#rose wippets

[jamiesfootball]

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Here's a snippet from a project I started before season three aired. Not sure if I'll get back to it but I might:

First time Colin met Jamie was as a starter in the U18s during a Wales v England match. Colin played first string the whole season. Football was something that came easy to him. While he wasn't likely to be the next Gareth Bale or Chris Gunter, and he was shorter than most of his teammates by a head, he was scrappier, hungrier, angrier than anyone else he knew - on the field or off. The coaches were always on him to take it easy or he'd tear something, but it was lip service at best. They kept him on because he was a force of nature: block, cross, shoot, it didn't matter. He couldn't be pigeonholed. He was inconspicuous and could slide pass the bigger players before they realized where the ball had gone; he was a threat. So Colin had walked into that match with England full of teenage vigor, thinking he was hot shit. Then at the 57' mark England took an injury, and Jamie Tartt took the stage. In the next thirty-three minutes, he'd also take Colin's self-esteem and a fucking hat trick. Nothing in his young life had prepared him for the look of intensity on the other boy's eyes as he stampeded down the field like the fucking Tasmanian Devil. He blew past Ellis and Bowen like a tap dancer, and when Colin came to tango, he was helplessly tangled in a series of checks maneuvered like a game of chess. He tripped on his feet. Got up quick with rage in his blood only to get nutmegged, the ball slipping cleanly between his unsteady legs, before Tartt took his first breakaway of the evening. The remainder of the match seared into his brain like a bloodbath. A chip shot in injury time sealed the fucking deal, the ball breezing overt the goalie's fingertips to bury into the net. Colin couldn't even blame his short legs for not keeping up. Him and Tartt were the same height. It was a lesson Colin had put other players through but never learned for himself: that you were only as good as your world was wide. The next time they met Jamie was fresh on loan from Man City. Colin called it: the guy didn't remember him at all.

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

roses be upon ye 🌹🌺🌹🌼🌹

Thank you thank you :)

Here is a rough bit I’ve just written from the 5+1 of Higgins giving good advice and the one time he didn’t, tentatively titled Dear Leslie:

The match was a disaster. The team was no doubt devastated. And things seem to be going from bad to worse as Leslie approached the changing room to see Beard forcibly remove a swearing, unkempt man from the facility. Leslie watched the retreating figure with more than a little apprehension. The glimpse of sky blue told him the man was a City supporter, but how the man slipped past security, Leslie’s unsure.

“Fuck off you prick, let me finish things with my son. Boy needs to be reminded where the fuck he came from you Yankee fuck,” the man yelled as Beard dragged him out of sight.

Before Higgins had a chance to ponder what the stranger’s words meant, Ted rushed by him, looking like he had another bad fish pie. But Leslie knew better now, he knew it wasn’t food poisoning causing his friend to scurry away.

“Ted–”

“I’m good, go check on the team,” Ted called over to his shoulder and Leslie’s torn between his duty to the club and his duty to a friend.

The changing room was quiet. Too quiet. And if there was anything a father of five knew it was that silence was suspicious. The only thing worse than the eerie quiet was the choked sob that ripped through the space like a grenade. His shoes filled with lead as he took the final few steps into the room.

In the middle of the room, Jamie Tartt stood openly sobbing in Roy Kent’s arms. More than crying, he’s cracked open and the only thing holding him together is Roy Kent duct tape. Arms Leslie’s witnessed push the younger man plenty of times, now held him like a lifeline. Higgins could hardly believe this is the same Jamie Tartt who approached him for tickets two days earlier.

He’s just a dick. Every situation, he does exactly what a dick would do. Not much you can do with that.

Regret slammed into Higgins like a bus.

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

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For your next delight!

Thank you, friend! So because I also suffer from can’t-shut-up-itis, I would like to share some of my epiphany in the shower last night.

I’ve mentioned before about having a WIP about Rebecca and her relationships that stemmed from the line that came to me while on vacation back in September:

No one tells you how devastating it is to lose your father while he’s still alive.

But then, upon discussions with you and also your ask after publishing apologies from my tongue, but never yours about the plethora of Bad Dads (or could be Bad Dads) in the TL universe I thought I could rework the other fic into that. And who else is having a bad time at Rebecca’s father’s funeral? You guessed it: Jamie.

So here is a snippet of what I wrote last night:

One look at Jamie’s face told Rebecca she wasn’t the only one in need of some alone time.

“It’s okay,” Rebecca said, voice softening. “You can stay.”

Jamie looked unsure and lost, eyes tracking between Rebecca and the exit slightly behind her.

“I want you to stay,” Rebecca added, surprising even herself. “Sit. Please.”

Jamie dropped immediately back to the floor, legs crossed. So the rumours were true then. The new and improved Jamie Tartt was as well trained as the English Foxhounds her Uncle Alastair took hunting.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie offers, clearing his throat, his voice sounded as if he had been crying. “About your Dad. Uh, it must be difficult. I can’t imagine.”

There was an incident in the changing room.

Higgins’ words after the Manchester City loss hit Rebecca then.

“James Tartt was in the locker room. There was a confrontation with Jamie.”

“What did Jamie do this time?”

Rebecca was embarrassed now at her reaction.

This will also fill my need because I can’t believe there was exactly zero follow up in regards to Jamie and his Dad other than Jamie not having spoken to him since Wembley.