Chapter Text
Izzy jerks awake when he hears the key in the door. A bleary look at his wristwatch tells him it’s just past 3am. The silly baking show he was watching has long since moved on to the next episode and there’s a disgusting damp spot where he must have drooled in his sleep. He turns the pillow over to hide the mess, alerted by his husband’s feet squelching wetly on the laminate.
“What’re you still doing up?” Ed asks as he steps into the living room.
“Slept all afternoon. Rhythm’s off.” Izzy rubs his eyes, grumbling, then feels around for the glasses he only really wears on days like this. (After learning the hard way that serial napping with contacts is hell.) He finds them wedged between the sofa cushions and pushes them up his nose to finally focus on Ed. “The fuck happened to you?”
“Still not feeling better?” Ed has the audacity to ignore his question and actually sound worried, even though he’s the one currently looking like he went for a swim in all his clothes. Mascara is running down his cheeks in black rivulets and gathering in the stubble on his jaw. His hair is a sopping mess and the dark purple lipstick is smudged, like it’s been partially kissed off.
“Hm,” Izzy shrugs, choosing to ignore his husband’s bedraggled state for now. “Headache, chills. Might be coming down with something. Got Frenchie to cover my shift. How was the club?” The guilty crease in Ed’s brow is painful to look at. Izzy would much rather hear about their night out than be coddled like a fucking child.
“Pretty fun. Good DJ, some big fella named John. And Stede tried to twerk, it was fuckin’ hilarious. Missed you, though.” Ed steps closer to the sofa and runs a hand through Izzy’s mussed hair. The touch is icy against his overheated scalp and he leans into the pleasant sensation before remembering why his husband’s fingers are so damn cold.
“Why the fuck are you all…” Izzy draws back to gesture at the water dripping from the hem of Ed’s skirt. There’s already a puddle forming around his bare feet.
“Might’ve got into a bit of a thunderstorm on the way home,” Ed mumbles, suddenly sheepish.
“Does Bonnet not have cab money?” Izzy cuts in, loud enough for the accused to hear where he’s noisily messing about in the hallway. On cue, a mop of soaked golden curls appears behind Ed’s shoulder. The mouth below them is smeared all bruise-colored and Izzy can’t suppress his smirk.
“Well, we thought it might be rather romantic, walking home in the summer rain…” Stede at least makes a show of wringing his hands about it - and his white shirt has gone pleasantly transparent, damp as it is - so Izzy bites back a nasty retort. He does make a mental note to ask these two lunatics how the romance is going when they’re in bed with pneumonia after this stunt.
“Get in the shower, both of you. I made hot chocolate. Just gotta heat it up.” Izzy pushes to his feet with a groan, diligently avoiding the wet spots on the floor as he ushers his sodden husband and boyfriend to the bathroom.
“Aw, Iz. You’re like the grumpiest sheepdog ever,” Ed snickers, leaves behind a hint of strawberry daiquiri as he kisses the half-hearted “fuck off” from Izzy’s lips, and closes the door.
On his way to the kitchen, Izzy swings by the bedroom to snag one of Stede’s robes - the green one with the fuzzy trim. He pulls it tight around himself as he turns on the stove and starts stirring the cocoa.
Soon, he finds his mind wandering, getting lost in the swirling flecks of red in the brown. His head still isn’t all there - he’s cold and clammy and so fucking tired despite sleeping all day. Maybe he’s caught a virus or something, but Ed and Stede are fine. Or maybe it’s just the stress of new café ownership - they’ve survived the first two months, are even starting to turn a profit, but the effort sure took a toll on his body and mind. Is feeling sick from exhaustion a thing? He steps away from the pot to write a post-it note for his next therapy session, jumps when he hears someone inhale at his back.
“Oh, that smells lovely!” Stede swoons as he enters the kitchen. Izzy hums in agreement and resists the urge to tuck the note away in a panic. Not like Bonnet hasn’t had a whole army of shrinks digging around in his brain. But Izzy isn’t in the mood to discuss it, not at this time of night. And the sight of Stede admittedly helps to distract him from it all - he looks both out of place and incredibly at home here, leaning against their kitchen cupboard in nothing but thick socks, boxer shorts and Ed’s ratty old Queen hoodie. Izzy wonders if Stede even knows any of their songs but doesn't get the chance to ask before Ed comes padding in. He’s limping slightly, tries to cover a pained hiss with a swish of his bathrobe when he sits down.
“Platform heels,” Ed admits when Izzy raises an eyebrow. And of course the knee brace would have ruined the outfit, Izzy can guess as much. He finds he’s too tired to remind his husband of his physical limitations and just starts ladling cocoa into three cups. At Ed’s puppy-eyed blinking, he adds a heaping teaspoon of sugar and a handful of mini marshmallows to the purple mug. It’s worth the trouble and the dentist bills when his husband’s quiet “thanks, love” warms him up more than the hot chocolate ever could.
“Mmh, this is- oh-” On the other side of the table, Bonnet starts coughing. “Spicy,” he finally chokes out.
“Red chili flakes. Trying it out for the shop.” Izzy takes a sip of his own drink. It tastes alright to him - the heat is there but fairly mild, just a pleasant tingle on his tongue. Ed giggles as he pats their sputtering boyfriend on the back.
“It’s perfect, Iz. Chases the cold right out of your bones. Eh, Stede?”
“Quite.” Bonnet’s eyes are brimming with tears, his cheeks bright red as he pushes his cup over to Ed’s side. “Though I think maybe my bones are warm enough now.”
Ed is still teasing Stede ten minutes later when Izzy’s body finally gives out.
“Bed?” is all he can manage from where he’s resting his forehead against the blessedly cool table top.
“You go ahead, I’ll wash up,” Stede offers and Izzy lets Ed pull him to the bedroom with minimal resistance. He can always put the dishes in their proper place tomorrow.
Soon enough, Izzy is dozing off again, Ed’s chest rising and falling in steady breaths under his cheek. Drifting in from the kitchen, he hears the gentle clink of ceramic, the trickle of water and Stede’s hauntingly off-key rendition of “Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?”
And, well, that answers that question.