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The thing Izzy really couldn’t get his head around, when it came to functions for fancy rich fucks, was the fact that the rules seemed to be different.
It rankled at him, the way that people wandered around the National Gallery this evening, swanning about with drinks in their hands like that wasn’t the number one rule for setting foot inside an exhibition. There were even signs around, reminding them not to bring food and drink into the gallery areas.
They should put in an addendum that the rules don’t apply to you if you’re rich and famous , Izzy thought bitterly, looking around the room at the array of people in their colourful fashion, their elaborate hairdos and headpieces, all carefully assembled in order to get drunk and look at a bunch of paintings.
He sighed and brushed his hands down the front of his tuxedo, trying his best to look like he belonged there.
Izzy hadn’t even heard of the artist they were here to see - he didn’t much go in for that sort of thing, but whoever he was, Alma had gotten very excited, and had demanded a thorough photographic record of the night. He squinted at his phone screen as he took a blurry picture of what looked to him like a bunch of scribbled stick figures on a red background.
He kept Edward and Stede within his eyeline as he did so, watching for the subtle pop of colour from Edward’s suit and the frankly garish decision to go for electric blue from Stede, of all things. He looked like he was trying to get himself CGIed out of the exhibition.
The two of them rounded a corner, and Izzy took a step towards them, forcing himself not to rush to get them back in sight.
That was the arrangement for tonight - Edward had flat out refused to hire personal security, even after Stede had politely said he’d feel a little better with someone there to keep an eye out… so they’d settled on having Izzy along.
It was a terse balance he had to strike. Keep Edward in sight at all times, but stay out of the way. Don’t hover. Don’t mother them. Don’t look too suspicious.
If there was one thing Izzy Hand struggled with, it was acting natural.
Nevertheless, for Edward, he’d try. They’d been getting a slew of strange messages lately, notes sent to the PR team attempting to set up meetings that didn’t quite check out, from production companies that didn’t exist. The same car, parked a few houses down, that drove off whenever one of them tried to get close enough to go and check. One time, a figure in a grey windcheater with the collar pulled up around their face, waiting across the road.
Watching.
Whoever it was, they’d run off the second Izzy opened the door to tell them to fuck off, but they were all still shaken. There was nothing to go on, nothing but the strange sense of unease that Edward might finally have a fan that had crossed a line.
The worst part was that there was nothing to go on. No trails left to follow, no threats, nothing but a faint sense of unease.
Edward and Stede were standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a huge mural full of tiny people, sketched in bright crayon colours. Their heads leaned towards each other as they spoke quietly about something or other. Izzy didn’t care to get close enough to hear whatever romance novel drivel they were no doubt spouting at each other - but then suddenly there was a young man in an oversized hoodie making a beeline for the two of them.
Izzy surged forwards as well, his fists clenched and his back straight, steeling himself for the inevitable.
“Hey, you’re that Teach guy, right?” said the man, “holy shit! Can I get a selfie?”
“You most certainly fuckin’ can not ,” spat Izzy, “have you ever heard of the concept of personal space?”
“Whoa, whoa, s’alright Iz-” said Edward, taken aback, “a selfie’s fine mate, Stede and I were just saying how much we like your work .”
The last two words were said with a pointed glare at Izzy, who took a step back.
Fuck.
The artist.
Alma was never going to let him live this one down.
Izzy cleared his throat, then stepped back swiftly, bumping into the person behind him and stuttering out an apology before retreating to the other side of the room.
The low hum of chatter in the room seemed to swell. Champagne glasses clinked on trays that the servers wove in and out with expertly. Izzy let his gaze unfocus a little and turn them and their garish waistcoats into little red and white blurs, scurrying around the room.
He took a deep breath and wished that Roach was here.
Roach, who had made fun of the whole thing. He wasn’t much for the art world, not really. Izzy had to admit that he’d not really given art galleries much thought in his life, ever. Edward certainly hadn’t either, not until invitations had started appearing in his email inbox.
Roach would have things to say about the people here. Where Izzy just seethed quietly, Roach would have words, ones with bite to them, words that would make laughter bubble up in his chest until he had to bite his tongue to retain his composure. Izzy smiled a lot more, these days.
But Roach wasn’t here, so Izzy trailed after Edward and Stede for the rest of the evening, his face burning, unable to look that young artist in the eye. He took sips from a champagne flute full of apple juice, focusing on the sickly sweetness that spread over his tongue and trying to focus his eyes on the glass, and not the increasingly oppressive mishmash of colour on the walls.
He breathed.
In through his nose, out through his mouth.
Edward laughed - Izzy could pick the sound of his voice out of a crowd no matter how much the room noise was turning the insides of his ears to static.
A dull ache throbbed behind his eye - when had that started up? That wasn’t good.
He needed to focus.
Keep his eyes on Edward-
“Excuse me sweetheart, can I give you this?” said a lady, holding out an empty glass at him. She had white hair that was swept back in a long braid, with bright pink lipstick that turned her polite smile into a vivid slash of colour. Her other hand held the handle of a bright pink cane with a painfully tight grip of swollen, purplish knuckles.
“It seems I’m a little too slow, I think the rest of the wait staff have gone already!”
Izzy stared at the glass in confusion, then blinked down at his tuxedo.
Ah.
“Leave it with me,” he said quietly.
“Oh, thank you lovey.”
He took the glass from her, and the lady gave Izzy’s arm a little squeeze.
“You ought to run along with the rest of them. It’s getting late, you must be tired.”
“I’ll keep,” said Izzy, inclining his head, “thank you.”
The old lady squinted at Izzy, then nodded.
“Well, have a lovely night,” she said, then began her slow hobble towards the exit.
Izzy watched her go, watched a man in a similar suit to his meet her at the door and offer her his arm.
“Izzy!” said Edward’s voice, startling him.
“Goodness, are you sure you’re alright to drive?” said Stede, looking pointedly at the empty glass in his hand.
“It’s not mine,” sighed Izzy, “it’s - you know what, never mind. You two done here?”
“Sure as fuck hope we are,” Edward muttered wearily.
“Honestly, half the people we met treated you like one of the exhibits,” huffed Stede, placing a gentle hand on Edward’s hip. Edward just shook his head, all of a sudden haggard now that they had their backs turned to the rest of the room.
“Listen,” he said, “Iz, Stede says one of the guys here knows another way out. There’s an alleyway out the back where the staff park their cars, so we don’t have to deal with the, you know-”
He mimed someone taking a photo.
“Is that really necessary?” said Izzy, eyeing Stede critically, “I mean it’s just a quick walk to the car if I bring it ‘round the front-”
Izzy was cut off as Edward took another step closer to him, ducked his head so that he could speak a little more softly.
“I would love all the privacy I can get right now,” he said, his voice serious.
Izzy didn’t meet his eyes, but he nodded. It was seldom enough that Edward made a specific request. Up close, he finally noticed the way his boss’s fingers worried at the hem of his jacket, the way his shoulders had started to hunch, the way he turned his body away from the rest of the room.
Stede waved someone over, one of the fellows in the awful red vest, white shirt combinations, who introduced himself nervously as Frenchie.
“I’ll call when I’m outside,” said Izzy, letting himself be led away.
It turned out that Frenchie was a musician too, and had met Stede when he’d been hired to play at Alma’s eighth birthday party.
“That was a disaster and a half,” Frenchie said with a grin, holding the heavy fire escape door open for Izzy.
“Mmm.”
“Didn’t know she wasn’t into-”
“They.”
Frenchie blinked.
“Oh. Didn’t know they weren’t into Bowie - I mean who isn’t into Bowie?”
“What fuckin’ eight year old knows who Bowie is?”
Frenchie stared at him, scandalised.
“I did! I think it’s just one of those things, you know? Some people you just know, deep down-”
“Did your parents play him a lot?”
“No! Well, yeah. But the point still stands-”
Frenchie yelped as Izzy pushed him into the stairwell, squinting at the harsh fluorescent lights bouncing off the dirty grey concrete.
“What’d they do? Tell you you sounded bad?”
Frenchie grimaced.
“You ever been booed off the stage by a gang of kids?”
Izzy snorted, allowing himself to entertain the mental image of Alma leading all of their friends in a merciless takedown of the poor musician at their birthday party. It appeared that Stede’s run of poor gifting choices for his kids had started much earlier than Izzy had realised.
“No. Kid’s got a sharp tongue on them though. It’s only getting worse with age.”
He couldn’t help the fondness that crept into his voice, and Frenchie shot him a knowing smile as he waved him through the back door to the carpark.
“God. I can imagine. Alright, so instead of turning left, you’ve got to go out this back exit here and turn right, and it’ll take you to an alleyway that goes all the way around the back of the gallery. There’s a huge double door there, your bosses’ll be waiting just inside.”
A retort about how only one of those men was his boss was perched right on the tip of his tongue, when something occurred to Izzy.
“I thought turning right took you out the front.”
Frenchie frowned, his lips moving silently as he recalculated what he’d said.
“Right. Fuck. Not right. Left.”
“Left.”
“Right.”
“Alright Abbott and Costello, thanks for the directions,” said Izzy dryly, peering out into the parking lot. Frenchie ignored the jibe.
“Are you gonna be alright?” he said instead, “there’s not - I mean, they’re not in danger or anything are they?”
Izzy shook his head, determined not to let that particular thought take over his brain as he prepared to step out into the silent, dimly lit garage.
“S’fine, I’ve got it. I can defend myself.”
“What, are you one of those ninja butlers or something? Like in the movies?”
Frenchie sounded far too excited for Izzy’s liking.
“Thanks for all your help,” Izzy said, ignoring the way Frenchie deflated, “get yourself out of here too.”
Frenchie lingered a few moments longer, seemingly reluctant to leave him there alone, but when the moment drew out and grew awkward, he nodded with an expression that was more grimace than smile, and hurried back upstairs.
The carpark was mostly deserted by now. No wonder Edward wanted out - it must’ve been late. A glance at his phone told him it was nearing one in the morning, and he jammed his hands into his pockets, hunching over as he crossed the carpark in quick, long strides.
“Dad says you’re going to be Mister Teach’s bodyguard tonight.”
“That’s right.”
“But Izzy, you’re so small!”
“So are you, you little pipsqueak.”
“So you weren’t kidding about the secret kung fu lessons or whatever.”
“Not kung fu.”
“Will you teach me?”
“Like fuckin’ hell I’ll teach you. I’m not having you throwing your brother over your shoulder every chance you get.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t throw him.”
“Good to know there’s some decency in you then.”
“Nah, he’s too small. I don’t think it’d impress anyone.”
“Fuckin’ hell.”
Izzy prayed he wouldn’t have to do anything tonight except take the car around, make a phone call, and open the door. At worst, the night air might be a little biting on his face.
His heart was pounding in his chest when he got into the car though, anxiety spiking out of nowhere - except that the carpark was empty, and it was silent except he could hear the buzzing of the old flickering lights through the closed doors, and there were pillars someone could hide behind, too many shadows, too much space, too many variables-
He brought the car around, turned left, and drove slowly down the alleyway.
Twigs crunched under the tyres, and overhanging branches from the fence on the opposite wall trailed leaves across the windows. Izzy clenched his teeth at the sound of them squeaking against the glass.
The double doors were covered in layers of graffiti, tags upon tags up on tags, and the odd corner of a stencil or a pasteup that hadn’t managed to last.
He dialled for Edward, and waited.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then adjusted his tie.
His phone screen cast a small pool of light where Edward’s name was displayed in white writing.
Still dialling.
“C’mon, we don’t have all night,” hissed Izzy through his teeth.
And yet, still nothing.
“For fuck’s sake-”
Izzy cancelled the call and got out of the car, walking up to the doors and giving them a solid kick.
“Edward?” he called.
“Edward Teach?” said a voice from behind him, making him jump.
His phone slipped out of his hands and clattered to the concrete.
A young man stood there.
A young man in a grey windcheater.
“You,” growled Izzy, “what the fuck are you doing here?”
“Well, we were waiting out the front for him all night, but he didn’t show up, so Sal over here thought maybe you were getting out of here from some other exit.”
More footsteps scratched along the ground from behind him, and Izzy suddenly found it impossible to draw another breath.
“Looks like we were right,” said another voice from behind him, deeper and gruffer. It was accompanied by a laugh. A third voice.
Izzy silently thanked whoever was out there looking out for him that they’d clearly not gotten to Edward yet. Never had he hoped so hard that the man was distracted by some trinket or some passer-by with an interesting outfit or gadget or jewellery.
Please, please, let him be distracted.
“We’ve got a bit of a bone to pick actually, if you’d be so kind as to call him out here.”
Moonlight glinted off the blade of a knife, and Izzy took a step back.
“What for?” he said, turning slowly so that he could get a look at the others.
He was right. Two more, in the same kind of awful plasticky windcheaters. The fabric rustled in a way that set Izzy’s teeth on edge.
“Laziness, mostly. You see, I just don’t think it’s very fuckin’ fair that he gets to swan around rubbing shoulders with the rich and fuckin’ famous, sipping champagne and whatever, while the people who got him where he is today get ignored.”
Izzy’s head was spinning as he tried to piece together who the fuck this guy could possibly be. As far as he knew, the only people who’d been with Edward since the start were Fang and Ivan, and they were making a tidy sum of money managing his PR stuff.
And of course, himself.
“Who are you?”
It was the wrong thing to say. The young man’s face twisted into a snarl and he slashed at Izzy, launching himself at him with a shout.
Izzy dodged him easily, striking out at his wrist and sending the knife flying out of his hand.
At the same time, several hard blows landed on his back, knocking the wind from him. He whirled, wheezing, and ducked the next swing, catching the arm and pulling its owner along with it, sending him off-balance.
His world narrowed down to a series of movements then, instinct taking over as he reacted to the flashes in his vision; a hand clenched into a fist, a filthy white trainer aimed at his knees, another knife, another knife, another fucking knife, move move move move-
He twisted and ducked, struck out in the dark and made contact with something that drew an oof from his target.
Silver moonlight flashing off steel-
He turned out of the path of the blade and shrugged his jacket off in one fluid motion, tossing it around the face of one of the men and then punching him as hard as he could manage.
The man fell immediately, but then pain, sharp and hot, sliced across his arm, and Izzy let out a grunt of pain, twisting to find whoever had gotten him.
Shadows in the dark.
Rustling plastic.
Eyes set in deep sockets.
It was too dark to make out anything but general movements, but another blur moved towards him and Izzy moved back, grabbing blindly in the direction of the sound of those awful fucking jackets .
His fingers closed on a handful of hair and he pulled , shouting as his arms strained with the effort of draggin whoever the fuck it was towards the car. He shoved the boy forwards and then struck out, bouncing his head off the hood of his car. The body dropped unconscious with a thunk , and spots appeared in Izzy’s vision as he gasped, struggling to catch his breath.
Then something grazed his back and he couldn’t help the cry that that one tore from him as he turned, recoiling from the source of the pain.
He tasted blood, and realised that at some point he’d been hit in the face. He didn’t remember it happening, but he could feel the warm wetness dripping into his goatee.
“All you celebrity fucks are the same,” said the young man, pointing the knife at Izzy.
His expression crumpled briefly, and he fought back a sob. Izzy stared at him in confusion.
“You think he’d be popular if there weren’t people making him popular? If I didn’t spend all those hours writing letters, discussion boards, setting up his forums, fucking… defending him from all that shit people say about him - all of it? We did it all for him, and he won’t even acknowledge the fact that we exist-”
“Forums - what?”
The whites of the young man’s eyes were stark in the darkness.
“Don’t you know about any of that?”
“Know about fucking what? ”
“All the fucking work we do.”
“ What?”
The boy opened his mouth to say something more, but then the two of them were bathed in a harsh yellow glow as the double doors opened up and Stede and Edward appeared in the doorway, tousled and giggly for all of two seconds before they took in the sight in front of them.
“What the fuck,” whispered Edward.
The young man turned, his eyes wide with adoration, and Izzy watched as his hands lowered to his sides.
“ Edward Teach.”
Izzy threw as much of his strength as he dared into the punch that collided with the side of his head, snapping the boy’s face to the side and sending him to the ground as well.
“Izzy?” said Edward, panic pushing his voice an octave higher than usual, “Izzy - are you - shit, fuck, you’re bleeding-”
Izzy stumbled towards the wall and put one hand against it, holding himself up on shaking legs. Edward caught him by the elbows as his knees buckled, lowered him down to the ground so that he could sit and pant for air until he felt a little less like he was about to pass out. There was a commotion from the doorway, Stede’s voice calling for something - probably calling triple-nine.
Izzy rested his head against the cool brickwork, wishing his heart wouldn’t beat quite so loudly in his ears.
“Izzy, what the fuck happened?”
Edward’s hands were on his face.
A few months ago, Izzy would have committed this moment to memory, no matter how badly hurt he was. He would have savoured the touch, the concern in Edward’s eyes, the way he was so close Izzy could smell that light perfume he always wore to these stupid artsy things.
Instead, he allowed Edward to check him over and allowed the warmth of fondness to wash over him as his injuries were looked over and declared “pretty fine, actually - just a couple of grazes.”
Of course he was fine. It was his job to be fine.
Not that it wasn’t nice, being cared about, but Izzy found himself impatient for the moment to be over. He didn’t want to talk to the police. He didn’t want to see the fucking doctors.
He wanted someone to gently tease him. He wanted the taste of sweet, spiced milk on his tongue and he wanted cool fingers working through his hair because christ, his head fucking hurt and there was only one person in the world he trusted to help him with that-
He wanted to go home.
He wanted Roach.
*
The house was quiet that morning when Roach rose with the dawn to begin preparing breakfast. He was a light sleeper, and so he wondered if the others had perhaps been unusually quiet upon returning last night… or if they hadn’t come home at all.
Rich people parties tended to go on for far too long. But there was a feeling buried in the back of his mind, anxiety like an itch that wouldn’t go away, because what if something had gone wrong?
He took slightly longer than usual getting ready. Everything felt off kilter. The sounds of the house were wrong. He felt like he was missing something, forgetting something important.
It wasn’t until he was already pulling last night’s prep work out of the fridge that he realised he’d forgotten to put on his uniform, and was still in an oversized t-shirt that read “Dinky Donky - With Moustache!”
But Stede had said Edward would be over this morning, so he had pancake batter to deal with. He’d put oats on to soak last night too, and there was fruit to have with both - strawberries, bananas, apples and cinnamon, and a few handfuls of blueberries.
There was also a small amount of bread dough put to chill in the fridge, enough to make a couple of small rolls. Enough for Izzy, who he’d discovered endured sweet breakfasts only for Edward’s sake.
Breakfasts were easy. There wasn’t a huge variety of things to keep track of, and Roach lost himself in the routine of it, putting the bread in to bake and starting in on his stack of pancakes, humming quietly while he worked.
At some point though, a commotion in the hallway drew his attention, and he stopped to listen, frowning. He could hear Stede and Edward’s voices, and then the quieter rasp of Izzy’s voice. All of them spoke in low voices, and Roach was unsure if he was imagining that they were speaking more slowly than usual, in the quiet drawl of the exhausted. Eventually, two sets of footsteps receded into the distance.
A few moments later, the door to the kitchen creaked open, and a terribly dishevelled Izzy Hands poked his head through the door.
Roach nearly dropped the spatula in shock as he watched Izzy half-stumble in. He was in his shirtsleeves, the normally pristine fabric wrinkled and stained with smears of dirt and patches of blood that had soaked in and crusted over. There was a gash sliced into one arm, and he was sporting a black eye, of all things.
He held himself gingerly as he walked, like the movement hurt him. By the looks of things, it probably did.
“Izzy, what the fuck kind of party-”
Roach trailed off as Izzy continued his slow shuffle towards him. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery, and his mouth twitched open, then closed.
“Izzy?” whispered Roach.
Izzy stopped in front of him, swayed slightly, then let his head fall forward into Roach’s shoulder. Pressed against him, Roach could feel the way he trembled, and lay a gentle hand on his back as Izzy gripped the back of his shirt and sucked in a shuddering breath.
“It’s alright, little man” he said, hoping the quiet words would help, “you are home now, hm?”
He felt Izzy’s chest hitch against him, and then Izzy was throwing his arms around Roach’s neck, clinging tightly to him as he buried his face in the crook of his neck. Izzy gasped for breath, and Roach could feel something warm and wet against his skin. He gathered Izzy close, mindful of where it looked like he was hurt.
“Bunch of sick fucks came looking for Edward,” Izzy said, his lips tickling where they brushed against the sensitive skin of Roach’s neck.
“You made sure they did not get to him,” said Roach, stroking a hand over Izzy’s tangled hair.
“Yeah,” sighed Izzy, “s’pose.”
“And now you are exhausted.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re hurt-”
“Took care of it. S’all fine. I just - I wanted - before I try and get some fuckin’ sleep-”
Izzy would not sleep alone. Not like this. Roach knew that much, at least.
“A moment,” said Roach, gently untangling Izzy’s arms from his shoulders and cradling his face as gently as he could manange, “we can go back to this, but just - the kitchen-”
“Oh, shit. Yeah, sorry, I - I just wanted-”
“Do not apologise, little man.”
Roach brought Izzy’s face close and kissed them, then grabbed the two little loaves out of the oven. He put some milk and cinnamon on to heat while he tidied up, shoving everything he’d prepared so far onto a tray and putting the tray in the fridge.
He went over to the whiteboard, where he kept a record of the menu for the day. He tapped his chin, pondering the list, then erased the whole thing. He picked up the marker instead, and wrote-
ORDER TAKEOUT.
He capped the marker, grabbed the hot drinks and bread, then ushered Izzy with him.
Izzy blinked blearily at his scrawled message on their way out.
“You don’t have to-” he said quietly.
“You think I do not know this?” snapped Roach, “now come on.”
He led Izzy back to his room, where he would get him clean and dressed in something soft, get some food into him, hopefully return some colour to that pale, haunted face before he gave him something solid to cling to. The poor man looked so rattled.
“You were not lying then, when you said you were trained as a bodyguard.”
“Why does nobody fuckin’ believe me when I say that?” sighed Izzy, sitting down on the bed.
It was a testament to how tired he was that he allowed Roach to kneel and unbutton his ruined shirt for him.
“You are so small,” said Roach, kissing his nose, “it would be like watching a little mouse get in a fight.”
“You’re so full of shit,” huffed Izzy.
Roach smoothed grey hairs down under his palms, nodding his satisfaction when Izzy’s eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into the touch.
“Were you afraid?” Roach said suddenly.
Izzy’s eyes snapped open, his gaze sharp and angry for the few seconds it took for instinct to drain away. Then his eyes widened a little and that twitchiness was back as Izzy’s brows drew together in distress.
“It was fuckin’ terrifying,” Izzy whispered. Just for him to hear.
“I thought perhaps this was the case,” said Roach.
He pulled Izzy close again, squeezing him tight and feeling the smaller man relax against him with a quiet exhale.
“You have been quite brave enough for one night, I think,” said Roach.
Izzy nodded and ducked his head, and let himself hide.