Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“If you close your eyes, I am there,
in your nakedness, in your truth.
If you ask for me, I will come
in your age, in your youth.

Because I love you, lover.
And wish to be loved.
Find me here, said love.
I wish to be loved.”
― Kamand Kojouri

"I think there's a meth cook in my building," Ed said.

Izzy, next to him at the bar, barked a laugh. "There. You're so fucking bored all the time, there's a career for you."

"Nah. I like my teeth." Ed rolled his tongue across them, sucked air in, blew it out again in a sigh. "I hear they don't go back in."

It was true that he was bored. Edward Teach, 42, was a salesman, and he was really fucking good at it; started with cars in his hungry youth and now he sold durable medical equipment to hospital boards; million dollar machines, state-of-the-art science, to wealthy pricks who didn't even really know what the damned things were for, just wanted to hear how much the shareholders would like them being in the brochures. He was good. The stuff he sold helped people, probably, eventually; and he got a lot of money for doing it, and travel, and a bunch of awards sitting in his closet back home.

It was so incredibly boring. He could feel himself turning to stone, every year a little more. A rich, attractive, hollow statue.

This bar was his favorite since it was within walking distance of his apartment, hadn't been gentrified out of existence, carried Lunatic & Lover rum, and Izzy came here. And he needed Izzy.

“Moved in six months ago and I’ve never seen him once,” he mused. “Ben says nobody has - "

"Ben's the landlord? Fuck're you doing talking to landlords?"

"No, he's the super - shut up, I've never met the fucking landlord. Anyway, this guy. Pays rent online, had an assistant or something supervise the movers, perfectly normal car parked in his spot but it never leaves. Everything delivered. Lots of mysterious packages. ‘S fucking weird.”

“So it’s weird,” Izzy grumbled. “If he’s a recluse so much the better, he won’t bother anyone.”

“Man, aren’t you ever curious about anything? What if he’s a murderer? What if he’s in there doing murders?” Ed finished his drink and set the glass down, carefully parallel to the bar’s edge, sliding it back and forth in its own puddle of condensation. "Eating people's brains?"

“If you don’t know, you probably won’t get murdered.”

“Psh.”

It was getting late. He didn’t have to work the next day, but he also didn’t feel like staying out another three hours, getting drunk, stumbling home, and passing out alone. Once upon a time he’d have taken Izzy home with him, but that - whatever it was - had fizzled out years ago, too much Izzy treating life like the fucking Bataan Death March, too much Ed being flighty and surface level and not interested in finding new and unexciting ways to make more money. They were decent together in small doses, or in harness together towards an immediate and concrete goal, but anything past that just…chafed.

But not enough to part ways for good, because he needed Izzy.

“I’m done,” Ed sighed, and put down a few bills for his tab. “If I die in a meth lab explosion, I told you so.”

“Don’t get murdered,” Izzy said. Ed gave a little wave of acknowledgement over his shoulder as he pushed through the pub’s doors, out into the street.

It was cloudy, moist and cool, good for the walk home. Most of the shops he passed were closed for the night. A cat meowed at him from an alley before fading back into its shadows. His own footsteps echoed flatly off the nearby storefronts.

Ed thought about being a recluse, a hermit.

He spent a lot of time being ‘on’ for his job; animated, charismatic, persuasive, fitting in everywhere, shifting himself to meet the culture of the places he went. Bars, business meetings, conferences, always smiling, always selling. He wasn’t sure he knew how to be alone, anymore; who was the real Ed under the facade? What did he like? What did he want?

When he reached his apartment building, a shiny contemporary mid-rise with wide, glassed-in balconies, he looked up at his own unit, up on the 7th floor; the pride flag he’d hung up when he moved in was swaying in the light, rain-scented breeze. At that moment there was nothing he wanted more in the whole world than to open his bedroom window to that breeze and fall into bed under it. Exhaustion with his life had landed onto his shoulders like a load of snow on a tree branch, and it bore him down, bent his head.

He trudged through the lobby, deciding that no, he wouldn’t check his mail right now, thank you, and saw the elevator doors beginning to close just as he was arriving at them. Fuck.

“Oi, wait,” he called, a little hopelessly; whoever was in that elevator wouldn’t hear him, surely, or be bothered to wait for a dark stranger late at night, people were people, after all -

And a hand shot out between the closing doors.

For a second Ed was sure, absolutely positive, that the doors weren’t going to stop, some mechanical or electronic failure, and the hand would be crushed; screaming, blood, a call to emergency services. Fortunately that was just his paranoia. The doors stopped, just as they should, and reversed, sliding back open with a sigh.

“Fuck, thanks mate,” Ed exhaled. He slid into the elevator, staying to his own side, trying not to crowd the stranger who had helped him, to make their interaction as quick and convenient as possible. The stranger stood against the other wall, and there was a large shipping box between them, which helped.

“Of course,” the stranger said. Their voice was masculine, but light, crisp diction, bit of a familiar accent.

Ed looked from the corner of his eye - helplessly curious - and found an enigma. The stranger was wearing, shrouded in really, a faded cardigan which might once have been turquoise; it hung low on their thighs, sleeves bunched up around their wrists; it had a hood, which was pulled low over their head, shadowing the face, the eyes, but one little auburn curl had escaped. They had a trimmed, tidy salt-and-ginger beard. Every bit of their body language said “Forget me, ignore me, I am not actually here, kindly forgive the imposition of my existence.” Jeans, straight-legged, neither faded nor worn; leather shoes, walking shoes, expensive.

“I could’ve waited for the next one but I’m fucking knackered," Ed’s voice went on, without his permission. “This weather makes me have to sleep.”

“Low barometric pressure,” the stranger agreed, with the curve of a smile in their voice. “Knocks me right out, too.”

Stop talking, Ed’s brain said. This person does not want to engage with you. You are not trying to sell them anything. All YOU want is home and sleep; all THEY want is the same, probably; lay the fuck off.

“Ed Teach,” his mouth said anyway, and his hand reached out on its own, over the box top. He could tell the stranger was compelled by deep-seated politeness to shake, and inside Ed was cringing at himself, but fuck, that hand was warm, soft. Big. Nice. The cardigan sleeve brushed the ball of his thumb and that was nice, too.

“Steve Brown,” the stranger said. “Very nice to meet you.”

"Need a hand with that?" He tapped the corner of the box once their hands separated. "Heavy post?"

"Oh - no, not really, just some bits and bobs," Steve Brown said. Quickly. Arms pulled back in, armor put back up. "Thank you, but I'll be fine."

The elevator stopped at Ed's floor, and he got out alone, with a smile and a nod for Steve Brown, who - face suddenly illuminated, revealed, by the hallway light - smiled back. He (presuming, on the pronoun - maybe if they met again Ed would ask?) had gentle eyes, a little reserved, a little cautious; he looked to be around Ed's age; he had a pretty smile, closed-mouthed, soft.

It prickled something in the back of his mind, that face, but Ed was too tired to figure it out.

Still, the brief contact left him warm inside, like he’d had a cup of sweet tea. That warmth carried him through his front door, into his sparsely decorated apartment, the sofa as perfect as the day it was carried in because he never had company, the art-bare walls, into the bedroom where he slid the window open and let in the soft night, through dropping his clothes right on the floor and crawling into bed, underneath the quilt his mother had sent him, the only thing in here that really felt like his, like him.

Steve, was his last conscious thought. Nice. Warm. Steve.

Saturday was for chores. Which was bullshit, but Ed had long ago determined that it was either chores every Saturday or throw away all his belongings and start over fresh every three months. And while he could probably afford that now…nah. So he set his alarm for 10am, spent half an hour hitting snooze over and over until he had to pee, turned on a playlist of loud getting-shit-done music, and put his shoulder to the grindstone.

He had a process.

It started with laps around the apartment; once for dishes, twice for dirty clothes; then a pause to put dishes in the dishwasher and clothes in the clothes-washer; a third lap for Actual Garbage, and a final, meandering one for migratory books and other misplaced things. Making space. (When the place got too cluttered he got claustrophobic and started Purging his belongings.)

Spraying things with cleaning spray (stovetop, counters, sinks, toilet, shower).

Wiping down all the shit he'd sprayed with cleaning spray.

Watering his two plants.

Putting the laundry in the dryer, and putting the clean dishes away.

Vacuuming.

And last of all, taking the actual-garbage down to the dumpster, where he could reward himself with a cigarette.

He didn't see anyone on the trip down, but when he came back inside, the mail carrier was at the lobby mailboxes. He was just setting down a large shipping box, and he looked peeved.

"Morning," Ed offered. "Anything for 7b?"

He got an advertising circular and a brief but vivid rant about people who should use a shipping company for large parcels instead of burdening the regular post with it, honestly, people just do not think anymore.

He looked, while he was pretending to listen, nodding sympathetically, and yeah. The shipping label said Brown, Steve. 8A.

8A.

8A was meth lab guy.

Saturday chores done at last, normally Ed would go straight back to his apartment, rest, make lunch, maybe open a book, and enjoy being home.

Instead he wandered a few feet towards the elevators; he pretended to look through the ads; he waited until the mail guy left.

Then, smooth as anything, he picked up Steve's package, got into the elevator, and hit the 8 button.

This wasn't invasive or creepy, he told himself. Steve had done him a favor, so he was doing one back. Simple.

Neighbors should be neighborly.

When he rang the doorbell, Ed was full of confident curiosity. He could sell anything, make anyone like him; he would figure this guy out; maybe he wasn't even a meth cook, maybe he was just shy. Pretty and shy and looking for a friend (with or without benefits).

But a minute stretched into two minutes and there was no answer.

Hmm. Awkward.

Figures. It was just like a brilliant Ed Teach plan to fizzle out for the most mundane fuckin' thing he'd failed to consider.

He sighed, and rang the bell one more time, just in case; gave it another two minutes out of sheer stubborn hope; and was turning away, feeling like an idiot, when there was a thump and a muffled curse from behind the door. Like someone inside had leaned against it, to squint out the peephole, and smacked their forehead into the wood.

"Steve?" Ed said, leaning back to where he'd be in sight from said peephole. "Hey, sorry to bother you - it's Ed, from the elevator last night? I've brought your parcel up."

There was a pause, during which Ed devoutly hoped he wasn't talking to this guy's cat, or something.

A soft jingling, the turning of a lock, and 8A's door opened an inch.

"Ed?"

It was Steve. His hair was mussed and he was wearing a long robe and a pair of oversized sunglasses. The puff of air that came out past through the door smelled appealingly of tea.

Fascinating.

"Yeah - fuck, I'm sorry, you probably sleep in on weekends." Ed tried his best, softest, most aw-shucks smile. "Nah, I was coming up from taking my trash to the bin and the post was just being dropped off. Figured I could save you a trip. I'll just - leave it here for you, hey?"

He patted the top of the box twice, like it was a friendly dog, and turned away again.

"Wait," Steve said.

Ed waited.

"That was kind of you," Steve said. "When we don't even know each other."

Ed kept waiting. This was fishing, and Steve was circling the bait, nosing at it.

"Would you like to come in for tea?"

A bite! A solid bite!

"I don't want to intrude - " Ed demurred. He very, very much wanted to intrude.

"Nonsense," Steve said, firmly, and opened the door. "It's the neighborly thing to do."

Flush with victory, Ed picked the shipping box up again and carried it into Steve's apartment.

"Holy shit," he said.

Steve's apartment was a little museum. Or a junk shop, maybe. So much STUFF.

"I know it's a bit…busy - " Steve said.

"Busy? Fuck that, it's incredible," Ed breathed. "Look at it all! You could give tours!"

"Oh, well," Steve said, bashful and pleased. "I like to collect - to have interesting and pretty things around me, I suppose. Feel free to have a look round while I bring the tea out. Cream and sugar?"

"Yeah. Yeah, sweet is good," Ed said absently. He'd found a genuine ship in a bottle on a bookshelf, and crouched down to examine it, lost in the intricate little details.

Steve turned into the kitchen, leaving Ed unattended.

He looked at the ship and the crystal inkwell next to it whose pewter base was shaped like an octopus, and a cluster of what he thought were vintage perfume bottles, and then the stack of framed art leaned against the side of that bookcase, stuff that hadn't been hung up for whatever reason. He started looking through them. They seemed to be classic film posters, stuff from the 30s, really awesome, and then he saw it, modern and hidden behind the others, and after a few seconds realization hit and all the air went out of his body. Oh shit. Oh shit.

"I hope Yorkshire Gold is all right!" Steve called from the kitchen.

Except his name wasn't Steve, was it.

It was Stede. He was Stede Bonnet.

Ed had found Stede Bonnet, was in his apartment, about to drink his tea.

And for the first time in a very long time Ed had absolutely no idea what to do.

Chapter Text

It was two months into Covid lockdown, 2020, when Ed Teach became aware of Stede Bonnet.

Being stuck in his apartment was so fucking weird after years upon years of nigh-constant work travel; he’d been flipping back and forth between climbing the walls and doomscrolling in bed for hours on end. He had a million little hobbies and projects, things he’d taken up for a week or two and then abandoned, but despite having nothing but time now, none of them appealed.

And then Fang sent him the YouTube link. “Think you’ll like this, boss,” his text read. “Stick with it through the fourth one.”

Ed did like it.

The channel was called StedeInside, which sounded a little porny, but it turned out the guy - Stede - was an architect, and the first few videos on the channel were sort of dry, technical stuff about buildings, information on the firm Stede worked for. He talked like a professor, was clearly reading from a script, and dressed - well - again, in those first few videos, dry. Boring suits. Beige flags all over the place. Nice hair, though, a dark blonde, floofy. Nice eyes. Nice voice, light tenor, Aotearoa accent. He narrated his videos from a desk with a big bookcase behind him, and there was a ship in a bottle up there. Ed zoned out for a little while wondering how those things were built, anyway.

The fourth video was different.

For one thing, instead of boring corporate garb, Stede was wearing a t-shirt. Not a loose, baggy, comfy one, either - it fit him well, revealing to his viewers an unexpected musculature: broad shoulders, barrel chest, toned biceps. It was also extremely turquoise, and had some bar’s logo in white across the chest.

That might explain why he was clearly drunk.

“Hello, Internet!” Stede beamed into his camera, lighting up the whole room. He was enunciating his words very carefully, and if you were paying close enough attention, that lovely smile, drunk-dopey as it was, had an edge to it. “I have very recently been informed that my YouTube videos are somewhat less entertaining than I perhaps thought they were when I created them. In fact - “ Here he leaned in toward the camera, swaying a bit. “I have been informed - informed that they are BORING!”

The blinding smile widened. Almost enough to hide the bitter hurt behind it.

“So! I decided, with the assistance of some - liquid courage - to change things up a bit…for once. I have fun! I can be fun!”

Stede sat back in his office chair with a huff.

“So let’s have some fun, shall we?”

The next half hour of video was definitely fun. The funniest thing Ed Teach had ever seen in his life.

Drunk Stede, angry drunk Stede, was looking through online real estate listings…and critiquing them.

And Drunk Angry Stede was a capital-letters BITCH. That liquid courage had unleashed a razor-edged tongue; his acidic judgements on unfortunate or bizarre home designs had Ed laughing until his stomach muscles felt sprung.

“Mid-century modern with a Tudor style tower?” Stede said, wide-eyed, a little unhinged. “Well, Tudor certainly fits because this designer should have been beheaded!”

“I haven’t seen anything that green since the contents of my son’s diaper!”

“Oh. Ohhhh. Eugh.”

“Oh dear. Take off and nuke the entire site from orbit - it’s the only way to be sure.”

“GNOME INVASION!”

In the middle, a fifteen-minute diversion into an enthusiastic, if slurred, monologue on the subject of nautical-themed decor.

And at the end, when Ed had caught his breath, and looked at the video's statistics? Well. Stede's first three, desert-dry creations had no more than twenty views each.

This one, posted two days ago, had seven thousand views.

And climbing.

Stede’s rise in Internet fame couldn’t be called meteoric, but it jumped in fits and starts, and never really seemed to stop. He didn’t appear in his videos drunk anymore, after that first time, but he stayed…different. Vibrant and silly and passionate. The boring suits never returned. The ship-in-a-bottle on his bookcase was slowly joined by a bunch of goofy little toys, a Lego pirate ship, snow globes with unusual buildings inside them. He’d invite guests to join remotely and be interviewed, architects with unique visions, interior designers, masters of upholstery or carpentry or any other niche craft you could imagine. He was charming and awkward and goofy.

His family appeared a few times - well. His kids did. In one video he sat on the floor with his son for a whole hour, building intricate Lego houses; in another he and his daughter did online shopping to redecorate her room, combing through eBay and Etsy, laughing at the weird things they found.

Their mother did not appear, though her abstract paintings did, and Stede pointed them out dutifully each time.

Months passed, slow and fast at the same time.

Ed found a therapist who did online sessions and that helped - with the lockdown claustrophobia and the crazed energy that had him wanting to scream off the balcony when he wasn’t cocooned in his quilt in bed, daydreaming or jerking off or just sleeping too much. He started cooking more, and that helped. CBD gummies helped. The therapist mentioned low-impact exercise that would’t fuck his knee, to get those endorphins flowing; and he ended up following along with instructional belly dance videos, and that, too, helped.

And Stede helped. Stede maybe helped the most.

So when the weekly self-made videos slowed to monthly, it was upsetting - until the reason for said slowdown was revealed. Stede was joining a professional web media series about home design! He was so very excited when he revealed this to his audience, like a little kid, eyes gleaming, shyly surprised that he’d been asked. There were four other cast members, each experts in their own fields. It would be brilliant. They would genuinely help people and make use of his expertise and he could continue being himself, he said - maybe a little tears in those gleaming eyes - as silly and bitchy and pedantic as that meant.

“It’ll be - well. It will be a wonderful adventure,” he said. Practically chirping in his enthusiasm.

Ed watched the new series and it was

Well, it was okay

He wasn’t as fascinated by the other cast members and Stede didn’t get as much screen time, obviously since it was an ensemble and not just him, so it took some getting used to. It was still fun. They all bickered a little but it didn’t seem mean-spirited or contrived the way other reality shows did. Sometimes the homeowners they worked with on existing properties were honestly grateful and sometimes the designers were absolute divas and

And the lighting-and-wiring guy named Charles.

Charles Vane, who started his career on the blue-collar side and had the muscles to prove it, Charles Vane with the amazing tan and expensive-dentistry grin.

Charles Vane who kept looking at Stede.

Who carried things for him without being asked. Included him in Charles’ segments. Asked his opinions and was impressed with them. Who regularly walked onscreen with two drinks and handed one to Stede as if he hadn’t even thought about it, it was just a natural act. Clapped him on the shoulder at the end of the episodes when they were all congratulating each other on a job well done. Brushed plaster dust off Stede’s shoulder for him.

Smiled at him. Touched him.

Ed could tell Stede was flattered and flustered by the attention. He shone under it. The camera caught his cheeks flushing and the teeth worrying at his lower lip, his sidelong glances. The fan comments on each new episode started to focus on them. Ed hated it absolutely. Every bit of it.

He wondered how Stede’s wife felt about it; but not often. It was hard to think about her, to think about anything when his gut was roiling and his brain seething but he couldn’t stop watching.

He didn’t talk to his therapist about it. Or anyone else. Even if Stede wasn’t his - hah, laughable pathetic thought, that Stede could ever - this was still his. Even when it hurt a little. He savored that pain, obsessed over it, wiggled it in his mind like a loose tooth.

Stede.

But it was fine, it was fine, everything was fine until the morning Ed woke up and powered up his computer and opened his email and everything, suddenly, was not fine at all.

(He’d flagged Stede’s name so he’d get any interesting news first.)

(He fucking wished he hadn’t done that.)

WEB STAR RESIGNS AFTER GAY SEX SHOCKER, said the headline.

It took Ed ten minutes to work himself up to opening the article, and when he did, he closed it again after reading it, and just sat.

He’s not gonna look for the video. He’s not. It’s unethical and horrible and it would break his mind with jealousy.

He made it an hour. Then he got very drunk, and went looking.

When you look for things, if you look hard enough, you find them.

What Ed found was a hotel room on his laptop screen, generic but not shitty, boring wall art above the king-sized bed with its all-white linens and Stede spread out across them like a buffet, shirtless, glasses off, flushed and breathing hard. Hair disheveled. Blinking up at Charles who was knelt between his legs, also shirtless, fucking shining muscles all on show.

The camera was somewhere off to their left, its point of view unmoving, angled to show the full length of the bed from somewhere above.

There was sound.

“Charles,” Ed heard Stede say. Voice high, nervous and excited and breaking in the middle of the word.

Charles leaned down, bracing himself with one hand next to Stede’s head, and kissed him, not gently. Stede, under him, wriggled at the press of their bodies together, squeaked, moaned. Moaned around Charles Vane’s tongue.

“I’m so fucking hard for you,” Charles growled against Stede’s mouth. “Can you feel it?”

“Ah - yes - “ Stede, gasping, moving, thrust up against Charles as if he couldn’t help himself. “Yes, oh my god, I can - “

“And I can feel you,” Charles said, low-voiced. Pleased. “I wanna see you.”

He leaned back to kneeling, and his hands - only the fingertips touching - slid down Stede’s chest, his belly, to the fly of his jeans.

“Charles - wait - “ Stede stammered.

“Shh, shh, it’s all right,” Charles said, dismissively, and popped the button on Stede’s pants, thumbed down his zipper, smiled down at the thick erection that popped up, wrapped in white boxers (with, Ed noticed, blue anchors printed on them, cute, so fucking cute, so fucking unfair). “God, look at that. I’m gonna make you feel so good, babe.”

BABE? Fucking BABE?

Ed’s jaw hurt. He was grinding his teeth. He made himself stop and promptly forgot and started again.

“Wait, please - I’ve never - “ Stede’s pretty voice was soft now, shy, nervous. “Never - with a man.”

“It’s gonna be fine,” Charles said, almost purring. He leaned back down, kissed the tip of Stede’s nose and then his mouth again, gently. From Stede’s sudden gasp and physical jolt of surprise Ed knew that Charles had touched him, touched his cock. “I’m gonna take good care of you, and I’ll show you…how to take care of me.”

Back up, and Ed could see that big hand wrapped around Stede through his boxers, jacking him slowly; Stede’s feet were moving, pressing into the bedspread, toes curling. His eyes were squinched shut and his head thrown back on the pillows, long throat exposed.

“Fuck - “ he gasped. “Oh Charles, oh my god.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Charles said. He moved his hands to grasp the waist of Stede’s pants, his boxers. “Push your hips up, honey, c’mon.”

Stede obeyed, and then Stede was naked, and he was so fucking beautiful. Golden-furred, perfect legs - even censor-blurred out Ed could tell his cock was thick and red and hard, leaning up against his soft belly.

Ed made a sound that probably only dogs could hear. He was leaning forward, nose practically pressing against the monitor, almost cross-eyed for a better view.

He wanted to take control of the camera, move it around, look at Stede from above and from below and every other possible angle. He wanted to zoom in on Stede’s face and see what happened to his eyes as Vane, above him, shimmied out of his own pants and underwear, and came back down over Stede with his (smaller, Ed thought viciously, smaller than either of us) blurred-out cock pushing up against Stede’s, hips moving to grind them together.

Stede froze. His breathing stopped, his eyes so very wide, shocked with pleasure.

“Yeah, babe, you like that dick,” Charles gloated, and ground against him again. “Lemme hear how much you like it.”

“I - I like it,” Stede said. Soft. Awed, almost like religious awe. “It’s so good.”

Charles kissed him again.

They writhed together for a few moments, just kissing and grinding, Charles flexing as he rutted against Stede enthusiastically. One of Stede’s hands slid up to wrap around the back of his neck and Ed could see his fingers curling, almost clawing, into his nape just below the hairline. He reached up and mimicked that pressure on his own neck, digging his short fingernails in, staring at the video almost unblinking.

He was devastated and furious and so fucking hard he couldn’t stand it.

There was a skip in the video, then. No indication of why. When it came back their positions had changed. Stede was on his belly - head turned to the side, facing the camera, his face a picture of agonized bliss - with Charles Vane above him, and it was extremely clear what was happening.

“Fuck,” he grunted, and thrust, and thrust. “Fuck, fuck, Stede, yeah - “

Stede, below him, seemed beyond words. He was gasping, and huffing out little “Oh”s with each thrust, and his hand lay over Charles’ where it was planted on the mattress next to his shoulder.

“Ohh, babe I’m gonna come in you,” Charles groaned. Leaning down to rest his weight on Stede’s back, mouth over his ear, just his hips still moving, faster, harder. “Right up in you - “

“Please,” Stede said - just an explosion of air. “Please - yes please - “

His eyes were open, staring at nothing; Ed, hand down his own pants, gripping and stroking himself roughly, saw those eyes go wide and shocked and knew that was it, that was Stede coming, what he looked like when he came. It pushed - no - it slapped Ed over the edge too, coming silently into his fist and his clothes.

He reached across the desktop with his other hand and clicked off the video. He didn’t need to see Charles Vane’s undoubtedly stupid O face.

He hoped Stede had made him use a condom. Greasy, untrustworthy, unworthy Charles Vane.

“Fuck,” Ed said, into the silent room.

And that was it.

Stede’s YouTube channel vanished the next day; not even older, pre-Charles stuff left for Ed to go back to. The web series was canceled. Fucking paparazzi hounded Stede’s wife for a few days - so Ed finally got to see her, in probably the worst circumstances of her life, a little brunette who looked tough but tired. She got some kind of injunction somehow and the media gave up.

Charles got an interview on some shady fucking talk show.

“Consenting adults,” he said to the host, with a shrug and a golly-gosh smile. “It’s not illegal to have sex, it’s not illegal to have gay sex, it’s not illegal to film yourselves having gay sex.”

“Did you intentionally leak the video?” he was asked.

“Absolutely not!” he said. “That was a very special, private moment. I have no idea how it was found or why.”

“And do you feel bad about it? The infidelity.”

Charles looked right into the cameras, and smiled.

“I wasn’t married,” he said.

And Stede Bonnet just…vanished.

Chapter Text

Ed stared at Stede’s face.

His face from two years ago, when the home design show was being promoted; his face full of humor and optimism and goofiness and god, he was so pretty. He beamed out from the framed poster, slightly right of center, the other cast members arranged in a half-circle with him.

Charles Vane was sat next to him, and Charles’ hand was on his shoulder, and a large Mr. Yuk sticker had been stuck onto the glass concealing Charles’ face.

Which was fair, Ed thought.

The clinking of ceramics brought Ed back to himself, and he carefully put the stack of framed art back the way he had found it, leaning against the wall with the poster safely concealed, and when Stede (no, Ed thought fiercely, it’s Steve, think of Steve or you’ll fuck it up, Steve Steve Steve) - Steve, sans sunglasses, came back into the room with a laden tray Ed was examining his ship-in-a-bottle.

“Always wondered how they do these,” he said, extremely casually. “Like, do they get a guy to blow the bottle around the ship? How do they stop it from catching fire?”

“Oh! That’s a common misconception, actually! Look here - “ Steve set the tea service down on a cute little side table, and pattered over next to Ed to point at the bottle. He smelled good. The neatly trimmed beard and mustache looked good. “You see, the hull of the ship is narrow enough to fit through the bottle neck? And anything that sticks out too far, masts and oars and such, are attached to the ship by hinges, so once the ship is in the bottle they can be pulled up with strings - “

Stede Steve kept talking as he drew Ed away from the bookshelf, over to the table which had two wrought-iron chairs on either side, like a Parisian cafe’, with fat, tasseled cushions colored a deep juicy purple. He kept talking while they sat and while Ed fucked around with the sugar bowl and its tiny little tongs, and the rest of the tea service that looked like traditional blue willow china but had little pictures of monsters and robots and - yes, pirate ships - hidden in its pattern. Stede said nothing about how many sugar cubes he put in his teacup and the tea itself was a pretty dark amber that filled the air with the scent of bergamot.

There was even a modest tray of sweets, biscuits and scones and itsy pots of marmalade, and multicolored, sugared cubes of Turkish delight.

“Christ, mate, you know how to do it,” Ed marveled, “this is brilliant - “ and watched Stede’s whole face light up.

“Well, I like my comforts,” he said, bashfully. “Love a good tea, have since I was a child. It’s such a treat, to do it right, the whole ritual of it - and treats are better when they’re shared, I’ve always thought? Here, try this, it’s my favorite lokum, it’s honey apricot, there’s a Middle Eastern grocery nearby that makes them in-house and they go so well with the Earl Grey - “
They talk and eat and talk and Stede’s so funny Ed almost sprays tea several times, every time it happens Stede looks so adorably proud of himself, and when all the sweets are gone Ed looks up at the wall clock and to his surprise sees it’s been four hours.

“Whoa,” he says. “Sorry - I took up your whole day.”

“Oh, goodness. No, I should apologize, I get caught up in things and the world just gets away from me,” Steve said. “It was kind of you to indulge me - and bring up my post. Thank you.” He bustled up to start stacking the tea things back on their tray, and Ed reached out to help, only to be swatted away with mock fussiness. That meant Steve touched his arm, with a soft warm bare hand lighting and leaving swift and light as a butterfly, and he does not mind that one single bit.

Still, he waited obediently while SteVe cleared their snack away and moved the dishes back to the kitchen. Once he was back, he sort of meandered toward the door, Ed pulled reluctantly in his wake.

“Well. Hey,” he said. “I hope I didn’t, you know. Overstep. It’s ok to like your privacy and all. Promise I won’t be - shadowing your door or whatever - “

“Not at all. Not at all. I enjoyed your company quite a bit.” Oh, and his smile. Oh, boy.

“Me too. I mean, I enjoyed yours.” Ed smiled back, was helpless not to. “I’m under you.” Wait, no. “I mean my apartment is right under yours. Down there.” He pointed towards the floor before he can stop himself. He was absolutely going down in flames. “So if you ever need anything or you wanna hang out or - whatever. Yeah. Any time.”

“That’s very kind of you. I hope I don’t make too much noise.”

The door was open and Ed was right there at the threshold. Cold air from the hallway.

“Nah, never hear a thing. So I’ll - see you around, I guess. Yeah?”

“Yes. See you.”

Stede’s smile lingered on Ed as he forced himself out into the hallway and turned towards the elevators. He was almost to them when he heard the door close.

He rode the elevator down one floor and walked the hall to his apartment in contemplative silence; and then, once the door was closed behind him, erupted in hysterical giggles (literally hysterical - nothing was funny about this, it was bizarre, he had so many feels he could explode with them) and had to speed-walk around the apartment twice, working off nervous energy, before he could relax enough to even sit down. His pulse was racing and his mouth tasted of tea and apricots. He kept flexing his hands, his fingers.

Stede Bonnet, handsome goofy sweet wronged vanished Stede, was secretly living in his apartment building.

"Fuck," Ed said to himself, bewildered; and then again, "Fuck."

He'd met celebrities before, in his industry you went to a lot of expensive conferences and awards ceremonies and suchlike, shaking hands and drinking cocktails, so it wasn't weird or uncomfortable for Ed to be around the wealthy, famous, and powerful. He'd fucked some of them, too. Stede was probably not that rich and was never all that famous and as for powerful, well, here he was hiding in his apartment and Charles Vane was still breathing, so.

So why was Ed going through the emotional equivalent of an earthquake over him?

He sat and thought about it for a few minutes, unconsciously wringing his hands and tapping his feet to no rhythm, and then he got up and texted Izzy and fled to the bar.

Half an hour later and he was two pints in when Iz struggled up next to him at the bar (the stools were always too high for him which is why Ed always sat there instead of at a table, because if you can't give your friends shit, what's the point?) ordered a whiskey neat, and said, "What the fuck, then?"

And Ed realized he couldn't say anything without outing Stede.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK.

"Just a bad fucking day," he said, letting his mouth reroute the conversation while his brain ran in circles and gibbered.

"Oh, YOU had a bad day," Izzy said all full of snark, and Ed let himself slip into their old familiar bitch-fest about co-workers and careers, gliding over the surface of their lives without dipping below for anything real, anything that actually mattered.

He never remembered, thinking back on that night, what exactly they had talked about. He knew they drank, that they'd played a few games of darts, that Iz had mocked him for losing badly, because his brain wasn't in it. It wasn't. He was running on instinct. All his higher brain functions were busy with Stede.

The comfortable warmth of his apartment and all the neat stuff in it. His tea set with the monsters. The poster of his old life stickered over and hidden away, but not destroyed - kept where he could look at it sometimes.

His smile. His gingery auburn hair and beard, and the gray threads in both.

It got worse once Ed was back home for the night and there was no Izzy to distract him because his brain was fucking shameless and kept juxtaposing upstairs-Stede with sex-recording-Stede and giving him to Ed not from the camera's point of view, but from Vane's. Stede would be so soft and touchable, spread out beneath him, blushing, big hazel eyes, pretty cock twitching and eager and so ready for Ed's hand, for his mouth. Ed was sprawled in his own bed, he's moved the quilt to a chair because jerking off under it had always felt perverse in the bad way. So he was just naked in the sheets, thumbing the head of his cock and thinking about Stede under him but also up seven or eight feet above him, right now, innocent in sleep in his own bed.

Ed usually used some oil or lotion to jerk off but every once in a while he liked it dry, friction making the flesh of his cock move more, translating each pull all the way down through his balls. Fingers gripped hard around his shaft, pulling pulling pulling, the feeling rooted deep in his belly like he was tugging at his own internal organs, shaking everything, dragging out an orgasm like a disemboweling, like he was turning inside out. He turned his head for it and bit down on the pillow to muffle his howl as his body pulsed and burned.

He clenched up so hard that his left calf cramped bad, a hot spike of pain. By the time he'd sat up and pulled his toes back towards his shin, grimacing, until the big muscle gave up and un-knotted, the lust was all gone and he was just a tired, half-drunk old man, breathing hard and lying in his own mess.

"Oh, damn," he sighed, suddenly lonesome and on the verge of tears. "Damn, damn, damn."

He managed to clean up, after a few minutes.

Sleep took much longer.

Chapter Text

Days later and Ed’s been working from his home office which in all honesty means maybe three hours of work and 30+ of fucking off on the Internet. There were support forums on Reddit that he read obsessively because that remote drama was distracting in some way his brain seemed to need. He didn’t enjoy other people’s pain, but. Seeing them getting that support, sympathy, from strangers.

It was nice. It was good that some people could have that.

He took the elevator downstairs to check the mail, once he was pretty sure it had run; the lobby was chilled, empty. Ed imagined himself the gritty lone wolf protagonist of a postapocalyptic action film, waking up to find the rest of the world dead, or vanished, or zombies. It was a common fantasy - sometimes with Izzy or CJ or other friends making appearances as part of his badass leather-clad zombie killer squad - but usually he was by himself, exploring, or cathartically slaughtering monsters. Or he heard a faint cry for help and raced into action, an unlikely antihero, impacting a clot of three or four gnarled clawed monstrosities, lens flares reflecting off the blade of his makeshift weapon as he took them apart. Gore splashing, limbs flying. Until nothing was left but the person, the man, clouds parting for the sun to gleam from his hair, his pretty eyes, his beaming mouth saying something grateful as Imaginary Ed reached down and swept him up into a bridal carry -

There were no large packages sitting on the floor under the inset mailboxes. Not that he was looking for one.

His own mail in hand (bills and ads, bills and ads), Ed returned upstairs to find that sometime during his five-minute absence, a box had been left in front of his door. It was smallish, like it might weigh a pound or two at most, and made of brown paper like you’d see from a bakery.

As he got closer he saw handwriting on the lid, a smooth round cursive, fat letters, almost decorative, and it said:

For Ed

The bottom of the box, when he picked it up, was slightly warm. Ed stared at it. The rest of his body automatically unlocked the door, moved into the apartment, closed the door again. He drifted to the kitchen table and sat, setting the mail aside. Opened the box.

Inside it there were four muffins.

They were clearly not from a bakery. They were short and lopsided and looked dense, and unevenly topped with streusel, and the fluted paper cups they were baked in had an old-fashioned floral pattern, big fluffy cabbage roses on a soft blue background. They smelled of banana and cinnamon. There was a little stack of individually wrapped tea bags tucked in with them, tied together with a blue ribbon, and a fifth paper muffin cup filled with sugar cubes.

And a note.

“Hello Ed,” it read. “Just a small gift to show my gratitude for your assistance and company the other day. The muffins are banana nut; please do not feel obligated to eat them if that isn’t your preference. Or if you have a nut allergy, which possibility is only just occurring to me now. I very much hope I haven’t triggered an allergic reaction. Though as I recall our tea included walnut biscuits which you seemed to enjoy. At any rate, I am not a baker, but I picked out the best of the lot for you. I shan’t tell you how many I had to make before any were acceptable! I hope you enjoy them, and have a wonderful day. – Steve.”

Ed read the note twice. Then he touched the letters, the S in Steve, feeling the bumps where the pen stopped or dug into the paper. The way the V looks unsure, like its author had started writing a different letter and had to change course mid-stroke.

Then he made himself a cup of tea and ate the muffins, which were dense and a little dry, and spent the rest of the day smiling like a fucking lunatic.

He smiled through his errands, the library and the dry cleaner’s and the pharmacy for his meds and the dispensary for his other meds; smiled through the grocery shopping, too distracted to be strict with himself, and ended up with a cartload heavily weighted towards snacks and indulgences instead of veggies and real food. Smiled his way back home again, up the elevator with his personal foldable wheeled grocery cart thing behind him, into the kitchen, through putting the groceries away and making an early dinner (katsu ramen) and picking a movie to watch while he eats - it’s one of those classics that he’d seen among Stede’s vintage posters -

Anyway, it doesn’t fade until after dinner when he started answering some work emails outside of work hours, cause he was Ed Teach, the best, never slowed down, never gave up. Clients with questions always wanted to ask them of him, specifically, wanted the Ed charm and the Ed assurance that they hadn’t wasted giant gobs of their hospital money, and he gave them what they wanted. Easy peasy. Water off a duck’s back.

None of those people would have made him muffins.

And after THAT, he was feeling all tight and morbid again, so he pulled out the damn yoga mat and did the damn stretches and put on the video with its chimes and drums, and he danced. In the middle of his living room with the coffee table pushed out of the way. Tilting his pelvis and stomping his feet (but not too hard, gotta be gentle on the knee) and snaking his arms through the air. Swirling and turning. He pulled the elastic from his hair and let it swirl with him, around him.

He imagined himself dancing for Stede, a real extravagant Bollywood number with colorful silks, kohled eyes and bells at his ankles. Imagined sly, pointed sideways glances and how his tattoos would move as he swayed his waist back and forth. Stede sitting there like a lord, then rising to take his hand, to dance with him, turning neat-footed circles around each other, until a final swirl of Ed’s skirts brought him into Stede’s arms, pulled close and thoroughly, romantically kissed -

And the music stopped. The cheerful instructor on the video congratulated them all (them being her thousands of anonymously remote customers) on completing the workout, urged them to drink water and rest. Not a bad idea, he’d sweated right through his t-shirt and his knee was tired. He was tired.

And in the morning he would need to bake something for Stede, so he’d better get himself to bed.

It was very early the next day and Ed had not gotten as much sleep as he should have. Oh well.

He’d given up on sleep before the sun rose. Did some stretches, took a quick, bracing shower. Then found his mum’s little cookbook, a spiral-bound thing she had handwritten with her favorite recipes for him to take with him when he left, a book full of love; and he found the page he was looking for, and got to work.

Ed was never a great cook, but he could make everything in that book, for sure, if not from memory.

And when things were done, and cooled, and tucked away in an appropriately-sized Tupperware, Ed changed his clothes with Intentions and headed for the elevator, humming.

When he left it again, one floor up, Stede’s door was open, and there was a man standing inside it who was not Stede.

“Right,” the man - younger guy, sideburns, one of those telescoping portfolio things under his arm - said, and his voice was quiet, intimate. “It’ll be a few more days on that, probably. Unless you want to pay for a rush.”

Ed loitered by the elevator door, pretending to look at his phone, but he couldn’t make out Stede’s response. Hm. Frustrating.

“Figured,” the man said, with a tilt of his head. He leaned in and his arm went up; he was touching Stede, his shoulder or something. “Try not to worry. I mean, I know you will, but try. Or you’ll wrinkle pre - well, not prematurely, I guess -”

A pause, followed by a wicked little chuckle. “All right then. Toodles.” The man stepped back into the hall, and Stede’s door closed behind him. He walked into the elevator - giving Ed a quick up-and-down-with-raised-eyebrow on the way - and the doors closed behind him.

Well.

At least Stede was definitely home.

Ed gave it a minute, breathing, staring sightlessly at his phone, thinking who’s this guy, then? before moving on. Stede’s door was blank and answerless. He gave it a knock, perhaps a little harder than was necessary.

“Lucius? Did you forget something?” Stede’s voice said, and the door opened. “Oh - Edward!”

“Oh, me,” Ed said with a lens-flare grin, and lifted the Tupperware. “Morning. Had to pay you back for the muffins, mate.”

Stede began a protest that was obviously under false pretenses - he was glowing with pleasure like a sunflower - and backed from the door to let Ed in even as he was saying goodness, you didn’t have to do that, I couldn’t possibly.

“My mom’s recipe - pumpkin swirl cinnamon streusel coffee cake,” was all Ed said in return, and popped the lid off so That Smell would escape, and it cut off all argument as he knew it would.

Stede inhaled, making his broad chest rise and fall in an extremely appealing way, and said, “Righto. I’ll get the tea started, shall I?”

“You shall,” Ed said, smugly. “You absolutely shall.”

And he pushed the apartment door closed behind himself.

“Tell me about yourself,” Ed said, around a mouthful of cake, even though he knew he shouldn’t. He couldn’t help it. He’d been discombobulated by the tea, and the little plates, and Stede’s obvious pleasure in serving his guest. It just popped out.

Stede reacted pretty much the way Ed could have predicted he would; he withdrew into himself, hiding behind a smile as brittle as glass. “Oh, I’m boring,” he said, with an airy little laugh. “I keep to myself. I like my little collections and indulgences. You’re much more interesting, with your job and your travels - did you mention the other day you’ve been to southeast Asia? I’d love to hear about it. Fascinating cultures. You know, I read a book just a few months ago - “

Super smooth, practiced evasion into change of subject, Ed respected that. Sad, though, that Stede was so good at hiding himself; it spoke of long practice. He followed the conversational switch, letting Stede hide; it was too soon to push or pry. They were still in Phase 1: Building Connections. Ed figured he’d wait until at least Phase 3: Sharing Intimacy before he…

Before he what?

Revealed what he knew? Told Stede, “Hey, please don’t be upset but I know who you are and I like you and I watched your sex recording like a creep and I kind of want to recreate it until you forget that Charles Vane ever existed”? Yeah, maybe fucking not. Shit.

So no idea what to do with all that, but definitely no pushing for now. Keep it light. Don’t trap the guy.

Still, when the cake was gone and the tea was done and Stede walked him to the door so he could go back to his apartment and pretend he had better things to do than think about Stede, he fucking - touched Stede’s arm, a little above his wrist, before the sleeve of his shirt started. Just a touch. Not a hug, or a kiss on his hand, or a kiss on his mouth.

He thought about that touch for hours.

Chapter Text

Bed rotting had always been Ed’s worst trait.

He’d love to think of it as a brooding darkness at the heart of him, a Gothic, simmering black shadow haunting everything he does. The truth, though, is that it wasn’t a dramatic emptiness or a poetic darkness in his heart; it was just grey. Grey sludge. His whole life was a struggle against that sack of wet cement, that bog of cold mud that continually tried to drag him down. Heavy and muffling and gross. It pushed him down and pulled the covers over his head, and he sometimes stayed there for days, eating things out of jars with his fingers, moving only for the bathroom, not showering, not brushing his teeth, not drinking alcohol or taking anything illicit, not masturbating, not even really sleeping. Just…decomposing. Turning into dirt.

It was Izzy who’d found him, way back when. For some reason one day, when Ed disappeared for more than just a weekend, a relentless pounding at his apartment door had turned into his angry standoffish co-worker standing in his bedroom, looking like he’d smelled something rancid. (He had. It was Ed.)

It was a whole week before Izzy showed Ed how he’s picked the lock.

That was a long week. And the things Izzy did during it - and the next time, and the time after that - well, who the fuck else would've done them? Not just getting him real food and talking him through a fuckin’ shower and getting his squalid apartment cleaned out and getting him an appointment with a psychiatrist, and taking him there, but. The staying on him. Keeping him right. Refusing to let him sink back under the mud. For a while they had fucked about it, but though that didn’t last, nothing else changed; and Iz wasn’t getting paid for it or anything. Couldn't even rightly say Ed’s job performance reflected on Izzy’s - that’s the excuse he used, but 1. It was bullshit and 2. honestly even if it wasn’t bullshit it couldn’t be worth the trouble Iz had to go to every time he pulled Ed back up from the mud.

He just…stayed.

Constant as the fucking north star.

Now it’s been damn near a decade and Ed’s been Better for a lot of it. Top of his career, in decent shape physically, therapy checkups twice a year, meds on point, even taking his stupid little walks for stupid health etc. Lockdown’s been scary, but he’s got through it.

He had Izzy, after all.

He needed Izzy.

So it was hard, over the next few weeks, to keep his new secret to himself. He met Iz at the bar several times for a few beers, talking about work, about whoever Izzy’s dating (Iz didn’t have the patience for long relationships and nobody seemed willing to stick around after a few rounds of his blunt temper and cutting tongue), Ed’s weekend conquests. Regular bar nights with Iz were fun, they got Ed out of the house, and they let Iz check in. Make sure Ed was still Right.

Now there was Stede, though, and Ed was having totally different trouble.

He was fizzing, all the time. It wasn’t the fraught, out of control high of a manic episode or the laser-focused rocket-fuelled joys of closing a big sale, of Winning; more like the soft bubbling of champagne in a glass; golden, pleasing, gleaming, irresistible. It made him want to do things. Happily cleaning the kitchen so he could put on his silly Cookie Monster apron and bake treats for Stede. Going to the international market instead of ordering his groceries delivered, so he could look for fancy teas and rare ingredients and neat little knick-knacks to take up to Stede’s wonderful place, and the happy wriggles he got when he handed them over and Stede’s pretty face opened up with joy.

“Oh, Edward!” he marveled, every time, and every time Ed had to struggle not to kiss him.

And later, when he brought up Stede’s mail or whatever other excuse he could come up with for stopping by, he’d see whatever he’d brought set out on Stede’s curio shelves, and felt like he’d won a fucking prize, like a little kid getting a gold star on a paper at school.

He was enjoying his days more. Reading books and taking little notes so he could talk to Stede about them. He’s been sleeping the right amount and it felt good to put his work away at bedtime and it felt good to wake up in the morning.

And Izzy noticed.

That wasn’t a surprise really, for someone who’d spent the better part of ten years practically in Ed’s pocket for Ed’s own good. He just felt so fucking happy, it couldn’t be tucked away out of sight, he felt like it was glowing out of every pore.

And he knew it was premature. Stede was just his friend, and only barely that. Ed was already down horrendous, and he thought maybe, maybe there was some interest back, but given Stede’s - history - fuck, his trauma, his violation - Ed wasn’t about to push it. To risk it. He could wait.

Still, he was so goddamn heart-eyed twitterpated foot-tapping song-humming cookie-baking happy.

He put Izzy’s increasing suspicion from his mind. Having too much fun to worry about that. He was visibly clean and healthy and work has been going well so Izzy had nothing to worry about at all, so Ed had nothing to worry about either, yeah?

Yeah.

So.

“Oh, bonbons!” Stede sighed blissfully when Ed presented them on a Friday afternoon when he ducked out of work early, just for this, because he had a little plan. The bonbons were just to ease his way in. “Edward, you’re spoiling me - I’m already carrying a few pounds extra, I shouldn't - “

“What? Naaaah,” Ed said lightly, dismissively. “Reckon you’re perfect. And gift calories don’t count, I saw that on one of those women’s magazines at the market checkout and it makes perfect sense to me. Calories? Fuck ‘em. Made up.”

Stede blushed delightfully pink. “Really, now” he said in an ‘oh, you!’ tone, and tried to put the candy box down, so Ed turned on the sad puppy eyes and then they were on the sitting room sofa taking turns picking out their favorite flavors.

Halfway through the box, around a mouthful of dark chocolate and sweet coconut creme, Ed mumbled “‘s a big boot fair on Sunday. Always heavy on the antiques. Come with?” and watched from the corner of his eye as Stede stiffened.

“Well - it’s awfully kind of you to think of me,” he said, hiding behind strict politesse, “but I don’t know…I don’t, ah, don’t really do well with crowds.”

“Got it,” Ed said, light, cheerful, no judgment. “I’ll be off early if you change your mind - not big on crowds either, and the early birds get the best stuff. D’you know, there’s a guy who does actual scrimshaw? A scrimshaw guy! And it’ll be chilly so they’ll have cocoa and churros at the best food booth.”

He saw that the hook has struck; Stede’s eyes had brightened considerably at ‘scrimshaw’ and ‘churros’. Because Ed Teach was brilliant.

“You can wear your sweater with the hood,” he murmured, leaning in a bit closer. “And your sunglasses, if it’s clear. And we’ll just…keep ourselves to ourselves.”

“Oh…” Stede sighed, such a visceral sound of longing that Ed had to bite his tongue. “Well…all right. Yes.”

“Ah, fuck yeah, it’ll be great!” Ed smacked Stede on the shoulder, approvingly, and basked in the arm nudge he got in return. “Alright. Now look, are there any of the cherry center ones left? Because dibs.”

“Ed! Those are my favorite, you can't call dibs!” came the mock-indignant reply, and they were off again, playful and happy and shit.

Heavenly.

“Let’s have it, then,” Izzy said.

It’s Saturday night and Ed was fizzing so hard he could’ve slipped right out of his boots. Going out tomorrow, out with Stede, outside, to eat fried dough and sip cocoa and dig through piles of stuff and maybe hold hands a little bit? Maybe a little cocoa and cinnamon kiss? He was all knots inside.

And Izzy was across the table, staring at him, suspicion writ in his face so strongly he might as well have been a TV detective.

“Just feeling good, Iz, been a good month,” Ed said. He leaned back in the booth, resting his outspread arms along the top of the seat. Super casual. “Going to a new gym, think it might be helping - “

“What you’re not gonna do is bullshit me,” Izzy said, gravelly and glaring. “Out with it, what’s his name?”

“Nope,” Ed said. “Nope. No.”

Izzy set his pint down with a thump, a slosh of foam rolling over the side. “You know I’ll find out,” he warns. “I always find out.”

Fuck, he does always find out. God damnit.

“Iz - Izzy. Look. It’s just - it’s early days,” Ed said, hating himself for caving, unable to think of anything else to do. “I haven’t really, sort of, told him yet?”

Izzy closed his eyes. Dropped his head a little. “Fuck me,” he muttered. “You’re like this already and you haven’t even fucked him yet.”

“I will! I am. I am absolutely going to fuck him,” Ed said, a little desperate. “Just. Not yet. He’s…”

Iz waited, impatient and grump-faced, as Ed trailed off into silence.

“He’s what, Edward?” he sighed, when the silence failed to end. “Is he famous? Married? In organized crime? Fuck, is he straight? I’m not fucking going through that again - “

“No no no, fuck no, Christ, Iz,” Ed said. “Not famous.” Lie. Lying to Izzy always made him nervous. Nervous-er. “Not married any more, not a criminal so far as I know, definitely not straight or in the closet anymore. I just. He’s. He’s nice.”

A double beat of silence.

“What the fuck,” Izzy saidwith zero inflection, “Are you doing with somebody nice.”

“Just let it go. Just stay out of it. Please, Izzy, I like him.” Puppy dog eyes haven’t worked on Izzy - well, ever - but he tried anyway. “I just wanna be his friend for a bit and, like…take my time, you know? The way normal fucking people do? You start fucking stalking this guy and he’ll get freaked out. Just let me try, Iz, give me some time.”

Izzy sat, silent and grumpy, and after a while drained off half his pint glass in one go and let out a stifled, grumpy belch.

“Gonna get your heart broken,” he said at last. “Set up a therapy appointment. Preemptive strike. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Ed slumped back in the booth, blowing out all his tension in a big exhale. “Yes! Yes. I will do that. I’ll call today. Thanks, Izzy, really, this means a lot.”

“Twat,” Izzy muttered.

Chapter Text

Ed woke to a pearly morning fog so thick outside that his windows looked frosted. The sun, just starting to rise as he shuffled into his kitchen for coffee and toast, slowly turned the fog a diffuse gold.

Pretty.

He slipped out onto the patio with his last few sips of coffee; it was cold, but the sound-muffling golden fog was almost supernaturally enthralling. You could walk alone in that fog and it would be like nobody else existed in the whole world. Or walk with someone else, hand in hand, down a silent street, golden fog swirling around the both of you like cream in tea. You could look up at all the shadowy buildings around you, like giants, free of detail, just looming shadows; you could pull each other closer, warding off the chill with an embrace or maybe even a kiss, hidden in the fog. Secret. Safe.

From inside, then, he heard the faint anxious meeping of his alarm, and that meant a chance at Stede, which shocked him right out of his reverie and sent him back inside. Time to get dressed. Unripped jeans, his nine-hole Docs, a t-shirt AND a flannel AND a big indigo-blue sweater cause layers. Put his hair up. Took it back down. Put it up again.

He was still fucking with it, feeling anxious and dissatisfied with any style and mad at himself for it, when the doorbell rang. He nearly broke his shin on the coffee table getting there to plaster his face to the peephole and there was Stede, looking fragile in his too-big hoodie, but without his sunglasses; just his pretty eyes there naked for anyone to see, with little squinty crows-foot wrinkles of concern at the outer corners, rocking slowly from foot to foot.

Ed took a breath, held it for a count of five, exhaled, and opened the door.

“Ed!” Stede said. “It’s very foggy out, have you seen?”

“Hey. Uh, yeah, yes I have. It should burn off now the sun’s out, though.” Ed lifted his keys from the hook by the door while he spoke. “You ready, then?”

“Yes - though I can wait if you like, I know I’m a bit early - “ Anxiety lurked in those eyes. Ed was determined to dispel it, if only for a few hours; it felt good to have a Mission.

“Not at all. Not at all. I’ve had my tea and toast, got my keys and my kit; all ready to go hunt some bargains.” He locked the door and turned with a smile, presenting Stede with a formally crooked elbow; he could swear he saw a blush as Stede’s left hand came to rest lightly on his forearm. Shivered silently when he felt Stede’s thumb stroke along his antecubital crease.

“I like your sweater,” Stede said approvingly. “Soft, warm, and such a beautiful deep blue! Lovely.”

“Well,” Ed said, and coughed against the tightness in his throat. “Thanks. Bought it for the color.” They moved down the hall together, toward the elevators, but it was really more of a stroll than a stride. No hurry. “Not a big color guy, me, but…dunno, saw it and needed it.”

“Well, you’ve an excellent eye,” Stede said, and Ed saw a little smile cross his face. “A good instinct. For clothing. You always look quite well put-together, when I see you - “

“Ahhh,” Ed scoffed; he tried to subdue his own smile, all in vain. “Any boring old shit can do jeans and a band shirt, s’practically a uniform - “

“- But they’re not, is my point, Ed,” Stede said, insistently. “The cuts, the accessories, the attitude, even the way you wear your hair - you’ve not just bought off the rack from Harrods. You thrift. You’re choosy. You have a personal style that shines through. You know how to wear clothes that suit your body. The leather jacket you were wearing when we met, that day in the elevator - vintage, wonderful quality, well cared for and carefully customized! And don’t think I missed the leather pants.” He quirked one eyebrow, significantly.

“Oh? What about my leather pants, then?” Ed let the grin spread out over his face like butter, until Stede blushed (victory!) and looked away, laughing. It made things happen in Ed’s stomach - warm, twisting things. Good things.

Quiet in the elevator on the way down; quiet through the lobby and into the street. Fog, still golden, but beginning to thin out, so you could see your hand in front of your face.

“Do you have a car, Edward?” Stede asked. “If not we can take mine, if you’d like.”

Ed stopped still in the middle of the drive for a second, tilting his head up to stare into the pale-gold sky, and let out a long sigh. When he looked back down, Stede was watching him, curious and worried.

“Honestly fuckin’ forgot,” Ed admitted. “I guess if we buy shit we might have trouble bringing it back on my bike.”

“Oh, you - you ride a motorcycle?” Stede said, eyebrows going up. “Goodness. I’ve never.”

“Had to. Can’t wear all this leather without one, it’s a requirement.” And he winked, after. And Stede blushed. Point to Ed.

“So, yeah,” he said, enormously pleased with himself. “Your car, if you don’t mind, my good sir.”

“Not in the least,” Stede said, and they continued on, Stede on Ed’s arm again, their legs occasionally brushing, Ed still a little high like he’d won something real. A warm patch on his arm under Stede’s palm.

The car, when they got there, was entirely unremarkable - a good solid Volvo, white, untouched by bumper sticker or dashboard toys, clean and tidy and boring, not Stede at all. Ed buckled his seatbelt without being asked, and watched as Stede opened his glove compartment, which seemed to actually have gloves in.

Driving gloves. Leather. Latte colored. Skin showing through the little cutouts.

“You’ll have to navigate,” Stede said, while Ed was busy trying to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I don’t…go out that much, I’m afraid, so I don’t have my bearings yet. Sorry.”

“Ahhh, nah,” Ed manages to scoff. “Let me tell you about when I first moved here - “

And for the next fifteen or so minutes Ed told, as entertainingly as he could, about the night he got on the wrong bus and ended up two cities away sleeping in a laundromat because he’d run out of money taking more buses to get home, only getting more and more lost as dawn approached; and, interspersed with directions, that story took up their entire journey. The fog around them slowly thinned and vanished as the sun rose higher; and there wasn’t much traffic until the end, when they turned into their destination through an opened fence and found a spot to park in an unmarked, gravelled lot, among the quickly growing rows of early bargain hunters. The fair itself was spread out over a grassy field, and from the parking section it seemed immense - more cars, yes, but with their boots open, with folding tables or blankets on the grass behind, so many of them, with all manner of people weaving around and behind and between. Along the right-hand edge - a boundary set by a high wooden fence weathered with age - a line of more solid booths stood, steaming, promising foods. The murmur of voices that would become a rumble soon enough, when dozens of people became hundreds or even thousands.

“Well,” Stede breathed, looking at it all. They were clear of the car and walking slowly towards the fair proper, and Stede’s light hand at his arm had become heavier, something of a clutch. His face - Ed tried not to stare - was very alive with nervous energy, like a kid sneaking into a circus tent, afraid and exhilarated. “It’s…bigger than I expected.”

Ed bit his lip.

(He wanted to bite Stede’s lip, but one thing at a time.)

“Oh, there - that big blue sedan, I know that bloke,” he said instead, steering Stede gently into the rows. “Textiles mostly - got some of that vintage shit you were talking about from him - “

As they strolled up Ed nodded to the owner, a massive bloke in a bespoke camp chair whose widened feet kept it from sinking into the lot’s soil. He was knitting industriously, never looking down as his needles clicked and clacked. “Edward,” he said, relaxed and friendly. “Up before noon this time, eh?”

“Ah, fuck off John,” he said, with a laugh. “Just showing my mate Steve around, he’s a bit new but got a real eye for stuff. Steve, John - real wizard with fabrics.”

“Pleased,” John said, and left off the knitting long enough for a handshake. “You’ll do alright, this one’s a real snake for fashion bargains, he could work for Vogue - “

“I can tell!” Stede said, with admiring enthusiasm, while Ed made scoffing noises and looked away, trying and failing to shrug off the compliment. Stede and John were soon deep in conversation about materials and seasons and color stories; Ed left them to it, but stayed nearby, pawing through a stack of t-shirts probably older than he was and trying not to look as though he were listening. As the nervous hesitation left Stede’s voice, minute by minute; no longer dragging but chirping, happy, enthusiastic. Alive.

They stayed at John’s spot for perhaps another ten minutes, until another group came up with questions, and then they drifted away, arms empty but eager for more. Sometimes Ed steered them toward sellers he knew, who might have things to delight Stede, but more and more often as the sun rose it was Stede, pulling him forward by the arm to investigate boots full of old books or broken clocks or mismatched china. They did pick up a few things - one of the clocks with a bronze mermaid on top, a few scarves, a cornflower-blue button-up with embroidery on the placket and pocket that Stede went into raptures over, how much work it must have taken the elderly lady selling all manner of embellished and personalized clothes, stitching away with the thinnest needles and thickest coke-bottle bifocals Ed had ever seen.

They found one car full of antique costume jewelry pieces, milk crates overflowing like treasure chests, funky bakelite from the ‘60s and exotic filigreed brass that could be from anywhere or any time, art deco swoops and art nouveau angles, Egyptian and Indian and African themes, wood and polished stone and faux ivory. Stede dove into those crates wrist-deep and kept insisting Ed try things on, until he was as hung with finery as a Desi bride - it would chime and jingle so while he danced - and looking at himself in a hand mirror he could see Stede’s reflection, looking at him, and the look in those pretty hazel eyes was - it was -

“We should get some food, it’s almost 10,” Ed burst out, as his mind had gone blank of everything else. “It’ll be too hot for churros soon, mate.”

“Oh! Yes, of course,” Stede said, and smiled, and cut his eyes away as Ed began clambering out of his decor.

The food booth was crowded but worth the wait; their churros were as long as your arm and stuffed with dulce de leche, covered in a ridiculous amount of cinnamon sugar, and came with a cup of molten chocolate for dipping, ensuring you’d be a sugary, sticky mess at the end; but god, watching Stede’s eyes close in bliss at the first bite, his little hum of pleasure, the way he licked sugar from his lips and his fingers as they ate - leaning side-by-side against the fence behind the booths, not talking, just chewing. Living in the sweet moment until the last bit of fried dough - a little too hot for comfort but too good to wait for - was munched away.
“You’ve chocolate,” Stede said, sounding breathless. “In your - here - “

Stede popped his thumb back into his mouth for a moment, hollowed cheeks as he sucked it clean, and then swiped at Ed’s jaw. He kept the beard trimmed pretty close. Stede’s skin touched his skin. Ed felt like all the air had been sucked from his lungs. Stede’s hand was right there. He could turn his face a fraction of an inch and put his mouth on that thumb, licking off the chocolate and tasting Stede underneath, god, he wanted to, he had to, he was going to -

And Stede pulled back.

“Sorry,” he said, like a child caught being bad. Remorseful. “So sorry, um. Perhaps we should find a place to wash up, we’re all over sugar - “

“Yeah,” Ed said. Gently.

It was okay. They had time.

He pushed their trash into a bin that wasn’t quite overfilling yet, and led Stede back around the booths. “Loos are this way,” he said, “in a real building, thank god, with sinks and all, not portaloos. And then we’ll have cocoa with marshmallows - “

“God, after those pastries? Edward, they were massive, I’m not sure how much more sugar I can take.”

Ed desperately wanted to take his hand again, but - well, sticky.

“That’s cause you’re naturally sweet,” he said instead, breezy, light. “I’m all bitter deep down - “

“Well, I just don’t believe that,” Stede was saying, and huzzah he’d gotten a little playfulness back, embarrassment melting away like candy floss, like the fog had, it wasn’t ruined, it was going so well and then they were passing the last booth before the restrooms, all media stuff, Funcopops and signed things, memorabilia, china plates with Mr. Spock or C-3PO painted on them, plastic lunch boxes with cartoon characters.

Signed posters.

Ed tried not to look. More importantly, he tried to get Stede not to look. Slid a sugary hand around his waist and pulled him forward, past, away, so his gaze would stay on Ed’s face and not see -

The poster

THE poster.
No Mr. Yuk sticker to hide that fucker’s smiling evil face this time.

Ed’s mind was racing like his motorcycle at dawn on an empty freeway. Looking desperately for a turn-off, for a way home.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He managed to chivvy Stede into the loos, muttering something about a personal emergency, hoping he looked upset from bladder pressure instead of - well. Anything suspicious. He locked himself into the stall. He sat and breathed. The Poster would be right there when they left. There was no other exit.

How the fuck, he thought, are we getting out of here.

Chapter Text

The sound of the bathroom door closing behind them echoed loudly off the tiled walls and metal partitions; all the stall doors were open; they were alone.

Ed immediately crowded Stede against the edge of the sinks. Pinning him there, hemming him in with hands planted on the counter on either side, their bodies a few scant centimeters apart. He could see Stede’s eyes widen, the sugar trapped at the corner of his mouth, the pulse that jumped in his throat; even through all their combined layers, he could feel Stede’s warmth.

“Hey,” Ed said, all low and suggestive.

He saw, heard, felt Stede’s deep inhale, and -

Nope. That definitely was not the way. Rewind.

The sound of the bathroom door closing behind them echoed loudly off the tiled walls blah blah.

“Stede,” Ed said.

“Yes?” Stede had turned on one of the faucets and was beginning a diligent round of hand-washing, looking down into the sink instead of up at the mirror.

And then he froze, water running uninterrupted over his motionless hands.

His eyes, wide so you can see the whites all around, flicked up to Ed’s.

“Don’t panic,” Ed said, almost as unmoving. “Yeah, I know. It’s ok. I won’t out you, man.”

“H…how long..”

“Since that first tea in your flat. I was looking at your stuff and, uh…I found the poster. And I liked your youtube stuff from - from before.”

Stede’s face, which had turned skim-milk pale, flushed scarlet.

“Wonderful,” he said, but it did not sound wonderful. It sounded clipped, forced out through a tight jaw. “Congratulations. I suppose I should be grateful you’re telling me now, instead of - of letting this go on - “

“Look, I really am sorry, it’s just there’s a booth outside with pop culture shit and they’ve got the poster up for sale and I thought - if you saw it you might - “

“Run?” He straightened up from the slight hand-washing stoop, pulled his shoulders back, his wet hands out from under the faucet without turning it off. “Cry? Be recognized? How kind of you to protect my feelings.” The temperature in the room is falling, falling - nope. Not good. Rewind.

Bathroom door closing behind them with echoes etc.

“Hey Steve, I think I saw my ex out there and he’s a real jerk, can we just turn left as soon as we get out of here and like, run as fast as we can - “

“Ed, you shouldn’t have to run from anyone! That’s outrageous. If he says anything to you, I’ll - “

Nah.

Bathroom door.

“Hey Steve, do you wanna do something weird? I think with a little effort we could climb out the bathroom window - “

Ugh.

All these ideas breezed through his brain in the time it took to lock himself into a stall while Stede was washing his hands.

“Wait for me, will you?” Ed managed to choke out.

“Of course!” Stede called, over the sound of running water. “Take your time.”

Ed stood facing the toilet, so it didn’t look like he was just standing there, and then just… stood there. Fuck fuck fuck, fucking fuck. All his ideas were shit. He was panicking. He was so screwed.

“Do you want me to carry your sweater?” Stede called. “As it is getting a skosh warm out there.”

“Think I’m done for the day, to be honest,” Ed said. Too loudly. Trying not to stammer. “‘M too old anymore to go all day - “ oh for fuck’s sake Teach -

But Stede just said, in that sweet concerned voice, “Oh! Of course, Ed, I could use a break too. We’ll head back to the car and get some air con going.”

Ed couldn’t stall much longer without pretending to take an actual shit which, no, so he flushed and zipped for the noise and left the stall. Stede was still at the sink, running a pocket-comb through his gorgeous hair, making it shimmer and bounce with each pass. Fuckin’...goddamn.

Ed washed his hands as slowly as he could, mind racing away in circles, making no progress.

“Well,” Stede said brightly as Ed’s paper towel disappeared into the bin and he had nothing left to stall with. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” Ed said. Trying not to sound worried, or funereal, or doomed about it.

They went outside. The sun was bright, no fog anymore, and as they took the single step down from the small building Ed could see the crowd between them and That Stall separating, moving away, leaving a totally clear fucking line of sight between them and That Poster and - and -

Shit, fuck, goddamn it to hell -

“FUCK,” Ed shouted, and flung himself to the ground, on the opposite side of Stede from That Stall. He curled up like a footballer, clutching his knee, and moaned.

“Ed!” Stede cried, shocked.

Because Ed Teach is a genius under pressure.

“Argh, fuck, m’knee,” he groaned into the grass. “It just - twisted - “

“Oh no, Ed, are you alright? Do you need an ambulance?” Stede, his own personal Red Cross nurse, knelt down beside him, and a warm gentle hand touched his, over his kneecap. “Should I get help?”

“Did he hit his head? My Lewis hit his head in a fall back in ought-seven and died on the spot - “ said a passing octogenarian lady in a fuchsia chinoiserie jacket, sounding equal parts concerned and grimly fascinated.

“Did he get stung by a bee? ‘S he allergic?” shouted a young lad in a Taylor Swift tee. “I’m allergic, I have an epi pen, does he need an epi pen? MUU-UUM! MY EPI-PEN!”

Ed, who had only meant to divert Stede’s attention, cursed a lot inside his head and slowly sat up. “It’s fine, I’m fine,” he said loudly. “Just tripped, no injections please, kindly bugger off - “

“Edward,” Stede said, in a voice so kind AND ALSO firm and authoritative that Ed instinctively sat up straighter, felt his eyes get bigger (felt other things get straighter and bigger) (shut up, no) “Whether or not you struck your head, we should get that knee looked at. I saw a medical tent just over there - “

“NO,” Ed yelped, as Stede began to turn in exactly the wrong direction. “Please just - help me to the car? There’s so many people here - I’m - feeling so overwhelmed - “ and like an absolute shit for using fake agoraphobia, lord he’s not a good person but this is serious business -

Stede, arrested, looked at him for a moment, right in his eyes. Ed tried with all his considerable emoting might to look sincere. Thought about sad things. Puppies in the rain. Himself in the rain. Standing in the rain while Stede drove away, tail lights flickering then going dark -

“...all right,” Stede said.

Ed, mentally, pumped his fist in the air and cheered.

“I’ll help you up and you can lean on me on the way,” Stede continued. “But if it gets worse, Edward, you promise me you’ll say something and we’ll - we’ll sit you down and find a wheelchair or something. I’m serious.”

“Yes, of course, absolutely,” Ed said, left hand behind his back where Stede wouldn’t see his crossed fingers.

Stede got back up, their bag full of shopping over his arm, and then those arms were around Ed - solid arms, under that sweater, like being hugged by an oak - and then Ed himself was hauled to his feet (foot) with breathtaking ease, one arm wound over Stede’s oaken shoulder and around his broad oaken neck and god he needed to stop thinking about wood right fucking now.

“Strong,” he said.

“Oh - yes, I exercise a bit - helps to pass the time,” Stede said, absentmindedly, concentrating on getting Ed balanced on his “good leg” so they could start inching their way through the slowly dissipating crowd of disappointed lookie-loos. With every inch of progress they made, Ed’s heart lightened.

They were both red and sweating once they reached the car - for its cool foggy start, the day really had grown warm, and their little impromptu cardio session hadn’t made it any cooler. Stede handed Ed into the car with ease and came around to store their bargain finds in the backseat before turning the engine on and setting blessedly cold air blowing onto them both.

“God that’s good,” Ed sighed, and leaned forward so his head was against the dash and cold was blowing right into his flushed face. “Thank you, technology.”

“Yes, delightful,” Stede said. He was leaning back in the driver’s seat, catching his breath. His eyes were closed, and Ed took full advantage, turning slightly to stare up at him - his pink face, his chest swelling with each deep grateful breath. The sweat-dark hair at his temples.

I want to make you look like that, he thought.

“How’s your knee,” Stede said, without opening his eyes. “Shall we find you a doc-in-the-box, or is this more an emergency room situation?”

“Nah, none of that, this happens sometimes,” Ed said. He looked away just in time to not get caught staring, as Stede gave him A Look. “No! Honestly. ‘S an old injury that flares up sometimes if i forget to take it super easy. I’ve got ice packs and muscle relaxers and a massaging joint wrap thing. If you can help me back up to my apartment - “

“Well, I trust you to know your own body, Ed, but I wouldn’t feel like a good neighbor, leaving you on your own when you’re injured - “ Stede said, forehead creasing. That hand drifted over to rest on Ed’s forearm, where the sweater sleeve had gotten pushed up, and his touch on bare skin - oof.

“The meds knock me right out, gonna sleep for like two days.”

Seatbelts went on. Stede turned and carefully reversed out of their spot, turned, drove.

“I’m terribly sorry you got hurt,” he said, after they were back on the street. “It really was a lovely time up until then, and - well, I’m so grateful. That you took me with you.”

God, his soft sincere voice was even sadder than puppies in the rain. Hugging him over the center console would probably be a bad idea, though. “S’alright, Sss-teve.” Fuck. “I had fun, too. You’re nice to spend time with.”

“Am I? Well…I’m very glad to hear that. I don’t - spend very much time with people, as a rule.” Stede’s eyes stayed on the road, his hands stayed at a proper ten-and-two on the wheel, even though he sounded like he was confessing to some sort of crime. “I can be too much. For some. And I - I make poor choices, in life.”

“Mate, you’re talking to an old queer with more tattoos than sense,” Ed said, and did not miss the way Stede’s eyes briefly widened and cut over to him in the middle of the sentence. “Jobs, relationships, substances…the odd misdemeanor…not sure you should be spending time with me, to be honest. I’m not, you know. Nice.”

Ed, much to his surprise, felt his throat tighten during this little speech, and fuck, he’d thought all those feels were behind him by now. It was Stede, he thought. The man just forced sincerity out of you, like a magnet drawing a metal splinter.

“Bullshit,” Stede said, mildly.

It was so unexpected that Ed was startled into hard laughter. Stede joined him after a moment. He snorted, and giggled, and their eyes met and held; and that, most likely, is why he never saw the other car.

“STEDE!” Ed shouted.

Too late.

Chapter Text

There were, in Ed’s life, a handful of memories that had crystallized, frozen in time; full sensory experiences that would come back to him vividly at a familiar sound or scent. The smell of Stone’s green ginger wine - his father would drink anything as long as it was cheap, but he’d had a particular fondness for the spicy-sweet tipple and Ed would forever associate its biting scent with the ache of raw bruised knuckles and the sound of police sirens. With his mother sitting in the corner of their little living room, leaning against the wall, sitting on the dirty carpet with one shoe off and her split lip bleeding and a dazed uncomprehending look on her face. Taste of cigarettes in his mouth. His t-shirt wet with sweat all the way down his sides.

The first time he’d had sex - facedown in someone’s sheets, the smell of that particular laundry detergent, the sweet burn of not quite enough lube, hot breath on the back of his neck, loud music from another room.

The bright cold snap of pain on a winter evening when he’d slipped on a patch of slush and fallen just exactly wrong and fucked his knee for good, the sickening sound of it, the way that pain had spiked so fast and hard up through his body that he had immediately puked.

And now, Stede’s eyes, they way they widened, and the sound of screeching brakes. Forever entwined.

The impact -

So -

The sound of it was loud and flat, almost like it had no echo, a short sharp shock of metal and fibreglass impacting.

After, when the powder dust from Stede’s airbag had cleared and they had been helped out of the car to a paramedic’s examination, Ed realized it hadn’t actually been that hard a hit. They hadn’t been going particularly fast, it was just a suburban street, and the other driver (per her babbling explanation + apology) had missed her light and, panicking, swerved to a sidelong, glancing blow against Stede’s car instead of going head-on into someone else’s. Ed’s shoulder hurt a little, and Stede kept gently touching his own nose, exploring it and wincing; but the EMTs were swift and businesslike and proclaimed that neither of them seemed seriously injured, Stede’s nose was probably not broken and Ed just had a seatbelt bruise, though they could certainly have a ride to the hospital if they wanted?

No, thank you very much, they’d be alright.

They were carefully escorted across the road, to stand safely in the grass on the shoulder, while Stede placed a phone call and the police directed traffic around Stede’s poor car until a tow truck showed up to clear the road.

All of this made sense, and none of it did. Ed’s brain was swimming in space. The world around him was a kaleidoscope of images that would not settle into meaning.

“I’ve called a friend,” he heard Stede say, subdued and without much inflection, “To come and pick us up.”

Ed couldn’t say anything at all. His heart had shrunk down into itself, a knot of shame and fear in his chest. All he could do was wait for the inevitable explosion.

But they stood there in the grass, very close to each other, and it never came.

What did come, less than fifteen minutes later, was a dark green mini Cooper convertible with its top down, trim and shiny, with a little Pride rainbow fluttering from the corner of the windshield. It swerved dextrously through traffic to pull onto the shoulder near them. The driver was that guy with the sideburns; he was wearing thick-rimmed cat’s-eye sunglasses, and he slowly leaned over to stare at them.

“Well,” he said, after a long long pause. “Fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into. Boss.”

“Yes, thank you,” Stede said. “We’re all right, no need to be worried.”

“I wasn’t,” Sideburns said breezily. “Where am I taking you and…”

Even through the sunglasses Ed could tell he was being looked up and down.

“Edward. My friend, Edward. Ed, this is my employee, Lucius - “

“Okay, ouch,” Lucius said.

“We just need a ride back to the apartment building, please and thank you,” Stede said

“Mi auto es su auto, et cetera,” Lucius said, and the doors unlocked with a click. Ed was a little skeptical, but there was a reasonable amount of legroom when he slid into the backseat.

Stede took the front passenger side, and he wasn't looking at Ed. He seemed normal enough, but he wasn’t talking much, and he wasn’t looking at Ed. You’d think he was fine if you didn’t know him any better.

“Are you sure you don’t need a hospital?” Lucius says. Apparently he felt it, too.

“Quite sure, thank you.” Stede touched his nose again, like he couldn't help it. “Shaken, but mostly unharmed. Very tired.”

“Mm, had a long day, did we?”

Ed could feel Lucius’ eyes on him through the rearview mirror.

“Boot fair. Lots of walking,” he said, unable to shake his own discomfort, but it was Ed Teach Salesman Performance time. “Steve’s been a great neighbor, volunteered to drive so I wouldn’t have to balance my shopping on my bike.”

“How nice and social of him!” Lucius chirped.

Stede smiled, but it was a wan, flat thing.

The remaining ten or so minutes of drive back to the apartment building were filled with chatter - from Lucius. He spoke airily and easily of his boyfriends and their shenanigans, of the club he was going to on the weekend, of everything, really, but Stede. Ed got the distinct feeling that his presence was preventing an interrogation. That was at least one tiny thing he could do for Stede, so he made appropriate ‘go on’-type sounds whenever Lucius paused.

They were dropped at their building with an admonishment, Stede-ward, to text if he needed anything and ‘not die in his sleep, thank-you-very-much’, and the mini swerved back off to disappear into traffic.

A few awkward seconds passed.

Ed cleared his throat, feeling clumsy and idiotic. Strangers and paramedics and Lucius-es he could charm till the cows came home; with Stede, now, he felt graceles as a newborn colt.

“Right,” he said, “Sorry about the accident. Uh. I don’t know if your insurance is good but I can like…pay? For the repairs. I’ve got money. And you wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for me.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Stede was frowning, slightly, and his arms were folded, and he was rocking back and forth just a little, like he didn’t know he was doing it. A distant look in his eyes as if he was gazing into infinity but not seeing any of it.

And he still hadn’t acknowledged, in any way, the thing that Ed had done. It hung over them, silent and suffocating.

“Well,” Ed said. “We’ll figure that out later. I’m gonna go s-sleep this off - “

Fuck, that was a stammer, hadn’t done that since he was a kid. That was just embarrassing. He swivelled, abrupt and jerky, and pushed through into the lobby, shuffling towards the elevators - his knee was actually hurting now, but honestly that was fair, less than he deserved -

And then a presence loomed at his side, and an arm slipped under his, taking his weight on the bad-knee side.

Stede.

It was so unexpected, it made Ed stagger, and he almost tripped them both; Stede had to take much more of his weight to get them stabilized, but he seemed to do so with ease.

All the words were gone from Ed’s brain and so, silent, he let Stede guide/carry him into the elevator and out of the elevator, down the short stretch of hall to his apartment door, and (once Ed had fumbled his key into the lock), right through it into and through his apartment, to lower him at last onto the couch.

“Right,” Stede said, briskly. “What can I get for you?”

“Uh,” Ed said.

“You mentioned ice packs, and a knee wrap, and muscle relaxants - which if you’re taking you should just get to bed and have everything set up before they send you to dreamland,” Stede said. “I’ll just get you sorted before I go back to mine.”

“Steve,” Ed said. “You don’t have to do that, man.”

“A gentleman,” Stede said, after a pause, “Would never abandon a friend in his time of need.”

And that proclamation was so dramatic, and yet so sincere, that Ed was entirely disarmed before it.

So he let Stede gather his gel ice pack from the fridge, and wrap it in his novelty tea towel, the one that said May Godzilla Destroy This House Last; and the massaging knee wrap, and his biggest tumbler filled with ice water, and himself from the couch, and move them all into Ed’s bedroom. He leaned against the wall while Stede settled the things on his bedside table, and turned his covers down, and brought the bottle of medicine from his medicine cabinet.

Stede helped him to sit on the edge of the bed.

Stede knelt down, with no hesitation or shyness, and unlaced Ed’s boots for him.

Ed was…he didn’t know how he was. Overwhelmed. Struck dumb. He knew his eyes must be huge and maybe even a little teary. He could still smell cinnamon, and Stede’s cologne; it wasn’t like anything he could remember in his life. Not like Izzy with his leather and oak scent and his tough-love schtick, whose hands were brusque rather than brisk, whose eyes never hid anything from Ed - not his exasperation, his mild disdain, like Ed was a recalcitrant pet, not even the edge of possessiveness in the days while they were fucking.

Stede was practical, but gentle, and patient. And sweet, and kind. And was still not looking at him.

Stede who climbed back to his feet, dusting his knees off absently, and said, “There. Text me if you need anything. I’ll call in the morning. Do you want the bathroom light left on?”

“No,” Ed said. Whispered, almost, through a tight throat.

And Stede turned.

He stopped at the door, one hand on the light switch; Ed could see those fingers hesitate, squeeze into a fist; relax again.

“Goodnight, Ed,” he said, so quietly.

He flipped the light off, and at last met Ed’s gaze, there in the afternoon light only mostly cut by the blackout curtains he’d lowered; and what Ed saw there was a huge, dark uncertainty.

“Right before the crash - “ Stede said, and stopped again.

Ed felt like he was in one of those natural disaster movies, where the earthquake makes the street crack or the buildings fall right at the hero’s heels, like it’s chasing him.

“What did you say?” Stede asked.

Ed teetered on the edge of the crevasse, pebbles falling into oblivion under his heels.

This was more than a friendship; it was more than a celebrity crush; it was, he was beginning to realize, More; and he was about to lose it.

And he was, he was absolutely, a coward.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, and laughed. “Fuck. I saw the car but I didn’t realize how damn slow they were going - thought we were toast, so I yelled. Steve! It just - popped out. Hope I didn’t pop your eardrums, mate.”

“Oh - yes, I see,” Stede said. And laughed, too, lightly. “I was so startled by the crash - and the airbag, goodness they’re scary, aren’t they? I just couldn’t remember, and I suppose - at that moment - I thought it must have been important.”

And, “Nah,” Ed lied.

“All right. Sleep well,” Stede said, with a smile, and he was looking at Ed again, and his eyes no longer seemed hollow and full of doubt.

“You too,” Ed said, and waved, and sat there for a long, long time, after he’d heard the front door close.

Chapter Text

Ed woke with an ache in his head, in his body, and most of all in his heart.

It took a few minutes of groaning and breathing to realize that it was not just morning, but well after - the fully-risen sun streaming light through his bedroom window and the sounds of daytime traffic outside - and that he’d eaten nothing the day before besides toast, tea, and fried sweet dough which, if you thought about it, was just toast again in another form. Stomach empty, bladder full and head pounding, Ed dragged himself into the bathroom, dry-swallowed two extra strength paracetamol, and tried to avoid the mirror.

Couldn’t avoid his heart, though. And it wasn’t just aching; it was angry at him.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” it was saying, syncopated within its beats. YOU’RE-a - FUCK-ing - ASS-hole. YOU’RE-a LY-ing DIRT-bag. YOU’RE-as BAD-as VANE-is -

“Fuuuuuck,” he groaned, and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes until unreal colors flashed in the dark of his mind.

Cause, yeah, he was a lying asshole. He was a salesman. Had been since he was making pocket money hawking stolen goods and ditchweed in school. Selling was lying, and he was good at it and he’d never spent a single fucking minute regretting it until now, as a rich old man with a decent fortune built on lies, with nobody alive that actually knew him, with the real Ed Teach so buried under decades on decades of lies until even he wasn’t sure if there was a core of truth underneath or it was just fuckery all the way down.

He’d never wanted to be himself before now. Unquestionably Stede had done this to him, with his softness and his pretty eyes and the fear lurking in him that made Ed want to open his own chest and brain so Stede could look inside and find nothing but truth, could examine him soup to nuts and find only love. A place full of love, where he would be safe, like a little animal in its secret nest. Protected.

But to DO that, Ed would have to tell the truth, the big one. Tell that he’d been lying this whole time.

Double fuck.

When done in the bathroom, he threw on some soft clothes, grabbed his phone and checked it while walking to the kitchen. It was Sunday, so nobody cared where he was, so no messages. Not even from Stede.

Who should be awake by now, given he probably hadn’t drugged himself into unconsciousness like Ed had.

Ed drank a glass of lukewarm water from the tap, so his voice would work, and called.

No answer.

Hmm.

Set the phone down. Put a clean pan on the hob and scrambled eggs in it, plated the eggs, topped them with cheese and black pepper, ate them. Pan and plate and utensils into the sink. Called Stede again. No answer, again.

Shit.

He was gonna have to go up there.

So he prepared. Stayed in his soft unthreatening Sunday-at-home clothes, the worn band t-shirt and the plaid pajama bottoms and the wool slippers. Couldn’t be empty-handed so he sliced up some of the quick bread he’d made a few days ago, the sharp cheddar and tart apple one, warmed it in the oven for that just-made softness, tucked it onto a cute little tray with a tea towel and a ramekin of good butter and the paracetamol bottle. Tied his hair back to look less of a madman. (He was absolutely being a madman.)

Headed up to Stede’s floor. Saw no-one on the way, which was fine. Knocked on Stede’s door.

No answer.

“Steve,” he called, trying to be loud enough to be heard through the door but not so loud the other neighbors would start poking their heads out, “it’s Ed, you home? Awake? Alive?”

No answer.

He kept knocking. It was unacceptable that Stede not be here.

“Steve,” he called, persuasively. “I brought bread! It’s really good!”

Nothing.

“It’s getting cold…” he said, sadly.

Thought he heard the softest rustle from inside, like feet shuffling.

“I’ll just have to throw it away,” he sighed. “Such a waste.”

He waited.

The door clicked, gently, and swung open about half an inch, until he could see a tiny sliver of Stede’s face; eyes puffy, nose red, mouth uncertain.

“Ed?” he asked, sounding muffled. “I’m alright, you didn’t need to bother yourself.”

“We were in a car accident, Steve.” He held the tray up to eye-level, flipping one corner of the tea towel back to display the crusty golden goodness beneath. “Now let me in, or this goes straight into the trash. This bread, which I made myself, with my own two hands, for you specifically. Trash.”

The eye widened, and the door swung aside.

Stede’s place felt very quiet, like it was holding its breath. It was a little messy - there were papers stacked over the coffee table and the secretary hutch between the living room shelves. Ed wanted to read all of them. Instead, he brought his little tray to the kitchen table and set it down in a clear spot, so he could turn to Stede empty-handed.

Stede, who stood like his whole body was bruised, even though the only visible mark was on his left cheekbone, an arc probably indented from some fold or seam of the airbag. Ed sucked air in through his teeth, sympathetically. “That must hurt,” he said.

“Not much fun, no,” Stede replied. He automatically brushed his thumb over the mark and winced. “I’m lucky my nose didn’t break - It’s a bad enough nose, it doesn’t need any more visual interest.”

“Fuck that, it’s a great nose,” Ed said. “Love your nose. I mean. Also glad it’s not broken. But it’s, you know. Fuckin’ regal. A statesman’s nose.”

Stede looked down and away, but Ed saw the corner of his mouth go up, and could’ve punched the air victoriously.

“Well, thank you very much,” Stede said. “I’ll put some tea on, shall I? Tell me about this bread.”

So he did, all about the bread, what apples he’d used, where he’d first gotten the recipe, the tweaks he’d made to make it his own. Probably five minutes he went on about the fucking bread while Stede made tea, and brought out some sliced ham and quartered some hard-boiled eggs and while they ate their little brunch together. It was simple and perfect.

At one point Stede stepped away to take a call from the auto shop, and came back looking relieved. “The car isn’t dead,” he said, “and I’ll be able to pick it up in a few days. Fortunately I do most of my work from home, so I don’t actually need it…”

“Great, excellent, great,” Ed said. “And if you need to go out before that I could give you a ride. Motorcycle. Motorcycle ride. Real safe…cycler, me. Like a grandma.”

“Bit difficult to imagine,” Stede said, one eyebrow quirked, with - miracle - a twinkle of mischief underneath. “The pink cable-knit sweater, and all.”

“Cat’s-eye glasses on one of those glasses-holding chain things.”

“With the pearls on it,” Stede agreed. He was drifting closer. “And a hanky up your sleeve.”

“Doily on the seat,” Ed said, breathlessly. He’d come up here with no idea what to do, and he mostly still had no idea, except Stede was gently, cautiously joking with him, like someone walking carefully over an icy pavement, and it was so precious he wanted to weep and also to kiss until they both passed out from oxygen depletion. “Little thing of dried flowers on the handlebars.”

They were caught in a slant beam of light from Stede’s window. Dust motes danced around them. Stede was within touching distance, with his hands clasped together like a penitent, like he was holding tightly onto something precious, some secret or gift. The tips of his fair eyelashes were gleaming and the sun was bringing the auburn of his short beard out so strongly.

If you tell him, Ed thought, you will never see him like this again. He won’t let you.

If you don’t tell him, you won’t deserve to.

While Ed’s mind wrestled with itself, a hell-in-the-cell cage match inside the arena of his skull, Stede was going on blithely with his joke, something about a squad of biker grannies with knitting needle shivs, and he only stopped once Ed was kissing him.

It was clumsy.

Their lips didn’t quite align; half of Ed’s mouth fell on beard instead of skin, and he almost mashed their noses together. He had leaned in so quickly that Stede stumbled, grabbing at his arms for balance, and sucked in a startled gasp that made a silly little squeaking reverberation in his nose. It was awkward, and desperate. It was the best kiss Ed had ever had bar none.

And Stede…did not push him away. He didn’t, like, leap into Ed’s arms, or make any particularly pornographic moans, or dig his fingernails into Ed’s skin. All he did was stay.

Last forever, Ed wished, with his eyes squinted closed and his arms full of Stede. He wished, he wished, he wished. If time would just fucking stop. If they could stay there in the sunlight with his mouth on Stede’s mouth. Forever.

Time never would stop for Edward Teach.

So after a few stunned seconds he put his arms around Stede’s waist and pulled him in close; he let the kiss break in favor of ducking his head, to hide his face against the side of Stede’s throat, a soft warm space where Ed could smell faded laundry detergent and some lemon-y, herb-y fragrance that was probably body wash.

“Shh,” he said. “Don’t say anything yet, please.”

Stede was breathing hard - he was shivering a little under Ed’s hands. He didn’t pull away, or put his arms around Ed, or say anything. He just waited.

Ed opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out, just the soft falling-sand sound of his breath wheezing past his vocal chords without catching.

He cleared his throat and heard, felt, the tears threatening.

“I’m not a good person,” he said at last. “Don’t - just - shhh, ok, please, let me say it, please. And - I wanted to kiss you, just once. Because I’m gonna say it and after I say it I don’t - think I’ll get to do it again.”

They stood together for a few beats of Ed’s heart, one last safe sliver of time.

“I know,” Ed said. “Stede. I know”

It was ironic, if you thought about it, the way that Stede froze, breathless and motionless, while for Ed time started rolling again, like a boulder down a hill, smashing everything.

So he let it babble out, the truth, while he could - racing time with his confession, wringing it out from his guts, from his fucking toes. How Stede had caught him, held him, held him together in those long days of quarantine while he was fighting the urge to dissolve best two out of three and losing badly.

How pathetically jealous he’d been of - that person he wouldn’t name.

How he hadn’t even recognized Stede before being a snoopy fuck in his front room and finding the poster.

How he would never tell, never tell anyone - how he didn’t need fortune and didn’t want fame, and only wanted, maybe, to spend time with Stede.

How Stede made him happy.

And when he couldn’t think of any more words to say, he just stood there with Stede in his arms, and realized he was crying, and also realized that not all the tears were his.

“Stede,” he said, without lifting his head. He was afraid.

“Did you watch it,” Stede asked, and there was an empty note in his voice that made Ed shiver, that squeezed more tears from his eyes to wet the collar of Stede’s shirt.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Stede sighed, then, once, and took a step backwards, out of the embrace.

Ed looked up at him through the blurry kaleidoscope of his own tears.

“I need you to leave,” Stede said.

All the light was sucked out of the room.

“Yeah,” Ed said. “Yeah. ‘Course. Whatever you want.”

They didn’t say anything else. What else was there for Ed to say that wouldn’t be another intrusion? That wouldn’t be a selfish, panicked fight to stay in Stede’s life, in his light?

He had to be an adult about this. It was the right thing to do.

He left, and let the door close soundlessly behind him, as if he’d never been there at all.

Chapter Text

Ed let the grey sludge take him.

It was no surprise. What he deserved, really. He had finally proved to himself, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he was Bad, and that was almost a relief; finally, he thought from his spot in bed, after crying for hours, until nothing was left but a shell, as dry and empty as an abandoned wasp’s nest. The clarity that surrender afforded him was amazing. There was nothing left to do; no reason left to fight, nothing to strive towards. It was done. At last he could close the door and walk away.

He pictured himself peacefully slipping beneath the surface of a still, cold, dark lake. Not even a bubble rose afterward. His body would settle down in the muck and decompose to nothing, not even bones left, just his awful soul casting a pall over the water where no one would fish or swim again. All the plants would die. It would become a legend. The cursed lake. The Teach curse. “Don’t go near Lake Teach,” old women would warn their grandchildren, “There’s a monster there.”

A monster, a blight, a stain.

Ed hated himself and wallowed in his hatred, savored it, took it into his heart and his gut.

Time passed, fast and slow at once; he slept and woke at random, all the curtains closed to hide from any natural light; no sun, no moon, no stars over Al-Rassan, he thought. He could not bring himself to read or cook or turn on the tv or go online. He didn’t go out and moved as little as possible. His bed became a nest of sheets and blankets and pillows all jumbled and twisted together, the edges of an Ed-shaped crater. It was good that he had no pets.

Sometimes there was a faint ringing from outside his bedroom, but that didn’t matter.

And all the time, inescapable, thoughts of Stede.

How he’d felt in Ed’s arms and against his lips. His eyes and the way they crinkled up when he grinned. Smell of his cologne, the flavor of his tea, his hair gleaming in the sun, his inner light and how it shone forth in every thing they’d done, every minute they’d spent together. How warmed Ed had felt by that light. By the thought that maybe, just maybe, it might shine for him.

He slept, woke, slept again.

A knocking sound joined the ringing from outside.

Ed ignored it.

Eventually it stopped.

He sank back into the dark, grateful.

He heard raised voices. Inside the apartment. Outside his bedroom.

His bedroom door opened.

“Well, fuck,” Izzy said.

Edward lay very still in the hopes that Izzy would give up and go away.

“I said stay in the living room,” Izzy growled.

A second voice said, “Wishing I had, honestly. Tch, it is dire in here. Smells like old laundry and pathos.”

“Edward,” Izzy said, urgent and low, coming close to the bed where Ed was trying to osmose himself through the mattress and into the floor. “Edward, this fucking twat was pounding on your door when I got here and he won’t leave - “

“Is he breathing? I could toss a bucket of cold water on him?” the other voice said, eager. “I feel like that would be cathartic for all three of us - “

“gway,” Ed slurred. His tongue felt spackled to the roof of his mouth and tasted awful. Another good reason to be unconscious.

“No,” Izzy and the stranger said, almost simultaneous. Ed could sense the strength of Izzy’s glare. “Time to get up, you miserable twat.”

The mattress sank a bit beside him as someone sat on its edge. Abandoned sweets wrappers (Tim-Tams and raspberry choc logs and wine gums) crinkled.

A brusque hand tangled itself in Ed’s unwashed hair and pulled, lifting his head from its pillow. He hissed and squinted away the intrusive light. This was horrible. He could be unconscious right now.

“Right, get up,” Izzy said.

“No,” Ed answered, wrenching downward to plant his face back in the eyeliner-stained pillow. “‘M dead. Done. Over. Fuck OFF.”

Izzy grunted something, stood, and - always stronger than you’d think given his size - pulled Ed by the arm, right out of bed and onto the floor in an avalanche of blankets and trash. Ed yowled like a cat and tried to kick, but his feet were tangled in sheets. Lucius, from somewhere near the door, said “Fuck ME,” in an admiring sort of way.

“You might as well get up, I’m not leaving,” Izzy said.

Damn.

It took all of two hours, but Ed ended up showered and clad in a clean t-shirt and pajama bottoms Iz had found hidden at the back of a drawer somewhere. Lucius had been ordered to make tea if he was staying, so he’d done so and it wasn’t good, but it was tea, and toast not too burnt with butter and marmite even. He was sat now at one end of the sofa, nibbling a biscuit from Ed’s stash, and Izzy was perched at the other end like an exhausted and exasperated gargoyle, both of them bookending Ed and staring at him like they were at the zoo and if they waited long enough he’d do a trick.

Ed sat and stared into his tea.

“So Mr. Nice dumped you,” Izzy started. “I expect this nonce isn’t Mr. Nice since you aren’t crying at his feet.”

“I work for Mr. Nice,” Lucius drawled, his eyes narrowed. “Much the same as you do for this used bit of tissue, I expect, and I too would like to know what happened as he won’t answer my calls or open his fucking door for days now. Thought I’d come down here and squeeze the truth out of this asshole before calling the police.”

This took a second to filter through Ed’s haze of self-loathing, and his head jerked up, eyes wide. “Days,” he said, “You’ve left it for fucking days - “

“Oh. God, no, he’s told me to go away through the door, he’s not dead or anything. Just emotionally destroyed, which, I’d thought we were past that, so.”

His flood of relief was the best Ed had felt in days, but it only lasted a moment; the pain surged back in afterward, the consequences of his own actions.

“You know,” he tried to say, and failed. Took a sip of astringent tea, hunched miserably over the cup. Tried again. “You know. Who he is.”

A stillness falls over the room.

Then, at the same time, Izzy said, “What?” and Lucius said, “...Ohh, you asshole..”

“Izzy. You gotta go,” Ed said.

“Like fucking hell!” Izzy said, leaning in, scowling ferociously. “Edward.”

“No,” Ed said, and looked up at Iz at last. “It’s - it’s private. Like, really fucking private, Iz. I’m sorry, but you gotta go. I’m up. I’ll - I’ll call you. Swear I will.”

“I don’t fucking believe this,” Izzy fumed. “Two decades of doing this shit for you and you’re kicking me out? I don’t even know this guy - “

“Please,” Ed said, and gave him The Eyes. Not even Izzy was immune to The Eyes.

“Fucking - miserable twat,” Izzy muttered, and left, slamming the front door hard enough to rattle the walls.

Ed swallowed and stared back into his teacup.

“Are you trying to blackmail him?” Lucius said, brittle. “Because it will not go the way you think - “

“No,” Ed said, miserably.

“And if you’re some fucking paparazzi thinking you can sell the story, well, we can deal with that too, I promise you.”

“No.” Ed put the cup down, rattling in its saucer. He wrapped his arms around his aching middle. “Nothing like that.”

“A little too gross for you, then? Being friends with a victim like that? Too shameful for you - “

“I lovim,” Ed muttered.

Lucius put his tea down.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he asked, in a tone that said he absolutely did hear it the first time.

“I think I love him,” Ed said again, more clearly, and instantly burst into tears.

“Well. Fuck,” Lucius said.

Chapter Text

Ed was a broken thing on the couch, crying big snotty tears, and Lucius got up and walked away from him. Which made sense, and also made Ed cry harder, a real wailing and gnashing of teeth. He’d never said it before and now he’d said it he knew it was true - he was stupid in love with Stede Bonnet - and his love was so wrong and so repellent that even nigh-strangers were…repelled.

He expected to hear the front door slam, leaving him alone in silence as he SHOULD be because he was a plague and didn’t deserve human company. Instead, he heard Lucius stomping from one end of his apartment to another, doors opening and not closing again, and the general sound of rummaging.

By the time Ed’s crying had ebbed down to sniffles and a headache, Lucius came back into the living room.

“Riiiight, well!” he said. “Where is it?”

“‘Where’s what,” Ed asked in a sort of underwater voice.

“The crazy stalker Stede shrine,” Lucius said - drawled, really. When Ed looked up in confusion, Lucius was standing with his back against a wall, and holding a pool cue from Ed’s closet at a defensive angle. “Telephoto lens pics? Stolen laundry? Been hooking shit out of his garbage?”

“No,” Ed mumbled. “Not a stalker. Feel free to keep looking though.”

“He’s just been through a lot, my boss, and also I don’t need ‘my last boss got turned into a skinsuit by a madman’ on my resume - “

“Fuck off,” Ed said, and lay down on the couch, facing its back. He wished he had an afghan or his quilt from the bedroom, but it would need serious cleaning after being his depressive squalor cave. “M’not gonna bother him. I’ll - dunno, maybe I’ll be the hermit and just live on delivery food forever, then he can have the run of the place. Or I can move. Got the money for it. Could live in a hermit cabin in the woods, sounds fine, hermiting; probably best I stay away from humanity.”

“Jesus,” he heard Lucius mutter.

“‘M a monster,” Ed croaked, and buried his face into the couch cushions.

There was a sigh, long and loud and very put-upon, and then Lucius was sitting down in the little space on the couch left when Ed had curled his knees up to his stomach. “Alright, listen here sad sack, tell me everything. MAYBE if I understand I can…ugh. Help.”

Took a few seconds for that to filter through the tears, which had been re-starting. Help? With this? What was left to do?

When he looked up Lucius was watching him with an impatient and uncomfortable face, but somewhere in the set of his eyes was sympathy.

“You’ve not ended the world,” he said bracingly. “I can accept that you’re not a stalker or a paparazzi. I don’t know what will happen with Stede, but a: I’m a whore for information, and b: that man DESERVES a good gay experience with someone who actually cares about him and maybe, despite my better judgement, that’s…you?”

“I - yeah. I’d like to be,” Ed said, blinking. “And if you want information on me you can talk to my therapist?”

“OHHH, yes,” Lucius said, leaning forward avidly. “That will be lovely. But first: speak.”

He spoke; he spoke for a goddamn hour. Till his throat was raw. Told almost all of it, really, except for the dad stuff. Edward Teach: A Life - the childhood poverty, the schooling he’d been forced by his mum to endure, all the jobs he’d hated, up until the last one and its jet-fueled ascension. The ridiculous money, the conferences around the globe, the drunken, coked-up parties on private jets. The bad relationships, the bad decisions. His best-out-of-three battles with depression, and who Izzy was to him, and how pandemic lockdown had sent him spiraling SO hard until Fang had sent him a link to this video -

And Lucius started laughing.

“I helped with his A/V setup for those,” he said, through snorting chuckles. “And editing, and uploading. AND it was me told him how boring they were - “

Ed sat up halfway, feeling a flash of protective anger. “You dick,” he said, “That really hurt his feelings!”

“Yes, but in my defense, they WERE boring. Just the most painfully caucasian hetero performance I’d ever seen. The color I can’t fix but I knew there was a gay somewhere in there, just waiting to be set free.” Illustratively, Lucius fluttered his hands together like a butterfly taking wing. “It just needed poked with a sufficiently sharp stick. PLUS, you lied to him and broke his heart, so I think we’re even, at LEAST.”

Ed collapsed back onto the couch and groaned.

“That’s good, though,” Lucius continued, “that you were a fan Before. Not just some perv who saw the tabloids and fixated, or saw him and wanted to make a quick unethical buck from said tabloids.”

“I did,” Ed said into the cushion. “I liked him a lot. Before. When it was his own lunatic stuff. He just did whatever made him happy. And when he - the show, with the people, I was happy for him. Even…”

“Go on.”

Ed grimaced, unseen, and took a deep breath. “Vane. On the show, just…” he squeezed the couch bolster pillow with both hands, hard, pretending it was a neck. “Flirting.”

“Oh, you were capital-J jealous, weren’t you,” Lucius said. “For whatever it’s worth I thought Vane was gross. Too much bottle tan, too little IQ. I tried to warn Stede off, but baby gay had to make his own mistakes…though I never thought he was THAT much of a sleaze. I would have - well, my friend Jim would have - oh, nevermind, you don’t need details, but he’d’ve never shown his stupid calf implants in public again, I promise you that.”

There was silence, for a bit, after Lucius wound down and needed a fresh cup of tea. Ed lay still, thinking and breathing, breathing and thinking.

“I watched it,” he made himself say, small and miserable, once Lucius was back.

“Mmm, and told him you did, too,” Lucius said, in a carefully toneless voice. “Points for honesty, I suppose. It’s probably his least favorite thing in the universe to think about. Me, I’d be hellaciously pissed at the perpetrator, but I’ve been out and proud for decades. Wouldn’t hurt me too much to think of the whole Internet watching me getting pounded into a mattress. For Stedey, it was the end of the world. Wife kicked him out, disowned, fired. Ran all the way here to lick his wounds in private, and boom, here you are.”

The guilt and shame were overwhelming; it was like being set on fire from the inside, literally, searing coals of self-hate piled in his gut and his head.

Cause he hadn’t just watched, had he.

*

He’d go back in time if he could. Kill Charles Vane before he ever met Stede. Then cut off his own offending hand before he could ever sully Stede’s existence with it. He could see himself on a floor, ringed with gleaming blood, growing paler and colder but smiling, smiling as he died, as he made his ultimate redemption. Someone would find Stede and love him, and it wouldn’t be Ed, but it wouldn’t be Vane either, which would make it just about worth it.

*

“Anyway, though,” Lucius was saying while Ed wallowed, “you have convinced me that you’re legit. Convincing STEDE may take longer, but I don’t think it’s impossible.”

“Nah,” Ed said without lifting his face. “Leave him be. Deserves better’n me. I’m shit.”

“You’re an incredibly fit multi-millionaire who’s in love with my boss, and if you think for one second I am letting him pass you by because you’re sad, you’re also an IDIOT.” Lucius, disgruntled, smacked his ankle with an open palm. “Tonight you set up an appointment with your therapist, and then you stay out of the Pits of Despair until the appointment, and while you’re doing that, I will work on Stede. Don’t call him, Don’t text him, Don’t go to his place with any cutesy fucking baked goods, and Don’t jump off the balcony. In fact, text your angry friend right now and tell him I didn’t murder you. And put my number in your phone. For conspiracy reasons.”

When Izzy showed back up, ten minutes after Ed’s text, he had groceries with him.

“Right, where’s that sideburns twat,” he said, but Lucius had scuttled away the second that call was done. Iz, not waiting for his explanation, stomped into the kitchen. “Get in here. You need food, I need food, I’m cooking and you’re cleaning.”

“Not hungry, Iz…” Ed sighed.

“Walk or be dragged,” Iz said, flatly, not a threat but a promise; and Ed sighed again, long and sad, and forced himself up off the couch.

Izzy was making a stir-fry, apparently.

“It’s fast,” he said, while they trimmed and sliced the veg. The rice cooker was doing its thing and oil was heating in the wok, which Ed had bought years ago and never used. Iz had been at the Asian grocer, so along with the onion, garlic, ginger, and green and bell peppers, there was lotus root and daikon radish and little baby bok choi. “Doesn’t take long to make or to eat. Healthy, not fussy. Get some fucking vitamins in you. If you don’t eat it all, the rest can be soup tomorrow.”

“I’ve got all the money in the world; don’t have to eat leftovers.”

“It’s wasteful, fuckhead.” Beef, thinly sliced, sizzled like Hell when Iz dropped it in the pan; it did, Ed grudgingly admitted, smell incredibly good. He hasn’t had any real protein in days.

“Set the table, it won’t be long,” Izzy said, so Ed set the table. His big hand-thrown ceramic soup bowls, pleasingly heavy and glazed cobalt blue; chunky glasses, metal chopsticks, napkins. He remembered how Stede’s table always had fresh cut flowers on it and immediately started thinking of something else, as hard as he could.

The rice cooker beeped just as the fry was coming done; Ed scooped steaming rice into each bowl and let Izzy cover them with the steak and veg, aromatic, in a sauce that soaked right into the rice. Izzy opened the bottles of tea he’d brought and poured them into the chunky glasses Ed had already filled with ice.

They ate. Iz glared, but he didn’t need to; the sight of the food had done something to Ed’s stomach, left it a howling void instead of the coals that had been burning there earlier. He needed comfort, needed flavor, needed to eat.

He put three whole bowls away (though the last was mostly veg with very little rice), and slouched back in the kitchen chair, holding his stomach. “Fuuuuuck me,” he groaned. “Iz. Why are you not a chef.”

“I’ve thought about it. All the knives I’d ever want plus I get to yell like Gordon Ramsey? Tempting.” He got up, took their bowls to the sink, and turned back to Ed with an eyebrow raised and a pack of cigarettes in one hand.

“Uhh. Yeah, smoky treat for dessert, cheers,” he said, and groaned his way up from the table. Thankfully there was another table and chairs out on the balcony. It was late, and quiet, with rain-smell in the air, and Ed thought, during that first warming drag of smoke into his lungs, that he could take a lovely nap out here, if he managed to stop thinking about things.

Iz wouldn’t let him, though. He stood against the railing, looking down at the street, powering through the cigarette like he had a time limit, and then he looked at Ed again.

“Tell me what happened with Mr. Nice,” he said.

“Iz…” Ed leaned his head back and exhaled towards the sky.

“We’re getting old, Edward,” Izzy rasped. “I thought you were settled. Haven’t seen you this bad in years. What if I hadn’t shown up? Who was gonna put you right. That Lucius twat? Would he ever have made it in if I hadn’t been there with the key?” He tossed his cigarette butt over the railing, a long curving arc toward the street below, and lit another one right away. “Would you have called me eventually, or just let yourself rot?”

“Probably the rot,” Ed admitted after a moment of contemplation.

“So tell me. So if I have to come scrape your corpse off the carpet I’ll at least know why.”

Ed looked at his hands; at the cigarette burning down to nothing between his fingers; at the sky; at Iz.

“He’s not a meth cook,” he said. “Nor a murderer. He’s a. A - crime victim. Sort of - in hiding out here.”

“Fuck, if you’ve got the fucking police hanging about, you can find another sucker to look after you - “

“No! Fuck, no, Iz, c’mon. It’s not like that. He’s persona non grata with everybody he ever knew. Came here to - start again, I guess. And we’ve been there, haven’t we? We’ve bloody well done that.”

A bird swooped down from the sky, and then back up again, a joyful silent loop; they watched it until it disappeared.

“He got hurt,” Ed said, quietly. “Bad. He’s still recovering. And I messed it all up, and now…dunno, Iz. Think it might be done before I ever got it started.”

Seemed like Iz didn’t have a comeback for that.

They sat on the balcony there for a while, smoking, watching the sun vanish.

Chapter Text

Come here, the text said.

It had been a week. A whole seven days, in which Ed had slowly stopped crying himself to sleep and started doing things again, though he was still ordering delivery food and groceries, and had got Izzy to come over and take his garbage out (this had taken a bribe, which was reasonable.) Lucius had not visited but he’d been in touch, prying into Ed’s life like a muckraking reporter, and letting him know how Stede was doing. Well, letting him know that Stede was still alive. He didn’t share any further details of Stede’s life (this was also reasonable). It was good, though, to know Stede wasn’t all alone up there, that he had someone to check on him, someone who Ed assumed did not want to fuck and/or profit off him.

Lucius also asked quite a bit about Izzy, which…huh. Ed didn’t feel emotionally ready to delve into that situation, so instead he told Lucius about the pub Iz frequented, and mentally wished him good luck. Ed had never known Iz to do real relationships - not since theirs had ended, anyway - but Lucius seemed keen and persistent.

Well, good for them.

He’d done a little baking, bread mostly, because hand-kneading was so cathartic - mashing and pushing, pulling and folding, something mindless and repetitive you could put your back into - and afterward you got a snack. He wanted to sneak all of it up to Stede, but didn’t.

He watched a couple nature documentaries about Aotearoa for the nostalgia of it.

On the fourth day he had a virtual session with his therapist, and word vomited all over her, managing not to out Stede but unable to hold back anything else, really, and then he cried. She - a smart, matronly Black woman with a gorgeous Kenyan accent who was excellent at the interplay of comforting and ass-kicking that Ed really needed - kicked his ass a bit and then told him, as she had before and doubtless would again - that doing a bad thing doesn’t mean you are a bad person, and no matter what else happened with Stede Ed needed to accept and then grow beyond his temporary failure. Then she made him write a fucking letter to himself about it. Awful. (He wrote ten pages.)

He did his stretches every day, and situps most days, and a little arm stuff with dumbbells while sitting down when he remembered to get them, and on the fifth day he made himself dance. The instructor on his usual video series was too cheery and chipper for his mood so he just chose some music - gamelan from Indonesia, beautiful - and did a little freeform, just moving and breathing, until the sweat came up and his heart thump thumped a little faster.

He tried not to think about what he’d done, or about Stede the next floor up, until it was just before midnight on Sunday - the seventh day - and he was lying in bed debating how high he would need to get to go to sleep, when his phone buzzed urgently from its place on his headboard. He picked it up, and thumbed it open, and…

And it was a text. From Stede.

Saying, Come here.

Fear rolled up through him, roiled his gut, clenched his throat tight. It couldn’t be for anything good, right? It had to be the end. He would find a stonefaced, unforgiving Stede, in a suit and tie, icy and angry; telling him they were quits, they weren’t friends, never darken my doorstep again, Edward Teach. You monster.

OK, he texted back.

He almost went up just as he was, barefoot in boxer-briefs and an ancient Black Flag tee, but some shred of better nature prevailed. Jeans, clean socks, shoes. Couldn’t make himself do more, not to neaten his hair or anything. He barely bothered to lock his front door.

God, the hallway seemed endless and misaligned, like a weird Dutch tilt zoom in a horror movie. He was dizzy with it. He wanted to sprint up to Stede’s door and he wanted to take forever; if he never got there, nothing bad could happen. He could live in Zeno’s paradox forever, approaching but never reaching the door, the wave function never collapsing.

But that was just a fucking word game, and this was the real world, and soon enough he was outside Stede’s apartment, wide-eyed with panic and shifting from foot to foot.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he muttered, took a deep breath and held it, and forced himself to knock softly on the door.

Many things happened in Ed’s mind as he stood there. He imagined the door swinging open, revealing Stede with a pistol, aiming it at Ed’s heart and pulling the trigger; Stede with a sword, stretching out in an elegant lunge that ended with the rapier’s tip buried in Ed’s gut; a punch to the face, a slap, a strike from a ludicrously large hammer; a wholly empty apartment devoid of all furnishings and books and Stede, just bare floors and bare walls and dust; and finally the door never opening at all, leaving him waiting in the hallway forever. He would sit down against the wall and wait until he died, like that Japanese dog they made the statue of, and then his ghost would haunt the hallway, an inexplicable space that would make people shiver when they walked through it, make them feel a wave of sorrow with no reason, give them nightmares.

The door opening broke him out of his negative reverie, his catastrophizing, because there Stede was. Stede. No hoodie - dark pyjamas instead, with a housecoat over them, and barefoot. Eyes downcast. All pulled in on himself.

Ed waited.

“Come in,” Stede said, so quiet, and turned away; and Ed followed him in and shut the door behind them.

Nothing had changed in Stede’s apartment that Ed could see, but it felt hollow. Haunted. There were abandoned dishes on the table, half-full teacups and a saucer of nibbled-at toast, the box of teabags still open on the counter and the used butterknife still next to the sink. Stede’s lovely vintage camelback sofa had been transformed into a familiar sort of nest - several blankets, plenty of pillows, a tissue box and another abandoned teacup on the table nearby. A little wastebasket full of scrunched-up tissues and an empty box of ginger biscuits.

“Stand just there,” Stede said, gesturing at the empty patch of carpet on the other side of the coffee table, and sat himself back in the sofa nest while Ed, unable to think of anything else to do, took position there.

Stede, seated, looked up at Ed at last. Ed’s first instinct was to hide.

His eyes looked so red.

“I don’t know what to say,” Stede said after a long pause. There was a visible tension in him, hands clenched, shoulders tight, like he was trying not to flee, or readying himself for flight. His voice, though, was very steady. “Except the truth. So.

"I’d never - when I met Charles. No one had ever liked me very much before. My parents, my peers, my wife; my children. Nothing was ever right. I was tolerated at best. And then he.”

He swallowed, and Ed heard it.

“I really believed him.” A look came into his eyes; stunned, almost, like he was realizing all over again. “He was so forthright, so simple and, I thought, honest. And I’d find him watching me, which was…flattering. It made me feel so good. Like I was doing something right.”

“Stede, I - “

“No,” Stede said, “Not yet.”

Ed shifted, moving his weight more onto his good-knee leg, and stayed silent.

A sigh.

“It felt so good when he touched me,” Stede said. “When he kissed me. Wrong, too; it was wrong, I could feel it even though I didn’t understand. But it was so much better than anything had ever been. I thought, you know. That it was just strange to me. Because I hadn’t been with a man before. And he was so good at it, so open about everything, that I didn’t realize he was pushing me, pushing the boundaries I should have had, but I just…didn’t know. Didn’t know how.

“He told me, afterward, that he had to film something up in Australia, that he’d be gone a week. He kissed me goodbye, said when he was back we would…talk. About the future, our future. And two days later the video came out. Lucius came to the house before Mary woke up, and told me.”

Ed tried not to imagine it, and failed. With the man sitting right in front of him it was impossible not to picture that face crumpled by sobs or blank with horror. And, god, it hurt.

“After a while - after coming here - I don’t know. I couldn’t describe any part of it as pleasant. I thought I would never be happy again. But - there was a peace in it. To be truly on my own for the first time, with my own space, my own life, built exactly as I wanted to build it. To be anonymous again, hidden away safe from the world. To have, at least, experienced passion; even for just one night. Even though it was, you know. A lie.

“And then I met you,” he said, looking up at Ed again, holding him pinned in that stark and pain-filled gaze. No pretense there. No softness. “And you put me all at sea again, Edward. I had this tiny, closed little life left, and you made a place for yourself in it, and I thought, I thought for a second that maybe it was real. That I had a friend. Someone with no connection to the person I had been or the things I had done.”

“Stede, please,” Ed said. His voice was faint and trembling; he knew there were tears welling up; he was being torn apart. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this - “

“Stop,” Stede says, but Ed can’t, the dam is overtopping, it’s crumbling away.

“Please, I do like you, I like you so much with your - all your cool shit and your sense of humor and your monster china and - and I don’t want you to hurt. I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll do whatever you want, Stede, I’ll - I’ll leave you alone. I’ll wait as long as you need me to. I'll install a Faraday cage in my apartment to stop any cameras working. I'll only ever come to your place and you can airport wand metal detector me every single time. You want Vane's head on a fucking platter? Call me Judith. Just - just…”

Ed finally got a fucking grip on his endless fucking mouth and stood there, panting, crying a little. Watching. Waiting.

“Take off your clothes,” Stede said.

Chapter Text

“Take off your clothes,” Stede said.

Back in his early 20s - young and fit and hungry for cash - Ed had spent a few summers working for a general contractor. Climbing up on roofs, building things, sweating, grunting, using power tools. The boss was cheap and the tools were shoddy and Ed’s clearest memory of that time was the day he’d touched a frayed power cord and gotten a hard shock. The sound of it. The feel of his muscles contracting all at once, the sudden absolute surety that he was about to fall off the 8’ scaffolding he’d been stood on and go splat on the ground below.

This felt so much like that. The tension, the humming in his ears. The way his heart was pounding and every molecule of moisture in his mouth instantly vanished. The danger.

“Stede,” he tried to say, but the sound stuck in his dry throat.

“Or leave,” Stede said. He was sitting there so still, so controlled, back straight, unwavering eyes on Ed’s face, and his hands in tight fists at his sides. Flushed face. Fast shallow breaths. “You can leave. If you prefer.”

Leave?

Ed felt himself wobbling over an abyss. Gravity - want - was pulling him towards the fall, even though he could sense sharp rocks waiting beneath. But his hands were already at the hem of his shirt.

“Will you come here,” he asked, “If I do?”

Stede nodded, and a lock of hair fell into his eyes and he looked so proper in his pajamas and robe but his face was so fucking -

Ed pulled his shirt off before he could think anything else about it, soft worn cotton sliding over his skin, pulling free of his hair, falling to the ground.

The quality of silence in the room changed. It pressed in on him, on his eardrums. Stede’s face changed too; eyes opening wide and moving, tracking the lines of Ed’s tattoos and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Then he was getting up from the sofa, a little unsteady, moving around the coffee table to push into Ed’s space past whatever hesitation might be lingering in his mind. Want was written across his face and in his eyes.

His soft cologne, spiced cognac and pear and almond underneath, like a pastry.

His hands lit cool and smooth against Ed’s bare stomach - big hands, spanning from bottom rib to hipbone with ease - and pushed, pressing into his vulnerable flesh just this side of rough, until Ed’s back hit the wall. Ed was taller but Stede was broad and solid and it made Ed feel willowy, delicate. He clung to Stede like a vine around an oak tree, for balance, for more. For a moment where he did not have to be clever or careful or strong or brash. Where he could let go of all the other Things and just enjoy Stede’s mouth hot against his, prising him open with little flicks of tongue, searching, seeking, hot and sweet like -

Sweet like cognac.

He’d been floating in the clouds, upside-down and back-to-front with confusion and desire; now he fell back to earth like a cartoon, leaving an Ed-shaped crater and a mushroom cloud of dust. His wildly rabbiting heart began to slow. He settled back into his body, retaking his own weight like relaxing into the curved depression of an old mattress.

He gave himself a deep breath and a slow ten-count. Ten more seconds of Stede’s breath hot across his cheekbone and the velvet exploration of Stede’s tongue against his and Stede’s big hands curved around his waist. Even as it faded it was the best thing Ed had ever felt. Better than closing a multi-million-dollar deal. Better than skydiving. Better than champagne, than cocaine, than falling asleep after a hard day of labor, young and high and free.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

And he leaned back, just enough to talk.

“You’re drunk,” he breathed against Stede’s lips. “We can’t.”

Stede made an unhappy sound and tried to reclaim Ed’s mouth even as it moved further away. Ed was right against the wall, nowhere to go really, but the height difference helped; he just tilted back his head, thumping against the wallpaper, and moved his hand from the nape of Stede’s neck to cup his softly-bristled cheek, thumb tender at the corner of his open mouth. “No,” Ed said, and opened his eyes to see Stede looking at him, dazed and sad and perplexed.

“What?” he said, brow furrowed, as if Ed had spoken in Romanian. As if the words made no sense. “Yes. Come on.”

“Not like this.“

Stede’s eyes narrowed; he frowned. Confused, off-kilter. “You don’t want to? You…you don’t want me?”

“Stede - I do, I absolutely do but - “

“You don’t.” Stede’s hands were slipping away from Ed’s waist, leaving cold patches behind. Stepping back. Slight tremor of his bottom lip, a well of pain in his eyes. “You didn’t want me at all. God, I was a fool all over again - did you even like me? All those - cups of tea, the gifts, the talks - the time - all of it was fucking fake - “

He was unraveling right there in front of Ed. Starting to shake. The most cynical laugh Ed had ever heard burst out of him and the first tear came with it, a fat sparkling drop trickling down his flushed cheek.

“I should have known,” Stede whispered, harshly, his voice trembling.

So Ed did the only thing he could think of; he flung himself forward, pulling Stede into his arms and, as tightly as he could, absolutely hugged the shit out of him.

Stede’s wordless sound of surprise and protest was muffled against Ed’s bare shoulder, his hot tears smearing there. Ed pushed his cheek against the top of Stede’s head, his sweet-smelling curls, and just - held. Held on. Held on.

Felt the moment when Stede gave up. Felt his body relax, stop fighting it, felt the hard sobs shaking him, the hiccuping cries into his chest. And just stood there, taking it; holding it. Rubbing Stede’s back in firm, slow circles through the velvety fabric of his robe. Rocking them gently from foot to foot.

Trying to hold him together, the way you hold something precious when it’s been broken.

“Right, now you listen to me,” he said, when Stede had gone from open sobbing to quiet sniffles, once his breathing had slowed and the tremors had eased. “I’m kind of a stupid asshole and I’ve done lots of things I regret but don’t you ever, ever think I don’t really like you. Stede, you’re fucking amazing, I thought that all the way back when it was just you doing the web show. I liked you then and I like you now and the only reason I’m not still kissing you is because you’re drunk and I don’t want to do that if I can’t be sure you’re okay with it, you get me? Can you trust me that far? At least for tonight?”

Stede shifted a little, in his arms, so it was his soft cheek pressed into Ed’s collarbone and not his forehead; his breathing, easier now, warm over Ed’s bare chest. They were still rocking, just a little bit from side to side; it felt like a dance.

“Okay,” Stede said, in a small quiet voice.

“Okay,” Ed echoed him. “That’s good, Stede, that’s really good. Feeling better?”

“I want to sleep.”

“Okay, man, let’s get you some water, yeah? And an aspirin? And then you can sleep.”

They walked slow and silent through the apartment, Ed steadying Stede while he obediently drank a glass of tap water and downed two aspirin. Then down the hallway to a bedroom Ed had never seen but was utterly unsurprised by; cozy, charming, the bed a queen-size four-poster of some warm wood, matching dresser and vanity, and one corner filled with an overstuffed armchair and a bookshelf full of books, and a lovely tall floor lamp with a Tiffany-style stained glass shade that looked like wisterias drooping down.

Ed helped Stede slide out of the robe, and hung it on a hook on the door while Stede climbed wordlessly into his bed, peeling back the duvet and hiding himself under it. Ed came over and touched his hair, just lightly, just one stroke of his fingers.

“Don’t leave me,” Stede whispered. “Don’t be gone when I wake up.”

“I won’t be,” Ed said. “I’ll be right here.”

Stede closed his eyes, and soon he was asleep, as fast as though he’d been running away from consciousness.

Well, Ed thought to himself. Well, shit.

Stede’s en-suite bathroom was as lovingly eclectic as the rest of the apartment, but a cursory search revealed no conveniently-packaged spare toothbrush, and looking any more than that would be invasive, so Ed squeezed toothpaste onto his index finger and did his best. Meandered back to the living room for his t-shirt, and slipped it back on like an old skin, disagreeably cold from lying on the floor. There was still a blanket nest on the sofa. He could sleep there. It looked comfortable, good cushions, long enough so he wouldn’t feel like a contortionist.

He took his shoes off by the door, took a blanket off the sofa, shuffled quietly back into Stede’s bedroom, and settled down into the book corner armchair. The blanket was ridiculously soft, woven cotton the color of lilacs, and Ed spent a good minute or two getting it tucked around himself just so. The chair wasn’t a recliner but there had been a tapestried footstool underneath it, and Ed stretched his legs out onto it, and leaned his head back, and tried to sleep.

It took some time.

Hard to settle his mind down when things were still racing around in there, the taste of Stede’s mouth and the feel of his body, the pain in his eyes, the pain in Ed’s heart. How they had swayed together while Stede cried. How his soft breathing sounded right now in the dark room, just a few feet away.

Having someone cry like that in his arms was not a normal experience for Ed, in that it had never happened before at all. He’d had breakups but they tended to be the screaming, cursing, throwing-shit-out-the-windows type.

He hadn’t cried himself in decades. Not since he was a kid. And nobody had held him, then.

At least he could give Stede that. A little comfort, a little reassurance. Literally the least he could do since he’d caused the whole goddamn thing.

When he fell asleep at last it was to the thought of Stede’s heartbeat, how warm and steady it had felt against his own chest, how familiar, how like a home he’d never been to before.

When Ed woke in the morning, it was to find Stede sitting on the edge of his bed, still in his pajamas, watching him. It took a bit for his mind to come online, to resolve waking in this strange bedroom as a thing that was really happening, so for a few seconds they just blinked at each other, bleary, perplexed.

“Good morning, Edward,” Stede said, all proper. “I am very sorry about last night.”

“Mmph,” Ed said. He fought his hands out from under the blanket and ground the heels of them into his eyes until the colors came up, then dropped them back into his lap. “Morning. Don’t say sorry. I’m not sorry. Uhh - fuck, well, I am sorry but I have things to actually be sorry for and you do not. At all. God.” He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. “Can’t fucking talk in the morning.”

“Well,” Stede said, “That’s all right. Think I’ll make us some brekkie? Take your time, I’ll be in the kitchen. Shower if you’d like, the blue towel is clean.”

Then he got up and, with a little half-smile - small but promising - left Ed alone in the bedroom, and closed the door behind himself.

“Huh,” Ed said to the empty room, sat for a few moments, then got up, a little stiff after sleeping in a chair, to take his shower.

Chapter Text

Ed meant to take the world’s fastest shower, but then he mistook Stede’s luxury after-bath body butter for a conditioner, and that took some time and work to correct.

But there was a whole actual cooked breakfast waiting when he shuffled out, redressed in last night’s clothes - at least his hair smelled amazing - and Stede gave him a polite, uncertain over-the-shoulder smile from the vintage Chambers stove where he was frying up strips of streaky bacon. “Good morning,” he said. “Were you able to get any sleep in that chair?”

Stede was wrapped in a big swishy velvet-y housecoat/robe situation the color of midsummer goldenrod, fringe and tassels all round and matching slippers on his feet, pretty and domestic as fuck, making Ed want to lick him up like an ice cream.

“Morning. Yeah, uh, I had - when I was a kid I had pneumonia? And I slept sitting up on the couch for like a week cause otherwise I couldn’t breathe? Fucking sucked at the time but ever since then it’s felt like sort of a comfort thing. My back’s not a hundred percent thrilled but otherwise…fresh-faced and ready for the day.”

He could see from Stede’s softening expression that he was imagining little Ed bundled up in a quilt, fast asleep on a seventies-style sofa with his feet hanging an inch clear of the floor. And that was, yeah, he felt the blush coming up and fell into a seat at the table to stuff his face with toast before he could say something worse.

Soft sounds of breakfast filled the space between them, cutlery clinking and tea being sipped and Ed’s involuntary hums of pleasure at how fucking good everything was. When’s the last time he had a cooked brekkie? Fuckin’ domestic.

“S’how I feel here,” he muttered, after the silence got heavy. “With you.”

“Sick?”

“No, not sick, fucksake.” Ed wiped his mouth with a napkin, put it down, and leveled his fork and a solemn look at Stede. “Safe. Cared for.”

Stede looked down at the table and fidgeted with his cutlery.

“I didn’t keep you safe, last night,” he said, dragging out the words like they were fighting him.

“Stede - “

“No. My behavior was inexcusable. No matter my - previous experiences - I had no right to…throw myself at you, drunk, without even a conversation.” Short sharp exhale, bowed over his teacup, fingers running through his curls like he was holding his own head together. “I think perhaps I’m just not meant for relationships? I was terrible at marriage while it lasted, and ruined it terribly, ruined myself, and - and now this. Whatever this is. Or could have been.”

And he looked and sounded so miserable, with his shoulders all bent in. Ed wanted to shake him a little, or to kiss him; but this called for something different.

He reached in and stole Stede’s teacup away.

“Okay, well, first of all,” he said, and paused for a long sip of Stede’s tea, “I fucked this up way more than you did; you’re forgiven for drinking after I brought up all that trauma by being a stupid shit; and we are absolutely gonna have that conversation,” he said, while Stede was blinking at him, caught off guard by the tea theft. Brilliant. “But let’s start a little further back. Why’d you get married? I mean…to a woman. Not that you could’ve married a man back then. World wasn’t ready. For you. Fuckin’ suitors duelling in the streets, man. Pistols at dawn. Jousting for your ribbon or whatever - “

And Stede? Fucking laughed. Just a little huff of one, and he ducked his head again afterward, blushing, but Ed heard it, it was real. He covered his victory with another sip of stolen tea, and made a face at the cup.

“Ugh, how’d you even drink this? S’it like a self-punishment? No hair shirt for fancy Stede Bonnet - just bitter tea, thank you very much,” he complained, overplaying it, basking in the sunrise of humor in Stede’s eyes. Pretty fucking eyes. So much prettier all happy.

“You stole it! It’s not like I forced it on you. Drink your own tea.” Stede shook his head, tutted, but made no move to steal his teacup back. He hesitated a little, then continued, after a deep breath and sigh.

“I was born into money,” he said, like a child reciting memorized Bible verses. “Bonnets started as ranchers generations ago and went into real estate thereafter; we have a storied legacy of business triumphs, and no soft little boy who preferred flowers to finance would be allowed to tarnish that sterling name. So I wore the right clothes, went to the right schools, made the right connections with other miserable families who hated me, and married the right woman - honestly, the least objectionable paternal demand of all. Her family had valuable acreage, and wanted a wealthy son-in-law. She wanted, she told me, a gentler match than others that had been offered her. It would have been perfect, if only I had fancied women..at all.”

“You knew, by then?”

“Oh, yes,” Stede said, with a lopsided little smile. “I knew - at the time I knew - that it was something awful and damning, something dreadfully wrong with me, that had to be hidden away from everyone, lest…I don’t know, the ground open at my feet and suck me down into eternal hellfire, I suppose. So we married. And that was the next twelve years of my life sorted. The right job, in a quiet office where no-one would ever really see me or realize how inept I was. The right children, a girl and then a boy.

“And then I came home one day, while the children were out at sleepaway camp, and found Mary in bed with her painting instructor.”

Ed stared.

Stede fidgeted, picking up a fork and then setting it down again, and shrugged. “I could hardly blame her,” he said. “Neither of us had gotten what we wanted - Mary is a good woman, and deserves real love, not a cold and awkward contractually obligated spouse - “

“She cheated on you first.” Ed said.

Just in time he realized that launching himself from the breakfast table in a fit of indignation might be alarming to Stede, and settled back into the chair with a thump, still angry but less mobile about it. “Can’t fucking believe that,” he said. “So you weren’t - it wasn’t you who - “

“No,” Stede said, far too calm in Ed’s eyes, considering. “No, I wasn’t the first. We actually talked about it, the next morning. A very strange conversation. But we came to the conclusion that I had some - issues, with - libido, and with intimacy, and I had made her suffer for it far too long. And as long as she and her lover were discreet, especially in regards to the children, I wouldn’t interfere or make a fuss.”

And as Ed watched, still arse-over-teakettle about it all, Stede laughed, short and bitter.

“Discretion,” he said, and shook his head. “Wasn’t a problem for them, was it?”

“Fuck that,” Ed said, staring at the self-deprecating twist of Stede’s mouth. “That’s not on you. That was - that was done to you.”

“Seduced and abandoned like a homosexual Fantine,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t change anything. Wherever the fault lies, however far back it started, it ended the same: photographers at my house, at my job. At her job.” He picked up his napkin, stared at it angrily, then very gently set it back down. “At my children’s school.”

Ed could just reach across the table and take his hand. He wanted to.

He made himself sit very still, instead.

“So I left,” Stede continued. “In the middle of the night, before I could be fired or - whatever else. Running from the ruin of my entire life. Lucius came and picked me up from the alley behind the house, in a borrowed car the press wouldn’t recognize, and we were gone before any of them twigged to it. Everything else we did online - the divorce, my resignation. Kept enough money for this place, and to live off a few years, left the house and the rest for Mary and the children - she sold it and moved away almost immediately, and Doug went with them. I think they’re in Barbados now, where her family’s from. She’s kept in touch by email, lets me know how the children are. Sends pictures. I’m not sure what she’s told them.”

Through the whole thing Stede had eaten maybe three bites of toast, and made no move to rescue the stolen teacup. Just sat and stared, dry-eyed and calm and morose, like a statue; like a man accepting the diagnosis he had already expected. Only his deep breaths, forcing in air and blowing it out again, showed what that speech had cost him.

“I didn’t expect,” he said, “that anyone would…ever see me again. Not Stede, not really. Just an old hermit hidden away with no-one left for him. No one was looking for me. No one would ever find me here.”

“I sure didn’t expect to,” Ed said, after a few more moments of shadowed silence. “Haven’t expected anything, really. Not for a while now.”

Stede blinked, tilted his head to look up at Ed across the little table. “No?” he said, sounding confused. Taken aback, almost.

“Nope,” Ed said. He thought back to before covid - and, yeah, there wasn’t really anything there. He’d done his job and got his money and gone to the parties and gone back home and none of it had meant a godsdamn thing. “I looked for a while, but. There never was anything there. Just…empty days, empty nights. Chats I couldn’t remember the next day. Drinking and therapy and hobbies and shit filled the time, but not…for anything.”

A bubble of something was rising up in his chest and making his throat tight, and he clenched his jaws, swallowed, breathed in deep, but it wouldn’t dislodge.

He sighed, and it came out all wobbly; he had to look away, look down at his empty plate. Afraid of what Stede’s face was about to do.

“Not until you,” he said at last.

In the silence that followed, he reached out, without looking, and offered up to Stede the still half-full teacup he’d stolen. The ridiculously thin, delicate china shell still warm against his fingers.

Not as warm as Stede’s hands, when they both came up and wrapped around his on the cup. Gentle…soft. A little rub of his thumb over Edward’s knuckles.

And Ed looked up, and…

Oh.

“I like spending time with you,” Stede said. “It’s not…like it was, with Charles. He was always flattering, always flirting, but…if I’d paid attention, if I’d let myself see, how false he was. How he was always leading me. You don’t do that. You’re…genuine.”

“Even though I lied,” Ed says, with his voice cracking a little. “And…I looked at you. LIke that.”

And on the cup, Stede’s hands tightened around his, squeezing comfort into him, holding him together.

“I mean…I wasn’t exactly thrilled,” he said, “But…I suppose you’ve…seen the worst? And you’re still here. I think that…counts for something. That you weren’t - aren’t - I don’t know…disgusted?”

“By what he did to you? That was absolutely disgusting. But by you? Stede.” He pulled in a breath and met Stede’s eyes, straight on, no stopping now. “You were beautiful. I was out of my mind jealous.”

“Really?” Stede breathed. The emotions written on his face, in his eyes, were complicated, and confused, and shy…but not negative. Not offended, not rejecting.

“Really. Beautiful.” Ed nodded, bit his lip. Fuck. Fuuuuck fuck fuck.

“I…I didn’t really know you. And I didn’t…understand the uh. That you didn’t know about the recording. And I was a little drunk? So it. Seeing you. Affected me.” Fuckshit oh fuck oh here we go. “And I sort of. Reacted.”

He ran out of words and just sat there, fidgeting, until Stede’s confused eyes widened in understanding. And he. And then he.

He fucking giggled.

“You did NOT,” Stede gasped; a gorgeous glowing red flush rising over his face, and his eyes all wide.

“Aw god, I’m so fucking sorry!” Ed cried, and let his head fall to the table with his eyes squinched shut, and Stede still holding his hands around that damn cup like they were trying to read the future in it and Ed could feel the vibration of the giggles coming right down through their fingers. What the fuck.

Stede took the teacup away, then, and set it down elsewhere on the table.

And then those hands were, madly, unbelievably, sliding into Ed’s hair, and gently, soothingly, petting him. Fingertips just barely combing through the strands. Thumbs rubbing at his temples.

“I can’t believe you,” Stede said. “I can’t believe you’ve actually gotten me to laugh about it. You’re like magic.”

“Tryin’ to apologize,” Ed mumbled. It was hard to make words happen while being touched that way. “‘M a beast.”

“Well,” Stede whispered, “Maybe that’s all right.” Hands stroking along his hair, the back of his neck, so gently, unlike anything Ed had ever felt. “Beast needs his Beauty, doesn’t he?”

Chapter Text

Beast needs his Beauty, doesn’t he?

Ed was washing dishes.

Stede HAD a dishwasher, of course he did - but he’d used real china for their breakfast, real silver, stuff that cried out for handwashing; and that simple task was exactly what Ed’s fevered brain needed after having that line dropped on him like it was a feather instead of an anvil, like its impact didn’t rock him to his foundations. Beauty. His Beauty.

He had to stop for a moment and breathe deep, down into his belly and back up. Jesus.

Stede was in the other room, talking on the phone. From the few words Ed caught it was Lucius on the other end. Stede’s voice rose and fell, animated, apologetic or exasperated in turn, and Ed should call or text Iz but…later. Right now there were dishes to wash. Smooth warm ceramic curves, solid against his palms, and velvety suds and the smell of green apple soap, bright like a lens flare. Slow movements; balanced, repetitive, meditative; reverential.

In his reverie, Ed thought about taking care of precious things. Delicate, fragile things, like teacups so fine you could see the light through them. Like hearts that had been broken. Things that should be handled carefully and kept away from the rough world.

He imagined Stede asleep like the night before, still and sweet, with all the doors around him locked up tight. A diorama inside a bell jar for Ed to watch over, with nothing allowed to interrupt that peace. Perhaps he could be its guardian instead of an intruding brute. He could pay for the apartment, the bills and all the fine things Stede deserved. Keep him safe and comfortable. Ensure he would never again have to face the cold world with all its slings and arrows and bad drivers and Charles fuckin’ Vanes; its reporters, cruel gossips, judgements, rainstorms, headaches, splinters. Stede at peace. Reading a book, drinking tea, smiling. They could throw away the hoodie and sunglasses. Ed could take them down to the dumpster himself.

He was busily constructing a fully furnished Edwardian dollhouse in his mind when a sound behind him popped that soap bubble of daydream; Stede had cleared his throat.

“You’ve been washing that plate for nearly ten minutes,” he said, a little smile in his voice, hesitant but there. “The print’s going to wear off. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Ed said. A little abrupt - he took a deep breath, smiled over his shoulder, tried again. “Yeah, sorry. Body here, brains halfway up fuckin’ Everest, that’s me. How’s the boy, then?”

“Oh, Lucius is fine. As usual, he wants to know everything going on with me in great detail in ten-minute increments, so he can make insightful comments on each one. He’s a good lad, but sometimes I wonder if he’s gathering up material for a book on his own cleverness.” Stede came up closer until he was standing right there, right next to Ed almost shoulder-to-shoulder, and while Ed tried to relax about this Stede was busily starting in on the just-washed dishes, drying briskly with a fresh cloth and tucking them back into their cabinet. It was ruinously domestic. It made the hairs at the back of Ed’s neck prickle. “I…may have omitted a thing or two. To my shame.”

“You don’t owe him everything, mate.” Ed rinsed off the final dish and stacked it for Stede to dry. Looked around for something to do with his hands that wouldn’t put them on Stede, where they wanted to be. “You’re allowed privacy. No shame in that.”

“He’s only trying to help, in his way.” Stede paused to look at his freshly dried dish sparkling in a beam of morning light. “There, look. Beautiful. A job well done, Ed.”

Ed knew his face was turning dark and hot from that tiny little bit of praise and knew he was powerless to stop it. “Thanks,” he muttered. “S’just a dish. Used to wash dishes a lot. Mum couldn’t afford a machine.”

“We always had machines…and servants. For a long time I thought I wasn’t allowed to clean things because I was clumsy, and might break them…didn’t really understand until I was older that it was supposed to be ‘beneath my station’, to maintain my own things. I still get a little nervous sometimes, isn’t that silly? That I’ll just break everything.”

There was a chuckle in the middle of all that, quiet and definitely fake. It demanded a touch, a pat on the shoulder or the forearm; Ed bit his tongue and instead leaned towards Stede, a tiny incline, until their elbows touched, just for a second. “Shit, I must’ve broken a whole set’s worth of dishes. Young and in a hurry, yeah? Look here.” Rotating his right forearm, he traced a fine semicircle scar that followed the mound at the base of his thumb. “S’how you can tell a veteran dish-washer. You stick your hand in a glass too hard and it breaks, you get cut like that. Unmistakeable.”

Before he’d finished speaking Stede was touching him. Cradling that wrist with one hand, touching the scar ever so lightly with the other, measuring its length and path around the hand and then taking leave of its track to skate a breath-soft fingertip over the tender inside of his wrist where you could just see the veins under the skin, the subtle bump of tendons. So many nerve endings, so unused to gentle touches. Ed stopped breathing.

“Goodness, that must have hurt,” Stede said.

“Don’t remember,” Ed said, and it came out soft and unsteady without any oxygen behind it. He was looking at Stede, now, at the sympathy in his face for that long-ago coltish youth whose cuts had gone un-soothed. He couldn’t guess at the expression on his own face.

Stede pulled gently on his wrist, leaned down, and met it halfway with the gentlest kiss anyone could imagine. There couldn’t be any breath left in Ed’s lungs, so the sound he made was probably his soul escaping into the ether.

He felt Stede’s hands trembling on him.

A breathless moment for both of them; and then instead of pulling away, instead of laughing it off or changing the subject or running away, Stede pressed another tender closed-mouth kiss into his forearm, tracking a bit higher towards his elbow. Soft and warm with the faint prickle of his beard on all that vulnerable skin. A wave of gooseflesh rose up along Ed’s arms, his shoulders and his back.

He dragged in a breath at last, explosively, an intense head-rush of oxygen and…whatever else this was.

“Stede,” he said, and it was a plea for mercy. His hands closed in fists, all his muscles clenching, like self-control was a fucking deadlift. Fighting for it against himself.

Stede exhaled, long and slow, and his breath curled warm around Ed’s arm. “Sorry,” he muttered, without moving away; instead he nuzzled against that same spot, rubbing his face against Ed’s arm like a cat.

No point in fighting that, was there? He was a fucking goner.

His free hand, left hand, drifted up and pushed gently into Stede’s curls, petting and twining among them, thumb resting on Stede’s temple. They were standing in the morning light like they’d been painted there together, silhouetted against the kitchen. Ed’s heart thudding so hard his pulse must be throbbing under Stede’s hands and mouth.

“Don’t be sorry,” Ed whispered. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

Stede’s touch slipped around until their fingers folded together. There was something there in between their pressed palms, something precious. Worthy of care.

They leaned into each other. Stede’s head against Ed’s chest. They moved so slowly into the embrace, but steadily, a glacier creeping down a mountain, pushing doubt away before it, until everything else crumbled into the sea and left them behind. Just Ed and Stede, hugging.

God, it was beautiful. It was pure. Not getting heated or anything. Nothing wrong with heat, of course, but it made things so busy, and this was simple. Stede’s beautiful hair curling between and around Ed’s long fingers. Stede holding his other hand so warm and sure. Stede…humming?

Humming. A soft pretty melody Ed didn’t recognize.

Then they were swaying a little, and then, without really deciding to, they were dancing. Unpracticed - more of a junior prom back-and-forth than anything defined - but certainly it was a dance, turning slow small circles in front of the sink while Stede hummed and hummed.

Ed closed his eyes and let the moment seep into his chest.

How long they danced he couldn’t have said. It was so beautiful that he got totally lost in it; his knee didn’t hurt, and he didn’t get bored or awkward. He was vaguely aware that Stede’s humming voice had begun to tremble, that the place where that dear face pressed into his shirt was growing damp, but he let it happen; Stede would stop them when he was ready. Ed would dance forever if that’s how long it took. Realistically, though, it couldn’t have been five minutes before Stede went quiet, and then let out an almighty sniffle. Their swaying dance slowed to a stop, and Stede lifted his head.

“Oh,” he said. “Ed, I’ve - I’ve cried your shirt through. I’m awfully sorry.”

“Shh. No,” Ed said. He looked down and saw the flush on Stede’s face, more around his eyes and nose, the sparkle of tears remaining in his eyes and caught in his beard. “Nothing to be sorry for. It’s…nice. Not you being sad. But, y’know. Being here for you.”

Stede’s smile came out like the sun after rain, and Ed was unable to resist. He risked it. He put a tender little kiss right on the center of Stede’s forehead.

“Thank you, then,” Stede said, eyes widening with…surprise? Joy? “Thank you so much.”

A long, breathless pause between them, their eyes locked, until a sudden crease to Stede’s forehead, a sigh.

“...I really have to pee, though,” he said, and squinted his eyes shut.

Ed felt like he was full of bubbles. They all came out at once in an explosion of laughter.

“Go on then, mate,” he said, and dropped his arms; and Stede, unexpectedly, gave him a firm squeeze of a hug before retreating from his arms and scurrying off bathroom-wards. Nothing Ed could do about that but sit back down at the breakfast table and giggle like an idiot.

After a while, when he was feeling back in his body instead of floating around the ceiling, he found his phone and checked his texts. A bill-coming-due notice. A sale at his preferred dispensary. A few from Izzy, checking in.

All good, he texted back to Izzy. Will call early evening. Good things happening, I think.

God, I hope so, he thought.

Chapter Text

Going home sucked.

And that definitely wasn’t normal. Even at the best of times Ed liked being at home - if not in the larger context of whatever building he was residing in, but specifically in his own space, his own room, with his own stuff. There was never much of said stuff - been moving so often for so long he had it all pared down, practically an Everyday Carry of personal treasures, things that could be shoved into a go bag at a moment’s notice, slung into a cab or onto the back of his bike. It’s why he’s got so much ink - tattoos don’t have weight, don’t take up space. Can’t leave ‘em behind in a hotel room or under a hookup’s bed. Can’t go into a rage and throw them in the trash - they can be REMOVED, but not on a whim, not without a lot of liquid courage and a scalpel or a belt sander.

And nobody could steal them, sell them, drink away the proceeds, come home almost too soused to stand, and break his arm when confronted.

So yeah, getting back in his own safe space, with a door he could lock and a bed he didn’t have to hide under, where no one could get at him - that was normally good. A good thing. But he had very recently realized that it was kind of a trap, too.

He didn’t read for pleasure a whole lot these days but he still remembered a line from a funny book about war: “If the enemy has an impenetrable stronghold, see that he stays there.”

Stede’s place, now - and thank fuck, he didn’t have to carefully not think his name anymore - Stede’s place felt innocent of all that. Stede had so many things! Though he’d left his last home in a traumatic rush. Fled like the devil itself was on his heels. How much had he been forced to abandon, and how much had it all cost to replace, or rebuild? Had the wife shipped it to him? Awful nice of her. Considering.

Of course, she’d got to keep her reputation. And her lover. And the kids.

Locked safe in his bedroom, among his few precious things, Ed sat and simmered over this, and his hands curled so tightly into fists that his palms stung.

While he's been watching Stede open up the doors of his straitened life, letting in joy, Vane had snuck into that opened door like a serpent, subtle and vile. And ruined everything. And nobody had said, holy fuck Stede you’ve been snake-bit, nobody had carried him to the hospital for antivenom, nobody had ground that snake under their heel.

Ed really wanted to punch every single person Stede had ever met.

Well, maybe not the kids.

He got up, instead, and made himself do some stretches, loosening up the body that had slept in a chair last night. He changed out the laundry, had a cuppa and a sandwich, answered some work emails. Pulled his acoustic guitar down from its spot on the wall, where it had hung for the last six months or so since he’d given up learning, tried tuned it with the electric tuner doohickey, cursed, replaced the battery, tried again and succeeded, and did scales and chords and just noodled around until his fingertips hurt (the callouses he’d only started to build had already faded.)

At last, he gave in and called his mum. The line rang and rang - he had it on speaker so the ringing echoed through his apartment - and when it finally picked up, all he could hear was revving engines.

“MUM?” he yelled into the phone. “MUM!”

“TEDDY!” came an answering yell over the engine roar. “Hang fire, I just - I’ve got - WALTER, TURN IT OFF, MY SON’S CALLING!”

The roaring engine coughed twice and then fell silent.

“Teddy!”

“Hi, mum,” he said. Not sure where to start. “Uh…what’s going on, where are you?”

“On the road!” she said cheerfully. In the absence of engine he could hear the wind blowing, and voices bickering in the background. “Wellington to Roroatua and back! Pulled over for lunch, and now Walter and Ginger are trying to optimize Ginger’s engine even though we’re supposed to be off again in FIFTEEN MINUTES - “ the last words clearly yelled away from the phone - “FIFTEEN MINUTES, YOU TWO, WE HAVE A SCHEDULE! Honestly, he’s trying to impress her but she’s not interested in anything but her grandkids, it’s obvious and he’s oblivious.”

He closed his eyes, as she gossiped on, and imagined her, as she’d been in his youth; back when her name was Lizzie, back before they'd lived in the little apartment she'd filled with as much art as she could and started going by Mikaere again, back before she'd been happy. Pictures the day she’d taken him and fled her husband on an old Honda bike, with their meager possessions stuffed into a stack of duffle bags tied on behind him. Exhilaration is what he remembers of it, mostly. The engine roaring under them. The crumpled newspaper she’d stuffed into his borrowed helmet to make it fit. The strands of black hair that had escaped her bun and her own helmet, whipping around him in the cool ocean-scented breeze.

When she paused, he asked, with his eyes still closed. “You remember that first bike? The Honda?”

She laughed, like it had been surprised out of her. “God,” she said, still laughing, “that thing was older than you. I never should have let you on it.”

“I loved it,” he said, and was surprised to feel his throat tightening with the memory. “Felt like us. Nothing’s ever felt the same to me.”

A pause.

“Well,” she said, diffidence that he could see right through, “That was your father’s, you know. I stole it.”

His brain came apart and reassembled itself around this new information, a dizzying experience; he couldn’t say anything while it happened. He just sat and breathed and saw a huge chunk of his life differently.

“You were so young,” she said, softly, dreamily. “And it was so awful. No surprise you don’t remember. I spent years afraid he’d come looking - not for us, but for that damn bike. Thought about selling it a hundred times. Or pushing it off a cliff. But I just…couldn’t.”

“Wow,” he said. It was all he could say.

In the background of her side of the call there was a short, sputtering engine cough, and he heard exasperation boil over in her voice. “For fuck’s sake Walter, you’re going to blow it up and we’ve still got four hours to Roroatua! If you kill her bike she is NOT riding with me and Rongo!”

“Aw, god, send me a pic of you and Rongo, I need it,” Ed said, pleading, and bounced his foot while she muttered and clicked things, until with a beep the selfie came through - his beautiful mum with her hair all grey and white, her sunkissed face with its deep laugh lines and the crisp, beautiful amahaka over her strong, stubborn chin. Leaning against the bright red carapace of the luxury touring bike he’d bought her a few years back, after a really big sale went through. Rongo was sitting at her feet - a sprightly sheltie with more fur than sense, tongue lolling through his merry grin, and his own little riding goggles and harness, brown leather to match hers. One of his paws was on one of her feet.

“MUUUUUUM,” he sang out, voice thick with love. The cuteness was unbearable. “Mum, I LOVE him.”

“Well, he loves you too, little one - we both do. Find out about coming down to see us! Sooner rather than later! We both miss you to pieces.”

“Miss you too.” He hesitated. Fidgeted. Scuffed his foot against the carpet. “So. Uh. Might’ve - met somebody, mum.”

Her “What?” was as sharp and direct as an arrow. He could hear her boots crunching on gravel as she walked - moving away from the group for a more private interrogation. “Teddy, tell me everything.”

He didn’t tell her everything. Even with his mum, some things were too private, and some other things were not his to tell. But he told her as much as he could, and was sure she’d picked up twice as much information from his tone of voice, or his vibrations, or whatever telepathy mums have.

“Bring him with you,” she said, simply, once he’d run out of steam. “When you come down to see me.”

“Ahh - it’s - it’s early days, we haven’t really…figured out what - I mean. What it is?” He scratched his jaw, ducked his head, even though she couldn’t see. “What we are?”

“You’ll get there, dove. I can hear it.” So much love in her voice. “If it wasn’t anything, why would you be telling me about him? I want to meet who it is that makes you sound like that. My little bird singing so loud.”

He was overwhelmed with love for her. Bowled over by it like a surfer caught in a roller.

“I’ve got to go,” she said. “They’re finally done dicking around, and we’ve miles to make yet! I’ll call you back tonight, yeah? And we’ll have a proper talk.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Love that. Looking forward to it. Good riding, mum, be safe.”

“I will!” she said. So happy. “I love you too, my little bird.”

He let her hang up first.

Then he fell back onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling for a little while.

He’d still been in single digits, when they left. Old enough to know how bad it had been. That their bruises were coming from the same place. That there was a monster living in their house. He’d been just starting to understand that the monster couldn’t be appeased by good behaviour or crayon drawings or the food his mom made, delicious even though they didn’t have all the money and stuff other families did.

Old enough to be angry about it. Not old enough to do anything about it.

Anything practical, anyway.

There’d been a picture, though, hadn’t there? A crayon drawing? He remembered the feel of the crayon in his clumsy fist, one of the cheap waxy ones, how hard he’d had to press to get the colors to show up as strongly as he wanted, how he’d raised a sweat doing it with the cast still on his forearm. Black, for his father’s jacket and big boots. Red for his uniform shirt. Brown for his hair. Purple for the other monster, with its long long tentacles around his father’s neck. Black again for the x’s that were his eyes.

He thinks she saw it. Long before the monster came home from ‘work’.

He thinks he remembers her looking at it for a long, long time.

He’s pretty sure he never saw his father again. And that was so long ago. A whole person ago, a whole fucking lifetime.

Maybe…

Maybe he could stop being ready to run.