Work Text:
A notification appears in the top right corner of Stede’s screen, accompanied by a very specific chime, and he’s smiling before he even glances up to it.
He already knows what it’ll say, almost down to the word, but he clicks on it without a moment’s hesitation, the email he was drafting immediately pushed aside.
hi love. leaving work now. eta 5:18
It’s accompanied by a link, which, when clicked, shows him a map with a little icon of Ed’s face moving along the road toward home. Stede feels a familiar bubble of happiness rising in him. He sends back a see you then 😘, then checks the time. He has just over twenty minutes.
He goes back to his email app, manages to write a reply to Nigel that sounds slightly more professional than “Go suck eggs in hell. Fond regards, Stede Bonnet.” He sends it off and sifts through the rest of his inbox. The little map of Ed stays pulled up on his second monitor, the little picture smiling back at him every time he glances over.
Email sorted, he closes the app, then sighs when it reveals his to-do list hiding behind it. Eight hours sitting at this desk, and somehow he hasn’t checked off a single thing that 8:00 am Stede—energetic, optimistic, damned 8:00 am Stede—planned to accomplish. He glances at the time. Maybe…if he hurried, maybe he could at least finish something small. One less task to push off yet another day. One less tiny shame to throw on the pile. That file for Denise, maybe. He feels it tug at him, almost gives in. But he checks the little map of Ed, and the little picture is pulling off the highway, a few minutes from home now, and nope, actually, Denise can wait until tomorrow.
It had been Ed’s idea, this little addition to their evening routine, after seeing Stede holed up in his office all hours, night after night. It’s worked in a way that nothing else has—not the alarms yelling at him to stop working, not the sticky note reminders of the relaxing things he has planned for after work. They’re all just noise, just annoyances he can swat away like gnats as he stares at his computer. But not this.
5:16. The little map of Ed is the last thing to disappear as he shuts down his computer. He snaps his glasses into their case, shakes out his neck, and makes his way downstairs, where there’s a thick padded mat just to the side of the front door. He settles onto it, his knees finding their familiar divots (memory foam—also Ed’s idea), and straightens his back, hands clasped loosely behind him, just in time to hear Ed’s car pulling into the driveway.
He feels the same little bubble swelling behind his sternum as he listens to the sequence of sounds, so familiar he could almost hum along with it. His favorite song. Engine off; door slammed shut; a beep as the doors lock, then another one a few seconds later when Ed can’t remember if he already hit the button. Boots on gravel, key turning in the lock, a slight squeak from the bottom hinge, and then, best of all:
“Hello, love.”
Ed’s haloed in golden-hour light, and Stede can feel the smile break over his face as he looks up at him. “Hello,” he says, beaming.
Ed steps in quickly and carefully, shutting the door behind him. There’s a table to the side of the door, a beautiful giltwood console with a place for everything. He tucks his leather satchel onto the lower shelf, plinks his keys into their little ceramic bowl, and opens the center drawer.
Stede sits up a little straighter.
Ed lifts the collar out and turns to him. It’s simple, elegant, smooth black leather and shiny steel hardware, and Stede will never get tired of seeing it dangling from Ed’s graceful fingers.
He lifts his chin to let Ed get it into place, and he can’t help the half-sigh, half-moan that escapes him as he feels the leather settle against his neck. This is it, the opposite of noise, this clarity that cuts through the thrum of daily life and makes everything else go silent.
Just before Ed fastens it, he pauses. “Whose are you?”
“Yours,” Stede says immediately. Reflexively. It’s written into his neural pathways, reverberating through his veins. Yours, yours, yours.
“Good boy,” Ed says, and the end of the leather strap slides into place. Then Ed’s hands are gripping his forearms and helping him up off his knees, and Ed’s arms are around him and Stede’s breathing in the scent of his neck. “Did so good,” Ed’s murmuring in his ear, “love coming home to you on your knees for me,” and Stede pulls back just enough that he can turn his face toward Ed’s for a kiss, like a sunflower to the sun.
When they pull apart, Stede’s eyes are slow to blink open, and he feels Ed linger too, savoring one more moment of sharing the same breath. Then, natural as anything, they both turn, hands sliding down to lace together. Ed sighs contentedly, one hand coming up to pat their joined hands, and starts telling him about the new type of pepper he got at the farmer’s market to try out with dinner as they start toward the kitchen.
They chatter about their days as they move around each other in the kitchen, a dance they’ve practiced to perfection. Through it all, the collar sits at Stede’s throat, warming him like a secret, singing out silently against his skin: yours, yours, yours.