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Stede gets a call at three in the morning.
When he spirited himself away in a flight of either whimsy or misery (he keeps telling Mary it was whimsy, but neither of them is so stupid as to believe he was thriving, exactly, after their divorce — stuck as he had been in his opulent and very empty downtown condo) to go live on 100 acres of lovely farm land, he expected a lot of things.
He expected to do more work than he’d ever had to do before, sure. He expected a beautiful landscape, in fact, required it. (He sort of expected to struggle a bit, though not nearly so much as he has been.)
He’d expected cooperative cattle.
“They’re out again,” Oluwande is saying over the phone. His voice is sleep-rough. Stede’s trying not to be rude about this, but he really, really doesn't want to get up. “You have to go,” Oluwande says, seeming to accurately read Stede’s silence as reluctance.
“… I don't suppose it could wait until morning?”
“If you’re going to do this, boss, you’ve got to do the hard parts, too.”
Stede groans and pouts, just a little; no one is around to judge.
There’s some sort of commotion on Oluwande’s end. Further from the receiver he hears Oluwande say “it’s Stede” and then some more rusting and a bit of cursing — that’s certainly Jim — before Oluwande’s voice comes back, nearer to the speaker this time.
“I gotta go; woke Jim up.”
“Wait!” Stede panics. “You’re not going to help me?”
Oluwande laughs.
“Sorry man. Not tonight.”
And then he hangs up and Stede is left clutching his phone, staring up at the rafters of the beautiful log home he now calls his own, wondering what’s become of his life.
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Oluwande is a nice man and Stede’s closest neighbor, about a mile down the road. Oluwande is also very handy. Stede has been hiring him to do odd jobs, and to teach Stede the ropes, as it were.
Oluwande’s partner, Jim, is a proficient cattle wrangler and can repair any tool, which is convenient because Stede has been breaking things at a frankly alarming rate.
(They’ve banned him from using any of the heavy machinery, although it’s Stede’s equipment. Stede supposes it’s fair; he did run a hay spear through a tree. And having no way of removing it, they eventually just unhooked it from the tractor and left it there. Wee John has offered many times to blow the tree up, but ultimately settled on wrapping it in knitted yarn.)
Collectively, Oluwande and Jim are an invaluable source of knowledge. They’ve also been Stede’s introduction to the larger community.
Through Oluwande, Stede met Pete, the owner of the local feed store, his boyfriend Lucius — a fellow city-transplant (thank god) — and through them, the rest of the crew.
Lovely though they all may be, Stede doubts he could reasonably expect any of them to drive thirty minutes from town to help him get his cows back into the field…
On that dour note, Stede heaves a massive sigh and shuffles out of bed to find a pair of shoes.
He throws on some crisp jeans (not a favorite but if he ruins another pair of slacks he may fully breakdown) under his embroidered goldenrod robe and, bracing himself, heads out to locate his misbehaving livestock.
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Ed’s on his way home from town — taking the scenic route because it’s been a long day and it’s pretty clear he’s going to sleep all of tomorrow away — when he’s stopped by about ten cows meandering down the backroad he’s on. They take up all of the pavement and most of the grass on either side. Ed dismounts from his bike, looks first at the cows — useless fuckers — and then around them.
He nearly busts a gut laughing when the whole story starts to unfold.
Behind the herd is a man. He’s doing Jesus arms down the middle of the road, a pretty yellow robe draped over broad shoulders and loosely tied around his waist. Ed takes a moment to appreciate his chest, which is pale and plush and probably would give like a perfectly cooked steak if bitten. Ed grins to himself, imagining.
He’s just a soft, handsome, square of a man. And he’s clearly got no fucking clue what he’s doing if the frantic look on his face (not helped by about a million perfectly golden flyaways sticking up at the back of his head) is anything to go by.
He tries to push one cow forward and it grunts out an annoyed maa and trots off to the side, falling behind the radius of the Jesus arms.
Ed leans against his bike for a minute, unnoticed in the dark, just watching the shit show: The man, trying to push forward, and then running back when a cow shuffles around him to start down the road in the wrong direction; the quiet oh gosh, oh fuck, oh please, ladies, please this way.
You heathens! Hissed scathingly, followed abruptly by wouldn’t it be quite nice to lie in the field with all that soft… wheat and grain for bedding? A strained Darlings?
When the man starts tearing up Ed stutters forward. It’s not fun when the pretty guys cry.
“Hey,” Ed calls, grabbing the man’s attention. He doesn't step forward, because he doesn't want to push the cows back in the wrong direction, but he does wave. “Need a hand?”
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The guy’s called Stede. He’s a lunatic.
He tells Ed about his plush life up in the city, a dad he hates who is dead now but was loaded when he was still kicking. A corporate job he fucking ditched, same as the wife, and the posh place in the middle of it all. All to come down to bum-fuck nowhere to fail to keep cows in a field.
Absolutely wild shit.
“Makes you a gentleman farmer,” says Ed, swinging the gate closed when they finally get the last calf back into the lot.
“The Gentleman Farmer?” Stede repeats, smiling, “I like the moniker.”
Ed chuckles, wiping a hand on his leathers to get the dust off.
“I mean own it if you want,” says Ed, “but a gentleman farmer is just a thing. Rich guys who take up farming for, I don’t know, fun? I guess. That’s called a gentleman farmer.”
“Oh…” Stede frowns. Ed pats him on the shoulder.
“Not a bad thing. Kind of cool. Ditching everything to come down here? And doing it in style? Fucking purple barn, decorated fence posts? No one’s doing shit like this,” Ed takes a look around. It’s… not anything he’s ever seen before. And he’s been buying and selling and moving heads of cattle for 20 years. There’s not a farm across the whole fucking state that he hasn’t worked with or bought out. None of them have monogrammed signs posted, naming each sectioned field. “This,” he gestures broadly around, “is fucking facinating. The Gentleman Farmer. Sure, mate.” He’s surprised how sincere it comes out. Ed’s never been known for sincerity.
He watches Stede preen at the praise, cheeks red in the breaking dawn. Ed knows what the hooks of a curiosity feel like when they land, he’s flitted through interests most of his life, picking up and dropping shit just as quickly; he’s all about a new curiosity.
They’re just not usually this hot. And they don't usually make him feel this off-kilter.
He wants to see this whole place in the daylight; see Stede at work. He wants to take both apart bit by bit, look at them in their fundamental states, find out if they’re worth the effort and, if they are, keep them as his own.
He’s always been greedy like that.
“I could help you fix this fence,” he hears himself say, even though he’d rather chew barbed wire than do any sort of fencing most days. It’s a good in to get what he wants, though, and Ed’s an opportunist. “Might even keep the cows.” He winks.
“And what’s wrong with my fence?” Stede bristles.
Ed wants to laugh that Stede doesn't know. (The massive holes between every post just begging a cow to push down and walk straight the fuck over.) Ed decides to give a nicer answer
“Fucking… everything, mate.”
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Ed can feel Stede’s eyes on him as he works.
He’s not wearing a shirt, which was on purpose, and he’s got his hair up in a bun, which was on purpose, too (but is also kind of because its really fucking hot), and Ed can feel Stede’s eyes on him.
Good.
If Ed has to deal with the clawing desire to be under Stede’s skin every time they talk, at least he gets to enjoy the knowledge that Stede’s seeing him half naked and liking it. (Hard to tell if Stede is embracing the enjoyment or fighting it. He just sort of looks stunned.)
Still, Ed thinks he deserves this much. He’s been working on this fucking fence for two fucking week, ramming t-posts into the ground with a manual driver he’s pretty sure Stede bought at an antique store.
Absolute madness. Manual drivers aren’t good for dick and are, at this moment, a massive pain in Ed’s ass and shoulders.
Ed stutters… actually. Manual drivers are good for maybe one thing.
Ed turns to Stede, eyeing him as he stands off to the side, thick arms crossed over his chest.
“Wanna give it a go?” He asks. Stede blinks. Ed watches the line of his jaw tense and his throat bob on a swallow.
“Really?”
“Yeah, man,” says Ed. “I’ll set the post and you just nail it in a few times. Good skill to have.”
Stede seems to think for a moment, and then smiles, giving a little nod. Ed watches as he removes the cashmere sweater he’s wearing (Ed only knows it’s cashmere because he asked; ran his hands over it like it was gold), revealing a loose short-sleeved white button down below. Neither are what Ed would consider farm clothes, but Ed’s beginning to think Stede’s wardrobe is just kind of like that.
Just another thing he wants. The farm, the clothes (the man who owns them).
Ed sets the post, a couple light taps to get it sturdy in the ground. Then he grabs Stede by the bicep and pulls him to position. His arm is firmer than Ed would have expected.
“Okay,” he says. “Grab the handles.” Stede does. “Pretty simple, you’re going to lift up, until just the tip of the post is in the pounder, and then you're going to slam down.” Stede’s getting red. Ed smirks.
“I thought it was called a driver…” Stede says. He sounds flustered, and he’s twitching slightly beneath Ed’s fingers as Ed guides his arms into position and demonstrates the motion.
Ed grins, keeping up the game.
“Either works,” he winks. “When you slam down, let go at the last moment, otherwise you’ll feel the impact all the way up your arms. Got it?”
Stede nods. Ed steps back.
Stede lifts the driver and slams it down with enough force that Ed can see the muscles ripple through his forearms, up his biceps, disappearing under his shirt.
Ed’s mouth is dry.
“ Fuck!” Stede shouts on impact. He stumbles away from the driver and the post and back into Ed. Ed catches him on the shoulders.
“That’s why you’ve got to let go.”
“Oow,” Stede whimpers. “My arm’s gone numb, Edward.”
Ed chuckles, but he still rubs Stede’s arms until the feeling comes back. Purely to help a friend out.
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“And where have you been mister let’s have tea together! ” Lucius eyes Stede with a scrutiny Stede hasn’t experienced since he was a boy under his father’s constant surveillance.
Stede refrains from answering until he’s fully in the feed store, shutting the door gently behind so as not to wake the kitten sleeping on a bag of oats near it. She’s yet to be named, which Stede keeps telling Lucius is ludicrous. A kitten deserves a proper name! Posthaste! (Lucius insists she will be named as soon as Frenchie comes up with one. Given Frenchie’s general … aversion to cats, it may never happen.)
“We agreed to meet on Wednesday evenings Lucius, and as it is Wednesday afternoon and I’m here, I don’t quite know what you mean.”
He joins Lucius where he’s settled among the unsold patio furniture, having commandeered one to draw at. Stede glances over his shoulder to see half naked sketches of Pete and instantly regrets it.
“You’ve been in here every day since the day you moved here,” Lucius watches him. “All I’m saying is that no one’s schedule changes that much unless they’re hiding something. So which is it, a boyfriend or a murder?”
Stede feels himself turning red and curses his skin complexion from the core of his being
Lucius smirks.
“So, boyfriend.”
“Not a boyfriend,” Stede says firmly, waiving off the ridiculous notion even as his mind unhelpfully supplies an image of Ed, arms flexing, soft belly taught, working on his fence in the late September sun. “Just a friend,” he clears his throat. “Helping with my fence.”
Lucius’ smirk only gets wider. He hums.
“Well, as I know all of your friends because I introduced you to them, I obviously have loads of questions.”
Stede rolls his eyes. He debates trying to divert the conversation, but eventually allows a sheepish smile and offers a simple:
“His name is Ed.”
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“You said you’d have that farm a week ago, Edward.” Izzy’s growling and stalking and Ed kind of wants to punch him.
“Give it some time, Iz. He’s a gentleman, I’ve got to, you know, wine and dine.”
“Wine and fucking dine? ” Izzy snears. “What? Are you planning to fuck him too?”
Ed bites his tongue. Although it’d be pretty funny to say yeah, he’s not really interested in listening to Izzy rant for the next hour.
“Get the farm, Edward. And then get back here and run the farm you already have before you lose it all.” Izzy storms out of his office.
Ed blows out a gust of air, looking out the window, over the acres and acres of fields in need of harvesting, livestock in need of managing, business in need of running.
No purple barns or weird murals on rocks in the middle of fields. No decorated posts. No hay spears rammed in trees, covered in yarn.
No finesse.
Definitely not a Stede Bonnet take on agriculture.
What the fuck happened to his life.