An attempt at continuity.
...so somewhat a continuation of the Chelsea transference ficlet.
JT/Lamps/(Stevie ...sort of.)
It wasn’t until two weeks later, when Frank started spouting godknowswhat in Spanish in the changing room, that he realised he was already getting used to this new routine.
He half-recognised the words Frank was saying over the others’ voices, and all of a sudden it hit him just how much he missed home. Home at Liverpool; at Anfield; and hanging out with the lads where Xabi and Luis would laugh at him for trying his hand at some simple Spanish and failing miserably; and then him and Jamie would tease them in turn for imitating their Scouse slang.
He sat down abruptly, smiling ruefully in recollection.
“Eh eh señor, ¿De qué estás sonriendo eh?”*
He raised a brow at Frank, who was now standing in front of him, having chosen his latest victim, and was twirling one end of his imaginary moustache around his index finger mockingly.
The first thing Jose had told him when he’d first arrived was now that he was here, he’d become part of the family and it was time for old rivalries to make way for new relationships and partnerships, for example his and Frank’s. And everybody was to strive towards that and he really just could not stress more on how important and vital a connection with Frank would be.
Steve wasn’t stupid, he knew it was a make or break situation. And that it all depended on how well he and Frank could understand each other, and how much they could bring it onto the pitch with them. He’d expected it; to spend most of his first days doing just that, getting to know Frank Lampard.
Though he wasn’t quite expecting this.
“Just so you know, I’d been at Liverpool before, with real Spaniards speaking real Spanish. And they?” Steve made a big show of looking him up and down. “Do not look nor speak like that. Besides, your grammar right there was horrible Mr. Lampard.”
In truth, he had no idea whether Frank’s grammar was spot-on or not, he didn’t even know if the Spanish really had such a thing as grammar. But he figured what the hey, anyone would believe him over Frank any day, what with the guy currently striding around the room in only his shorts and pretending to be some sort of lost immigrant from España with a terrible terrible faux accent.
"Sí sí, lo siento. ¿Me perdonas y sales con nosotros sin embargo?"**
And by us, he meant him and John of course. Because hanging around Frank Lampard meant hanging around John Terry; because that was just the way things were around here.
Steve sometimes wondered if they even realised how obvious they were. If they even knew it themselves.
He swung an arm over Steve’s shoulder and gestured towards the rest of their teammates, who were currently doubled over with laughter.
“Está bien. Pero no medio desnudo, por favor.”***
“Eh?” Frank replied, eloquent as always.
Steve rolled his eyes and slapped his shirt at Frank. “Means get dressed, español.”
Frank rubbed at his hair, ruffling them, before snatching the proferred shirt.
“Okay, just gimme a minute,” he said, shooting a grin at John across the room and honestly Steve could not be the only one... But already everyone was trooping obediently out of the room to their cars.
*
Ten minutes later, Steve was still waiting. And so was everyone else.
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. It had been a long day of training and they all just wanted to go out and have a bit of a drink, relax a little, have some fun. And Frank and John were fun lads, he got that. Besides, there was also the whole bond as a team thing. But this was just getting ridiculous.
He huffed in exasperation and hopped out of the car. He made his way back to the changing rooms, where presumably they were still at because obviously it takes ten minutes for two people to get dressed, pushed open the door and just- froze.
Oh they were there all right, and Steve was never using that cubicle ever again. Yeah that one right there, third one from the left, never again. Because there was no way he’d ever get the image of Frank being pressed up against the wall, head thrown back in abandon onto John’s shoulder, out of his mind.
Then at that moment, Frank looked up, and their eyes met for a split second before John pushed against him, all the while staring challengingly at Steve. And that was it for Frank.
He hastily backed out of the room, leaning against the door as he tried to clear his head of the images imprinted his mind’s eye.
“What’s taking so long?”
Steve opened his eyes only to see Joe standing before him, about to push open the door behind him.
“Uh don’t.”
Joe frowned and peered at him curiously as he straightened and tried to block the door with his body.
“Oh, again? Now?” He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine, five more minutes tops. Or we’re leaving without them.”
So they all knew.
Steve managed a weak grin as he nodded and followed Joe back to the carpark.
*"What are you smiling at/about?"
**"Yes yes. I apologise. Forgive me enough to come out with us anyway?"
*** "Fine. But not half-naked, please."
Fin.
JT/Lamps/(Stevie ...sort of.)
It wasn’t until two weeks later, when Frank started spouting godknowswhat in Spanish in the changing room, that he realised he was already getting used to this new routine.
He half-recognised the words Frank was saying over the others’ voices, and all of a sudden it hit him just how much he missed home. Home at Liverpool; at Anfield; and hanging out with the lads where Xabi and Luis would laugh at him for trying his hand at some simple Spanish and failing miserably; and then him and Jamie would tease them in turn for imitating their Scouse slang.
He sat down abruptly, smiling ruefully in recollection.
“Eh eh señor, ¿De qué estás sonriendo eh?”*
He raised a brow at Frank, who was now standing in front of him, having chosen his latest victim, and was twirling one end of his imaginary moustache around his index finger mockingly.
The first thing Jose had told him when he’d first arrived was now that he was here, he’d become part of the family and it was time for old rivalries to make way for new relationships and partnerships, for example his and Frank’s. And everybody was to strive towards that and he really just could not stress more on how important and vital a connection with Frank would be.
Steve wasn’t stupid, he knew it was a make or break situation. And that it all depended on how well he and Frank could understand each other, and how much they could bring it onto the pitch with them. He’d expected it; to spend most of his first days doing just that, getting to know Frank Lampard.
Though he wasn’t quite expecting this.
“Just so you know, I’d been at Liverpool before, with real Spaniards speaking real Spanish. And they?” Steve made a big show of looking him up and down. “Do not look nor speak like that. Besides, your grammar right there was horrible Mr. Lampard.”
In truth, he had no idea whether Frank’s grammar was spot-on or not, he didn’t even know if the Spanish really had such a thing as grammar. But he figured what the hey, anyone would believe him over Frank any day, what with the guy currently striding around the room in only his shorts and pretending to be some sort of lost immigrant from España with a terrible terrible faux accent.
"Sí sí, lo siento. ¿Me perdonas y sales con nosotros sin embargo?"**
And by us, he meant him and John of course. Because hanging around Frank Lampard meant hanging around John Terry; because that was just the way things were around here.
Steve sometimes wondered if they even realised how obvious they were. If they even knew it themselves.
He swung an arm over Steve’s shoulder and gestured towards the rest of their teammates, who were currently doubled over with laughter.
“Está bien. Pero no medio desnudo, por favor.”***
“Eh?” Frank replied, eloquent as always.
Steve rolled his eyes and slapped his shirt at Frank. “Means get dressed, español.”
Frank rubbed at his hair, ruffling them, before snatching the proferred shirt.
“Okay, just gimme a minute,” he said, shooting a grin at John across the room and honestly Steve could not be the only one... But already everyone was trooping obediently out of the room to their cars.
*
Ten minutes later, Steve was still waiting. And so was everyone else.
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. It had been a long day of training and they all just wanted to go out and have a bit of a drink, relax a little, have some fun. And Frank and John were fun lads, he got that. Besides, there was also the whole bond as a team thing. But this was just getting ridiculous.
He huffed in exasperation and hopped out of the car. He made his way back to the changing rooms, where presumably they were still at because obviously it takes ten minutes for two people to get dressed, pushed open the door and just- froze.
Oh they were there all right, and Steve was never using that cubicle ever again. Yeah that one right there, third one from the left, never again. Because there was no way he’d ever get the image of Frank being pressed up against the wall, head thrown back in abandon onto John’s shoulder, out of his mind.
Then at that moment, Frank looked up, and their eyes met for a split second before John pushed against him, all the while staring challengingly at Steve. And that was it for Frank.
He hastily backed out of the room, leaning against the door as he tried to clear his head of the images imprinted his mind’s eye.
“What’s taking so long?”
Steve opened his eyes only to see Joe standing before him, about to push open the door behind him.
“Uh don’t.”
Joe frowned and peered at him curiously as he straightened and tried to block the door with his body.
“Oh, again? Now?” He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine, five more minutes tops. Or we’re leaving without them.”
So they all knew.
Steve managed a weak grin as he nodded and followed Joe back to the carpark.
*"What are you smiling at/about?"
**"Yes yes. I apologise. Forgive me enough to come out with us anyway?"
*** "Fine. But not half-naked, please."
Fin.