Chapter Text
Ed’s therapist says he needs to work on his mental health, so he’s working on his mental health, damnit. Another winter storm moving in prompts him to get out of bed early(ish) Saturday morning to get in his weekend hike. Just three miles. Exercise and fresh air and nature and all that bullshit.
There’s another car in the unplowed parking lot when Ed arrives at trailhead. It can be a popular spot, but not under these conditions: fucking cold, half a meter of snow on the ground, the clouds lowering and glowering overhead.
Best get on with it.
Huffing and puffing through the snow quickly kicks the usual negative voice from Ed’s brain in favor of the mumsy voice that worries he’s going to cark it out here in nature then be buried under so much snow that they won’t find him until he thaws out in the spring. Ew.
That mumsy naggy voice so distracts him that Ed doesn’t see or hear the bizarre little man on the trail ahead on him until he practically trips over him.
“Oh, shit!” The bizarre little man squeaks, but not at Ed. He kneels in the snow, digging around in it, desperately looking for something.
Ed stops in the trail. To be fair, the man blocks the trail. “Hey, mate. What’s up?” It comes out a little more impatient than Ed intended, but by now his face is fucking freezing and he just wants to get back to his truck, and indulge in thinking about what to order for breakfast at the diner back in town.
“Oh, hello,” the man sighs. “I’ve lost my car keys, I’m afraid.”
“Be much easier in a couple of months, so just be patient.” Again, Ed’s attempt to be funny has an edge and he winces a bit inside.
The man sighs again, sits back on the trail. “You’re right. It’s my fault for losing the keys. I deserve this.”
Think, Ed. Think! “Got a spare at home, yeah? Or, like, road assistance or something?”
“Well, yes, of course, but there’s no phone reception down in the valley here along the trail. I can’t possibly walk back home, though I suppose I could hitchhike.” He throws up his hands. “I am such an idiot.”
“Well, maybe, um, there’s someone standing right next to you who could give you a lift to town? Maybe even take you home to grab your spare keys and bring you back to get your car before the weather hits?”
“What? What weather?” the man squeaks.
“C’mon, mate. I’m fucking starving and freezing and you’re probably the same. Let’s get back to the parking lot, sort out your car, and let you buy me breakfast.” Ed stamps his feet, the idleness making him colder.
“You’d do that for me?” The man turns to look up at Ed and Ed is a goner. Blond curls poking out under a kelly green knit cap, lively hazel eyes with crinkles at the edges. The man pulls his scarf down to reveal his mouth.
“Sure,” Ed manages. The man smiles, and there is a dimple. He looks at Ed like he’s just saved his life AND bought him a puppy. Ed gets that feeling inside like when you see the first buds on the trees in early, early spring, the daffodils poking up through the soil – a sense of relief that winter will end and life will begin again and you are still here to see it.
“Thank you!”
*****
“I can’t thank you enough, Ed. You’ve turned disaster into delight.” They’ve see the man’s car back safely into her garage, not without some (hopefully gentle) advice from Ed about dealing with the beastly winter weather here, grabbed a booth in the diner, and tucked into ridiculously large breakfasts.
“You’re welcome, Stede. Maybe consider some snow tires, yeah? A winter car kit?”
Stede smiles. “Yes! I’ve already learned so much from you. I never thought moving here would be so complicated and, well, dangerous. I’d like to . . . make you . . . something . . . to show my appreciation.”
“Make me something?” WTF is that supposed to mean.
“Yes! Do you like this?” Stede takes his scarf off the seat next to him and carefully hands it to Ed across the table, making sure to keep it away from their sticky plates. “Feel it against your cheek.”
The scarf is wildly soft, a base color of charcoal grey with bits of hot pink, teal, green, and red scattered throughout. It feels warm but has little holes (on purpose?) and swirls and fancy edging. Ed’s rarely touched something like it.
“Ah, do you fancy a fine fiber?” Stede asks, looking pleased.
“Yeah, I suppose I do.”
“Wonderful! It’s my favorite yarn, though maybe not the most luxurious. Wool and cashmere blend, so you get the softness and halo of cashmere with the durability and warmth of wool. I designed the pattern myself.”
Ed stares at him. “You what?”
“I write patterns. I don’t sell many because they are often quite complicated and I probably am not the best technical writer, but I enjoy it.” He fiddles with the handle of his coffee mug. “I noticed you didn’t have a scarf today. I’d like to make you one? As a thank you? Of course, you can pick the color and style and the yarn, even.”
Ed continues to stare.
“I suppose it makes more sense if I tell you that I opened that cute little yarn store over on Market Street. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? ‘Hook for a Head?’ I reckon that name doesn’t immediately shout YARN STORE but I do love to be cheeky. You should stop by sometime and pick out some yarn for your scarf.”
Ed realizes he should say something. “Um, sure, yeah. So you’re the Gentleman Hooker.”
Stede beams. “You’ve heard of me?”
“I’ve heard of you. I’ve heard all about you.”
It’s a small town, so of course.
“Wonderful. Here’s my card with the store address and hours, and the Happy Hookers meeting dates and times on the back.” Stede slides a business card over to Ed, who carefully hands back the scarf.
“Happy . . . Hookers?”
“Ha ha!” Stede laughs, a little louder than Ed thought a man like that would laugh. A little freer, too. “It’s the knitting and crochet group. Meets Saturdays at the store and Wednesday evenings at different coffee shops, bars, that sort of thing. Support local businesses and all that.”
“Hmmm,” Ed hums, looking at the card.
Hook for a Head
Fulfilling your Fibre Fetish
Stede Bonnet, Gentleman Hooker and Proprietor
69 Market Street
Voulez-vous crochet avec moi?
“You’re welcome to join us, Ed. Everyone’s welcome and welcoming. Just pop in and see what you think. Fibre arts are very good for one’s mental health.”
Ed pockets the card. “Maybe I will, Stede. Maybe I will.”