Chapter Text
A hand rests on top of a denim-clad thigh, about two inches to the right of Stede’s own. It’s an elegant hand. The fingers are long and clever-looking, the nails neatly manicured. There’s a large tattoo of a spider on the back and a single silver ring shaped like an octopus adorns the middle finger.
Every few seconds the owner of the hand taps his pointer finger to the beat of a song Stede can’t hear. Each tap makes the front of the tattoo spider’s legs move up and down, like it’s dancing to the unheard song. Tarsus, Stede thinks to himself - the front part of a spider’s leg is called a tarsus. He’d learnt that on one of the many Wikipedia rabbit holes he’s fallen down during recent sleepless nights.
Stede hadn’t noticed the spider (or the hand, or the hand’s owner) when he got on the bus. He must have slid into this seat without acknowledging his seat mate at all. He experiences a brief flush of embarrassment at that - his neighbour must think he’s rude. Stede isn’t sure what the social protocol is on bus journeys - it’s the first time he’s been on one - but it must be considered rude to completely ignore your seat mate for… how long? How much time has passed since he boarded? He finds he wouldn’t be surprised if the answer was half an hour, or twelve hours.
To his right, the spider dances on.
Stede tries to piece together the past 24 hours. How exactly has he gone from a comfortable, privileged existence to sitting on this old, well preserved bus, the air stale with the warmth of dozens of bodies and just a hint of diesel fumes? How has he gone from having his entire future mapped out to travelling to a distant city with no job, no accommodation, no plans?
He tries to recall the details, but his brain isn’t making connections like it normally would. After everything came crashing down around him, it seems to have stopped capturing memories like a movie, instead taking slightly blurry photos at random intervals, like an old CCTV camera. He tries to focus, to map out exactly where everything went wrong, but his mind keeps drifting away, watching instead for the next tap of the spider’s legs.
Tap. Lying in bed, ignoring Mary, pretending to be asleep.
Tap. Kissing a sleeping Alma and Louis goodbye.
Tap. Leaving a note on the dining table.
Tap. The cold bench outside the Kraken station.
Tap. Sitting in this seat, on this antique of a bus, next to a hand with a tattoo of a spider.
Tap.
Stede feels a sob rising in his chest and tries to push it down, but with a warm rush of panic he realises he can’t. Whatever strength he’s been using to keep things inside, it’s gone. Used up.
The sob escapes his mouth, wrenched from deep some dark recess inside his chest, and he quickly stifles it with a hand over his mouth. Not quickly enough, it seems. The man to his right glances quickly in his direction, then back out of the window.
But it seems like that sob wasn’t alone, it’s the first of many. Stede is powerless to stop them coming, one after another, and he curls into himself, hoping that the other passengers won’t see his back shaking, or if they do, that they’ll write him off as just another bus weirdo, and ignore him.
It seems his luck hasn’t changed yet. Instead of being left to cry, he feels a warm hand, firm but gentle on his right shoulder.
“Hey.” It’s the man next to him, his voice low and concerned. “You okay?”
A list of polite excuses run through Stede’s mind, something that will explain his behaviour and allow his seat mate to continue his journey in peace, without the annoyance of a sobbing neighbour. But he doesn’t know how to respond because he can’t remember the last time someone asked him if he was okay. Yet another sob escapes Stede as he realises this.
He looks up and sees a pair of brown eyes gazing at him with a mixture of concern and warmth. Before Stede knows what he’s doing, he flings himself against this stranger, the modicum of kindness he’s being offered driving him to seek more.
He feels the man tense up, and Stede starts to panic. What was he thinking? Why is he hugging a stranger on a bus in the middle of nowhere? And besides, after what he’s done, he doesn’t deserve to be comforted. But as he starts to pull away, the man’s arms come up and envelop Stede in the warmest, firmest hug he’s ever experienced. Not that there’s much comparison, he hasn’t been hugged since his kids were young enough not to know their father was a joke, but regardless, this is a good hug. He can feel the tension melting out of him, and for the first time in ages, he feels safe. The man’s arms are strong, his back solid, and there’s something about the way he smells that feels familiar and grounding.
Stede allows himself to breathe, once, twice, a third time. He briefly tightens his grip around the man’s back, savouring the feeling of being held for one more moment, then he breaks away, shifting back to his seat and looking down at his hands.
“Shit,” he says, swiping at his eyes, not daring to look at the man, fearing disapproval, or judgement, or worse, just indifference on his face. “I’m sorry.”
“Fucking… what for?” the man asks. “Kind of seemed like you needed that.”
Stede keeps his eyes on his own hands, twisting uncomfortably in his own lap. “I don’t deserve it,” he says, so quietly he’s not sure the man can hear it over the rumble of the bus’s engine.
The man gives him a look, incredulous, one dark eyebrow raised. “What the fuck d’you mean you don’t deserve it?” he asks. “Everyone needs a hug sometimes.”
“I ran away,” says Stede. “Well, I’m running away. Present tense. Like I always do. Like a coward.” And wow, he really seems to have left his verbal filter in LA.
Saying the words out loud brings the reality home to him, and he feels his stomach drop away, like the bus has taken a humpback bridge too quickly.
“Oh god,” Stede says, gripping the wrist of the man next to him. “I’m running away. Why am I running away?”
Stede looks frantically around him, for what, he’s not sure, maybe an escape, or an undo button, or something that’ll fix this mess. He can feel his heart rate climbing, sweat prickling uncomfortably on his lower back. What the hell has he done? He’s left his safe, comfortable life, for what? He’s got absolutely nothing. No plans, no prospects, no money, only the suitcases he’s brought with him. Oh god, his things. His books, his trinkets, his beautiful clothes. They’re all gone.
His throat feels like it’s swelling up and he tugs ineffectually at the skin on his neck, willing the growing feeling of fear and nausea to subside. The collar of his shirt is suddenly tight, far, far too tight and he uses a trembling finger to undo one of the buttons. It doesn’t seem to help much. He’s aware that the rolled up sleeves of his shirt are slightly twisted, and all at once it’s the only thing he’s aware of, the sensation of the seams scratching at him, making him want to crawl out of his skin to escape it.
The hand is back, this time on his forearm, resting over the offending seam, distracting from it. Stede focuses his attention on it again, the warm pressure, the gentle squeeze. If he concentrates, he can count the hairs on the back of one of the knuckles.
He counts to 15 before he becomes aware that the man next to him is talking. It’s a low rumble, Stede can’t make out the words, but the tone is soothing. It’s the tone you’d take when you’re talking to a frightened animal, trying to convince it that you’re not a threat, that it doesn’t need to run away.
Too late for that, Stede’s traitorous brain offers, and he feels another stab of panic. He squeezes his eyes closed and tries to get his breathing under control.
“It’s okay,” the man next to him is saying, “you’re safe, just a bit freaked out.”
Stede opens his eyes and looks at him.
“I left them,” he says, baldly. “Mary, the kids, I just… left. On purpose, I think.”
“I reckon you must have had a good reason?” says the man.
“I… I think so?” Stede tries to remember, but the details just aren’t there. All he can remember is an overwhelming feeling of loneliness, a feeling that everybody’s life would be better if he just wasn’t there. So he’d made that happen. That’s what he does. He changes himself to make everyone happy.
The man reaches forward and starts digging in the net pocket on the back of the seat in front, using one hand to leaf through dog-eared magazines and brochures, whilst his other stays anchored on Stede’s forearm. Right now, it feels like it’s the only thing stopping him from running up and down the aisle of the bus in a panic, arms flailing. An image of that Kermit the Frog meme flashes across his mind, and he feels an inappropriate laugh try to bubble up his throat.
“Ah ha,” says the man, and sits back up with a flourish, brandishing what is unmistakably a sick bag. It’s one of those small white ones, with an illustration of a fancy lady on the front.
Despite himself, there’s an edge of incredulity creeping in around Stede’s panic.
“I’m not going to be sick,” he says, and there it is, there’s that bitchy tone Mary hates so much.
“Nah,” the man says, seeming not to notice Stede’s tone. “You breathe into it, see, and there’s something about breathing the recycled air that helps to calm you down.”
“It’s the carbon dioxide,” says Stede, unable to help himself.
“Well, there you go then,” the man says. “Let’s get you some of that carbon dioxide then,” and he hands the bag over to Stede.
Glancing to his left to check none of the other passengers are looking at him (they’re not) Stede opens the bag, leans forward and starts to breathe into it. The man resumes his low rumble, but this time the words are clearer, melding with the pleasing crinkling sound of the bag as Stede inhales and exhales. “In and out,” he’s saying, “nice and slowly, that’s it.” He’s rubbing circles on Stede’s back in time with his words. Stede tries to time his breath to the man’s voice, and bit by bit, the panic starts to leach out of him. Once he’s confident he’s got a grip on things he takes the bag from his mouth and sits back.
“Thanks,” he says, “that helped.” He searches for something to say that won’t kick off even more panic, folding and unfolding the slightly crumpled bag. “I don’t think I’ve seen one of these since I was a kid,” he says, indicating the bag.
He sees the man shrug out of the corner of his eye. “Buttons likes to do things the old-fashioned way,” the man says. “And he won’t risk anyone befouling Karl.”
“Karl?” asks Stede, wondering if he’s missed something important.
“Oh, Karl’s the bus.”
“Right,” says Stede, nodding as if this explains everything. He looks at the man, taking in his appearance for the first time. As well as those warm brown eyes, he’s got a slightly rounded nose, short silver stubble, and curly dark hair that’s also going silver around the temples. His hair is pulled up in a high, messy bun. He’s dressed all in black and the spider tattoo seems to be one of many, but despite this slightly intimidating exterior, Stede’s overall impression is one of kindness. It must be the eyes - he has kind eyes.
“You must be a regular, then?” he asks.
“Oh, something like that,” the man says, briefly shifting his gaze to the window. When he turns back, the light behind his eyes has dimmed, just a little bit. Still, there’s a grin on his face and he sticks his hand out. “Seems a bit belated, but who gives a fuck. I’m Ed.”
“Stede,” Stede returns, taking Ed’s hand and shaking it. “And I really am sorry about that.”
“No bother, there’s not much to do on this bus and you know what they say.”
“What do they say?”
“Time flies when you’re talking someone through a panic attack.”
Stede gives an involuntary snort of laughter at the slightly lame humour, appreciating the attempt to lighten the mood. It’s not a sophisticated laugh, but it seems to please Ed - his eyes crinkle pleasantly, and Stede feels like he’s won some sort of prize.
“Speaking of time, you wouldn’t happen to know what time it is would you?” he asks. “My phone’s out of battery and Karl doesn’t seem to be equipped with charging points.” Stede gestures to the seat back in front of him, replete with the aforementioned netted pocket full of magazines and retro sick bags, a drop down tray table and a complete absence of charging points or any other modern amenity.
Ed waves his own phone, screen dark, at Stede. “Mine too,” he says. “It’s one of Karl’s chief selling points. But…” he looks out of the window, scanning the flat, arid landscape. “We’re on the Nevada-Arizona state line, so if we’re on time, it’ll be about 5pm.”
“Wow, you really know your stuff.”
“Yeah, you could say that,” Ed says with a sigh.
“And without wanting to sound like a complete fool,” Stede says, “where is it we’re going?”
Ed’s eyes, already round, grow rounder. “You mean you got on a long distance bus with no idea where you’re going?”
Stede rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Well, yes, that would be one way of putting it, I suppose.”
Ed huffs a laugh. “You’re a bit of a lunatic, man,” he says, and Stede feels his heart sink. He’s got it wrong. Again. Ed must have seen his face fall though, and gives him a gentle nudge. “Hey,” he says, “I like it. If you’re gonna blow up your life, do it in style. I could learn a thing or two from you.”
Stede looks around himself, taking in the crowded bus, the garishly patterned seats, the slightly sticky floor beneath his feet. “Would we describe travelling by long-distance bus as doing something in style?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.
Ed laughs, and claps him on the shoulder. “Chicago, mate. We’re going to Chicago.”
Okay, so Stede might not have a plan, but at least he has a destination. Chicago.
**********
The sun starts to set a couple of hours later, shining in through the back window of the bus and casting the passengers in a golden glow. Stede can’t help but notice how it turns the silver in Ed’s hair into a rosy gold. It’s beautiful.
Idly, he wonders if that colour could be replicated in fabric. He’d love to wear a sweater knitted in that colour. Or even better, give it to Ed, as a thank you. Ed would look wonderful in it, all warm and glowing. Not that the black isn’t striking of course, but Stede’s not sure black fully captures his personality.
As if he can feel Stede’s eyes on him, Ed glances over. When he sees Stede looking at him, he quirks a small grin.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks.
“Better,” Stede says, and when Ed lifts a questioning eyebrow, Stede continues. “I am, honestly. Chicago’s what, at least another day away, right?”
“Should be there morning after next.”
“Well, I figure I can deal with whatever needs dealing with then. It’s not like I can call anyone to smooth things out,” he waves his dead phone that he’s still got in his hand out of habit, “or get off the bus.”
“S’not a prison, mate, and it does make stops,” says Ed, but he’s smiling, like he knows what Stede means.
And there is something about being in this liminal space that’s helping him, if not process things, at least keep the fear at bay. Now he’s got over his initial panic, there’s something nice about knowing there’s nothing he can do to make things better (or worse, his brain adds helpfully - you normally make things worse) for at least 36 hours.
To his side, Ed leans forward and pulls a bag out from under the seat in front. It’s a beautiful bag, made of a black leather that looks like the softest calfskin. Stede can’t help but stare as he notices a small embossed logo between the handles. It’s a Really Nice Bag, and Stede knows Really Nice Bags. He swallows down a return of the tears as he thinks about how he’s ruined any chances he’ll be buying Really Nice Bags in the short to medium-term future.
Ed wouldn’t have got any change out of $10,000 for that bag. Why would a man with a bag like that be travelling on a bus like this? Stede suppresses his curiosity for now. Ed’s got his reasons, and Stede is a master at suppressing urges.
With a grunt of triumph, Ed pulls a silver hip flask from his bag. It’s engraved with tentacles, just like the ring on his finger. He waves it at Stede, an eyebrow raised in invitation. “Reckon a bit of brandy might be in order,” says.
Stede takes the proffered hip flask and removes the lid, taking a delicate sip. It’s good brandy, smooth, oaky and slightly sweet. Not something many people drink these days, but it seems Ed has excellent taste. He hands the flask back to Ed, who takes a swig then rests it in the gap between their two seats.
A silence settles between them, but it’s not uncomfortable. Stede’s so used to the pressure to make awkward small talk with ‘friends’ and acquaintances at all the different social events his life seems to demand of him that it’s a novelty to spend time with someone and not constantly worry about what to say next, how to make sure he’s not being boring or coming across as weird. Maybe it’s just that he’s already been as weird and awkward as it’s possible to be, and Ed hasn’t run away yet. Stede’s not quite sure where he’d run to, the bus seems to be completely full, but logistical challenges like that haven’t stopped people removing themselves from Stede’s company in the past.
Ed’s watching the landscape as it passes, flat and expansive. Stede finds his eye drawn to the distant horizon, fading from salmon pink behind them to almost black at the front where the first stars starting to twinkle over the looming darkness that must be the Rockies. Stede can’t remember the last time he saw stars - the smog in LA usually keeps the sky a weird sickly sort of orange shade. There was that night he’d taken the family to Griffith Observatory, but that had been an unmitigated disaster. He’d just wanted to do something fun with them, try to rebuild that connection he’d had with the kids when they were little and they loved him teaching them about science and history. But Alma had been bored and sulky, Louis had eaten too many sweets and been sick, and Mary. Well, Mary just looked furious. He hadn’t tried anything like that again.
Ed, on the other hand, seems fascinated by the night sky. He’s got his elbow propped up against the window, chin resting in his hand as he watches the stars emerge one by one. Stede decides to take a chance. Leaning slightly into Ed’s space, he asks him which constellation is his favourite.
Ed scans the sky quickly, the points at a cluster that Stede recognises.
“Orion?” Stede asks.
“You’ve been in the northern hemisphere too long, mate,” Ed says. “That’s Kereru - a bird. You see those three stars in a line? That’s a branch he’s sitting on, and that bright star down there? That’s Puanga, a fruit that he’s eating.
Stede follows Ed’s finger as he traces the lines of the constellation. He tilts his head as far to the left as it’ll go, not quite upside down but a close approximation, trying to see it as if he were in the Southern Hemisphere.
“I think I see it,” he says, tilting his head back to the proper angle. After a pause to allow the dizziness to settle, he adds, “I left New Zealand when I was a kid. I’m not sure either of my parents cared enough about that sort of thing to know the names of the constellations, let alone teach me.”
“My mum taught me,” Ed says quietly, still looking out of the window.
“That’s lovely.”
“Yeah, she was,” Ed says, looking back at Stede and giving a small smile.
**********
The brandy goes down a little too well, and Stede’s feeling a pleasant sort of giddy buzz in his core after consuming his half of the flask. Ed seems to be feeling the same way - over the last half hour he’s become increasingly talkative and giggly. Giggly isn’t a word Stede would normally use to describe a grown man’s laugh, but in Ed’s case, it’s the only one that fits. It’s both entirely incongruous and totally fitting for him. Ed giggles with his whole body, doubling up at the waist, kicking up his feet and clapping Stede on the back. It’s utterly charming, and Stede is trying his hardest to get as many giggles out of Ed as possible. The old lady across the aisle doesn’t seem to appreciate this, if her increasingly pointed looks and tongue clicks are anything to go by. Stede finds he doesn’t care one jot. He’s had one hell of a day, and right now, he wants to enjoy himself.
“Alright, alright, alright,” Ed wheezes, wiping a tear from his eye as he finally finishes laughing at Stede’s story about how he had to chase the family Roomba down the street wearing only his robe and slippers after it made a bid for freedom. “We’ve got to calm down, we’re gonna get kicked off this bus at this rate.” He looks around at their fellow passengers, and Stede’s pleased to notice that he gives the judgemental old lady opposite a severe enough glower that she blushes.
“Hey,” Ed says, giving Stede a nudge in his side, “you wanna play a game?”
Stede grins and nods.
“Okay, so when I’m bored on one of these journeys, I make up backstories for everyone around me. Like, how about Judgy McKnitterson over there,” he says, gesturing to their neighbour, who’s pulled out a half finished scarf and set of knitting needles and is steadfastly ignoring Ed and Stede. “What’s her story?”
Stede glances at her, then back at Ed. “Kingpin of the granny mob, surely?” he offers.
“Anyone that displeases her gets a knitting needle in the eye,” Ed adds.
“Or a poisoned hard candy.”
“And she intimidates rivals by leaving an unravelled sweater in their bed,” Ed snorts, then, at another glance from their neighbour he puts a finger to his lips, looking like the picture of innocence.
Stede senses it might be wise to direct their attention away from her before someone really does get a knitting needle in the eye.
“What about the two behind us?” he asks. He’s been studiously ignoring the slurping and lip smacking noises coming from one row back, but he risks a look now and sees that the couple behind them - a bald man in a t-shirt with cut off sleeves, and a younger man sporting truly spectacular sideburns and a jaunty neck scarf - are locked in the kind of cinch Stede’s only seen on the cover of romance novels. “Honeymoon?” he suggests.
“Nah, too obvious,” Ed says, sneaking a glance at them between the seats. “I reckon they’re on the run, like a Bonnie and Clyde sitch.”
“What did they steal?” Stede asks.
Ed tilts his head to the side, considering. “Sleeves, man,” he says confidently. “They’ve stolen the sleeves off every t-shirt, shirt and sweater this side of the Rockies, and now they’re on the lam.”
“Well, if I had arms like him, I’d probably do the same thing,” Stede says, and an expression he can’t quite parse passes over Ed’s face. Then Ed looks Stede up and down, his eyes lingering on the cuffs of Stede’s shirt, rolled up to just below his elbows. Ed reaches out and brushes the arm of Stede’s shirt with a single finger, right across the bicep.
“Dunno, mate, I reckon you could pull it off.”
Stede feels his cheeks heat and it’s all he can do to stop himself giggling like a school girl. He keeps talking to hide his blushes.
“So, umm, where d’you think they’re on the run to?” he asks, slightly lamely.
Before Ed can answer, there’s a noise like a plunger detaching from a surface, and the man with the sideburns clears his throat with a bitchy cough. “You know, you’re not being nearly as quiet as you think you are. And you were right the first time, we’re coming back from our honeymoon. By bus, unfortunately, because apparently my ‘fiscal reality’ does not match my spending ambition,” he says, using air quotes to show just how much his fiscal reality displeases him.
Then he leans forward, peering through the gap in the seat, and gives Stede a proper up and down look. “He’s right, you know. You could pull off the sleeveless look. You know, with the proper styling. And I’d thank you both not to ogle my husband’s arms unless you want to put your money where your mouth is and join us back here.”
Ed takes one look at the shocked expression on Stede’s face and falls back in his seat cackling.
“You tell ‘em, babe,” says the bald man, and he pulls his husband back into a filthy kiss.
**********
Gradually, the bus gets quieter as one by one the passengers drift off to sleep. Slumped low in their seats, lit only by the dim glow of the reading lights overhead, Stede feels like he and Ed are in their own private little cocoon, surrounded by darkness and soothed by the low rumble of the engines. Headlights from an occasional passing car deepen the lines on Ed’s face and make his eyes sparkle as Stede watches him.
The talk has turned more personal. Stede was never allowed to go to sleepovers as a child, but he’s always imagined something like this, talking late into the night, sharing secrets. In this spirit, he asks Ed the question he’s been dying to ask since they first started speaking.
“How come you’re taking the Kraken cross country?” he asks. “You, umm, don’t strike me as the kind of man who needs to travel this way?” Ed doesn’t answer, but tilts his head slightly, prompting Stede to elaborate. “Your bag,” Stede clarifies. “I used to have a similar one myself.”
Ed seems to think for a while, perhaps choosing his words carefully, then turns to face Stede, tucking his legs up underneath him and resting an arm across the headrest. “I guess it’s the only way I can get some time to myself,” he says slowly. “It’s like, well, I run a business. Logistics, I guess. And I had to be in LA for some meetings. And it’s just fucking constant, my phone I mean, I never get a second to myself, there’s always a WhatsApp, or a text, or an email, or a Teams message, or a fucking call, and I know I should just ignore them, but I can’t and it’s fucking exhausting, man. They don’t even need me, not really. Business runs itself. These days, I’m nothing but a fucking figurehead. But that doesn’t seem to stop them asking me about every inane little detail. It’s so fucking boring, Stede. Boring and stressful at the same time. How the fuck is that even possible? So, I take the Kraken. Every time I travel back from LA. And I make sure it’s this specific bus. There’s no plugs, no Wi-Fi, most of the time there’s no phone signal. it’s the only time they can’t reach me. Drives my second in command bat shit, but frankly that’s a major selling point. I know it’ll all be waiting for me when I get back to my stupid empty apartment in Chicago, but these two days, they’re mine. Fucking stupid, I know.”
“It’s not stupid,” Stede says quietly, and he reaches out to rest a tentative hand on Ed’s knee, curled up on the seat beside him. Ed seems to like touch as a way of connecting, and whilst it’s not something Stede’s very experienced in, he wants to reciprocate Ed’s calming touch from earlier. “I’ve very much felt like that myself. And you deserve a break Ed, I’m sure you work very hard.”
Ed glances down at Stede’s hand, then back up, his eyes large and sparkling. “Yeah,” he says. “Think maybe I do.”
They gradually lapse into silence, the intense emotions of the day finally catching up with Stede. He feels more exhausted than he has in years. His eyes are growing heavy and he shifts in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. Beside him, Ed’s eyes are closed, and his breathing has deepened. Stede smiles at him fondly. He boarded this bus having abandoned pretty much every relationship he has, but he thinks, hopes, he might have found a friend in Ed. Unlooked for, the kindness of a stranger has made this day, that started so dreadfully, one of Stede’s best.
“Thank you,” he whispers under his breath. It should be too quiet for Ed to hear, but Stede thinks he sees Ed’s eyelashes flutter nonetheless.