Chapter Text
10 years ago
Stede chews his bottom lip as he stirs sugar into his coffee. It’s just a regular old latte, just another disappointment on this utter failure of a day. Damn the barista for berating him because they don’t serve pumpkin spice in May, obviously, no matter how cold and rainy it is outside. Damn Stede for almost making a scene about it. Not like he needed to look even more pathetic, with his hair all damp, the right leg of his slacks ripped at the knee and caked with mud. Damn the wet asphalt too, while he’s at it. He clutches his cup in both hands - at least it’s warm. And maybe he can just imagine the comforting taste of cinnamon, clove and nutmeg his body so craves.
With a despondent sigh, he looks at his phone. It’s a marvel what these new gadgets can do - even find reviews of the nearest motorcycle repair establishment, apparently!
Best shop in town. Quality makes up for the rude employees. Beware of the short one, pretty sure he bites. 4.5 stars.
Well, that doesn’t make Stede feel much more confident but he has to do this now. Can’t make that phone call at work, right under the perpetual scowl of his father. Or at home, not after the hell Mary unleashed on him for buying his little toy in the first place… He takes another fortifying gulp of his boring drink and dials the number. Someone answers on the second ring.
“Ranger Engineering, Izzy speaking.”
Stede is momentarily dumbfounded. The voice on the other end is like nothing he has ever heard. Bored, drawling, and hoarse in a way that makes Stede’s entire spine tingle.
“Hello?? Fuck… Nothing, Ben. Just fucking kids prank calling again. Listen here, you little shit. Does your mother know you’re fuckin-”
“Um, sorry, hello…” Stede manages to squeak out, cutting the other man off mid-rant and earning himself an annoyed exhale that makes the line crackle.
“How can I assist you?” Sarcasm and disdain are practically dribbling out of Stede’s speaker but he soldiers on.
“Well, Iggy, it just so happens that you have a bike repair shop and I have a bike to repair.”
“Izzy,” the man spits. Stede briefly wonders if he is the one who supposedly bites. “What’s the damage?”
“You see, there was a rather large puddle on the road, with the rain and all, and - though I’m quite the proficient driver, usually - my right side mirror seems to have collided with the curb and is now, um… unattached, so to speak.”
There’s a hiss of breath that sounds almost pained before Izzy speaks again.
“So you need a new mirror. That all?”
“Yes. Or, well… The thing is, I wanted to make sure you will handle my vehicle with the utmost care. The paint is a special edition I had to order from Italy. They don’t make that shade of teal over here. Can I trust you to return it without any scratches?”
Silence on the other end, except for a faint growling noise. Stede fiddles with his napkin. He didn’t mean to be rude but the chap does sound rather brutish and that color is his favorite, he’d be devastated to see it ruined.
“We’ll skip the step where we rub her down with sandpaper, then.” There is a hint of amusement in the man’s tone, then several voices snickering in the background. Stede is swept up in a visceral memory of boarding school. It makes his blood heat quicker than he can control his temper.
“Do not trifle with me, Mister! I’ll have you know, my family owns half this town. I shall not hesitate to take my business elsewhere and make life very difficult for you indeed-”
“Alright, alright, your highness. Don’t get your golden panties in a twist. What model is she, anyway?” The raspy-voiced mechanic seems unimpressed. Stede puffs out his chest in the middle of the Starbucks all the same.
“It’s a 1974 Vespa V50-” He is cut off by the choked sound of someone suppressing a laugh. Then Izzy’s voice again, muffled and indistinct, like he’s holding the phone to his chest.
“Ivan! Get over here. I can’t… I’m fucking done. Gotta be home soon. Ed needs to take his meds.”
Some rustling, then a younger, much friendlier sounding man takes the phone.
“Ranger Engineering. I’m Ivan, how can we help?”
Stede drains the last cold dregs of his depressing coffee, takes a deep breath, and tells the whole story again.
***
Ed hits pause on his game when he hears the key in the door. He’s pretty sure he looks just as miserable as when Izzy left him on the couch eight hours ago, but still makes an effort to lay it on extra thick. Might get some special treat out of it. Karma immediately bites him in the ass when he tries to shift in his nest of pillows, the pain from the right side of his belly shooting down his leg and right up into his skull.
“Dickfuck! Fuckin’ hell-” The playstation controller falls to the floor with a clatter just as Izzy steps into the room. He bends down and puts it back into Ed’s hand, then plants a quick kiss on his lips. He smells like clove cigarettes and motor oil. Ed tries to push himself up, tries to chase his husband’s mouth but Izzy pulls away, making him whine in pain and frustration. He’s not allowed any strenuous activity for six weeks and it’s fucking torture.
“Stop wiggling. You’ll tear your stitches,” Izzy scolds, then hands him a little paper bag from the pharmacy - painkillers, antibiotics. “What’ve you been up to?”
“Ehh… napping, shooting zombies.” Ed holds up the controller, shrugs, and even that jostles his stupid insides enough to make him wince. “This sucks, man. I’m so fucking bored!”
Izzy presses another kiss to his temple, genuine affection flashing across his features before the familiar mask of On Duty Izzy settles over them again.
“Should’ve thought of that before you let them steal your appendix. Dinner? And don’t say you’re not hungry. You gotta eat with the meds.”
Ed pouts for a moment. He really isn’t hungry. But Izzy is right, as usual.
“‘s cold. D’you know how to make porridge? And do we still have that spice mix that’s all like… I dunno. Christmassy?”
Izzy leans against the doorframe, rolls his eyes at him. If he could fucking move, he’d jump right up and smooch that look off his face.
“‘course I can make fucking porridge. Made it for Lil all the time.” He turns into the kitchen and Ed can hear him rummage through their spice drawer.
“How was work?” Ed calls after him - perhaps too late. He does care about Izzy’s day, he really does. He just forgets to ask sometimes…
There’s a metallic clang as Izzy sets the pot on the stove, then a huff - halfway between fondness and exasperation.
“Slow day. Ben’s in a mood, as usual. Made Fang cry. Oh, and we had the weirdest guy call about his vintage fucking Vespa of all things… Gonna tell you all about it while we eat.”