An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 2/2
Fandom: Ted Lasso (TV)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Trent Crimm/Ted Lasso
Characters: Trent Crimm, Ted Lasso, Henry Lasso
Additional Tags: Tedependent, Food Critic, Romance, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Alternate Universe - Chefs, Fluff, Gay Trent Crimm
Summary: Trent Crimm is a big city Food Critic. Ted Lasso is the new cook at Trent's childhood local chippy.
Because I got this question, I added a part two to this post. Also, because I am me, I added it to Ao3.
slowburn or love at first sight // fake dating or secret dating // enemies to lovers or best friends to lovers // there's only one bed or long-distance correspondence // hurt/comfort or amnesia // fantasy au or modern au (historical au) // mutual pining or domestic bliss // smut or fluff // canon-compliant or fix-it // reincarnation or character death // one-shot or multi-chapter // kid fic or road trip fic // arranged marriage or accidental marriage // high-school romance or middle-age romance // time travel or isolated together // neighbors or roommates // sci-fi au or magic au // body swap or genderbent // angst or crack // apocalyptic or mundane // happy ending or unhappy ending
HAPPILY EVER AFTER ALWAYS
Tagging (if you want) @trentcrimminallybeautiful, @loveexpelrevolt, @bookqueen101, @galacticmermaid, @callmearcturus
Trent Crimm is a big city Food Critic. He spends his nights sitting alone at candlelit tables with his little notepads and his little clicker pens and the foldaway readers he pulls from his suit coat pockets. He visits one time or a number of times if the food is interesting enough and he cannot seem to put a pin on just what makes somewhere worth visiting. Or sometimes if the waitstaff is pleasant without realizing who he is or just what he is doing.
It is lonely a lot. Watching the hallmarks of peoples' lives. Engagements. Anniversaries. Large social gatherings along one long table against a back wall with celebratory voices. Quiet games of footsie that no one thinks anyone is paying any attention to. Everything that should bring such joy has begun to wear on him.
It is nice sometimes. Sometimes, after a significant amount of time has passed and he has made a pleasant review, he will revisit somewhere he enjoyed. Maybe he will finally have someone to bring. Maybe his little girl. Maybe coworkers at The Independent. The staff will know him then. Bring another small plate or two. Find a cherry to put in his little girl's sparkling water. Perhaps the chef will step out of the back and place a warm hand on his shoulder in front of Trent's Editor in Chief.
Often it is heavy work. He would never complain though. It is pleasant enough. Extraordinary enough sometimes. But the heartburn. The requirement on his body to keep it up so he survives a night of rich sauces and fried gut bombs. The drinking alone. It weighs on him.
Trent has a lovely little collection of superb spots across the island. Some mom and pops on the sea side. Cafes on the river. Tea at outdoor spots where the sunset shines so gold, that alone is worth the improperly made cups. One spot in a castle so drafty the pints are so cracking cold it stings between his eyes. Community tables he should hate, but place him directly in the center of the best the human experience has to offer. Spots that require him to sit directly on the floor. Eat with his hands. Eat with chopsticks. Sit at bars and swipe at his chin, soaked in butter. One spot where an ancient woman named Mae serves him mince pies, calls him "luv," and makes him miss his mum so badly he grieves all over again.
When he visits home, his father ambling toward the end, but stubbornly standing on two feet and insisting Trent continue his city living; his father mentions Trent's favorite chippy has a new bloke at the helm. Old Mannion passed the shop to his young wife, who has hired an American to run the thing. Notes there is some chinwagging, but doesn't know aye or nay whether it has any standing.
That news is bewildering. Baffling. Upsetting to no end. An American?
Of Trent's collection of spots, there are no places that hold so much sentimentality as the local he was raised on. The walls should be soaked in fryer oil and the chips should be just the right amount of soggy. There should be a small crowd gathered after the sun goes down standing piss drunk in the mothy, fluorescent light under the front awning. Bodies should be glowing from the alcohol sweating through their pores. Light shining muted from the greasy, see-through paper bags. There shouldn't be room to move in the queue.
The first time Trent tried (and failed) to ask another boy if sometimes girls were just a nuisance was in that shop after school. He got ketchup on his tie. It never did wash out completely. The first time Trent noticed a boy looking at him sideways was while he was leaning against that lone storefront window. The boy had been dressed up so punk Trent spent the next decade visiting his record store every weekend, hoping he might happen on that boy, until he was able to con himself into his first and favorite job ever.
This chippy, his local, had etched itself onto his very tongue, a short, permanent scar from a second degree burn across the side, discoloring bright red there.
How on earth might some American understand this particular gastronomical culture?
The moment Trent has his father tucked in for the night, Trent steps out to follow the sunset, one foot in front of the other, until he is standing in front of two bistro tables. Bistro tables? There is an awning, new and striped blue and red, but there is no fluorescent light. There are no moths. When he looks up, there are a number of young people sitting inside the window, bright smiles on their faces, sipping on straws and plucking perfectly golden chips inside small white bags.
When he steps inside, there is a boy, much too young to be taking his order, with a curious smile on his face. A dimple on one cheek. Dusky hair. When he calls Trent's order back, an affable older gentleman, Trent has to assume his own age, responds with some cartoon cowboy accent. The man bares the same dimple on one cheek. Has an affable mustache that compliments his snaggletoothed smile. He wears a simple white tee-shirt and a white apron over it. Wears a baseball cap to cover his hair. His nails are trimmed and neat when the man reaches to dredge the fish in front of him, dropping it into the crispiest, bubbling oil Trent has heard from this close. It's nearly impossible to look away.
The walls still smell like his youth, though there must be a new ventilation system. Trent doesn't feel like he is breathing oil. There is a fresh lick of paint. The front counter is lower than he remembers. Trent can see now just how small the space is and just how much the American can do. The menu, tacked from the ceiling, is not much more expanded, though it includes a few things that seem to make a lot of sense. And the man sings along with a small radio set on a shelf, sweet and swoony. Trent must be gawping. The American looks up briefly, doing a double take when he catches Trent's eye. Offers a wink.
Trent is undone. He stutters to the child as he passes his coins. Smiles awkwardly as the boy hands him his food and flushes as he turns to the door. Where he'd usually turn right at the door and stand on the wall, Trent finds the sky growing purple and the empty bistro tables beg him to rest. So Trent sits and is startled when the young boy runs out of the shop with a bottle of Coca-Cola he'd forgotten he'd ordered. The boy snaps the bottle top off right in front of him and wishes Trent a lovely night before running back in.
And shit. When he reaches into the bag, the fish is blisteringly hot. When he can finally bite into it, the batter is shatteringly crisp. It doesn't taste quite like Trent remembers from his youth, but instantly, Trent understands it's because the fryer gets cleaned regularly now. The oil is maybe a day, maybe two days old at most. The vinegar is sharp, clearing his sinuses. The salt is perfect. And when Trent reaches for a chip, it is thick. Sturdy. Perfect for a blob of ketchup.
"Well hey there. You must be the Crimm boy. Your dad's been a frequent visitor. He's very grumbly, but he is kind."
A red squeeze bottle appears on the bistro table in front of him, held by a slim, clean hand with neat, trimmed nails. Trent has watched this skyline for so much of his life that it may well be etched into the back of his eyes. When he finally shakes free of the horizon and looks up, the American is smiling warmly. Nods at the table next to Trent's.
"Do you mind if I sit a spell? I've been on my feet a few hours and these bones are much older than they look."
The American looks Trent directly in the eyes with a confident boldness that Trent has never once betrayed in his entire life. Flustered, Trent has no choice but to consent, "Oh, ehm. Yes! Yes, of course."
The American rounds the table to sit directly next to Trent at the second table. Removes his baseball cap and places it on the table before leaning forward on his elbows and rubbing his hands over his face. Trent cannot help but take a peek between bites. The American is handsome. Broad. His apron is missing and Trent can see the shadow of every muscle, every sinew of his fine back in the light of the chippy. Trent wants to remain nonplussed, but the ball of energy beside him is dimmed and quiet. Heavy.
Dressing a chip, Trent takes a chance. "How did you know?"
"Hm?" The American turns his head and Trent cannot help but register the distinct look of some bedroom he'll never cross the threshold of.
"Oh. Ehrm. My dad…" Trent can only imagine what impression his father has made on this man. This fit, capable man. His father is a bit corny. A bit sentimental. More than likely to offer his single, gay son for a bag of crisps on a good day. Which doesn't help that another bite into his fish and Trent is one proper pudding from proposing they take this back to his.
Brightening instantly, the American responds, "The hair and, uh, the whole…vibe, I s'pose."
"Right." Surely the American cannot see just how Trent's cheeks burn with embarrassment.
They sit in an oddly comfortable silence as the last of the sky grows from purple to black, the light behind them shifting as bodies rise and exit the chippy. The group of young people turn to the American and bid him goodbye by name.
"Goodnight, Ted!"
"Y'all be safe and make wise decisions, now. And I'll see ya when I see ya," Ted says, his dimple appearing like its own private goodbye to them.
Trent zeroes in on how unexpected it is, that a handsome man should be sitting next to him in the dark. That he is dining, but in some form of company. That this American is a stranger, but is already somehow familiar. And maybe it isn't so bad that some strange man turns his chin just right and grins Trent's way. And maybe Trent will let loose tonight. Tuck the instinct to pull out his little notepad and his clicker pen and don his foldaway glasses to make a handsome friend who just happens to work in a chippy.
The American responds through a bone-deep yawn. "Quiet. The boss asked me to start opening earlier in the day." When he lets his arms loose, Trent can see slight pink pockmarks on his forearms. Likely irritation from reaching over hot fryer oil. "We have yet to see much business yet."
"You're an outsider." Trent stares above the short string of businesses across the road before finally turning to look the man in the eye. He means to continue, but his response is cut short by the small huff of laughter.
"I trim a mean hake. I crack a few eggs. And I man a fryer. I'm not here for any kind of coup dee tot."
Trent freezes at that, squinting because he can swear what he's heard is intentional, "Did you just make a potato pun in French?"
--Excerpt from "An Upgrade in Nostalgia," Part Two.
Yes, I added it to Ao3, because @minatofnowhere asked "How many visits would it take for this poor food critic to speak to the handsome cook?" And the answer is: oh no, he doesn't have the kind of time that will allow him to hesitate.
Feeling so unwell... Had Colin not left the group, would Ted and Trent have had a fateful encounter at the museum? Would they have grabbed dinner at the Yankee Doodle Burger Barn together? Would Ted have found the something new he was looking for, something to break him out of the box that he was stuck in (in terms of his personal life)?
There are some parallels between Ted's dinner at the American-themed restaurant and his meal with Trent in S01E03... And Trent is dressed in a yellow shirt and green trousers, sunflower colors... Meanwhile, Ted and Collin are both wearing solid orange tops. "Right by this big pink triangle"... There's so much! Why? Why is the missed connection between Ted and Trent this episode so obvious? I have been thinking about this for months.
Trent Crimm is a big city Food Critic. He spends his nights sitting alone at candlelit tables with his little notepads and his little clicker pens and the foldaway readers he pulls from his suit coat pockets. He visits one time or a number of times if the food is interesting enough and he cannot seem to put a pin on just what makes somewhere worth visiting. Or sometimes if the waitstaff is pleasant without realizing who he is or just what he is doing.
It is lonely a lot. Watching the hallmarks of peoples' lives. Engagements. Anniversaries. Large social gatherings along one long table against a back wall with celebratory voices. Quiet games of footsie that no one thinks anyone is paying any attention to. Everything that should bring such joy has begun to wear on him.
It is nice sometimes. Sometimes, after a significant amount of time has passed and he has made a pleasant review, he will revisit somewhere he enjoyed. Maybe he will finally have someone to bring. Maybe his little girl. Maybe coworkers at The Independent. The staff will know him then. Bring another small plate or two. Find a cherry to put in his little girl's sparkling water. Perhaps the chef will step out of the back and place a warm hand on his shoulder in front of Trent's Editor in Chief.
Often it is heavy work. He would never complain though. It is pleasant enough. Extraordinary enough sometimes. But the heartburn. The requirement on his body to keep it up so he survives a night of rich sauces and fried gut bombs. The drinking alone. It weighs on him.
Trent has a lovely little collection of superb spots across the island. Some mom and pops on the sea side. Cafes on the river. Tea at outdoor spots where the sunset shines so gold, that alone is worth the improperly made cups. One spot in a castle so drafty the pints are so cracking cold it stings between his eyes. Community tables he should hate, but place him directly in the center of the best the human experience has to offer. Spots that require him to sit directly on the floor. Eat with his hands. Eat with chopsticks. Sit at bars and swipe at his chin, soaked in butter. One spot where an ancient woman named Mae serves him mince pies, calls him "luv," and makes him miss his mum so badly he grieves all over again.
When he visits home, his father ambling toward the end, but stubbornly standing on two feet and insisting Trent continue his city living; his father mentions Trent's favorite chippy has a new bloke at the helm. Old Mannion passed the shop to his young wife, who has hired an American to run the thing. Notes there is some chinwagging, but doesn't know aye or nay whether it has any standing.
That news is bewildering. Baffling. Upsetting to no end. An American?
Of Trent's collection of spots, there are no places that hold so much sentimentality as the local he was raised on. The walls should be soaked in fryer oil and the chips should be just the right amount of soggy. There should be a small crowd gathered after the sun goes down standing piss drunk in the mothy, fluorescent light under the front awning. Bodies should be glowing from the alcohol sweating through their pores. Light shining muted from the greasy, see-through paper bags. There shouldn't be room to move in the queue.
The first time Trent tried (and failed) to ask another boy if sometimes girls were just a nuisance was in that shop after school. He got ketchup on his tie. It never did wash out completely. The first time Trent noticed a boy looking at him sideways was while he was leaning against that lone storefront window. The boy had been dressed up so punk Trent spent the next decade visiting his record store every weekend, hoping he might happen on that boy, until he was able to con himself into his first and favorite job ever.
This chippy, his local, had etched itself onto his very tongue, a short, permanent scar from a second degree burn across the side, discoloring bright red there.
How on earth might some American understand this particular gastronomical culture?
The moment Trent has his father tucked in for the night, Trent steps out to follow the sunset, one foot in front of the other, until he is standing in front of two bistro tables. Bistro tables? There is an awning, new and striped blue and red, but there is no fluorescent light. There are no moths. When he looks up, there are a number of young people sitting inside the window, bright smiles on their faces, sipping on straws and plucking perfectly golden chips inside small white bags.
When he steps inside, there is a boy, much too young to be taking his order, with a curious smile on his face. A dimple on one cheek. Dusky hair. When he calls Trent's order back, an affable older gentleman, Trent has to assume his own age, responds with some cartoon cowboy accent. The man bares the same dimple on one cheek. Has an affable mustache that compliments his snaggletoothed smile. He wears a simple white tee-shirt and a white apron over it. Wears a baseball cap to cover his hair. His nails are trimmed and neat when the man reaches to dredge the fish in front of him, dropping it into the crispiest, bubbling oil Trent has heard from this close. It's nearly impossible to look away.
The walls still smell like his youth, though there must be a new ventilation system. Trent doesn't feel like he is breathing oil. There is a fresh lick of paint. The front counter is lower than he remembers. Trent can see now just how small the space is and just how much the American can do. The menu, tacked from the ceiling, is not much more expanded, though it includes a few things that seem to make a lot of sense. And the man sings along with a small radio set on a shelf, sweet and swoony. Trent must be gawping. The American looks up briefly, doing a double take when he catches Trent's eye. Offers a wink.
Trent is undone. He stutters to the child as he passes his coins. Smiles awkwardly as the boy hands him his food and flushes as he turns to the door. Where he'd usually turn right at the door and stand on the wall, Trent finds the sky growing purple and the empty bistro tables beg him to rest. So Trent sits and is startled when the young boy runs out of the shop with a bottle of Coca-Cola he'd forgotten he'd ordered. The boy snaps the bottle top off right in front of him and wishes Trent a lovely night before running back in.
And shit. When he reaches into the bag, the fish is blisteringly hot. When he can finally bite into it, the batter is shatteringly crisp. It doesn't taste quite like Trent remembers from his youth, but instantly, Trent understands it's because the fryer gets cleaned regularly now. The oil is maybe a day, maybe two days old at most. The vinegar is sharp, clearing his sinuses. The salt is perfect. And when Trent reaches for a chip, it is thick. Sturdy. Perfect for a blob of ketchup.
"Well hey there. You must be the Crimm boy. Your dad's been a frequent visitor. He's very grumbly, but he is kind."
A red squeeze bottle appears on the bistro table in front of him, held by a slim, clean hand with neat, trimmed nails. Trent has watched this skyline for so much of his life that it may well be etched into the back of his eyes. When he finally shakes free of the horizon and looks up, the American is smiling warmly. Nods at the table next to Trent's.
"Do you mind if I sit a spell? I've been on my feet a few hours and these bones are much older than they look."
The American looks Trent directly in the eyes with a confident boldness that Trent has never once betrayed in his entire life. Flustered, Trent has no choice but to consent, "Oh, ehm. Yes! Yes, of course."
The American rounds the table to sit directly next to Trent at the second table. Removes his baseball cap and places it on the table before leaning forward on his elbows and rubbing his hands over his face. Trent cannot help but take a peek between bites. The American is handsome. Broad. His apron is missing and Trent can see the shadow of every muscle, every sinew of his fine back in the light of the chippy. Trent wants to remain nonplussed, but the ball of energy beside him is dimmed and quiet. Heavy.
Dressing a chip, Trent takes a chance. "How did you know?"
"Hm?" The American turns his head and Trent cannot help but register the distinct look of some bedroom he'll never cross the threshold of.
"Oh. Ehrm. My dad…" Trent can only imagine what impression his father has made on this man. This fit, capable man. His father is a bit corny. A bit sentimental. More than likely to offer his single, gay son for a bag of crisps on a good day. Which doesn't help that another bite into his fish and Trent is one proper pudding from proposing they take this back to his.
Brightening instantly, the American responds, "The hair and, uh, the whole…vibe, I s'pose."
"Right." Surely the American cannot see just how Trent's cheeks burn with embarrassment.
They sit in an oddly comfortable silence as the last of the sky grows from purple to black, the light behind them shifting as bodies rise and exit the chippy. The group of young people turn to the American and bid him goodbye by name.
"Goodnight, Ted!"
"Y'all be safe and make wise decisions, now. And I'll see ya when I see ya," Ted says, his dimple appearing like its own private goodbye to them.
Trent zeroes in on how unexpected it is, that a handsome man should be sitting next to him in the dark. That he is dining, but in some form of company. That this American is a stranger, but is already somehow familiar. And maybe it isn't so bad that some strange man turns his chin just right and grins Trent's way. And maybe Trent will let loose tonight. Tuck the instinct to pull out his little notepad and his clicker pen and don his foldaway glasses to make a handsome friend who just happens to work in a chippy.
tedependent you're so special to me. what do you mean trent's relationship with ted is a perfect example of a crush that absolutely cannot be acted upon. that his literal job is to dig into people's lives and judge their choices, and he falls for a man who gives people second chances and spends his life covering up his own problems with positivity. what do you mean trent liked ted from the first time they met in the press room, that ted knocked his walls down so profoundly it changed trent's whole career path and behaviour as a person over several years, to the point of quitting his job as a reporter. what do you mean ted made trent feel special and trent made ted feel normal. trent is the epitome of being a person who is "too much" and hides it behind seriousness until it all comes spilling out, and ted is the epitome of being a person who exudes muchness to hide the fact that he's filled up with grief. what do you mean you can see the moments when trent bares his muchness to ted - in the book feedback scene in season 3, trent exposes his whole self to ted and ted responds with vulnerability, but his brand of vulnerability is his depression and his sadness and his unsureness, and that feels like rejection to trent. what the fuck do you mean by that.
It is 1994. Ted Lasso is the Dean of Sports at Wichita State University. There is a new interim professor running the radio program. It appears Ted can’t stop being the butt of Professor Crimm’s little radio show.
In each of these moments, the thing they all hold in common, the thing that keeps Trent from reaching out with a goddamn calendar, is the hope, bright with surprise in Ted's eyes each time they stumble into one another and the sheer regret every time they part. The stubbornness of Ted to hold onto it, like he doesn't particularly want to leave Trent standing alone. Trent doesn't hate that he cannot seem to shake the disappointment, because hope blooms so small in his own stomach. It is perhaps the most alive he has felt in the quiet, ephemeral comings and goings of his life since he spent every day in Ted's company. The promise of Ted, it seems, though mildly pathetic to keep so close to his chest, makes every day a bit brighter. Makes the rain a little more bearable. Makes sitting alone in a white box while his little girl is with her mother an exercise in potential.
Because Ted could happen at any moment.
--Excerpt from "However Many Times It Takes," Chapter 5: Sainsbury's
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 5/5
Fandom: Ted Lasso (TV)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Trent Crimm/Ted Lasso
Characters: Trent Crimm, Trent Crimm's Ex-Wife, Trent Crimm's Daughter, Ted Lasso, Lady Greyhounds
Additional Tags: Tedependent, Ted Lasso (TV) Season 4, Gay Disaster Trent Crimm, Humor, Fluff, Romance, Slow Burn, AFC Richmond Lady Greyhounds, AFC Richmond Football Team (Ted Lasso)
Ted Lasso is back in town. Or so Trent Crimm has been told. He wouldn't know. Ted hasn't acknowledged his existence. So maybe Ted is back in town and he simply doesn't exist.
In Case of Emergency or You Need Something New to Help You Close These Last Few Weeks Before the New Season
Or, spec fics for funsies until they're all uncanoned and we know.
*mentions the Lady Greyhounds in some gray, vague way
Aren't You A Sight For Sore Eyes
Rated G // 14,597 Words // 7 Chapters
Ted Lasso is back. On Trent Crimm's doorstep. To talk. So Trent is going to take him on a bit of a ride until Ted talks.
More Than Friendts*
Rated E // 70,090 Words // 25 Chapters
Trent Crimm has always had a bit of a thing for Ted Lasso, although ethically he certainly has not. Now that he is seated up close, that bit of a thing might be a bit bigger than he was prepared for. It’s a shame Ted is a straight man from the Midwest.
Circling Back
Rated T // 4,082 Words
Ted Lasso is back in Richmond, making time to see Trent Crimm, his lovely friend, who he missed terribly.
That Old Feeling
Rated G // 6,680 Words
When he's finally back in Richmond, Ted finds Trent sitting alone on a bench, reading.
A Job Well Done*
Rated G // 1,016 Words
(written for the AFC Richmond Discord 2025 Holiday Challenge)
Keeley Jones has worked so hard to make her first International Women's Day Event go off without a hitch. She should celebrate.
Except That It Means Something Very Specific
Rated T // 18,283 Words // 6 Chapters
A lot of "which could mean anything" and a very pointed amount of "oh, no, this is actually quite specific."
A Call Would Have Been Nice*
Rated G // 13,193 Words // 3 Chapters
When Ted went home to Kansas, he had a plan. Though Trent refused it, Ted stuck to it. Back at Richmond now, Trent is finally abiding and it appears there is nothing Trent can do that Ted has asked him to that actually sits right with Ted.
However Many Times It Takes*
Rated G // 6,081 Words // 5 Chapters
Ted Lasso is back in town. Or so Trent Crimm has been told. He wouldn't know. Ted hasn't acknowledged his existence. So maybe Ted is back in town and he simply doesn't exist. Or, it's the hope that kills you.
