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Stede can tell something is off before Ed has even woken up.
Normally, Ed sleeps all sprawled out, limbs flung everywhere, moving about while he dreams. His hair, more often than not, ends up in Stede’s mouth at various points throughout the night, and their ankles interlocked, and his hands subconsciously roving about Stede’s person; he’s just a— a lively sleeper, is all.
This morning, he blinks himself awake to instead find Ed curled up around him in a ball.
It’s not strange so much as it is unusual, especially considering the fact that Ed is still asleep. He’s wrapped himself about Stede’s waist, legs tucked up, arms holding him tight like a child clutching a stuffed toy. His face is buried in Stede’s belly; from what Stede can see, his brow is furrowed, face scrunched up, and his breathing has a rasp to it that isn’t normally there.
Stede’s confusion swiftly starts turning to panic, and he’s glad Ed is still asleep so he has time to get a grip on himself before he descends into complete and total madness.
Ed being sick means Ed being vulnerable. Ed being vulnerable means Stede taking care of him. Stede taking care of him means Stede can fuck up. Stede fucking up means Ed can hate him, and rightly so, because he’s sick and he could potentially die and Stede’s just letting him die—
When he realizes his hands are shaking, Stede makes himself take a deep, long breath. He’s tried to be better about this. He will be better about this.
Stede is still taking steadying breaths, calming himself back down, his hammering heart attempting to slow inside his chest, when Ed starts to shift towards wakefulness. The crease between his brows deepens, and his fingers flex where they’re tangled tight in Stede’s nightgown, a subconscious stretching as he rolls into him.
Reaching down, Stede starts to thread his fingers softly through Ed’s hair, careful along his scalp in case his head is already bothering him. He’s seen enough of flus and colds and other illnesses, both when he was back with the children and here out at sea, to already begin identifying this—
—unless he’s wrong and it’s something much worse and—
With another deep breath, Stede strokes his thumb along Ed’s hairline. He frowns a bit himself at the warm flush of his skin, a higher temperature than normal.
His voice held soft, he says, “Good morning, love.”
Ed groans, tilting his face back into Stede’s belly, curling up tighter around him.
“How are you feeling?” Stede asks him.
Ed grunts into his stomach.
“I thought maybe you might be,” Stede comments. He keeps threading his fingers through Ed’s hair, smooth, slow, steady. “You should go back to sleep. Let me make you some tea or something for when you wake up again, how does that sound, Ed, darling?”
Ed lifts his head, blearily meeting Stede’s eyes for only a brief moment before he’s scrambling towards the edge of the bed and retching over the side onto the floor.
“Oh— Shit,” Stede says, elegantly. Ed doesn’t have the space to even glare at him before he’s retching again, emptying the contents of his stomach— fucking everywhere, and Stede finally bolts into action, wriggling out from under him in bed so he can sprint for the empty basin in their washroom instead.
He just barely manages to get the basin under Ed’s chin before he’s sick again, and it takes a great feat of strength and coordination to coax him backwards into bed with it, but Stede manages to finagle him into the pillows. The basin is held tight in his arms, head practically buried in it; Stede strokes his hair back from his face, frowning at the curls clumped-together and lank with sweat, and gathers them all back into a bun.
“Just breathe,” Stede tells him, neatly avoiding the vomit at his feet, leaning over the bed’s edge to tug one of their hair ties out of their bedside stand’s top drawer. “There we are. Poor Ed.”
Ed spits into the basin before he tilts his head up, letting his cheek rest on the edge. Stede moves with him, tying his hair up into a loose bun at the back of his head, sweeping the loose strands back from his face into it.
“I feel like shit,” Ed tells him, throat rasping.
“I can tell, darling,” Stede assures him, running the back of his hand over Ed’s sweaty forehead with a grimace. “Why don’t I go get you some water and—”
“Don’t,” Ed bites out, apparently before he can stop himself. His face twists, a beat later, and he says, “I don’t mean— Just. You can go, I didn’t mean—”
“I won’t leave if you don’t want me to,” Stede promises him. He leans in and kisses Ed’s temple, gentle with him. “Let me go to the door and call for Lucius, then. They can bring you what you need, and I can stay with you.”
Ed acquiesces to this much, at least, and allows Stede to leave for a moment so he can slip out of their quarters and holler out towards the crew for Lucius. He’s shoved through, bleary and half-awake himself, and frowns through Stede’s entire rambled explanation of what’s going on and what he needs, but, in the end, Stede gets exactly what he wants out of his crew: fresh water, clean rags, hot ginger tea, and space for Ed to recover in their quarters without being bothered. Pete comes by to help Stede clean the floors, and Roach even stops in with warm bone broth and a collection of home remedies, poultices and medicines and tinctures that he explains in great detail to Stede before waving and leaving them alone.
And Stede, armed with his cures and his extra blankets and a proper can-do attitude, sets about making Ed well again.
It becomes the devotion of his every waking moment, actually. Ed coughs, and Stede is offering a sweet to suck on and soothe his throat; Ed sneezes, and Stede is there with a handkerchief, sometimes even holding it to his face for him; Ed gags, and Stede is holding his basin up, rubbing his back, whispering softly to him.
He sets cool, wet cloths on the back of Ed’s neck, on his forehead, on his wrists. He works hard to bring his fever down, to settle his stomach, to clear his chest and head of congestion. He makes him tea, he keeps him hydrated, he gets broth into him.
He cares for him, devotes himself to him, lingers over him every second of every day.
In the end, though, what Ed wants most is for him to just— be there.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Stede asks, when the sun is going down on day three of Ed’s flu. He’s finally on the upswing, recovering— Stede likes to think— in no small part due to his efforts, but he still seems off. Fussing, fidgety, uncomfortable. Stede’s not sure which remedy to try to soothe him. “Water, maybe? Do you want to try eating something again?”
“I’m not hungry,” Ed answers, curled up in bed around one of Stede’s pillows, face buried in one of his own. “I just… I dunno. I feel…”
He trails off. Stede wonders if he really doesn’t know how he feels, or if he just doesn’t know how to verbalize it.
Eventually, Ed just half-shrugs, turning more fully into his nest on their bed. “I probably just need to sleep. I’m almost better, I promise. Just— Dunno. Gotta rest, I guess.”
Stede evaluates him for another long beat, studying him from his near-permanent place beside the bed, and he considers how he used to feel when he would get sick, back when he was still with Mary, when all he wanted was for someone to make him feel better, for them to comfort him, to care that he—
Oh.
Stede leans over the side of the bed, stroking Ed’s hair back from his head.
“I haven’t been a very good nurse, have I?” Stede asks him.
Ed lifts his head in confusion, blinking at him. “What? No, Stede, that’s not what I meant— You’re doing a great job, love. I’m already feeling loads better.”
“A good nurse has a good bedside manner,” Stede points out, taking a seat on the edge of their bed. He runs his fingertips through Ed’s hair, a light stroke; it’s still braided back, in a plait Stede’s hands put there only a few hours before, and he doesn’t want to pull at his scalp on accident. “I’ve been a— a bit—” He frowns, searching for the right word, before he finally just amends to, “I’m afraid I haven’t been as kind to you as I should have been.”
“The fuck’re you talking about?” Ed asks, his throat still rasping. “You’re plenty kind. No complaints here.”
Stede hesitates, then says, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
He starts to climb into bed, lifting himself gingerly over Ed’s body so he can settle himself against his back. Slowly, he wraps his arms around him, but Ed doesn’t move, doesn’t bat him off, doesn’t try to get away.
And Stede feels himself relax.
Even vulnerable, and sick, and ill-tempered, Ed still wants him. He doesn’t drive him off, doesn’t stiffen under his touch, doesn’t feel worse because Stede is here, and Stede hadn’t even realized how terrified he had been of all of these things until they did not come.
In his arms, Ed melts, even.
Stede realizes his remedy was missing one ingredient.
Kissing the back of Ed’s skull, his hair so soft from the time he spent washing it this morning, Stede tells him, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know if you would want this. From— From me.”
One of Ed’s hands snakes down to settle over Stede’s where they’re latched on his belly, locking around him.
“Sometimes,” Ed confesses to him, his face turned away from Stede’s, “I think you’re the only thing that makes me feel better at all.” He shrugs again, just a little. “Stupid—”
“Not stupid,” Stede insists. “No— No, Ed, that isn’t stupid at all.” His heart thumps hard in his chest, starting to race, and he clings tighter to Ed. His eyes prickle, nose burning, and he buries his face in his hair, holding him close, forgetting to treat him like he’s fragile and just clinging to him like he’s Ed. “I want you to feel better. That’s all I want.”
Ed shifts, finally turning around in Stede’s arms, wriggling around in his embrace until he can face him. Stede reaches up, stroking the loose wisps of hair back from Ed’s face, looking into the dark brown syrup of his eyes and the healthy flush starting to return to his cheeks and the soft curve of his mouth through the thick grey speckling of his beard.
“I don’t want you to get sick,” Ed murmurs.
Stede flickers a smile. “Well,” he says. “If it’ll make you feel better.” In a conspiratorial whisper, he asks, “I think it’s worth the risk, don’t you?”
Ed smiles, his nose scrunching up and those handsome crinkles coming to the corners of his eyes and his smile lines prominent near his nose, and Stede thinks he really is healing him, finally.
“If you say so,” Ed replies, still a scratch in his throat. “Don’t come crying to me, though.”
“Oh, I still will,” Stede assures him, and Ed’s huffing a laugh when Stede tilts in for a slow kiss. It’s chaste in that their lips don’t part, remaining closed for most of the kiss, but their press is hard, and Ed hitches his hips against Stede without seeming to mean to, rolling himself into his body.
Right before they break the kiss, Ed’s tongue slips along the seam of Stede’s lips, and Stede sighs, allowing him in. His tongue glides along his, and they kiss like that, slow and lazy, for a long moment before Ed’s withdrawing again.
Stede opens his eyes again, watches the languid drift of Ed’s eyelashes as he opens his own, and he’s granted with a smile.
“I’m feeling better already,” Ed promises him, and Stede, smiling, pulls Ed back into his arms to snuggle into his throat, cuddling him as near to his body as he can get him.
Ed sleeps peacefully through the night, the best sleep he’s had since he woke up vomiting. Stede can practically hear his lungs getting clearer, his sinuses growing less congested, his breathing truly easing, and he wonders just how much this truly had to do with Ed just wanting to be comforted, to be held, to be cared for beyond the clinical.
Unfortunately, as dawn draws closer and Stede finds that he’s unable to catch more than a few restless moments of sleep, he starts to grow concerned that Ed was right, actually.
It’s possible that confining himself in Ed’s space with him for the duration of his illness wasn’t his brightest idea, but it’s not like he was going to leave Ed alone— or, God fucking forbid, let someone else take care of him while Stede— just fucked off somewhere to hide. No, Ed is his to care for, and he doesn’t regret nursing him back to health, not even a little bit.
He does regret the fact that that choice is starting to make his head pound, his hands clammy with sweat, a fever starting to flush up to run him hot all over.
As he tosses and turns, trying to sleep with Ed’s arms wound around him, his bones start to hurt. All over, his skin aches, his muscles throbbing with pain, and he tries to keep himself calm, breathing even.
Now I’m going to die, his brain tells him, spiraling already. Now it’s me. Ed got lucky and we were able to save him but now I’m sick and I’m going to die and Ed’s not going to want to take care of me, of course he’s not, who would, nobody would, not while I’m like this, not while—
The thoughts make him dizzy, his aching head spinning, and he closes his eyes against the nauseating onslaught of confused, upset emotion. He tries to make himself take deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, but his throat is growing thick and painful all the same, and his hands are shaking, and his stomach is starting to churn, tossing back and forth inside of him like the ship they’re rocking on until he doesn’t think he can move without getting sick.
Embarrassing, he scolds himself, tears burning in his closed eyes. You’re an adult man. You’re a pirate captain. What an embarrassment. You can’t even move. You did this to yourself. You—
“Stede?” Ed asks, and Stede’s chest hitches. He hadn’t even realized he was crying. “Hey— Hey, St— What the fuck? You okay?”
He’s barely awake, and he’s so confused, Stede can tell. It makes him feel even worse, guilt surging through him, exhaustion beating at him as hard as the budding sickness is, and he just shakes his head, equally unwilling and unable to speak.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Ed assures him. There’s still a slight rasp in his throat, and Stede feels shame, making him comfort him while he’s still sick himself.
Stede fights to disentangle them, pushing his way upwards. The motion makes his stomach lurch, and it snarls inside him, a loud growl that makes his throat thick and his mouth water unpleasantly.
“Shit,” Ed comments in response, Stede still trying to claw his way from their blankets and embrace. “Are you feeling sick?”
Stede shakes his head in a vigorous jerk, unwilling to part his lips, just trying to scramble out of bed. He’s not going to get sick on Ed, he’s not going to get sick in bed, he’s not, he’s not, he’s not—
—And he doesn’t get sick on Ed, but he makes it stumbling halfway across their room before his stomach revolts against him and he’s slamming his hand up over his mouth, swallowing back the guttural retch that comes up then.
Ed’s hands find his shoulders, and he half-drags him into their washroom, shoving the basin that’s been Ed’s best friend these last few days into his hands.
“You’re okay,” Ed tells him, crouching down next to him where Stede’s knelt on the floor, trembling, shaking like a leaf. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry, Stede, I didn’t mean to actually make you sick. Fuck— I shouldn’t have let you kiss me, I—”
He’s cut off by Stede when he can’t keep his stomach contents down anymore, his stomach finally roiling and pushing themselves up his throat and out. He tries to keep quiet, but he can’t keep himself from retching so hard his throat hurts, and Ed eventually has to coax him into leaning back, trying to push water into his hands.
“You have to breathe, love,” Ed tells him, and Stede just shakes his head. “Yes, you do. You’re pale as shit, Stede. You need to take a breath or you’re going to pass out.”
Stede, in all honesty, mostly retreated into the back of his mind the second he started feeling sick, but Ed is starting to coax him back out. His words lure Stede into doing as he’s told, and he wants to please Ed as much as he wants to feel better, and so he inhales, then exhales.
“Good,” Ed murmurs to him, stroking his hair back from his face, sticking with sweat. “That’s good, Stede. Just breathe.”
When Stede can breathe, he swallows, licks his lips, tells Ed, “I’m so sorry—”
He doesn’t get out another word before Ed shushes him.
“You fucking kidding me?” Ed asks. “You’ve been doing this for me for days, love. Figures it’s about time for your turn.”
Miserably, Stede nods, allowing Ed to pull him into his lap.
And, fuck, Stede didn’t realize how much better it would make him feel to have Ed’s arms around him.
“That’s it,” Ed says quietly, raking his nails gently along Stede’s scalp, drawing his hair back over, and over, and over again, away from his eyes. It feels so nice. “Just breathe.”
“I love you,” Stede tells him.
Ed kisses the back of his head.
“I love you, too,” Ed murmurs. “You’re gonna be alright, okay? I’m gonna make you healthy again. Just like you did.”
And he gets to work, just like Stede did.
If Stede had been concerned before that he would be left to his own devices while ill, he learns quickly that that worry has no place here. He doesn’t think he’s alone for a minute, Ed constantly at his side, holding the basin for him to be sick into, wiping away fever sweats with a cool cloth, embracing Stede through the shivering, restless, sleepless nights.
Every time Stede feels guilt or shame over Ed doing this for him, and tries to apologize, Ed just reminds him, “You did this for me, right?”
Stede did. And he wanted to.
It’s difficult to believe that Ed wants to do the same for him, but he has to give him the benefit of the doubt, has to submit to being cared for, has to allow himself to be loved.
In a way, it’s sort of worth getting sick.
Ed winds his arms around Stede late on the second afternoon of his illness, just after Stede has finished retching up his attempt to keep down some soup, and kisses behind his ear, and Stede just has this— moment.
In his mind’s eye, he sees himself and Ed, overlaid over years— decades, he thinks— and they’re always holding each other, just like this. Sick or healthy, well or injured, sleeping or waking, young or old, it’s always just them, like this, holding each other close.
“Thank you,” Stede whispers backwards towards Ed, his throat rasping painfully with it. Still, he thinks it’s worth forcing the words up and out through the scratch. “I love you so much.”
Ed tightens his grip on him, nosing into Stede’s hair, breath warm at the crown of his skull. His thumb sweeps over Stede’s belly where he had just been rubbing it, trying to make him feel better; he tilts his head, just a bit, and Stede can feel the air from his lungs on the back of his neck.
“I love you,” Ed tells him, and means it. “Get some sleep. Focus on feeling better.”
He says it like he cares. He’s still learning how to take care of him, and they’re learning how to navigate each other, and they’re learning how to do— this, all of this, but they’re learning together. There is no too much, there is no too vulnerable, there is no too— too anything. With Ed, Stede can never be too much of anything, and tears burn in his eyes at the thought.
“Hey,” Ed murmurs when Stede’s chest hitches. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Stede answers honestly. “Just— I’m so glad you’re here, Ed. I’m— I’m very, very glad you’re here with me.” His voice breaks a little when he tells him, “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t.”
There’s a soft exhale from Ed before he kisses the back of Stede’s head again.
“Lucky you,” Ed tells him. “I’m never gonna let you find out.”