Whatever Happens Tomorrow
Title: Whatever Happens Tomorrow
Pairing: Daniel Agger/Fernando Torres
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Just a glimpse into my imagination.
Summary: “Why’s this happening, this week?!”
A/N: I just had to; as soon as I heard of Fernando's injury, this popped into my head. It's un-betad since I don't actually have one, but if any of you'd be willing to do that in possible further things I might write, I'd be really greatful if you'd just drop me a line. That said, hope you still enjoy this. Feedback is, of course, much appreciated.
Whatever Happens Tomorrow
Daniel knew that summer in England was definitely over the minute he seated himself down on Fernando’s sofa with a steaming mug of tea in his hands.
He barely listened to the commentator on the World Cup qualifier of Belgium against Spain since all he could discern from the rapid fire Spanish were some names and a random word here and there. His eyes, though, attentively followed the match on the monitor of the wide-screen television that was fixed on the opposite wall.
In his own flat the only chance of catching the match would have been a crappy, unsteady life-stream on his computer since he didn’t get any Spanish programs on his TV, so Fernando had suggested that he could watch it here, and Dan had agreed all too gladly.
The match had been underway for less than ten minutes and already the Dane had witnessed in astonishment how Spain was one goal down against a pretty strong Belgian side. But since there was still more than enough time to rectify that, he wasn’t all that worried yet. After all he knew that it was far from impossible to make quite spectacular returns, considering those last few matches with Liverpool.
Only a few minutes later Dan was still busy blowing steam away from his tea, carefully nipping at it. The one good thing about the commentary was that even when he didn’t look, he still knew when something noteworthy happened just by how that Spanish guy was excitedly raising his voice.
It wasn’t exactly that which caught his attention now, though, but rather the fact that he picked up Fernando’s name - which in itself wasn’t all that extraordinary either, or course, just the tone the commentator used made Dan furrow his brow. At first there didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary as some Belgian players launched a counter attack, he didn’t even see Fernando on screen. But as soon as the ball went flying off the sidelines they showed him, and what he saw let his heart sink a little.
Fernando was indicating to the Spanish coach with that all too familiar sign that he wanted to be taken off, not even twenty minutes into the game. Even worse than that, though, was for the Dane to have to watch him walk off the pitch even before the official substitution had taken place, pulling the hem of his kit over his face with both hands.
“Shit,” Dan muttered, heartfelt, gritting his teeth. He just hoped this wasn’t something serious, just precaution as he was still walking on his own, who knew? Watching Cesc come on to replace Fernando who had already vanished inside the catacombs of the stadium, Dan chewed on his bottom lip worriedly.
It was hard to really concentrate on the match now, and he found himself bustling around in the kitchen in search of a new package of sugar since the sugar can was empty, frustrated that even if they would give information on TV on what had caused the striker’s substitution, he wouldn’t be able to understand a word of it. Only the sudden, all too familiar sounds of the Kop singing Fernando’s song caused him to abandon his search after a moment of initial surprise and he sprinted to the coffee table where his mobile was vibrating.
“Nando?”
There was a short sound on the other side of the line that sounded a lot like relief as far as Dan could tell before he received an answer.
“Danny? I…”
“Shit, what happened?” the defender immediately asked, the shaky sounding voice of his lover alarming him even more. “Are you alright? I saw -”
“No,” he was simply interrupted. “No, I’m not.”
Dan closed his eyes at the words, needing a moment for his racing heart to slow down before he felt calm enough to ask, voice as soothing as he could muster, “Baby, what happened? Tell me.”
He could hear the Spaniard taking another shaky breath. “I just went after the ball and there was this pain in my leg… the back of my thigh. Just like last time. ¡Joder!, why’s this happening, this week?!”
Dan knew exactly what he was talking about - it wasn’t as if he didn’t know how much Fernando had looked forward to playing at Calderón against his boyhood club. And now it looked as if that dream of returning was in severe danger.
“You don’t know for sure yet, do you?” he asked gently, and they both knew he was talking about the upcoming Champions League clash.
“Not in medical terms, but… out there on the pitch, in that moment I just knew there’s no way I’ll play that match. And then there’s Wigan and Chelsea, and what if I’m really out as long as last time?”
Even though Dan couldn’t see him, somehow he just knew from how the words sounded, from the barely audible sounds coming through the line, that Fernando was furiously wiping his eyes, torn between anger and unimaginable disappointment. And at that moment, his throat tightening, he wanted nothing more than to be there to be able to comfort him better than through a silly telephone line.
“Nando, listen… are you listening, baby?”
“… sí.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over this. Even if you’re right and if you’ll be out for the next two, three or even four games. I know how much you were looking forward to going back to play against Atleti, and I can imagine how disappointed you must be. But this isn’t a once in a lifetime deal. You’ll have another chance, you will, even if it’s not next week. The league games, especially Chelsea, they’ll be hard without you, but we’ll manage. Just take a deep breath, I’m right here with you. Alright?”
There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the line before Fernando said in a small voice, “I wanted to play with you when you get back.”
A smile flickered over Dan’s lips at these words. “I know. And you’ll play with me again, I’m not going anywhere. Promise. Now smile a little, will you? Iniesta just scored the equalizer.”
Of course he couldn’t see him, but the defender was convinced that Fernando was heeding his advice, and even seeing the hint of a smile on his lips before his inner eye was enough for Dan.
“Thank you.”
“I love you,” the Dane just replied quietly, relieved at how much calmer Fernando sounded. “Now go back up to your team so you can watch them turn this game around.”
“I should probably do that, ¿no? I asked them to leave me alone for some time before I called. I just needed…”
“I know. And I’m sure they understand.”
“I’ll call you again when we’re at the hotel, okay?”
“You do that.”
They said their goodbyes to each other, and after having ended the call Dan just sat there, holding his mobile for another few heartbeats. Of course this had been far from how he had hoped for this evening to pan out, and he still felt no less than gutted for Fernando. But these things happened, he knew that all too well, and there was nothing one could do about it but to accept and move on.
Tomorrow Fernando would be back in Liverpool, he’d see their physios and find out how bad his injury actually was. But no matter the outcome, Dan thought as he picked up his now tepid mug of tea, he’d make sure to keep the striker’s thoughts as far away from the injury as possible - and that he would be glad just to be back home with him.
~ The End ~