Rating: T, sexy stuff
Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine, no moolah made.
Spoilers: Nope
Pairing: Ted/Rebecca
Summary: Sometimes dreams are symbolic. And sometimes they are not.

She's on her third cup and he still hasn't shown.

Usually, Ted saunters, bounds or bursts through the door some time during her first cup of tea. Sometimes she even pours it and waits to take her first sip of tea with her first bite of biscuit. She's become used to her day beginning with that small but delicious ritual: hot tea, buttery shortbread and eclectic chatter from the unpredictable mind of Ted Lasso. Without it, she's not quite sure where to begin.

She opens her diary. She opens her laptop. She flicks through the newspaper. But she can't quite kick her mind into gear. So she leaves her tea to cool, rises and heads for the door. Rebecca walks down the stairs, through the virtually empty corridors. It's too early for the team to be in but she isn't surprised to see Ted at his desk, hunched over his computer, a frown on his face as he stabs at the keyboard with two fingers.

"Ah," she gives an airy sigh as she pauses on the threshold, "there you are."

He looks up sharply. "Oh, hey. Heeey, boss, how're y—" He slams his computer shut and knocks over his coffee with the abrupt movement. "Shoot!—" Ted springs to his feet, dusting off the lap of his trousers as the paper cup rolls around on his desktop, leaking caramel liquid before plopping wetly to the floor.

Rebecca winces. "Oh God, is it hot?"

Ted grabs a bunch of tissues from a nearby box and dabs at the milky stains running down his thighs. "It's fine, I'm fine," he murmurs, smiling affably but not quite meeting her eyes. "No harm, no foul..." He bins the tissues and the fallen cup then waves her in with overdone enthusiasm. "Come on in, come on in!" He straightens, sweeps some hair back then gestures wildly at his serene surroundings. "Sorry I've not been up to see you this mornin', we've just been flat-out down here, ain't that right, Coach?"

He glances into the adjacent room where Coach Beard sits reading a newspaper, sipping a coffee and looking both unperturbed and deeply perturbed. Beard looks up at Rebecca but says nothing. Rebecca turns back to Ted as his nattering continues.

"Oh, but hey, don't think I forgot your mornin' bickies," he says, lunging behind his desk to retrieve his backpack and getting the zipper open on his third frenetic try, "cos no sirree, I got those right here." He shuffles towards her, digging into its depths for the small pink box she sought out. "In fact," he adds as he places the box in her hands, "I didn't sleep too well so I made you some chocolate mini-muffins as well." He places a second box on top of the first then delves back into his satchel for a third. "And ah…let's see, that there is an apple slice like my Grammy used to make." He stacks the third box on top of the second, reaches in for a fourth. "And, well…this is another slice, although you know what—" he makes a face and retracts the last box, "I'm not super happy with the recipe on that one so why don't you just take another of the mini-muffins instead?" He throws the fourth box into the bin with his spilled coffee, substituting it for a fifth sweet-smelling box. "Yeah…" He glances up at her face then down at the mini tower of sweets in her arms. "There you go. Alright."

Rebecca looks down at her stash of Ted treats then over at Beard. In perfectly measured movements, Beard rises, folds his paper, places it on the armchair then heads out into the hall, closing the door quietly behind him.

Rebecca takes a breath, inhaling the scent of freshly baked goods. "Alright, Ted. I am going to take these and eat all of them because they smell incredible." She places the pile of pink boxes on Beard's desk, steals his chair and wheels it closer. "But before I do, I want you to take a seat, take a breath and tell me what on earth is going on." She gestures to his chair. "Please."

Ted pulls his chair out from behind his desk and they both sit down, facing each other with knees almost touching. He sighs deeply as he does, shoulders stooped with some unseen weight. "You're right. I-I-I should come clean, it's the right thing to do..."

She spreads her hands, indicating that he should begin. "So."

"So." He nods once and lifts his head to meet her eyes properly. "Rebecca, er—boss. Ms Welton, ma'am—"

Her head shakes slightly. "Just pick one and go with it."

He takes a breath and sticks with the moniker that comes most easily. "Here's the thing, boss. I think I owe you an apology."

Her chin dips as she steels herself. "O-kay…"

"See, over the weekend, Beard and I had a few drinks while marathoning some old BBC thing about Caligula."

"I, Claudius?"

"That's the one. Man, that Derek Jacobi is one heck of an actor, in' he?"

"Indeed."

"Now," he drops her gaze, scoots back a bit then rises, "I don't wanna make excuses because I believe in owning up to your mistakes..." Ted moves to the door and closes it, despite no one being in the locker room to overhear, then he begins to pace back and forth across the carpet. "But I dunno, the dang thing must've gotten into my head cos I had all these dreams where everyone was dressed in robes and drinking from old-timey goblets just like in the show. Not that—" He stops and holds up a hand to assure her, "not that you were the only one in the mix." He lingers on the threshold of the two little rooms and gazes upwards in thought. "Ah, Nate was there. Beard was there. Tony Blair was there…somewhat confusingly..."

Rebecca swivels in her chair to face him. "Are you telling me that this minor meltdown with a baking theme," she indicates the pile of pink boxes to her right, "is due to a dream you had last night?"

Ted nods. "Yes ma'am."

She smiles, her eyelashes fluttering in relief. "Ted, I'm not sure you need to apologise for things your head might dream up while you are unconscious."

"I disagree," he replies swiftly. "I think it's important to be self-responsible on all planes of existence."

"Well, that's very noble…"

He takes a step closer. "And I definitely wouldn't want you thinkin' that I don't respect you as a boss, as a woman or as a fellow human being. Because I do. I respect the heck outta you and your position."

She nods. "I appreciate that."

He sticks a thumb at his chest. "This guy, right here? Not in the habit of objectifying women but," he waves a hand in her general direction, "clearly you are a very attractive woman. There's no gettin' round that—"

She shifts in her seat. "I mean, that's—"

"Statuesque," he presses on, "Stunning. And sexy as all get out. If you'll pardon my bein' so blunt."

"Ted."

"And you are my boss."

She lifts a finger to stall him, "This is true," but to no avail.

"So I suppose it makes sense," he muses, beginning to pace again, "that you might appear as this kind of queen-slash-goddess figure—"

Her hand drops, her nose scrunches. "I…don't think I need to know the details—"

"At least, I think you were some kind of queen or empress or what-have-you cos you were sittin' on a throne in this long white robe with a little gold-leaf crown on your head, you know, like in the TV show. The details are hazy though…" He strokes his moustache with two fingers. "All I really recall is the grapes…"

Her brows lift. "…Grapes?"

He turns back to her. "I fed you grapes."

"I see."

"Then you fed me grapes."

"Right."

"And then we fed each other grapes."

"…Okay—" She's about to bring the topic to a close when he adds:

"Also I might have called you some pet names."

She frowns slightly. "Such as?"

"Er…" Ted shuffles on the spot, "'honey'?"

"'Honey'…isn't so bad—"

"'Sweetie'."

"A little infantilising but I can forgive it."

"'Babe'."

She pauses. "'Babe'?"

"In my defence, you do fit the description of what is commonly referred to as a 'babe'."

Rebecca shakes her head, redirects their focus. "Ted. Just – here – please." She gestures to his chair again, "Take a seat. I'm not sure I can help you out with the pet names but as far as the grapes go, I think there might be a metaphorical way of understanding that…particular…exchange."

Ted takes his seat and scoots in close. "You know me. I love a metaphor. Hit me with it."

"Well, think about it." She gestures to the pink boxes again, keeping her tone even and her sentences concise. "You bring me biscuits every morning. Whether I want you to or not. You feed me. Quite literally. And perhaps…in other ways…I feed you."

He bobs his head. "You pay me a very generous salary."

"There you go. What I'm saying is," she hesitates a moment, clears her throat, "however erotic the implication may be, the grape-feeding may simply be symbolic of this comfortable back-and-forth that you and I have established."

Ted hums, rubbing his neck with one hand. "It was pretty darn erotic, if I'm bein' honest, but I see what you're sayin'…" His eyes glint as he meets her gaze, as he waves a hand between the two of them. "It represents mutual exchange, right? Suggests that, in this semi-professional, semi-personal relationship we've got goin', both of us are gettin' our emotional needs met."

"That may be stating it a little strongly," Rebecca gulps and gets to her feet, "but I see you get the drift."

Ted rises also, smile wide. "Wow, boss, you really are a wonder. Thanks for talkin' this through, I feel a whole lot better."

"Excellent." She turns to the desk, gathers her boxes with a weak smile. "I am going to take my biscuits and go now."

"Enjoy!" Ted scuttles to the door and opens it for her. "And trust me, I will be apologising to you on the other side as well. As soon as my head hits the pillow at nine o'clock tonight, I will come find you and make sure we're all good on that plane as well."

Rebecca hesitates on the threshold. She knows better than to insist that a second, spectral apology is unnecessary. She simply asks, "You go to bed at nine o'clock? Every night?"

Ted grins, his usual cheer fully reinstated. "Early to bed, early to rise."

As if to back up the wisdom of this practice, the Richmond players begin to filter into the locker room, looking tired, grumpy and hungover. A ball gets bounced. A bottle is thrown. Several curse words are hurled. Rebecca glances over her shoulder, turns to go then turns back again.

"Oh, and Ted, for future reference?"

Halfway back to his desk, Ted turns to face her.

"Whether on this plane of existence or any other, you can call me pretty much anything you like, just never, ever call me 'darling'—"

"'Darlin''?" he echoes with a warm twang.

Rebecca blinks, a crease appearing above and between her eyes. "See, it…sounds different when you say it."

Ted's head tilts, one hand slips inside the pocket of his stained trousers.

"Never mind," she murmurs, moving away from the door as the noise in the locker room escalates. "Just…never mind."

She heads out of the locker room before men begin stripping, her collection of boxes warm in her hands. She passes Coach Beard in the corridor. He leans back against the wall, ankles crossed and head bent over his phone. He's playing some stupid game that Leslie is also addicted to. She recognises the silly sound effects.

Rebecca doesn't stop. She just stalks past him, saying, "He's fine. All fixed."

Beard lifts his phone in a salute, "Much appreciated!" before heading into the buzzing locker room.

-x-

She stands on a round, open structure with tall roman columns and no roof. It sits atop a ragged cliff below which a deep sapphire sea glistens and undulates. The sea air makes her thin white robe ripple about her legs. It's attached somewhat precariously to her body with a gold clasp at one shoulder and a thin gold belt about her waist. A small gold crown keeps her hair in place as the wind lifts it gently from her sun-kissed shoulders.

She's not felt so at peace, so free and sensual since her time in Mallorca when the sun, sea and sky inspired her to bare herself to the glory of the elements. Rebeca closes her eyes and lets the sensation wash over her in luxurious waves. Two arms slip around her from behind. Two lips and a prickly moustache press against the shoulder her gown leaves bare. She doesn't start or stiffen or even question. She isn't shocked or uncomfortable. The embrace is expected. The kiss is welcome. And when he kisses her again, calls her honey and sweetie and babe and more, she smiles because she doesn't mind one bit.

From somewhere hidden, he produces a silver tray piled high with green and red and purple grapes. He moves to face her and she sees that he is also adorned in Romanesque attire. Some kind of belted skirt with a diagonal red sash flung over one shoulder. The sight does not strike her as incongruous or comic. Nor does his moustache or his accent or his slightly doughy dad body. Nor, it seems, does the idea of him pushing a ripe red grape between her lips. It bursts on her tongue under the pressure of her teeth and, as she chews and swallows, Ted swipes a thumb across her lips. He follows this up with a kiss, light on her lips, his 'tashe tickling her skin.

Rebecca reciprocates, selecting a plump green grape from the platter and pressing it to his lips. He takes it in then kisses her fingertips. Then he grasps her hand in both of his and presses his whole mouth into the palm of her hand in a warm, wet, fevered kiss. He draws her closer, kisses up her arm, from palm to wrist, lips pressing to the pale under skin of her forearm, tongue and teeth tasting the sensitive dip of her inner elbow. He kisses along her bicep then up to her shoulder where his face tucks into her neck. They're both breathing heavily as he huffs against her heated skin:

"Come with me, darlin'…"

He leads her to a throne, wide and hard and square. And as she takes a seat, he sinks to his knees. He removes the strappy gold sandals she wears before his lips begin a similar journey up one leg. He lifts her robe as he goes, both hands sliding ahead of his mouth. Rebecca squirms on her throne, flesh heating as he nips the inside of her knee. Her hands delve into his hair, her nails scratch his bare shoulders as she attempts to draw him closer. But Ted takes his time, refusing to sacrifice the journey for the destination. When he reaches her thigh, her breath hitches and holds. She can't help gazing down at him, watching his slow progress up her body. His eyes are closed, his mouth open, his breath hot on her skin. And two words fall from his lips like a litany, a revelation:

"My darlin', my darlin', my darlin', my darlin'…"

Again, she seems entirely unperturbed by the endearment, unsurprised by how fitting it sounds. How intimate, how arousing. No words seem to have ever had such an effect on her mind, body and heart. She melts in her seat, sinking downwards, inching towards the pleasure offered so eagerly by his lips, his teeth, his tongue, his 'tache and those two huskily delivered words.

Ted clutches her hips, pulls her even closer. His hands run up her thighs and his breath puffs against her. Right…there. Her eyes close over, her brow creases and her teeth knead her bottom lip. She may even mutter a few frustrated endearments of her own. Because he's so close. She can practically feel his moustache against her mons. She's about to feel his tongue squirrel between her lower lips, opening her up then sliding inside. It's just about to happen when her phone pings.

Her eyes flick open. A hand lifts to her forehead. Rebecca looks down at her body. Her laptop is overheating on her thighs, the cursor winking at her. The mohair throw she lies beneath is tangled around her legs. Her silk pyjama shirt sticks to her chest and she can feel the aftereffects of a little too much wine. She shoves the laptop and throw down to the foot of the couch and gets to her feet. Pulling her pyjama top away from her body, she gives it a little flutter and gets some cool air onto her hot skin.

The TV is still flickering away on mute. The news she was half paying attention to has turned into a sports panel show. A picture of Ted looking chipper is projected between the four squabbling co-hosts. Rebecca unmutes the television and listens to them joke for a few minutes about all the cruel and creative ways they'd like to punish Richmond's manager for his various misdeeds.

"I know just how you feel…" she mutters as she picks up her glass and downs the last of her wine.

Placing the glass back on the coffee table, she picks up her phone to check her messages and can't help noticing the time: 9:05pm.

-x-

She doesn't sleep. Of course she doesn't. Not after Ted Lasso made his moronic problem her moronic problem. The dream doesn't recur but the images linger longer than she'd like. As do the various sensations. The overwhelming sense of frustration. Eventually, she gives up on sleep, rising before her alarm goes off at 6am.

It's one of those days that she wishes she were a coffee drinker. Instead, she sips a powdery, supposedly nutritious smoothie as she selects her wardrobe, a daily practice that offers her a modicum of control, however fleeting or deceptive. Rebecca pulls out a tailored white dress that leaves her arms bare but stretches down past her knees. It's not that she's attempting to channel the Roman goddess of her dreams. Ted's dreams. Quite the opposite. She's seeking something clean and simple and blank. Absolution, perhaps. Irreproachability. The appearance of purity despite her lurid imaginings of the night prior.

Arriving at the office helps restore her equilibrium. Here she is the boss, here she is in control. Most of the time, at least. This is a site of mud and sweat and strategy. It is about as far from a site of sun and sex and suggestive fruit that she can imagine. She's relieved to be the first to arrive. The quiet presence of cleaners helps to scrub her conscience and erase her memory. She makes a pot of tea with her strongest blend, adding an extra two spoons of potent black leaves. A little time at her desk, a few sips of her triple-strength tea and she's sure that the insanity of the previous night will prove nothing more than a hormonal anomaly.

She heads for her desk, cup in hand. Drawing in a cleansing breath, Rebecca is taking her seat when a loud rap completely disrupts her nearly settled nerves.

"Knockity-knock-knock!"

The cup in her hands shimmies on its saucer, tips to one side and spills its full, dark contents down the front of her pristine white dress. "Holy fucking shit—!"

Ted creeps a little closer, pink box in hand. "Oh God, are you alright?"

She dumps the cup and saucer on her desk. "Yes," she huffs, brushing herself down and dripping onto the floor. "But my dress…is not."

"Yikes," he winces, "Not a good day to wear white, boss."

She glances up at him, shakes some tea off her hands. "No kidding."

He sidles even closer, right to the edge of her desk. His dimple comes out to play as he muses in an overly knowing tone, "What's got you jumpin' outta your skin like that? S'there somethin' you wanna tell me?"

Rebecca lifts one finger and absolutely refuses to look at him. "Ted," she says, her voice tense through her grit jaw. "Would you do me a very kind favour?"

He shrugs readily. "Anythin'."

She breathes shallowly, points to her desk. "Leave the biscuits and tell Higgins to get in here."

"Oh, Higgins ain't in yet—"

She wants to growl, she wants to scream.

"But I can run this over to the dry cleaners for you pronto." He nods once, adds contritely, "Least I can do considerin'."

She mutters a barely controlled fine then steps out of her oolong puddle and heads for the ensuite bathroom. Ted places her biscuits on her desk then follows, leaning back on the wall beside the door as she changes. She kicks off her heels, struggles a little with the zipper but manages to peel the wet dress off her body. From just outside the slightly cracked door, she hears Ted murmur:

"You know, boss, if there was anythin' you wanted to share this would be an ideal opportunity." He raps on the wall with a knuckle. "This's kinda like a confessional."

Rebecca pulls on her robe. "I'm not Catholic," she says, emerging from the bathroom and tightening the sash. "And you can wipe that silly grin off your face."

"To be fair," Ted grins unrepentantly, "this silly grin is on my face ninety-six percent of the time. Just tell me one thing…" he leans a little closer, voice dropping to a mock conspiratorial tone, "was there any fruit involved?"

She throws her stained dress over his shoulder. "Leave now."

He chuckles good-naturedly. "D'you call me any cute names?"

Her eyes narrow at him. "I can fire you."

"Aw, I'm just joshin' with you," he waves a hand and heads for the door with her dress. "A little o' that fun back-and-forth you were talkin' about yesterday. But don't worry, I'm on the job. We'll have you lookin' spick and span in no time."

Rebecca moves to her desk, reaches for her biscuits. But Ted turns at the door, clearly not quite done.

"Hey. Rebecca."

She opens the pink box and doesn't answer.

He continues anyway, voice full of glee, "Y' called me 'babe', didn't you?"

Her back is to him and she doesn't turn. "I did not."

She hears him chuckle again, hears his jaunty footsteps on the stairs. Rebecca looks over her shoulder, makes sure he's gone and she's alone. Then she turns back to her biscuits, peering into the box as she murmurs to them with a confused frown, "I called you darlin'."

END.