thelittlegirl | (no subject)

Even before he steps out onto the pitch, Roy knows his career is over.

It doesn't matter what the gaffer says, doesn't matter how much optimism Ted throws his way, Roy knows. Between his age, the loss of his speed, how much trouble he's been having with his knee this past season, there's no fucking about. Roy Kent's career is over, but that doesn't mean he's going to go out like a whining fucking baby.

No, he's going to go out chasing down Jamie fucking Tartt and make that fucking shit little prick remember why he's a legend in this league. This final game of his career, this last moment, he's going to make it count, he's going to make it matter, and as Ted sends him out onto the pitch to start the second half, Roy feels that rage, that wonderful, all encompassing fury that has powered so much of his career.

Christ, he's missed this.

Jamie has a breakaway and Roy knows the arrogant little prick will score if no one stops him, but he's the only one. The only bloody one close enough to do it. Roy runs, putting all that anger into the moment, focusing on his speed, pushing himself like he hasn't been able to in years. And when he slides, when his boot connects with the ball and it goes spinning out of Jamie's control, when Jamie falls, tripping over him, there's a blaze of fiery pain that rips through Roy's left knee and sends him to the grass as well.

But fuck it. He stopped Jamie Tartt.

Sam crouches over him, asking if he's okay and Roy rolls onto his back, looking up at the faces of the teammates as he shakes his head.

"Fuck," he breathes. "I fucked my knee."

"Do you want me to call for the stretcher, Roy?" Colin asks and he shakes his head again, then reaches for Sam's offered hand.

"No," he says. "Just help me up."

But Sam pushes Roy back down, a smile blooming and when Roy asks, "What the fuck are you doing?" Sam only nods his head toward the crowd.

"Listen," he says.

Ringing through the stands, across the pitch, sung by every Richmond fan in the stands, Roy can hear the song he hasn't heard in bloody years.

"He's here, he's there, he's every-fucking-where, Roy Kent, Roy Kent!" they scream and Sam grins down at Roy, then finally helps him up. The crowd cheers as Roy stands, then turns back to find Ted. The gaffer is there on the side and Roy catches his gaze and nods. Ted nods in return.

Turning back, Roy begins to limp off the pitch, applauding the crowd as they scream for him, sing for him, serenade him like he hasn't been serenaded in years. This is over. This is all over and he's leaving on his own terms, by his own rules, after one hell of a career.

It still hurts. Not just his knees, but the whole bloody thing, and Roy pauses for a moment as he limps toward the locker room, wanting to give himself a second just to breathe. He has no idea what the fuck else he's going to do and he can't even begin to untangle the life ahead of him and he needs to just catch his breath. Just for a moment.

In a split second, the sound of the crowd disappears. It doesn't die off as people stop singing; one moment it's there and the next it's gone, and Roy's eyes snap open at the sudden change. He turns back toward the pitch, catching himself on a lamp post as his injured knee buckles and nearly sends him to the pavement. A lamp post. Pavement. He's standing on the side of an unfamiliar street congested with stalled vehicles rather than the door that leads off the pitch and toward the locker rooms.

"What the fuck?" he blurts in an angry voice, fingers curling around the post to keep himself upright as his knee threatens to give out again. The crowd is gone. In fact, Roy can't see a single living person nearby and he peers up, trying to read the nearest street sign, but even if he squints, he can't make out the words.

"Swear to fuckin' Christ, if I need bloody reading glasses now, too," he mutters angrily, then begins to limp down the street, trying to work out where the fuck he is.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Maybe, but that's not why you don't know where the fuck you are," I said, not really looking forward to explaining shit to this fucking guy. I didn't recognize the uniform. It looked like soccer, maybe? I'd never given a shit about soccer.

"It's gonna sound crazy. It is crazy. But you're in a city called Darrow. I'm assuming that doesn't sound familiar."

"No," Roy answers. "It doesn't."

He's been all over the UK, all over most of Europe playing football, and he's never heard of bloody Darrow. The pain in his knee is distracting enough that Roy can't muster the same blind rage he usually would in the face of something so obviously fucking stupid, so he looks for somewhere to support himself, then limps to a nearby bus stop with a bench.

"Right," he says once he's seated. "Let's try this again."

Following him over to the bench, I sat myself down on the other end.

"Couple of years ago, I was in some asshole's car, in New York. I dozed off, and then... Here I was. I woke up in a different parked car on a street, just a couple blocks from here. No explanation, no warning. For a lot of folks, it just... happens. Instantaneous. They come from all over, different times and places, and the only way that anybody leaves is the same. You just... vanish. And go back home, I guess. It's fucked up, and trust me, I wish I had a better answer than that, but that's all anybody's ever figured out."

Roy absorbs that, tries to make sense of it, can't, and so he huffs out a discontented grunt. Still, he can't deny he's not in Richmond anymore.

"So all the people this happens to," he says, gesturing with his finger in a circle as if to indicate the group he doesn't even know, "they're all aware this sounds absolutely fucking insane, yeah? Because you seem aware of it, but I just need to make sure everyone is fucking aware of it. It won't help, but I think it'll make me feel a bit better."

Insane sounding or not, Roy doesn't consider the possibility that he's had a mental break. That's just not like him.

"Yeah, they know. I mean, normally the city's packed full of people who think they're from here, and they're... like, varying levels of fucking crazy. But they're gone. Temporarily, probably, but who the fuck even knows."

I shrugged.

"You turned up at kind of a weird time, man. Sorry."

"There's a time it wouldn't be weird to walk off the pitch and end up in an unfamiliar city instead of the locker room?" he asks in return. He's pretty sure that's not possible.

For a moment Roy just sits quietly, thinking about what he's been told. He's not mad, that much is obvious, because Roy Kent's mental state is pretty fucking solid besides the anger issues. He's not high, because he hasn't done drugs in a very long time, not wanting to fuck his career by getting caught on something or having to take a drug test and being kicked out of the league. The paparazzi were bad enough for him without adding drugs into the mix.

He turns his head slightly, looking at the guy sideways, then reaches over and pokes his shoulder experimentally. As expected, he's solid, and Roy says, "Sorry. Just had to check."

Choking out a laugh, I reached over and poked him back.

"I'm fuckin' flattered, you think you've dreamed me up or whatever," I said with a smirk, even though I'd pretty much thought the same thing for the first few months of being in Darrow.

Looking down at his knee, at the way he'd been favoring it and the slightly puffy look it had, I asked, "You need some ice for that?"

"Need a fucking doctor, more like," Roy answers. "I don't think ice is fixing this."

But if all the other people are gone, no matter how mad that still sounds, he figures he's shit out of luck in that regard. It's probably going to be a boatload of ice and painkillers for him until he can figure out what to do to get it properly looked at.

"I'm Roy," he adds after a moment. "Roy Kent."

There's a warring part of him that sort of hopes this guy recognizes his name, fighting with the side of him that really bloody doesn't.

"Shit," I said, looking past him in the vague direction of the hospital. "I don't know who the fuck's left. Could be, we're all trapped here without a single fucking doctor."

It was a fucked up thought, and suddenly, my whole this isn't a big fucking deal attitude was out the fucking window.

"Neil," I said, "McCormick."

Sitting up straighter, I arched a brow and said, "Wanna see what we can find at the pharmacy?"

There's no recognition and Roy can't work out if he's more relieved or annoyed. If Neil doesn't know who he is, then he's not helping just because this is Roy fucking Kent sitting on a bus bench with him. But if he doesn't know who he is, then what the hell is Roy supposed to do now? Just be Roy?

"Yeah, alright," he agrees. What the hell else is he supposed to do? Sit here like a sad fucking prick on a bench until the sun sets and he's still alone and confused and in pain? Seems bloody stupid.

"You don't know who I am," he says, just to be sure. He braces his hand on the back of the bench and levers himself to his feet. "Just... no bloody clue who Roy Kent is, right?"

"Am I supposed to?" I said, giving him a look. I stopped short of offering him a hand, but stuck close, in case he looked like his knees weren't gonna make it.

"Chances are, you don't exist where I come from." I gave him a sideways look. "Or maybe it's just that I'm more into baseball."

"Baseball," he answers with a grunt that's almost a laugh, because he can appreciate the joke at his expense. How very American. There's no real disdain or offence in his tone, though, and once he's standing he nods, almost to himself.

That's how it's going to be now, it seems.

"It's just I was sort of famous," he admits as he lets Neil lead him in the direction of a chemist. "Really famous, actually, at least in England. It's fine that I'm not. Being famous is shit. It's just..."

Now he's just Roy.

"I figure retirement's shit, too, is all."