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Chapter Text

It’s 5:12 am, and Stede Bonnet is halfway through his second cup of coffee. The commute to work isn’t far, but his mind has never quite gotten used to the dark drive. Something inside him still seems to insist that surely he should be asleep, even though he woke nearly two hours ago. He reaches over to adjust the radio volume, turning it up to just this side of too-loud-for-comfort.

“I don’t know if you saw this on twitter last night,” one of the morning show hosts says, “about Blackbeard and the million dollar bet?”

The other host mm-mms.

“Here it is, let me pull it up,” they go on. “So he quote-tweeted that article that came out over the weekend, about those viral tiktokers? And he said, actually I can’t say exactly what he said, if you get my drift, but—”

“I’ll get you with the bleep button.”

“Thanks. Quote, ‘[bleep] charlatans, the lot of em. It’s not entertainment anymore, it’s just [bleep] racketeering. I’ve got a million dollars says you can’t show me real supernatural or psychic powers. No, I’m not [bleep] kidding.’”

“He really likes the f-word, doesn’t he?” the second host laughs. But Stede has stopped listening. His coffee sits forgotten. He is wide awake.

“Well. Shit.”

“The fuck is this, Iz?”

Israel Hands sighs. “Hello, Edward.”

It’s a Thursday afternoon, just after lunchtime. All-Hands Talent Management is, as advertised, alive with activity. Especially since their star client has just shown up at the office unannounced. Edward Teach, the world-famous illusionist known to most as Blackbeard, has his hair tied up in a messy topknot and wears a sport coat over a hoodie, paired with a set of plum-colored joggers. The effect is surprisingly fashionable. He kicks Izzy’s office door closed.

“D’you see this shit?”

“Yes,” Izzy says, not even bothering to look up from the notes he’s jotting in his day planner.

Edward shoves his phone under his manager’s nose. “You’re not even looking.”

Izzy gives another world-weary sigh and glances at the proffered phone. “Yes. I saw it.”

“‘Not since the legendary Blackbeard’s early days,’” Edward quotes, using two fingers to enlarge the text on his phone as he reads, ‘has there been such an innovative, transformative take on the art of illusion.’”

Izzy finally looks up from his desk. “Edward—”

“‘Those familiar with Blackbeard’s work will remember his admittedly stunning acts of illusion; but even in the mad magician’s glory days, his work couldn’t hold a candle to the feats executed by this new batch of sorcerers.’”

“Ed—”

“‘One can hardly believe their eyes,’ Ed goes on, disdain dripping from every word, ‘The only rightful conclusion is that these superstars of the magic scene are harboring true supernatural talents.’ I mean, what a fucking load of bollocks.”

Izzy massages his brow. “Edward, of course it’s a load of bollocks. But that’s the nature of the entertainment industry. It’s a fickle game. Something new and interesting comes along, and the rest is forgotten.”

Edward plops down heavily into the chair across the desk, only to immediately sit forward again. “‘S not even entertainment, is it? Did you see the videos they’re talking about? It’s all done with… with fucking CGI or AI or what-the-fuck-ever. It’s not even proper fuckery. It’s racketeering, is what it is. Oh, that’s good, I’m gonna fucking tweet that.”

Izzy looks on as his client opens up twitter and starts to type. He knows better than to try to stop him from going off on social media. Part of Blackbeard’s appeal is his bad-boy mystique, and a few angry tweets will do nothing to damage his image. Still, Edward has corporate sponsors these days. A residency in Las Vegas. An entire goddamned empire built upon his impulsive back. Izzy closes the cover on his day planner, folding up the notes on this afternoon’s meetings.

“You’re old hat, Edward,” Izzy says, waiting for Ed’s fingers to come to a stop over his phone keyboard. “You’ve lost your fucking sparkle. Of course the public’s moved on to something else.”

For a moment, Ed almost looks genuinely hurt; a momentary pinch between the brows, a clench in his jaw. He sits back in his chair, letting the phone drop to his lap. “That’s not even what I’m… I don’t care about that bit, Iz,” he says, deflating a bit. “I don’t care that they’ve moved on from Blackbeard. I mean, fuck, I’m not 25 anymore, I’m too old for that vain shit.”

He worries a strand of loose hair behind an ear, more silver than black. “And fuck you, old hat,” he murmurs, picking his phone back up. “Fucking full of sparkle.”

Izzy shakes his head. “Like a fucking disco ball.”

“I just,” Edward starts, ignoring Izzy’s ire. “The business isn’t what it used to be. People don’t want to see a good old magic show anymore, they want to fuckin’ sit on their phones and let some little shit with video editing software convince ‘em it’s thaumaturgy. I don’t care that they don’t want to see Blackbeard, I care that… maybe the days of magic are done.”

Izzy clicks his pen a few times, working his jaw. “You should care,” he says.

“Mm?”

“I said you should care what people think about Blackbeard. You’ve got a fucking show in five hours and you’re sitting here in your sweats fucking tweeting about nonsense. You don’t care about any of it anymore, and it shows.” This argument is new, but the beats are familiar. They’ve been having a version of this disagreement for ages.

Ed finishes sending his tweet and stands to his full height. Even on his feet, Izzy is half a head shorter. Ed towers over him now, leaning both hands on his mahogany desk. “You’re right, I don’t fuckin’ care anymore. It was fun and now it isn’t. I’ll see you at 6.”

And with that, Blackbeard is gone.

— —

@TheBlackbeard [1:11pm]: Fucking charlatans, the lot of em. It’s not entertainment anymore, it’s just fuckin racketeering. I’ve got a million dollars says you can’t show me real supernatural or psychic powers. No, I’m not fuckin kidding.

Stede goes about his day as normally as he can, trying to put the whole Blackbeard business temporarily out of his mind. He can’t afford distractions, can’t afford to give his attention to anything but his work. And so he goes through the motions of his routine as carefully as he can, only pausing around 10 at his receptionist’s desk.

“Lucius, can I ask a favor?”

The young man, clearly not in the mood for whatever is about to be asked of him, breathes in deeply. Before he can open his mouth to make a snide remark, Stede cuts him off.

“It’s important.”

Lucius blows out a breath, runs a ring finger over his eyebrow. “Fine. But I’ve got a quick fit-in that needs to be seen—”

“Yes, good, fine, send them in,” Stede says, looking around at the smattering of people in his waiting room. He steps forward and lowers his voice. “I need you to find out how to get in contact with Blackbeard.”

The receptionist narrows his eyes. “Like, The Blackbeard? Like, smoking hot leather daddy magician Blackbeard?”

Stede colors. “Yes, I suppose so. Just… see if you can find his number. Or an email, or something.”

Lucius pulls a face. “Yeah, no, totally, should be easy.”

“Great,” Stede says, taking him at his word and already walking away. “Show them to room 3, please.”

Edward Teach has been Blackbeard for over two decades, but before he was famous, before the Vegas show and the private jet and the bodyguards, he was just a scrawny kid with a silk handkerchief. Illusion was something he could fall into, losing himself to the repetition of the tricks. Running a coin over and over his knuckles until the movement was fluid, seamless. Shuffling a deck of cards like a Blackjack dealer, first with two hands, then with one. Palming and pocketing and misdirection. He studied the white-gloved, tail-coated parlor magic of Cardini and Harry Blackstone and the stunning, larger-than-life feats of David Copperfield. He mastered sleight-of-hand, closeup magic, everything short of the death-defying acts of Houdini.

Over years of practice and care, and after employing his own engineering mind to the task, he’d curated his own unique style of magic. It’s fluid and beautiful, it’s grandiose and startling. His magic is thrilling to behold and nearly impossible to comprehend. It’s precisely why he takes issue with people peddling miraculous illusions. Magic isn’t just entertainment, it’s art. It’s a craft, finely honed. He’s dedicated more than half of his life to it.

After gaining attention and popularity in his homeland of Aotearoa and eventually choosing to move halfway across the globe to make his way in the Mecca of Magic that was Las Vegas, he met Israel Hands. Young, eager Izzy had been the perfect partner for his burgeoning career. Edward said jump, and Izzy asked, “through which hoop?”

But after two decades of fame and fortune, of bickering over corporate sponsorships and having his every moment produced to within an inch of its life, the lustre of show business had worn off for Edward. Izzy was able to build a successful talent management agency out of it with Ed as his star client, but no longer could they work peaceably together. Everything for Izzy was about profit. But Ed, who had come from nothing and couldn’t give less of a shit about the bottom line, hated feeling like he had sold out. He accepted the residency in Vegas because the magic shows were on his own terms, and he could make enough money to send back home as needed.

He just isn’t going to give a single other fuck to it than is necessary.

Ed’s car arrives at Luxor that evening promptly at 6pm. No sooner has he made it through the stage doors than Izzy comes out of seemingly nowhere, matching his step to Edward’s.

“Well, despite your best efforts,” Izzy says, “You’ve managed to stir up quite a bit of interest from the media with your fucking tweet.”

Ed shoves open the door to his dressing room, kicking aside a discarded jacket from the last performance that he forgot to hang up and send for dry-cleaning. With a huff, he sits at his vanity and gets busy applying his eyeliner. “Whatever it is,” he says, “I don’t want it.”

“NBC wants to make a show.”

“No.”

Izzy comes around to block Ed’s view of the mirror. “So does CBS, The History Channel, and Fox 45 Nevada wants an interview. Netflix wants a whole original reality show. Like Idol or Shark Tank. Think of it, ‘Blackbeard’s Million Dollar Bet.’”

Ed sighs, tossing his eyeliner down. “I don’t want to film another fucking TV show.”

“Edward, it would be great for your image.”

Ed stands and moves to his wardrobe, grabbing the purple lace shirt and black jacket combo that really makes his eyes pop. Izzy just follows, trying to hand him a plain white shirt instead. Ed pushes it away.

“Think about it,” Izzy goes on, “It’s been years since you’ve been on the air. Nobody under the age of 50 has cared about your act in ages, and now I’ve got James Corden’s people calling me up wanting you to face off against some tiktok fuck on The Late Show.”

Ed rounds on Izzy. “I don’t have to prove myself to anyone. Least of all you. Or James-the-Fuck-Corden.”

“You pledged a million dollars yesterday,” Izzy tries. “What was that about, eh? Where d’you think that money’s gonna come from?”

Ed is up and stalking out of the dressing room. “I was just bored, Iz.”

“Surprisingly, I’ve not had much luck in finding contact info for Blackbeard,” Lucius says. He leans against Stede’s desk, tapping at inhuman speed on his phone. “Tried to send a message through his twitter but the DMs are closed, did a quick google search and the best I could do was finding his management agency’s website. Looks like he’s managed by All-Hands Talent Agency, which is, like, is that intentional innuendo, or—”

“Yes, thank you, Lucius,” Stede says. “Not to derail that train of thought, but I would love to know about any ways in which you did have luck finding a way to contact him.”

Lucius holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, testy. Yes, they had a media contact form, so I fired off an email with ‘Urgent’ in the subject line, though admittedly I wasn’t very sure what to type as far as an inquiry went, so I just said we had an ‘urgent matter’ we’d like to discuss,” here he uses finger quotes, “and to please call or email us back ASAP. I left your number. And um. I did the rest of those intake forms. Left some files on your desk.”

Stede just chews his lip.

“Mkay,” Lucius says. “Anyway, do you have anything work-related you need me to do before I clock out for the day, or…”

“No,” Stede sighs, “that’s fine. Have a good night. Say hello to Pete.”

As soon as Lucius is gone, Stede records a forwarding message on both his office phone and cell. He leaves a note at reception just in case he is not back by Monday morning.

“Boss, some fancy bloke’s at the stage right door saying he needs to get in to talk to Blackbeard, says it’s urgent.”

Izzy frowns. “How’d he get past security? Is it the press?”

Ivan, a golden retriever of a man wrapped in a pitbull’s packaging, shrugs. “Don’t think so? He’s in, like, a nice suit thing.” He wiggles his fingers, possibly to indicate shimmer.

“Nevermind,” Izzy says. “Just tell him that Blackbeard’s not seeing anyone tonight, especially not people who try to barge past the guards.”

Ivan and Ed’s other bodyguard-cum-assistant, Fang, nod and set off together toward the stage right door.

The show is almost over, and Izzy can’t help himself staring out from the wing, mesmerized. Even after all this time, The Great Blackbeard is a sight to behold. His tricks are effortless, his presentation flawless. The audience is, as always, enraptured. Only Izzy is close enough to see the flatness in Ed’s eyes as he performs his final trick, ending it all in a split-second quickchange that leaves him decked in stunning purple lace.

Blackbeard leaves the stage to thunderous applause. Izzy follows, trying again to tempt him with offers from several new streaming platforms. The social media buzz is at a frenzy, he tries. The local press is here. Some bloke tried to get past security to get him at the stage door. Ed just says, “Not interested, Iz,” and shuts the door to his dressing room.

“You really want to pass this up, fine,” Izzy calls through the door. “Be my guest. But don’t come crying to me when Criss Angel has this theatre and you’re down at the bar doing card tricks for fucking pennies.”

“Fuck you, Iz,” Ed calls back. “That’s an outdated reference.”

Izzy scoffs and turns to go.

“I really must insist.”

It’s a high, enthusiastic, and utterly unfamiliar voice.

“Nah mate, sorry. This is as far as you get.” That from Fang.

“If I could just speak to him for a moment—”

“What’s this?” Izzy asks.

A harried-looking man stands just down the hallway, blocked from further entry by both Fang and Ivan. He’s dressed like he’s just come from the show, but has a travel bag slung over one shoulder.

“What’s in the bag?”

Fang and Ivan briefly part, letting Izzy into the middle of their huddle.

The man makes a face. “It’s just an overnight bag, nothing like what you’re thinking, I promise.”

Izzy huffs a humorless laugh. “You’ve no idea what I’m thinking. Who the hell are you?”

“Look,” the man says. “I just need to speak to Blackbeard. Or one of his people. Actually no,” he amends, “Just Blackbeard. Alone. It’s urgent.”

“Oh, you just need to speak to Blackbeard alone, urgently, do you?” Izzy says. “Well you can piss off, urgently, thanks. I believe you’ve been told once or twice already.”

The man draws himself up to his full height, which is not insignificant. Again, Izzy is dwarfed. “I’ll have you know that I just flew here, coach, I might add, because business class was booked up. And I’m on call this weekend, so I really must insist—”

“The fuck is all this racket?”

This from Ed, who peeks his head out into the hallway. His flowing grey hair hangs loose around his shoulders, and he’s dressed down into a favorite black hoodie.

“Nothing, Edward,” Izzy says. “Just some fucking twat who doesn’t understand the word ‘no.’”

“Actually,” the fancy man calls, “Edward, is it? It’s about your million dollar bet. And I need to speak to you about it. Right now.”

Ivan begins to bodily turn the man around by his shoulders. “Off you get—”

“Let him through, Iz” Ed says.

“Edward—” Izzy tries, but Ed just waves him off.

“Let him go, Ive.”

The strange man straightens his jacket and marches past Blackbeard’s crew in a huff. “Thanks for your help, Iggy.”

“It’s Izzy.”

“Whatever,” he says, following Ed into the dressing room. “I don’t care.”

The room is large, probably used for troupes of performers in its heyday. Now it’s swathed in black velvet curtains and deep indigo wallpaper. There’s comfortable seating, an entertainment nook complete with a large television, and the space is artfully messy, just a hair shy of chaotic. Ed closes and locks the door behind them and gestures to a couch against the far wall. He takes a seat opposite the man, who places his bag gingerly on the floor.

“What a rude little man,” he remarks.

“Shit, sorry about Iz,” Ed says. “What did he say to you?”

The man waves a hand. “Not so much what he said. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’m very sorry to have barged in on you like this, but it was important.”

He does look sorry. Now that Ed can get a proper look at him, he squints a bit, trying to gauge what he can about him. He comes up blank. The man is dressed nicely, in a beautiful jacket and clearly tailored slacks. The man trails Ed’s eyes and looks down at his own suit, smoothing invisible wrinkles.

“No worries, mate,” Ed says. “Don’t mean to be rude, but, who are you?”

The man swallows. “My name is Stede Bonnet.”

“Nice to meet you, Stede. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve come to ask you to please rescind your million dollar bet.”

Ed didn’t expect that. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry?” He asks. “Why would I do that?”

Stede swallows. “Because, as a member of the psychic and sensory community, you’ve just put my life in danger.”

Chapter Text

The fuck?

“Sorry?” Ed says, sure he’s misheard.

Stede just sighs, leans forward on the couch. “I know it sounds silly, but it’s real, and your whole challenge has really put us all in a bit of a pickle.”

Ed waves his hands in front of him. Hold up, back it up just a tic. “Did you say you’re psychic?”

“That term is rather outdated,” Stede replies, face solemn as a stone. “I think mind-reader would be more apt, though the term we use is ‘Sensor.’”

Ed squints.

“No, I’m not joking,” Stede adds, almost like he’s… read Ed’s thoughts.

“Fucking hell, okay,” Ed says. “Obviously I’m gonna say, ‘prove it,’ and you’re gonna spout something off, and this is gonna end in us negotiating over a million dollars. Should I have a lawyer present?” he asks, “Or a scientist, or something…”

Stede shakes his head. “No no, you’ve got me all wrong.” He leans back in his seat, blows out a breath. Scrubs his hands over his face, then makes sure his golden curls are still coiffed. “I went about this entirely the wrong way. Let me start again."

He ticks off his thoughts on his fingers. "Preternatural abilities do exist. Some people can sense people’s thoughts, like me. Some people have telekinetic abilities. Some people experience prophetic visions. We’re called Sensors, and we exist all around the world. And we don’t need anyone knowing about us.”

By this las bit, his voice is deep and deadly serious.

Either the bloke is really psychic, Ed thinks, or he’s a fucking looney. Maybe he should call Fang and Ivan back in, just in case.

“No need to call for backup,” Stede says. “I promise you I’m harmless. I just needed to ask you to please retract your bet.”

Ed leans forward in his seat. “What number am I thinking of?”

Stede rolls his eyes. “Seven.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Ed says. “Seven’s got to be the most common number people think of.”

“Well I didn’t think it, you did!” Stede argues.

“Fuck, okay. What am I thinking of right now?” Ed asks, trying to clear his thoughts and hone in on something specific. It’s a challenge.

“Hard to say,” Stede begins, and Ed scoffs. “No, I’m serious! Reading a mind is like… learning a language. It’s not just words in there, it’s all manner of stuff. And every mind is different. No single piece can be interpreted, it’s an art. You’ve got to… decipher moods. Piece together disparate thoughts. Recognize preferences and patterns. Wade past song lyrics! I mean, for example, this entire time, you’ve had about a five second clip of a song in your head, just repeating over and over.”

“Shut up,” Ed says. “What is it?”

“I don’t know the song,” Stede says, “But it goes like,” he clears his throat. “Give a little respeeeect,” he warbles, “tooooooooo meeeee.”

“Fucking hell,” Ed sits back in his seat. It’s the chorus to an Erasure song that’s been stuck in his head all goddamned day. Maybe he was humming it or something.

“You’re feeling conflicted,” Stede goes on. “Part of you wants to believe me, most of you still thinks I’m bonkers. You’re replaying a conversation you had with your manager earlier, something about sparkles. And you’re hungry. Starving, in fact. And your left foot itches.”

Ed has his hands steepled in front of his mouth, the offending foot bouncing up and down over his right knee. He blows out a long breath.

“Let’s say I believe you," he says, and Stede nods, having the decency to not look too smug about it. "What do you want? Do you want the money?”

Stede shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I don’t need money, and I especially don’t need the publicity.”

His head suddenly whips around, eyes trained on the door. “Sorry, that Iggy is coming this way and he means to barge in, would you mind—?”

“Door’s locked,” Ed says, and sure enough, a few moments later they both hear angry footsteps headed their way, followed by a sharp rap on the door.

“Edward, you alright?” Izzy calls, jiggling the door handle.

“‘M fine, Iz,” Ed says, eyes never leaving Stede.

“I can send the boys in—”

“I said I’m fine!” Ed calls.

“Bloody hell,” Izzy rasps. “Call if you need anything.” And then he’s gone.

Stede’s face is open, plaintive, a bit sheepish.

“I er,” Ed begins, floundering a bit. “I don’t know what to think, if I’m honest.”

Stede nods. “That’s fair. Take your time with it. But please, consider retracting your bet.”

“What’s the big deal?” Ed asks. “If you exist, er, you know, people like you,” he gestures helplessly. “Shouldn’t you be out there conquering the world right now?”

He laughs, and Stede just gives a sad smile.

“It’s a bit of a long story,” he says. “Do you have some time? Or…”

Ed stands, stretches, catches Stede peeking at the bare strip of his stomach. Interesting. “Yeah, mate,” he says, “But can we grab some food? I’m—”

“Starving,” Stede finishes. “Absolutely. Let’s get… Thai.” As if he were merely suggesting it. But Ed suspects… (knows?) that Stede has just divined the very cuisine Ed was craving.

“Sounds perfect.”

Izzy tries to insist on joining them, but Ed waves him off on the condition that Fang can drive him to the restaurant, and then promptly drive him home afterward. Ed offers Stede a ride with them. He graciously accepts.

They’re steadfastly silent on the way to the restaurant.

It’s a favorite of Ed’s, just off the strip. Open late, and with a more private seating area in the back for their higher-end clientele, it’s the perfect spot for this covert dinner with Stede. Plus, they’ve got a Pad See Ew that’ll knock your socks off.

Ed says as much as soon as they’re seated.

“I’ve never had it, but, mm,” Stede trails off, closing his eyes. “Oh, that does seem delicious.”

Ed colors, realizing he must be telegraphing his craving for it, reliving the taste of it in his mouth. Fucking mental.

They order two plates, plus a roast duck appetizer. Stede orders a Thai Iced Tea, and sips at it daintily.

He jumps right in after the waitress has left their table. “Not very much is known about Sensors. We’re a very private community, very secretive. Out of necessity, you understand.”

Ed’s shovels half of the roast duck onto his plate. He waits to swallow before answering. “Think so, for safety, you mean?”

“Right you are,” Stede says. He tidily cuts the duck into small bites. “Just think of what could happen if the world knew about us. We’d be imprisoned, sold to the highest bidder on the black market. Taken over by hostile governments, wanting to use us as weapons of war. We’d be science experiments. I mean, imagine what happened in the middle ages when they thought you were a witch, but with more guns. And the internet.”

Ed ruminates on this for a while as he chews. Stede has a point. The possibilities for someone with extra-sensory powers would be boundless. They could rule the world… or they could destroy it.

“So, why the urgency? If it’s such a big secret, seems like nobody with true powers would give themselves up?”

Stede uses a fork to point at Ed. “So you’d think. And so I’d hope. But all it takes is one reckless person. Someone with nothing to lose, someone who needs the money desperately. See, the Sense runs in families. I don’t know where mine came from, I don’t think either of my parents would have talked about it even if they’d had it. I suspect an Aunt who mysteriously ‘went away’ in her youth, probably institutionalized. Even so, most Sensors have someone older and wiser who can teach them from a young age to keep it secret, not make too much of a fuss over it, not abuse their senses, and so forth.”

Ed nods him on.

“But… then there are kids like me, with repressed, highly religious parents.”

Ed winces in sympathy.

“I know,” Stede says. “And then what of orphans? Kids adopted into new families, or never adopted at all. Surely there are scores of children growing up in foster care or group homes, never having an elder Sensor to tell them what’s what. All it would take is for one of those kids, one of those poor souls to hear about your million dollar bet and come forward.”

Ed chews this over, both metaphorically and literally. “S’pose you’re right,” he says.

Stede just nods solemnly.

“So you’re really psychic?” Ed asks. “A Sensor, or whatever?”

“Afraid so.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Indeed.”

Ed scrutinizes Stede’s earnest face, his immaculate hair, his well-manicured hands. “What do you do for a living?” he asks, more out of personal curiosity than anything.

Stede relaxes a bit. “I’m a pediatrician,” he says. “I specialize in children with developmental delays, particularly in speech or hearing.”

“So… non-verbal kids?” Ed asks, and Stede nods. “That’s… fucking beautiful, mate.”

Stede smiles softly. “Thank you, it’s… rewarding work. My son, Louis, was non-verbal for the first five years of his life, and… well. As you can imagine, it was difficult for him, but nowhere near as difficult as it is for other children like him. I was already practicing pediatrics at the time, but I realized that with my particular talents, I could be of much more service to children with special needs.”

Ed can only stare.

“Listen to me, going on and on,” Stede says, though surely he can hear, can sense how intrigued Ed is.

“Nah, mate,” Ed says.

They’re both silent for a long moment. The food is eaten, his wine is long since gone, and there's nothing left to focus on but Stede. Ed doesn't mind.

“I get what you’re saying, about retracting the wager,” he says, after a time. “And I want to help you. But, won’t it look a bit weird if I go back on it now? ‘Nevermind, I don’t want to see your superhuman powers, only joking.’”

Stede twists his mouth in thought. “You could always wait a tic, ignore any serious inquiries and just say that nobody proved themselves to you. Or better yet,” his face lights up. “You’re famous, right? Why don’t you film a TV special or something, really sell it?”

Ed snorts. “You know, my fucking manager’s been coming to me all day with offers. They want specials, reality shows, interviews.”

“That’s great!” Stede insists.

“The fuck it is,” Ed scoffs. “Fucking hate produced television.”

“So do a live performance!” Stede says. “One night only, in front of a live audience. Just like your stage show. You can pre-screen contestants, make sure no real Sensors slip through. You put on a hell of a show, and at the end you can say, ‘well, you’re great illusionists, but none of you are psychic!’ It’s a win-win.”

Ed mulls this over. “And what about the million dollars?”

Stede shrugs. “You donate it, live on air. Give it to a children’s charity. No one can be mad if you donate the money to sick kids.”

Ed twirls his wine glass, eyes locked on Stede. “You’ve really thought of everything, haven’t you?” he asks. He tries to convey admiration instead of judgment.

Stede gives a small, uncertain smile.

"Alright, fuck," Ed says. "I'll text Izzy, tell him to handle it." He already has his phone in hand, tapping out a message.

Stede beams. "That's wonderful, Ed," he says. "Thank you. I've got a few good recommendations for children's health organizations that could really use the money. And I'll even match the donation," he adds. "Anonymously, of course."

Ed pockets his phone, unsure if he’s heard correctly. “You’ll—”

“Match the million dollars. Lord knows I don’t need it,” Stede says, mostly to himself.

Ed stares. “I have so many fucking questions.”

This surprises a laugh out of Stede. “Shoot.”

“First of all,” Ed says, “How the fuck do you not know Erasure? I mean, where were you in the 80s, man, under a rock?”

Stede laughs again, bright and open. Ed drinks it in.

“I’m afraid I spent most of the 80s and 90s trying very hard to be straight,” Stede says.

Ed fucking giggles, and soon they’re both laughing together. Maybe the wine’s gone right to his head, but he doesn’t think so.

"Are you," Ed wiggles his fingers around his head, "y'know, doing the thing? Right now?"

Stede seems to know what he means. "It's impolite to eavesdrop.”

Ed leans back in his seat, stretching out a bit, flipping his long hair over one shoulder. "I don't think I'd mind," he says, and a moment later Stede is blushing.

He looks around, checks his fabulously expensive watch. “Looks like we’ve closed the place down.”

“Looks like,” Ed says. It wouldn’t be the first time, and he knows the staff doesn’t mind. He tips well enough.

“I’ve got to try to get some shut-eye, unfortunately,” Stede goes on. “Got an early flight.”

Ed scrunches his brow. “Where do you live, man?”

“Florida,” Stede says.

“Fuck. What time’s your flight?”

“In about,” Stede looks at his watch again, “five hours.”

“Double fuck,” Ed says.

“Nah, it’s not so bad, I usually get up for work around that time anyway.”

“Right. You’re a fuckin’ doctor.”

Stede half-smiles. “I am.”

Stay, Ed wants to say, but doesn’t.

It isn’t until later that he realizes Stede must have heard the thought anyway.

Chapter Text

“What the fuck was that all about?”

It’s Saturday morning. Ed’s kicked back on his couch at home, Izzy’s raspy voice coming through the speaker while he types away on his phone.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ed says, ignoring Izzy’s grumbling. “Here’s the deal, Iz. I’ll do your fucking special. I don’t care which network. But I have conditions.”

He pauses to take the call off speaker. With the phone wedged between his cheek and his shoulder, Ed ticks his points off on his fingers to better remember them.

“Number one: one night only. And it’s live. I don’t want to deal with a whole fucking production. It’s one-and-done, that’s the deal.”

“Fine,” Izzy says. “What else?”

Ed lists off the rest of his demands, including that however they screen contestants for this show, he wants a member of their team on the selection committee. He just doesn’t mention that he wants that person to be Stede. Too much that he can’t explain, even if he wanted to. They’ll cross that bridge when they get to it.

“And another thing,” he says, “we don’t bring on any contestants just to make fun of ‘em. None of that fucking American Idol shit.”

Izzy makes a sound of agreement over the phone. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Leave me the fuck out of it,” Ed says. “Just handle it.”

“Are you gonna tell me what that was about, last night? With that... posh fuck?” Izzy asks, unable to help himself. After all, before they were business partners, he and Ed were friends. And, Ed suspects, Izzy always wanted to be more.

“None of your business, Iz,” he says. And if he makes it sound a bit more suggestive and tantalizing than necessary, well. Sue him.

When they hang up, Ed resumes his research. In the haste to get Stede to his hotel the night before, Ed forgot to ask for his number. He’s spent the last half hour trying to find him online. He’s not on the usual social media channels, as far as Ed can tell. But he finally has some luck googling “pediatrics” and “Stede Bonnet,” and lo and behold, there’s the site for Sunshine Pediatrics in Florida. In a Meet Our Care Providers section, Stede’s smiling face shines up at him, the top half of his torso clothed in a white doctor’s frock, his curls immaculate as always. Ed grins to himself as he dials the phone.

He gets a recorded message, which, right, it’s Saturday. Apparently they keep regular business hours. A flamboyant male voice thanks him for calling Sunshine Pediatrics, and asks him to please call back during business hours, or to leave a message. Ed waits for the beep, grunts out, “Er, this is… Ed. If Doctor Bonnet could call me back…”

He leaves his number.

“Um, Stede, some frankly sexy-voiced man left a call-back number for you over the weekend?”

“Was it that rep from Wolfson’s Children’s Hospital, or—”

“No. What? No! Steven? Eugh. No, he said his name was—”

“Ed, fuck.”

“Ermmm, gonna need some details here, Stede.”

“Just that number, if you would, please, Lucius. Thank you. And the patient in room two is going to need a referral…”

Edward floats through the weekend’s three shows, feeling light and unbothered. Izzy seems to notice when he comes round for a meeting, taking Ed’s demeanor for renewed enthusiasm about his career. He pelts him with details about the upcoming TV special to which Ed only halfway listens, piping up now and then with tidbits like, “Yeah, pyrotechnics are cool,” and, “just make it a spectacle.”

Come Monday morning, he’s restless and itchy with anticipation. His whole worldview has been turned on its head and he still has so many questions. What else can Sensors do? Is anybody famous harboring secret powers? Does he know them? Has he slept with them?

He’s just about crawling out of his skin by lunchtime, when his phone finally rings.

It’s Stede.

“Ed,” he says, voice delighted but cautious. “My receptionist said that you rang? What can I help you with?”

So strangely formal. It doesn’t match at all with Ed’s fevered thoughts. “Can you,” he starts, “are you able to do the sensing thing through the phone?”

Stede laughs. There he is. “Doesn’t work through phone lines, I’m afraid. Rather like some of the other five senses in that regard.”

“Makes sense,” Ed says, and, emboldened, adds, “I was just wondering if you had any plans for dinner.”

There’s a pause. “I, erm,” Stede says. “I was going to warm up some leftovers?”

“Great. Can I pick you up? We can eat whatever you’re in the mood for this time.”

Another pause. “Ed, I’m in Florida—”

“I know,” Ed interrupts. “I’ll take the jet. Fang can come along and give us a ride.”

“You’re mental,” Stede says, but he sounds charmed.

“Guilty. What time do you get off work?”

They exchange some details, namely their cell numbers and Stede’s address. Ed gets Fang on the phone, asks him how he’d like to pop over to Florida for a bit, telling him no, he’s not sure how close it is to Disney World, actually, but to feel free to take the car out while he’s at dinner, and if he happens to run across a theme park, he can go nuts. Ed’s treat.

Ed takes the time to tidy up his facial hair (trimmed but still rugged) and don a lightweight suit jacket with no undershirt that really shows off his coppery skin and chest tattoos. They make it to a small regional airport near Stede in just under two hours.

Fang rents a sleek Suburban and they’re soon on their way, Stede and Ed texting back and forth the whole way.

Can’t believe you flew here, you nut.

I’ve got nothing but time on mondays, you’re basically doing me a favor

Yes, but your carbon footprint, Ed! Think of the turtles!

I’ll buy a new wing at the aquarium or some shit. Almost there.

He doesn’t know if this is a date. He just knows that he really fucking wants it to be.

Stede looks gorgeous in a salmon-colored suit, and has a pretty blush to match when he catches Ed thinking it. They’re driven by Fang to a cozy place on the water. Ed gets a few stares, but it’s nowhere near the frenzy of fan attention he gets in Vegas. It’s comfortable here, he decides, though the humidity is fucking killer.

“If you think it’s bad now, just wait until Summer,” Stede says, picking the train of thought right out of Ed’s head.

Ed nearly chokes on his cocktail.

“Sorry,” Stede winces, “you said you didn’t mind, so…”

“No, I fuckin’ love it, mate,” Ed assures him, as soon as he’s able to catch his breath. “It’s fascinating.”

He peppers Stede with questions over a platter of fried calamari. "So, how does it work? The whole mind-reading thing? Were you born with it, did you always know you had it? The Sense, I mean."

"Well," Stede considers, taking a sip of his Mai Tai. He holds the glass with an unironic outstretched pinky. "I suppose I have always had the Sense. It's hard to know if I've had it from birth, but I do remember picking up on things as a child, like my mum's illness, even though they meant to keep it from me."

"Sorry to hear that," Ed says, and Stede waves him off.

"Long time ago. I don’t remember much about my mother, unfortunately,” he goes on. “And I was raised primarily by my father and stepmother, who were very religious and very strict. I was a bit too much of everything for them. Too loud, too inquisitive, too much of a pansy, I fidgeted too much. So them saying 'stop that squirming!' was really no different from telling me to stop saying such ludicrous things about mind reading."

"Fuck," Ed says.

Stede grimaces. "Yes. Fuck, indeed.”

The pair are silent for a moment, and Ed suspects that Stede is reading his frame of mind, sensing the color of his thoughts.

“Sorry to bring down the mood,” he says. “The Sense really is a gift, and I'm so glad to have it. Plus, my father's dead now, so."

He lifts his glass in mock toast, and Ed heartily clinks his own cocktail. "Cheers to that, mate."

Stede describes the better parts of his past, like how he discovered things about the other Sensors from thorough research at the library, and later, through online forums. He answers Ed's questions about celebrities— "None that I know of," politicians— "god, I hope not. Can you imagine?"

They're through the entire meal before Ed realizes any time has passed. And throughout it all, he wonders if this was a date. If Stede would like it to be a date.

“People’s minds,” he’s telling Ed, “are completely unique to the individual, like voices and faces. No two brains seem to process information the same way.”

He’s animated and passionate when he gets like this, leant forward in his seat and talking with his hands. Ed is so charmed he could perish.

“Just think of all of that data you’re taking in every moment. There are infinite combinations of ways that your neural pathways can interpret that data. It’s really quite fascinating.”

Ed can only make a sound of agreement, entranced as he is.

“And yours, Ed,” Stede goes on, perhaps encouraged by whatever positive signals Ed’s putting out there. “Gosh. Most interesting mind I've come across in ages."

This takes Ed a bit by surprise. "How so?"

"Well, there's just so much going on, isn't there?"

Ed scoffs. You can say that again.

"The music! You've got whole bands performing up there. You feel things so deeply, picture things so vividly! And you're so clever, Ed. Your brain is like… like a series of complex puzzles that I can't wait to figure out."

Once more, the thought runs across Edward’s mind, almost unbidden. Is this a date?

"It is,” Stede says, “if you want it to be."

— —

Text to Fang [7:13 pm]: go find disney world. Come get me in the morning.

Lovely as it is caught up in Stede’s soft-as-hell sheets (“Egyptian cotton, and damn well expensive”), Ed knows he can’t stay. Stede wakes up early as fuck for work, which is around the time Ed would normally be going to bed. Thank god for timezones.

Stede stays in bed for longer than he probably should, just gazing at Ed, who lies back and lets him look, lets him sense him in every way that he can.

After a moment, Stede just closes his eyes and hums.

“It’s never been like that before,” he says, wonderingly.

Ed doesn’t ask, doesn’t need to know if he means the sex or the way he’d understood everything that Ed needed, and Ed had returned that gift in spades with anything Stede never knew he’d wanted.

Ed reaches out and combs his fingers through Stede’s curls, fitting a couple back into place. “You’re gonna be so fucking tired,” he says.

“Worth it,” Stede says.

Ed can only agree.

Far too soon, Stede has to leave, but he tells Ed to stay, to go back to sleep and make himself some coffee.

“And,” he says, hopefully, “maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

Ed snorts. “Stede,” he says. “Read me right now, see if I’d like to see you again sometime.”

Stede closes his eyes again, uttering a soft oh.

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Ed says, and kisses Stede until he has to drag himself away with the promise of next time.

It can’t come soon enough.

Chapter Text

They’ve set a date for the TV special, and even settled on a name: Unmasking the Supernatural with Blackbeard, a one-night-only live event. The PR team is on the case, booking Ed for new publicity photos, setting up interviews, and screening his mentions online. Thousands of people have already reached out wanting to show off their skills and supposed abilities. The network is quick to release an open casting call. “Get the best of the best,” Ed says to everyone and no one. “Let’s put on a good show.”

He means it to be his last.

It’s a freeing thought, really. He hasn’t enjoyed magic much since it became such a job, all of the artistry and nuance lost somewhere along the way. And besides, only being able to fly to visit Stede once a week is putting a serious damper on his mood.

They haven’t put a name to it, this thing between them. But there’s something so enchanting about being with someone who knows your every thought, your every inclination. It’s not that Stede indulges him in everything; on the contrary, Stede seems to use his power extremely judiciously, only entertaining Ed’s whims in a healthy, equitable way (“I can see you’re in the mood for sushi, but I’m feeling something a bit more hearty… tell you what, why don’t we compromise and go to Sunset Grille? They’ve got a dynamite California roll there, and I can get a blackened pasta. Sound good?”)

It’s a few weeks before they’re ready to start screening contestants for the show. Ed gets a bit of resistance from the production team when he says he wants a completely unknown doctor on the panel. “He’s an expert in… brain… stuff,” he hedges to some network exec on a Zoom meeting. They end up conceding on the condition that Blackbeard himself will be on the selection panel as well, and the production team comes away feeling like they’ve gotten the better end of the deal. It’ll be an excellent opportunity to film for B-roll or pre-show teasers. Ed waves it all off, tells them to talk to his manager about it. He doesn’t care, as long as Stede’s part of the process.

He asks Stede about joining the panel over the phone one day, knowing that it’ll be hard to work around his schedule.

“I’m a bit hesitant to be filmed, if I’m honest,” Stede says.

Ed hums. “That’s fair. What if… maybe we can have you as a pre-pre-screener? Sort of prior to the actual selection process. Would you be able to tell if someone had the Sense? If you met ‘em in person?”

“Oh yes,” Stede says. “Especially if they’re another mind-reading sensor like myself. Picture a hall of mirrors, but inside your head.”

Ed winces, picturing it. “Sounds like a headache.”

“Nah, it’s not that bad. Bit of an echo chamber at first, but you get used to it. My daughter, Alma, has the Sense, too. We work together well, she and I,” Stede says. His voice is soft, fond.

He’s mentioned his kids a few times, and Ed wants to know more, is eager to learn all about this bizarre little man and his family, the past that led him to where he is today. He’s not even afraid of moving too fast or scaring Stede off. After all, he’s a completely open book to Stede, and if anything were going to put him off, it would have been that first night when he flew thousands of miles just to take the man out to dinner. But Stede keeps calling him back, keeps welcoming his random visits. Always has an easy smile for Ed, a kind and gentle embrace, a sweet and soft kiss.

“I’d love to hear all about her,” Ed says. “Alma. And Louis. And your ex-wife.”

“Mary,” Stede offers.

“Mary. All of ‘em. When I see you next.”

“We can wait until this selection panel thing happens, save you a trip down here,” Stede says.

“Like hell we can.”

They make a plan, that the selection process can happen on a weekend. Stede will just need advance notice— enough time to be sure that another doctor can take over at the children’s hospital where he’s usually on call.

Ed gets Izzy on the case, telling him to negotiate for a weekend shooting schedule. He keeps it vague, but Izzy can read him like a book, can parse Ed’s moods almost as well as Stede can.

His manager is not altogether happy about the situation with Stede, what with Edward flying off once or twice a week, going god-knows-where and taking little caution when it comes to his safety. Ed mollifies him at every turn with grander and more extravagant assurances, promising that yes, he’ll start booking worldwide gigs again, and yes, he’ll take some of those hosting opportunities he’s been shaking off for years.

He doesn’t mean any of it, but he’s not under a fucking life-long contract. He can figure it out.

It’s what he keeps telling himself.

The selection panel is a week away when Stede gets a page from the nurses’ desk on the fourth floor of the hospital. He’s just been making the rounds, checking in on patients, and monitoring everyone’s moods and thoughts. He doesn’t necessarily have to be on the premises of the pediatrics wing when he’s on call, but on weekends when he doesn’t have his kids, it’s a heartening way to spend his time.

He can Sense Ed before he sees him, hear the trickle and ebb of his thoughts like a rushing stream, feel the heartbeat of emotions that pulse through him. It takes his breath away, a bit.

Ed has eschewed his usual extravagant garb for a simple purple top and dark jeans, and the outfit, like everything he wears, suits him marvelously. He’s flanked by Ivan and Fang, who hang back a bit, both unsure what the procedure would be if Blackbeard were somehow mobbed at a hospital full of sick children. Stede can’t help but chuckle a bit to himself as he peeks in on their uncertainty.

Ed is unusually sheepish when he spots Stede, his normal bravado hidden behind a pastel layer of timidity that isn’t usually there.

“Sorry to just show up at your work like this,” he says. “Just couldn’t wait to see you.”

Stede smiles softly. He wants to kiss him silly.

“Not to worry,” he says, wanting to assuage Ed’s anxiety. “I’m glad you’re here. Just, I’m still on call, so we can go down to the cafeteria if you’d like—”

“Whatever works, mate,” Ed says. “Don’t let me get in your way. Unless,” here that bashfulness creeps into his thoughts again, but Stede can sense what he’s thinking, and it’s delightful.

He lets Ed finish his thought.

“D’you think any of the kids might enjoy seeing some magic tricks?”

Ed dismisses Fang and Ivan, assuring them that he can handle himself in the unlikely event that an onslaught of fans might mob him in the pediatric ward. He dons a face mask and washes his hands before trailing Stede down the corridor, letting the Doctor pause to listen outside doorways, using his Sense to determine who might be up for a visit.

They stop in to a few different rooms, some of which have family members present. Generally, everyone over the age of 25 is incredibly thrilled to see him, with the kids coming round as soon as he breaks out his trusty deck of cards or finds a shining coin behind an ear. Their smiles are blinding.

Ed spends a few minutes with each child that he can, tearing and restoring dollar bills, making fluttering butterflies out of paper. He signs a few autographs and hugs a lot of parents. He cries a bit. He’s happier than he’s been in ages.

After a few hours, Stede takes him for lunch in the cafeteria downstairs. He’s not really on a lunch break—there aren’t any breaks when you’re on call—but he’s taken a little pause for Ed.

They split a giant blueberry muffin and drink flavorless tea. Ed can’t stop grinning.

In lieu of trying to express his swirling thoughts, he simply sits across from Stede, opens himself up to the reading he knows the man is hesitantly waiting to perform. He smiles softly.

Hi, he thinks, and Stede smiles back.

”Hi,” Stede whispers.

Ed lets his mind go, lets it wander its complex and lovely paths for a while. He gives Stede his contentment, his ease, the warm and solid ache he’s gotten just from sharing this experience with him. He bumps his boot up against Stede’s beneath the table, lets it stay there. The world around them fades away, and for a moment, it’s just the two of them.

They sit that way for a time, and Ed closes his eyes, imagining he can feel Stede’s presence there inside his mind. It’s an intimacy unlike any he’s ever known.

“Sometimes,” he begins, almost afraid to break the spell. “I wish I could read you. I want to know your mind. The way you know mine.”

Stede’s smile is wistful.

“You know,” he says. “I’ve spent my whole life watching as people say one thing even as they’re thinking something completely different. It’s… difficult, sometimes. Discouraging. And I have to watch my daughter going through that same reckoning every day. So the only thing I can do, the best thing, is to try to be as open as possible. To be as honest as I can.”

Stede reaches out, takes Ed’s hand where it lays on the table. Ed holds on. Holds tight.

“Edward, I will always let you know exactly what I’m thinking,” he goes on. “For better or for worse.”

It’s a promise for now, but Ed hears the vow within the words. The always.

Isn’t that a wonder.

Chapter Text

Saturday, March 25th. Ed’s show tonight is canceled. It’s selection day.

He’s had Stede flown in, his shifts at the hospital covered for the entire weekend. They won’t need him for professional reasons tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean Ed can’t keep him to himself an extra day.

The network has rented out space in a convention center near the heart of the city, and a line has formed around the block before the doors are even open.

Ed was able to weasel Stede into production, asking if they had a job for him doing intake forms or handling waivers. He’ll be the second line of defense after a primary screening process that should filter out some 75% of applicants, but they’re still looking at a few hundred contestants that will need evaluation. It’ll be a grueling day for them all, but if they can get through this part, the rest should be easy.

Ed corners Stede in some back hallway, grabs his hand and drags him into an empty room, frames his face with both hands. “You doing okay?” he asks. He wishes he could just know.

Stede hums. “Exciting day, isn’t it?” he says, and Ed just chuckles.

He kisses Stede, unhurried about it, radiating gratitude and surety. Thank you for being here, his mind says while his mouth is otherwise occupied. I’m so glad you’re here. With me.

Their faces stay close when they break apart, and Stede all but whispers, “Noplace I’d rather be.”

Too soon, handlers are coming to take Ed to hair and makeup, and Stede is whisked away to a room that’s become a temporary staff lounge. Here he’s given an official-looking lanyard and handed sheafs of paperwork, stuffing pens into each pocket. He’ll approach each contestant with a film and photography waiver, and while they’re signing, he’ll take the opportunity to chat them up, get a read on their mental state. And while he’s at it, if he finds any real Sensors, he’ll take them aside and give them a little talking-to.

Stepping out into the hall is overwhelming; a cacophony of both sound and energy from the hundreds of excited contestants hitting him all at once. He tries to avoid large crowds like this when he can for this very reason. It’s too easy to get overpowered by it, to be thrown into a state of panic at the sheer depth of feeling being thrown around. But he’s had nearly half a century of experience dealing with this particular brand of sensory overload, and good thing, too. This crowd has more than enough panic and nervous energy to go around.

Stede takes a moment to steel himself, organizing his thoughts, doing his best to temporarily block out everyone else’s. He has a plan.

A few official-looking people gather near the head of the line, and Stede hedges close, Sensing each of their thoughts in turn. Bingo, several of them are already worried about how best to organize the contestants after they’ve gone through the initial screening process.

Stede approaches them with his most authoritative air, making sure his lanyard is in place.

“Pardon the interruption,” he says, “but I’ve just seen a great empty room full of tables and chairs, just around the corner. I think it might behoove us to start ferrying people that way as soon as they’ve been screened. That way, we can give them a place out of the way while they wait and sign their forms, and you won’t have a bunch of nervous folks cramming the hallways. I can show the first contests that way, whenever they’re ready.”

He can tell without them speaking that at least two of them are just glad someone else is taking charge. One of them, a larger man with thinning hair, gives him a clap on the back and tells him to hang tight, they’ll have people ready soon. And then he’s on a walkie-talkie relaying the information to someone else, confirming the idea.

Before long, dejected people begin leaving the primary screening room. Their disappointment would be clear enough on their faces even if it weren’t so purple and achy, their minds feeling bruised. Stede tries to give them all encouraging smiles as they exit, telling some that they should be proud that they came out to try something new and exciting, and that this is Vegas—surely another such opportunity will present itself soon.

Eventually, an adorably mismatched pair of people is escorted out the doors and over to Stede, who brings them around the corner into conference room 23-B. Jim and Oluwande, Stede learns, have a very Penn and Teller-esque act during which they utilize Jim’s powers of mind control to perform tricks with selected audience members.

“Jim’s not really psychic,” Oluwande confides, while Jim is signing their forms. “Just a real clever bit of magic. But this was too good an opportunity to pass up.”

Stede can see the mechanics of the tricks in their minds, feel their passion and eagerness to perform for the legendary Blackbeard.

“I’m sure your act is amazing,” he says. “I hope I get to see it up on stage.”

He gets a genuine smile out of Oluwande, and though Jim’s face remains unchanged, Stede feels their pride welling up, sure and golden.

Ed is fucking exhausted by day’s end, but the selection process was a success. They’ve got a lot of solid acts to choose from, a wide variety of prowess, and all categories of illusion covered. He’s pretty sure he’s got most of ‘em pegged, apart from a handful that he’s still working out. The one with the video component, he’s sure it’s got to be something about the power of suggestion, though he can’t for the life of him work out how the lad pulled it off so flawlessly. Either way, he’s almost positive it wasn’t the Sense.

He’ll trust Stede to be sure of that.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket after the last act has left, finding a text waiting from the man in question.

Well, that’s me fried. Hope things are going well in there!

Ed smiles to himself and moves to tap out a reply to his boyfriend.

Boyfriend. The word enters his head, leaves him feeling all floaty and dazed.

“What’s got you smiling like that?”

It’s Izzy. The man has been there all day, keeping behind the scenes and bossing people around like he likes to do. Ed sends the text to Stede (meet you out the back in 5,) and pockets his phone, tries to feign nonchalance.

“Just a good day, that’s all. Lot of good acts.”

Ed gathers his things, turns to go. Ivan and Fang fall into step with him with Izzy right on their heels. “Fuckin’ right,” Izzy says, “but they might be too good. You can’t come out of this looking like yesterday’s news, alright?”

Ed sighs. He’s so goddamned tired of this conversation.

“After this special, you’ve got to work on some new material. In fact, maybe we can tap a few of these people, pay ‘em for the rights, take what they’re doing and make it better.”

“Not sure I want to do that, Iz,” Ed says.

“Oh, everyone’s doing it,” Izzy insists. “All the big acts are outsourcing tricks these days. It’ll free you up for bigger things. Better things. I’ve got studios approaching me with roles for you. There’s an Asian illusionary festival circuit that’s interested. Hell, you could do a whole world tour—”

Ed stops, wheeling around to face his manager. “I’m not doing any of that.”

“Why the fuck not?” Izzy asks, face pinched.

Ed sighs, pressing a knuckle to his left eyebrow. He’s got a fucking migraine coming on, can hear his heartbeat in his left ear.

“What if I don’t want to do this forever, Iz?” he asks. “What if I’m alright being yesterday’s news? I mean, fuck. I’m almost 50 years old, give the new blokes a shot.”

Izzy scoffs. “Where’s this coming from, then? Few weeks ago you were foaming at the mouth at the thought of those young bucks gunning for your career.”

“Yeah, well, shit happens,” Ed says. He turns around and starts walking again, takes his phone out of his pocket to text Stede.

“It’s that fucking Stede, isn’t it? He’s a liability, Edward,” Izzy says. “A distraction.”

Ed ignores him. He’s not interested in hearing what his manager has to say on the matter.

“Get your head out of the fuckin’ clouds. You’ve been barely skating by these past few months, ever since that namby pamby fucker turned up. If you don’t drop him and get serious—”

Ed again reels on Izzy, crowding into his space. “Say something about Stede again and I’ll fucking walk right now. No fucking TV special, no nothing.”

Izzy swallows.

“Now we are gonna walk out of this building,” Ed goes on, leaning in even closer. His voice is low, dangerous. “And I’m going to take my boyfriend home, and I don’t want to hear fuck all from you for the next day and a half. Are we clear?”

The other man nods his head, and Ed turns to walk away, grumbling. “Namby fucking pamby. I’ll show you who’s a fuckin’ namby pamby when he tops me later.”

Things are a bit tense as Fang drives them back to Ed’s, and Stede waits until they’re alone to bring it up. He’s gotten bits and pieces from everyone’s minds—the awkwardness and discomfort from Fang and Ivan, the frothing frustration and shame and a hint of putrid green lust from Izzy, and overshadowing it all, the fury rolling off of Ed in waves. He keeps his face neutral, but Stede can Sense it all without even trying. He’s so tuned-in to Ed now that he doesn’t even have to work at parsing his mind. He reaches over in the backseat, squeezes Ed’s thigh. Ed grabs his hand and squeezes back.

It’s Stede’s first time at Ed’s, and he barely spares a moment to marvel at the beautiful, fascinating home. He pulls the man inside and immediately wraps him in a tight hug. Ed grabs on, nuzzling into the crook of Stede’s neck.

Sorry, he thinks.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Stede says. “I don’t know what happened, but I got a lot of…” he moves his hands around, trying to encompass everything. “Conflict.”

“Fucking,” Ed huffs. “Iz is a fuckin’ dick.”

Stede rubs one hand up and down his back, squeezes gently around the left side of Ed’s head, massing into his temple where he can Sense a sickly headache coming on.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says. He breaks away from Ed and pushes him ahead. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable, I know you’re sweating through all of that leather. I’ll get you an ice pack for your head. Where do you keep your migraine meds? Ah, nevermind, I know, I’ll get you one. Meet you in the bedroom.”

Despite himself, Ed waggles an eyebrow.

“Where it’s dark, and we can lay down,” Stede admonishes. “And you can either tell me what’s wrong, or we can put on a silly reality show and think about nothing for a little while. We have the whole weekend for—” he stops, blushing. “Yes, for that. And a bit of that, if you want.”

Stede goes to the master bathroom, pops open the medicine cabinet and takes a migraine tablet. Fills a glass with water. Warms up a wet cloth in the microwave and grabs an ice pack. When he finds the bedroom, Ed is already stripped down to just a pair of sweats, propped up against his pillows. Stede lowers the lights, tells Ed to lift up a bit. He carefully moves Ed’s hair and drapes the hot cloth over his neck, places the ice pack on his forehead. Ed pops the migraine tab and sighs, long and low.

“Can I just,” he says, and wiggles his fingers around his head.

“Of course,” Stede says. He climbs up on the bed next to Ed, resting his head on the pillow next to him.

Ed closes his eyes and focuses his thoughts. In less than a minute, Stede knows everything that happened with Izzy.

"Oh, Ed," he says. He rests a hand over Ed's chest, feels the heart beating too hard and fast beneath. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing for you to be sorry for, mate," Ed says.

They're silent for a moment, Stede tracing the ship tattooed on Ed's breastbone.

"Is it–" he says, after a moment. Stops, tries again. "Am I holding you back?"

Ed tosses the ice pack aside and turns to face Stede. "Dickfuck, no," he says. "Stede. Read me, right now."

So Stede does. He rests his forehead against Ed's and closes his eyes. There's anger and frustration and annoyance there, indigo and nauseous and pulsing just below the surface. But it's all directed at Izzy, all there because Izzy insulted Stede. Below it all, swimming in soft pinks and pale yellows, there's nothing but affection and fondness for Stede. And– wait. Is that…

A sharp intake of breath, and it peeks out from behind a shroud of uncertainty. It is. It's love.

"Oh, darling," Stede breathes.

Ed lets out a shaky breath. "You felt that, huh?"

Stede just kisses him, holds his face close. "I love you," he whispers.

Love you so fuckin' much, Ed thinks. "You're not holding me back," he says aloud, carding his fingers through Stede's curls. "Can't wait to get out of the business, if I'm honest. And…" he trails off, a bit of uncertainty creeping in again, but Stede can see it all, and he breaks out into a blinding smile.

"I'd love that," he says, kisses Ed's forehead and his chin and each eyelid. Ed is laughing. Stede laughs right along with him. "Come live with me."

"Fuckin' thought you'd never ask," Ed says.

They don't fall asleep for a long time.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, one actual Sensor did come to the audition, but the man was so bizarre that he didn’t make it through to the final selection.

“He really could either talk to that seagull,” Stede says, “Or he was absolutely convinced that he could. Either way, the bird was surprisingly agile.”

“Shame he didn’t make it to the final round. Would’ve liked to have a bird guy.”

Stede hums, and Ed flips a pancake onto his plate. It’s Sunday, and he’s got a matinee in a few hours.

“You sure you want to come today?” he asks, not for the first time. Stede looks positively offended.

“Do I want to come, Edward. Of course I want to come see your show! You’re only the most famous magician in the world. What sort of a partner would I be if I didn’t see your act at least once?”

Ed grins into a forkful of eggs. Partner, boyfriend, whatever the term, Ed is positively giddy about being whatever-he-is to Stede. It’s been fucking ages since he’s properly been with someone, and even then, the guy was a total wank. They’d broken up before a year had gone by.

“What was his name?” Stede asks, picking the train of thought out of his head. Ed’ll never fucking get used to that.

“Jack,” he says, and calls up a memory of the man so Stede can see him in his mind’s eye, see his greasy mustache and his brown sandals. Stede looks like he’s tasted something awful, and Ed laughs.

“Yeah, I know. Not my finest work. But what about you, then?” he asks.

They’ve had the chat about Stede’s ex-wife, how he’d spent the first 40-odd years of his life trying his damnedest to be somewhat normal, and if he had to be someone who could read people’s minds, he could at the very least be straight. He’d only come out in the last few years.

“Any disgraceful exes out there who’re gonna come banging at the door, begging for more Stede?”

He tries to let on that there’s no possessiveness or jealousy behind the question, there’s only a bit of playful teasing in it. He’s genuinely curious about the man, wants to know every little thing about him.

“Nah,” Stede says. “Haven’t had the time, really. After the divorce, I mostly threw myself into my work. My receptionist, Lucius,” here Ed nods—he’s gone through Lucius a few times when calling for Stede, the lad’s an incorrigible flirt— “He’s tried to set me up an account on all of the apps, you know. Grindr, Bumble. Not really my scene.”

Ed tries to picture it, tries to imagine Stede with his glasses halfway down his nose, swiping left on men who’d had the audacity to not match their outfits in their pics, completely ignoring any dicks.

“What can I say,” Stede laughs. “I like what I like. And what I like is a man who knows how to dress himself well.”

He leans over and gives Ed a kiss on the cheek, slapping him on the butt for emphasis. Ed’s matched his charcoal grey joggers with a soft purple henley that shows him off in all the right places, and he knows he looks good, even this early in the morning. He winks, catches Stede’s hand and reels him in for a proper kiss. It’s fucking domestic and sickeningly adorable, this tableau of them in the kitchen together. Ed lets himself imagine what it would be like to have this every day.

Stede sighs. “You went all lavender, there,” he says. Ed’s still learning the ways that Stede reads him, but he knows that he sees and feels and hears things like color and emotion and unspoken words altogether in a complex and lovely algorithm, an incredible tapestry that he’ll never tire of hearing about.

“Sorry,” Ed says, and pecks him once more on the lips, curls his arms tightly around Stede and holds him close. “Never had much domestic bliss at home, growing up. Never thought I’d have it at all, to be honest.”

Stede breathes in deep and pulls Ed infinitesimally closer. “Think I had a bit too much domesticity,” he says. “But not much bliss. Not like this.”

They hold each other like that for another moment, swaying softly.

Want to be like this with you every morning, Ed thinks. Want to make you fucking pancakes and shit.

“I wake up at 4am most mornings,” Stede reminds him.

“Fuckin’ late-night early-morning pancakes, then,” Ed says.

It doesn’t matter what or when, really. He just wants it with Stede.

Stede sits, bewildered, watching Ed’s show from a private box seat near stage left. Ed is absolutely transcendent. Exquisite. Stede can’t even think of all of the proper words to say to describe how his partner looks up on that stage, performing his illusions with the smooth confidence that only comes from really knowing your shit.

And the audience. The audience is rapt, completely blown away by the performance. The atmosphere is buoyant, a heady collective euphoria coming at Stede from every direction. It’s loud and breathless and sparkling like diamonds. It’s not enough.

It’s too much.

Stede waits for Ed in his dressing room after the show, feeling a bit deflated. How can Ed give all of this up? He simply can’t, is the answer. Sure, Stede knew that Ed is incredibly famous, and that giving up his life in Vegas would mean a complete change of lifestyle, but this is something else. This is thousands of people on the edge of their seats, it’s standing ovations and chants for more, more Blackbeard!

And what can Stede offer him, other than a beachside home and being on call for every holiday and stupidly-early morning pancakes?

He’s thoroughly distraught by the time Ed comes back to his dressing room, endorphins and attitude high as he closes and locks the door, sweeps Stede into a kiss, allowing a tiny bubble of periwinkle shyness to enter his thoughts as he asks Stede what he thought of the show.

And Stede can’t dampen Ed’s spirits, not when he’s so bright and golden with pride, not when he kisses the praise right out of Stede’s mouth.

He promised Ed he’d always be up-front about his feelings. And he will. Just… not right now. Not during their last hours together before Stede has to fly home again, to his big, empty house and his waiting practice.

He’ll talk to Ed about it tomorrow.

Stede is a bit weird after the show, but he promises Ed that he’s fine, just a bit sad that he has to fly back home. Ed’s right there with him, would fly him home in the jet if he didn’t have another show in a few hours. So he rides with Stede to the airport in the back of Fang’s towncar, kisses him breathless for a minute and curses the gods of the airport that you can no longer accompany loved ones to their gates.

“Don’t be silly,” Stede says, just before he turns to leave. “You’ll see me soon enough.”

He pulls Ed’s hand up to his lips, kisses the back of it like Ed’s a dainty fucking lass, and it gives him the shivers in the best way. He bats his eyelashes at Stede and tells him to go before he makes him late for his flight.

It’s a fucking long drive back to the Luxor. Not literally—the drive itself is only about ten minutes—but figuratively, it’s a long fucking drive. Ed’s thoughts are spinning and he wishes that Stede were still here, a little bit so that he could pluck out all of the swirling thoughts and complex emotions and lay them bare and plain the way he does, but. Mostly just because he wants the man next to him.

He gets an email from Izzy with a couple of screengrabs and links from people who were in the audience at his matinee show. Looks like it was the best show you’ve put on in ages, Izzy’s written, and Ed can practically hear the man’s raspy enthusiasm gushing at him from his gmail app.

‘Course it was the best show he’s done in ages. He was doing it for Stede. Stede Bonnet with his incredibly cool powers and his beautifully selfless job giving care to kids with special needs. Ed doesn’t feel unworthy, that’d just be silly. He’s fucking Blackbeard. But he did want a little something to preen about, to give Stede at least one go at that’s my man, up on that stage. Just like how Ed felt, seeing Stede bending over a patient’s bedside, distracting the kid with sound effects so he wouldn’t even notice the doctor taking his vitals, reading his health both physically and mentally. It was so fucking cool and lovely, and Ed just feels so lucky, so happy to get to have Stede in his life.

It makes him even more sure that he’s ready to get out of the biz and settle down. He’s found the one and damn it if that isn’t terrifying and exhilarating, even more of a rush than the packed house and the standing-O he gets at his second show of the night. Fuck the applause, he wants cozy evenings and trips to the grocery and fucking quiet, gentle, domestic life with Stede.

Stede doesn’t mention his misgivings to Ed right away. In fact, he’s so busy after his weekend off that he doesn’t say much of anything to Ed except some simple text exchanges, quick Thinking of yous and God, is this the longest day of all time? Ed is in production meetings most days, so he’s just as preoccupied.

In fact, nearly a whole week goes by before Stede knows it, and though they’ve had a few phone calls and facetimes, Stede just hasn’t worked up the courage to talk to Ed about his leaving Vegas, leaving show business.

Plus, it’s his weekend with the kids, so that’s no good. Can’t have a productive conversation with your new partner about his moving in with you when you haven’t even told your former partner or your children about the arrangement.

Stede makes it a point to bring it up when Mary and Doug come by Friday night to drop the kids off.

“So, you know how I’ve been seeing someone,” Stede begins, and Mary just rolls her eyes in that fond way she has.

“Yes, Stede, we know you’re seeing Blackbeard.”

“He is so cool,” Louis says, and Stede can pick up from his son’s swirling, vividly visual mind that he’s been watching videos of Ed on youtube.

Mhm, Alma thinks, pointedly throwing her thoughts in her father’s direction. Won’t get off his iPad, mum’s had to take it away more than once.

Stede shoots her a wry smile and a self-indulgent can you blame him? back.

Mary’s eyes dart between them, watching the silent conversation play out. “Come on,” she says, “secrets don’t make friends.”

“Right you are, Mary dear,” Stede says, and ruffles Alma’s hair a bit. “Let’s eat, and I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”

The five of them crowd around Stede’s dining room table, reaching across one another and gabbing as they go. The room is full of magenta feelings, easy laughter and hearty appreciation for the food. Stede feels so content he could burst. He wishes Ed were here, too.

“Dad, what’s wrong?” Louis asks. He might yet display some Sensing qualities, but even without the ability to mind-read, the boy can interpret his father’s moods better than most people. Stede gives his son a little smile, looks around the table at the rest of his family.

“I’ve asked Ed to move in with me,” he says, without preamble.

Smiles break out across the table, Doug and Mary both awash in happiness, relief, a hint of hesitance.

“Then what’s the problem?” Alma asks, probably Sensing his own trepidation. “You love him, I can see it,” she goes on. “It’s so… warm.”

God, but Stede loves his daughter.

“I do,” he confirms. “I love him. I’m just not sure, because… well, he’s… him, you know?” Stede babbles. “He’s Blackbeard! He’s famous. You should see his show, it’s incredible. I mean, tens of thousands of people lining up to watch him perform. And he’s just going to give all of that up, to come to St. Augustine and, what, be a house-husband?”

Stede skates right past that little slip of the tongue, not wanting to examine how the word husband flew so easily out of his mouth. Mary, however, has honed in on it like a bird dog, her sharp mind and keen attention all on him. She’s a bit orange with amusement, and it sets Stede’s teeth on edge.

“When you asked him to come live with you,” Mary begins, speaking slowly as if afraid of spooking him, “What did he say? I mean, did he seem enthusiastic about it?”

Stede thinks back to the night after the selection day, their whispered promises, the beating, achingly sweet pulse of love, love, love. Alma scrunches her nose in that way that kids do when their parents start talking about gooey lovey-dovey stuff, and it makes him laugh.

“Actually,” he says, “I suppose we sort of… both thought of it at the same time. Well, he was thinking it, and I voiced it.”

“So he really asked to move in with you,” Alma says, completely sure that she’s sussed out this bit of grownup drama.

“He knows?” Doug says, “About, y’know?”

Stede nods. “Oh yes, he knows all about me, and I’ve been teaching him about the Sensing community.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to tell anyone,” Louis says.

Mary puts down her knife and fork, turns fully in her seat to face his son. “D’you know how, when I met Doug, and we knew that Doug was going to be a part of the family, we decided that we should tell him, because we trusted him and loved him very much?”

Louis nods.

“This is like that. Dad’s…” here she pauses, looks up at Stede, thinking, boyfriend? Stede nods. “Dad’s boyfriend, Ed, is somebody that he loves and trusts very much. And he trusts him so much that he’s asked him to come here, to live with him, to be a part of the family, too.”

Stede gets gooseflesh just thinking about it. And part of him knows, can already see how silly his misgivings have been.

Call him, Alma thinks, having read her father’s swirling thoughts.

Stede excuses himself from the table.

Ed’s just gotten home from another fucking production meeting when he gets a text from Stede.

Can you talk?

Shit, he thinks, and calls Stede straightaway.

“Hey, you okay?” Ed asks as soon as Stede answers. “The kids alright?”

“We’re fine,” Stede says, “Just wanted to chat. Erm…”

Stede trails off into uncharacteristic silence, and Ed wishes, not for the first time today, that Stede was here, that he could read Stede’s mind as easily as Stede reads his.

“I miss you,” he says, after a moment.

“Miss you too. Can’t fuckin’ wait for this whole thing to be done and over with so I can come be with you.” Ed pauses, remembering the text, remembering why they’re on the phone. “You do still want me to come live with you…?” he asks, and Stede is quick to assure him.

“More than anything,” he says, earnestly.

Ed breathes out in relief.

“I’m just,” Stede begins, stops, sighs. “After your show, I was conflicted. Not because I have any doubts about how much I want you to come live with me,” he hurries to add, “but because of what you’d be walking away from. You’re incredible, Edward,” he says.

Ed sinks down into one of his plush armchairs and kicks his feet up. He can see where this train of thought is headed, and he wants to cut it off before it can run off the tracks.

“I know,” he says, casual as anything. “I know I’m incredible. And you know what else I know?”

Stede doesn’t respond, so he takes that as his cue to go on. “I know I’m 48 years old, and I know that I’m sick of doing four shows a week when I could be sitting on my arse by a beach, and I know that I’ve met the love of my life and I know that I want to spend the rest of it with him. With you.”

He can hear Stede breathing on the other end.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Ed asks.

It surprises a laugh out of Stede. “I was just sitting here at dinner with everyone, and stewing in this… doubt, I suppose. And Alma just… she just knew exactly what I was thinking, and what was right, and she said I should call you.”

“Smart kid,” Ed says.

“She is,” Stede agrees. “I love you. I want you to be here. But above that,” Stede says, “I want you to be happy, and do what makes you happy.”

“You know what makes Ed happy, mate?” He says. “It’s you. And I don’t mean that in a codependent, weird way. I mean it, like… like I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun with someone. Or smiled or laughed so much. Been ages since I felt this good. And every day I leave that theatre, knowing I won’t be there much longer, I get happier and happier. I’m ready to retire,” he says. “Ready to shack up with a hot doctor, be a kept man for a change.”

Stede laughs again. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, good. Everyone will be pleased to hear that.”

“Hey,” Ed says, “Do the kids like magic? I was thinking…” here he trails off, expecting Stede to be able to pull the thought right out of his head, forgetting that the Sense doesn’t work through the phone. “I’d love it if you brought the whole family to the live show. I’ll fly ‘em all out, give ‘em comp tickets, set ‘em up in a nice hotel. How does that sound?”

Ed can hear Stede beaming through the phone. “That sounds magical.”

Chapter Text

“Question,” Ed says, and Stede hmms.

“D’you think Louis would like to be called up onstage for a volunteer? Or would he hate it?”

Stede pauses his ironing, sets the iron down a careful distance from his dress shirt and just looks at the phone. His heart could burst, it’s so full of love for this man.

“Oh Ed, that’s so thoughtful,” he says. Not just for thinking that his child might like the opportunity to come up onstage during a live TV performance, but asking if it would make him uncomfortable. It’s such a lovely, heartfelt gesture.

“I do think Louis might be a bit shy for that, in front of that many people,” he goes on. “Alma, on the other hand…”

Stede imagines his daughter up there on that stage, an entire rapt audience full of people at her disposal. The girl is already leaps and bounds ahead of Stede at controlling the effects of the Sense in a crowd of people, being able to use the accumulated energy to amplify her own feelings in a way that’s quite advanced, not just for her age.

“She’d love it,” Stede says.

Ed nods and pretends to tick off a box. “Alma as my lovely assistant it is,” he says.

Stede beams, has to press a hand to his heart to keep it from leaping out of his chest. He busies himself with ironing again, propping his phone up against a bottle of spray starch.

“Thank you again for inviting my whole family out,” he says. “The kids are very excited about it. Well, truthfully, Mary and Doug are as well, though I suspect Mary’s just more eager to meet the man in my life.”

He wishes he could sense Ed from afar, could feel the swirling mix of emotions that play out so visibly on his face. It would be all rose-colored and warm. For now, he delights himself in Ed’s expressive eyes through the phone screen, the little crinkles that form at the corners.

“Pretty excited to meet her, too, if I’m honest,” Ed says.

Stede beams, hides his tear-pricked eyes by glancing back down at his ironing. “D’you feel ready?” He asks. “Got ‘em all sussed out?”

It’s been weeks since the initial selection process, and Ed’s been hard at work studying replays of the contestants’ auditions, figuring out the exact intricacies of their tricks and learning the illusions from the inside-out. He’s insisted on doing it himself, for the sake of fairness, but Stede also suspects that he just delights in the challenge. His brain is truly a marvel.

“Think I got ‘em all,” Ed says, like it’s not absolutely incredible to have broken down some of the most captivating and impressive feats of mentalism and magic Las Vegas has to offer, and Stede is struck again by his effortless charm, his unerring confidence. “They’re fuckin’ clever, the lot of ‘em. Some of this shit I’d never have thought up, ‘s impressive.”

“Well, if they’ve impressed Blackbeard,” Stede says, “Surely it will make for one hell of a show.”

It’s not gonna be Ed’s last show. That much has become clear. He may be rich and famous and powerful, but he still signed air-tight contracts with the Luxor and with Izzy’s agency, and he’s not starting his life with Stede out with entertainment lawyers breathing down his neck. So, grudgingly, Ed sets an appointment at All Hands with Izzy and his legal team and some big-wigs from the casino, lays out his exit strategy that’ll get him out of Vegas in six months’ time. It’s not ideal, but it’s the right thing to do. It’s clean, and legal, and it feels a lot like a divorce.

Izzy’s not fucking happy about it, but then again, Izzy’s never fucking happy these days. “Gonna work out in the end, Iz,” he says, clapping his old friend on the shoulder as they leave the conference room. It’ll be better this way. They were always better as friends than anything else. Maybe the sod will come and visit him in Florida, take a fuckin’ load off for a bit, bury his toes in the sand. Meet a fuckin’ guy or whatever. Ed’s never really been sure what Izzy needs, just knows it’s nothing he can give him. But maybe, now, there is something he can give him. Ed’s got an idea, and it’s his Ace up his sleeve.

He gets home and just wants to call Stede, can’t wait to hear about his day, about his patients and about what juicy gossip Lucius is trying to spread around their office. He can’t fuckin’ wait until he’s there at Stede’s fancy beach house, ready right at 6:00 to open the door and see him there and think, you’re home, and kiss him about it. What’ll he do all day? Fuckin’ world’s his oyster. He’s got plans. He’ll read. He’ll write. He’ll learn a new fuckin’ language, maybe teach a fuckin’ language. Maybe Floridians’d love to learn te reo Māori. Hell, he can teach kids magic tricks. There’s so much he can do, and he can’t wait for any of it.

Ed’s nearly 50, has been all over the world and done the wildest shit and met the fanciest people. Even so, he feels like his whole life is about to start.

Stede flat-out refuses the jet, telling Ed that they’d be just fine flying out like normal people taking a vacation to Vegas. He feels bad enough as it is about all of the flying back and forth he’s doing, trying desperately to curb his single-use plastic consumption and shower length, as if it will in any way reduce the obscenely high carbon footprint he’s racking up.

Ed insists on paying for first class tickets for the whole family, regardless, and Stede relents. The kids deserve to be treated, and Mary and Doug never really got a proper honeymoon, so. Who is Stede to refuse Ed’s generosity?

Fang is at baggage claim waiting for them with a sign reading WELCOME BONNET-ALLAMBY FAMILY, and Stede nearly sheds a whole new set of tears over it, over the man’s rosy-golden affection for Stede’s kids and his easy, friendly banter with Mary and Doug as he drives them to their hotel. Ed would’ve been here himself, but he’s stuck in pre-show rehearsals all day; and anyway, Stede wouldn’t want him getting mobbed by fans at the airport.

Fang gives them all a run-down of the amenities they’ll have at the Luxor, including the pools, spas, and, “let’s not forget, there’s a fan-bloody-tastic magic show,” he says, eyes crinkling with delight.

Stede will truly miss Fang when Ed comes to Florida.

Mary, Doug and the kids are booked into a Pyramid Premier Corner Suite at the Luxor, which ends up being an obscenely luxurious space with a killer view of the Disney-castle-esque Excalibur hotel out their windows.

Stede will be staying with Ed. The thought gives him a little thrill, even now.

He leaves his family to it, giving them space to sort out their room and decide how they’d like to spend their afternoon until they all meet up for dinner. Stede follows Fang downstairs, allowing the man to escort him into the closed doors of the Blackbeard Theatre, where there’s currently some very official and technical stuff happening up on the stage. Stede ignores it all in favor of the gorgeous silver-haired beacon stood in front of the stage, Ed’s incredible presence already singing to him from across the room.

Stede doesn’t want to disturb. He sits back in one of the back rows and just watches, content to enjoy Edward in his element, the almost dance-like way he directs and suggests and anticipates the movements of everyone else. It’s probably the most overused thought Stede will ever have, but it’s magical watching him like this. And if Ed is sure that he’s done with show business and the industry for good, then Stede is just glad he got to witness this when he did; his man, his Edward, on top of the fucking world.

It's a few minutes before Stede senses a bit of a hostile presence, sickly green and prickly. It makes his skin itch uncomfortably.

"Izzy," he says, not even glancing over at the man as he slots himself into the seat next to Stede.

"Let me ask you one thing, Bonnet," Izzy says. His thoughts are guarded, but Stede suddenly senses the deep purple underneath, suddenly understands everything a little bit better.

He nods, and Izzy clenches his jaw once, steeling himself.

"What do you want with him?"

Stede hears all of the unasked questions beneath. Can I trust you?
Do you love him?
Will you take care of him?

He turns a bit in his seat to face Izzy, who still doesn't look at Stede. Izzy clearly doesn't like him, and Stede can see why,now. He's been carrying a torch for Ed all these years. The love pulses there in his mind, deeply hidden and fiercely protected.

"Edward is incredible," Stede begins. "Obviously. And I could go on about how impressive he is, and how talented, and how gorgeous, of course."

Izzy scoffs.

"But what first drew me to him was his passion. His intelligence. His…" Stede trails off, not wanting to reveal too much about how Stede first fell in love with the innermost workings of Ed's mind. "He's just unlike anyone I've ever known. And I've fallen in love with him. Not because he's famous or rich or handsome, but because… he's on a first name basis with the gent who cleans the dressing room, and I know he donates most of his ticket sales to the Maori Women's Welfare League back home, but he's never made a public fuss about it. I love that he's a big baby when he has a stomachache, and he takes his tea with seven sugars but thinks white chocolate is too sweet. I love his grumpy face and his brash self-confidence, and I can't wait to know even more about him."

Stede pauses his monologue to gauge Izzy’s reaction to all of this. As expected, he's feeling less outwardly hostile toward Stede, a hint of budding appreciation underlying everything. The man has long since resigned himself to loving Edward from afar, and Stede thinks (hopes) that all he really needs is assurance that whomever Ed chooses to be with will just love him the right way. His silence is pensive but thoughtful. It's a step in the right direction.

It's at that moment that Ed notices Stede is in the auditorium, turning around and catching sight of him, his face breaking out into a toothy grin that sets Stede's heart aflame. Izzy's thoughts flare with jealousy, but it's quickly extinguished. Ed gives Izzy a nod, and the man returns it with a sigh.

Stede takes this as his cue to continue. "To answer your question, I intend to love that man in the best, most honest way possible. I hope to give him a beautiful life. I want Ed want to be happy. And," he says, once again intruding a bit into Izzy’s fears, "I don't want Blackbeard to be forgotten. I hope his legacy goes on, that he'll always look back on this period in his life with fondness and pride."

Izzy sniffs, and Stede tries to back away from sensing the man's mind, tries to allow him the privacy to form his thoughts and express his feelings.

"S'pose that's alright," he says after a minute. "But if you fuckin' hurt him-"

Stede cuts him off with a wave of his hands. "Say no more. You have my full permission to sic Ivan and Fang on me in the unlikely event that I ever break his heart."

Izzy rolls his eyes, but accepts Stede's hand for a shake.

Stede locks eyes with Ed from across the room and smiles.

"What was that all about?" Ed asks as they leave the theatre, escorted by Ivan.

Stede takes his hand for a moment, squeezing gently. "We understand each other a bit better now, I think," he says, and Ed takes it to mean that he'll explain more when they're alone.

They take a back route through service corridors to end up at the back entrance of La Roche, the Luxor's in-house Michelin Star-rated restaurant. They're quickly escorted to the Chef's table, only getting a handful of gasps and quickly-snapped pictures on the way. Stede's getting used to the attention that his partner attracts, and Ed honestly doesn't even seem to notice it.

Ivan leaves them as soon as they're seated in the relative privacy of the secluded table, and Stede reaches out to take Ed's hand. "How was rehearsal?"

"Good, easy," Ed says, rubbing a thumb over Stede’s knuckles. You gonna tell me what Izzy said to you? he thinks.

Stede smiles. "He gave me the old, 'what are your intentions with my Edward' shpiel, and I think I gave him a satisfactory answer."

Interesting. "And what did you say to him?" Ed teases, bumping a foot up against his under the table. "What are your intentions, Mr. Bonnet?"

Stede goes red, no doubt reading exactly what Ed hopes his intentions are.

"I didn't mention that, Edward," he chides, but wraps a hand around Ed's thigh under the table with the promise of later. "I told him that I intend to make you happy, and keep you safe, and love you even when you've got your grumpy morning face on."

"Don't have a grumpy morning face," Ed halfheartedly protests, but actually can't help thinking that those all sound an awful lot like wedding vows. He tries not to think it too loudly, or allow the little thrill that creeps up his chest to reach its way too solidly into his mind. But Stede captures his hand, his left hand, placing a gentle kiss on his empty ring finger, leaving Ed absolutely breathless.

He doesn't say anything, and they're soon joined at the table by a whole group of people that must be Stede's family. Ed files the feeling away to examine later, maybe when Stede isn't in Sensing distance, and especially when his too-bright-for-her-own-good, also-psychic daughter is nearby.

Ed stands up and sweeps Mary Allamby into a hug, not even waiting for introductions. Mary squeezes back, laughing as she stands on tiptoe to grip him tightly about the waist.

"Ed," she says into his hair. "Fuckin' great to meet you, finally."

Ed loves her.

He finally releases Mary, turning to give the sweet-looking man at her side a handshake. "Doug," he greets. Doug gives a shake as pleasant as his face, cupping Ed's hand in both of his and thanking Ed for his hospitality and for having them all out.

Ed waves him off and turns to the kids, crouching down on his good knee to rest at Louis' eye level, staying a respectable distance away, knowing the kid isn't really a hugger. He sticks out a hand as he did to Doug, and Louis takes it with a big smile on his face.

"The famous Louis Bonnet," Ed says. He can see Stede in his son's eyes, in his open, honest expression and his goofy smile.

"You're the famous one!" Louis says, still shaking Ed's hand.

"Eh," Ed says. "I'm alright." He releases Louis' hand and forms a fist, gives the kid's fist a little bump.

Alma holds her hand out for a shake before Ed can offer, her keen eyes sizing him up, probably reading him.

"Alma," Stede says, "It's impolite to eavesdrop."

I don't mind, Ed thinks, and shakes the girl's hand while trying to exude his excitement to meet her and his love for her dad, all while trying to still seem cool enough that an 11-year-old girl would want to like him.

"Wow," she says after a moment, "he's so different, isn't he, dad?"

Stede beams down at them, and Ed takes this as a very high compliment.

Their dinner is loud and vibrant and so fucking fun. The chef, Mavuto La Roche (Roach, for short) comes to their table to personally offer them a few of his specialties, including the most incredible chocolate tart Ed's ever had. The adults drink a bit, and everyone laughs, and it feels so comfortable. So easy. If you'd told Ed six months ago that one day he'd be having dinner with a boyfriend and his kids and his ex-wife and fucking loving every minute of it, he'd have told you to sod off. But it's true.

He loves this family, loves Mary and her quick wit and sharp sense of humor, Alma and her bright eyes and boundless confidence, Louis and his complete openness and loving nature; even Doug, the perfect compliment to his wife. He loves them, and wants so badly to be a part of their family. It's been such a long time since he's had a family to call his own.

Alma is looking at him across the table, not missing a thing.

When they leave the restaurant, Alma takes his hand and tells him, "don't worry. We'll take good care of you."

Ed can't help it. He fucking cries.

They part ways at last, every member of Stede’s family giving Ed a hug, including Louis.

Stede is so full of love, he feels like it must surely be shining out of every pore, golden and sunny like the love he feels reflected back from Ed's mind.

They hold hands in the car on the way to Ed's place and keep ahold of one another all night, awake into the wee hours.

Stede wakes in the morning with his legs tangled between Ed's, long hair in his face and much too warm for comfort, and he loves it in all its messiness and discomfort. Because he gets to have this. This is his.

Ed has a busy day ahead of him, and Stede doesn't want to be a distraction for him, so he joins him on the drive back to the Luxor and kisses him goodbye at the back door to the theatre, smoothing his hands down his chest and around his back and pulling him in close.

"You're going to be marvelous out there," he says.

"Yeah I fuckin' am," Ed agrees.

"Break a leg."

Love you, Ed thinks. Stede keeps it with him, rosy and warm, as he leaves.

Stede spends the day with his family at the beautiful resort pool, joining the kids in the water at times and then laying out next to Mary and Doug, basking in the warmth of early Summer.

"He's amazing," Mary says.

Stede just smiles.

"And hot."

"Crazy hot," Doug agrees.

"Yeppp," Stede drawls, and he and Mary clink their drinks together.

"I think I want to marry him," Stede says. "No, I do. I definitely want to marry him."

And Mary, bless her, doesn't say things like Stede, are you sure, you've only known him for a few months and you don't even live in the same state and remember what a disaster of a husband you were?

Instead, she and Doug exchange a dreamy look, and she says, "you should."

"He's amazing," Doug agrees.

"The kids love him," Mary says. "We love him. And you," she pauses, looking Stede over. "I've never seen you like this, not in the 15 years we were married, not ever."

There's no regret underlying her words; she exudes nothing but support and happiness for Stede.

"He doesn't mind about my crazy work schedule," Stede says. "He thinks my idiosyncrasies are charming." He lowers his voice a bit. "He's not freaked out about the Sensor thing."

Mary smiles. "He's the one."

"Just you wait," Stede says. "You haven't even seen him perform yet."

--

A few hours later, Fang and Ivan escort the family to their reserved seats at the front of the Blackbeard theatre. They're front row off-center, in a spot where they can see around the cameras. They're the best seats in the house.

The vast room is a flurry of activity, the intricacies of produced live television being performed all around them. Stede is a bit overwhelmed with the frenetic energy and harried thoughts all around, and he leans forward in his seat to check on Alma and Louis. Alma's eyes dart around, catching feelings and sensations and delighting in the drama of it all. Louis has his headphones on and is preoccupied with a game on his phone, but he looks fine.

Stede takes a deep breath, uses the techniques he’s learned to try to block out the effects of the Sense in this sort of situation. He pulls out his phone and sends Ed a quick text, knowing he probably won't see it but also knowing that focusing on Ed for a bit will help him relax.

Break a leg, darling. I'm so proud of you.

To his surprise, Ed texts back almost immediately.

Love you so much. Gonna be a hell of a show. See you on the other side.

It’s been a hell of a busy day already, and Ed is looking forward to the show, but he’s also looking forward to getting it over with.

He’s been in and out of last-minute rehearsals and meetings all day, and has made it a point to personally visit with each of the performers. Legally, they’ve already had to establish that none of them will be winning a million dollar prize; but Ed also thought it would be important to speak with each of them in person, tell ‘em how impressed he was is their acts, and give them a run-down of how he thinks they pull off their tricks. He also takes the opportunity to get to know each of them a little bit better, asking about their process and ensuring that they’ve all originated their performances and haven’t stolen the ideas from anyone else. It’s important to him for reasons that he’ll make clear to them all, soon enough.

He’s sitting in his dressing room, running through his monologue when he gets a text from Stede. Just reading I'm so proud of you makes Ed emotional. No one’s said those words to him in decades, not since his mum died.

He allows his mind to wander back to last night’s dinner, to the brief but undeniable moment when he felt sure that Stede was thinking about proposing to him. Ed’s never been married, never been someone who thought he’d ever get married. To be fair, for most of his life, the possibility wouldn’t have even been legal. But even recently, he’s never thought much about settling down, tying his life inexorably with someone else’s.

Maybe it’s the lasting damage done by his parents’ awful relationship, because he’s really never thought of marriage with any sort of fondness. But now, here he is, about to go onstage for one of the most important performances of his life, and his excitement and anxiety is all directed at the thought of Stede proposing marriage, the thrill of imagining saying the words my husband. It wouldn’t be the same as his parents’ marriage, and it certainly wouldn’t be the same as what Stede and Mary had. He and Stede would make it amazing, and not because one of them was a literal mind-reader; they’d have a beautiful life together because they worked so well together, because they were so honest and communicative with one another. He just had the feeling that it would be brilliant, that, married or not, they’ll have a love that lasts.

He catches himself smiling in the mirror, remembers that he’s supposed to be rehearsing what he’s going to say in just a few minutes. He tucks the thoughts away for now, knowing that he won’t be able to hide these feelings and thoughts from Stede later. Knowing that he doesn’t want to.

There’s a knock on his dressing room door. It’s showtime.

–

Ed takes his place at the wings, letting the production crew do their thing out on the stage while a stagehand checks his mic pack. He spies Stede and the rest of the family in the front row, tries to project himself outward to him but knowing he’s probably too far away and drowned out by everyone else. Stede looks up and locks eyes with him in the dark, though, and Ed’s heart skips a beat. They share a smile as an announcement goes up over the speakers letting the audience know that they’re going live in, five, four, three…

“Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between,” a disembodied voice booms, “please put your hands together for the one, the only, BLACKBEARD!”

The roar of the crowd is deafening as Ed takes the stage. He clocks the cameras and then quickly tries to forget they’re there. There’s a team of people at the front of the stage, a few people holding up cue cards. He skims the first one, reading We’re coming to you live from Vegas, straight from the Blackbeard Theatre at the beautiful Luxor, and decides to go off the cuff. He’s always been a fantastic improviser.

“Thank you!” Ed calls, holding his hands up to quiet the crowd. “For as long as humans have had language, we’ve had stories of magic and the supernatural. Folklore and traditions and sacred rituals, summoning and conjuring and healing. Light magic and Black Magic, powers beyond human comprehension. And for as long as humankind has had these tales of otherworldly acts and abilities, we’ve also had nay-sayers and skeptics. People who deny that these things exist. I’ve always been one of these people.”

Here he pauses, looks to Stede. “I’m here tonight to tell you that I don’t know if there’s any truth to these millennia-old stories and traditions. But what I can tell you is that, as far as I’m concerned, the real magic is in what we as human beings can accomplish with the best of intentions. The acts you’ll see tonight won’t be real, supernatural magic. But they will be fantastical, awe-inspiring, and incredible. They will be amazing simply because the acts that you’ll see tonight are all dreamed up and executed by people, regular people, who are passionate and imaginative and have worked extremely hard at what they do.

“Don’t leave here tonight without realizing that magic is in you, in all of us. You just have to let it out.”

He claps his hands together, sparks erupting all around him as the stage lights go out.

The audience erupts into cheers again, and Stede claps until his hands hurt.

Spotlights and backlights come on, bathing Ed in blues and pinks, his silver hair glowing beautifully.

Blackbeard wastes no time in calling for assistance from the audience, pretending to scan the crowd before setting his sights on Alma. He points at her and beckons her onstage, and Alma’s smile is the widest Stede’s ever seen it. Mary pushes her gently, saying, “Go! Go on!”

Alma runs up the stairs at the side of the stage and joins Ed front and center. He asks her name and tells her that she’s going to be his assistant, if she’s okay with that. She nods so enthusiastically that the audience laughs. Ed beams.

He calls out for more volunteers from the audience, and ends up calling a random man from the crowd. The man says his name is Amar, and he and Alma shake hands, again delighting a laugh out of the audience.

Ed explains what he’s about to do, once again reiterating that there’s no real magic at play here, just some clever mentalism. He has the man sit in a chair and ties a blindfold around his eyes, then waves a hand in front of his face and does a silly dance just to be sure that he can’t see through it. He has Alma stand directly behind him and tells them both that Alma will use the magic within her to influence Amar’s movements, that Amar will be able to sense Alma’s effects, even through the blindfold.

“Whenever you’d like, Alma, raise a hand either on the left or right, and Amar, whenever you feel like you’re being instructed, go on and raise either your left or right arm.”

Alma shares a smile with Ed, who nods her on. She feigns raising either hand for a few seconds before ultimately raising her left very slowly behind Amar’s back. As if by actual magic, Amar begins to raise his left arm too, and the audience collectively gasps, breaking out into applause.

They perform a few more unbelievable acts of seeming telekinesis, and Stede can’t get enough of his daughter’s enchanted expression, the mirrored delight on Ed’s face as they perform flawlessly together. The crowd can’t get enough of Alma and Ed’s dynamic, and Stede almost can’t handle the amount of affection he feels for them both. Mary reaches over and takes his hand, gives it a squeeze, her eyes never leaving the stage. He’s suddenly so glad that he met this woman, that they got married and had fifteen awkward years together. It made him the man he is today, made them the friends they are now, gave them this beautiful family. He’s so much better for the things that have happened to him and the experiences that have led him here, right to this very moment.

Alma leaves the stage to thunderous applause, high-fiving people in the front row on her way back to her seat. The production crew calls a commercial break so that they can set the stage for the first act, and Stede properly settles in now, knowing that the rest of the show will be easier now that Ed's gotten his act out of the way. Plus, he knows about the surprise finish that's gonna knock everyone’s socks off.

Soon enough, the cameras are rolling again, and the duo act of Jim Jimenez and Oluwande Boodhari takes the stage. Jim does their mentalism totally silently, a hush falling over the audience as they watch them work their magic. Their act is incredible; they’ve somehow managed to correctly predict several seemingly impossible things from random audience members like a word they’ll circle in a book and a mixed-up configuration on one side of a Rubix cube. It’s beyond explanation and all the more incredible with Ed’s reminder that it’s all a work of illusion. Ed presents the pair of them at the front of the stage, talking straight-to-camera as he implores the world to remember Jim and Oluwande’s names, because they’ll be famous soon enough. The crowd goes wild with cheers and applause, and Ed gives the pair a hearty handshake before they all exit the stage together.

The duo act is followed by a lad named Frenchie who Stede knows has been working as a street performer on the Strip, performing incredible feats of mentalism for change.

A Swedish bloke named Niels gives a surprisingly moving performance featuring a video component that turns the collective mood in the room to a lovely, soft lavender hum.

Jackie, a statuesque black woman with what Stede suspects is a wooden hand, performs a series of card tricks that leaves the audience gasping.

Each act is incredible and exciting, and through it all, Ed continues to hype up the performers, encouraging the collected audience and the viewers at home to look them up, follow them, support them.

Before Stede knows it, nearly two hours have gone by, and the production team assembles all of the performers on the stage. When the cameras roll once more, Ed declares that, as previously stated, there were no true preternatural abilities displayed there tonight, and thus no one would be leaving with a million dollars. “However,” he says, “that money will be going to a good cause. Ten good causes, in fact. $100,000 will go to each performer’s charity of choice!”

The audience explodes with cheers, and each of the performers claps along, a few of them whooping in delight. Stede thinks he sees Jim tear up a bit, and it chokes him up to see it.

Suddenly, a black-clad production assistant rushes on stage, leaning in to Ed’s ear. It’s something they’d set up beforehand for dramatic effect, and Stede feels a rush of warmth as Ed informs the cameras that an anonymous donor is matching the proceeds and donating an additional million dollars to a charity that focuses on special needs healthcare.

Ed locks eyes with Stede and winks. “The power of magic!” he declares to thunderous, standing applause.

Ed meets Izzy right at the wings. “Contracts for the lot of ‘em,” he says. “Check social media, I bet you anything you’ve got the next Blackbeard in this lot. Maybe the next three Blackbeards.”

The audience is still clapping, cheering, stomping for more. Izzy can only nod, and Ed claps him on the shoulder. He watches as his manager walks off to shake hands with each of the performers and he nods to himself. That’s that done, then.

Stede and the family appear at the side of the stage and Ed gives his boyfriend a soft kiss, resting his forehead against Stede’s. He radiates his joy, his contentment, his peace.

He’s given Blackbeard an incredible send-off. He’s so ready to be Edward. Edward Bonnet. Edward Bonnet-Teach.

“Marry me,” Stede whispers.

Ed smiles, bright and wide and lovely. Yes.

Chapter Text

They’re on the couch, the back patio door open to let the unseasonably cool ocean breeze in. Ed’s got his head in Stede’s lap, eyes closed, while Stede runs his fingers over his scalp, careful not to muss the waves of his hair.

It’s one of those rare weekend days when Stede isn’t on call, when they have the whole day to themselves. Ed’s been accompanying Stede to the children’s hospital on weekends, giving over his time to the kids and their families. He’s so much happier putting on free little magic shows to the kids and their weary, overburdened families than he was making millions at the theatre in Vegas. It’s fulfilling in a way that he never thought he’d feel again.

They’ve settled into a routine, he and Stede, and things are easy, even when they’re not. Combining their lives was messy and tedious, but they made it fun. Ed’s a Floridian now. He feels at home in the dewey heat and salty air. His skin was so fuckin’ dry in Nevada. His hair’s wild as shit in this humidity, but some frizz is the price he’ll pay for being next to the ocean again. He forgot how much he’d missed it.

The rushing of the waves through the open windows, in and slowly back out, is like a meditation. Ed breathes with it.

Want to do something new? He thinks.

Stede mms, and Ed lays his idea out in the abstract. It’s so much easier just thinking things than trying to express his thoughts verbally, he’s found. His brain works a million miles a minute, and it’s always been a challenge having his mouth try to catch up.

“Oh, I’d love that,” Stede breathes. Ed thought he would.

He closes his eyes again and takes a deep breath, wills his mind to clear as much as it can. Then, he dives in.

His earliest memories; on a beach with his mum, her singing to him and lulling him to sleep with Māori stories, whispered in the privacy of his room. He doesn’t think about where his dad was during these times, tries not to bleed the sadness and hurt of that bit of his past into this exercise, though he knows that Stede can probably feel the throb of it. Each memory of his early life is likely bruised around the edges and aching.

He doesn’t think about his father, and instead calls up his mum’s smile, her gentle hands plaiting his hair, her soothing songs.

“You loved her so much, Edward,” Stede says. It’s not a question.

Did, Ed thinks, calling up a distant memory of her laughter. Still do.

“I wish I could have met her,” Stede says, and Ed thinks, She’d have loved you.

He flips through schooling and sports, shows Stede the memory of kissing a girl for the first time, then kissing a boy for the first time. Stede laughs at how different these memories feel.

He calls up his earliest memories of magic, watching specials on TV back before they could be recorded or rented. Stealing away to the library to look at any pictures he could find of card tricks and close up magic. Recalls the feeling of joy he experienced the first time he palmed a coin, made a card disappear. The first time he actually performed his illusions in front of people, the thrill of making an audience gasp in surprise.

He recalls his father’s heart attack, the complicated feeling it roused in him and his mother, the subsequent years of contentment they shared together while Ed was still living at home. He imagines it all feeling rosy and warm for Stede, the way Stede describes love and comfort when he senses them.

He plays back memories of his aunts and uncles and cousins, the rare occasions when they could get away to be with Ed’s mum’s family. He shows Stede more recent memories of facetime calls with his whānau, receiving greeting cards printed with pictures of gorgeous brown-eyed kids with wide, toothy smiles.

“I’d like to meet them,” Stede whispers.

I’ll invite ‘em all to the wedding, Ed thinks. It puts a smile on both of their faces.

He thinks of his decision to move halfway ‘round the world, the way it broke his heart into two to do it, but he also remembers the insistence that his mum had in him pursuing his dreams. She’d always been his number one fan. He remembers his big break, his first show in a real theatre, his first contract. The first time he filmed a TV special. The excitement, the joy of it. The anticipation and disappointment when things didn’t go quite right. The bittersweet memories of letters and postcards exchanged between him and his mum and other family members and friends he’d left behind.

Still have ‘em all, Ed thinks, and pictures the box he’s ferried with him everywhere for the past 25 years. Stede squeezes his shoulder in reply. He thinks he might be crying.

He thinks, briefly, about his mum's death, but he doesn't linger there. It hurts too much, still, all these years later. And he knows Stede will know that without having to feel the raw edges of it.

So instead, he remembers happier times with Izzy, making friends with new, unique people. Meeting Fang and Ivan for the first time, getting absolutely pissed with them and losing everything at a casino, whiling away the hours at a karaoke bar singing his fucking heart out to Alanis Morisette’s “You Oughta Know” after Jack left for good.

He thinks of all of the people he’s gotten to meet, and the places he’s traveled; recalls the awards he’s won and honors he’s received. He imagines them all shrouded in magenta and radiating with pride.

And then he remembers meeting Stede that first time. Remembers his intrigue and fascination at first, the pulse-thumping thrill that came later. He shows Stede how he looks from Ed’s perspective, lets him in on every little glance he stole and every whim he had, in those early days. Stede huffs a laugh and sighs, and sniffs a bit, and Ed knows he’s crying now.

He knows how warm and soft and loving these recollections are, how they must compare to his other memories. It’s important, he thinks, even though Stede must theoretically know how Ed’s felt about him this whole time, it’s important for someone like Stede to understand it, genuinely. For someone who’s felt too much and not enough his whole life to finally understand that he’s just right.

Ed finally opens his eyes and shares a soft and watery smile with the love of his life.

“Thank you,” Stede says. “That was wonderful.”

“‘Course, love,” he says.

And then, after a moment, “Really brings out the green in your eyes when you’re a bit red in the face like this.”

Stede huffs. “They’re brown.”

Ed sits up and fully faces him. “Babe, your eyes are fully hazel.”

Stede just squints, and Ed will never get over wishing he could read this man’s mind just as surely as Stede reads his own.

Ed has him turn to face the light coming from the windows and points his phone right at an iris, getting a clear closeup. “Here,” he says, zooming right in on it and handing his phone over. “Have a look.”

Stede just zooms in and out on the picture for a while, wordlessly processing.

Ed puts a hand on his knee. It’s such a small thing, but. It seems bigger, somehow.

You didn’t know what color your eyes were? Ed thinks, because thinking it is more gentle. Inside his mind, he can imbue the question with softness, without any judgment.

“I suppose,” Stede says after a moment, “Nobody ever looked that closely before.”

It’s such a small thing. But Ed’s learning that nothing is really that small. Not with Stede.

He’ll keep on looking at this man for the rest of his days.