Chapter Text
Izzy’s flat is warm.
He looks down into his whisky. Half-drunk, half-full. Can’t tell the difference. There had been two fingers, or maybe more, because Bonnet had poured and had actually used his thick fingers to measure. There’s less now.
The flat is warm, and the traitorous cat, who has barely not been feral in the 12 years Izzy has had him, is curled up in Bonnet’s lap, purring to beat the band.
This was a bad idea. It was fine out in the cold, with the pain in his leg and the burn of the smoke in his lungs to anchor him, but the prosthesis is off, removed in the foyer along with his other boot, and Bonnet had just watched him take it off with the same warm, open curiosity he used to watch Fang demonstrate a casting technique down at the studio.
Izzy’s so used to people looking away.
Bonnet’s not a whisky drinker. He’s toying with it, taking tiny sips from where his ice has melted and floated to the top and making a little face every time he swallows, and it was funny at first, but now it’s insulting. Possibly insulting first, funny now. Both at once.
They’re not talking. Vince Guaraldi is on the stereo, and the next CD in the exchanger is either Wham! or the Tallis Scholars, and Izzy’s got to sort out which before this disc is over, because yes, he’d invited Bonnet over for a drink, but some things are meant to be private, and Izzy’s feelings about George Michael are near the top of that list.
Izzy shifts on the sofa as he considers grabbing a crutch and addressing the disc problem now, and Stede’s watching him again. It’s only up to Linus and Lucy. There’s time. He settles back, readjusts, takes a long, slow sip. The peat smoke hits his sinuses and he exhales slowly to savour it. Outside, it’s still snowing, and the wind has kicked up. There are worse things, he supposes, than being overwarm indoors with a purring cat and a mouthful of Scotch and an odd posh twat on your sofa.
Then Bonnet opens his mouth. Never mind.
“Does it hurt?”
“Does what hurt?”
“Your leg.”
Izzy looks at him, and cannot shake the thought that it takes a very different life than the one Izzy had been born to to wear your every thought on your face. Bonnet’s expression is wide open. Concern, but not pity. Interest, but not morbid. Izzy wishes his eyes would pick a color and stick with it.
He shrugs. “Depends.”
“On?”
“What you mean.”
“Right now. Are you in pain?”
“No.”
“Oh,” Stede says. “Good,” and he takes another tiny sip of his whisky water.
Izzy sighs. “There’s wine in the pantry if you’d prefer, or cider in the fridge.”
“No, thank you. I’m still –”
“You don’t like it.”
“It’s –”
“You don’t like it.”
Stede takes the bait and then a sip, a proper one this time, and the spreading look of horror on his face is better than the sunrise.
“You enjoy this? People, in general, they enjoy this? They drink this? On purpose?”
“Cider’s in the fridge, Bonnet.”
“You’re not just taking the piss?”
“Call it an acquired taste.”
One eyebrow up, a shadow of a grin.“I’m good at acquiring tastes.”
“Cider. Fridge. You’re wasting my good whisky.”
“It’s already poured.”
“And if you give it to me and go get the fucking cider, I can enjoy it before the ice melts entirely.”
Horace protests as Stede gets to his feet, and Izzy accepts the glass from him, He takes a sip, grimaces. Fishes the ice cubes out with his fingers, tosses them into the dirt of the potted fern on the window sill. Little Christmas thrill for it.
“We went up to Scotland once,” Izzy tells him when he’s back with his cider. “Just before we opened the studio. Ostensibly to source some materials, but…” He shrugs. “Got to go down into a couple little cellars and taste the really good stuff. Spoiled me for years after for the plonk I could afford.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“Don’t know why you would.”
“I –”
“No. No, I didn’t mean it that way. Just – it was a two day trip, a long time ago. Yeah?”
Stede nods. Horace yawns. The wind rattles the windows in their frames.
“May I have my glass back?”
Izzy stretches to hand it over, and Stede nods again, a short, sharp jerk. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He brings the glass to his lips. Eyes closed. Inhale. His Adam’s apple bobs again. The face he pulls at the taste looks like the Popeye squeeze toy Izzy had had when he was a lad: tongue lolling, eyes bulging.
“No?”
“Ugh, no. Sorry, I thought – it’s even worse. It’s like – like –”
“‘The contents of a columbarium decanted into a dirty athletic sock,’” Izzy tells him. “One of the distilleries had placards on the wall with descriptions. That one stuck with me.”
“But you drink it.”
“I like it."
Stede shakes his head. The CD player chunks over. Izzy holds his breath.
Spem in alium nunquam habui
Praeter in te, Deus Israel
Stede makes his excuses a while later. The snow has drifted up against the door, but Stede insists that a walk will do him good.
“Thank you,” he tells Izzy, looking down at him with a strange, drawn, tired smile. “Really.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean it –”
“Yeah.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“No it isn’t,” Izzy says, but he knows the corners of his eyes are betraying him when Stede ducks his head to hide a smile.
“Iz–”
“Goodnight.”
“Night-night.”
The door closes behind him. Izzy looks at the stairs, and down at his crutches. He brushes his teeth in the kitchen and curls up on the faintly vetiver scented sofa, Horace purring in his ear.
When he wakes, early the next morning, everything is white and crisp and still. Outside, the faint indentations of half snowed-over footprints down the walk. Inside, Bonnet’s scarf, still on the hat tree.
Fuck.