and it’s impossible for her to forget.