Title: 5 Liverpool Moments on the Way Home After the Fulham Match
Characters: Daniel Agger/Martin Skrtel, Jay Spearing & Andy Carroll, Stewart Downing/Jordan Henderson, Charlie Adam/Jamie Carragher, Pepe Reina & Jose Enrique, Craig Bellamy, Maxi Rodriguez ; Jamie/Steven Gerrard implied, Clint Dempsey mentioned
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,510
A/N: Just a little short one for my Liverpool peoples cause I know how you all feel. I feel the same way. :( *hugs to everyone that wants them* It’s not fluffy, so…read with that in mind.

One.

They didn’t say much on the train home—there really was no point to. After all, what use were words now when they’d already lost? What good would words do except make their performance—good as it had been only to be snatched away—even more hollow and useless? What words would take the sting out of the lashing; what words would help ease that ache low in their bellies?

No, words wouldn’t do now. The time for words had passed.

They were tired, more than the usual fatigue of having run ninety minutes, but less tired than they had been a year ago. A year when everything had gone seemingly nine-hundred different kinds of pear shaped and they were losing everything faster than they could snatch hold and hang on. The ride this year was far more interesting and they were better off in position to hold on for the thrills, weren’t they?

They would go home together, none of their teammates would say a word about it; the rest of them too lost in their own minds to notice or say anything if they did. What difference did it really make that two starting players went home in the same car together after a loss such as this? Nothing.

Daniel was lost in his own head, replaying minute by minute or as close as he could get to it. Martin was contented enough to let him be. They sat together, as always, but they didn’t speak. Words weren’t necessary, only the company of the other to remind them both that they weren’t alone in their shared frustrating disappointment.

Two.

Jay sat in the seat behind Andy, in the corner of the train, off to himself. The others had told him they’d look into the card and that he hadn’t done anything wrong. They’d tried to make him smile with a half-hearted cracked joke. They had tried; they had failed, but they had tried nevertheless. Inside his head he couldn’t help but feel it was his fault. A draw would’ve been disappointing, but the bitter taste inside his mouth would be gone, at least partly. He didn’t like losing, but he liked what had happened even less.

No reassurances by the team or the gaffer himself would take that away.

Andy must have felt the same way; the empty look in his eyes was cast by the shadow of disappointment growing inside. Perhaps Andy felt more than he did about the whole thing; perhaps Andy had other demons he needed to conquer first. Perhaps… Perhaps he was just reading too much into a dead look in the eye and a grim set line of Andy’s mouth.

Perhaps he should just mind his own business and accept the silent companionship for what it was: nothing more than another person’s presence in his own cell of despair.

Three.

Jordan was more tired than he was, but that wasn’t anything horribly bad. Stewart felt the sting of the loss, perhaps not as much as some of the seasoned Liverpool players, but he still felt it. Jordan was too tired, Stewart guessed. They had settled on the train and left London behind them. It hadn’t been much longer after that before Jordan’s head had fallen back onto the seat cushion and his eyes had closed.

He wasn’t sleeping; Stewart had been around with him enough to know when Jordan was asleep, but he wasn’t fully conscious though. Stewart allowed fancies to dance through his mind about his blonde companion—he never dared to call him a lover or anything sentimental like that, that meant something—and wondered when the next time they could see each other like that would be. It wouldn’t be tonight, not with Jordan as tired as this. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after. Stewart thought he could wait a few days before he called Jordan for that. Maybe he could be patient enough; not that he was desperate or anything. That, too, meant something.

As Jordan shifted in his rest, his head lolled to the side to rest on Stewart’s shoulder. Carefully, so not to wake him, Stewart shifted away. That would look far too intimate for a couple of friends on a train home. That would look—well, it wasn’t professional for one player to sleep on another one. That wasn’t proper, was it? Stewart couldn’t help himself for watching though, watching Jordan rest. He did it sometimes at night and Jordan was really truly asleep—Stewart would never let himself be caught watching another man sleep—and he knew that he liked seeing Jordan’s face completely relaxed.

Just like those times at night, he watched Jordan for a few minutes. As he did so, Stewart wondered what Jordan was thinking in those private thoughts of his when he was at rest. For a few quick seconds, he thought about asking softly what it was he thought about.

But then that would mean something. Wouldn’t it?

Four.

It wasn’t going to be a long term thing, Jamie had thought to himself. God knows it couldn’t have been. He was a busy man; what with his family, his job, himself, Steven…he couldn’t have the time for this even if he wanted to. Not to mention how it would look to have two in the same squad. For fuck’s sake, he wasn’t Steven!

The thoughts didn’t stop Jamie from wondering, just for a moment, what it would be like to have Charlie. It wouldn’t be gentle, he could guaren-damn-tee that one. Something inside him liked this idea though, not being gentle. Steven was fragile these days, a simple knock to the ankle had caused an infection—he was like glass, and Carra was going to treat him as such until he was back to tackling like a madman again. (Figuratively, of course. It would be horrible to have a captain back only to be sent off for a rogue tackle.)

Speaking of tackles… Jamie looked back to see the lad Spearing and felt his heart beat in sympathy for the poor sod. That had been a poor decision, one of the worst he’d seen in a while. He’d say something later, back in Liverpool, he would take the boy aside and tell him to chin up. They’d all been sent off at some time or another, some more than most. He just had to remember the main goal at the end of the day. The club first, everything else second. Jamie nodded to himself. Yes, he’d tell the boy that and then he’d make a joke at absent-Steven’s expense about red cards. Perhaps he could throw in a Roy Keane joke or two as well. That would certainly lighten the boy’s day, hopefully.

Happy with his new plan, Jamie settled back into his seat and let out a relaxing breath. He was surprisingly calm, given what his team had just been denied. The wisdom of age? He asked himself silently when he heard the sigh next to him. He remembered again that Charlie had been there this entire time, hand clenched into a fist by his side and his eyes out the window.

Maybe—no, he had so many things to do, Jamie, he didn’t need another responsibility, or God forbid another new relationship to deal with. One night stands or fuck buddies had stopped for the most part—except for Steven, always Steven—he couldn’t take Charlie on as well.

That didn’t stop his tongue from licking his lips slightly at the thought. No, it wouldn’t be gentle. Not in the least, and he liked that idea. He liked it very much.

Five.

He felt about as great as Spearing must have done. He sat, not by himself, but with Enrique. Taking comfort in the fact that no one really wanted to talk, he settled himself to playing a few rounds of poker with his Spanish friend with Bellamy and Maxi. None of the assembled players talked or make any other kind of sounds really. Apart from the occasional tapping of the table to indicate whose turn it was when one of them had stared off into space or looked to see what some of their teammates were doing, they were all silent.

Pepe didn’t mind the quiet because the game was helping take his mind away from it. Every so often though, when he blinked or found himself looking too long out the window, he would see that moment when the ball had moved past him, out of his reach, and back into the net before he could’ve stopped it. His whole body went numb, as if Dempsey had kicked him instead of that ball, and then he would be reminded of his place whenever Craig would tap the table, or nudge him with his foot if the tap didn’t bring him back.

He would let out a long sigh and play his turn, grateful that no matter what mistakes he might have made, when this train stopped in Liverpool, he would not be walking home alone.