Work Text:
It’s a late Friday evening on the leading edge of summer, and there’s a thunderstorm about to roll in; and Ed Teach is, as of fifteen minutes ago when he left his hotel, officially on the run. It tastes like super sour green apple candy. Electric with adrenaline and with…well, actual electricity. From the storm.
He’s turned his phone off and snuck out the back of his hotel and walked a mile or so to this little strip mall, a holdout from the 80s, with a laundromat in it, and an Italian restaurant, and a shoe store, and the thing he’d walked here for in the first place, the thing that had caught his eye from the tour bus yesterday while he was wallowing in olive-drab melancholy; a thrift and resale shop.
Cause he fucking hates all his clothes, right? They're all fucking - asphalt smell, hot black tarmac, two-stroke engine exhaust, rusty cast iron. Bad. Bespoke and expensive and his fans fucking love it all, and it was good when he was young and angry but it gives him such headaches now. He’s tired of starting his concerts with a headache. And Izzy and CJ tell him to take a fucking Oxy and suck it up but. NO. Excedrin migraine at MOST - they taste the least like suffering - and he usually manages his way through the encores and the crowds until he’s back to the hotel room, like last night, and can lie down in cotton candy darkness and pull a toasted marshmallow hotel pillow over his head and sleep.
He just…doesn’t want it anymore. Edward Teach is famous and has more money than God and if he wants to wear a soft honey t-shirt and maybe a pair of relaxed iced tea blue jeans, he is gonna DO that and anybody saying it’s beneath him or doesn’t match his image can go jump in a fuckin’ lake.
The very first fat juicy blueberry drops of rain are spattering down onto the parking lot when he slips into the shop under the bright ice-lolly jingle of a little bell hanging at the door.
It’s so quiet after that. The shop smells faintly of old perfumed candles (actual smell, not Smell) and while he’s not the only customer, everyone else seems muted - heads down, unfocused and absent. There’s a kid looking through a bookshelf, frowning a little and glancing every few seconds at a spiral bound notebook she’s carrying. Two older ladies, dressed for the weather, looking at furniture. The guy looking at clothing is a sad butterscotch candy. The teen behind the counter is playing on her phone. The
Wait.
His mind, snagged, reels back to the sad candy man at the racks of clothes. A better look makes It make sense; guy’s dressed like a Werther’s Original from the bottom of a church lady’s purse. Casual suit all the same caramelly brown, the shoes a few shades darker. Can’t see the shirt, he’s facing the wrong way. Hair’s drab, somewhere between dirty blond and honey brown. Dull. Nicely styled, might have looked better with some candy shine to it.
Also, Ed’s been unsubtly eyeing him for at least five minutes now, and he hasn’t moved. His head’s tilted down a little and his hands hang loose at his sides.
Which is a shame because some of the clothes on that rack, whew! Not drab. Not old sweets at ALL. The rack looks like it’s separated by size but…not gender? Even from a quarter of a store away Ed can see a frilly wedding-cake-vanilla-icing blouse next to a flannel that was giving homemade bread and a peek of liquoricey patent leather between them.
And that’s fascinating enough to give him a plausible reason to drift over towards Mr. Malt Powder, around the side, so Ed can see his face.
His eyes are closed.
He’s handsome, even when it turns out the shirt is wheat bread beige - it’s still a very nice face: noble nose, a little softness under the chin, hint of beard stubble, crow’s feet radiating from the corners of his eyes. Middle-aged Robert Redford, a little, if he’d maybe gone to business school instead of acting. Eyes squinched shut like somebody just threw a fastball at his face. One of his hands has lifted a bit, just enough for the guy’s fingertips to slide against a lemon meringue skirt, tracing one single ruffle, before falling back down.
“Needs sugar,” Ed’s mouth said.
Butterscotch man’s eyes flew open.
And maybe the rest of him was unbuttered toast but those eyes! Those EYES! The world’s most perfect glass of iced tea with a mixed float of Midori and Kinky Gold peach liqueur. Maybe a little goldschlager, too, for the spice and the actual gold flecks? Ed’s mouth instantly waters.
He’s so gobsmacked by those eyes that the man’s soft “I beg your pardon?” hangs in the air for a bit before Ed realizes it.
“Shit. Sorry.”
Awkward fucking awkward goddamn bitter like orange pith awkward
“No, that’s - it’s quite all right.” The Eyes lower, the head ducks a little. “I was woolgathering, I’m afraid - what was it you said?”
“Ah - nothin’ really. Just - the skirt. Lemony. Needs some sugar with it.”
“Lemony?” Eyes turned back to the skirt, looking - intently? Wistfully? He touched the ruffly hem again, so lightly the garment didn’t even move. “Yellow?”
“Oh, yeah. Big old splash of lemonade. Bright as day. Now that - this one -” He plucked a sleeveless turtleneck from the rack, a finely knitted pour of sugar, held it up against the skirt. “Sweetens it, lightens it. Not so - puckery.”
They look at the garments together.
“Well - that sounds lovely,” Eyes said. “I can’t really…DO fashion. You, however, clearly have a knack for it.” Eyes looked at him, then, a rushed nervous glance up and down. “You look very - cool.”
Ed snorted.
“This? Oh, man, I fuckin’ hate this,” he said. Eyes went all startled, confused. Off balance. Too much pernod in his bouillabaisse. An atomic fireball jawbreaker instead of strawberry. “I, uh. People dress me. For my job. Don’t like it. In costume all the fucking time, you know? Like RAAAH! Scary biker clown! Five thou for a jacket that makes me look like a postapocalyptic cannibal warlord. Six for leather pants that make me sweat my b - uh. My arse off. Gross. The literal opposite of cool. I should invest in fuckin’ Gold Bond.”
A long silence.
“...sorry,” Ed mutters, starting to turn away. Good job Teach, overpower the guy with bitterness, like he didn’t look beaten down enough, put all that burnt coffee angst right on his already bowed shoulders - .
“Don’t be,” Eyes says, and this is the first time he’s sounded lemonade-bright. “I, actually…can relate? I’ve very much felt that way. Sartorially.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes! Oh.” He frowns a little. “Probably not very nice of me to - to sound so happy about that. But, well.” He leans forward, towards Ed, like he’s about to share a shocking secret. “You see, I’m - I’m profoundly colorblind.”
“Oh,” Ed says, and blinks a few times. Huh. “Huh. Really?”
“Oh, yes. Since birth!” He nods, eyes wide and sincere. “So you see, I have always had my clothing either chosen for me, or - or vetted, to make sure I looked normal and not like, oh, a circus clown. An Easter basket. A Jackson Pollock. St. Basil’s cathedral. A one-man Pride parade.” A handful of similes with a sour bite like plain white vinegar - criticisms clearly heard before, firsthand. That makes Ed angry. Somebody - multiple somebodies - had fussed the fun right out of this guy.
“The fuck’s wrong with that? I’d go to your parade,” Ed says, and gets a lovely peach melba blush as his reward.
“Well. I was always - discouraged. Quite strongly at times! From anything that was, oh, too…insufficiently…”
“Sad toffee colored?”
“Or sad grey, or ideally sad black. Minus the sad part. I was expected to be satisfied with a three-color suiting palette. Yes. So - no fashion sense, because I have no way to know what anything truly looks like. Do you know, I don’t even know my own eye color? I’ve been told things like “greeny-brown” or “hazel” but I don’t know what those look like either - ”
“Iced tea,” Ed says.
“I don’t know what that looks like - “
“Nah, mate. The - the TASTE of iced tea.” Ed is already fumbling this but he just forges ahead because he’s tried to explain this before and nobody’s ever really gotten it but for some reason he really, really wants this guy to Get It. “Like - uh. What’s your name?”
“Stede,” Stede says, a little breathless, a little hypnotized, his attention rich and sweet, an unexpected bite of dulce de leche.
“Stede. Ed,” Ed says. “So like. You gotta imagine. Hottest day of the year. Humid as fuck. You’re out doing, dunno, weeding or mowing or some shit. Gross and sticky and sweaty. Saltwater taffy day. And you go up on the porch and there’s, on a tray, there’s a glass practically as big as your forearm, and there’s big ice cubes in it and sweat running down the outside.”
They’re getting incrementally closer as Ed tries to explain, to really beam these sensations into Stede’s brain and as Stede leans in, close and closer, absorbing, focusing.
“It’s so cold when you pick it up, and you take that first sip. And it’s so fresh. It’s so fucking crisp. Tannic from the tea and sweet from the sugar and then there’s more, there’s like, cool green melon, and ripe peaches. Absolutely perfect. Exactly what you wanted. Refreshing right down to your toes.”
They’re just a few breaths apart now, Stede’s still all strawberry-mojito blushing, and oh, up close his curls are a warm deep blonde like Tupelo honey (sheeee’s an aaangeel of the fiiiirst degree). Ed wants to touch it, wants to smear it all over his fucking mouth -
“Wow,” Stede breathes. “Ed - that - no one’s ever - “
Their fingers brush.
It’s so WARM.
Stede is a bowl of deceptively vanilla ice cream smothered in hot caramel sauce.
Stede is a spoonful of Mike’s Hot Honey.
Stede is….a complete stranger.
Ah, fuck.
Ed takes a deep breath and leans back, straightening his back and tucking his eager hands away behind it where they can’t get him in any more trouble. Digs a punitive thumbnail into the meat of his palm. “Uh. Fuck. Sorry. Sorry about that, mate, I…get into stuff sometimes. Broken brain. Gets colors all mixed up with flavors.” He puts on a sucralose smile, can feel and taste how fake it is.
“Oh,” Stede says. “Please, no, that was…actually very nice?” His voice tentative, fairy floss, ready to dissolve at a breath. “But - surely you have your own shopping to do?”
Nope. Not dissolving that voice, not today.
“You wanna do something weird?” He says instead.
And the light, which had begun to dull away from Stede’s beautiful eyes, rekindled.
“Ed,” Stede said, a little breathless; Ed’s been scurrying around the clothing racks, building outfits by chaining the items’ hangers together, a little ensemble ladder for each - barely pausing to check size tags - and then handing them off to a trailing Stede. He’s got a right armful of fabric now. “Are you quite sure you have the time for this?”
“Yep,” Ed says, popping the P in emphasis. “Most fun I’ve had so far.” He snags the most gorgeous scarf - it’s dark cranberry colored but to Ed’s fucksake brain it tastes like a flourless chocolate torte - and drapes it over Stede’s shoulder. Wrinkles his nose at a plaid sportcoat that gives him a weird plastic cheese slice on cheap bread feeling, and quickly passes it up for a corduroy shirt in a lovely pine-bough-smelling forest green with fresh cedar leather patches on the elbows, the whole thing is cherry pipe tobacco, enthralling.
“So far..today?”
“Yeah, sure, let’s say today,” Ed says, thinking in a long time, thinking maybe ever, it’s ok to think that in the privacy of his own head where nobody else knows how pathetic he is. “All right, last one.” He hangs the tobacco shirt over Stede’s other shoulder, and heads for the front desk, following the instructions from a wooden sign on the other side of the store that said CHANGING BOOTHS - ASK FOR KEYS.
The girl at the desk hasn’t looked up from her phone at their approach. She has box-color-black-black-black hair and a GWAR tshirt that perplexes him, cause that’s an old-fucks band and tastes like latex, fake blood, cheap booze, pot. His youth.
“Changing room key please,” he says, trying to change his voice up a little, hoping she won’t look up, ignoring the confused glance from Stede.
“No sex or drugs in the changing rooms, we WILL call the cops,” she recites; bored alto, hint of vocal fry, fingers still tapping away at her phone screen.
“Sure,” Ed says, and waits, uncomfortable as the seconds pass.
Finally she sighs, reaches under the desk, and pulls up a keyring with only one key on it. “Heeere y’go,” she drawls as she reaches out with the key, and Ed reaches out and takes it, and he’s about to relax when she looks up.
She sees his face, and her eyes widen.
His brain floods with cold burnt espresso.
“Thanks! That’s all!” Ed says, whipping his head away. He grabs Stede by the upper arm and hustles them off toward the changing booths. Stede, startled, stumbles but doesn’t fall.
At the booths, Ed unlocks the thin door and all but pushes Stede in. “Try that velvet blazer first, and then come out so I can look.”
“Um. Yes? All right! Here we go!” Stede, baffled but enthusiastic, closes the door behind himself.
Ed makes sure there is a tall rack of heavy winter coats between himself and the front desk, and resists the urge to run away.
Rustling from the changing booth. The door doesn’t go all the way to the bottom, so he can see the shadow of Stede moving around inside.
When he comes back out, a few minutes later - looking hesitant and unsure - Ed forgets about wanting to run.
“God,” he breathes. “I’m fucking good at this.”
Instead of toast and - toastier toast - Stede’s in slim-cut vanilla slacks, crisp matching Oxford shirt underneath, and the velvet blazer which is the color and flavor of fresh papaya; juicy, vibrant, with a pop of bright lime juice from a green hankie he’s folded into a quick pocket square. The shoes were the same brown brogues, not ideal, but Stede looked a little queasy at the idea of used shoes, so Ed had let it be.
“Is it - really good?” Sted asked. He was looking down at himself, turning a little, squinting. Tension in his voice. “Please don’t be making fun, Ed, I couldn’t bear it.”
I could eat you whole. “Never would, mate. Looks amazing. Like a fancy Caribbean drink - sweet, coconut creamy, lots of fruit garnish, strong enough to get an ox drunk.”
Stede giggles. Fucking giggles. “I like that!” he sais. He runs his hands slowly down the jacket, down his own chest, and Ed, helpless, watches.
“How’s it from the back?” he asks, and turns, conveniently since the line has Ed choking back several different strongly inappropriate reactions.
“Spectacular, mate,” Ed forces out. “Yummy.”
Stede giggled again - innocent, enchanting - and says, “Right then, next!” And he disappears back into the booth.
“Don’t forget to put the hangers back together so the outfits don’t get mixed up!” Ed calls, and then slumps against the wall a few feet away and takes a deep, deep breath.
“Yummy?” said the shop girl from right fucking next to him, like she’d been lying in wait.
“Fuck!!” All that air comes back out in a rush. “Jesus fucking - shit, don’t fuckin’ sneak up on an old man like that, goddamn.”
“You don’t curse that much onstage,” the girl says. Smirking. “Or even on your Twitter.”
Ed glares.
“I thought fans were supposed to be respectful,” he says, through his teeth, quiet so Stede won’t hear. “And I’m incognito, so fuck off.”
“Not much ‘in’ in your ‘cognitos’ when you’re wearing the same outfit from last night, dumbass.”
“It is not the same!” Snarling, he turns his head away, ignoring her. Then, after a second, mutters “...Different shirt. Different pants.”
“Different underwear?” she says.
“YES,” he says.
“Alright, don’t pop a vein.” She puts her hand out into his line of sight. “I’m Debs. I’ll be nice and not ask for an autograph if you promise to buy something.”
“...fine.” Grudgingly he gives her hand a single shake. “Now fuck off, I’m doing a thing.”
“Yeah, I noticed you wanting to do his thing.”
“Jesus fucking - how old are you? Shove off!” Appalled, Ed tries flapping his hands to shoo her away. “Bet you’ve never even heard any GWAR - “
“They play it on the local oldies station.”
Wounded, cut to the fucking quick, Ed turns his back on her.
Just in time for Stede to come back out of the clos - the BOOTH. The changing booth. Of course.
“Ed?” his pretty voice carols. Ed blows out a frustrated breath, marches back around the corner and stops dead at the sheer RASPBERRY FUDGE RIPPLE of Stede in loamy corduroy slacks and a soft fuschia blouse that makes him look like a poet. But, like, a very pink one.
“Oh fuck,” he says, straight from the brain out the mouth.
“Is that a good fuck?” Stede says, mercilessly innocent. Ed’s pulse is throbbing in his ears but he can still hear the little snicker from behind him.
“Yeah, uh. Looks amazing,” Ed forces out of his frozen throat. “Like…chocolate? Dark and rich and smooth with a, uh, a berry mousse on top. Light and foamy. Tart. Great contrast.”
“Tart,” says the mocking voice behind him, quiet and cutting. Ed considers kicking her shin if she comes any closer. He has to have those big fuckoff boots for a reason.
“Like a black forest cake!” Stede says, looking at himself in the tri fold mirror and smiling. Smiling! Beaming!! “Oh, this is going so well. You’re an excellent stylist, Ed.”
“Course I am. Could be an excellent anything.” The smile, turned his way on full beam, begins to melt Ed’s brain a little.
“I’m certain that you could! But, now, we’ve been spending all our time on me, and neglecting you. So here’s a challenge: can you style yourself?” Stede pops a challenging eyebrow up and leans in, dimpled, nose crinkled, and Ed can see right down the front of the raspberry-foam blouse with nothing under it but bare skin and golden chest hair.
His brain makes a sound like ‘hnggh.’
“Nahhh, I’m ok. I’m ok. I’m having fun!” he said, hiding sweaty palms in his pockets, rocking from foot to foot. “I can figure all that out later, man.”
“Absolutely not.” Stede’s face turns all determined. “I simply won’t stand for it. Find yourself an outfit, Ed, something…different, something that calls to you. A fine fabric. A lush pattern. Break out of that…enforced mold you’ve been put into! It feels wonderful!”
Stede’s sheer enthusiasm and force of personality hits Ed like a truck, and there’s nothing he can do but fall over and accept his fate.
“Okay,” he breathes, and turns back to the racks.
To the fans and the press and the band, Ed can be who he needs to be; he can embody the buffet of dark leathers and spiked collars and gobbed-on eyeliner and boots that weigh fifty bloody pounds, as long as he has paracetamol and a completely dark quiet room to collapse into afterwards. But to himself, he can’t lie anymore. It’s shaking his whole body, trying to get out.
He wants - has wanted for a long time now - something…soft. Comfortable.
Pretty.
A few things had caught his eye while they were shopping for Stede, and he drifts back to them in a daze. A pair of jeans altered with rainbow stripes on the legs (sugar cookies.) A silky sheer button-up, still black, but with blue flowers embroidered all over it (blue curaçao in an Electric Lemonade cocktail).
He browses, mind-sipping at all the colors, trying not to listen to Stede chatting with the obnoxious Debs and god only knows what she’s telling him about anything, it’s starting to grate his nerves and roil his gut actually, so that when he finds It he almost doesn’t notice.
It’s the pink that does it. Not the dark juicy black raspberry of Stede’s blouse, but softer, sweeter, like a creamy smoothie, or maybe a strawberry cake. Covered in flowers.
It’s overalls, long and wide-legged, with a straight-across apron top and thin adjustable shoulder straps. He pulls it off the rack, feels how the floral fabric is worn to perfect softness. Lifts it and presses that fabric very gently against his cheek.
Strawberry shortcake. That’s what it is.
He thinks about finding a blouse to wear under it, or a t-shirt. Then he thinks about wearing nothing under it. It’s probably cut high enough to cover his nips. The thought makes him blush anyways. Jesus.
He grabs a white shirt that gives nothing more complex than ‘linen sheet dried on a line on a sunny day’ and works his way around racks with single-minded intensity.
“Already found something?” Stede asks, but Ed’s brain is spinning-spinning-spinning too much to formulate an answer.
He goes right into the changing room and locks the door.
Undressing feels like peeling off a stuck shed skin, like it’s trying to stay on him, keep him. Almost hurts. Knowing he’s not gonna fall into bed and go straight from dressed > naked > redressed in the same horrible salmiakki blacks like being swallowed by a monster. He’s going to be a soft vulnerable pink thing. He’s going to show that to Stede.
And Debs, but whatever.
The white shirt is light and a little sheer, just enough that he can see the shadows of his tattoos through it; he cuffs the sleeves up to his biceps, leaves the top two buttons free. Looks at himself in the mirror, just the shirt and boxer-briefs peeking out under it, tattooed legs sticking out under that, the spiders on his bare feet looking back up at him.
He hesitates a few seconds, wriggling his toes indecisively in the carpet, before leaning back against the wall and stepping into the overalls.
God, they’re so fucking soft. Light and cool and flexible around legs that are used to tight, firm leather. He wriggles the top up, puts his arms through the straps and adjusts them, tugs and smooths the shirt down.
Glances up into the mirror, sidelong, like he’s trying not to get caught looking.
He looks for a long time.
When at last he turns to the door, there aren’t any thoughts left. It’s quiet and still in his head, like - like standing outside in the middle of the night in a heavy snowfall. Like his brain’s a parrot and someone’s tossed a blanket over the cage. He feels the soft fabric on his skin. Swinging around his ankles. Carpet under his bare feet. Feels so light.
He opens the door and steps out.
“Oh. Oh, Ed,,” Stede says, hushed like he’s in church. Just a breath of sound.
Ed looks at him, sees the happy glow of his face, the golden honey joy in his eyes, mouth parted just a little, on its way to a smile that’s gonna beam so hard Ed feels like it will disintegrate him like a laser.
Before this, seeing people approve of his appearance was just a dull relief. Like a numbing swallow of cough syrup. Like ugh, good, I can stop trying now. Seeing Stede’s approval feels like he just won a billion dollars and a pony and somebody’s putting a laurel wreath on his head. Suddenly he’s ten feet tall and bulletproof.
He feels tears prickling along his lower eyelids.
“What - whatcha think,” he asks. Fucking shy. “You like it?”
“Ed, you’re kidding. You look beautiful,” Stede says, quiet and sure.
Ed feels sure, too, for the first time in…fuck, who knows how long.
“Stede,” he says all solemn, and Stede’s face goes serious.
“Yes? Is something wrong?”
“Stede…” Ed says, drawing it out. Taking a breath. Jumping off the cliff. “Could I buy you a drink?”
Stede goes very still.
“I’m - I feel - “ god, he’s missed the mark. He’s plummeting towards the rocks. Coverall pant legs fluttering wildly. “Fuck. Sorry. Sorry. Mind ran away with me. Forget I said it. Um.”
And there’s that icicle bell again, across the store from them.
Debs must have wandered back to the till; he hears her voice, faint, and then -
Then an answering voice, clove smoke and whisky. Frustration. “Looking for someone. Black leather, beard, looks like a shifty arsehole? Seen him?”
“Fuck,” Ed says, and ducks back into the dressing room. Without thinking, he grabs Stede’s wrist and pulls him along. Stuffs them both into the single-occupancy unit and locks the door behind them.
There’s a little seat thing for people to, he guesses, sit and try on shoes; he climbs up on it so his feet won’t be visible under the door, picks up his discarded boots too. And meets poor Stede’s bewildered gaze.
“My boss,” he hisses in explanation. “Kinda don’t wanna be found.”
“Ahh. Of course,” Stede stage whispers. “Never fear.”
They fall silent, listening like hunted things which, technically Ed is, he supposes.
With the door closed there’s no making out the words, but the voices continue, and start getting closer. Ed begins to sweat.
“Are you supposed to be working late?” Stede asks, softly, like he’s trying to calm or console or distract.
It works a little bit. “Nah,” Ed mutters. “Supposed to be asleep at the hotel by now. Practice in the morning. Show tomorrow night. He must’ve gone to make sure I wasn’t getting shitfaced. Not that I’ve done that. In, uhhh…a long time.”
“You’re a musician!” Still quiet, but impressed, excited with discovery. “Oh, lovely! No wonder you’re so fashion-minded!”
Lord, he still has no idea, does he?”
“Yeah.” Voices outside coming closer still, he can nearly make out the words now. “Lots of money riding on this one. Think he knows I’m on my way out.”
“Are you under contract?” Stede’s head tilts a bit. Eyes narrowing. Like something’s caught his attention.
“Yeah, but I’ve got the money. More money than sense. I can take the hit.”
“...more fuckin’ important than your job,” Izzy’s words come into focus. Not far outside the door. “Here, here’s a hundred fuckin’ dollars, now let me alone. Not gonna break anything.”
“Fuck, okay,” Debs says, sounding awed. “Knock yourself out.”
Dickfuck.
“Ed…” Stede’s leaning in closer, searching. “Are you…famous?”
“Little bit.” He feels it again, creeping back up around him, the ghost of his leathers. “S’been a while. Couple decades. We still draw crowds though.”
There’s a rough knock at the door.
Ed closes his eyes, lets his head thump gently against the wall.
And hears Stede say - chirp - “So sorry, this cubicle is occupied!” Cheerful, sing-song, utterly believable. Holy shit.
There’s a moment of silence, then: “Open the door. Got a call about a gas leak.”
“Oh, no thank you! I don’t smell anything, and I’m in quite a state of undress, so, no, I’m afraid the door will remain closed.”
The second moment of silence is longer, and Ed can sense Izzy’s searing hot vindaloo frustration.
“...Sir. I have to check this entire area. It’s a very serious matter. Open the door.”
“Well, perhaps if you asked nicely?” Stede’s eyes are gleaming peppermint mischief. Ed is desperately holding in his laughter.
“.......Please.”
“Mmmmmm…no. Shan’t.”
“EDWARD!” Grating voice pushed to its limit. Fist pounding on the door. “I fucking know you’re in there! Open this fucking door right now!”
“Sir!” Stede said, voice outraged, eyes dancing. “My name is Westhall Mapplethorpe and I assure you there is no Edgar or anyone else here! Desist your assault upon my door or I shall be forced to call the authorities!”
There’s a blistering streak of invective after that, some real deep cuts Ed recognizes from their younger days. Stede, face a dusty Turkish Delight rose, totters forward and leans his head against Ed’s chest; he’s quaking with suppressed laughter, Ed can feel the warmth of his breath seeping through the bib of the overalls. Feels great. Feels like he could stay in here forever.
Finally Debs’ voice reappears, protesting, and even on carpet they can both hear Izzy’s stomping footfalls fading away, and the sound of the bell being violently shaken by his passing through the door. At its peal, they both entirely lose their shit, gasping and snorting, clinging to each other.
The girl outside their door sounds like her own patience has been stretched awfully thin. “Alright guys. Break it up. That is way too much excitement for me, let alone two old guys.”
They spill out of the changing room bubblegum-pink-faced and snickering.
“Sorry!” Stede gasps out. “Oh, my. Very sorry, miss. We’ll get out of your hair. Goodness. Just…let us change back into our clothes - “
“Just gonna wear this,” Ed says.
“Whatever. Get your shoes back on and meet me at the counter.” With a truly epic eyeroll of the sort only teenage girls can master, she moves away.
They quiet back down, and spend a bit just breathing, trying not to catch each other’s eyes and get set off again.
“There’s a lovely little diner just up the road a bit,” Stede says. He’s taking all the clothes and things out of the changing room, carefully smoothing and sorting the outfits on their linked hangers, looking askance at his own beige clothes. “Twenty-four hour.”
“Eh?” Ed says. He sits down on the little bench thing and starts jamming his feet back into the giant boots. The jumpsuit won’t look any weirder with them than without, he figures.
“A diner,” Stede repeats. “Um. We could. Have a coffee? If…you still wanted to?”
Ed looks up. Stede is folding his own clothes, neatly, eyes intently focused on that work.
Breathlessly, Ed says, “Yes. And…just so we’re clear. This is me, asking you, to have coffee with me. As a date.”
That brings Stede’s gaze up, and his eyes are beautiful. Sun and soil and leaves and gold.
“Yes,” he says.
They walk up to the counter together. Debs handles their transaction briskly, and gives them a big paper bag for their clothes and anything else they aren’t wearing. At the last second Ed sees something in the display case, right under the register, and has that added to the bag. Stede tries to hand over a very ostentatiously shiny 70% cacao credit card, but Ed gets there first with cash.
“Enjoyyy…” Debsl carols, as they walk out together.
The rain has stopped; the sun’s gone down and the night air is cool and rich with moisture.
“My car’s just over here,” Stede says. They’re so close. Their hands aren’t touching, but it’s a near thing.
Ed slides into the passenger seat of Stede’s grey car with its grey interior, like sitting inside a London Fog latte, and puts the big paper bag between his feet. The old-fashioned leather dopp kit he’s bought is sitting right on top of the folded clothes, its safety razor and extra blades tucked away inside, waiting.
“Well,” Stede says, and takes a deep breath. “Shall we?”