fic: i got cat class (i got cat style)
Jan. 6th, 2025 08:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
devinwolfiTitle: i got cat class (i got cat style)
Fandom: Ted Lasso (TV)
Relationship(s): Roy Kent & Jamie Tartt
Length: 480
Summary: Jamie comes 'round while Roy's looking after Dauphine.
Written for RoyJamie Bingo 2025
Read on AO3
Roy and Jamie, despite Roy’s new position as gaffer, have continued their training sessions. Roy’s let up a bit, though. Between the slightly-overhauled-at-Roy’s-insistence extended coaching staff and his drill-sergeant-esque approach to team training, Jamie and the rest of the lads have a handle on it. But, Roy and Jamie are grown-ups now, therapized and shit, and can admit they’re friends who actually like to hang out. If Roy from five years ago could see himself now, he’d shit himself and then probably blow his brains out.
So they still train together sometimes.
They get back in a little before seven. Jamie is, annoyingly, barely flushed and too chipper for this time of day. Roy hasn’t got his trainers off before Jamie is snaking into his kitchen to pilfer through the fridge, talking Roy’s fucking ear off the entire time.
On the rest of his way in, Roy calls up the stairs. Considering he’s never done that in Jamie’s presence, he should have expected Jamie, while licking protein shake off his lip, to ask “Have you got a girl up there?”
“Something like that,” Roy says. Jamie, about to make a quip, Roy’s certain, is interrupted by a twinkling. Dauphine is quick down the stairs, deceptively loud for such a little thing. A one-cat band of bells and paws drumming against the hardwood.
Roy is not afforded the peace to pretend to appreciate Jamie’s rare and sudden speechlessness; Dauphine is ready for her solo. She rubs her head into his calf, dragging her body and tail along, coincidentally of course, toward the warped, hand-painted dish Phoebe made in art class. Casually looping around the bowl then, she sits, and waits. Never let them know how desperate you are. Roy appreciates the work she puts in pretending to be interested in him, and not his exclusive access to her kibble. Not quite a BAFTA, but a commendable effort nonetheless.
Jamie, having scraped his chin from the floor, asks “Since when have you got a cat?”
“I don’t.” Roy reaches atop the fridge, pulls down the plastic container, then pops the lid. Dauphine’s act is falling apart, her big, cartoon eyes wide with self-betrayal. He gathers one scoop, per the instructions penned in pink glitter, and pours it in the bowl. Dauphine’s resolve, assuming she ever had any, crumbles immediately. She’s muzzle deep before he latches the bin.
“Then your dog’s pretty fucked up, man.”
“She’s Phoebe’s.” He returns to bin to its place, grateful that Dauphine has not yet figured out how conquer the lands beyond floor. “Looking after her while Phoebe’s at camp.” He addresses the cat directly then, “Dauphine,” whose ears barely twitch in his direction. “This is Jamie. Jamie, Dauphine.” She does lift her head then, not to greet their guest but to lick crumbs from around her mouth. Dauphine is worse a host than she is an actor.
Fandom: Ted Lasso (TV)
Relationship(s): Roy Kent & Jamie Tartt
Length: 480
Summary: Jamie comes 'round while Roy's looking after Dauphine.
Written for RoyJamie Bingo 2025
Read on AO3
Roy and Jamie, despite Roy’s new position as gaffer, have continued their training sessions. Roy’s let up a bit, though. Between the slightly-overhauled-at-Roy’s-insistence extended coaching staff and his drill-sergeant-esque approach to team training, Jamie and the rest of the lads have a handle on it. But, Roy and Jamie are grown-ups now, therapized and shit, and can admit they’re friends who actually like to hang out. If Roy from five years ago could see himself now, he’d shit himself and then probably blow his brains out.
So they still train together sometimes.
They get back in a little before seven. Jamie is, annoyingly, barely flushed and too chipper for this time of day. Roy hasn’t got his trainers off before Jamie is snaking into his kitchen to pilfer through the fridge, talking Roy’s fucking ear off the entire time.
On the rest of his way in, Roy calls up the stairs. Considering he’s never done that in Jamie’s presence, he should have expected Jamie, while licking protein shake off his lip, to ask “Have you got a girl up there?”
“Something like that,” Roy says. Jamie, about to make a quip, Roy’s certain, is interrupted by a twinkling. Dauphine is quick down the stairs, deceptively loud for such a little thing. A one-cat band of bells and paws drumming against the hardwood.
Roy is not afforded the peace to pretend to appreciate Jamie’s rare and sudden speechlessness; Dauphine is ready for her solo. She rubs her head into his calf, dragging her body and tail along, coincidentally of course, toward the warped, hand-painted dish Phoebe made in art class. Casually looping around the bowl then, she sits, and waits. Never let them know how desperate you are. Roy appreciates the work she puts in pretending to be interested in him, and not his exclusive access to her kibble. Not quite a BAFTA, but a commendable effort nonetheless.
Jamie, having scraped his chin from the floor, asks “Since when have you got a cat?”
“I don’t.” Roy reaches atop the fridge, pulls down the plastic container, then pops the lid. Dauphine’s act is falling apart, her big, cartoon eyes wide with self-betrayal. He gathers one scoop, per the instructions penned in pink glitter, and pours it in the bowl. Dauphine’s resolve, assuming she ever had any, crumbles immediately. She’s muzzle deep before he latches the bin.
“Then your dog’s pretty fucked up, man.”
“She’s Phoebe’s.” He returns to bin to its place, grateful that Dauphine has not yet figured out how conquer the lands beyond floor. “Looking after her while Phoebe’s at camp.” He addresses the cat directly then, “Dauphine,” whose ears barely twitch in his direction. “This is Jamie. Jamie, Dauphine.” She does lift her head then, not to greet their guest but to lick crumbs from around her mouth. Dauphine is worse a host than she is an actor.
