Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The little bell above the door jingles brightly when Stede comes in, hair soaking wet and a plastic bag tucked under his arm. Izzy looks up from the wires he’s been trying to connect for an hour, Ed pokes his head out of the back office, mint green flecks spattered into his hair. 

“I brought cinnamon rolls. Hurry up, while they’re still hot.” Stede shakes out his drenched jacket and hangs it over a bare nail in the wall. The coat rack should have been delivered a week ago. 

“Thanks, mate. Could really use a break, huh, Iz?” Ed wraps an arm around Stede and smacks a kiss into his damp curls. He doesn’t mention the branding on the package, though he must have recognized it. How could he not, having seen that damn logo every day for the last seven years?

“Fucking disgraceful, having to bring in enemy pastry,” Izzy grumbles, reaching into the bag.

“Frenchie says hi, by the way. Told me business has been abysmal since the two of you left.” Stede bites into his own treat, managing to look smug even with frosting on his nose.

“Good.” Izzy’s first bite is warm and soft and floods him with sugar and memories, not all of them bad.

“He and Roach are more than welcome to tell Badminton where he can stick it and join us here.” Ed doesn’t seem to have a fucking care in the world, munching contentedly next to Izzy and Stede. It makes something tighten in Izzy’s chest.

“Edward, we don’t even have a working coffee machine,” he groans. “The pipes under the sink are leaky, half the furniture is either falling apart or not even fucking here, the electric company put a typo in my name so we need to sign the contract again, and how the fuck are we supposed to open in two wee-” 

Izzy’s rapidly developing panic attack is cut short by Ed’s mouth on his. Izzy tastes cinnamon, sugar, breathes in the smell of sweat and fresh paint. The cold, knotted thing in his stomach uncoils again, softens all the way when Stede’s hand wraps loosely around the back of his neck. 

“We’ll be fine, Iz,” Ed mumbles against his lips. “We’ve been through worse than a bit of shitty plumbing, hm?”

“And you’re not alone,” Stede says, draping the thick rainbow quilt over all three of their laps. “I can sneak away from work and bring you snacks anytime.”

“What the fuck is your job, anyway?” Izzy teases. 

“Oh, shush.” Stede pulls Izzy closer against his side.

Izzy lets him, lets his aching back settle against the soft leather sofa, leans his cheek against Ed’s shoulder just to rest his head. Snug between two warm bodies to his left and right, Izzy closes his eyes and listens to the rain hitting the windows of the first place they have ever truly called their own. 

Chapter Text

Izzy takes a few deep breaths before opening the door to the café - well, the construction site that should miraculously turn into a café within the next ten days. Somehow. It’s barely even noon and the day already feels more like a fucking decade. 

No wonder, with the list of appointments he’s crammed into the last few hours. Go over the final contract with Jackie, drop that off at Olu’s office, then go grocery shopping for Mum and Lil since they’re both down with a stomach bug… Izzy can already feel a tension headache forming at the base of his skull and he still has a full afternoon of building furniture to look forward to. At least Ed and Jim have already been at it since this morning, so maybe they’ve made some progress without him…?

But no such luck, it seems. 

“Ugh,” Jim greets him, curled up in the big armchair, forehead on their knees.

“Uuuugh,” Ed agrees, legs propped up on the couch, one arm thrown dramatically across his eyes.

“What the fuck?” Izzy hangs up his leather jacket - at least the rack looks finished and stable. Finally. 

“Cramps,” Jim growls into their own lap.

“Knee,” Ed whines in return. 

“I put painkillers in the office.” Izzy nudges his husband’s good leg out of the way and sinks down on the sofa next to him. 

“Nope. All out,” Ed groans with a pitiful shake of the head.

“Fuck’s sake.” Izzy’s patience is wearing thin, now that the dull throbbing in his head is joined by the sensation of something sharp stabbing his neck and coming out of his left eye. 

“I’m not going out there again. Do you even know the shitton of things I had to get done today? Haven’t even had time for a fucking piss, and now-” 

Suddenly, there is a broad, warm palm rubbing Izzy’s shoulder, making him pause. Jim scoffs beside them.

“Calm your tits, viejo. Bonnet is swinging by the pharmacy on his way from work.”

“Stede’s bringing meds and dinner,” Ed jumps in, still stroking Izzy’s back, which - admittedly - feels fucking nice. “He’s in a meeting till three, though, so I also called-”

The door flies open and Izzy would have recognized the man by odor alone, but alas…

“Well, if it isn’t the prettiest princess of them all. Oh, and Eddie is here, too!” Jack snorts at his own stupid joke and sets something down on the coffee table. It’s covered in tinfoil and looks suspiciously like the baking dish that went missing from Izzy’s own kitchen five years ago. There’s a smell of chocolate, something earthy and herbal underneath.

“You’re a fucking lifesaver,” Ed says, sitting up with a pained intake of breath. “Please tell me that’s what I think it is.”

“My Momma’s recipe.” Jack uncovers the tray of brownies with a flourish. “She got it at Woodstock, from some beatnik who may or may not be my dad.”

“She’d be great friends with my Nana, I bet,” Jim grins and grabs a corner piece. 

Izzy gets up to turn on the coffee machine. He’s still annoyed and fucking exhausted but he can’t fully suppress the little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

***

It must be past three when the door opens again. Izzy can’t say for sure. Everything is just so fucking soft and Ed smells nice and his headache is gone and Jim has somehow fallen asleep with their head in Jack’s lap, which is actually hilarious but he’s too tired to comment on it and also really hungry and thirsty for some reason…

“Oh. Did I miss all the fun?” Stede’s voice is like a lighthouse in the mist. Or a foghorn. The thought makes Izzy snicker into Ed’s shirt.

“Nah, mate. Plenty left over for you.” Ed sounds totally normal. Maybe a tiny bit hazy if you know him well. He and Jack did build up quite the tolerance during their college days. Izzy, however…

“‘d you bring any food?” he slurs against Ed’s chest.

“Chinese and Ibuprofen.” Stede brandishes his spoils with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary, then leans down to plant one kiss on Ed’s lips and one on Izzy’s forehead.

“No kissies for me?” Jack pouts, but can only keep a straight face for so long before cracking up at the way Stede squirms. 

“Shut up, cabrón, some people are trying to nap,” Jim grumbles from the floor, still drooling on Jack’s knee. 

***

Yet another hour later, Izzy is pleasantly full of fried rice and can just about feel his skin again. He opens his mouth to tell Jack as much when his gaze catches on the conspicuously empty brownie dish.

“Weren’t there like three pieces left?” 

There is some shrugging and mumbling before four pairs of eyes land on Stede, who seems uncharacteristically quiet.

“I um… have never partaken, so to speak. So I wasn’t sure how long it would… and then when it didn’t…”

“Dios mío!” Jim huffs, holding back a laugh. Ed and Jack just start snickering like the idiot frat bros they apparently still are.

“It’s not fucking funny,” Izzy cuts in, feeling instantly sober now. “Bonnet, look at me. Are you doing ok?”

Stede turns his head from Ed to Izzy and back again. His pupils are wide as saucers, a dopey grin on his face.

“I’m fine, Izzy. Perfectly wonderful. Absolutely splendid.”

“Right.” Izzy still has his doubts.

“There is something I need to tell you, though. It’s a secret. About your husband.” Stede tips over as he leans in towards Izzy, stage-whispering way too close to his ear. “Shh. Don’t tell him, but… He has eyes… like a baby cow!”

“Yeah, no, we’re probably not gonna get any cupboards built today,” Ed chuckles as he holds Stede upright with one arm.

Izzy shakes his head and cracks open his fortune cookie. He allows a giggling Stede to slump against his shoulder as he reads the paper note inside.

“Look how far you've come.”

And maybe, just this once, the cookie is correct.

Chapter Text

Izzy looks at the hole above the dishwasher and sighs. He’s managed to patch up the damage for now, but it’s a temporary fix at best. Fucking pipes behind the fucking drywall. One of the shelter kids claims to have a half-finished plumbing apprenticeship under their belt and promised to pop down in the evening. Still, the incident has left Izzy wet and dirty and he’s trying real hard not to spiral about how much time and money that small slip of the power drill just cost them… 

The chime of the door is a welcome distraction. Izzy wipes his hands on his shirt (fucking useless) before facing Ed. His husband doesn’t seem to notice how damp and filthy he is, or that a sizable chunk of the wall is missing. He just steps over the puddle on the floor and leans down to kiss him. There’s a desperate urgency to it, like he’s been poisoned and Izzy’s mouth holds the antidote. Ed’s lips taste like chocolate, his tongue is cold. When they come apart, Izzy notices the redness in his eyes. Right. 

“How was therapy?” Izzy keeps his tone neutral - no prying, no judging, that’s the deal. 

Ed blinks, sniffs once, then lifts up the half-eaten ice cream cone in his right hand.

“Rocky road, peanut butter, sprinkles.”

“That bad, huh?” 

“Ehh. Intense, is all.” Ed shrugs, looks down at his boots. “Got you some, too.”

He holds out his other hand - a small cup of what used to be ice cream and is now closer to slightly chilled soup. Izzy takes it with slight hesitation.

“Vegan vanilla, no toppings,” Ed reassures him and Izzy licks the little plastic spoon. It’s nice, even in this state. 

“Makes me sound like the most boring person alive,” he complains around the next sweet mouthful.

“Yeah.” Ed’s grinning now, smacking a sticky kiss on Izzy’s cheek. “But you’re my boring person.”

Izzy rolls his eyes and feels his face go hot. Twenty-one years of marriage and the man can still make him fucking blush. He grabs Ed by the hand and leads him to the armchair. Remembering the condition his pants are in, Izzy opts to sit on the floor by his feet. Can’t afford to clean the upholstery on top of everything else.

There’s a loud crunch as Ed finishes the bottom tip of his waffle cone. He licks the last sprinkles off his fingers, then crumples up the paper napkin with a decisive inhale.

“Iz?”

“Hmm?” Now that he’s leaning against Ed’s knee, Izzy can feel the day’s exhaustion settle in his limbs.

“Would you leave me if I had abandonment issues?”

Izzy blinks up at him, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he tries to process all the bizarre layers of that sentence. Then - a twinkle in Ed’s eye, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly under his beard. Izzy shakes his head, tries hard to look annoyed.

“Isn’t therapy supposed to make you less of a twat?” 

“Nah,” Ed chuckles, apparently done hiding his amusement. “I do think it helps, though. Session was good today.”

“Yeah?” Izzy relaxes against Ed’s leg again. He wants to know, he does, but he’s not about to make his husband share anything he would rather keep private. Behind him, Ed leans back in the chair.

“Yeah. She said to find ways of reducing stress. Also said to call my mother, which seems like a massive fucking contradiction but whatever…” Ed takes a breath, refocusing. “There’s something we should talk about.”

Izzy’s body tenses up against his will. His stomach grows cold and it has nothing to do with the vanilla goo he’s been slurping. 

“Alright.” He fights to keep his voice steady as he looks up at Ed, heart pounding way too fast even though it’s fucking stupid and he knows it. He’s got nothing to worry about. It’s ok. They’re ok… He follows Ed’s eyes as they wander around the room - half-built shelves, bare light bulbs, pipes held together with duct tape and spite. 

“Look, I know you hate changing plans-”

Fuck. Ed doesn’t want this. They should have just sucked it up and stayed at Badminton’s shop. Just a few more years and they could have retired. But of course Izzy had to push him, too eager, too determined to be brave, to take a risk for once in his life. He’s such a fucking idiot- Wait. Ed is still talking. 

“-know we wanted to open in May. But Iz… Six weeks is a bloody insane time to remodel a whole café. Don’t want us to burn out before we even have our first customer, y’ know? So I was thinking, why not move it to June? Talk to the shelter folks, maybe make it a whole Pride thing…?” Ed trails off. Izzy exhales, fingers and toes tingling as the sensation of drowning slowly seeps out of his body. He’s so relieved he can’t keep the hysterical giggle from bursting out of his chest. 

“Iz?” Ed sounds worried. Izzy catches his breath, wipes his eyes.

“Fucking hell, Ed. Yeah. Suppose June would be fine.”

“You’re so fucking weird.” Ed looks down at him, his expression warm enough to chase away the last shreds of panic clinging to his bones. Izzy can’t help himself. His hips protest as he clambers up from the floor and into Ed’s lap but he doesn't care. The ache in his joints will pass, and plaster crumbs wipe off leather well enough. It pulls a startled whimper out of Ed that melts into a pleased hum as their lips meet. Ed leans into it for a moment, then breaks the kiss to lick at Izzy’s chin, snickering as his husband squirms.

“What? ‘s good, that oat milk stuff. Shame to waste it.” 

Izzy grumbles wordlessly. There’s a question itching at the back of his mind, has been for a while now. Deep breath in, out. Fuck it. No time like the present. 

“Is your therapist taking any new clients?”

Ed doesn’t pry. Doesn’t judge. Just lets his palm rest on the back of Izzy’s neck, holding him close. 

“Hmm, probably. I’ll text you her number. At least you’re already talking to your Mum, so maybe you’ll get a discount.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Izzy huffs, grateful. 

He rests his forehead against Ed’s shoulder, smells leather and that orange shampoo Ed nicked from Bonnet’s fancy shower.  They’re going to be ok.

Chapter Text

The smell makes its way into Stede’s nose as he’s unlocking the front door - like pancakes but not quite, and something smoky-sweet, too. It gets stronger, almost overwhelming, when he steps into his house. There are two sets of heavy black boots on the mat by the armoire. Well, one - the smaller pair - actually on the mat, right on the sailboat printed into the fabric, the other in a jumble of leather and buckles just off to the side. 

Stede smiles at the hint of chaos in his otherwise immaculate foyer. How long has it been since piles of dinosaur-patterned rubber boots and sensible pumps were a fixture in this very spot? How long since this house actually felt like a home, if it ever did? He offered it to Mary in the divorce, of course, but she’d happily moved in with Doug before the papers were even signed. Now it’s usually just Stede’s overpriced loafers standing lonely on the marble floor. He’s about to get quite sentimental about all of it when he hears voices from the patio, drifting towards him along with the mouth-watering scent. 

“Just try it, Iz, please. Burned my bloody tongue, mate, can’t taste a damn thing.”

“Serves you right, then. I’m not making myself sick just because you have the patience of a fucking toddler. I saw you put a whole stick of butter and a pint of cream in there!”

Drawn in by their well-rehearsed bickering but not wanting to intrude, Stede tiptoes through his own kitchen. He takes in the state of the stove and counters with some level of alarm - various pots and pans are scattered about, there is something gooey and partially charred dripping down the sides of the waffle maker and every visible surface seems to be coated in a spatter of tacky, golden-brown droplets. 

Filing the inevitable discussion about proper cleanup away for later, Stede inches closer until he can look through the glass doors leading from the kitchen to his backyard. Izzy is sitting in a lawn chair, shirt unbuttoned to his navel. He’s wearing sunglasses and a scowl, apparently trying to read something on his phone while Ed hovers over him brandishing a spoon. It seems to hold the same sticky substance currently decorating Stede’s kitchen walls. 

“Aww c’mon, it can’t be that bad. I’m allergic to dogs and I visit Fang and his smelly mutts all the time. Haven’t died yet, have I?” Ed tries to shove the spoon into Izzy’s mouth, which only makes the grumbling and frowning intensify.

“Well, not everyone has the luxury of a husband who carries fucking antihistamines everywhere… Ah, Bonnet! Just in time. You taste whatever Edward is trying to poison me with.”

Stede jumps a bit, then steps out onto the warm stone tiles on bare feet, feeling oddly caught. Not like he’s been trying to hide from them. It’s still his own house after all, so that would be ridiculous. But even after half a year of knowing these two bizarre men, he can’t seem to take his eyes off them, doesn’t want to miss a single chance to watch and listen raptly, to observe the intricate dance of exasperation and affection between them. He knows the ginger tea Izzy makes when Ed has the sniffles, knows how Ed will handle phone calls and contractors when Izzy can’t deal with people that day. Stede also knows it’s been hard for them - doesn’t know all the details, doesn’t need to - but that makes him feel all the more privileged. He’s allowed to see them like this, maybe even had a small part in helping them get where they are now - Izzy with the sun in his face, Ed wearing nothing but an apron and jeans, waffle batter in his hair. 

“Earth to Bonnet?” Izzy snaps Stede out of his thoughts the same moment Ed plants a sticky kiss on his cheek.

“Hope it’s ok we used your kitchen, love? Ours is too small and we gotta test out some recipes for the café. We’ll leave everything spotless, promise.”

“Of course, dear. That’s why I gave you a key.” Stede returns Ed’s kiss, bites back a comment about possibly having to burn down the house to get rid of the mess they made. Without warning, Ed sticks the spoon between Stede’s lips and all thoughts of dirty dishes vanish from his mind. It’s sweet and salty and so intense it makes him feel lightheaded, his scalp buzzing with the rush of contrasting flavors. 

“That’s… wow. I don’t even- I’ve never-” Stede smacks his lips, blinks into the setting sun behind Ed’s shoulder. 

“So… good?” Ed asks, smirking. Stede nods fervently.

“Very! What is it?” 

“Salted caramel sauce. Just wait till you try it on something.” 

Ed lifts an inverted plate off the patio table to reveal a stack of waffles, all perfectly golden and perfectly square - likely Izzy’s doing. Stede watches as Ed drizzles some of the sauce on the top one, making sure to let it run into every crevice of the dough. He lifts it up for Stede to take a bite and this time it’s impossible to hold back a genuine moan. It’s crunchy and fluffy and warm and savory-sweet - both Ed and Izzy snicker at the involuntary noises Stede makes while he chews. 

“You two wanna move that shit to the bedroom? Some of us are trying to read about small business marketing.” Izzy points to his phone screen in mock annoyance and Stede knows him well enough by now to recognize that tone. So does Ed, of course. 

“Jealous, Iz?” Ed grins and shoots Stede an encouraging look. Before Izzy can reply, Stede bends down to kiss him, smearing both their mouths with caramel. 

“Not too bad,” Izzy relents, licking his bottom lip as he looks up at them. He points at Stede’s chest. “You’ve got some…”

“Oh. Oh dear, I better…” There is a large droplet of sauce on Stede’s collarbone, threatening to drip into the silk of his shirt, which will be absolute hell to clean and- Ed leans in and licks it right off his flushed skin. “Well, that’s one way to- oh. ” There’s a huff of surprise as Ed grabs the hem of Stede’s shirt and just pulls it off over his head, leaving him naked from the waist up. 

“Better safe than sorry,” Ed says, feigning innocence, and Stede doesn’t have it in him to disagree. The next spoonful of sauce does not even try to make it to the waffle stack and lands instead on the bird tattooed across Ed’s sternum. 

“Oops,” Ed tilts his head, batting his lashes.

“Fuck’s sake…” Izzy rolls his eyes just as Stede steps close to return the favor and remove the sugary rivulet with his tongue. And if he kisses his way up Ed’s neck a bit in the process, who would blame him? 

Soon, Ed’s apron is untied and thrown across the remaining chair along with Stede’s discarded shirt. More sauce is spilled - purely by accident, of course - just to the left of Ed’s belly button. Stede kisses it off, mouth trailing over a shiny patch of scar tissue as he does. 

“Ed ever tell you about that one?” Izzy asks. He might not be participating in their caramelized shenanigans but the hitch in his voice shows he’s not entirely unaffected by the display. 

“M-mh. Don’t believe he has,” Stede mumbles into the soft, warm skin of Ed’s stomach. He wants to hear about all of it - every scar and tattoo, every single day of their life together before they welcomed him into it. But he’s not one to pry. Not all memories are made to be shared, after all. 

“Disagreement with the old boss.” Ed’s voice has gone a bit breathy. Stede stops his dedicated nuzzling in surprise. 

“What, Badminton?” He knows the horrible man - far better than he’d like to, in fact. Not many families with old money in a small town like theirs, impossible to avoid each other entirely. But slimy and obnoxious as he might be, he never struck Stede as the stabbing kind. 

“Nah, before that. S’why we left the bike shop. Well… were encouraged to leave.” Ed shrugs and Stede sees Izzy straighten up in his chair. 

“Seems we have one more thing in common, then!” In an attempt to dispel the tension, Stede finds himself turning to the side and pointing to a jagged red line above his left hip. 

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask how that happened. Bar fight?” Ed winks and places a gentle palm over the scar. The touch makes Stede’s spine tingle as he replies.

“Business meeting.” 

His answer is met with two incredulous stares at once and he honestly can’t blame them. Sure, most of his time at work is spent signing contracts he doesn’t read and sitting in on meetings he doesn’t see the point of. But every once in a while he’s not just another bearer of his father’s letterhead but also a convenient way to deliver a message. Nothing quite like putting a hole into the company heir to speed sales negotiations along. Stede feels himself blushing. He never meant to overshare and is ready to say as much when Izzy is suddenly out of his seat, rising up on his toes to kiss the last remnants of caramel off Stede’s lips. Their bare chests stick together with sugar and sweat. 

“You’re so fucking strange, Bonnet,” Izzy shakes his head and Stede can see his own expression of slightly confused arousal reflected in his shades. 

“Alright. Bedroom. Now,” Ed decides. Apparently, talk of knife wounds counts as suitable foreplay to both these lunatics and yet somehow Stede got labeled as the weird one. He opts not to comment on that as four strong arms pull him into bed. And maybe tidying up the kitchen can also wait another hour. Or two. Or three. 

Chapter Text

“You should sell these here at the café, they’re amazing!” Lily holds a hand under her chin to catch the crumbly bits of scone as she bites off a second corner. 

“Of course they are, it’s my fucking recipe,” their mother grumbles. Her face softens as she sips her tea. Izzy’s managed to make it the right way for once, not too much milk, no sugar. Her eyes dart around the room - bright, alert and the same hazel-green as Izzy’s and Lil’s, a stark contrast to the deep lines etched into her face. “Coming along.” She nods. It’s not a question as much as the highest praise Izzy is likely to receive from her. 

“Yeah, opening in two weeks.” Izzy takes a sip of his own coffee. The new machine is finally working and it’s possibly the best espresso he has ever made. His mother sucks at her dentures.

“Edward any help at all?”

“Mum, behave. You promised.” Lily shoots her an accusatory look. Izzy is hardly surprised. Their mother may be slowing down a bit with age but her mind is still too sharp to forget two decades of marital mess and tearful late-night phone calls. Izzy straightens his shoulders, keeps his expression neutral. No use starting that old discussion during fucking Mother’s Day brunch.

“Ed’s been great. He should be here any minute, actually. We’re finishing up the bathroom tiles today and-” Something buzzes in Izzy’s pocket and he takes out his phone. “Oh.”

“What’s he done now?” His mother’s tone has gone stern and knowing. Izzy’s stomach tenses up.

“Everything ok?” Lily is softer about it, more pity than malice, which may actually be worse.

“It’s nothing. It’s fine. I’ll text Bonnet. He’s, uh… better at these things, anyway.” 

“Pff. Bonnet,” his mother scoffs and sinks her false teeth into another scone. 

***

In front of their apartment door, Izzy takes a few steadying breaths and looks at his messages again.

Ed: fuck therapy. not going back there. fuck everything.

shit. sorry, Iz. i’m fine pls don’t worry.

just don’t think i’ll be ok seeing your family today. 

am at home. take your time.

day’s just crap is all. 

Izzy: Stede’s coming over asap. be there soon. love you.

Ed: thx

love you too

Izzy unlocks the door, chest tight with worry. He steps into the hallway, making sure to leave his shoes on. It’s not that he expects there to be broken glass on the floor but it wouldn’t be the first time. 

They’ve been here before and he’s just been too wrapped up in the whole shop opening to see it coming. Fucking stupid. But there’s no crunch under his boots as he walks through the kitchen. All the cabinets still have doors, there are no open liquor bottles, no ripped pages of books and photo albums littering the ground. There is nothing. 

“Edward?” Izzy calls into the silence.

“In here, love,” Stede answers from the living room. Izzy follows his voice to find both him and Ed curled up on the sofa, a knitted blanket draped across their knees. The tv is paused in the middle of The Rocky Horror Picture Show . Ed turns his head when Izzy approaches, his eyes looking red-rimmed and wet. He’s clutching his new purple mug like a lifeline and the room smells faintly of mint. Herbal tea, Izzy guesses. 

“Iz, what time is it in Bristol?” Ed sounds wrecked but surprisingly steady. He must have stopped crying a while ago. Fucking confused by the question, Izzy does the math in his head all the same.

“Around midnight, I guess? What-”

“Good. She’s always been a night owl.” Ed closes his eyes, inhales the steam from his teacup before setting it down and taking out his phone. Stede motions for Izzy so sit on Ed’s other side. Before he’s even settled on the couch, Ed reaches out as if on instinct, clutching Izzy’s hand in his own. He tilts his phone screen for Izzy to see. There’s a short unsent text, a number without a contact name as the recipient. Izzy recognizes the UK area code. He reads the message, slotting in against Ed’s trembling flank as he does.

Hi. It’s been a while. Just wanted to say happy Mother’s Day. Ed. 

“This ok?” Ed’s voice shakes just as bad as his finger hovering above the screen. 

“Yeah,” Izzy replies, unable to say more for fear of spooking Ed by showing his own rattling nerves. This is big. This is fucking enormous. Luckily, Bonnet jumps in with his trusty chatter.

“It’s perfect, darling. And remember, even if there is no response, at least you will know you tried.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Izzy can feel Ed tense up against him, still grasping his hand, his fingers tight as a vise. One more breath in, out. Ed hits send, then collapses against his husband’s shoulder, chest heaving in silent sobs.

They hold him like that, Izzy murmuring into his hair - soft whispers of You did good and I’m proud of you and It’s ok - Stede stroking his back in silent reassurance. When Izzy’s shirt is soaked through, Ed lifts his head, sniffs once, and shuffles back against the cushions to start the movie again.

An hour and another pot of Stede’s peppermint tea later, all three migrate to the kitchen. It’s pasta night. They open a cheap red for the sauce, then finish it up over dinner. Even Stede seems to like it, even though he saw it come out of a box.

“What about your mother?” Ed asks, handing Stede a freshly washed plate to dry.

“Lucius sent her a bouquet. Probably.” Stede shrugs, handing the dry plate to Izzy to be put back into the cupboard. 

“Fucking heartwarming,” Izzy teases, feels the last bit of tension drain from his body when he hears Ed snicker by the sink. “Thanks, Bonnet,” he adds quietly as he’s handed three forks to put away. “Stay here tonight?”

“Great idea,” Ed chimes in - his hearing way too good, despite the running water. “Better not drive home after all that wine. We might not have silk sheets or a fuckin’ spa for a bathroom but-”

“I’d like that.” Stede beams, fingers kneading the dish towel like he doesn’t know what to do with them until Ed hands him a damp ladle. Izzy takes it from him, exchanges it for a kiss.

“Are you quite sure your bed is really big enough for three?” Stede asks as they pull apart. Ed smirks over at them, takes off his rubber gloves.

“Might be a squeeze, but we’ll make it work.”

Chapter Text

10 years ago

Stede chews his bottom lip as he stirs sugar into his coffee. It’s just a regular old latte, just another disappointment on this utter failure of a day. Damn the barista for berating him because they don’t serve pumpkin spice in May, obviously, no matter how cold and rainy it is outside. Damn Stede for almost making a scene about it. Not like he needed to look even more pathetic, with his hair all damp, the right leg of his slacks ripped at the knee and caked with mud. Damn the wet asphalt too, while he’s at it. He clutches his cup in both hands - at least it’s warm. And maybe he can just imagine the comforting taste of cinnamon, clove and nutmeg his body so craves. 

With a despondent sigh, he looks at his phone. It’s a marvel what these new gadgets can do - even find reviews of the nearest motorcycle repair establishment, apparently!

Best shop in town. Quality makes up for the rude employees. Beware of the short one, pretty sure he bites. 4.5 stars.

Well, that doesn’t make Stede feel much more confident but he has to do this now. Can’t make that phone call at work, right under the perpetual scowl of his father. Or at home, not after the hell Mary unleashed on him for buying his little toy in the first place… He takes another fortifying gulp of his boring drink and dials the number. Someone answers on the second ring.

“Ranger Engineering, Izzy speaking.”

Stede is momentarily dumbfounded. The voice on the other end is like nothing he has ever heard. Bored, drawling, and hoarse in a way that makes Stede’s entire spine tingle. 

“Hello?? Fuck… Nothing, Ben. Just fucking kids prank calling again. Listen here, you little shit. Does your mother know you’re fuckin-”

“Um, sorry, hello…” Stede manages to squeak out, cutting the other man off mid-rant and earning himself an annoyed exhale that makes the line crackle. 

“How can I assist you?” Sarcasm and disdain are practically dribbling out of Stede’s speaker but he soldiers on. 

“Well, Iggy, it just so happens that you have a bike repair shop and I have a bike to repair.”

“Izzy,” the man spits. Stede briefly wonders if he is the one who supposedly bites. “What’s the damage?”

“You see, there was a rather large puddle on the road, with the rain and all, and - though I’m quite the proficient driver, usually - my right side mirror seems to have collided with the curb and is now, um… unattached, so to speak.”

There’s a hiss of breath that sounds almost pained before Izzy speaks again.

“So you need a new mirror. That all?”

“Yes. Or, well… The thing is, I wanted to make sure you will handle my vehicle with the utmost care. The paint is a special edition I had to order from Italy. They don’t make that shade of teal over here. Can I trust you to return it without any scratches?” 

Silence on the other end, except for a faint growling noise. Stede fiddles with his napkin. He didn’t mean to be rude but the chap does sound rather brutish and that color is his favorite, he’d be devastated to see it ruined.

“We’ll skip the step where we rub her down with sandpaper, then.” There is a hint of amusement in the man’s tone, then several voices snickering in the background. Stede is swept up in a visceral memory of boarding school. It makes his blood heat quicker than he can control his temper.

“Do not trifle with me, Mister! I’ll have you know, my family owns half this town. I shall not hesitate to take my business elsewhere and make life very difficult for you indeed-”

“Alright, alright, your highness. Don’t get your golden panties in a twist. What model is she, anyway?” The raspy-voiced mechanic seems unimpressed. Stede puffs out his chest in the middle of the Starbucks all the same. 

“It’s a 1974 Vespa V50-” He is cut off by the choked sound of someone suppressing a laugh. Then Izzy’s voice again, muffled and indistinct, like he’s holding the phone to his chest.

“Ivan! Get over here. I can’t… I’m fucking done. Gotta be home soon. Ed needs to take his meds.”

Some rustling, then a younger, much friendlier sounding man takes the phone.

“Ranger Engineering. I’m Ivan, how can we help?”

Stede drains the last cold dregs of his depressing coffee, takes a deep breath, and tells the whole story again.

***

Ed hits pause on his game when he hears the key in the door. He’s pretty sure he looks just as miserable as when Izzy left him on the couch eight hours ago, but still makes an effort to lay it on extra thick. Might get some special treat out of it. Karma immediately bites him in the ass when he tries to shift in his nest of pillows, the pain from the right side of his belly shooting down his leg and right up into his skull. 

“Dickfuck! Fuckin’ hell-” The playstation controller falls to the floor with a clatter just as Izzy steps into the room. He bends down and puts it back into Ed’s hand, then plants a quick kiss on his lips. He smells like clove cigarettes and motor oil. Ed tries to push himself up, tries to chase his husband’s mouth but Izzy pulls away, making him whine in pain and frustration. He’s not allowed any strenuous activity for six weeks and it’s fucking torture.

“Stop wiggling. You’ll tear your stitches,” Izzy scolds, then hands him a little paper bag from the pharmacy - painkillers, antibiotics. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Ehh… napping, shooting zombies.” Ed holds up the controller, shrugs, and even that jostles his stupid insides enough to make him wince. “This sucks, man. I’m so fucking bored!”

Izzy presses another kiss to his temple, genuine affection flashing across his features before the familiar mask of On Duty Izzy settles over them again. 

“Should’ve thought of that before you let them steal your appendix. Dinner? And don’t say you’re not hungry. You gotta eat with the meds.”

Ed pouts for a moment. He really isn’t hungry. But Izzy is right, as usual. 

“‘s cold. D’you know how to make porridge? And do we still have that spice mix that’s all like… I dunno. Christmassy?” 

Izzy leans against the doorframe, rolls his eyes at him. If he could fucking move, he’d jump right up and smooch that look off his face. 

“‘course I can make fucking porridge. Made it for Lil all the time.” He turns into the kitchen and Ed can hear him rummage through their spice drawer.

“How was work?” Ed calls after him - perhaps too late. He does care about Izzy’s day, he really does. He just forgets to ask sometimes…

There’s a metallic clang as Izzy sets the pot on the stove, then a huff - halfway between fondness and exasperation.

“Slow day. Ben’s in a mood, as usual. Made Fang cry. Oh, and we had the weirdest guy call about his vintage fucking Vespa of all things… Gonna tell you all about it while we eat.”

Chapter Text

Izzy looks through the contents of the bag on the counter, Stede peeking over his shoulder as he does. There are napkins, paper straws, garlands made of miniature flags, everything in rainbow colors. He gives a grateful nod to the girl who just brought it all down from the shelter’s storage room. 

“Appreciate it, Lou. Cookies should be done in five, if you wanna stay. Peanut butter, no dairy.” 

“Thanks but I should nap while he does.” She gently pats the tiny human strapped to her belly in a cotton sling. “See ya, Izzy. Bye, Stede.”

Izzy waves from behind the bar and looks to the side to find Stede positively gawking - whether at the girl’s shaved head, her numerous piercings or the softly mewling infant, Izzy can’t say. Bonnet may be “new to the scene” as he himself puts it, but that’s no reason to be fucking rude. Izzy nudges Stede in the ribs.

“Ouch! Christ, Izzy, there’s really no need-” Another nudge. “Yes, sorry. Goodbye, Lou. Thank you for the, um… decorations.”

The young woman saunters off with a smirk, bouncing her son up and down with one hand as she leaves. 

Once she’s gone, Izzy slides the bag across the new stainless steel counter towards Stede.

“Make yourself useful and hang up the streamers. Don’t feel like getting the step stool out.” 

To Izzy’s amazement, Stede obediently starts untangling a string of flags without even a single joke about Izzy’s height. Izzy is tempted to touch his forehead and check for a fever. Or call a priest, maybe. 

They end up working wordlessly, side by side, Stede undoing some particularly stubborn knots, Izzy getting the cookies out and unloading the dishwasher. It’s not often that it’s just the two of them. Ed is good at casual conversations, at being fun and approachable. Izzy is not, which usually doesn’t matter because Bonnet is impossible to shut up. But today he seems… off. Izzy is out of teaspoons to polish and Stede still hasn’t said a fucking word. Small talk might be the bane of Izzy’s existence but the awkward silence is bordering on painful now. Desperate times, desperate measures. He takes a deep breath.

“So, any plans for June? I hate all that loud shit but you seem like a parade guy. Ed hasn’t gone in a while, he might want to come along…”

The look Stede shoots him is downright pitiful, even though he seems to have successfully untangled all of his little flags. 

“I’m, uh… I’m not quite sure I’d feel very welcome at these events. I don’t…” Stede falters, looks down at his hands. Izzy furrows his brow in confusion.

“The fuck?” he asks with all the empathy he can muster. Bonnet starts twirling a rainbow straw between his fingers, still not looking up.

“It’s… stupid, probably.” 

“Probably, yeah.” Izzy can’t help himself. But it makes Bonnet crack a sad little smile before he continues, the words finally tumbling out of him now.

“It just feels disingenuous, you know? Hypocritical, almost. I’ve never been an… an activist of any sort. I wasn’t even really sure I liked men until a year ago. It never felt like I was missing anything until one day I desperately was. And now to suddenly take to the streets, to insert myself into a community that has fought so hard for acceptance when I’ve had it laughably easy all my life…” He looks up then, eyes too shiny, and Izzy feels fucking helpless at the sight.

Try as he might, he can’t fathom what it must feel like, not knowing. He’d been in love with Ed before sprouting his first chest hair. And fuck no, it had never been easy, but they’d always had each other at least. Still, Izzy does his best to wrap his head around it, to find the right words to tell Bonnet he’s an idiot without making the situation worse.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, affectionately. It seems to startle Stede enough to keep him from bursting into actual tears. “It’s not a fucking competition. Not like there’s a minimum required amount of suffering before you can call yourself queer-”

“I’m not even sure I like that term…” Stede mumbles. Izzy sighs.

“Then don’t use it. Call yourself whatever you want. Go to the parade dressed in nothing but pink glitter or hang out here and help me with the fucking bookkeeping. Nobody cares. It’s fine.” Izzy shakes his head, frustrated at the hollow sound of it all. Ed would probably know exactly what to say, would have Bonnet giggling with a rainbow flag draped over his shoulders in no time. But Ed isn’t here, so Izzy does the only thing he can think of. He reaches out and gently grabs Stede by the chin to make him meet his eye, lets his other hand trail over a wine-red hickey on Stede’s neck. 

“That was Ed.” Izzy’s fingers travel downward, coming to rest on a bruised bite mark above Stede’s collarbone. “That was me.” Lastly, he grabs Stede’s lapel between thumb and forefinger. “That’s a fucking Hawaiian shirt. You are a very gay man, Stede Bonnet. You belong here, no matter what anyone says.”

“That’s… incredibly heartwarming coming from you, Izzy.” Stede beams at him, eyes perhaps even wetter than before. Izzy shudders a little bit.

“Yeah, I know. Feel like I need a fucking shower.”

The door opens with a jingle, cutting the sappy moment blessedly short. Ever the human whirlwind, Ed crosses the room in three long strides before draping himself over the bar. He’s wearing the black baseball cap that was mysteriously missing from Izzy’s gym bag this morning, also dark sunglasses and a garish lavender bowling shirt that can only be Stede’s.

“Why the fuck are you dressed like that?” Izzy groans.

“Undercover mission,” Ed replies with a sly grin. “Saw that Roach and Frenchie were working today so I popped on over. They’re both ready to put in their notice as soon as we give them the go-ahead.”

“What do you mean, saw ?” Stede pipes up. He’s got his back turned to Ed, ostensibly arranging the new straws next to the coffee machine. 

“Online scheduling system. Pretty sure Nigel doesn’t know how to delete old users. Iz always did that for him.” Ed chuckles, wicked, but it catches in his throat when Bonnet turns around. “Fuck, Stede, are you crying? Izzy, what did you do, why did you make Stede cry??”

“He didn’t, darling. He was actually quite helpful. Downright romantic, one might say.” 

“Fuck off,” Izzy hisses, blushing. Ed stops trying to actually climb over the bar and goes back to slouching against it, agitation bleeding out of his posture again.

“Can’t wait to hear that story later.” Ed raises an eyebrow at Izzy, then is immediately distracted by the next, more interesting thought. “Oh! Stede! Did Iz tell you about the menu specials?”

“He did not!” Stede says at the same time as Izzy grumbles “Just an idea… ‘s not final. Silly, really…” 

“Nah, mate, it’s fucking cute! Customers love that shit. Look!” Ed pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his jeans pocket and smooths it out on the countertop for Stede to see. It’s Izzy’s turn to rearrange the straws in their cup as he feels the blood rush to his cheeks again. 

“The Ed, ” Bonnet reads, “- large latte with cinnamon syrup and double serving of whipped cream. Oh, this is delightful!” He stretches over the counter to plant a kiss on Ed’s forehead before he continues. “The Izzy - just a normal fucking double espresso. Ha! Yes, very on brand,” Bonnet laughs, then makes a little choking noise. “The… the Stede?”

“Yeah. Go on,” Ed coaxes. Stede swallows audibly and Izzy starts polishing an already very clean spot next to the sink.

“The Stede - medium chai with hazelnut syrup and coconut wh-whip.” Stede’s voice breaks on the last word, he sniffs loudly.

“There,” Izzy says, turning to face Ed with what he hopes is an accusatory look. “Now you made him cry. Happy?”

“Yeah,” Ed grins, coming around the bar to wrap his arms around a now fully sobbing Stede. “Do I smell peanut butter cookies?”

“Izzy made some. I’ll go get them,” Stede mumbles wetly against Ed’s chest, then pulls away to walk to the oven, grabbing a rainbow napkin from the stack as he goes. 

He returns with the plate of still-warm cookies and Ed descends on them like a bird of prey. When Stede leans over to snag one, Izzy notices the napkin, now neatly folded and tucked into his shirt like a pocket square. And Izzy doesn’t want to fucking smile about it, tries to hide the twitch of his lips behind a cookie of his own, but Stede - perceptive bastard - catches his eye all the same. He smiles back. 

Chapter Text

The door of the Sweet Revenge Café is wide open, a mass of people already bustling in the small space when Stede comes in. Ed’s idea to have the opening coincide with the big Pride parade seems to have been a stroke of genius. Most of Ed’s ideas are.

Inside, Stede is met with a few unfamiliar faces - mainly young people sporting colorful flags, adventurous hairstyles and half-price frappuccinos topped with rainbow sprinkles. Then he spots a waving hand at the table by the wall, walks over to greet Mary with a rather stiff peck on the cheek and Doug with an even stiffer handshake.

“Kids not here?” he asks, hoping to mask his disappointment. It’s just that he hasn’t seen them in a few weeks. Mary tilts her head towards the bar with a knowing smile.

“Afraid they’ve attached themselves to Ed for the day.”

Indeed, Izzy seems to be taking care of the coffee orders all by himself. He’s huffing and patting his damp brow with a dish towel as he flits back and forth between cash register and coffee machine like the world’s angriest bumblebee. Ed, meanwhile, has both hands full - figuratively and literally. One of them is occupied by Louis, who is busy coloring in the nautical star on its back with red and purple markers. The other is attempting to help Alma hold the milk jug steady as she pours foam into a cup. The tip of her tongue is poking out between her lips, brow furrowed in deeper concentration than Stede has ever seen dedicated to her homework. She lets out a frustrated breath. 

“It doesn’t look like a heart at all, more like an ugly blob!”

“Well, the human heart is actually pretty blob-shaped, so yours is kinda more accurate than mine,” Ed tries to appease a grumbling Alma and shoots Stede a wink over her shoulder. “Look who’s here!”

“Dad,” Alma says with all the enthusiasm of a moody ten-year-old still adjusting to her parents’ divorce. “Can you make a latte heart?”

Stede’s confession that he can in fact not, despite both his boyfriends having tried to teach him on multiple occasions, is drowned out by his own son’s crowing voice.

“Uncle Izzy! Dad is here!” 

Izzy turns around, looking like his face is stuck somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

“What did we fu-, um… What did we say about proper workplace conduct?”

“Behind this bar you are Mister Teach or Sir as far as we’re concerned,” Alma parrots in a striking imitation of Izzy’s cadence and Ed is visibly choking back a laugh. Stede finds he has none of Ed’s restraint and is fully giggling as he plants a kiss first on Ed’s bearded cheek, then on Izzy’s flushed one.

“Anything for the buffet table?” Izzy asks, already back to business. Stede pulls a big steel thermos out of his bag.

“Non-alcoholic orange punch. I really don’t trust my baking skills…” 

“Nah, that’s perfect, mate,” Ed reassures him, handing him a large bowl and ladle. 

Stede sets his punch down between Mrs. Hands’ dried prunes and Fang’s broccoli casserole. Jack’s brownies are labeled “no weed, promise ;)” which prompts Stede to discreetly whisk them away to the stockroom. 

The invitation to family and friends asked for “something for the snack table and/or picture wall” and Stede now realizes he’s even more nervous about the latter. 

There’s an empty stretch of drywall above the coffee machine, or at least it was empty until last night. Now, from his vantage point on the other side of the bar, Stede can see three framed photographs up there. One is from just three months ago - Ed, Izzy and Spanish Jackie standing in front of this very building, toasting to a deal gone well. Ed and Izzy are raising their glasses to each other, Jackie seems to be looking at Izzy’s chest with a rather lewd arch to her brow. 

The second photo is of a young Fang and Ivan, cheeks smeared with axle grease, a burly pitbull-mix sitting by Fang’s side. 

The third one looks quite old and tattered, crinkles smoothed down by the glass. It’s Ed on a large black motorcycle, Izzy straddling the seat behind him, chin resting on Ed’s shoulder. Their hair is jet-black, Ed’s grin is giddy, Izzy is smiling the way he only ever smiles at Ed, even now. 

Stede hesitates when he brings out his own picture, wants to ask if it’s really alright, if they actually want it - him? - here. But he’s not a coward. Not anymore. He hangs it up on one of the nails Izzy put there in advance (“Can’t trust these fuckers to get the spacing right”) - a simple black frame, a simple moment between three men. 

“Aww, Stede!” Ed exclaims from behind, making him jump. “Look, Iz! It’s us after making waffles. You got all that caramel on your nose!”

“Yeah, yeah, fuckin’ adorable,” Izzy grumbles, though Stede can see the little smile tugging at the corner of his lip. Alma’s face breaks into a triumphant grin and Stede figures the no-uncle rule is tied to a no-swearing clause, so Izzy probably owes his daughter money now. Stede doesn't know whether to be shocked or proud. 

Something beeps in Ed’s jeans and he looks over his shoulder at his husband.

“Iz, can you get that? My hands are full of syrup.” 

Obediently, Izzy reaches into Ed’s back pocket, takes out his phone and looks at the screen. Something indecipherable flashes across his face and he clears his throat.

“Ed, need you in the office. Stede, you’re on coffee duty, Alma on foam, Louis is on sprinkles.” With those orders, Izzy grabs Ed by the elbow and pulls him into the back, leaving a slightly confused Bonnet trio alone behind the bar. 

***

“It still looks the same,” Ed says, probably for the third time. He’s still sitting on the office floor, back slumped against the filing cabinet, staring at his phone. Izzy knows the position is going to wreak havoc on Ed’s joints, also knows it’s pointless to nag him about it now. So he just sits on the carpet next to his husband, his own hips twinging, and waits.

“That’s where Nan always used to sit,” Ed finally says. He’s zoomed into the picture on his screen, pointing to a rocking chair on the porch of a small but well-kept cottage. There is no text, only the photo, but Izzy doesn’t have to ask who sent it.

“Took her a fucking month to respond,” Izzy scoffs against his better judgment. It’s none of his business but he can’t keep the protective bitterness from welling up in his chest. He’s never been able to stand seeing Ed in pain.

“Mh,” Ed shrugs. “She gets like that. Freezes up when she’s scared. When shit’s important.”

“Ah.” Izzy hopes he hasn’t infused that one syllable with three decades of Ed-and-Izzy turmoil. Ed defies physics and goes even more limp beside him, rests his head on Izzy’s shoulder with a sigh.

“‘s fair, I guess. Didn’t expect her to get over what happened with my father. Ever. So that’s progress… or something.”

“Suppose,” Izzy responds. It’s all he can do to be here, wait for his husband to collect himself, hope Bonnet doesn’t burn the place down in the meantime.

“Wanna go back out there?” Ed asks, like he’s reading Izzy’s mind. 

“If you’re ready,” Izzy says, even though doesn’t really want to leave this floor, hard and chilly as it may be. All he wants is to hold Ed close and keep him safe and never let anyone hurt him again. He feels Ed nod against his shoulder.

“Yeah. Think so. Make me a frappuccino?”

“Alright.” Izzy has to smile at that. As long as his husband is an incorrigible sugar fiend, there’s still something right with the world. He gets up, dusts himself off, then helps a groaning Ed to his feet.

“With sprinkles?” Ed looks down at him, actually bats his lashes, the cheeky fucker. 

Izzy steps closer. He tucks his face against Ed’s neck, smells sweat and coffee and oranges.

“Sure,” he mumbles, lips brushing his husband’s skin. “All the fucking sprinkles you want.”

Chapter Text

Izzy jerks awake when he hears the key in the door. A bleary look at his wristwatch tells him it’s just past 3am. The silly baking show he was watching has long since moved on to the next episode and there’s a disgusting damp spot where he must have drooled in his sleep. He turns the pillow over to hide the mess, alerted by his husband’s feet squelching wetly on the laminate. 

“What’re you still doing up?” Ed asks as he steps into the living room.

“Slept all afternoon. Rhythm’s off.” Izzy rubs his eyes, grumbling, then feels around for the glasses he only really wears on days like this. (After learning the hard way that serial napping with contacts is hell.) He finds them wedged between the sofa cushions and pushes them up his nose to finally focus on Ed.  “The fuck happened to you?”

“Still not feeling better?” Ed has the audacity to ignore his question and actually sound worried, even though he’s the one currently looking like he went for a swim in all his clothes. Mascara is running down his cheeks in black rivulets and gathering in the stubble on his jaw. His hair is a sopping mess and the dark purple lipstick is smudged, like it’s been partially kissed off. 

“Hm,” Izzy shrugs, choosing to ignore his husband’s bedraggled state for now. “Headache, chills. Might be coming down with something. Got Frenchie to cover my shift. How was the club?” The guilty crease in Ed’s brow is painful to look at. Izzy would much rather hear about their night out than be coddled like a fucking child. 

“Pretty fun. Good DJ, some big fella named John. And Stede tried to twerk, it was fuckin’ hilarious. Missed you, though.” Ed steps closer to the sofa and runs a hand through Izzy’s mussed hair. The touch is icy against his overheated scalp and he leans into the pleasant sensation before remembering why his husband’s fingers are so damn cold. 

“Why the fuck are you all…”  Izzy draws back to gesture at the water dripping from the hem of Ed’s skirt. There’s already a puddle forming around his bare feet. 

“Might’ve got into a bit of a thunderstorm on the way home,” Ed mumbles, suddenly sheepish.

“Does Bonnet not have cab money?” Izzy cuts in, loud enough for the accused to hear where he’s noisily messing about in the hallway. On cue, a mop of soaked golden curls appears behind Ed’s shoulder. The mouth below them is smeared all bruise-colored and Izzy can’t suppress his smirk.

“Well, we thought it might be rather romantic, walking home in the summer rain…” Stede at least makes a show of wringing his hands about it - and his white shirt has gone pleasantly transparent, damp as it is - so Izzy bites back a nasty retort. He does make a mental note to ask these two lunatics how the romance is going when they’re in bed with pneumonia after this stunt. 

“Get in the shower, both of you. I made hot chocolate. Just gotta heat it up.” Izzy pushes to his feet with a groan, diligently avoiding the wet spots on the floor as he ushers his sodden husband and boyfriend to the bathroom.

“Aw, Iz. You’re like the grumpiest sheepdog ever,” Ed snickers, leaves behind a hint of strawberry daiquiri as he kisses the half-hearted “fuck off” from Izzy’s lips, and closes the door. 

On his way to the kitchen, Izzy swings by the bedroom to snag one of Stede’s robes - the green one with the fuzzy trim. He pulls it tight around himself as he turns on the stove and starts stirring the cocoa. 

Soon, he finds his mind wandering, getting lost in the swirling flecks of red in the brown. His head still isn’t all there - he’s cold and clammy and so fucking tired despite sleeping all day. Maybe he’s caught a virus or something, but Ed and Stede are fine. Or maybe it’s just the stress of new café ownership - they’ve survived the first two months, are even starting to turn a profit, but the effort sure took a toll on his body and mind. Is feeling sick from exhaustion a thing? He steps away from the pot to write a post-it note for his next therapy session, jumps when he hears someone inhale at his back.

“Oh, that smells lovely!” Stede swoons as he enters the kitchen. Izzy hums in agreement and resists the urge to tuck the note away in a panic. Not like Bonnet hasn’t had a whole army of shrinks digging around in his brain. But Izzy isn’t in the mood to discuss it, not at this time of night. And the sight of Stede admittedly helps to distract him from it all - he looks both out of place and incredibly at home here, leaning against their kitchen cupboard in nothing but thick socks, boxer shorts and Ed’s ratty old Queen hoodie. Izzy wonders if Stede even knows any of their songs but doesn't get the chance to ask before Ed comes padding in. He’s limping slightly, tries to cover a pained hiss with a swish of his bathrobe when he sits down. 

“Platform heels,” Ed admits when Izzy raises an eyebrow. And of course the knee brace would have ruined the outfit, Izzy can guess as much. He finds he’s too tired to remind his husband of his physical limitations and just starts ladling cocoa into three cups. At Ed’s puppy-eyed blinking, he adds a heaping teaspoon of sugar and a handful of mini marshmallows to the purple mug. It’s worth the trouble and the dentist bills when his husband’s quiet “thanks, love” warms him up more than the hot chocolate ever could. 

“Mmh, this is- oh-” On the other side of the table, Bonnet starts coughing. “Spicy,” he finally chokes out. 

“Red chili flakes. Trying it out for the shop.” Izzy takes a sip of his own drink. It tastes alright to him - the heat is there but fairly mild, just a pleasant tingle on his tongue. Ed giggles as he pats their sputtering boyfriend on the back.

“It’s perfect, Iz. Chases the cold right out of your bones. Eh, Stede?”

“Quite.” Bonnet’s eyes are brimming with tears, his cheeks bright red as he pushes his cup over to Ed’s side. “Though I think maybe my bones are warm enough now.”

Ed is still teasing Stede ten minutes later when Izzy’s body finally gives out. 

“Bed?” is all he can manage from where he’s resting his forehead against the blessedly cool table top.

“You go ahead, I’ll wash up,” Stede offers and Izzy lets Ed pull him to the bedroom with minimal resistance. He can always put the dishes in their proper place tomorrow. 

Soon enough, Izzy is dozing off again, Ed’s chest rising and falling in steady breaths under his cheek. Drifting in from the kitchen, he hears the gentle clink of ceramic, the trickle of water and Stede’s hauntingly off-key rendition of “Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?” 

And, well, that answers that question. 

Chapter Text

Izzy settles on the couch with a groan and props his feet up on the coffee table. It’s his first night off in… he doesn’t even know how long. And of course he put up a fight when Ed insisted, made sure to get Roach in for the evening rush at least, but now he finds himself immensely glad for it. 

He’s got everything set out, not wanting to move his heavy limbs off the sofa any more than strictly necessary. There’s a glass of that fancy gin Stede got him for his birthday. A little bowl of cashews and dried cranberries courtesy of his Mum. And the DVD player is locked and loaded with Alien - one of Izzy’s favorites, but far too slow-paced if he wants Ed to stay awake for any reasonable portion of movie night. He takes a sip of his drink, presses play, and relaxes into the burn of juniper and the creeping horror of outer space.

Not ten minutes in, the chime of the doorbell interrupts his hard-earned bliss. Izzy gets up, grumbling and fully ready to tear somebody a new one about it - Ed for forgetting his meds, or Jack for just being Jack, or…

Out in their hallway stands Mary, pale-faced and rumpled, a sniffling Louis clinging to her skirt.

“What the f-” Izzy catches himself. No swearing in front of the kids and all that bullshit. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, I would have called ahead but it’s all been a bit chaotic. Doug must have taken my phone and Stede’s stuck on a yacht in Haiti and…” Mary sounds rattled, like she has to organize her thoughts while already talking. She takes a breath and tries again. “Doug’s mother had a bad fall, broke her hip. She’s in surgery, so Doug and Alma went ahead to the hospital but-”

At the word hospital, Louis’ quiet whining pitches into a full-on wail, echoing off the bare walls in the corridor. Izzy ushers them inside - he doesn’t have the patience to deal with neighbors complaining about the noise tonight. Mary exhales as they pass the threshold.

“Seems his big sister has been telling him scary stories ever since she got her tonsils out last year. So I was wondering if… Is Ed home?” Mary’s eyes trail around their meager foyer, one hand still automatically stroking her son’s hair. 

“Afraid it’s just me. But you can leave him here, if that helps?” Izzy curses himself the moment he says it. Of course Mary wants Ed to watch her kid, he’s brilliant at that sort of thing. Izzy likes Stede’s children, he really does, but something about them just makes him feel… exposed and awkward and fully out of his fucking depth. Unexpectedly, Mary’s face relaxes into a grateful smile as she directs her soft voice downwards.

“That would be fun, hmm? Wanna stay here with Uncle Izzy?”

“That’s Mister Teach or Sir as far as you’re concerned,” Louis mumbles wetly into Mary’s clothes and Izzy can’t bite back a wry smirk.

“Listen, little shrimp. If you let your mother go without making a fuss, you can call me whatever you want.”

Louis lifts his tear-streaked face to properly look at Izzy, eyes going wide as he wraps his head around the endless possibilities now open to him, likely unprecedented in all the six years of his life.

“Even Stinky McPoopface?” 

“Sure,” Izzy snorts as Mary mouths a “sorry” around her own grin. He walked right into that one and they both know it. 

“Alright, be good, pick you up in the morning. Thank you, Izzy. You’re lifesaver!” Mary is out the door in a flash and just like that, Izzy is left alone in his own apartment with a snot-nosed little boy and no fucking clue what to do about it.

“Have you had dinner?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Children need to eat, after all. 

“Grilled cheese,” Louis nods, then proceeds to stare down at his own shoelaces and chew his bottom lip.

The silence stretches, painfully so, only punctuated by the intermittent squelching noises from the kid’s nose. Izzy briefly considers calling Edward to ask him how the fuck to entertain the child, but one of the shelter residents is having their birthday party at the café and Ed is probably up to his ears in overly caffeinated teenagers right now. He’ll have to figure this one out on his own.

“C’mon.” Jaw set, Izzy walks to the kitchen, trusting Louis to follow so he can at least give him a tissue or something. The kid still seems upset, understandably so, and Izzy tries not to get swept up in his own unease, in his desperate need to fix it , if only he knew how, which he fucking doesn’t. Ed would already have them dressed up in silly clothes, sword fighting with cooking utensils, but that’s Ed and all Izzy’s ever been good at is just… 

“You allergic to anything?” He turns around, almost tripping over Louis who is in fact right behind him.

“What’s a lergic?” The boy wipes his nose on his sleeve and Izzy winces. He tries again. 

“Like, stuff you can’t eat?” 

“Mom says I can’t eat cat food.” Louis seems indignant about it and Izzy takes that as a no.

He might not be fun or cool or anything like that, but he was also an anxious little boy once - half a fucking century ago - and his Mum had her ways of getting him to settle down. He opens the fridge and gives silent thanks to Ed’s guts of steel - there is actually a carton of whole milk in there. Izzy’s stomach grumbles just looking at the thing. He pours some into a small pot and sets it on the stove, stirring so it doesn’t stick to the bottom. Louis watches him raptly.

“Are you making coffee?” 

“I can make other things besides coffee,” Izzy replies, perhaps a bit too defensive. He’s only now realizing that the kid has never seen him outside of work, and isn’t that a slightly pathetic thought?

It takes a while for the milk to heat and Louis starts fidgeting, keeps poking a finger into his mouth. 

“So, how’s school?” Izzy lamely attempts to distract the tiny human by making fucking small talk. He really is absolutely horrible at this.

“I don’t go to school yet, silly! Alma goes to school.” - Right, right, fuck, Stede said something about the boy starting first grade in September. Louis blinks up at him then, brow furrowed, and the abrupt shift in mood would put Ed’s own to shame. He looks… pensive, more worried than any child should ever have to be, like he’s only just remembered why he’s here.

“Will Gramma be ok?”

“Sure she will,” Izzy responds on reflex. He has no fucking way of knowing, but his Mum had her hip replaced a while back and it all went fine, so it’s not a complete lie.

“Will she have a scar?” There’s a fascinated glint in the kid’s eyes now and if Izzy knows anything about little boys it’s their insatiable morbid curiosity. 

“Probably. Around here.” Izzy draws a vertical line along his upper thigh, where he knows his mother’s incision sits. 

“Do you have any scars?” Louis scrunches his brows together, like that will help him see through Izzy’s sweatpants and shirt. He’s the spitting image of his father that way.

“Got this one.” Izzy manages to toe off his left sock while continuing to stir the milk. It’s faded over the years but the long, shiny strip of skin on the outside of his foot is still evident. The boy’s mouth falls open and for a second Izzy worries that he overstepped, that he gave the kid a fright, that he’ll have to explain…

“I got a loose tooth!” Louis grins. He pushes the tip of his tongue against his top left incisor and it swings forward dramatically, only hanging on by a fragile thread of gum tissue. Izzy shudders. 

“Uh… congrats?” 

“It’s my third one.” Izzy supposes that must be significant, maybe, but thankfully the milk is warm and he can occupy himself by pouring it into a mug and stirring in a big spoonful of honey. 

“Here,” he unceremoniously hands Louis the cup. It looks gigantic between his little palms and his face lights up when he takes a sip. Izzy peeks at his watch - almost 10pm. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“I don’t have a bedtime.” The kid is messing with him, that much Izzy knows, but he decides not to argue. Not after the rough day the boy’s had. Instead, he follows Louis as he ambles through the apartment, cup in hand, seemingly drawn in by their large flat screen TV like a moth to a flame. 

“What are you watching?” 

Luckily, the movie is paused on an interior shot of the spaceship, no possibly traumatic chest-bursting creatures for a child to see. 

“You wouldn’t like it. But we can watch something else. What sorts of movies do you like?” 

Louis plops down on the couch, milk sloshing over the sides of his mug. 

“I like sea monsters! And pirates! And dogs and dragons and dinosaurs and the one with the lions but that made me cry and also robots and knights and princesses and do you know what Minions are?” He has to take a breath. Apparently, Izzy just inadvertently opened some kind of children’s media pressure valve. 

“Alright, alright, wait here a minute.” Izzy gives the boy a hesitant pat on the head before leaving to get his laptop. Their movie collection is distinctly unsuitable for kids but thankfully, Stede has an account with every streaming service known to man and isn’t stingy about sharing. Izzy scrolls through the options, settling on either The Little Mermaid or Peter Pan and leaving both open so Louis can pick. 

When he returns to the living room, the kid is curled up on the sofa, fast asleep, one tiny dislodged tooth lying on the coffee table next to his empty cup. Izzy drapes a blanket over him. He has to breathe around the way his chest is clenching, flooded with memories of Lily falling asleep just like that while waiting for their mother to get home from a late shift. Izzy washes the too-intense sentiment down with a swig of gin, settles by the boy’s side and plugs in his earphones so he can empathise with Sebastian the crab on his own like a fucking adult. 

“Hey. Hey, Iz.” Ed’s voice is hushed but close enough to rip Izzy from his slumber. “Why is there a Bonnet kid on our couch?” 

“Long story,” Izzy whispers back, stretching his aching neck because he’s dozed off in some atrociously contorted position, laptop still on his knees. The light coming in from the window is tinged pink, Ed must have had a long night. Izzy gets up, careful not to jostle Louis, and wraps his arms around his husband’s waist.

“How was work?” he mumbles into Ed’s shirt. He smells like sweat and coffee and a hint of beer.

“Busy. And um… I may have stabbed a hole into the fridge when I was defrosting it-” Izzy stiffens against Ed, a million curses ready on his tongue. “Yeah, I know you told me not to use the ice pick. But it’s all good, ok? Jack happened to have a brand new fridge that uh… fell off a truck or something. Came by to help me install it and then we had to have a drink…”

“‘course you did,” Izzy chides but it’s half-hearted, he’s far too tired to put any heat behind his words. They look out the window, still wrapped up in each other, and Louis whines quietly in his sleep. 

“I’m so fucking bad at this. Kid hates me…” Izzy deflates against his husband’s chest. Ed hugs him tighter.

“Nah. He’s alive, he’s asleep, kitchen smells like you made him your Mum’s honey milk. Can’t have fucked up that bad.”

“Mmh,” Izzy hums in acknowledgement, if not assent. He still feels painfully inadequate but maybe Ed is right - apart from the tooth, the kid is still in one piece at least. 

“Stede told me Louis drew a picture of us the other day. You with a cup of coffee in one hand, bloody sword in the other. Apparently I had an eye patch for some reason? Kids are so fuckin’ weird, man.” Ed chuckles softly.

“Told me he likes pirates, so…” Izzy shrugs. It probably makes perfect sense, in some convoluted six-year-old brain sort of way. 

“See? You did good, Iz. You really did.” Ed rests his chin on Izzy’s head, his body warm and steady against his back. Outside, the first birds start chirping and the sunrise coats them all in a rosy golden light. 

Chapter Text

It’s barely even fall and yet the chill stings his skin when Stede climbs out of the cab. Four weeks of Caribbean climate have left him tanned and accustomed to heat and humidity far beyond what his hometown has to offer this time of year. He hopes the driver doesn’t see him sway as the solid ground shifts dangerously beneath his feet. It makes his stomach churn. Too much stress, too much time on boats and planes, not enough solid food. His internal clock is out of sync with reality. He didn’t sleep on the flight and yet there’s an urgency in him, a feeling like he needs to get up, attend yet another tedious meeting, stare down yet another corrupt investor, put on the mask of a stranger’s smile, teeth white and jagged as a shark’s. But it’s midnight. The dark is like soft velvet, cool air laced with the last remnants of summer. And just a few steps ahead - a beacon of warm light, a window with a quirky sign of coffee cup and crossbones, two familiar figures bustling about beyond.

“…and then it just sprayed all over the fuckin’ place, like, what was that?” Ed’s chuckle carries well, even through the door, and Stede is tempted to linger out of sight and listen, just for a little bit. 

“It’s not fucking funny, Edward. I’ll need to replace the gasket tomorrow. Can’t have hot milk scalding the customers,” Izzy grumbles, takes the dish towel from Ed and lets scarred fingers graze the back of his husband’s hand as though by accident.

“It was a little bit funny. You’ve still got some foam there.” Ed leans down to kiss Izzy’s temple and Izzy closes his eyes, the picture of pure bliss, then scrunches them up and squirms as Ed’s kissing turns to licking, leaving a damp trail all over the side of his face. 

Stede can’t bear it a second longer. He opens the café door.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” Ed says, his back turned. But Izzy, ever vigilant, whips around, exclaims “Bonnet!” and everything is a whirlwind from there. 

Long arms wrap around Stede’s waist and his feet lose contact with the ground. His nose is pushed into a scruffy beard, sticky with rogue droplets of oat milk. Then there are lips on his mouth, his cheek, a second, smaller body pressing into his back, smells of hair wax and the sweat of a hard day’s work and warmth and comfort and… 

Stede sniffles against Ed’s shoulder. He hasn’t even uttered a single word of greeting and already the past month’s exhaustion is catching up with him all at once. Ed gently lowers him to the floor, steps back though Stede does his best to fight it. He wants to leave his face buried in the worn cotton of Ed’s shirt. Doesn’t want them to see the wetness in his eyes, much less verbally acknowledge it. 

“Shit, Stede, what’s wrong?” Ed sounds immediately worried - exactly what he had wanted to avoid. 

“N-nothing,” Stede lies, the hitch of his breath a betrayal. “Just very tired. Happy to be back.”

“Bullshit,” Izzy scoffs behind him. As repressed as the little grouch is about showing his own emotions, he sure has a keen sense for sniffing out distress in others. “Sit. What do you need? Have you eaten?”

Stede lets himself be guided to his favorite armchair by Ed, shakes his head as the rainbow quilt is draped across his lap.

“Not really. There was quite a lot of turbulence that didn’t, um… agree with my stomach, I’m afraid.”

“Right,” Izzy replies and gets to work behind the counter like he’s been given an order of some kind. Ed, meanwhile, settles on the chair’s armrest and runs his fingers through Stede’s flat, sun-bleached waves. It’s so tender, sends such sweet tingles down his spine, it’s all Stede can do not to start crying again. 

“You look like you’ve escaped from a bronzer commercial, mate. Suits you.” Ed’s voice is just as warm as the hand caressing Stede’s scalp.

“It did start off as a rather nasty sunburn. I looked like a boiled lobster for the entire first week-”

Izzy snorts behind the counter and Stede lets himself melt into the familiarity of it all - the soft touches, the low rumble of the electric kettle, the clink of cups and spoons. He jolts out of his half-hazy state when Izzy sets the tray down in front of him. 

“Here. Ginger tea, helps with the airsickness. And yesterday’s oatmeal cookies. Fucking stale but easy to digest.”

“Trust him on that. If there’s one thing Iz knows about, it’s trying not to puke,” Ed teases, though his tone is gentle, and he shoots his husband a fond smile. Izzy’s “Fuck off!” is equally affectionate.

With slow, careful sips - both because the beverage is hot and because he still doesn’t quite trust his insides - Stede empties half his cup. It leaves him feeling pleasantly warm and really does alleviate the worst of the nausea. Something in Stede’s gut unclenches for the first time in a month. He takes a bite of cookie - it’s a bit dry, but still delicious, and when it doesn’t threaten to come back up, he scarfs down the entire thing. 

They don’t pressure him to speak as he eats and drinks, Izzy wiping down the remaining dishes, Ed a solid presence at Stede’s side. Lord knows it would be the height of hypocrisy - they’re both notoriously terrible at talking things through. Though therapy does seem to be helping, Stede muses when it’s Izzy who breaks the silence then.

“So, what happened?”

Stede sighs. No use beating around the bush, after all.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Izzy freezes, wet cup held aloft, and Ed’s hand in Stede’s hair stills. 

“Can’t do what, mate? Is it something we did, do you wanna-” The edge of fear in Ed’s voice alerts Stede to his blunder. Clearly four months of self-reflection aren’t enough to entirely banish all demons of insecurity from the Teach household. He hastens to explain.

“Gosh, darlings, no! It’s not about us. This is perfect, you are perfect.” Stede waits for Izzy to exhale and Ed to resume his petting before he goes on. “It’s just… I’ll be turning fifty next year. And still nothing I’ve accomplished professionally feels even remotely like… mine. I’m… maybe I’m getting too old to be my father’s mouthpiece, just a convenient hand to sign the family name. If I’m honest, I hate the work. I hate the people. I think-”

“Then quit.” Ed says it like that’s actually a possibility. Which is utterly ludicrous. Stede deflates even further, eyes glued to the string of fairy lights overhead.

“I don’t know how to do anything else. Hell, I barely know what I’m doing as it is. It’s all just his ideas, his bidding, and he knows I’m a coward, knows I’m too soft and too weak to ever leave…” A hot, shameful tear makes its way down Stede’s cheek but his hand is grasped tightly before he can wipe it away. Something compact and dark has swooped in and settled on the chair’s other side.

“Fucking listen to me, Bonnet,” Izzy growls, gaze hard and as bizarrely attractive as it’s terrifying. “You waltzed your posh little ass into our former place of work. You chatted up Edward fucking Teach right in front of his husband. You took us both home to have a bloody threesome the very same night. Does that sound like fucking coward behavior to you?”

“He’s got a point there,” Ed agrees through barely suppressed laughter. And maybe he does, Stede has to admit as much.

“I, um… I guess if the incentive is sufficiently enticing…” 

“Suppose there are more threesomes where that first one came from.” Izzy’s response is so entirely deadpan that Ed finally cracks and starts to wheeze, almost falling off his precarious perch in the process. Izzy ignores him and goes on. “Roach asked to reduce his hours when classes start in October. So there’s a part time barista gig if you want it. You’ll be learning on the job.” 

Stede blinks, looks back and forth between Izzy’s blank expression and Ed’s giddily expectant one. The earth tilts again, like he’s still on the plane and they’ve hit an air pocket. He waits for the punchline, for the offer to be snatched away before he’s even properly considered it. Nothing happens.

“Can… can I think about it?” Stede’s mind is made up already, of course it is. Even though he knows better than to make life-altering decisions at this level of jetlag and fatigue. Even though the prospect of training under Izzy is more than mildly intimidating. Even though his father is bound to curse his name and disown him, and then what will Mary say when the children are left with nothing because he couldn’t be a proper husband or father or son… 

Like he can smell his mounting anxiety, Izzy squeezes Stede’s hand again, anchoring him to the present. Ed kisses the crown of his head, warm breath in his hair cutting through the panic’s icy fog. 

“You take all the time you need, love. Finish your tea, Iz and I just gotta lock up and then we’re bringing you home with us.” 

Home, Stede feels the smooth, worn edges of the word where he’s wedged between the two men on the leather chair. Then again later, with his cheek on Ed’s chest, Izzy’s soft belly rising and falling against his back. And once more over breakfast while his boyfriends argue about blueberries or chocolate chips in the pancakes. They settle for both and let them go cold anyway as the three of them end up in a frenzied tangle of limbs on the living room floor. 

“I’ll write to my father,” Stede decides in a subsequent moment of post-climactic clarity, still panting and wondering where his briefs have gone. Ed and Izzy exchange a sly smile between his legs. He genuinely doesn’t know what’s next, how they’ll manage, whether it can really all work out. They are about to enter entirely uncharted waters. But if these two gorgeous, crazy men have taught Stede anything, it’s the art of saying fuck it, and diving in head first. 

Chapter Text

“No, Bonnet, that’s not what I fuckin’- forget it. Move before I have to clean up your mess again.”

There’s a sharp smack of palm against too-tight denim, then an indignant squawk.

“Hey! You said stir. I was stirring.”

“You were splashing about like a kid at the pool. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s everywhere…”

In the next room, Ed smiles at his computer, cursor blinking idly in the first cell of an empty spreadsheet. They had asked Ed to set up next month’s budget plan while Izzy spent the morning continuing Stede’s training. Well. What passes for training with those two. By Ed’s calculations, the squabbling should escalate to genuine insults within the next five minutes, and wet-angry kissing soon after that. Actually, Ed reckons, it’s hardly worth getting started on this deathly tedious task. Any minute now, they should be tumbling into his office - aka the bedroom - half-dressed in aprons and fuzzy socks, cheeks flushed and lips already bitten raw. And then they’ll sweep Ed up, pull him into their frenzy, and all three of them will fall into bed and-

The sound of the front door closing makes Ed snap out of his reverie. He can’t hear them anymore - not his boyfriend, not his husband, only the gentle bubbling of whatever they left to simmer on the stove. Ed closes the laptop and pokes his head out into the hallway. It smells delicious, brings up memories of warmth and fall. But there’s nobody here to share that sentiment with.

“Stede? Iz?” Nothing. He’s all alone. Something starts squirming in his stomach, starts writhing cold and slimy all along his bones. It’s an old companion, that sensation. And his therapist would be so damn proud of him for trying to name the feeling, to sit with it, when all he wants is to reach in between his own ribs and tear it the fuck out.

But maybe his therapist is an idiot. Or just trying to spare Ed’s feelings with all that acknowledging childhood trauma and self-care nonsense. Maybe. Because the facts are simple, aren’t they? Ed Teach makes a good first impression. He’s not bad looking, he can be funny and endearing as fuck. Easy to trick and charm people into doing what he wants them to. Up to a certain point. Up to the point where the facade cracks and they realize what lies below. Darkness. Anger. Fear of what that anger can do. He still can’t look at the scars on Izzy’s foot without wanting to punch a wall-

“-no need to buy the organic shit. I had a fucking coupon.” A key rasps in the door.

“Well, excuse me for caring about the quality of produce we-”

The two men freeze in the door frame, Stede peeking over Izzy’s shoulder from behind. Ed sniffs. Shit. Why is he sitting on the carpet? And when did he start crying, for fuck’s sake? 

Izzy gets his bearings first, crouches down on the floor next to his husband.

“Eddie?” The way his voice goes all careful tells Ed he must look a right mess. Stede comes to join them, rubs a warm palm up and down Ed’s spine.

“Is this about the budget?” Stede’s question sounds so genuine, Ed has to huff a snotty laugh.

“Nah, mate,” he shakes his head. “Well, maybe a little bit. But- I dunno, it’s stupid. You were just… gone.” His voice cracks again, a fresh wave of tears stinging his eyes when Izzy answers.

“Ed, we went to the store. Ran out of fuckin’ garlic because Bonnet here is trying to ward off vampires or something…” 

“It barely even tastes of garlic!” Stede bristles, still stroking Ed’s back. Ed manages a watery smile. 

“Said it was stupid. Just… exhausted. Too many late shifts, I guess. Might have to up the meds, too. Because for a second there, I really thought-” He swallows, shakes his head again, like he’s trying to dislodge something nasty stuck to his brain. 

“Thought what?” Izzy’s eyes flicker through love and worry and hurt the way they do. The way only his husband’s eyes can.

“Thought you’d left the sweet spot.” Ed has to look at the floor, it sounds so fucking ridiculous out loud. Izzy sighs, but says nothing.

“The what?” Stede’s hand stills between Ed’s shoulder blades. Ed waits, hopes Izzy might jump in and explain, but he doesn’t, so Ed takes a deep breath.

“Y’know. The time between getting to know someone and… really getting to know them. Finding out they’re maybe not as great as they seem. That they’re terrible, actually…”

“Oh, darling.” Stede presses a kiss to Ed’s wet cheek. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“So I’ve been telling him. For three fucking decades.” Izzy rolls his eyes. They’ve had this talk too many times over the years. Izzy’s own sweet spot seems to be damn near indestructible. The exception to the rule - for better or for worse. 

“What’re you making, anyway?” Ed asks, in hopes of deflecting the conversation from his own malfunctioning mind. 

“Pumpkin soup!” Stede announces with all the pride of a new parent. “We want to serve it in little bread bowls at the café.”

“Ehh.” Izzy makes a noncommittal gesture. “Something pumpkin soup-adjacent. If you get off the fucking floor, you can try some.” Izzy stands up and extends a hand to Ed, who gets to his feet with a groan. 

As Izzy and Stede continue their bickering - about dairy-free cream or spoon sizes or napkin colors, he lost track at some point - Ed texts his therapist to ask for an earlier appointment. 

The soup is rich and creamy, bright orange, and with just enough garlic to pack a decent punch. It warms Ed’s insides, melts the jagged edges of that fear-anger-loneliness he can never quite seem to shake. Not yet. But perhaps in time. 

Chapter Text

“Ed! Uncle Izzy!” Two shrill voices, followed by the pitter-patter of tiny feet. Izzy looks up from where he’s refilling the brown sugar packets. A pair of children are draped over the bar top, short legs dangling as they try to scramble across. Stede is still hovering in the doorway, looking guilty. Izzy nudges his husband’s arm. 

“Why are there multiple Bonnets in our place of business? And why the f- why aren’t you Uncle Ed?” 

Ed shrugs, tousling the kids’ hair - it makes Alma swat at him and Louis squeal. 

“Far too cool to be an uncle.” He looks over at Stede. “Family outing?”

“It’s his shift…” grumbles Izzy while Stede wrings his hands.

“Mary and Doug are sick with the flu. I offered to take the children for a few days. Just until they feel better. I hope that’s alright?” The way he looks up at Izzy through his lashes is downright criminal. Bastard must have picked that up from Ed. So what’s a man to do but sigh and nod?

“Fine. As long as you can still work.” Izzy looks at his watch. “Ed has to leave… five minutes ago.”

“It’s ok. I can cancel.” The kids have made it around the counter and Ed has already supplied them with peanut butter cookies and milk. Didn’t even double-check if they have any allergies. Izzy feels the pit of his stomach go tight. 

“You are not canceling therapy. I’m calling my mother.” Now that almost makes Ed drop the cookie jar.

“Whoa, love. Isn’t that a bit extreme?” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to inconvenience you…” Stede still hasn’t dropped the damn kicked puppy look and now he’s wearing his flowery apron, too, and Izzy is only human, after all. He rises up to his tiptoes, gives Stede a dry peck on the temple.

“I said it’s fine, Bonnet. These rascals are better at making coffee than you, anyway. And Mum’s gonna be…” The thought of using a word like ecstatic or thrilled to describe his mother feels about as right as a shark on a bicycle. “Well… Lil and I never did get around to supplying her with grandkids. And she likes being around the little ones.” 

“Yeah. So she can bake them into pies,” Ed mutters ominously, pulling on his leather jacket. Louis covers his face in pretend horror. Alma barks out a terrifyingly morbid laugh. 

“I think we’ll be fine here. Now fuck off.”

“Language!” gasps Louis. Alma just holds out her open palm until Izzy pays her a shiny golden coin for his sins.

The place fills up rapidly, mainly college students craving their afternoon caffeine bump, and Izzy ends up banishing all the Bonnets to the back office. Sure, he could use another pair of hands, but he also can’t be tripping over tiny people left and right. That, however, leaves Stede manning the phone and peeking out at regular intervals with-

“Izzy, do we sell gluten-free brownies?”

“Izzy, do we have room for a party of twelve on December 2nd?”

“Izzy, are dogs allowed in here?”

It takes most of Izzy’s restraint to answer all his questions in the affirmative and the rest to avoid losing any more change to the pockets of Alma’s pink overalls. 

Finally, the door opens to reveal a small, elderly woman leaning on a cane. Izzy comes round to take her coat, receives a pat on the cheek in greeting - her hand is icy from the chill outside. 

“Thanks for helping out, Mum. Really.” Izzy guides her to an armchair by the last vacant table. 

“Of course, after Edward left you all alone with this mess…” comes the inevitable reply. And Izzy refuses to get into it, to try and explain how Ed is finally getting the help he needs, how he’s learning to be a better husband, the very thing Margaret has wanted him to do for over twenty years… So he just goes to fetch the Bonnet children, and some paper and crayons to keep them occupied. 

Soon, Stede is settled behind the bar, trying to perfect his milk foam artistry - he has at last mastered the heart and is now moving on to (still rather lopsided) feather patterns. Both he and Izzy sneak occasional glances at the kids, who are peacefully drawing unicorns while Izzy’s mother sips her tea. 

“She really does have a calming effect on them. They were practically scaling the walls at home.” There’s something like admiration in Stede’s voice as he takes in the scene. Izzy nods.

“Yeah. It’s what she does. I was a fuckin’ neurotic kid. Perfectionist. Stressed about everything from my grades to my hair…” Stede shoots him a sidelong look, a barely hidden smirk. Izzy bristles. “Oh, shut up. Point is, it would always calm me down, just being around her, watching her work. She might not be the warmest person. But level-headed. Good in a crisis.”

“I see,” Stede says and there’s no more malice in his smile. Izzy makes sure to hand him a plate to dry before things get too sappy.

“Dad?” Louis crows across the room. “Can we have hot chocolate? With marshmallows?” 

“Why, of course!” Stede gets right to it, eager as he always is when presented with an easy chance to score good parenting points. He even arranges the mini-marshmallows in the shape of little sail boats, held in place by a large dollop of whipped cream. 

“You’re learning, Bonnet,” Margaret comments wryly when Stede carries the cups over personally. Where Ed’s always been too volatile for her liking, Stede is too sheltered. She’s told Izzy as much. Many times. But Stede is no stranger to disapproving parents so he just smiles, slightly cool but polite.

“Thank you, Margaret. I do have the best teacher.” 

She accepts that with an unreadable hum and Izzy has to turn and wipe the foam nozzle. His cheeks are getting hot. 

“Look at that, it’s like the Normandie all over again,” Margaret chides a second later. The kids have apparently started engaging in naval warfare by dropping sugar cubes on their foamy boats, splashing cocoa on the table and their faces alike. Izzy knows his mother always carries wet-wipes in her purse. 

“Doug puts marshmallows on his sweet potato casserole!” says Alma, once her ship has been damaged beyond repair and gobbled up with a spoon. Margaret pretends to shudder all over.

“Oh my, who would do such an abominable thing?” 

“He says it’s normal Thanksgiving food. It tasted funny.” Alma giggles and Margaret lowers her smoky voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Well, I bet Doug tastes funny, too.” 

The kids’ eyes widen and Louis leans forward, trembling with curiosity.

“So Ed was right? You do bake people into pies??” 

Both Izzy and Stede have to stifle a laugh but Margaret just leans back in her chair, a feline grin crinkling her cheeks.

“I do, indeed. But only Americans. And mouthy sons-in-law.”

Chapter Text

Izzy not having any breakfast should have been the first clue. Sure, he’s never been a big eater in the morning, but even Ed knows those anxiety meds should be taken with food. Just washing them down with black coffee seems kinda… counterintuitive if you ask him, but it’s way too early to start a discussion with Iz.

The second hint might have been Ed actually getting to drive to work for once. But not only that - Izzy actually falling back asleep in the passenger seat, head propped against the side window. 

And if all that hadn’t made Ed a bit suspicious already, the scene he’s currently witnessing sure is doing the trick. 

“Five seventy,” Izzy says, his tone as robotic as his movements when he hands a medium latte and a croissant over the counter.

“Six,” says Lou - once a shelter resident, now its secretary. Izzy stands there, frozen, tenner in hand. The toddler on Lou’s hip is already suckling on the pointy end of his pastry. 

“You good, man?” Lou is eyeing Izzy with mild concern. He’s rolled up his sleeves as always, because he hates getting them wet, and Ed can see his arms are covered in goosebumps.

“Iz?” Ed nudges him, opening the register with his other hand to get the patron her change. 

“Huh?” Izzy finally snaps out of his haze. Ed lays his palm on the back of his husband’s neck - he’s blistering hot.

“Let’s get you home, alright?”

Izzy’s eyes look glazed over. He blinks, a bit too slow. 

“The fuck? We just opened. Didn’t sleep well, is all…”

“Yeah, neither did I,” Ed lies. “Good thing is, this is our place, so we can just plop a sign in the window, ask Stede if he can come in early, and go take a fuckin’ nap.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Izzy’s rapid defeat and the way he lets himself be steered into the back office to put on his coat gets Ed’s alarm bells ringing in earnest. He’s probably caught the same plague the entire Bonnet clan was down with just recently - all except Stede, who seems to be magically immune to his own kids’ germs. And if Izzy has it, it’s just a matter of time until Ed gets it, too. 

It’s not even noon yet when they get back to their apartment. Izzy is visibly shivering by now. 

“Bed, hm?” Ed gently coaxes, unwinding the long woolen scarf from his husband’s neck.

“F-fine.” Izzy can hardly speak with the way his teeth are chattering. He makes straight for the bedroom with all the grace of a toy soldier, while Ed goes to turn the electric kettle on. As he waits for the water to boil, Ed uses the time to text Stede - if only to get his confirmation that this entire shit show definitely calls for herbal tea. The fancy kind that looks like hay and smells like a spa.

When Ed joins Izzy in the bedroom, two steaming and well-honeyed mugs in hand, his husband is sitting on the edge of the mattress. Still fully dressed.

“Oh, Iz…” It’s all Ed can say. Izzy doesn’t get like this very often - sick and bone-tired and determined to push his body until he completely shuts down. But in all their years together, Ed has seen it happen a couple of times. He should have known right away, he thinks, trying hard to stop the guilt spiral before it picks up too much speed. When he touches Izzy’s forehead with the back of his hand, his skin is somehow even warmer than before, now covered in an unhealthy film of moisture. Two of Izzy’s shirt buttons are already undone - likely all he could manage before his hands got too shaky or his head too full of fog. 

Ed unbuttons the rest, earning himself a hoarse little whine but no physical resistance. Izzy’s fever really must be impressively high. 

With minimal help from the man himself, Ed wrangles Izzy out of his work clothes and into some flannel pajamas. They’re Stede’s but Izzy likes how warm they are, and he definitely needs all the comfort he can get. He also likes it when Ed sleeps in nothing but a soft cotton shirt and boxers, so he provides that as well. Finally, Ed puts the mug of tea into Izzy’s hands, making sure he’s actually holding it securely before letting go.

“Two sips and then we’re lying down.” 

Izzy nods, blows, drinks, eyes still firmly locked on the border between the carpet and the laminate. Fuck. He really is out of it. Ed takes the cup from Izzy, exchanges it for a kiss to his slightly sticky forehead. 

“Don’t, you’ll…” Izzy turns his face away but Ed stops him with a palm cupping his cheek.

“Shh. You’re not even sick, mate. We’re just resting.” 

“Right, right,” Izzy mumbles, scooting far enough onto the bed for Ed to pull the duvet over both of them. If keeping up this charade makes the stubborn little gremlin take a break, even for an hour or two, then Ed is more than willing to play along. 

He shifts his body closer to Izzy’s, curling around his back, one hand on his husband’s chest, the other awkwardly bent under his own pillow. Izzy feels far too hot, even through two layers of clothing. His heart is racing under Ed’s palm. So sleep is probably for the best, Ed muses, as the fatigue finally catches up with him and settles right next to the tickle in his throat.

He’s not sure what wakes him - it must be hours later because it’s almost dark outside. Might have been Izzy’s hacking cough or the buzz of his phone or the doorbell… it’s all so fucking loud and oddly distant at the same time. A key turns in their door but it might as well be straight in Ed’s ear canal with how grating it sounds.

“I come bearing gifts, babydolls!” The familiar drawl echoes in the hallway and makes the pounding in Ed’s head even worse. Izzy groans miserably beside him.

“Jack? Y’don’t even have a key.”

“The boy toy told me where you keep the spare.” Jack’s smirk is audible - and then painfully visible when he flicks on the bedroom lamp. Ed and Izzy flinch back like two creatures of the night, which makes the idiot chuckle - and mercifully restore the half-darkness right away. 

“Sorry. Look like shit, both of you.”

“Eddie too?” Izzy sounds so fucking worried, Ed almost wishes he’d go back to being catatonic again.   

“I’ll survive a fuckin’ cold, Iz.” Ed pulls Izzy closer, his head resting on Ed’s chest now. His temperature may have gone down - or Ed’s has gone up, it’s hard to say. The scratchy feeling has now firmly settled in Ed’s windpipe, prickling at the top of his lungs. Jack reminds them of his presence by rustling the paper bag. 

“Not only will you survive, you’ll be high as fuck the whole time. Roach sends cough syrup - the good stuff. Then there’s some boring shit…” He pulls out ibuprofen, nasal spray, vaporub. “Oh! And cupcakes!”

“You can have those.” Izzy always loses his appetite when he’s sick. Ed, on the other hand… 

“Uh-uh. You can have his. Mine is medically necessary.”

“Sure, sugar,” replies Jack between bites, his nose already dipped in buttercream frosting. “Um, and maybe have a talk with ol’ Steve about proper workplace conduct and whatnot?” 

“What’s he done?” Ed asks, even though he can guess. It’s just too much fun, watching Jack squirm.

“See, I got myself a large chai to go - don’t look at me like that, I’m a chai dude now - and he drew a fuckin’ heart on the cup. Actually twirled his hair when he gave it to me, saying ‘big chai for the big guy’-”

At that, Izzy starts laughing so hard it sends him into a whole new coughing fit. Ed is still uselessly patting his back when Izzy finds his words again.

“Yeah, don’t get your hopes up. He’s been doing that to everyone. It’s confusing, I suppose, working in a place where most people are actually nice to him. How was the drink?” 

“Oh, fuckin’ atrocious. But if he wants nice, I wouldn’t say no to taking that milk nozzle for a spin…”

“You’re disgusting,” Ed giggles through the weight on his chest - an odd mix of viral aches and sentimental gratitude. He smiles, hopes Jack can see it in the gloom. “Thanks, man.”

“Don’t thank me yet, princess. Bonnet set up a feeding schedule for you, rotating between him, Fang and Lil all week. Today, you’re stuck with Fang’s broccoli casserole. It’s in the kitchen.” 

“Fucking great,” Izzy grumbles, but Ed takes that as a good sign. He’s unlikely to get Izzy to eat anything - least of all Fang’s infamous brick of greens - but if he’s back to swearing, things can’t be all that dire.

As soon as Jack is out the door again, Ed unscrews the little jar on the nightstand and inhales. It smells minty and spicy and like those few nights back home when his mother would sit by his bedside and stroke his hair.

Izzy reaches over, dips his finger into the ointment and wordlessly pulls up the hem of Ed’s shirt to rub it into his chest. It’s cold at first, then warm, tingly, which by some miracle always makes it a little easier to breathe. He puts a dollop on his own fingertips and reaches around under Izzy’s pajama top. Iz likes it better on his back, hates getting his chest hair all greasy. He is firm under Ed’s touch, taut muscles slowly softening with each circular pass of Ed’s palm. And Ed feels it too now, the heat and the fragrant oils and Izzy’s clever fingers all lulling him back to sleep. 

They doze off like that. Their hands still up each other’s shirts, Ed’s cheek pressed into Izzy’s hair, surrounded by soft blankets and the smell of home.

Chapter Text

“Fuck!” Izzy flinches at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, at the raised red scabs and welts scattered across his back. He’d only wanted to… Make use of their arrangement for once? Feel desired? Punish Ed, just a little bit? In any case, he didn’t want this. 

Cursing himself, he gets out the disinfectant, sprays it on a piece of tissue paper and contorts himself until his shoulders ache with the strain just so he can dab at the worst of the damage. It stings. He deserves that. They have ointment somewhere, the kind with white and yellow flowers on the packaging. Seems fucking ridiculous, Izzy thinks, smearing something so innocent-looking on those filthy motel room scratches. Streaks left by a man with deft hands and no expectations and a name Izzy didn’t even bother to ask.

It’s a beast that rears its hungry head every other year or so. The ping of a match on his phone. An hour to kill until Ed gets back from the shop. A sudden, desperate rush of want and recklessness - warm skin and eager mouths and grasping, groping, getting carried away… That’s really all it was, nothing more. And now? He scars easily. Has always been made to be marked like blank paper - Ed loves that about him. Loved. 

The scratches still burn when he lets his shirt fall over them. Ed’s shirt. One last check in the mirror to make sure nothing is peeking out. Then he’s ready to join his husband in the living room - or as ready as he’s likely to be tonight.

“Thought you’d fallen in again,” Ed snickers from the couch, somehow simultaneously scrolling on his phone and flipping through tv channels.

“Fuck off. That was one time. It was dark and you didn’t put the fucking seat down,” Izzy tries to tap into the comfortable routine of their bickering. But he can’t bring himself to sit in his usual spot. Too close to Ed, maybe close enough to smell the chamomile and antiseptic on his skin, the other man’s aftershave clinging to his hair despite the hot shower. He leans his elbow on the opposite armrest instead, half the sofa between them, empty. Ed finally settles on a documentary. Something about wolves. 

…marked, signaling to other packs that a territory is taken. 

Right. Just Izzy’s fucking luck. He curls up impossibly tighter, the hardwood frame under the upholstery digging into his ribs. Ed huffs at that, mildly confused.

“Do I need to take a bath or why the fuck are you all the way over there?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, just gathers his sprawling limbs and scoots closer. A familiar palm comes to rest on Izzy’s shoulder, brushes a tender spot through the light gray cotton, and Izzy’s whole body jolts like he’s poked an electric socket with a fork. “The fuck’s the matter? Tried lifting half a bike on your own again, throw out your back?”

“No, I’m-” Izzy twists away from Ed’s touch, tugs the bottom of his shirt over his knees like that can ward off the inevitable. Resolutely, he lets his eyes flit between the window and television. Anywhere but Ed. The dark sky is thick with late winter fog, the wolf on screen sniffing and licking at its packmate’s jowls, whimpering. Izzy swallows. “You’re always saying how we have an open marriage, right?” It comes out sharper than he meant it to. Ed gives him a few inches of space, cocking his head.

“Uh. Yeah?” 

“Well,” says Izzy, juts out his chin. “I met someone today.” He doesn’t need to look at Ed to know his expression has gone cold.

…less dominant wolves exhibit submissive behavior by holding their tails down…

Ed hits mute on the tv remote, pockets his phone. All his attention is on Izzy now and it aches and prickles worse than the wounds on his skin.

“Show me.” It’s not a suggestion. But Izzy doesn’t buckle and go pliant, not this time. He’s not done handing out his punishments for the day.

“What, so you can go out and fuck a new guy every weekend? Invite him into our bed? Twelve years, Edward! And I haven’t said a fucking thing. So now, when I dare to extend that same freedom to myself for once, when someone wants me for a change, of course you’d have the fucking gall to be jealous-”

“Iz-” Ed interrupts, but tough luck - now that he’s started, Izzy couldn’t stop himself even if he tried. 

“I’m not fucking finished, Edward. Who am I to you anymore, huh? You’re always-”

“Iz. You’re fucking bleeding.”

“What?” Izzy jerks his head around to face his husband. And there’s the stony set of his jaw, the predatory glint in his eye. But underneath that – concern, the direction of his gaze locked on Izzy’s left shoulder.

“Who did that to you?”

“Nobody. ‘s nothing.” Izzy pulls at the hem of his shirt again, knowing full-well it’s useless.

“Show me,” Ed repeats, but softer this time. And Izzy reluctantly unclenches his fingers from the fabric, allows Ed to tug the shirt over his head and tries not to jump at the predictable hissed inhale. 

“Fuck,” Ed breathes, fingers gently tracing Izzy’s skin - there is no pain, like he’s being careful to avoid the marks. “Did… Did you want this?”

Izzy pulls a shroud of spite around himself. “Did at the time. Yeah.”

“And now?” Ed’s fingertips are still drawing patterns between the scratches on Izzy’s back. Izzy shakes his head, tries to blink back tears only to give up and let them run down his cheeks anyway. 

Ed says nothing, but his hand constricts where it’s come to rest on Izzy’s hip bone, where they both know Ed’s canines once punctured deep enough to draw blood. The other hand travels down over threadbare sweatpants, squeezing gently at his right calf, at the patch of skin that’s permanently shiny and hairless from a blistering hot exhaust pipe. First bike they ever fixed up on their own - Izzy can still feel the wind in his hair whenever Ed touches that scar. Because that’s the whole fucking problem, isn’t it? That the thought of anything - anyone - defiling the tapestry of their life together makes Izzy want to fucking puke. And how can he possibly say that out loud without sounding entirely out of his mind?

“What is it, mate? Spit it out,” Ed prompts with another squeeze when Izzy remains frozen, stuck in his own head like a fly trapped in glue. The edge of Ed’s wedding band digs into trembling muscle. On screen, the pack is silently ripping apart a deer carcass, breath misty in the cold and snouts painted red. 

“Fucked up’s what it is,” Izzy finally says. “What the fuck’s wrong with me, Eddie? Never minded when it was you. Hell, I’d let you cut me to the bone a thousand times but a little scratch from some random Grindr twat has me all… Fuck. What even am I?” Izzy’s started shaking, threatening to come apart at the seams, like all the old and new scars might split open right this second and leave him oozing all over the couch-

“You’re my husband, Iz.” Ed leans in and presses an urgent kiss between Izzy’s shoulder blades. His grip on Izzy’s leg loosens only for his fingers to curl around the golden chain on Izzy’s chest, like he’s trying to fuse it all, their flesh and the metal. “And I’m yours.” With Izzy caught between hand and mouth like that, Ed’s lips pull back to expose sharp incisors. There’s the wet-hot caress of a tongue, then the sting of skin yielding, breaking. It’s bright enough to drown out all the guilt and shame and hurt of the night. An anchor in a dark sea. A star in the sky. 

The silent wolves curl up in a patch of moonlight, wet noses nestled into soft fur. The credits roll. 

Chapter Text

“Iz. Izzy. Izzyizzyizzy.” Something jabs at Izzy’s ribs, sharp and insistent even through the blanket. 

“The fuck?” he groans. He already knows what sight will greet him, even before he opens his eyes. It’s Ed, looming over his rudely awakened husband, his hair half-undone in the same updo he went to bed in, and his eyes bright with entirely too much excitement for… “What time’s it anyway?”

“Almost ten,” says Ed, still relentless in his poking. Far past the time he usually gets up, Izzy registers distantly. But he tugs the thick duvet up to his ears and turns around, barely awake and yet already out of fucks to give. In his daze, he expects Bonnet’s solid back to obstruct his view of the yard-side window. But there’s only the other half of the mattress, looking endlessly wide and wasteful in its empty state. 

It’s odd, being the last one left asleep. Izzy is almost sure it’s never happened before, not when he was physically healthy, anyway. But all week, the winter chill has been creeping into his bones. He’d gone to work in the dark and come back home in the dark and the simple tasks of getting dressed, brushing his teeth, making coffee after coffee after coffee… it’s all been feeling like walking through wet sand. He’s fucking tired. And the bed is warm. 

“Iz, come on.” Ed, in his unfathomable cruelty, pulls the duvet down to Izzy’s hips, letting the chilly air in. Izzy pulls his legs up to his chest and doesn’t move but Ed keeps rambling on, unprompted. “What’s the most special thing about winter, d’you think?”

“Lemme guess,” Izzy grumbles into his pillow, “Wet socks? Recurring head colds? Public transportation breaking down?” Truth is, Ed has always hated the season and Izzy has spent decades listening to his husband’s incessant whining about all these things and more. But something sounds different about Ed today. 

“Nah, mate. I mean, yeah… but also: seasonal drinks!” At that, Ed fully removes Izzy’s blanket with a triumphant flourish. And it makes Izzy just mad enough to turn his head, glaring at his husband - there’s an unsettling grin on Ed’s face and Izzy’s insides instantly turn to sharp shards of crystal at the sight.

“Eddie, are you off your meds?” He tries to keep the accusation and worry out of his tone, even though his acting skills haven’t quite woken up yet. But Ed just wrangles his expression into something slightly more sane and shakes his head, smiling.

“Nope, pinky promise. But you might be, huh?” 

There’s a pointed look at the bedside table. At the small, brown bottle of vitamin D supplements that’s just standing there, gathering dust. Izzy’s supposed to be taking them twice a week, per his therapist’s instructions. Admittedly, he hasn’t had the energy to bother lately, which is possibly a fucking clue in and of itself. 

“Might be,” Izzy echos with a sigh, then extends a hand and allows Ed to drag him into a sitting position. Luckily, Ed doesn’t push the issue further. He just waits for Izzy to blink away the beginnings of an oversleeping-induced headache and pull on one of Stede’s knitted sweaters at a painfully slow pace. They’ve both been here more often than Izzy cares to remember. And then along came Bonnet and brought his own eclectic collection of issues into the mix. But with all three of them together, there’s usually at least one who has his head on straight at any given time. Today it just won’t be Izzy, that much he knows. 

“So, seasonal drinks, yeah?” Izzy circles back around to the topic as they’re ambling towards the kitchen, Ed’s arm supportively wrapped around his waist. The sweater reaches halfway down his thighs and Bonnet keeps the heater running like he literally has money to burn, so pants feel like an unnecessary hassle. So many things tend to feel like that these days. 

“Oh, you just wait and see what Stede’s been making…” Ed lets that hang in the air, though it’s not quite as ominous as it would have been a year ago. Bonnet’s been learning. He hasn’t set a milk frother on fire in a good few months. Besides, they’re staying over at his place this week, so at least it’s not Izzy’s countertop descending into inevitable chaos. 

But the kitchen is surprisingly free of craters and burn marks when they enter, Bonnet leaning against the fridge door, looking mighty pleased with himself. Pride is a good look on him, Izzy has to admit. And with a small, encouraging nudge from his husband, he finds himself stepping forward, slipping out of Edward’s arms directly into Stede’s. His hair is damp and smells like peppermint - apparently, no family fortune is vast enough to keep the man from stealing Izzy’s shampoo. Izzy inhales the cool, familiar scent, lets it tickle his groggy mind awake while his body sinks into an embrace that doesn’t feel foreign anymore - but still just new enough not to take it for granted. 

“You need to control your boyfriend, Bonnet,” Izzy finally complains into the silky fabric of Stede’s bathrobe. He can feel the resulting chuckle as a huff against his own hair.

“Actually, I sent him in there to wake you. Here, try this.”

A second later, Stede’s comfortable chest is removed from Izzy’s cheek and one of their matching teal coffee cups placed between his palms instead. There’s an oversized dollop of whipped cream on top, decorated with a dusting of brown spices, and perched right in the middle of that foam-heaped monstrosity-

“Is that a tiny fucking gingerbread man?” 

Stede, in his utter lack of self-preservation, actually tuts at Izzy. “Gingerbread person, please. Inclusivity is a core element of our brand, after all.”

“Brand, my ass.” Izzy rolls his eyes, torn between annoyance and affection over Stede’s newfound activist streak. Must be all those pamphlets Ed keeps leaving in their office, or the queer group meetups, or that documentary they watched the other night…

Behind him, Ed audibly snorts into his own coffee. So, if only to further amuse his husband, Izzy pointedly meets Stede’s eye, dunks the vaguely human-shaped cookie into the white foam, and bites off its head. 

It’s pretty fucking amazing. 

The dough is still warm, sweet and spicy, and the cinnamon-clove-nutmeg flavor isn’t just in the headless little fucker. It’s in the dairy-free topping too, and - confirmed by a tentative sip - even infused into the actual coffee itself. 

“Hm. That might sell for a pretty penny,” Izzy says, as noncommittal as he can with his mouth full of gingerbread torso. 

“See? Told you he’d love it!” Ed breezes past Izzy to smack a proud kiss against Stede’s temple. Stede himself somehow looks even more self-satisfied now, like he just passed some sort of exam. Then he tenses up again, hands fidgeting inside deep silk pockets. 

“We’ve also been meaning to tell you, we um… rearranged the roster? Just a bit?” The way his voice pitches up at the end makes it sound like he’s confessing some terrible crime. Which is fair. Nobody but Izzy messes with the shop schedule and lives to tell the tale. Ed steps between them before Izzy can throw a severed cookie leg at Stede. 

“Hear us out, Iz. It was my idea. You’ve been running yourself ragged, and with the extra stress of holidays coming up, I figured, uh…”

“We figured,” Stede valiantly inserts himself again when Edward falters. And fuck, the two of them ganging up on him like that should be nowhere near this attractive. “Between both of us, as well as Frenchie and Roach, we could cover half your shifts for a month. That way, you can get more rest-”

Izzy opens his mouth to protest. It’s a cute gesture, sure, but having permission to rot in bed indefinitely has a history of making things worse whenever he’s feeling like this. But Stede just shakes his head and raises a finger to Izzy’s lips, which does shut him up, if only because it’s so fucking infuriating. 

“-get more rest while still getting out of the house at least once per day. See, we’ve planned around all your therapy and gym appointments.”

Izzy blinks. His chest is too full and his eyes are too wet and he’s suddenly painfully aware of his bare, chilly legs on full display. For the past few days, there’s been nothing except the dull weight of winter settling over him. Now he’s feeling everything too sharply all at once. Sadness, fatigue, overwhelming gratitude. He clears his throat of lingering cookie crumbs and sappy sentiment. 

“The shared calendar was a terrible fucking idea.”

“He means thank you,” Ed tells Stede with a soft smile, reaching out to pull Izzy sideways into a hug. But Izzy ducks below his husband’s arm, dodging it. 

“I mean… just give me a goddamn minute.” He stalks out of the kitchen and into the bedroom faster than he’s moved in a while. He can’t be held right now, can’t be kissed or comforted. With the way his emotions have rushed up and settled just underneath his skin, any gentle touch would have him bawling in his partners’ arms like a toddler. And he won’t demand their support right now, on top of everything. Not when he hasn’t even been doing the bare minimum to help himself. 

He picks up the little glass bottle and wipes off the dust. 

It’s not a miracle cure, he knows that. And maybe all the good it does is just in his head. Maybe, like a mother’s kiss on a bruised knee, what truly helps is the mere act of doing something to pull himself out of the trenches. At least he’ll have more to offer than an apologetic shrug when his therapist inevitably starts pestering him next week… “Have you been getting enough sleep? Sunlight? Exercise?” If he’s lucky, it’ll even keep her from making that face again. The one that clearly means “well, there’s your problem” - like a mechanic popping open a car’s hood to find a squirrel has chewed through all the wiring. 

Izzy screws open the plastic cap.  

The vitamin drops are fucking disgusting, if he’s being honest. Izzy fills the thin glass dropper anyway and counts to three as the oil coats his tongue, leaving a slightly acrid aftertaste. 

When he returns to the kitchen - eyes wiped dry and finally wearing his own sweatpants - Ed and Stede are still standing there, still eyeing him like he’s something fragile about to crack. And Izzy can’t have that right now.

So he ignores their looks of concern and just tops off his abandoned mug with what’s left in the coffee pot. Leave it to Bonnet to stumble his way into somehow making filter coffee taste like Christmas fucking Morning. There’s just one last thing missing, though. 

“Don’t happen to have any more of those miniature people anywhere, then?” Izzy scans the counter for a plate, or a cookie jar, or-

Predictably, Edward wraps his arms around him from the back and plants his chin on top of Izzy’s head, snickering.

“Got one right here!” 

And Izzy can’t even tell him to fuck off, because Stede chooses that exact moment to stick a fresh piece of gingerbread between his teeth and kiss him on the forehead. And it doesn’t make Izzy cry again, it doesn’t. It does make him close his eyes and chew very slowly, letting himself be warmed by the spices and by his husband’s body still plastered to his back. And, once he is ready, he’ll gather all his resolve and actually tell them thank you to their faces. Tell them they really don’t have to do all that. Tell them he appreciates it nonetheless. 

He’ll be ready in a second.

“You’ll be alright, Iz,” Ed says softly, just above his ear. Bonnet wipes something wet from Izzy’s cheek. And maybe he can’t open his eyes just yet.

But he will be alright, he knows he will be. In a little while. 

Chapter Text

It’s just one of those days, Stede thinks. With both their baristas frantically studying for finals, he’s been left alone behind the coffee shop’s sales counter, feeling slightly out of his depth. The shifting spring weather always makes him light-headed and more clumsy than usual, which is saying something. He can only hope nobody orders anything too complicated while he’s out here on his own. 

Stede rolls his shoulders, trying to calm himself. The knot of his apron feels scratchy and off-center against the back of his neck but he can’t fix it, his fingers sticky from rearranging the fresh batch of cupcakes in the display case. He can’t seem to make them look quite right, the line not as neat and evenly spaced as Izzy’s, even on his third try. But Izzy is in the back office, yelling at their oat milk supplier. With a despondent sigh, Stede gives up and wipes his brow without thinking. Shit. Now his face feels sticky too and he’s pretty sure there is a visible glob of coconut whip stuck to his forehead. Of course, that’s when the little bell above the door jingles to announce a new customer. 

Stede looks up and freezes in place, hand still half-raised to his face on its way to assess the damage. 

The man looks older in the flesh than he does in Stede’s mind. But that makes him no less imposing as he stands there, well-dressed and ramrod straight, surveying the small café with disapproving curiosity. He’s taking up more space than seems humanly possible. His eyes wander over the few young patrons lounging in threadbare velvet chairs, the large pride flag on the far wall, the assortment of photos hanging behind the bar and finally land on Stede, heavy and piercing. 

“Father,” Stede says, a tremble in his treacherous voice. His face feels hot, itchy and tacky beneath the layer of cold sweat and whipped cream. His father’s brows are drawn together, an expression like a brewing storm.

“What on earth is this place supposed to be?” The disdain in his voice makes Stede swallow, his entire body fighting the urge to run and hide in the storage closet. 

“Um… The Sweet Revenge Café?” he manages. “Best dairy-free cupcakes this side of the river.” 

“Ridiculous,” his father hisses. “Don’t tell me this is your ‘investment in a promising new business opportunity’. No man in his right mind would ever leave my company for… for…” He gestures wildly around the room and shakes his head, his face turning a concerning shade of crimson. “-for cupcakes!” A fleck of saliva flies from his lips as he spits the word like a malediction. “You were supposed to make something of yourself, boy. But I should have known, you were always-” 

“Anything we can help you with, Sir?” Izzy has appeared from the back room, seemingly out of thin air. And for all Stede can tell, he doesn’t seem to know or care who he’s talking to. He’s just wearing the overly polite expression reserved for any other disrespectful customer - the one immediately preceding threats of rather creative dismemberment. (Stede has learned a lot about the food service industry over these past few months.) Even at half a head shorter than Stede, Izzy is undeniably intimidating like this - and distractingly attractive. His black t-shirt struggles to contain his arms when he folds them above the crossbones logo on his apron, chin raised in a silent challenge. Stede’s father takes a step back, eyes darting between the two men behind the counter. His knuckles have gone white where he’s gripping the handle of his leather briefcase. That thing is worth more than all their furniture combined, Stede knows. 

“Coffee. Black. To go,” the old man mutters eventually, clipped and quiet like he can’t wait to be literally anywhere else. 

“Right away,” Izzy says, the bloodlust mostly gone from his voice again, and some of the wound-up dread in Stede’s chest relaxes, if only by a fraction. Maybe his father didn’t actually seek him out on purpose just to voice his unfathomable disappointment in his offspring. He might simply have stumbled in here on his way from the airport, struggling to adjust to yet another timezone and desperate for some decent caffeine. They do get a few walk-ins that way every week, thanks to their location and a few excellent online reviews from successfully perked-up patrons. The realization allows Stede to draw his first proper breath in ages. And Izzy’s steady presence at his shoulder helps as well. Still, he remains tense enough to twitch when the shop’s door jingles again.

“Morning, loves!” Ed breezes in, a whirlwind of loose, silver hair and tight leather. 

“It’s eleven thirty.” Izzy rolls his eyes but makes room for Ed to slink behind the counter and smack a kiss on top of his husband’s head. When Ed turns to Stede, his face lights up in a smile of pure mischief. He swipes a finger across Stede’s forehead, then licks it, still grinning.

“Mmh. Coconut. Did you remember the sprinkles?” 

“Of course we remembered the fucking sprinkles,” Izzy grumbles, pointing at the display case. Him and Stede spent all morning adding them to the cupcake topping, getting tiny white and dark chocolate stars stuck in all possible crevices of the prep kitchen. It was worth the mess, though, because they do look lovely, even Izzy had to admit as much. And maybe they ended up kissing about it until the first impatient customer started knocking at the door. 

“Stede, can you get on that coffee?” Izzy snaps his fingers in front of Stede’s face, dragging him back to the - far less romantic - present. But his voice is soft, and the use of his actual first name makes Stede feel like he’s being coddled. Admittedly, he might need a bit of extra coddling today.

“Coffee for who?” Ed interjects, looking over the counter. Stede’s father is gone. Maybe watching the world’s most beautiful man eat non-dairy whip off his son’s face was startling enough to cure his jetlag. Izzy shrugs and gives Stede a questioning look, like he’s supposed to have some sort of explanation for all of it. Stede only shakes his head.

“Nobody,” he says. 

He excuses himself to the bathroom to wash his face. There’s hardly any whipped cream left, but his cheeks look red and splotchy, like he’s been crying. A bit of cold water feels nice on his skin and will surely make the redness go down. He just needs a few more minutes for his hands to stop shaking.

When he returns, Izzy has gone back to yelling on the phone. Ed is frothing up a jug of almond milk - since they’re tragically out of oat, hence all the yelling. A purple-haired patron is waiting for their refill and asks about the day’s cupcake special. Stede takes a deep breath and gets back to work.

It’s only that evening after dinner that the scattered unease condenses into a tangible emotion again. He’s sitting on the couch in Ed and Izzy’s apartment, fidgeting with the corner of a cushion and listening to his partners’ usual bickering about the correct way to load the dishwasher. Suddenly his throat feels hot and tight, like he’s swallowed something living that’s now clawing its way back up from his chest cavity. He tries to focus on the familiar voices drifting over from the kitchen. 

“-keep telling you, the fucking bowls trap all the water if you put them down there.” 

“Iz, c’mon, I always do it that way and it always comes out clean!”

“Yeah, because I go back and rinse everything by hand after-” 

A loud, broken sob makes its way out of Stede’s mouth before he can stifle it in his palm. The argument about correct bowl placement ends abruptly.

“Bonnet?” Izzy calls over, his voice laced with alarm. 

“You alright?” Ed is next to him in an instant, perched on the sofa’s armrest to pull Stede into a sideways hug. But Stede can’t respond, can only whimper pathetically into his own fist as his eyes go blurry with wetness. Izzy’s solid little form quietly settles in on his other side. 

“You’ve been jumpy ever since the condescending old twat at the shop today. Could swear I’ve seen his face somewhere before...” Stede just nods and sniffs, grateful for Izzy’s subtle prodding. There’s a faded family portrait hung up in the foyer of Stede’s house - four generations of Bonnets, Stede in a scratchy school uniform, his father’s palm like lead on his shoulder. He’s been meaning to take it down. But maybe it’s good that he hasn’t yet, because Izzy makes a noise of angry realization. “Fuck me. Bonnet Senior?” 

Stede nods again. 

“Ah,” Ed says, then holds him tighter and kisses his temple. He doesn’t say anything else but he doesn’t have to. Stede knows Ed’s childhood was at least as difficult as his own, if not worse. Izzy squeezes his thigh and their combined affections force another shuddering sob out of his body. 

“I tried, I really did,” Stede manages, his voice all wet and crackling. “Got married, had children, damn near killed myself for the family business. But it was never enough.” The words are like shards of broken glass in his throat but Stede knows them to be true. “I’m just not the son he wanted.” 

“Good,” says Izzy. “It’s not your job, making yourself fucking miserable just to avoid disappointing your parents. Life’s far too short for that.” His hand on Stede’s leg feels warm and stable. Ed wipes a tear off Stede’s cheek with his thumb, his own voice sounding a bit choked up when he speaks.

“That’s what he keeps telling me, too. Took me a few decades but I’m almost starting to believe him.”

Izzy laughs dryly on Stede’s other side. “Give me a few more and I might even start taking my own advice.”

Stede remembers the last time Izzy’s mother visited the shop, only a week ago. How Izzy tripped over the carpet and nearly fell on his face, hurrying to pull out her favorite armchair. They have a lot left to learn, all three of them. Still, Stede smiles through the cooling tears on his cheeks. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. One of his hands finds Izzy’s on his leg, and Ed interlaces their finger on his other side. 

His eyes burn from crying, his trousers have at least three whipped cream stains, and he doesn’t even remember the last time he carried a briefcase. It’s true, he’s utterly failed at becoming the man his father expected him to be. And Stede knows it will hurt for a little while longer, the burning shame of it, the sting of unfulfilled destiny. But it’s the kind of ache that comes with growth, he knows that too. 

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” Izzy says. Ed squeezes Stede’s hand. 

“You wanna sleep in the middle tonight?” 

“Since when is your spot up for grabs?” Izzy’s incredulity matches Stede’s own surprise but Ed just shrugs, the picture of innocence. 

“It’s for whoever has the worst case of daddy issues. Just usually happens to be me.”

“Right. Like that makes any fucking sense.” Izzy shakes his head, managing to look exasperated right until he breaks and starts laughing. Stede can’t help but laugh along because he can hardly stand it. He’s so absolutely, stupidly in love with both of these lunatics, he might just burst from the feeling if he doesn’t let it out. 

Ed and Izzy are still snickering helplessly as they fall into bed, and even Stede can’t tell anymore if his eyes are wet from laughing or crying. Eventually, all their giddy little noises fade into soft bursts of breath and then gentle snoring until Stede is the last one left awake. It makes him feel lonely sometimes, but not tonight - held and protected by a warm body on either side, with Izzy curled around his back and the buttery scent of Ed’s hair oil in his nose. Stede hopes he won’t need to request this particular sleeping arrangement all that often in the future. But it helps to know the offer stands, if he ever does. 

Chapter Text

“Take the kids to the beach, they said,” Izzy grumbles quietly, “It’ll be fun, they said.”

Next to him, Stede’s amused little huff tells him he wasn’t being quiet enough.

“Lighten up, it’s not so bad,” says Stede. He adds a fresh coat of sunscreen to his arm with the spray bottle and immediately grimaces when rubbing it in surely comes with the sensation of entirely too much sand and sea salt. Izzy fucking hates that feeling, too. It’s why he’s elected to sit on a folding chair under the parasol and suck at the melted dregs of what used to be an iced coffee. Even fresh, it wasn’t nearly as good as the one he makes himself, but it’s kept him from nodding off all the same.

Alma has adopted a similar strategy. She’s dressed in long sleeves and pants, wearing noise-canceling headphones, and the small portion of her face not covered by sunglasses is hidden behind a book. Two teenage girls and their horses solving crime, Izzy gathers from the illustrated dust jacket. Stede is reading, too - well, leafing through a catalogue of shiny restaurant furniture they will never be able to afford in a million years. And Izzy wishes he’d brought his own book, or could at least use his phone to look at the coffee shop’s security system, make sure Frenchie is doing alright on his own. But as it is, Izzy’s phone is currently occupied by Louis, who is playing some very colorful, very noisy puzzle game. Neither Stede nor Izzy could figure out how to turn off the sound.

“Seems like he’s calmed down for now,” Stede says, following Izzy’s gaze to where his young son is sitting on a sailboat-patterned picnic blanket.

“Enjoy it while it lasts.” Izzy doesn’t mean to sound so callous, hopes Stede knows him well enough by now to understand. He likes the boy, really, even when he makes Izzy feel utterly helpless by crying and throwing one tantrum after another. First the sand was too grainy, then the waves were too splashy, then - after they had all worked together, coaxing and persuading him to at least get in the water up to his knees - some small critter on the rocks sent him right back into hysterics.

“I do hope he’ll grow out of it,” Stede sighs. “I was just like that, at his age. When I was eight, I ran away from a family picnic because a wasp landed on my melon sorbet.”

“Yeah, me too,” Izzy says. Something about talking to Stede always makes him far more earnest than he intends to be. “Not the sorbet part. Never had shit like that… But the being scared.”

“Really? You?” Stede turns to Izzy, wide-eyed. There is a white streak of sunscreen on his nose.

“Grew out of it, I suppose.” Izzy shrugs. He’d had to grow out of it, with a little sister to take care of and his mother’s patience permanently dangling by its final thread. The Hands household was never a loveless one, never cruel, but not one with much room for irrational emotions, either. The Bonnets do things very differently, which is probably a good thing, even if it makes Izzy’s head spin at times. But Stede is still looking at Izzy, a familiar edge of self-doubt pulling at his quizzical expression now. And Izzy can’t have that. He reaches over to pat Stede’s salty, oily arm. “Not that I’d know anything about kids, but seems like you’re doing alright with these two.”

“Thank you,” Stede says, visibly relaxing again. For all his neuroses, at least he’s easier to reassure than his son. And Izzy isn’t just trying to appease him. Stede is by no means a perfect father, but he’s come a long fucking way, considering how he was treated by his own parents. They settle back into comfortable silence - or as much silence as Louis allows them before Izzy’s phone erupts into the next grating high-score jingle - and look out towards the sea.

About halfway between their spot in the shade and the water’s edge, Edward is sitting in the sand, hunched over and biting the tip of his tongue in concentration. After pouting about how he’s the only one who knows how to have fun at the beach, he’s now spent the better part of an hour building some monstrosity out of wet sand and sea shells. It’s taken on the shape of an octopus, with two large clam shells for eyes and dozens of smaller ones Ed has been meticulously arranging to form the suckers on all its eight arms. Izzy hasn’t seen him this focused since college finals.

“Aaaand done!” Ed exclaims at that moment, placing the very last little shell.

“Oh, what a lovely cephalopod!” Stede coos, and Izzy takes that as his cue to get up with a groan, squinting at the sun when he emerges from the shaded area. When he reaches Ed, he places a hand on his husband’s bare shoulder - because he’s missed touching him, and also to confirm a sneaking suspicion. Sure enough, Ed’s skin is scorching hot and already slightly reddish there.

“Stede! Sunscreen!” Izzy shouts over to their rainbow parasol. The container comes promptly flying - albeit at an awkward angle that has Izzy stumbling in the sand to dive for it. Only Ed’s catlike reflexes keep him from falling over. When he releases the steadying grip around Izzy’s wrist, Ed frowns at the bright yellow bottle.

“I hope that’s not for me, Iz. You know I don’t burn.”

Izzy knows that’s bullshit - not only does Ed burn, he will also whine about the itchy, peeling skin for every waking second until it’s healed - but it’s Izzy’s day off, so he’s not about to rehash an argument that’s older than both Bonnet kids put together.

“UV light makes tattoos fade faster,” he says instead, then counts to ten in his head until Ed’s face has gone through all the stages of performative resistance and arrived at a defeated rolling of the eyes.

“Fine,” Ed concedes. Then, with a look that would put any cartoon puppy to shame, “do my back?”

Of course, Izzy obliges. He sprays and then spreads the tacky cream over Ed’s back and shoulders, feeling it get smooth and oily on the sun-warmed skin. Stede claims the mineral-based stuff is better for the environment, so it leaves a residue that has Ed looking like he’s been dusted with powdered sugar. The large skull and snake on his back - an impulsive souvenir from the lowest point in their marriage so far - are turned a mottled grayish by the white film, as is the thicket of wild roses underneath, where Ed used to claim in big, bold letters to trust no one. It was one of the saddest days of Izzy’s life, finally limping home from a week at his sister’s, only to find those words etched into his husband’s skin. So of course Izzy felt like he would burst from sheer joy when Ed finally got it covered up last year, reassuring Izzy that it’s just not true anymore. Hasn’t been for a while now.

“There. Happy?” Ed asks, after spraying a half-assed layer on his arms, legs and chest as well. And Izzy is a sentimental old bastard, he can’t help himself, so he plants a quick kiss on Edward’s lips, feels his husband smirk against him.

“Now I am.”

“Ew. Cringe,” Alma comments drily from behind her book, with the sort of scathing disdain only an annoyed pre-teen can muster. The noise-canceling function probably isn’t even turned on. Izzy feels himself start to bristle but Ed just laughs and sticks out his tongue in the girl’s direction. Stede looks up from his magazine.

“Shush, prickly little sea urchins don’t get ice cream.” He’s put on his best parenting voice but is still cut off by Louis loudly crowing-

“Ice cream??”

Which leads to all five of them marching across the beach to a little snack stand by the wooden path. They make their way past groups of other late-afternoon visitors, scattered on the sand and in the shallow water. Izzy notices a surprising number of adult men who seem to take sandcastle construction very seriously while their kids watch with varying levels of interest. Maybe, if they come back here, Izzy can teach Louis how to build a proper moat, or show him the right time to jump when a wave hits… It surprises him, how much he enjoys these new thoughts, this tentative new role he’s settling into, but it still feels too fragile to say it out loud. No need to get ahead of himself.

Ed and Alma walk in front, stopping every few paces to point at a ship on the horizon or a funny shape in the clouds. Izzy and Stede follow close behind, with Louis tucked between them. But as they pass a rocky tide pool, the little boy starts walking slower and making wordless whiny noises. Izzy jolts when the feels his hand being grabbed by a much smaller one. Louis has stopped in his tracks, tears running over his cheeks again.

“What’s wrong?” Stede bends down to be at eye level with his kid. The boy’s lips tremble when he speaks, one shaky finger pointing to the rocks beside them.

“Crabs. I hate them. Alma said they’re gonna pinch me until I bleed.”

Izzy lightly squeezes the boy’s hand in sympathy. Being the older sibling came with its own burdens but at least he was never the one getting traumatized by his sister’s tall tales. Still, he has no fucking idea how to deal with this situation - but luckily Stede seems to have it all figured out. He takes Louis by both shoulders, gently turning him to face the pool. Izzy turns with him, the boy still holding on to his hand.

“Most animals will only hurt you if you hurt them first. See?” Stede points to a greenish-brown spot on the nearest rock, the size of half a palm and almost perfectly camouflaged if not for the slight movement of its forelimbs. Izzy feels Louis shudder and he can’t even blame the kid. The creature has too many legs for Izzy’s liking, and the sideways scuttling creeps him out. But Stede’s eyes are gleaming as he steps even closer, and Louis reluctantly follows behind, pulling Izzy along.

“Look,” Stede says, elated, “it’s collecting algae from the rocks, plucking it out with its pincers and stuffing it into its mouth. Like it’s eating cotton candy!”

“Yeah,” Izzy chimes in, “slimy, green cotton candy.”

At that, Louis wrinkles his nose, and just when Izzy starts cursing himself for not keeping his mouth shut when he’s out of his depth like that, the boy starts laughing. His tear-streaked little face cracks open like the sun bursting through thunderclouds and Izzy can’t help but feel a bit proud. Stede smiles at him.

“Hurry up!” Alma shouts from the snack stand. When they finally arrive without having to fend off any more dangerous sea creatures, Ed already has both hands full of ice cream cones. Two swirly, pastel heaps of a flavor called unicorn, which is really just bubblegum but more expensive. Stede and Louis go for cookies and cream. Izzy takes the only dairy-free option - a red and green triangle that looks like a child’s drawing of a watermelon slice, dark chocolate chips unconvincingly posing as the seeds. It tastes artificial but not even half bad, Izzy thinks, as they make their way back to their beach spot. Izzy braces himself for another bout of panic when they pass the tide pool again, but in a wild moment of bravery, Louis actually breaks away from the group to leave a tiny cookie crumb on the crab’s rock. A peace offering, maybe. Then he runs back to his sister, undoubtedly to gloat about it. Stede watches the scene and sucks at his ice cream spoon, seemingly content with his parenting choices for once.

“You grew out of it too, yeah?” Izzy asks, brushing their shoulders together. Stede shoots him a sly look that’s eerily reminiscent of Ed, or maybe Izzy himself. Like they’re all blending into one big symbiotic organism, and isn’t that a beautiful and terrifying thought?

“I stopped running away from wasps after finding out they mainly nibble at our snacks to feed their own young. Turns out, the best way to stop being afraid of things is to learn all about them.” Stede’s eyes trail down from Izzy’s face to his half-finished ice cream. “Like this atrocity. Absolute stuff of nightmares. But I’d love a taste, anyway - for research purposes.”

It’s so stupidly endearing, Izzy doesn’t even complain when Stede just leans over and licks it, only to pull a very confused face.

“Thought you knew all about melon sorbet, Bonnet,” Izzy laughs, sucking up a stray drop before it reaches his fingers. Stede huffs.

“I don’t know what that is but it’s decidedly not sorbet.” He steals another mouthful like he needs to make sure, then leaves a cold, sticky kiss on Izzy’s cheek.

The sun is starting to set already. Up ahead, Ed and Alma are having their long-running, heated argument about who does or does not count as a Disney princess. They still have a hundred scattered toys, towels and miscellaneous knick-knacks to pack up and will likely forget something important, which is bound to make at least one of them cry. There is sand in every nook and cranny of Izzy’s body, and his hands are all tacky from decidedly not sorbet.

Izzy smiles to himself. It’s the best day off he’s had in years.

Chapter Text

Ed knows it’s going to be a shit day from the moment he bangs his forehead on the bedside lamp while blearily rolling over to turn his alarm off. Izzy wakes him, usually. But he’s been out since the crack of dawn, determined to stick to his workout routine even before helping his sister pack moving boxes all day, the diligent little fucker. Ed squints at his phone screen as soon as his eyes can focus again.

No unread messages.

And it only goes downhill from there. Still far from awake and coordinated, he drops his toothbrush into the dusty gap beside the sink, realizes they’re out of milk only after he’s made his coffee, and manages to snap a shoelace while trying to tie his boots. It’s all he can do not to scream loud enough for the neighbors to hear it.

So no wonder Frenchie shrinks down like he’s trying to crawl into the milk fridge the second his employer enters the shop that morning. Ed can basically feel the menacing energy radiating off his own body. He fucking hates himself when he gets this way, hates everyone else even more for confirming it. He’s dangerous and scary, unbearable to be around, and nobody should ever be forced to deal with him in this state…

“Morning, boss,” Frenchie manages to squeak out. He’s twitchy with nerves, a wet dessert fork trembling between his fingers.

“Gonna be busy with paperwork,” Ed grumbles in reply. “Come get me if anything catches fire.” He doesn’t stick around to witness Frenchie’s relieved exhale, just slips into the office and turns on the computer only to proceed staring at his phone.

No messages.

He double-checks the date and sure enough, it’s still his mother’s birthday. He’d stayed up late last night, long after Izzy had fallen asleep, poured himself a shot of liquid courage or three, and sent her a message. Just a few socially acceptable words and a vaguely party-themed emoji combination. It jumped to read almost immediately. And that’s where it’s been for the last eight hours.

He nearly drops the phone when it buzzes in his hand.

Izzy: shop ok?

Ed huffs a dry laugh at his own overreaction, his racing heart slowing down again. Leave it to his husband to pack a genuine human sentiment - maybe something like “I know today might be hard for you, I hope you’re still having a good day at work” - into three pithy syllables. He does appreciate that about Izzy, always has. Any amount of sappy empathy tends to drag the bad feelings too close to the surface. But hiding out in their dingy office alone all day might be nearly as terrible as having to admit how fucking unhinged he’s feeling. Dysregulated, whatever. Point is, Ed is already getting itchy all over just from a few minutes of sitting idle. He needs to move.

Frenchie flinches when Ed steps behind the counter again, but manages to keep his face professionally neutral. Because sure, Ed’s mood can be unpredictable, but he’d never, ever put his staff in any danger and Frenchie knows that. Fuck, Ed hopes Frenchie knows that. They already have a few patrons nursing their lattes and the espresso machine is unoccupied for the moment. So Ed goes to make himself something less depressing than the lingering aftertaste of his ill-fated breakfast coffee. Tall glass, double espresso, two pumps of chai syrup, full fat milk, swirly metal straw. When he moves to put the syrup bottle back on the rack, his finger slips and the nozzle cap lets out an additional pump of the sugary liquid, right on the countertop. It spreads out, slow and sticky, leaving a dark, reddish-brown puddle on the stainless steel. Ed’s chest clenches painfully.

Forgive me, Edward. I just can’t stop seeing his blood on the kitchen tiles.

That’s the only line Ed can still recite from the letter his mother left him. And he can’t claim to have forgiven her, exactly, but he’s pretty sure the feeling is mutual. Back then, fucking unfair was all he could call it, didn’t even have the proper words for that crushing tidal wave of soul-deep loss his young mind was suddenly drenched in. He barely has the words for it now. They’d been through years of dealing with his father’s bullshit, of listening to his drunken accusations of insolence and infidelity, countless dishes shattered against the wall night after night… And Ed was never an especially strong kid, but after his final growth spurt and a few months of hauling around heavy bikes every day after class, and with the twin advantages of surprise and sobriety on his side? Seems he and his father both underestimated his strength that day. One shove, one nasty crack of skull against counter, and the raised cast iron pan clattered uselessly to the bloody tiles. It was ruled an accident. It more than likely saved his mother’s life. And still, she fucked off back to her parents a few weeks later, to that cottage with the wooden porch half a world away, where his grandma first showed him the Big Dipper when he was seven. He can never go back there again. Without Izzy, he probably wouldn’t even have survived that year. Figures, then, that the fight that almost cost him his marriage ended with Ed shattering something fragile and dangerous on the kitchen floor. Fucking figures…

“Boss? Um… Ed?”

Ed blinks, shakes himself out of it. He’s still staring at the stupid spilled syrup. Frenchie is looking at him with more concern than fear now, so Ed must be visibly losing his grasp on whatever shred of sanity he has left. He might need to text his fucking therapist.

“Should I call Izzy?” Frenchie is hovering close to Ed’s shoulder, like he’s internally debating whether to give him a reassuring pat on the arm. Ed shakes his head, if only to put the boy out of his misery.

“Visiting his sister. It’s fine. Don’t you dare worry him.”

With that, Ed takes his coffee, slinks back into the office and- Shit, he never did respond to Izzy’s text. So much for not making him worry.

But Lily seems to be keeping her brother occupied because there are no other messages yet. Ed reacts to the last one with a simple thumbs-up. Anything else would feel dishonest and overly enthusiastic. And it’s not like Ed is disappointed at the lack of an increasingly frantic and swear-studded string of texts from his husband after playing dead for half an hour, but… Alright, maybe he is a little disappointed. Fuck.

Ed takes a sip of his coffee to calm himself. Concentrates on the feeling of the warm glass in his hand, the spicy-sweet taste of it, his breathing. Grounding, his therapist calls it. He really should text her, try and move his next appointment up.

Time continues to move like molasses. Business is slow today. Ed can hear it from the back room - the sporadic jingle of the bell and cash register, the endless minutes that stretch between each rumble of the coffee grinder. He really isn’t needed here today. He isn’t wanted here.

“Meeting a supplier,” he lies easily as he passes the bar again. Not like Frenchie is going to miss him. “Stede’s shift starts at three. Just hold down the fort until then, yeah?” Ed tries for a smile that feels like a spasm. Frenchie nods without meeting his eye.

Really, all Ed wants is to go home. His head hurts and his hands are shaking and everything he touches feels like it might break. It’s a familiar feeling. It comes and goes, Ed knows that by now. Gets worse when the days get shorter, gets much worse on anniversaries and holidays and shit like that. So his mother’s birthday being in late October, well… just his fucking luck right there.

The way home is long and foggy, the streets clogged with traffic. Ed’s hands clench on the wheel as he tries to breathe through wave after wave of unbidden fury - at himself, at the weather, at every other fucking car standing between him and where he wants to go. But he can’t let himself lose it right now. Can’t let his eyes get so wet he can’t see the road anymore. And he does make it home, somehow. The familiar smell of their apartment kicks his autopilot into gear.

Boots off, bag in the corner, jacket on the chair. Bed. He pulls the blanket up to his chin and reaches over for Izzy’s cushion, hugs it tight to press against his chest, his nose and mouth. And he doesn’t start crying, not properly, it’s just that his stomach makes that rhythmic, twitchy motion, his breath gone all stuttery, like he’s been sobbing for hours. His body does that sometimes - like it wants to cry but can’t quite get there. Because one unanswered text isn’t really worth crying about, is it? Isn’t even worth calling anyone and asking them to come home early. He can’t pull Izzy away from helping Lily now, as much as it fills Ed with white-hot envy to see a family can be functional and loving like that. He can’t call Stede either, can’t make him miss the work he’s grown to love, can’t make him face the dark, twisted truth of who Ed really is and watch all the love in his eyes fade away…

No, this is his own mess to deal with - he’s already spent far too long trying to take others down with him, lashing out when he was hurting too much to contain it all. So if he’s alone now, that’s what he deserves. And what does it matter if he wants Izzy here now? If he wants his mom? If he wants to fall alseep and not wake up for a long time - maybe ever? Learn to sit with that feeling, or whatever his therapist would say. So he just keeps holding the cushion and trembling, watching the foggy sky through a slit between the curtains, the autumn sun hidden behind a thick layer of clouds.

It’s after nightfall when the sound of the front door wakes him, so he must have fallen asleep at some point.

“Edward?” Izzy’s voice is like a searchlight in the darkness. Ed has half a mind to shove the cushion away, not let his husband see the miserable state he’s in, but Izzy is already in the bedroom, already sitting on the mattress and laying a cool hand on Ed’s pounding forehead. It feels bruised where he bumped it, even now.

“Hey, Iz. Had a good time with Lil?” he tries for normal, or at least not entirely out of his mind. He should know better than to try with Izzy.

“You’re not coming down with something, are you? Frenchie said you seemed off…”

“Snitch,” Ed grumbles. He can feel Izzy getting into bed behind him, catches an unfamiliar scent clinging to his clothes - like grease and cardamom. They must have ordered Indian food. Izzy always gets the same chicken curry, Ed remembers, Lily some orange lentil thing. And Ed briefly wonders when he last ate and whether Izzy brought home a takeout box, doubts he could even keep anything down now… But then there’s Izzy, warm and solid and curling around his back like a baby koala, one arm wrapping around his waist. Ed exhales, allows himself too feel the too much and then the just right of it. Like he’s a broken bone that’s been snapped back into place. Izzy’s not going to ask any questions, Ed knows that. He does deserve a bit of context, though.

“Texted her. Haven’t heard back.”

“Eddie…” Izzy sighs heavily into Ed’s hair but keeps himself from saying anything else about it and Ed is eternally grateful. He doesn’t have any sort of conversation in him now, afraid the next word out of his mouth could be barbed and poisoned. He can’t even turn around and hug Izzy back, terrified of holding him too tight and hearing his bones crack… But still Izzy holds him, like he knows what Ed needs him to be right now. Just a body, a creature for another creature to curl up against for warmth, comfort, home. Someone who - somehow, despite everything - trusts Ed enough to get this close and stay there. And that’s when all the tears start rushing out at once.

Ed falls apart with great, gasping cries that hurt his ribs and head and leave him coughing and dry-heaving with the force of them. It takes forever. Izzy’s pillow is a wet mess of spit, snot and tears and still Ed clutches it. And Izzy clutches Ed, rocks them both gently back and forth with one arm still around Ed’s middle, his other hand pressed to Ed’s forehead - literally keeping his head on straight, Ed thinks as the sobs start to quiet down, and it would almost be funny if it didn’t hurt so damn much. And through it all, Izzy doesn’t utter a single word, doesn’t let go before Ed stops crying - and not for a long while after that.

“Gonna text my therapist tomorrow,” Ed finally says, voice all rough and stuffy from the whole ordeal. He feels both incredibly disgusting and much cleaner, somehow. As though he’s expelled whatever poison was corroding his insides. Like something from those corny old exorcism movies.

“Sounds like a plan,” is all Izzy says. He pulls Ed close again, face pressed to the sweaty back of his neck. Being treated with so much patience and care still feels like taking something he doesn’t deserve in the slightest. But he knows better than to argue with Izzy, all the fight successfully cried out of his system now.

He’ll have to apologize to Frenchie tomorrow. He’ll probably have to adjust his meds again. And more than likely, he’ll have to explain this entire mess to Stede when he comes over later. But right now, he only has to let his husband keep holding him. He can do that. Beyond their window, the fog has lifted since the last time he looked outside. And through the gap in the curtains, Ed can see the stars.