Work Text:
It’s been a week.
No sooner had Stede left the docks at Barbados, sneaking away in the middle of the night with whatever crew he could quickly muster up in order to man his beautiful vessel, when a hurricane whipped its curving arms about the sea, hurling The Revenge onto the rocks as easily as if it were a toy.
He can only thank the fickle hands of the fates that the crew suffered no losses. The ship, on the other hand - smashed right through the bottom. Too destroyed to be dry docked. Too ruined for anything other than salvage.
Typical, Stede thinks. He was a fool to even begin to hope he could leave his old life behind. And now he’s stuck in Holetown, nursing an indifferent sherry at a portside tavern, water stains all over his beautiful silk waistcoat. He consoles himself with the thought he’ll get a bit of money back from the insurance at least - but until that’s processed, he doesn’t have anywhere to go, anywhere to be, or much to hope for.
And then the most unusual thing happens. He’s mid-sigh, swirling the dregs in the glass (not even crystal and chipped at that), when a fellow sits down beside him. A man in his middle years, Stede thinks. There is a little grey creeping its friendly way into his whiskers. He is dressed in the coat of a naval officer, although Stede can’t make out the rank. He was never terribly good at such things. He remembers the awful lads he went to school with - the commissions they already had lined up for them, even at their tender age. His stomach flips.
The man orders a glass of Madeira wine. Stede tries not to shred his lip with the nerves of it. He fails. The anticipation of something awful is so present that when the officer sups at his glass Stede winces. The wine will be off and he’ll take it out on Stede, the evening will be too sultry and he’ll take it out on Stede, the bartender will be too surly and he’ll take it out on Stede, his own coat will be too tight and he’ll take it out on -
“Well,” the officer says. He turns and gives Stede an appraising look, leaning his arm on his chair. “Do you, perhaps, come here often?”
“Oh - uh, not - uh, not - really?” Stede gibbers. “I’m - a, uh - new in town, shall we say?”
The man smiles. “John Fitzhugh.”
Stede frowns. “Who’s that?”
“I’m introducing myself. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr -“
“Stede,” Stede says, and then immediately regrets it. Why didn’t he come up with anything else? He could have called himself Flaming Frederick or Tarnished Bill or something impressive!
“Well, Mr Stede.” John Fitzhugh (Admiral? Knight of the realm? Stede hasn’t the foggiest) leans forward and lightly brushes his fingers over the crook of Stede’s arm. “That’s a very fine silk you’re wearing.”
“Oh, thank you.” Stede feels his cheeks warm. The man just paid him a compliment. Surely he’ll follow up with ridicule -
“That particular shade of robin’s egg is very becoming to your complexion,” Fitzhugh says. He then looks around him, clears his throat, and lowers his voice. “I’m, uh, not in the habit of this kind of thing but would you perhaps -“ He falls silent as the door opens and looks quickly up as if he’s worried about being pursued. Is Fitzhugh in trouble? Is he about to ask Stede to shelter him? Oh, the adventure of it! All thoughts of his misery, of the measly tick upstairs that he’ll have to sleep on, the fact that his entire auxiliary wardrobe was washed overboard, taken by the greedy sea, all of it leaves Stede’s mind for the excitement of whatever intriguing conspiracy Fitzhugh is about to involve him in!
“Well?” Stede says excitedly. “Just - ask away, and I’m your man.”
Fitzhugh blushes a pleasing shade of rose, and leans forward, steadying his hand on Stede’s shoulder. His lips are near enough to his ear that his soft words ruffle Stede’s hair. “May I have the pleasure of your company this evening?”
Stede frowns. What an odd request. Surely John Fitzhugh is already having his company this evening. They are talking at the same drinking establishment, aren’t they? Perhaps he needs a third for a game of whist or something. “Well,” Stede says. “It - uh, I suppose I might. But it depends on what you’re offering.”
A flicker of worry mars Fitzhugh’s handsome features. He rests his hand on Stede’s arm. “My dear fellow! I would, of course, remunerate you.” He coughs, and shifts in his seat. “I apologise, it’s very awkward for me to have to ask like this. I don’t usually do this sort of thing but, well, you see, my wife has left town and I find myself at - rather a loose end of an evening. I don’t suppose that you’d -“
“Ah,” Stede says, understanding dawning upon him. “Of course! You’re lonely.”
“I -“ the man’s voice dips, and his eyes flick up to meet Stede’s, and then drop to the floor. “Yes. I am in great need of a little human kindness tonight.” His hand tightens on Stede’s arm, but the grasp feels friendly, rather than forceful. “I take it you understand me?”
“Oh, I believe I do,” says Stede kindly. He gets off his stool.
Fitzhugh’s house is large, and rather empty.
“Servants are out of town with my wife,” he says hoarsely, as he unlocks the door. His footsteps echo quietly in the hall. “I don’t keep a man. I’m away at sea so frequently there seems little point to it.”
“Of course,” Stede says, marvelling at the beautiful furnishings. “What a magnificent clock!” He takes a step towards the grandfather clock in the hall. It’s so glossy he could imagine dipping a spoon into it and eating it like an entremet. “Is that mother-of-pearl?”
“Indeed it is,” says Fitzhugh, touching Stede on the shoulder. He really is rather friendly. “Now,” he says, his voice full of barely-contained eagerness, “what would you like to do?”
Stede smiles. “Well, I suppose that’s rather up to you, isn’t it?”
Fitzhugh colours. “Oh, yes, well -“
Stede thinks for a moment. The hall is lovely, but there’s precious little in terms of seating, or anything to occupy them. “Shall we go to another part of the house? I assume you don’t want me to entertain you in the hall, do you?”
“Of course,” Fitzhugh says. He ushers Stede through a set of doors, holding a candle, and proceeds to light candelabra after candelabra to light the room. Stede gasps. It’s a large room, but intimately laid out, with a chaise, ottomans, a card table, a Turkey rug and in one corner the most beautiful rosewood harpsichord -
Stede rushes over, and tries to resist running his hands over the wood. “May I play it?”
“Certainly,” Fitzhugh says, a strange, longing look in his eyes. Stede sits down at the instrument, and plays the first thing that comes to his head. He manages a couple of bars of Over The Hills and Far Away, when Fitzhugh sits down beside him on the small stool. Stede stops playing.
“That’s nice,” Fitzhugh says. “Sounds familiar, but I can’t put my finger on where I’ve heard it.”
Stede becomes suddenly aware of Fitzhugh’s side, pressed against his. John’s hand moves, as if to touch the keys, but comes to rest on Stede’s thigh. The movement doesn’t feel orchestrated or contrived. Friendly. It has to be friendly. But Stede can feel the warmth of John’s hand through his breeches and he’s beginning to feel very, very warm himself and -
“Keep playing,” John Fitzhugh murmurs, his pupils huge in the low light.
Stede suddenly feels a stirring in his groin. Oh god. It’s happening. This man’s invited him into his house to pass an evening quite innocently and his stupid body is beginning to betray him, interpreting every kindly gesture as some kind of sexual advance when it can’t possibly be anything of the sort. He shifts nervously in his seat. “I can’t remember the words,” Stede stammers.
“Doesn’t matter,” John Fitzhugh says kindly. “As long as you remember the tune.”
Stede hopes desperately that the skirts of his waistcoat are still covering his groin and that John doesn’t start lighting any more candles. He’ll only be disgusted if he realises the obscene thoughts of the man next to him. Stede desperately and hurriedly resumes playing, rapid and jumbled at first, but his fingers find the rhythm and he is able to lose himself in the snatched moments in the parlour, aping what he’d learned listening to his sister’s harpsichord lessons through the door. He hums what he remembers of the words under his breath. It could hardly be called singing, especially when he’s heard about two or three different sets of words and he doesn’t know whether to go with the pipe pleasing the boys and girls or the brave men rushing to fields in Flanders, but at least the tune is sweet, and he can ignore his silly brain and noisy heart and the fear that someone will make fun of him for doing girlish things.
You’re a boy of many accomplishments, his father had sneered at him. Should organise a coming out ball for you alongside your sister, only I bet you’d even be useless at getting yourself a rich husband.
If only he could make the image of the man vanish into dust, Stede thinks furiously, before he breathes out the memory through the song.
His hands still on the keys abruptly, as the warmth of Fitzhugh’s hand leaves his thigh. Now that the last sweet echo of the strings has died, he can hear the soft sound of the man beside him crying.
“John?” Stede says uncertainly. He hovers his hand above the fellow’s knee, unsure of whether to touch it.
“I’m sorry,” John Fitzhugh whispers, reaching for a handkerchief and dabbing at his eyes. “I can’t go through with this after all.”
“Oh,” Stede says, twisting in his seat to look at him. “Are you quite alright?”
John’s eyes are downcast, eyelashes damp. “I met my wife at a country dance. There was no band, just a lad with a fiddle, but a regiment had come and some of the fellows had bought the fife and drum. They played that song, and I saw her from across the room.” He takes a long, shuddering breath. “I miss her. Oh God, I miss her.”
Stede guiltily recalls his own wife, and how light he feels now that he doesn’t have to sit across from her at breakfast. He can’t say he misses Mary one bit. There has to be something wrong with him. He awkwardly pats Fitzhugh on the hand. The man’s gaze rises and meets his. He looks guilty. How strange. Why on earth would he look guilty for missing his wife?
“I understand,” Stede says kindly. “Would you like me to go?”
Fitzhugh shakes his head. “Can you - sit with me for a little?”
“Certainly!” Stede gets up from the harpsichord and carefully closes the lid to prevent any dust getting in. He’s confused. John didn’t want him to entertain him but he wants him to stay anyway? Is he to sit mute in the corner, with the other fellow falling into a brown study?
John walks shakily to the chaise and sits down, opening a drinks globe. “Would you like a little brandy?”
“Oh, why not,” Stede says. He takes the measure John pours him, and sups it in silence. It’s a good, golden drop, but it doesn’t clear his bafflement. Still, this isn’t the first time he’s been in a situation and not known what he was supposed to do. At least in this occasion, John isn’t berating him for his ignorance. He’s been nothing other than kind, Stede thinks. I should do something for him.
“John,” Stede says, looking through the doorway of the parlour to a dark room he recognises as a library. “Would you like me to read to you?”
John looks up and gives him a hopeful smile. “Thank you Stede. I’d like that.”
The following morning, Stede wakes on the chaise, enveloped in the folds of a lovely yellow wrapping gown. At first he can’t remember where he is, but the sun is bright and cheery through the big windows, so it’s not the worst start to a morning. Then he remembers his odd evening, how John Fitzhugh had taken such an immediate shine to him. He swallows, hoping the whole thing wasn’t a trick. Or maybe a dream. A dream would be better than a trick, although it would still be disappointing.
The man himself is shuffling into the room, dressed in nightclothes. “I’m sorry about last night,” he says, a confusingly shamefaced expression on his face. “I’m really not sure what came over me.”
“Oh, that’s quite alright,” Stede says, sitting up and pulling the folds of the robe about him. “I must say, this is a wonderful robe!”
“Oh,” John Fitzhugh says, blushing. “You’re welcome to it. Yellow was never my colour.”
Stede goes quite pink. “I can’t take your robe, my good man! Why, this must be -“
“Mulberry silk,” Fitzhugh says. “And I’d like you to have it. God knows it’s the least I can do after wasting your time last night.”
“Oh, not at all,” Stede says. “To be honest I’m not really sure what -“
He stops dead in his tracks, because Fitzhugh is holding out an envelope, his hand trembling a little. “Your renumeration.”
“What? For entertaining you?” Stede stares at the envelope. It’s sealed in green wax. He wonders what on earth could be in it.
Fitzhugh gives him a coy little smile. “Well you did that, in a fashion. You’re a very fine lector. Excellent at the voices!”
Stede shakes his head slightly. “Oh, thank you. I do try and put a bit of energy into it. Nothing worse than a lifeless, flaccid performance!”
Fitzhugh lets out a surprised laugh. “Take the money. You’ve earned it.”
“Oh, well if you insist,” Stede says, and then stupidly adds in a rush, “truth be told it’s a great help, my ship sunk and I haven’t gotten the insurance money yet so I’m awfully grateful that -“
His words are cut off suddenly by John Fitzhugh bending forward and kissing him. Which is a novel way of getting him to shut up, he has to admit. Not one anyone has tried on him before, and it works because his brain stops pouring out all the embarrassing details of his life and instead clouds over in a soft pink fuzz of pleased. Fitzhugh is a friendly chap, isn’t he?
“You’re a delight,” John Fitzhugh says.
Stede leaves the house in a cloud.
The money is -
Wow. Incredible. Far more than he could have expected for -
Well, what was it he did exactly? Played one song on the harpsichord? Had a little brandy? Read Gulliver’s Travels?
Companionship, Stede thinks warmly. Entertainment, perhaps? He had no idea how lucrative it was! Not only this tidy sum but a fabulous wrapping gown? Maybe it was merely luck that John Fitzhugh was so generous, but it can’t be an accident.
It comes to him that afternoon as he walks back to the tavern, the wrapping gown folded up carefully and tucked securely under his arm. Holetown is quite tawdry and bland, filled with only the most prosaic of establishments. A laundry, a dry goods store, a customs-house, cane shacks, a livery stables, an indifferent tailor making slops. There is no play-house, no opera house, no gallery or salon. Not even a coffee house. The town lacks entertainment, and Stede, an accomplished man, can be the one to bring it to them.
He purchases a pen, ink and paper with some of the money, and once he’s gotten back to his room at the tavern and stowed the wrapping gown underneath some of his more benign, uninteresting looking garments so that it won’t be stolen, heavens no, he sits down and writes a notice.
Stede Bonnet
Providing Entertainment to the Discerning Gentleman
Accomplished and Talented in the Varied Arts
Rates Reasonable
Available for evenings, and all seasons
Care Of Holetown Tavern
Now all he has to do is persuade the barman to pin it to the wall of the tavern. Stede walks downstairs holding the notice in both hands, all aquiver with trepidation. The barman barely casts an eye over it!
“Sure, I don't give a shit.”
Stede nails it to the wall with a hammer and a bent horseshoe nail he’s borrowed from the farrier next door, and only hits his thumb once in the process. Success! Now to wait for dividends. He spends the rest of the day down at the dry dock, frowning over the salvaged timber from the poor splintered Revenge. It’s futile, because if he’s honest he has no idea what on earth he needs to do to get a ship back and running (and is it still The Revenge if most of it’s been replaced with other bits and pieces?) But at least he feels like he’s doing something.
When he returns to the tavern he’s quite forgotten his notice. He trudges in, feet tired, only for three men dressed in naval uniforms to look up when he comes in.
“Is that -“ a young fellow with a hint of ginger in his hair says. He has a sweet face, smooth as a dairymaid, only marked by a smattering of cinnamon freckles across the bridge of his nose.
“Aye, that’s the man,” the barman says, a knowing grin bowing at his lips. “That’s Stede Bonnet.”
“Stede Bonnet?” One of the other naval lads frowns, his dark brows almost meeting. “Funny name, that.”
Oh Christ. Stede gulps. Why didn’t he put something cooler? Or just an alias? He could have been Bulle Tricorn. Buck Casque. Bonnet just brings to mind frilly things, and while he loves his frilly things, it’s not something that tends to impress other fellows.
“You Stede Bonnet?” The last naval fellow looks as if he might be from India. He has a handsome profile. Still dressed in the same uniforms as the rest of them.
“Yes, that’s me,” Stede says. “The - Gentleman entertainer,” he improvises.
“Gentleman entertainer!” The first lad says, sounding impressed. “I ain’t heard the like!”
“He sounds uncommon genteel,” the dark-browed lad muses.
“Tell me,” says the first lad, blushing slightly. “Would you - uh, be entertaining all three of us?”
The bartender rolls his eyes.
“Oh, I don’t see why not!” Stede says. “I’m not at all limited by my audience. Here, or -“
“Here?” the Indian fellow gasps.
“Oh, I’ll not allow entertaining in my bar,” the barman adds, giving the naval lads a firm look.
“Of course, sir, we wouldn’t dream of it,” the strawberry-haired lad stammers.
“We’ve a room,” the second fellow says, and downs his drink. “That suit you?”
“Suits me fine!” Stede says brightly, although he knows from experience that there isn’t an awful lot of entertainments to hand in the Holetown Tavern. Still, he’s nothing if not resourceful. These are young lads, after all, and if there’s a candle perhaps he can manage a round of shadow puppetry?
“Just make sure to clean up after yourselves,” the barman says, as the lads and Stede all leave the room.
The fairer lads blush beet red at this, but Stede just frowns. Whatever can he mean by that?
James lets out a gasp. “How on earth are you doing that with your hands?”
“Oh, a mere trifle,” Stede says proudly, conjuring up the image of a ravenous wolf devouring a poor hapless rabbit with a movement of his fingers.
The three men are rapt, sitting together on the bed close as roosting birds. When Stede finishes his performance, he takes a bow and they clap eagerly.
“You are a marvel, sir!” William, the dark-eyebrowed chap says, grinning from ear to ear.
“Truly I have never seen the like!” Suresh enthuses.
“Thank you,” Stede says modestly, feeling very pleased himself. It’s very gratifying that someone wants to see his tricks and talents; the same things he was mocked for. Even if they don’t pay him their beaming faces are reward enough.
“I mean, it’s not really what we expected,” William says, looking a little embarrassed.
“True enough,” James adds, also blushing.
“Yes, we thought we were getting -“ Suresh says, before abruptly stopping. He turns to his mates. “But lads, maybe this is better?”
“True enough,” James says again. “I mean I could probably get seen to in the usual way anywhere -“
Stede frowns. He has no idea what they’re talking about. Has he dissatisfied his customers? No, they ensure him that they’re happy, more than happy, and now they’re taking out their purses and giving him coin. Of course it’s not nearly as much as the frankly absurd sum that John Fitzhugh provided them, but these are enlisted men, and if nothing else he wants to operate his business on a sliding scale.
“Thank you!” Stede says. “Very generous.” He smiles warmly at the lads. Perhaps he should give them a little fatherly advice before he goes? Young fellows like this can get themselves into a bit of a fix if they aren’t careful. “Now mind how you go and don’t get yourself into any trouble! Those seas can be awfully rough, can’t they?”
“Aye, we know it,” William says.
Stede gets the odd bit of custom over the next few months - more than he’d hoped. With every time, the gents leave looking a little baffled, but heartily pleased. He’s not sure about the confusion, but he doesn’t pay it any mind - he’s confused half the time anyway. The repairs are coming along nicely, and he seems only a few letters away from getting that insurance.
He’s managed to set up a small library in the corner of the tavern, buying books from a travelling salesman, and waiting at the docks for someone looking to lighten their load. He finds a monograph at the printers’ shops about the Orient. Apparently there are ladies in Japan called geisha, who do a similar trade to himself! Fancy that. They make tea, sing, play instruments, dance and tell stories, and above all entertain with elegance and grace. Well, he might not be a lady of the far east, Stede thinks, as he carefully attends to his shaving of a morning, but he can at least entertain and charm. His clientele is becoming more diverse. Why, last night, he even had a lady! The sight of her worried him a little; after all, Mary never found him to be particularly delightful, although she did try, poor woman. But every little flair or frippery or lighthearted amusement he tried to please her with just exasperated her, and while he tried to show an interest in the things she liked to do, he could tell his lack of understanding caused yet more frustration. But this lady; a maiden aunt type, was delighted when he played with her little dog and pretended the two of them were dancing a quadrille.
Maybe I am charming, Stede thinks, as he wipes the lather off his razor. At least in Holetown. Perhaps the problem wasn’t with himself, but with his audience. That’s it! Sometimes when he wakes up, he doesn't even wonder what he’s doing with his life. He feels a purpose - to bring delight to others. The money's a plus - God knows it’s helping fix up the Revenge - but the joy is almost reward in itself.
It’s Tuesday evening, and Stede is out the front of the tavern enjoying the last of the sun’s rays. He follows a Magnificent Frigatebird’s dip and dive. His eyes widen as he watches the black, fearsome fowl menace a gull into dropping its dinner. A pirate! A pirate bird!
A shadow falls across his face, as Stede’s widening eyes meet with a seemingly endless expanse of black. He lets out an involuntary gasp.
“Hi there,” the black void says. Stede blinks in surprise. Oh. Of course. The black shiny thing’s a man, all in black leather, with a grey, cascading beard and rivers and rivers of lustrous hair. He looks most fearsome. A human frigatebird! The fowl has shed his feathers and become a fellow.
“Hello,” Stede says, eyes still wide. “Fine evening, isn’t it?”
“You Stede Bonnet?” The frigatebird flops against the wall next to Stede, his long legs spread most confidently.
“Uh, yes. I am.”
Dark-lashed eyes turn upon him, the frigate-fellow’s hand languidly reaching up to run through his steely cloak of hair. “I reckon you’ve got a bit of a reputation, mate.”
“Oh?” Stede isn’t sure whether to be pleased.
“Yeah. They say you’re pretty fucking good at showing lads a good time.” The man smiles in a way that softens his fearsome appearance.
“Is that so? I suppose I am,” Stede says, and now he is blushing a pleased shade of pink.
“I’ve heard all kinds of blokes say they’ll never forget the nights they had with you,” the man says. “Which is pretty fucking fascinating as most guys get around. Someone in every port, y’know? Which means,” the man says, fixing his eyes on Stede’s face, “you’ve gotta be something special.”
“Well,” Stede says modestly, “I’ve gotten rather good at making tea.”
“Tea?” the man chuckles, a low, lovely rumble like the rush of a cataract. “I’ve never heard it called that before.”
“Oh, I suppose some people call it chai,” Stede says. “Or cha. Or thé.”
“Whatever you’re calling it, I reckon I’d like some.” He turns with a sudden scraping of his boots upon the gravel, and offers Stede a sturdy hand. His palm is covered in leather. “I’m Ed, mate.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ed,” Stede says. “I’m Stede. The Gentleman Entertainer!”
“I know, mate,” Ed says, but he doesn’t look at all bothered by Stede repeating himself.
“Well, Ed. Where would you like me?”
“You got a room?”
“Oh, I’ve got just the thing! Follow me,” Stede says, and ushers Ed inside the tavern.
“This is quite a collection,” Ed says, surveying Stede’s rows of books, the yellow wrapping gown draped over the trunk.
“I’m a bit of a magpie,” Stede says, “like to pick things up.”
“What’s a magpie?” Ed frowns.
“Oh, uh, you might know it as pica pica.”
Ed is staring at him, confused.
“Black and white bird,” Stede says. “Notorious for thieving. Goes kakakakakakakakaka.”
Ed laughs. “Oh yeah, heard those from time to time. Think they could come up with a better song, if they’re so clever.”
Stede notes the bubble of the water boiling, and carefully picks up the kettle from the hearth, pouring it into the teapot. He inhales the steam as the broken camellia sinensis leaves steep and let forth their fortifying spirit.
“Sugar?”
Ed looks startled for a moment. “Oh yeah. Sure. If you have any. Shit, that’d be great.”
“Say when,” Stede says. Ed fixes his eyes on him as he adds lumps one by one. One, two, three, four, five - surely he can’t want more than five -
“Yeah, that’s good,” Ed says with a sharp nod, as Stede drops in the seventh cube. He takes the proffered cup carefully, the painted porcelain looking marvellously demure in his leather-cloaked hands. Stede can’t help but watch as Ed sips, his eyes lowered almost to the point of being closed. He takes the cup from his lips and smiles. “Wow. Shit. I thought the tea was just a joke but - you’re fucking making me tea!”
Well at least this is new. Stede’s used to being made fun of by people from his own echelon of society, but this guy isn’t from his world and he’s still managed to find a way to mock him.
“Tea is one of the highest forms of entertainment,” Stede says, trying not to sound either too stuffy or too wounded. “I’m - if you’d like something else, I suppose I can arrange -“
And then to his surprise Ed rushes to reassure him.
“Shit, nah, mate - I fucking love it.” He sits down on the bed, and looks up at Stede, eyes full and shining. “I know I heard a lot of wild stuff about you but you’re something else.”
“Well, thank you,” Stede says, a smile creeping onto his face. It’s nice to be appreciated. But of course, tea is just the starting point to an evening’s entertainment - he couldn’t hold his head up high if all he offered a fellow was a measly brew, no matter how fine it was. This fearsome fellow - with his unexpectedly receptive heart - he deserves more than just tea.
“Shall I read to you?”
Ed furrows his brows. His eyes form an endearing glower. “You could. If you wanted.”
“Here,” Stede says. He drags over a stool beside the bed so Ed will have somewhere to rest his teacup.“I’ll pick something out for you.” He hovers over the bookshelf, trying to select just the right thing. There! Chivalric romance, of course. He can sense a romantic heart in this fellow. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight ought to suit.
He loses himself in the story, but isn’t more than two paragraphs in before Ed lies down beside him unselfconsciously, boots dangling off the end of the bed. His head is nearly in Stede’s lap. Before he can think to stop himself, Stede has shifted slightly, so that his thigh firmly pillows Ed’s head. Ed’s eyes look up at him, beautiful and dark, and somehow Stede’s hand has made its way up to stroke Ed’s locks, as if he were Stede’s dear old grey mare and not -
He snatches his hand away. But - what if Ed thinks that he is disgusted by him and not - oh God. He makes a production of finding his place in the book, when he feels Ed’s fingers reaching up to clasp his wrist.
“Why’d you stop?”
His eyes are gazing up trustingly at Stede, and they’re as soft as Arthur’s and Stede doesn’t want to let him down but he can’t - he can’t let himself feel too soft for him because someone will see that in him and laugh at him and if that’s not Ed himself than someone else will. And then Ed turns his head as if trying to catch Stede’s gaze and hold it so that he can’t possibly wriggle free of those dark eyes, but the movement of his head in Stede’s lap makes Stede painfully conscious of his own body and the desires and whims it has, desires and whims that no one has ever welcomed. Stede swallows sharply.
“C’mon man, keep reading,” Ed begs. “What’s that knight guy up to exactly? Is he really green? Like, his skin and shit?”
Stede hurriedly keeps reading, tearing his gaze away from Ed’s lovely eyes. And then his hand is somehow back, running his hand through Ed’s mane and stop that, can’t, but Ed sighs appreciatively and relaxes into him. It feels nice, but dangerous. So he skips forward in the story, and regrets it immediately, because now he’s reading the part where Gawain exchanges kisses with the lord. Ed chuckles suddenly and Stede’s face goes very, very hot.
“I like your reading,” Ed says, voice soft and contented, and Stede thinks of what a strange man he is. He looks like something hard and fearsome carved of stone, but he’s more like a piece of liquorice. Clad in shiny black, but soft and sweet as seven sugars. “I like the kisses.” And then his soft, sleepy eyes snap open and fix themselves firmly on Stede’s face, not for the first time that evening. “Do you kiss, Stede?”
Stede feels a sudden temptation to loosen his cravat. “Uh, from time to time I suppose. But not usually.”
Ed grins gently. Stede didn’t know it was possible to grin gently but somehow the curves of that mouth beneath that beard are as gentle as goose down. “Makes sense, I know a lot of professionals don’t kiss.”
Stede frowns, but decides to let his lack of understanding wash over him. He continues to read, and aside from the odd appreciative or surprised exclamation, Ed is silent. Stede finishes the poem, and carefully puts the book down. His sleeve brushes Ed’s cheek, and Ed’s eyes slowly open. He gives Stede a contented smile.
“Did you like the poem?”
Ed’s smile broadens. His eyes crinkle. “You know, I was expecting a root. But this is better.”
“A root?!?” Stede breaks into a cold sweat. That can’t possibly mean what he thinks it means, it has to be some kind of seafaring slang for something -
“Well yeah, you know, fucking.” Ed rolls sideways and into a seated position. “That’s what people hire you for, right?”
Oh God. His stomach plummets. And fuck, Ed was on his lap and - “No!” Stede stammers, but then - oh God, he has to explain, it’s not Ed’s fault this is a misunderstanding, he doesn’t want him to think that Stede’s saying he’s undesirable or - “People don’t hire me for that, Ed.” And then, being nervous, he goes and says too much. “Nobody’s ever wanted me that way. Much less wanted to pay for it.”
Ed’s standing up. And staring at him. And staring. His face is expressionless. Stede desperately searches his eyes, his mouth, his brows - anything for meaning, but he can’t find anything, and he can’t deal with the heavy, weird silence, because what if Ed’s disappointed -
“Stede.” Ed says. “Really.”
“Yes!” Stede yelps. “I mean God, look at me? Why would anyone want to -“
“Stede.”
Ed sits down beside him again and pats him firmly on the thigh, as if to say get a hold of yourself, man. And his fingers on his thigh are making Stede think of -
John Fitzhugh’s hand, warm through the fabric of his breeches. John Fitzhugh’s kiss, his friendliness -
“Oh my God.’ Stede gapes. Stares at his cold kettle. “They wanted to fuck me!”
Ed laughs then, but it isn’t a mean laugh.
“It isn’t funny, Ed! God, my poor, unsatisfied customers! Well I - I can’t change my business model now -“
Ed gives Stede’s thigh a little squeeze. “Why not?”
And then Stede does it again. Says too much and makes himself embarrassing. And sometimes that’s better than having someone else say the embarrassing thing about you first, but in this case it’s fucking mortifying.
“Well for one thing I’ve never been, uh, intimate with another man so I really don’t see how I’d be providing much of a - service.” He takes a deep frantic breath. “At least this…other thing…I’m good at.”
“Mate.” Ed takes his hand off his thigh and gives his hand a pat instead. “I’d fuck you.”
Stede stares at the floor. “I’m so embarrassed, Ed. I’m a terrible prostitute. I didn’t even realise I was one, that’s how terrible I am!”
Ed gives him a companionable nudge. “Well, pretty much anyone can grab someone else’s dick, but not everyone can read stories or make tea, so I actually think you’re a pretty good prostitute. If people enjoy your company, why the fuck shouldn’t they pay for it?”
Stede lets out an undignified little sound. “You enjoy my company?”
“Well yeah,” Ed says forcefully. “I sat here listening to you read stories and I also said I’d fuck you. So yeah, I enjoy your company. Don’t know if I could make it any more fucking obvious.”
“Thank you,” Stede says, but at that moment his world is colours and light. He doesn’t even know where to begin; from embarrassment to joy. He likes me. He wants me? He wants me! He hasn’t even made fun of me for being dumb!
“I really did like the story, y’know,” Ed mutters. “You did a great job on that weird green guy’s voice. Him cutting off his head and sticking it back on? Fucking mental.”
“You’re too nice, you know.”
“How the fuck am I too nice? Just being honest.”
“Well, you should be making fun of me,” Stede says miserably. “Everybody does.”
“C’mere.” Ed grabs Stede by the shoulders, and gives him a little shake, and then he hugs him in the most - odd, clambering way. He’s basically in Stede’s lap, but for some reason Stede hasn’t begun to mind. He just thinks about how nice and warm Ed’s hands feel on his back, and how his hair is brushing his cheek. Ed touches Stede’s forehead with his own and it’s just nice.
And then his voice is a purr at Stede’s ear, wreathed in hair.
“If you want me to show you how to fuck, mate, I’m happy to do it.”
“That’s - very kind of you, Ed,” Stede manages to say, “but I’m not sure I’m ready.”
And then Ed kisses him on the forehead, and he can feel his mouth smile on his skin.
“You’re fucking sweet, you know that?”
Stede insists that Ed doesn’t pay him. “I mean I didn’t do much for you, not really.”
“Fucking bullshit, mate,” Ed says, and fishes something out of his pocket. “Don’t undersell yourself.” He puts the object in Stede’s palm.
It’s a ring. The metal’s warm.
“I can’t accept this!” Stede protests, trying to hand the ring back to Ed, only to have him dodge backwards out of the way. He tries, flustered, to put it in his hand, but Ed holds them behind his back. Tries to put it back in Ed’s pocket, but Ed just jumps aside and grins. “Fine,” Stede says, exasperated. It’s a beautiful ring in the form of a snake. The eyes are tiny sapphires.
Ed gives Stede one last brilliant knowing grin. “You can give it back to me when you next see me.”
And then he’s gone, leaving Stede standing in the middle of the room, half-hard and wondering, turning the ring in his hand.