Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ed knows what’s going to happen long before it actually happens.

The second he hears Ari sniffle, actually, he knows what’s going to happen. From the way Stede’s head snaps around from the opposite end of their quarters, eyes immediately tracking to find Ari where he’s sat playing with Louis on the floor before bedtime, he knows it, too.

It’s not a regular sniffle, is the problem. Ed knows their regular sniffles. Kids are fucking disgusting; they’re always making fucking sounds, there’s always shit leaking out of them. He’s used to it.

This is different. This is an actual, congested sniffle.

“Shit,” Ed says.

Stede’s already across the floor before Ed can even move, taking a knee beside Ari to tilt his head back, scooping sprung-loose curls of hair from his face so he can press the back of his hand to his forehead.

“Is he sick?” Alma asks, cross-legged on the sofa, eyes still fixed on the book in her lap.

Removing his hand from Ari’s forehead, Stede lifts him up instead. He brings him in close, pressing his cheek to Ari’s, feeling his temperature.

At Stede’s side, Louis sneezes.

“Shit,” Ed repeats, and it’s all downhill from there.

By Ed’s best estimation, Ari might be the originator of the sickness that sweeps the ship in the days that follow.

Though Ed is terrified, at first, it doesn’t seem to amount to too much. He’s right to be worried, he thinks; he’s seen a number of illnesses and diseases take over ships and kill half the crews before anyone starts recovering, and it’s his first thought when everyone on the crew starts feeling sick, himself included.

By the end of the week, it seems like everyone on the ship except Stede has been taken down by what Ed understands to be a particularly vicious cold, or maybe some sort of survivable influenza. They have to dock themselves on an empty island for the time being; Stede can’t sail the ship on his own, and nobody’s capable of keeping themselves coherently upright on deck. Or, they could, but Stede doesn’t run that sort of ship, and so, they’re docked. For now.

If he was feeling better, Ed would be trying to help him more, but, as it is, he’s down for the count. He’s spent the last three days being unable to move without getting so dizzy and nauseous that he causes more problems than if he’d just stayed motionless.

Finally, he’s started to feel a little bit better, due in no small part to Stede’s constant doting on him— on everyone, really.

Their quarters have become occupied by Ed, himself, as well as their children; Alma and Louis stay in their beds in their room off the main room, and Ed has the babies with him, for the most part. Ari occasionally goes with Stede when he gets too restless, or Stede will insist Ed needs rest and take them all for a time, but Ed’s at least conscious enough, now, to be monitoring them while they’re sleeping.

Ed’s still congested, his chest still tight, his head still aching, his stomach still twisting, but he’s really loads better. Stede keeps bringing him soup he’s made himself for everyone in great big pots in the kitchen; it’s not great, but they can all keep it down— even Lucius— so Ed considers it a win.

Stede spoon-feeds crewmates who can’t feed themselves. He brings fresh water every time he notices someone is nearly out. He mops sweat from brows, and he cleans up sick, and he changes bed-linens, and he helps.

In all honesty, Ed doesn’t get it, at first. With his throat thickly rasping and his head pounding so hard he’s seeing stars, he’d asked Stede, when they all first started getting sick, “Why’re you doing this? Y’don’t have to, y’know. W—”

He’d been cut off, then, by coughing. He’d intended to say, ‘We can handle this,’ because they all can. They’re pirates, for fuck’s sake. They’re meant to work even when they feel like shit. They’re expected to, actually. Izzy made that expectation clear more than once before he, too, had fallen ill; he’s currently in his room, to Ed’s understanding, and Stede visits him to caretake, as well. Just like with every other crewmember. He’s even been helping Jim and Oluwande with Viola. Stede spends his days circling to each and every one of them, and Ed doesn’t get it.

“Just breathe,” Stede tells him, voice as softly soothing as he’s been keeping it this entire time. He looks exhausted, but— Ed imagines he does, too. Still, he wishes Stede would rest. He’s just tempting fate, like this; it’s a miracle he hasn’t gotten sick already. “There we are. Nice and easy, darling.”

When Ed can actually breathe again, he says again, voice rasping, “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Stede insists.

“Bullshit,” Ed rasps. He readjusts Juno and Hako on his chest, one in each arm, unbothered by his coughing fit. They’re already feeling much better, them and their— resilient fucking youth. Ed’s both proud and jealous.

“Well,” Stede allows, “I don’t want to, but. I do. I want to help you.”

“What about them?” Ed asks. At the curious tilt of Stede’s head, he clarifies, “All of ‘em,” motioning towards the door in the general direction of everybody else.

“Ah, well,” Stede tells him, busying himself with getting a fresh cloth for Ed, dipping it into his basin of fresh water, wringing it out. “It’s a bit my responsibility, wouldn’t you think? Especially when you’re not feeling well, you poor thing.” He lays the cool cloth across Ed’s forehead, and Ed sighs, letting his eyes close. It does feel fucking good against his clammy skin, warm-hot with the last remnants of fever. “A captain’s something like a father, in a way.”

“I’ll make ‘em call you all Dad,” Ed says, eyes still closed. Stede lightly swats at his shoulder, though there’s no force behind it at all; it feels like barely a sweep.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Stede informs him. “Besides, I’m not terrible at this. As I’m sure you can imagine, I wasn’t the strongest child. Nor was Louis when he was an infant, either. And Mary—” Stede laughs, a soft little noise. Ed opens his eyes again, watches the silhouette of Stede moving in the sunlight above the bed. “She’s a lovely woman, but not so helpful at the sickbed.”

“No?” Ed asks, the word scraping.

“No, sadly not,” Stede tells him. “She’s a sympathy vomiter, for one thing—”

Ed groans, and Stede laughs.

“Yes, just so,” he says. He tucks the covers up around Ed, fitting the edge around the bumps of Hako and Juno in his arms. The quilt is tucked around them, as well, neatly wrapped around his arms and their resting bodies. Hako blinks up at Stede in the process, and Stede taps his nose with the tip of his finger. “Hello there, love.”

Hako doesn’t answer, and so Stede just keeps on going.

“She wasn’t the most fond of babies, anyways,” Stede tells him. “As you’ve come to learn, they are rather disgusting. She didn’t have the stomach for it, so much. Which was no mind to me, because I could take it.” He leans down to kiss Ed’s forehead, the pressure just barely present through the cold cloth. “About the only thing I could take, hm?”

Ed’s going to argue that point, but his throat is thick and it makes him cough, and Hako starts to whimper against his chest, and Ari starts crying from his bed in the next room, and the conversation effectively ends there.

In the next sweep of a moment, Stede has Hako in his arms, and he’s heading straight for Ari’s room, ducking in with a soft, “Hello, love, what’s hurting you?”

Ed thinks he does get it, then. A little bit, anyways.

Stede’s the captain— or, they both are, they’re co-captains, but—

Stede’s their dad. He sees this as his job, his responsibility. In his way, he really does want to take care of them, of everyone. It’s strange, for sure, but— in the end, actually, it has Stede written all over it.

Huffing a laugh to himself, he tilts his head down, propped up amongst his pillows to look down at Juno. His daughter’s half-asleep on his chest, one hand splayed across his bare skin; as he watches, she yawns, jaw cracking wide, tiny fingers flexing into his skin to tighten her grip on him, keeping him close, holding on.

It’s not as though Ed’s going to argue, anyways. He’s been sick, and the children have been sick, and everybody has been sick, but Stede keeps telling him he feels fine, so. He’ll take all the support and help and caretaking from him he can get.

He likes being cared for by Stede. He likes taking a break. He likes snuggling with his babies. So fucking what?

Juno makes a soft noise, something wordless and small. Ed strokes his thumb over the back of her small head, the pad sweeping through her glossy hair, thick and curling and so much like his.

“Feeling better yet?” Ed asks her. She scrunches up her face, then sneezes against his chest. Huffing another laugh, he leans back, eyes closing once more. “Thought so.”

Stede comes bustling in after only a couple of minutes, Hako now in his chest-sling and Ari in one arm, on his hip, and Ed watches him drowsily from the bed. Stede’s pink-flushed face keeps turning towards him as he hurriedly dresses himself one-handed and under the children.

It’s obvious he can’t stop thinking of him, checking on him, making sure he’s still there, still breathing, still alright. Every time he does it, Ed smiles at him.

“Ariel, my love,” Stede says softly to their son. “Want to lay down for a bit with your dad? Get some rest together, hm? Let Alma and Louis get a bit of sleep in there?”

Ari twists into Stede, burying his face in his shoulder, hands rubbing at his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth. He makes some sort of noise, buried there in Stede, that Ed can’t hear; what he does hear, though, is Stede’s quiet, “Of course, my love.”

He brings Ari to the bed, gently unwinding him from the grip that Ari’s got on him. It takes a bit of effort, but he manages to untangle him, transitioning him down into Ed’s side.

“If he’s too fussy,” Stede tells him, stroking Ari’s hair back from his face, “call for me, and I’ll come take him. He can stay on my back, he’s not that heavy.”

Ed looks up into Stede’s flushed face, his tired eyes, his smiling mouth, and feels fucking blessed. It’s not an emotion or a sensation he encounters all that often, so he grips onto it and holds tight, relishing in it, basking in it. Here’s this weird fucking guy that Ed doesn’t think he could possibly love more than he already does, and he’s here. He’s here, taking care of Ed while Ed’s— sneezing constantly and vomiting more than he eats and running a fever hot enough to steam his skin.

Nobody’s ever taken care of Ed like this. Nobody’s ever wanted to. Stede—

He’s fucking lucky, he thinks.

“I love you,” Ed says upwards. Stede leans down to smooth his hair back along his scalp, kissing his cheek beneath the cool cloth. When Ed closes his eyes again, he relaxes, just— enjoying the way this feels. “Thank you. I’m so glad you’re not sick.”

Above him, Stede kisses his cheek again.

“You get some rest,” Stede tells him. His hands shift Juno a bit, making sure she won’t slip if Ed does doze off before he gets back. “You’ll feel better in no time.”

“I already do,” Ed replies, tired, already most of the way asleep.

Stede’s hand strokes through his hair again, lingering for a moment, before his touch vanishes.

Ed can feel the weight on the bed shift. A moment later, Stede whispers, “Close your eyes, darling. Get some sleep.”

Ari makes a tiny sound, buried in Ed’s side, his head pillowed on his shoulder. The weight on the bed shifts again as Stede presumably kisses Ari, as well, before standing fully, tucking the blankets back up to include Ari beneath them, as well.

Stede thinks he might pass out.

No, you are not, Stede mentally tells himself, firm, unbending. You are fine. You are going to stay fine. They need you.

It’s true. If it were less true, it might not be an issue, but— It is true, and Stede can’t make it less true, so. He’s just got to— buck up, as it were. Soldier on. He can do this. He can, he can do this.

I can do this, he repeats, even firmer this time. I will do this.

That’s the thing, really. There’s not a choice, here, exactly. Or, there is, but Stede feels that there’s only one real choice to make.

Everybody is sick. Truly, everybody— each and every last crewmate has been taken down by the flu that Ariel— or, presumably Ariel, though Stede’s fairly certain— brought on board. That includes Ed, and all of their children, as well as the crew— Viola among them— and so, Stede finds himself responsible for nursing six children and thirteen adults acting rather like children.

They’re all wiped out by it, and Stede takes it upon himself to nurse them back to health. He likes to be useful; he likes to help, honestly. He enjoys having everyone look to him for the assistance only he can provide. It’s so rare that Stede is the functional one, the knowledgeable one, the helpful one. Never before has he been valuable or useful like this.

It feels wrong to say he loves this, but he sort of does, a bit.

And so, he really puts his back into helping. He teaches himself how to make soup with what they have aboard, then makes it; he hunts down freshwater on the island and rolls it back by the barrel; he sets cool cloths on foreheads and sponges away the grime of sweat; he washes bedclothes and changes them practically daily; he goes to each and every call of his name, or hacking cough, or retching shout, and he helps whomever he finds on the other side, and he loves being needed so much that he doesn’t pay attention to anything else.

Everybody is sick. The children are sick. It’s not like he can not take care of them. Somebody’s got to— He’s got to.

So, when he starts feeling unwell, he ignores it.

He’s seen what the crewmates are enduring, anyways. When it comes for him, he’s ready to shove it back down. He’s not going to stop being useful. He’s just— He’s not.

Everybody, slowly and steadily, gets better.

Stede, slowly and steadily, gets worse.

After a week of illness, Stede feels they’ve finally reached a turning point. Most of the crew is healthy enough to move about on their own, well enough to take over caring for those amongst them who are lagging a bit in recovery. Jim takes over caring for Oluwande, especially now that Viola’s healed up; Izzy, Lucius, and Wee John linger in sickness a bit longer, but Stede’s— no longer needed, really. They can cope just fine without him.

Stede reminds himself that’s a good thing. It’s good that Ed is feeling better, good that their children are so much better. The only immediate straggler amongst Stede’s children is Juno, still fighting off the last of the flu, and so Stede is determined to keep her close until her lungs are clear and her heat is gone and she’s completely well again.

This morning, when Stede gets up from the sofa, he starts to quickly redress himself and see who needs him first, just like he has every morning for the last week. He’s taken to the sofa to allow Ed the space to spread out while recovering, insistent on the point.

Though he’s glad he’s been doing it, the choice has been stiffening up a bit. He isn’t all that young, after all. And the flu has gotten him, just a bit.

Stede keeps telling himself that. It’s just a touch of the flu. Just a bit. A tad. You’re fine.

He’s said it through the increase of his fever, and he’s said it through the building thickness in his chest, and he’s said it through the increasing congestion in his head, and he’s said it through the twisting nausea in his stomach, and he’s said it through the confused ache in his head, and he’ll keep saying it. He’s fine. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.

It’s not fine.

Today, it’s so, so much worse. It’s been just over a week since Ari first took unwell, and Stede’s been— not great, but manageable, by his own estimation, but, now—

Now, Stede wakes up to his joints stiff and his muscles tight to the point of pain. His head is throbbing, his skin blazing, his hands clammy; when he pushes himself upright on the sofa, blinking the couple hours of sleep he managed to snatch out of his eyes, the room spins.

For a moment, Stede closes his eyes, breathing evenly, just trying to get a grip on himself.

Then, he scrambles out of bed, sprinting for their washroom and shoving the door shut behind himself as quietly as he can. It’s only a second later that he’s muffling a gag, his stomach turning inside-out.

Outside the door, he hears Ed call, “Stede? You okay?”

His voice comes from enough of a distance that Stede knows he’s still in bed. It gives him a second, at least.

Swallowing thickly, Stede gets himself under just enough control to call back, “Yes!”

It’s all he has the space for before he’s scrambling for their pot and heaving the entire bubbling contents of his stomach into it. He tries to keep himself as quiet as he can; it’ll just upset the children to hear it, and Ed doesn’t need to know. He’d just feel bad that Stede’s caught ill. He’s been insisting he would all week, anyways, and Stede can’t show his weakness now.

In all honesty, he doesn’t care if he’s acting foolish. He doesn’t, he doesn’t care at all. His mind has become addled by illness; all he keeps thinking is, Get up, get ready, go help them. Go help. Get up. You’re fine. Get up, get up, get up, you’re fine.

Though it takes him a couple of minutes, Stede manages to stop the unending retching. His stomach is still unsettled, and his throat aches, but he sits there, swallowing thickly, for another few moments before he decides he’s steady enough to get back out there and get to work for the day.

His legs shake under him, limbs trembling. At the wash-basin, through the looking-glass, Stede can see he’s drained of color, clammy and pale, haggard-looking. There are exhausted bruises under his eyes. Hectic splotches of feverish red are patched across his cheeks.

A knock comes at the door, and Stede jumps so viciously, cloudy head spinning, that his stomach lurches again.

“You sure you’re alright?” Ed asks.

Stede grips the basin beneath his hands, taking even breaths. He only allows it for another long moment before he pushes away, twisting for the doorknob.

When he looks up at Ed on the other side, he plasters a smile on, tells him, “I’m fine, darling,” before he starts fussing over him, asking, “And what do you think you’re doing out of bed? Go, get back in there, you need your rest—”

“I’m feeling loads better, love,” Ed tells him, looking down at Stede with a furrow to his brow. He catches Stede’s wrists in his hands, stops him from pushing him back towards the bed. “I don’t need to lay down. You, I th—”

“I am feeling fine,” Stede insists. “Have you checked on the children yet?”

“Kids are fine, too,” Ed says.

“Even—”

“Yeah, even Unu,” Ed tells him. “Don’t worry, mate. They don’t need you running yourself into the ground over this.”

They don’t need you twists about in Stede’s head, writhing, wrapping around his aching brain and tightening like a coiling snake, gripping him tighter, tighter, tighter. They don’t need you, Ed’s words echo in his mind.

Stede can’t explain the frustration that laces through him hearing that, or the pain, or the hurt. His clammy hands shake worse; he has to close his eyes to bite back the unexpected tears.

Above him, Ed starts to say, “Stede, love—”

In the next room, Louis calls, “Ari’s gonna throw up!”

Stede pushes from Ed in the next instant, all but running for the children’s room, and leaves Ed’s concern behind him, hoping it’ll vanish in his absence.

As it turns out, Ari does not throw up, which is probably for the best, because Stede hasn’t gotten tremendous control over his own stomach just yet. He is, however, still a bit needy, clinging to Stede the second he sees him again, and Stede doesn’t feel like his kids don’t need him, so he clings to Ari right back.

“I can help,” Ed offers, when Stede’s dressing the children, but Stede waves him off.

“You can help by looking after you,” Stede insists to him. “Get back in bed, my love, I’ll be there in a moment with water for you.”

True to form, Ed doesn’t listen, hovering over Stede while he prepares the children for their day. Alma and Louis refuse to be confined to their rooms any longer, now that they’re well enough to be mobile, and they take off shortly thereafter. In much the same way, Ed’s too restless to be stuck in bed another day, and he trails around after Stede. He helps him with Ari and Juno and Hako, he cleans up their quarters, he assists in tidying the ship, and Stede—

Stede tries not to feel hurt. He tries not to feel disappointed. He tries not to feel useless. Mostly, he just succeeds in feeling like shit, because what— what kind of person— what kind of father, or captain, or husband, what— what kind of person doesn’t want people to feel better?

I want them to feel better, he reminds himself, and finds it’s the truth. I just want them to love me a little bit longer.

His mind is clouded and confused and he doesn’t understand. Not completely.

The day—

The day is fucking awful.

It feels like it takes a week just to get through to the afternoon. Every minute that drags by is another minute where Stede feels atrocious. He tries to keep his spirits up, but he knows he’s flagging. He just— He knows it.

By the time dinner is rolling around, Stede can barely keep himself upright. His body won’t stop shaking, frequent trembles rolling through him like he’s shivering, but he’s on fire. His skin is aflame all over; sweat beads beneath his clothes, along his scalp, cooking him until he’s so uncomfortable in his own flesh that he wants to crawl right out of it.

Nothing will stay in his system; even water comes up the second he sips it, and he’d given up on that partway through the day. His chest is tight, his lungs heavy, his throat thick; his head feels impossibly congested, his skull throbbing, his face aching, all of it so intense that even his teeth hurt with it, jaw pulsating with the bolts of pain that radiate through his skeleton every other second. His stomach clenches around nothing; his body is shackled by exhaustion; his vision is going spotty.

Fuck. His vision is going spotty.

Sitting down at dinner with everybody else, Ari in his lap and Juno in her sling across his chest, Stede realizes his peripherals have started hazing out to blackness. He blinks, then blinks again, but it doesn’t change.

Looking around, Stede finds— a normal scene. Except for the blotches creeping into his vision, everything’s back to the way it should be. There’s a couple sniffles, here and there, and the occasional cough, but everybody’s so much better. He helped them, he healed them. And, now, everybody’s okay. Because of him.

In the back of his aching chest, Stede’s actually happy, he thinks. He’s so out of it he can’t even process being sick anymore, so he just— enjoys being happy.

At his side, Ed says, “You should eat something, love,” and his words sound like they’re coming from very far away, distant and watery and strange. When Stede turns to look at him, it’s like everything moves in slow motion; the room smears around him.

Ed’s concerned face comes into the center of Stede’s vision, then. He makes himself process what Ed’s just said, then frowns when his stomach flips at just the idea.

“I’m alright,” he tells him, but the words come out all mushed up. He frowns again at himself, brow furrowing, vision blackening further.

The worry on Ed’s face is breaking open into shock and deep anxiety, but Stede can’t even look at him anymore. He’s forgotten he’s even there a second later, his mind hazing out to nearly nothing, his body shaking all over.

Inside, his heart lurches against his ribs. He remembers, in one last heated blaze, that he has two children in his arms, and he cannot lose consciousness with them there. He just— He can’t.

“Would you?” he means to ask, but he’s not so sure the words actually come out coherently. He thinks he mostly just ends up pushing Ari and Juno off of himself towards Ed, and it makes him feel— feel awful, just— disgusting, that he can’t take care of his own children when he has to, that he can’t handle this—

In Stede’s mind, he just focuses on one thought, on one course of action, and puts everything he has into it, all of himself, all the coherence he has left: Get up, get out, get up, get out, get out, get out, get out.

Standing on shaky legs, Stede doesn’t even know if he says or does anything to indicate that he’s leaving. He tries to, but he’s so far out of his own body that he doesn’t even remember what he’s done the second he’s done it. All he knows is the thought circling in his mind— get up, get out, get up, get out— and so he follows it, obeying mindlessly, feeling like he might die if he doesn’t, but— Honestly, like he might die if he does—

The room is a blur, and the door is a blur, and the hall is a blur, and then Stede is up on deck, looking at the moon above his head, and then he’s— not.

“Stede,” he thinks he hears behind him, but it’s mashed-up and far-away and the word doesn’t have any meaning, anyways. It’s just a sound, just something that Stede’s hearing while his body is giving up and sending him crumpling downward, vision tunneling until it’s all black and he can only hear muffled noises around him, banging and scraping and a shout, loud and bursting and explosive, and then there’s nothing at all.

When Stede starts to wake up, all he’s aware of is feeling awful.

His body is struck all over with sensations not unlike those from when he’d been hanged, or stabbed, or even the last time he’d been shot, but it’s sort of like— all of those things combined, and somehow unlike any of them at all. It’s a unique feeling, like he’s been run over by a team of horses, a rasping and horrible feeling that scrapes along his insides.

He must make some sound, because his lungs tighten and his throat stings and then there’s a hand on his face. Sighing, he relaxes; he knows this touch, knows the palm curving over his forehead, knows the fingertips dragging through his sweat-lank hair.

“Ed,” he breathes, and actually hears the word leave his mouth.

“I’m right here,” Ed says, somewhere above and beside him. “You just rest.”

Stede nods— or, tries to, anyways. If Ed is here, it can’t be all that bad. Ed wouldn’t let anything happen to him, he wouldn’t let him get hurt.

He fights it, for a moment, before he can’t anymore, and Stede lets himself get pulled back under, slipping into real sleep, this time, rather than unconsciousness. All he’s aware of as he falls is Ed’s hand still on him, stroking softly through his hair.

When Stede wakes up again, he’s reasonably certain he’s dead.

Groaning, he tries to sit up instinctively, but hands find his shoulders and guide him back down, pushing firmly enough that Stede understands it’s not a suggestion, but an instruction.

He feels marginally more aware than he had last time, though the last few days sort of all— smear together in his memory, same-seeming hours spent doing the same things. Taking care of crewmates, rocking his children to sleep, bringing spoonfuls of soup to Ed’s mouth— all of it is a blur, now. It’s just one big day, and he doesn’t remember how he got here, exactly.

What he does remember is that people are sick— that his crew is sick, that his children are sick, that Ed is sick— and he tries to get up again.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Ed’s familiar voice tells him above him.

His hands return to Stede’s shoulders, laying him back down again. Knowing Ed’s there gives Stede enough strength to blink his eyes, forcing them open, trusting that he’ll be right there above him.

Getting his eyes open brings sunlight into them, and the brightness lances through him, stabbing him in the skull. With a whimpered sort of moan, he collapses backwards again, slamming his eyes shut once more, one hand flying up to cover them as he wheezes.

“Hell,” he rasps, a spit-out scrape of a word that scratches through his lungs and along his throat on the way out.

“You said it,” Ed agrees. “Easy, love. Take it slow. You’ve been asleep for a little while.”

“What?” Stede asks. It comes out more as a blurry, bleary, ‘Whuh?’, but he thinks he gets his point across well enough.

Ed doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his hands cradle Stede’s face, sweeping thumbs under his eyes before he’s stroking his hair back again, sweeping it back in soft brushes.

“You fucking idiot,” Ed tells him, his words in direct contrast to his gentle touch and sweet tone. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Shifting, Stede readjusts himself in bed, trying to get as comfortable as he can. It’s not until he can move without wanting to vomit that he pries his eyes open again, squinting through the unnecessarily harsh sunlight to find Ed above him.

Ed, whose eyes are dark and bloodshot, and his face wan, and his expression strained. The look of him makes Stede’s chest ache worse than it already is, and he finds himself frowning up at him. The muscles in his face moving that way causes his headache to throb; he fights through the urge to close his eyes again so he can stay fixed upwards on Ed.

It’s a struggle, at first, but Stede manages to keep his eyes open and on him. It’s worth it, so— that makes it easier, for sure.

Stede clears his throat as best as he can. His voice is still rasping, but he’s at least slightly more coherent when he asks Ed, “Are you alright?”

Ed’s brow furrows before he laughs an incredulous sort of— huff of a laugh.

“Unbelievable,” Ed says, running one hand through his own hair, looking out the window with a half-hysterical shine in his eyes. When he glances back down to Stede, he tells him, “You’re fucking unbelievable, mate. You know that?”

“Sorry,” Stede apologizes, because that’s the tone Ed has when Stede knows he’s meant to actually apologize. He does it instinctively, before he processes what he’s actually saying. It’s only then that he asks, “What’d I do?”

“You maniac,” Ed says. It’s not much of an explanation, but it does make Stede huff a laugh that bruises the insides of his lungs. “What the fuck were you thinking, Stede? If you were even fucking thinking, because— Doesn’t fucking seem like it to me—”

Stede’s putting the pieces together bit by bit. Ed’s cursing and red-faced and upset, and Stede feels like hot fucking death, and he’s remembering dinner— whenever dinner was— and it all sort of adds up. Kind of.

“You can’t do that to me, Stede,” Ed says over him, voice heated and pained, and the last piece of the puzzle fits into place.

“Oh,” Stede says stupidly. His heart hurts a little bit. He remembers dinner, then, and he remembers seeing the moon and the stars above his head, so much brighter than they should’ve been, and now—

Now, he’s flat in bed, feeling like shit, and he can figure out what happened easily enough.

“I’m sorry,” Stede apologizes again, really meaning it this time. He hates when he sees this look on Ed’s face, and hates even more when he’s the cause of it. It’s rare Ed wears the expression; one of the last times, Stede thinks, was when he and Ari were captured, and his mouth runs dry just at the memory of it. His limbs ache with phantom pains as much as real ones, for a moment.

“Don’t be fucking sorry, man, just—” Ed exhales roughly, then scrubs his hand down over his face. His dark eyes turn back on Stede in the next beat, pinning him to the bed. “Just don’t fucking do that to me again, man. I thought you’d dropped dead, it was— fucking awful.”

It doesn’t seem like he’s exaggerating, with the way his hands are shaking and his eyes are shadowed. Stede feels his eyes burn with tears, absurdly, and he tries to fight them back.

“Aw, m— Don’t fucking cry,” Ed insists. “I’m sorry, I d—”

“No, I’m sorry,” Stede protests. He grapples for Ed’s hand, ignoring the pulsing ache in his muscles so he can tangle the fingers of both hands up with Ed’s, pulling him down towards him. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I—”

He tries to speak too many words, and far too quickly, and it sends him into a fit of coughing that seems to take hold of his whole body. His muscles seize, painfully tight; Ed helps him sit up, shifting him until he’s upright and rubbing his back until he can breathe again, chest heaving.

Slumping into Ed, Stede rasps, “I’m sorry,” and lets his eyes close for a moment, head resting on Ed’s shoulder.

Ed pulls him in closer, arm wound around him, kissing the top of his head. He shifts, then, and Stede can feel his cheek rub into his hair, Ed nuzzling in closer to him until he’s practically in the bed himself, holding Stede close.

“When’d you start feeling sick?” Ed asks him.

Stede flushes with heat— or, with more heat, flames added to the feverish fire already burning beneath his skin. It obviously won’t do to lie any longer, and so he admits, “At the beginning.”

A wounded noise punches up briefly from Ed before he can stop it, followed by a rough, “Stede.”

“I just wanted to help,” Stede insists to him. He’s learned his lesson, trying to speak slower, his tight throat and aching chest fighting to keep him quiet. “I m— You all felt so terrible. I wanted to help.”

Ed moves again, just enough to kiss the crown of Stede’s head.

“You helped plenty,” Ed tells him. “You shouldn’t help ‘til you’re fucking dying, man. It’s not fucking worth it, what the fuck?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Stede says, before he frowns and argues, “I am not dying—”

“Stede, when you—” Ed starts, then stops. His exhale then is shaky, a little watery, and he takes a beat before starting over with, “You didn’t see how you looked at dinner. It was like looking at your fucking corpse, it was— fucking awful, mate. Then— I don’t know, man, when you fucking just— passed the fuck out on me, I—”

His voice actually breaks, there, and the tears in Stede’s eyes finally slip free.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes again, his own voice cracking right down the middle. “Ed, I just— I just wanted to take care of you and help everybody and it felt so good to be able to help and I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just wanted to make su—”

His panicky words grow too quick once again, and he dissolves into another round of hacking coughing, wringing his chest inside out. The force of it makes him gag, and then he’s sick, but there’s nothing in his stomach to come up; Ed lurches for the pot beside the bed anyways, bringing it up under Stede’s chin, letting him clutch it close. Stede wonders absently why he already has this here, if there’s more he doesn’t remember from when he was sleeping— or, partly-sleeping, partly-sickly-unconscious, swimming in fever-dreams.

When Stede can breathe again without coughing or vomiting up bile, Ed takes the pot away, setting it safely aside. Rather than leave again, though, he wriggles his way right back into bed, fitting himself under Stede, tugging him into his lap.

“C’mere,” he says, his low voice rumbling in his chest, and Stede collapses right into him, melting apart on top of him, wrapping himself up in him.

Ed adjusts the both of them, then reaches down to grab for the quilt and tug it up over Stede’s shoulders.

“What about the kids?” Stede asks, voice quieter, now, and thicker. “Are th—”

“They’re fine,” Ed tells him. “Crew’s got ‘em. Jim’s in charge, they’ve got it.”

“I shoul—”

“You should shut the fuck up and lay down,” Ed insists, before Stede can even finish the second word. “They can handle it, and I can handle you. Fucking relax. Rest. That’s what you’ve been making me do for a week, yeah? You fucking hypocrite.”

Stede nods, face burning again, eyes welling up.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, tearful.

“Don’t be,” Ed says, before he insists, “Fuck, I’m— Stede, I’m sorry, I don’t—” He takes a breath, tells Stede, “I didn’t mean to snap at you, I don’t— Don’t cry. I’m so sorry, just—”

Twisting further into Stede, Ed wraps both arms around him, pulling him in tight. Stede drags the arm that’s trapped between them up, threading his fingers through Ed’s beard, settling on his chest, right over his heart.

Ed presses a rough kiss to the side of Stede’s head. Holding him tight, lips brushing his hair as he speaks, he tells him, “I was so fucking scared, Stede. You—” He huffs a wet half-laugh, though there’s not much humor in it. “It’s just the flu. You’re not supposed— It’s— Stede, I can’t lose you over something like this, I— You have to let me help you. Ple— Please.”

Hearing Ed bite out a ‘Please,’ like that, so broken and helpless and hurting, Stede just aches inside.

“I felt awful seeing you all sick,” Stede tells him, trying to keep his voice low and slow. It’s important he get this out; he doesn’t want to start coughing halfway through. “I wanted to help, but I didn’t… I didn’t want to stop. To stop helping. I— I finally felt useful. I felt awful. I just wanted you to feel better. I wanted to make you feel better, I didn’t want you to have to take care of me.”

Ed’s quiet, for a moment. The arm behind Stede shifts; his hand lifts up, fingers trailing through his hair, twisting locks around and around like they’re not greasy with illness and thick with sweat.

“Your head’s a real mess, isn’t it?” he eventually asks.

Stede huffs a surprised laugh. He’s pleased to find the laugh is real. Ed— Ed just makes him feel understood.

“Fair enough,” Ed continues, “since mine’s a fucking stew, but. Seriously, Stede?” He cradles the back of his head, pulls him in to kiss his temple. Against his fever-warm skin and sweat-damp hair, he murmurs, “I don’t need you to drive yourself into the grave just to feed me soup when I’m sick. We can feed each other soup.”

Sniffling, Stede laughs again, burrowing closer into Ed, trying to disappear into him. He’s so soft and comfortable and comforting. There’s nowhere he’d rather be right now.

“I’m sorry,” Stede repeats, before telling him, “I feel awful.”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Ed says. “Running yourself ragged with the fucking plague for a week’ll do that to you, won’t it, you fucking shithead?”

The way he says things like that is so fond, so affectionate, that Stede can’t help melting even further into him, eyes closing again, dissolving until he can pretend he doesn’t feel his disgusting, disease-ridden body anymore, wanting more than anything to just feel better. Ed’s the only thing that makes him feel better, right now.

“I love you,” Ed tells him, firm and direct and honest. “You gotta take better care of you, or I’m gonna fucking do it for you, Stede, I swear to fuck.”

Stede’s about to answer when he hears the beginnings of a cry from the next room, from a voice that he knows is Hector’s, and he starts to push himself instinctively. He’s not even thinking; he just moves towards the noise, basic functions taking over.

Ed grapples for him and pins him down, saying, “Oh, no, you don’t,” at the same time that Izzy calls from the next room, “He’s fine! Fucking stay in there!”

“What,” Stede breathes, shocked. Jerking his head up towards Ed, he asks again, “What—”

“I told you,” Ed says. “Everybody wants to help.” He manhandles Stede back down, bringing him back into his hold again, wrapping him up in his arms and quilts. When they’re snuggled in close again, he tips his head in the direction of the closed door to the children’s rooms. “Izzy’s in there with the twins. Lucius has Ari, and I think Alma and Louis are with Roach, right now. They’re getting a little sick of fish, mate. I think they’re going to snap.”

It’s more information than Stede was expecting. His cloudy head spins, for a moment, before he tries to focus himself on the points that matter most.

In the end, though, he ends up stuck on, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make everyone else d—”

He’s coughing again, and Ed rubs his back until he stops, propping him upright, keeping him close. It fucking hurts; Stede wants nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep until this is all over, until he feels normal again, until he can hear his baby cry in the next room and actually go to them without passing on his illness back to them or feeling like his organs are going to come out of his body in the process. His arms ache a little just for hearing Hector cry without being able to hold him.

“They wanted to,” Ed tells him, when Stede can breathe again. “You spent the last week making everybody feel better, love. They feel like shit that you’re all disgusting now. Let ‘em help, you deserve it.”

Stede’s chest stings a little, and he knows there’s more conversations ahead about what he did and why he did it and what he does and does not deserve, but it doesn’t fill him with dread. Discussions like those with Mary usually led to him wanting to turn himself inside-out, unable to be the person he thought she wanted him to be. Discussions like those with Ed always leave him feeling better, always help him understand himself in a way he hadn’t before, always aid in Ed better understanding him, too.

Right now, though, he can hardly think about any of that. He wants his children, and he wants to be healthy, and he wants to open his eyes without feeling like his stomach’s going to come out of his mouth, but he can’t have any of that, at the present moment.

“I’m sorry,” Stede says again, hoping that Ed understands everything he means for those words to encapsulate.

Ed kisses the top of his head. Softly, he says, “I know,” and Stede nods, turning his face into Ed’s chest. He gets a mouthful of beard, readjusts, and buries into him again. Though Ed huffs a laugh above him, he still tightens his grip, holding him close.

“When you’re feeling a little better,” Ed promises him, “I’ll bring the kids in. You’ll feel loads better.”

Stede nods against him, drowsing already. He falls back asleep to the pressure of Ed kissing the top of his head again, fingers drifting through his hair, stroking slowly, softly.

It takes several days after that for Stede to recover, but the roles have been completely reversed. Rather than one man taking care of six children and thirteen adults, there are now six children and thirteen adults taking care of just one man.

Even Juno and Hako help in their way, which is mostly keeping Stede company so he doesn’t completely lose his mind while he’s trapped in bed.

Though Stede is confined to bed for a week— five days until he can breathe and walk like he’s not going to collapse anymore, and two extra days as half-punishment, half-security, courtesy of Ed— it’s not the worst week of his life. Ed has lots of conversations with him, for one thing, and Stede just loves talking with him. Though some of what they discuss is about Stede— and why he did what he did, and his emotions about it, and all the things Stede knows he’s supposed to talk about and halfway regrets teaching Ed to talk about— they talk about loads of things.

Ed stays with him practically constantly. Crewmates filter through, some helping with Stede and some helping with the children, and Stede’s pleased by every visit. When he’s not quite so sick— and quite so contagious— Ed allows the children to come to him, too.

It’s nearly worth getting sick, when he can tuck himself into bed with Alma smashed into one side, Louis snuggled into the other, Ari sprawled across his chest, Juno in the bend of one arm, Hector tucked into his other elbow, and Ed above him, holding Stede— and their children, by proxy— in his lap.

Nearly. He resolves to do this again when he’s healthy, so he can properly enjoy it.

For now, he just quiets himself, listening to Ed read from the storybook he’s holding above Stede’s head, allowing his body to heal, surrounded by his family as they nurse him back to health, held by his family, held by his husband, held by his children, held, held, held.