Chapter 1: Why Should I Wake up
Summary:
Ed has been through a tough time and a traumatic event and struggles to unpick reality from delusion.
Chapter Text
Ed has never felt more beautiful. Radiant. Light. Floaty.
Woozy, too.
Must be the champagne. Has he drunk any champagne yet? Must have or he wouldn’t feel all warm and drifty. Stands to reason, right? Yeah, champagne. His stomach does feel kinda sore. Like all those bubbles are pinging around inside like a thousand pinballs, leaving teeny, fizzy bruises wherever they make contact.
But it’s cool. He’s happy.
Ed’s so happy. Euphoric, really. His heart feels like it could burst out of his chest. Like it’s really trying to. So much so that his chest fucking aches. Burns like a motherfucker. Like someone’s branding initials into his heart.
S.B. burned right through his sternum. Through tissue and bone. All the way into his heart. Running right through from front to back. Top to bottom. Like a stick of Brighton rock.
“...and there may be some swelling…”
Yup, swelling, that’s it. Whoever that was - guest, maybe? - they’re right on the money. He’s swelling up. Guess that’s how love feels. Filling him like a balloon, swelling and expanding until he’s taut all round. Fit to burst and shower glittering shards of bright joy all over everything.
Like the confetti. The shining, mirror-bright confetti that had littered the…church? Hotel? Can't quite remember. Did someone throw it before the ceremony? Is that bad luck or some shit like that? But it had been so glittery, reflecting the streaks of red fairy lights as they streaked by - why the fuck had they picked red fairy lights?
The confetti had covered Ed, sprinkling starlight sparkles in his hair and across his skin. The twinkly little shards were so fine that, when Ed had tried to brush them off, his hand had stung and bled. But stars are suns, right? So it makes sense that you shouldn’t touch them. Can’t touch the sun with your finger and expect not to get hurt.
The thousand tiny stars had glowed with an ethereal blue light, which was still slowly strobing from… somewhere. It had been so bright in Ed’s eyes, he had to squint as the hazy silhouette of people had approached him. The DJ, maybe. Lights from the DJ booth. Why they hadn’t gone with a live band Ed doesn’t know.
He really doesn’t know.
Doesn’t matter. What matters is that Ed is beautiful. So pretty in his white dress with the little pattern of…dots? Diamonds? Something like that. Weird choice but then the whole thing has been a bit of a blur. Feels like they made a lot of weird choices. Still, he loves his white, diamond-crusted, scratchy dress with the short sleeves.
Whoever did his make up was kind of heavy handed though. Gone at him too hard with the sponges and brushes and whatnot. Like they were trying to stamp a new face onto his own. No need. Ed’s pretty. Doesn’t need all that much doing. Definitely not so much that it feels like his face might be bruised under the make up. Especially his left eye. He will not be leaving a good review for….um…
Church! It must have been a church. There were bells. A cacophony of bells. The rich tone of the glissando had been so overwhelmingly jubilant that, close up, it had taken on the grating, raucous whine of sirens.
Let the bells ring! Loud as they fucking want. It’s his day.
Their day.
And Stede thinks he’s pretty, he said so. Even with his printing-pressed makeup and his scratchy, patterned dress that’s too short.
Stede’s pretty too. Even though the last time Ed had seen him, he’d looked sick with nerves. That’s to be expected but, man! Stede looked really tense. Grey. As white as Ed’s scratchy dress. With inky smudges of eyeshadow the colour of headstones smeared under his eyes.
Why was he so tense? Everything had gone how they planned, hadn't it? They’d read their own vows. Ed couldn’t really remember his own but he knew they’d been sincere. Earnest. Right from the heart.
Stede’s had been intense. Brittle pleas, wrapped thickly with desperation, bubble wrap around a fragile glass trinket.
“Don’t leave me!” Stede had begged. “Ed, please, stay with me. I’m here, Ed. I’m right here.”
So emotional, that guy. But it’s one of the many things Ed likes about Stede. He wears his heart on his sleeve. Best be careful keeping it there. Just in case the scalpel-sharp, starburst confetti were to shower down on it, like a meteor storm, and tear it to shreds.
“...best to send him for imaging…”
Fuck, he’s not ready for photos.
“My hair’s a mess.” Wow, Ed should have another glass of champagne. His throat is dry. Feels like he swallowed a desert. The words scrape out like sand trickling down the side of a dune.
“Ed? Ed! Sweetheart, can you hear me?”
“My hair…”
“Oh darling, no. You look so pretty. Don’t worry about that now.”
Sweetheart. Darling. Every time Ed hears those words, it’s like hearing them for the first time. It makes his skin tickle, silken threads drifting across his nerves. So delicate but so strong.
When was the first time Stede had called him sweetheart? Or darling. Well, this is fucking embarrassing, not remembering something like that. Today of all days.
“...next of kin…”
Ah, about fucking time! The signing of the register.
Stede lets out a little bubbly sob. It’s sweet, like a merperson hiccoughing. Though it sounds a little like drowning.
So, that would be Stede then. He’s Ed’s next of kin now, right?
Kin.
Family.
Home.
They’re going to be a home for each other. Write their name in a register and on each other’s hearts in permanent ink. Maybe forge a new name. Brand it into Ed’s aching chest, alongside the S.B. that’s already glowing there. On the lintel above the threshold of the home they’re building for each other.
And it’s been so long since Ed’s been home. Why did they wait so long? Ed knows it’s bad luck to see the bride before the big day but, seriously, it felt like fucking months.
“I’m not sure.” Stede sounds lost. Like he doesn’t know what to write. What to carve. But it’s okay because Ed knows.
“Teach-Bonnet.” The sand rasps and crackles from his throat, pouring through an hourglass. Marking time. Counting down the seconds until they can be alone together in their safe space.
“Shhh, sweetheart. Try to rest.” Stede’s voice is soft and warm. Ragged at the edges. Like a favourite robe, worn but so comforting. “You’ve had such a long day. You should get some rest.”
Ain’t that the fucking truth. Ed feels like he hasn’t slept in weeks.
Maybe he could sleep. Stede will be there when he wakes up. Every time he wakes up. Forever.
Ed might just grab a little shut-eye. Then they can set about christening that home of theirs.
He wants Stede to lie down next to him. Tuck up against him and wrap around him, that voice as lovely as a robe as it folds around Ed. Warms him. Caresses his skin with all the soft luxuriance of velvet. Ed flexes his hand, hoping Stede will take it so that Ed can pull him into bed.
Dickfuck! What the fuck is this now? A deep, throbbing ache thunders through his hand, rolling up his wrist like a runaway boulder.
The dune shifts and more sand trickles down as Ed tries to whimper.
Is the fucking ring too tight? Hardly likely. Stede’s rings have always been too big for Ed’s more slender fingers. Those thick, strong fingers of Stede’s close gently, warm and solid around Ed’s other hand. The one that isn’t trapped under a rockfall right now.
“Keep still, darling. It’s alright. I’m here. I’m here now. I’ll never leave again. You’re safe. I’m here.”
It is alright. Ed is safe. Stede is here.
And isn’t that all that Ed wanted?
For the first time in what feels like forever, a gossamer veil falls over Ed’s face, a tender shield against the bright, loud world.
Ed sleeps.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ed gasps awake with the violent speed of a triggered mousetrap. His spring releases with a burst of murderous energy, his body trying to jerk itself upright like it wants to examine its poor victim.
Everything.
Fucking.
Hurts.
Ed doesn’t make it even a fifth of the way to sitting upright before he’s forced back down by the crushing weight of pain. Searing, squeezing agony.
Through a sickening haze of hurt, Ed recognises, with mounting terror, that he's not the trap. He’s the fucking mouse. Trapped. Broken. Scared.
A pathetic, rodent squeak burrows its way out of his arid throat.
He collapses back on to sheets and pillows that feel as unyielding as boulders under his bruised, sore body.
What the fuck? What the fuck is happening? When did Ed become a mouse?
But he has. His heart rate skitters fast as tiny, scrabbling claws can run and he knows, in that racing, fibrillating heart that his destiny is to end up as a damp pile of squashed fur. It’s happening even now. Even as he lies here, helpless to prevent the trap pressing down onto him.
He squints against the too-bright light, desert sun jabbing needles into his eyes. His vision has whited out from the pain, and he’s trapped inside a cloud. Not the kind that provides brief, cooling shade over burning sands. The kind that pumps out of power station chimneys. The toxic white of pollution, of incremental destruction. His very own, personal environmental catastrophe.
But, no. That’s not what it is. As the cloud dissipates into wisps of vapour, Ed sees that he’s staring at polystyrene ceiling tiles. A grid of dirty-white squares - the world’s worst chessboard - above him. The only playing pieces visible are circular fluorescent lights. Maybe it’s a draughts board then. Each player using the same colour counters, just to really sap any potential enjoyment from the game.
Ed closes his eyes again, shutting out the stabbingly bright onslaught of electric game pieces. He can hear the lights buzzing, but that could just be the reverberations of the pain squirreling through him, plucking his nerve endings with thousands of little claws. Or maybe it’s the vibration of his rabbiting heartbeat. Ed really can’t tell what’s coming from inside or out.
He feels so fucking woozy. No longer the lovely, champagne-tipsiness from before, oh no. This is the bleary, poisoned feeling of waking up at 4 a.m. and staggering to the bathroom to puke, still blackout drunk from the whole fucking bottle of cheap, gasoline rum you drank. Of course you did, you fucking child. Or maybe he’d been chloroformed by unknown assailants with an unspecified but definitely nefarious agenda. Maybe they want to harvest Ed’s kidneys - that would explain the acrid, antiseptic smell - or maybe his liver. They’re fucking welcome to it. It’s probably not speaking to Ed any more. Not after the last few months.
Fuck, he’s thirsty. Parched. He tries to swallow but there’s still only hot, grazing sand in his throat. Another mousey sound escapes him. Lower in pitch this time but just as pathetic.
And there’s movement. Weight shifting near him, causing a slight disturbance in the surface he’s lying on -mattress? And a noise. A snuffly sort of snort that blurs the edges of an already incoherent question. The vocal but non-verbal version of “Wha’?”
Agan, Ed peels open his aching, dry eyes, crusted shut by years, centuries, of scouring sandstorms. He turns his head to look in the noise’s direction and the whole place tilts and spins. The world's worst checkerboard swims and becomes the bars of Ed’s mouse cage. Someone’s picking it up and shaking it. Some over-eager, giant toddler who wants to see Mouse Ed run. But Mouse Ed doesn’t want to run. He wants to cower and quake. He’s trembling, sick and disoriented. He wants out. Wants that kid's parent to lift the lid and let him escape. Fuck off, kid!
More of that shifting, the thin mattress beneath Ed rocking sickeningly as he's hurled from the desert onto the surface of a cruel, colourless sea. His swirling, seasick gaze lands on golden sand. More fucking sand! But this is a gorgeous, tropical island in the bleached bone-white, scratchy ocean Ed’s adrift in. It moves, lifts, grows; a sunny, warm continent being born out of desolate waves.
“Ed? Ed! I’m here. I’m here. You’re safe.”
Stede.
The continent of Stede. Where Ed lives.
Home. With their names etched into the lintel.
Except…
But that’s not… Not where Ed lives.
The last time he saw Stede was…at the wedding?
In a theatre bar?
In a different dirty white checkerboard room.
And Stede was there, with Ed. At his side. Where he hadn’t been. For…months?
And Ed should have felt safe but he hadn’t. He didn’t.
He felt lost. Sick. Broken.
Abandoned.
Stede’s eyes, the colours of twilight over the sea, of dawn breaking through palm trees, are fixed on Ed, and they look haunted. Terrified. Exhausted. Stede doesn’t look like he feels safe either. That means there’s danger. For both of them.
Ed squeezes the hand he hadn’t even known he was clutching and Stede squeezes back, python tight. Clinging to Ed like a lifeline.
“Ed, come back to me. Ed, please. Say something.”
That’s not a voice from a place of safety. There’s hope but it’s almost buried under harmonics of desperation. Jangling chords of panic and fear.
Ed gulps down another bellyful of sand and parts his cracked lips.
“Scared.” It grates out of him, rough as pumice stone rasping against granite.
Stede sobs. A towering boiling wave of a sob that threatens to engulf this new-born continent before it’s even made it onto the map.
“So was I.” Stede’s voice is quiet, fragile, brittle. “But it’s alright. You're safe now.”
The python coils tighter around Ed’s hand and he grips back. Trying desperately to pull himself ashore. To stop himself from being sucked back out to sea by the retreating tidal wave of Stede’s sob. Trying not to get swallowed by the wet, dragging quicksand underneath him. But it’s hard. It’s too hard and he’s too tired and broken. And he’s just a little mouse, he can’t fight against elemental forces like this. He closes his eyes again and lets the sand take him.
As it fills his ears and coats his eyes, Ed hears an overwrought, strung-out benediction chasing after him.
“You’re alive.”
Ed sleeps.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ed swims groggily up through the opaque, soup-thick waters of consciousness. It’s hard going and makes his whole body ache. Especially his chest. Fuck, it hurts when he tries to heave in a breath as his head finally breaches the gelatinous surface. Vague, indistinct memories bob around in the broth. Floating past him as he treads water, exhausted and confused, trying not to drown.
Rushing lights streaming past.
His shoulders pinned to the seat by a sudden burst of speed.
Then an abrupt and diabolical cessation of movement.
Chaotic, cacophonous, crunching, cracking, crumpling clamour.
His phone, gripped tight in his hand as a voice, shrieking some incomprehensible language, chittered and howled from inside the device.
The lurid dayglow green of a paramedic’s jacket as they asked him questions in that same unintelligible language. Ed might have spoken it once too, but he doesn’t anymore. Total gibberish.
Pain.
Lots of pain.
Flavoured with the cloying tastes of guilt and fear, and a loneliness so sharp that it hollowed him out.
Flavours he can still taste in the soupy darkness.
He groans. Seems like a sensible thing to do.
“Well, fuck me. It lives.”
The familiar, gramophone rasp has Ed’s eyes jolting open and snapping shut immediately, camera-shutter quick. The mallet of a migraine smacks him square on the left side of his brow bone.
“Dickfuck!” Ed hisses between his teeth. He tries to lift his left hand to rub the spot of the hammer blow but his hand feels like it’s in a vice. Someone’s taking a chisel to his ribs with every breath, and his knee feels like it’s being shot with a nail gun. Ed’s rolling uselessly around in a fucking toolbox when he should be trying to fix himself. Patch up all the gaping holes that are letting the pain pour in.
“Lovely to see you too.” The gravelly drawl is unrelentingly sarcastic and it grazes Ed’s already shredded nerves, but at least he understands the language again.
Very, very slowly, Ed cracks open his left eye, which doesn’t shatter like a tapped egg. That’s something. Then, slow as continental drift, Ed opens his left eye. A bit. It only opens a sliver and already it feels like it’s been boiled in acid. Stinging, hot and taut with pressure. He lets it close again. Okay. So for now, Ed has just the one eye. That’s enough. For now. Didn’t hold the cyclopses back, did it? But then, they were giants. Ed’s just a little mouse.
Next, his head. He takes in a double-edged breath and, morphia slow, turns his head so that his poor, uncoupled left eye can focus on the source of that sarcasm.
Izzy’s face is shuttered.
It’s been a while since Izzy had looked at Ed with any emotion that could be considered warm. Except for scorching derision. Incandescent anger. And, that one time, with searing disbelief, shock and hurt. Real, crushing physical and emotional agony.
Fuck.
“What are you doing here? Ed mumbles through a mouthful of wire wool. “Thought you were never speaking to me again.”
Izzy’s look is so old-fashioned it’s wearing a fucking pocketwatch. “Where the fuck else would I be?”
Unable to meet Izzy’s unwavering gaze with his one good eye, Ed carefully casts a myopic gaze around the room. Ceiling tiles in a grid, looking all innocuous, not at all like they would quite happily morph into the bars of a cage at any moment. Fucking sneaky, they are. Grey floor with those weird sparkly bits in, like the floors of all shitty high school cafeterias. Shiny speckles that do glitter but somehow manage to do it in a utilitarian, joyless way.
Like shattered glass on tarmac.
Ed’s lying in a metal cage-framed bed, beneath crisp, efficient, white sheets, wearing a crisp, efficient, white gown with little dots like green aspirins all over it, and parts of him are wrapped in crisp, efficient, white bandages. His left hand. His left knee. His left ankle. The sheets, the gown, the bandages. They all scratch at him. Like fellow mice, caught in the bed cage with him. Little furry siblings in captivity, scrabbling at him to forge an escape plan. It’s not comforting. It’s not comfortable. It fucking itches.
“Where the fuck is here?” Ed croaks, throat dry as sandpaper.
“Hospital.” Izzy doesn’t add, “you fucking idiot.” He doesn’t have to. That man could inject venom into a lullaby if he chose.
Ed still feels like he’s got bisque for brains but even he has figured that out, fuck you very much. The monitors by the bed, the IV drip, the other fucking thing that Ed doesn’t know the name of, all attached to him with thick, trailining, shimmering tubes. A giant spider started spinning a web around him before deciding Ed wasn’t worthy prey. He shudders at the thought. Mice he could cope with but spiders…no thanks.
“More than one fucking hospital,” Ed grumbles, raising his left hand, the one with the drip attached, to his face and clumsily brushing away some loose tendrils of hair. They keep drifting against his cheek and that cobweb tickle is not helping with the whole giant spider thing.
“Guys and St Thomas'. It was close by,” Izzy supplies, tone as dry as Ed’s throat. “Thank fuck.” There’s a sharp edge of accusation to those words but something brittle too. Fragile. Ed looks back at Izzy and he catches a glint of that fragile thing. It melts away, snowflake-fast, but not before it silently forms the words ‘couldn’t have coped.’
There’s a lump of flint in Ed’s throat and a ball of slate in his heart. He tries to swallow them both down, let the sand inside him erode them until they’re small enough to digest. They taste of guilt. Fear. Shame.
“How long?” Ed mumbles.
“Nearly three days.”
Three days? Three fucking days?
Ed’s lost days before. Of course he fucking has. Sometimes deliberately, with booze and drugs and hot, nameless companions. Sometimes, though, it’s because his trauma brain has done him what feels like a fucking favour and eradiated memories so jagged that they could gouge holes in his tattered, moth-eaten soul.
“I don’t remember.” Ed plucks aimlessly at the edge of the bandage around his wrist, face hot with shame. For what, he’s got no idea, but it feels warranted.
“Course you fucking don’t. They’ve had you doped up to the eyeballs on opioids,” Izzy scoffs before his voice gentles, just a bit. “You wouldn’t want to anyway. Not from what I’ve heard.” And there’s another flurry. A snow shower of remembered icy dread and freezing helplessness.
“Well, lucky me then. Free drugs and no fucking clue how it all happened. Like our first year in Hollywood.” Ed’s jovial tone is soap bubble thin and shimmering.
Izzy snorts a brusque laugh, not popping the bubble as Ed half-expected him to, but letting it drift by, unremarked upon.
“Not sure I’d do more of these though,” Ed continues. “Feel dizzy as fuck.”
“That’ll be the concussion, you twat,” Izzy rebukes but there’s no heat in it. Maybe even an echo of affection.
“They really fuck with your guts too. Feel sick as a dog. Seriously man, opioids sound great but the fun bit wears off fast.”
“I know.” The little bubble of synthetic mirth bursts when it bumps against the dull edge of those softly spoken words.
Ed looks over at Izzy and finds he’s staring levelly back at Ed, his eyes unreadable. One hand scratching idly at the plaster cast that encompasses his entire left leg up to the thigh.
And Ed remembers that. His trauma brain checked out of that challenge, not capable or willing to even attempt to throw a blanket over any of that night. Won't let Ed build a pillow fort and hide away in blissful ignorance from those tumbling images.
Ed, alcohol-soaked but agile as ever, diving into the driver’s seat of the van before Frenchie could get in. “Take the day off, brother.” Cackling with deranged humour as he assures the rest of the cast, all of whom are suddenly talking in voices taut with faux calm, that he’ll take the wheel, no worries.
Izzy, jaw clenched and voice raw with barely suppressed disgust. Demanding Ed stop being a twat and get out. Standing in front of the van, face ghost-white in the glare of the headlights.
Ed revving the engine. A joke. A warning. A threat.
The suspended moment of instant horror, stretching impossibly like heated bubblegum, gross and tacky, as Ed felt his foot slipping - total, genuine accident - off the clutch.
The jackrabbit jolt as the van lurched forward.
The fleeting glimpse of disbelief, shock, fear on Izzy’s face before he went down.
The scream.
The screams from all around.
The blood.
The intermittent, flashing blue lights glowing purple in the blood. Purple. Ed’s favourite colour.
The eventual numbing blackout. Ed’s other favourite colour.
Izzy swathed in crisp, efficient, white sheets, robed in a crisp, efficient, white gown, leg encased in crisp, efficient, white bandages. Screaming at Ed with crisp, efficient fury, to get out of his hospital room and never come back.
Ed’s stomach rolls nauseatingly. It’s not the drugs.
“Iz..” He licks dry lips with a dry tongue. “M’sorry about your leg.” The words creak out of his barren throat, dragging an arid sob behind them. They rasp and grate like an industrial sander as they tear their way free, but Ed welcomes the soreness, the raw burn. There had been a span of several hours, fuck knows how many, where all he wanted to do was to say those words. To have the chance to say them to a very angry but very alive Izzy. And for those several hours there had been doubt as to whether he'd get that chance.
Catastrophic blood loss.
Hours of surgery.
And Ed had sat on those back-breakingly uncomfortable, plastic chairs, nursing a cocktail of remorse, equal parts sickening and sobering. Hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of water or sleep or shifting position to alleviate the worsening aches. Not until the brisk nurse had found him, shot him a glare of reproving judgement, which he totally deserved, and told him that Izzy was stable, resting, and indications were good that they would be able to save the leg.
Izzy’s level stare doesn't waver but it deepens somehow. There’s a shoal of unconducted conversations flitting about in the depths of his eyes. Recriminations, regrets. Accusations, absolutions.
The silence stretches between them in bubblegum time. Ed’s heart feels stretched thin too. Stringy, sticky strands getting thinner and more likely to break if they’re pulled too far.
A tiny quirk at the corner of Izzy’s mouth, just a flicker of a muscle, but it’s there. Soft and bright as a candle flame. And Ed’s heart coalesces, returns to its former solidity. A block of bubblegum, fresh and cherry-flavoured, folded in a pretty, shiny wrapper.
“Me too. But it’ll heal.” He holds Ed’s gaze. “It’ll take ages and it’ll fucking hurt. Might not be the same as before but it’ll get better.” Izzy’s tone is lighter, almost flippant. It holds a ring of finality, though. A bell tolling the end of that conversation.
Ed’s not stupid. He doesn’t mistake it for forgiveness. But it’s way more than Ed deserves. He’ll take it. He’ll take it and tuck away in his aching chest.
“Glad to hear it.” Ed lets his own candle flame smile shine back at Izzy. “Sorry they took away the fun drugs though.”
“S’fine.” Izzy leans, slightly awkwardly, to grab a water bottle with an inbuilt straw from the table beside Ed’s bed. Which Ed hadn’t even fucking noticed or he would have been all over that shit the second his one good eye opened. Izzy leans awkwardly and hands it to Ed who gulps greedily at it, feeling the water start to quench his thirst. “They fucked with my mind. Started seeing things. Even hallucinated that I had a fucking unicorn.”
Ed full-on fucking chokes. Tears stream from his eyes, stealing away the precious, newly-recovered fluid from his body. Wracking coughs wrench through his sore - so fucking sore - chest. There’s an tricky moment where Izzy, unable to lean forward very well because of his unbending broken leg, tries to take the bottle from Ed, who cant lean forward to pass it to him because of the searing agony in his torso, and the fact that he’s fucking choking.
“A unicorn?” Ed splutters, once he’s able to force breath into his burning lungs. “Shit, man! Was it pink? Did it shit rainbows? What did you name it? Twinkle-Tits?”
“Fuck you, Eddie. You’re not getting the water back now.”
Ed shoots a pleading, puppy gaze at Izzy. It’s never worked before, not on Iz, but he’s hoping the fact that he is clearly in actual physical pain might add weight to it. For whatever reason, Izzy relents and tosses the bottle so it lands by Ed’s hip. He picks it back up and sucks gratefully at the straw.
His hand rests on the spot where the water bottle fell and, all of a sudden, he’s picturing golden curls there. Sleepy snuffles.
“Fuck.” It’s barely a whisper but Izzy catches it and raises an eyebrow. “Nothing, mate. Think I’ve been hallucinating a bit myself.” Ed drops his eye (singular) back to the sheets and his chest aches again. A low, throbbing ache of regret. “Thought there was someone here with me before.” His voice is a deep, soft murmur. Maybe if he says it softly enough, the sound won’t disturb the illusion and he can keep it for a while longer. “Doesn’t matter.”
Izzy’s doing that level gaze thing again. Studying Ed. It’s fucking annoying, actually. Izzy can fuck off with that shit, budding reconciliation be damned. Izzy’s jaw moves a few times, as though he’s chewing over some words, taste-testing them before deciding.
“He was here.”
The filmy fabric of the illusion ripples, thickens, takes on a heavier denier. Warm skin sliding over his, palm to palm. Shot-silk eyes glittering from blue to gold and through to green, trimmed in pink and stained underneath with headstone smudges. Satin smooth lips brushing the undamaged side of his forehead.
Stede.
“He was here?” Ed’s voice is gossamer thin, could snag and tear at any moment.
“He was here,” Izzy confirms gently, no sharp edges.
“When they brought you in. He’s been here the whole time. He called me.”
Ed’s head jerks around to look at the door, causing another mushroom cloud of migraine to bloom in his skull, sending shockwaves of nausea rolling through his belly.
“Easy,” Izzy advises, still soft and smooth-edged. “I sent him home a few hours ago.” Ed sinks back into the pillows, eyes closed, waiting for the tremors of nausea, headache and sudden, earth-shattering, panicked excitement to quell.
Izzy seems to recognise that Ed needs a minute, needs time to recalibrate, so he fills the space with idle banter. “He was starting to get on my nerves. He needed to get some sleep. And have a fucking shower. He was starting to smell worse than you.”
Despite the roiling emotions and physical disturbances he’s trying to master, Ed lets out a weak guffaw. Izzy’s probably not wrong. Ed’s mouth feels furry and sour. His skin feels clammy and tight, and he can smell the natural oils of his hair on the pillow. “Not much I can do about that, mate.”
“Not true, ya lazy bastard. If you deign to stay awake for longer than five minutes, one of the healthcare assistants said he can help you have a wash, clean your teeth, wash your hair. Generally turn you into less gross company.”
“Let’s do that, then.” It won’t settle his internal turmoil but the least Ed can do is try to be more presentable for when Stede comes back.
If he comes back.
Does Ed want that? Fuck! Suddenly he’s not sure.
Ed longs for Stede. Had done for months, but that longing had been thickly coated with a veneer of rage, varnished with malice, and lacquered with a badly applied but impenetrable patina of not giving a fuck. Painted over and over in a desperate attempt to hide the cracked and peeling undercoat of pure, raw hurt. He suspected it always showed through, no matter how many coats he slathered over it.
And now there’s so much more hurt. Real, physical damage that Ed is pretty sure he’s the sole motherfucking cause of. Victim and perpetrator. He had been feeling so brittle, on the brink of total implosion, for so long. If he sees Stede now, while his body feels as strained, as bruised, as violated as his heart, there’s a very real chance he’ll crumble to dust. No putting the pieces back together again. No pieces to pick up. Just desolate sand.
Izzy is heaving himself to his feet, grabbing for his crutches and slowly shuffling closer to the bed. He picks up a little button attached to a cable, and presses it. He looks down at Ed. Ed doesn’t look back. Doesn’t want Izzy to see the cracks. See what’s under them. Izzy fucking knows. Of course he does. But Ed doesn’t have to show him.
A thought occurs to Ed. He looks up.
“How did he know?”
“Know what?” It sounds like a genuine question, no undercurrent of evasion.
“That I was here. That they were bringing me here.” Ed didn’t even know how he ended up here, so how the fuck could Stede?
“You called him. From the crash. Before the ambulance arrived. You called him from the car.”
His phone in his hand. The howling voice.
“He said you weren’t making a lot of sense but he pieced enough together to work it out. Then you hung up.” There’s an edge of accusation to Izzy’s tone. Reproving him for not doing a better job of asking to be saved. How the fuck could he expect that from Ed? Ed’s shit at that. Always has been. And the few times he’s tried he’s ended up sinking deeper, or adrift, or totally fucking marooned. Fuck, Izzy had tied his fair share of weights to Ed over the years.
But Izzy is here now and he feels more like a raft than he ever has before. Ed bites down his rising temper. Forces it back behind the cracked facade.
“How did he know they brought me here?”
Izzy gives him a look. “Forget for a minute that a fucking car crash on London Bridge, particularly one involving a fucking Hollywood actor, would be all over the socials in seconds. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he’s not stupid.” Izzy smirks slightly, which seems totally inappropriate. “But, apparently, you’re still sharing your location with him.”
Full stop. Point scored. Smirk earned.
Ed splutters into defensive speech. “Dickfuck, no I’m not.”
The smirk has grown up into a fully fledged leer now. “You are. All these months of ‘cutting the fucker out like a cancer’ and he’d been able to see where you are any time he cared to look.” Izzy eases himself back into his chair, the self-satisfied look wavering only for a second as he winces, but then it’s back with a vengeance. “While you were shagging everything that moved in Cuba. Those nights you went and stood outside the theatre like a fucking psycho fan.”
“Fuck, he knows about that?” Ed all but yells, his underused vocal cords quavering under the strain.
“Dunno, but I do.” Izzy’s expression sobers.
“You were stalking me?” Ed narrows his eye as best he can and tries to shoot daggers at Izzy. The best he can manage is flicking needles.
“No. But I booked your accommodation in Cuba, didn’t I? Paid the housekeeper to keep an eye out. Make sure you weren’t OD-ing in the pool or something equally stupid.”
Ed presses his lips together and doesn’t reply. Can’t really say anything to that. The constant supply of rum, drugs and lithe, friendly bodies didn’t combine into a particularly risk-free lifestyle. Thankfully Ed had at least had the presence of mind to use condoms (probably) every time and get tested when he came home.
“As for the theatre…” Izzy lets it hang. That’s a harder pill to swallow than all the ones he took in Cuba. All those nights, standing outside a West End theatre, bundled up in unseasonably warm clothes to try to stay anonymous, staring at a poster of Stede and Mary’s faces, and watching the stage door.
Never seeing Stede leave. Sometimes because self-disgust would overwhelm him and he’d stalk home, or to the nearest dingy bar, and try really hard to pretend that Ed just didn’t exist. That there was no Ed, there was only Blackbeard.
Other times, who knows. Maybe Stede slept at the fucking theatre. Maybe he was out the door before the applause died down. Not likely, though, since the applause got shorter and weaker as the ill-fated run of Much Ado About Nothing went on.
“I paid Ivan to keep an eye on you. He told me.” Ed casts a scowl at Izzy with one baleful eye. “He’s your security. His job is to keep you out of trouble. I needed to know you weren’t going to get yourself arrested doing something fucking dumb.”
That could be his motto.
Edward Teach: doing something fucking dumb since 1975.
It had been dumb. All of it. The whole fucking year. Fuck, the last five years. Ever since he decided to make the massive, uprooting, fucking insane change.
Because what’s the sensible thing to do when you’re a poor, indigenous kid from Aotearoa who suddenly finds himself a success in Hollywood? Getting good gigs, then great gigs. Carving out a career over two decades as a go-to hot, bad guy. Pirate captain, the first big one, the name he hears whispered in bars and restaurants when they think he can't hear. Then bikers, rockstar junkies, the occasional dark, tortured hero. Maybe not A-list but A-list adjacent. Learning to do all his own stunts and fight scenes.
What’s the smart thing to do? Keep taking the gigs, taking the money and quashing the expanding hollowness inside? Ignoring the feeling that you’re always ‘on’. Always auditioning. Even in private with ‘friends’. Can’t be natural. Or soft. Learning to laugh along with them when you stupidly confess you’d love to try a comic role. Try for a romantic lead even. Or some sweet, surreal shit like Wes Andersen makes.
And did Ed do that? Did he fuck. What’s his motto again?
No.
Over the past five years, Ed had taken secret singing lessons. Secret dance lessons, lying to Izzy and everyone else, saying he was trying out a new martial art form. Ed learned how to relax his throat, loosen his jaw. How to breathe the fuck in and let the sound of his voice stream out on currents of sweet melody. Ed learned how to bear his own weight, and find his point of balance. How to let his body bend and flow with the tides of rhythm. How to feel strong and pretty. Powerful and elegant.
And then, the dumbest dumb that had ever been dumbed in the whole of dumb. He had turned down a recurring role in a superhero franchise in favour of, at great personal expense and a fuckton of hard work, setting up a UK-based production company and putting on a West End run of Cabaret.
Dumb.
But, fuck, he had never felt so free. Those early meetings with the creative team, discussing the design aesthetic of the set, the costumes. Weimar Germany elegance meets upscale BDSM club. Delicate black silks and chiffons, billowing below leather straps and silver buckles. A traditional theatre space reworked into an in-the-round, multilevel performance space. Draped with plush velvets and glittering chains, and surrounded by candle-lit cabaret tables and opulent couches.
And then the process of casting his dirty little magnum opus. Coyly proposing that perhaps they should see that Shakespeare guy, the one who’s been shaking things up.
The dude who went from the title role of Henry V to Noises Off and straight into Legally Blonde. The man who, after years of lead roles traditional productions of Shakespeare tragedies and histories, had started fucking shit up. Using his influence as the nepobaby of one of London’s biggest producers to start trying novel, sometimes bizarre, ideas. Kings played as fools, involving physical comedy and circus skills. Gender-swapping title roles or even whole production casts, just to see what it changed. Being extremely vocal about creating more opportunities for under-represented groups in mainstream theatre, and actually developing projects to make that happen.
The guy that had brought Edward Teach to his fucking knees.
And, through it all, Izzy had been there. A short, dark maelstrom of foaming abuse and swirling derision, sure. But always there.
Here now.
Maybe about to help Ed climb back off his dodgy knee. Put him back on his feet.
Maybe.
Or maybe this time he’d cut Ed off at the knees, once and for all.
Time would tell.
A nurse enters the room, startling Ed out of his sunken reverie. She tells him her name is Victoria and she has been caring for him. Says she’s pleased to see him awake. She’s impossibly young to be dealing with the terrible shit she must see every day in this place. She checks Ed’s vitals on the monitor and records them onto the chart, asking him questions in a warm, professional voice with a soothing Nigerian accent. They speak about his state of cleanliness and his pain, which had begun to squeeze, scratch and claw again. Subtly increasing the aggression of its assault since the coughing fit. She administers another dose of pain relief via the IV and assures Ed that he can bathe when he is next awake if he still wants to.
Once she’s left, Ed forces his fuzzy eye, the one that still opens but has now been replaced with a marshmallow, on Izzy.
“Iz.” His voice is all thick and drippy, like caramel sauce.
“Yes, Ed?”
“Tell him not to come.” The caramel must be a little burnt because the words taste bitter.
“You sure?”
Ed manages to cling to the sugary threads of conversation, despite his head being slowly but surely enveloped by candy floss.
“Can’t talk to ‘m. No’ now. No’ like this. Too sore.”
The pink cloud has expanded to wrap around his whole body now. His veins are flowing with heavy syrup but there’s no sugar rush. Just the soporific slide of a pre-bedtime hot chocolate.
“I’ll tell him.”
The words glide over Ed and he feels a cantaloupe smile settle over his face as he slips into morphine-sweet sleep.
Chapter 2: The 30th
Summary:
Stede worries about Ed's wellbeing and whether there is any chance of salvaging anything of their relationship. He provides an essential service that takes him into unfamiliar territory.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Stede is furious. Livid. His blood fizzes and spits, teardrops on a roaring fire.
Every cell in his body drives him forward, with the relentless focus of a sled-dog racing across Arctic tundra. Racing, heart pounding and breath ragged, towards True North.
But instead of the firm, packed snow he needs to achieve the speed he craves, there’s dragging, sucking sand. It slows him down, catches at his heels and wraps clammy fingers of seaweed around his ankles. Hissing, mocking laughter evident in every lick of the waves along the tideline.
And fucking Izzy Hands has no fucking business standing in his way like this.
And when did he get a sword? For that matter, when did Stede?
But that’s what happens when Stede finally reaches him. Swords clashes with sword, a responding clatter, sending a jarring reverberation up Stede’s arm and through his chest, the vibration further disrupting the already-erratic clamour of his heartbeat.
They’re locked together, blade against blade, will against will. Stede implores every muscle in his body to join the fray and overpower the one thing that prevents him from reaching his goal. His destination. His treasure. The sole reason why Stede will fight to his dying breath.
Ed.
Beautiful, perfect Ed. Sharp and brilliant as a glacier, soft and warm as fur.
Ed, who lies at the tideline, supine in the surf, seafoam bubbling white around the left side of his body. The greedy, lecherous waves combing through his long, beautiful hair, tangling it with those seaweed fingers, stretching up from where they coil around his wrist, his knee, his ankle.
And Stede can’t get to him, can’t extract him from those rapacious waves and fronds, to pull him to safety further up the beach. Not with the sand clutching maliciously at his feet and Izzy pressing cold steel closer and closer to Stede’s face.
Despite actively, aggressively and adeptly preventing Stede’s progress, Izzy has the audacity, the gall, the sheer, fucking, nerve to look apologetic!
“Says he doesn’t want you here, Bonnet.” Izzy grates through bared teeth.
How dare he? How dare he deign to honour himself with the role of messenger?
Stede wants to spit hot fury at him, shower him with scorching sparks of righteous indignation. Raze him to the ground and kick sand over the glowing embers.
But he can’t speak. Izzy’s words, which Stede somehow just know are the truth, burn into his exhausted brain, melting the icecap of Stede’s determination. The incandescent anger flares for a rebellious instant but, bereft of fuel, burns itself out completely. It flickers and dies, leaving his lips fused closed and his heart a smouldering lump, crumbling to smoking ashes.
Utterly obliterated, Stede drops his sword and collapses to his knees on the wet sand at Izzy’s feet. The man towers over him, immovable as a mountain, frowning down at him, his steady gaze filled with regret and pity. Stede crumples further under the weight of that expression, so unfamiliar on Izzy’s granite face. He folds forward, pressing his forehead to the damp sand, fingers gouging trenches that the tide immediately licks clean and soothes.
“I’ll let you know what happens.”
And that’s that, isn't it. Stede has been ejected. All he can do is observe from the outside. Press his face to the glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of solace. A possessive, over-zealous fan, desperate for any tiny, broken shard of contact. Staring longingly, his face forlorn and adoring, until he was forcibly moved on.
Izzy's boots turn and begin to step away, then falter. “Thank you.” The words are rough-hewn but solid. “For, y’know. Being here for him.”
Stede feels himself nodding, the fine particles grazing his skin, wishing that Izzy’s appeasement was enough to let himself relinquish the terrible, cloying guilt that’s seeping through his chest. The viscous, toxic tar pit of shame that oozes and fills the space between his cells. Stede knows, deep down, that he ignited those righteous fires of retribution in an attempt to disguise the noxious pitch that fuelled them.
Stede turns his head, his cheek resting on the abrasive ground, to look at Ed, still lying so completely out of reach, motionless and placid as driftwood in the boiling surf. Stede longs to go to him, would drag himself there on his elbows, even if it meant he flayed every inch of skin off his own body.
But Ed doesn’t want him. He knows that now.
So he watches, helpless, pathetic, pitiful, salt spray stinging his eyes, as the seaweed thickens into grasping, covetous tentacles that wind and snake around Ed’s ankle, knee, wrist and head. Inexorably drawing him into the frigid, inky-black water and out of Stede’s sight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stede jolts awake, gasping in a lungful of air that's thick with the rich, dark taste of ink and leather.
He tries to crack open sore eyes, blinking blearily, desperate to scan for Ed. See if there’s any hope that Stede can make it to him in time to drag him from the ocean’s callous embrace. The sand rasps against his cheek. The saltwater tightens his skin as it dries.
But Stede had reached him. Must have. He’d clenched Ed’s hand in his own, hadn’t he? Told Ed that he was there, right there with him. That he would never leave him again.
But the waves had taken him anyway. Dragged Ed away into cold, dark waters where Stede couldn’t follow and wouldn’t be wanted if he did.
But…no. Not the sea.
Scratchy bedsheets against his face. Ed, awake but disoriented. Afraid. Grasping Stede’s hand. Clinging to him. So damaged. Still so pretty. Stede had told him so. He deserved to know.
Stede tries to fight the pull of exhaustion and sweep together the tumbling feathers his brain has become, to shove them back into the pillow as they make a desperate bid to recapture flight.
He rolls his head, resting his forehead on the bedsheet, the mattress unfeasibly hard, and blinks groggily. The bedsheet has a pattern on it. One he hadn’t noticed before. Odd. Not a recurring pattern. A linear, curling thing. Like tentacles writhing across a crisp, white beach. Slowly, the tentacles stop squirming and take on recognisable shapes.
Words.
Words on thick, white writing paper.
Stede’s words. His heartsong. An offering to Ed.
His heart burrows into his stomach, trying to hide itself in the soft tissue there. Protect itself from the stomping feet of recollection, each approaching step causing the ground to tremble, making his hands shake and his lip wobble.
He has been ejected. Refused access to Ed. By Ed.
Salt stings his eyes again. He lifts his head and feels the tears slide free. He watches the ink bloom into watercolour flowers on the page. Black petals shading through indigo and into lilac.
Heal blossoms into a chrysanthemum.
Forgive opens its petals to reveal a hyacinth.
Beg unfurls into a delicate carnation.
Stede’s innermost thoughts and feelings gathered in a bouquet to grace Ed’s bedside. The bedside from which Stede has been banned.
“Says he doesn’t want you here, Bonnet.”
Stede sits upright with a long, luxurious groan of self-indulgent pity. His neck and back are stiff and sore, his hips ache, and his legs are numb in a way that promises definite discomfort will be a part of his imminent future. His eyes feel gritty, his mouth is dry, and his throat is sore. He feels like he hasn’t slept properly in days and has been crying the entire time he’s been awake. It’s possible these things are both true. He’s too exhausted and emotionally drained to know for certain.
Stede collapses against the backrest of his leather office chair and casts a bleary look around the room. His home office is bathed in the sulphur glow of streetlights from beyond the partially-closed curtains. The predawn sky is graphite grey with tungsten rain clouds gathering above the mercury ribbon of the river that winds away below his window.
His heavy oak desk with the inbuilt burgundy leather writing panel holds a small stack of thick writing paper and the case for his fountain pen, which lies abandoned next to the letter he had been crafting when he succumbed to sleep. A crystal whiskey glass stands half empty, a cruel symbol of his prospects for happiness. He grabs it and takes a belligerent swig. Might as well accept his fate and drain the bastard dry. The golden liquor burns his already seared throat and causes a sour sting in his belly, reminding him that he may not have eaten recently.
Stede puts the glass down and heaves himself up from the chair, the crackling static of pins-and-needles blaring through his calves and thighs as he tries to walk some life back into his limbs. He moves stiffly along the corridor to the kitchen where he drinks two large glasses of filtered water in rapid succession. He fills a third from the magic kitchen tap that, at the mere twist of a valve, can dispense hot, cold, fizzy or boiling water. He has a sudden burst of empathy for the tap, having to suffer such extremes. Except that his own valves are malfunctioning. WIth every beat of his heart, the valves could slip and fill him with fizzing determination, cold dread, hot shame, or boiling anger.
He grabs a clean mug from the mug tree, places a tea bag into the mug, twists the mechanism so it hisses steaming hot water into the mug, and allows the familiar, soothing aroma of really good English Breakfast tea to fill his nostrils. He places the mug down and shuffles over to the fridge. He takes out the milk, some sandwich ingredients and heads for the bread bin.
All these everyday actions have an almost hypnotic effect on him. The reliable routine is almost robotic. He’s programmed to perform these tasks completely automatically, without having to think about them. And not thinking feels like a really good idea right now. He sinks into the placid buzz of circuitry as his motherboard initiates the process of assembling a sandwich. An internal timer chimes to indicate that the teabag should be removed, discarded, and the milk added. A mechanical click triggers the Tidy Things Away protocol. Lines of code stream, silent and efficient, through his gently humming brain and guide him to transport his refreshments to the kitchen table. He sits with hydraulic smoothness.
The total absence of humanity can only be temporary, Stede knows that. But while it lasts he’s going to enjoy the tranquility. But he’s already ruined it, hasn’t he? To enjoy is human. As is to grieve, to mourn. He’s ruined it, like he ruins everything. He’d have made a terrible robot anyway. He broke *Asimov’s first law.
And he has contravened both clauses. Caused such terrible harm through both action and inaction.
He left. Chose to leave.
He didn’t contact Ed. Didn’t give him any reason or excuse. Didn’t offer Ed the opportunity to respond.
Stede simply left. Ran away. Back to the cold comfort of his former existence, the flat, grey life he’d inhabited before Ed introduced vivid contrasts and vibrant colours to his world. The deep, shimmering, raven’s-wing black of his leathers and the brilliant, sunflare white of his teeth when he laughed. The rich, molten topaz of his eyes complementing the luscious, petal-pink of his lips. The liquid golden feeling that spilled through Stede, warm and syrupy, every time he made Ed smile.
All gone. Faded back to lead grey. Mechanical and hard. Robotic and cold.
A polite pinging sound catches Stede’s attention. For a moment, it calls to mind the harsh beeping of the equipment in Ed’s hospital room and Stede has to gulp down a sob. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath before glancing around to find the source of the sound. He’s left the fridge door slightly open and Fridge is gently reminding him that this is a suboptimal circumstance.
Stede hauls himself out of his chair and goes over to acquiesce to Fridge’s courteous request.
“Lucky, bloody robot,” he mutters, slamming the door hard enough to make the bottles in the doorshelf rattle and clink in protest. Fridge hums contentedly. Stede growls enviously.
Stede returns to his midnight - dawn? - snack and consumes it without tasting it. It could be ashes for all he cares. Nonetheless, his head does feel clearer. The acrid, asphalt-thick guilt is still coating the walls of his chest, making every breath feel laboured and bitter, but at least he is clear about where - and when - he is. Can unpick the present from dreams, dreams from memories.
“Says he doesn’t want you here, Bonnet.”
That’s where and what he is. Exiled. Alone. Stede is alone.
He is in his gigantic, swanky Limehouse flat, with its exposed, original beams, private roof terrace, and views over the river, and there’s no one there with him. He is adrift. He could just as easily be in a rowboat, drifting down that broad, silty ribbon of greyish-brown water and out to sea. Could let the current take him to far-off lands or overturn his little craft and draw his body to rest on the seafloor, binding him in wrappings of seaweed. His only mourners the fish and crabs.
One of his favourite things about this flat, the clincher in his decision to buy it, was that it made him think of one of those old sailing ships. He would lie on the floor, staring up at the beams, feeling the wooden boards beneath him and he would imagine the feel of the ocean rocking him.
Seeking that comforting feeling, Stede leaves the table and shambles through to the lounge area. His creaking bones and groaning muscles complaining all the way down, lies on the floor in the same spot as he had that first night.
He stares up into the rafters and, sure enough, the imagined sense memory kicks in, creating a sensation of gentle undulation. But today, it isn’t comforting. Today, with his body as stiff as the boards he lies on, it's more like he is the ship. A hulking great vessel, unmoored, directionless, and becalmed. Drifting aimlessly through uncharted waters. A ghost ship, the crew having abandoned ship long ago. Though not completely devoid of life. In the cracks between the boards he can feel the rat-scratch prickle of verminous emotions. Regret gnaws at the lines, self-loathing claws the sails, and grief relentlessly scratches a hole in the hull.
And he was the one who had cut his own mooring line. Chased the jaunty crew, Hope and Happiness, overboard. He deserved to be scuttled and sunk without a trace.
Brine stings his eyes and Stede realises that he is crying again. Oddly, it’s this physical manifestation of sorrow that breaks his maudlin musings. Has him snuffling a sardonic laugh at his own melodramatic melancholy.
So theatrical. His father’s favoured charge to hurl at him. At least Stede knows he’s in the right line of work.
He feels the boards swaying beneath him again and it’s his own brain that is swimming, floundering in the current. He’s tired. He needs sleep. And tomorrow - well, later on today - he’ll seek out some solace. A friendly shoulder to cry on.
“On your feet, man.” His voice is sackcloth-scratchy. “You’re just having a day.”
Hauling his aching bones off of the floor, Stede shuffles to his bedroom, pulling his phone from his pocket. He sits on the edge of the bed to kick his shoes off while composing a text to Mary, asking if she is free to talk later that morning.
As Stede laboriously drags the rest of his clothes off and slides under the cool, soft sheets, he thinks about the delightful but wholly unexpected about-face that his and Mary’s relationship has performed in recent months.
For the entirety of their marriage, there had been an invisible but undeniable divide. They had been opposingly charged magnets creating a prickling, uncomfortable buffer between them. If one moved forward, the other would slide away until they had reached the unspoken agreement that they would stay far enough apart that the resistance couldn’t be felt. Could be ignored. And it had worked. Sort of. For years.
They had stopped performing together in plays whenever they had the option, which occasionally proved tricky as their respective fathers co-owned one of the largest theatre production companies in the world. Sometimes the nepotistic casting of their children was a deal-breaker for the money men.
And then, after Stede had fled like a coward from the best job of his life, the best connection of his life with the best person he’d ever met in his life, he had run back to Mary. Finally cowed under his father’s increasingly furious demands that he return to Shakespeare and ‘proper, respectable’ theatre, and found himself playing Benedick opposite Mary’s Beatrice in a tediously traditional and ultimately ill-fated production of Much Ado About Nothing.
Stede had tried to package the pieces of his broken heart into a box to be dealt with later, and Mary had attempted to seem pleased that they would be resuming their acting partnership, but the task turned out to be beyond them both. They had suffered through the mercifully short eight week run, each doing their best to imbue the spicy, whip-fast repartee between the characters with the requisite amount of flirty promise. But they had spectacularly failed.
The Guardian had summed up their total lack of on-stage connection very succinctly.
”It’s not so much a case of ‘will they, won’t they’, and more one of ‘dear god, let’s hope they don’t’. I’ve felt more sexual chemistry during a tooth extraction.”
Each poor, albeit accurate, review that was published, more or less levying the same criticism, had been a chisel blow into the wall of silence that loomed tall between Stede and Mary. Cracks started to appear, through which they had caught glimpses of each other. Seeing each other as they really were, rather than the image they had constructed as the wall obliterated their view of the other.
Through these chinks in the stone they started, tentatively at first, with cautious whispers, talking honestly. As the gaps between the bricks widened, they talked louder, more directly, about their marriage, their hopes for the future and, eventually, their respective, recent romantic involvements.
There had been moments when things got tough. They had exchanged some half-hearted recriminations about wasting each other's lives, never understanding each other, even charges of cheating, but there was no real hurt or malice there. They had come to realise that they weren’t actually angry with each other, just disconnected. And sad. For themselves and for the other.
Once the wall had been breached they found they almost couldn’t stop talking, clambering over broken rocks and shattered bricks. Clutching at each other's hands and helping each other surmount the rubble that had kept them isolated for so long. It transpired that they were both angry with their respective parents for not loving them enough to prioritise their children’s happiness over financial stability and professional advancement. They were both angry at themselves for not having been brave or aware enough to recognise and fight for what they wanted for themselves.
And, just like that, the magnets flipped. Their polarities reversing and drawing Stede and Mary tightly together. Stede had grinned with Mary as she told him all the ways Doug made her happy. Mary had held Stede as he cried and told her all the ways that Ed was wonderful and how Stede had let him down. Mary invited Stede to look around the house she and Doug were buying, and they had helped Stede unpack and polish off pizza and beer the night he moved into his new bachelor pad.
It was nice, it felt good to have friends. To find a friend that he could have had all along, if only they had been able to talk. And their friendship had grown and spread as they’d begun to show the other who they really were. In the ruined foundations of the wall, they found a trust, a bond, that they might never have known was there. Stede had clung to that bond like a lifeline.
In recent months, Mary had saved him. Pulled him out of the lonely, desolate waters of remorse several times since he had run from Ed.
Ed had trusted him with so much. Had opened up to him in a way that Stede suspected he rarely, if ever, had before. Had shown Stede the soft, tender flesh inside his shell. Let Stede peek at the pearls within; Ed’s kindness, his enthusiasm, his playfulness. Stede had marvelled at the iridescent lustre of his wit and intellect, his sweetness and his strength.
But Stede had not been worthy of such treasures. He had spilled those jewels across the ocean floor, shucked the tender flesh, and left a bereft shell behind him.
That was certainly the impression he got from the late-night phone calls he had received from the remaining cast members. If he’d been in any doubt of the effect of his actions on Ed, it was scoured away by Izzy’s rasping voice grating out that Stede had single-handedly managed to untether the last remaining shreds of Ed’s grasp on sanity.
When Stede heard about the accident, how Ed had drunkenly driven a van over Izzy’s leg, the deluge of viscid, tar-thick guilt that poured through him had almost choked him. Once visitors were allowed, he’d sat at Izzy’s bedside and let the man spit acid rebukes at him for as long as his voice held out. Stede allowed the stinging words to burn into his skin, searing indelible scars into him so that he would never be able to forget what he’d done.
Stede had returned every day, a self-imposed act of penance. Izzy had been scorchingly derisive at first but Stede had persevered. Bringing grapes and sweets and all kinds of comforts, some of which Izzy sent him away with, some of which he grudgingly accepted. Though he had reacted otherwise, Stede could tell that the hair products had been particularly welcome.
After many visits, Izzy and Stede had arrived at a tentative truce. Izzy was gruffly amicable and Stede tried not to push his luck. On one occasion, he felt brave enough to ask Izzy what had been happening in the months since Stede had walked away from Cabaret.
“He broke,” Izzy had stated, flat and simple. A shovel across Stede’s ribs. “He had such plans for the European tour. Was gonna do the whole touristy thing on his days off.” Izzy had fixed him with a gaze sharp and direct as a nail gun. “With you. Wanted to share the world with you.” A nail lodged deep in Stede’s heart. He could taste the iron in his throat.
The whole world could have been their oyster.
“But you left, didn’t you? Performed that last night of the London run, then disappeared. I still don’t know what actually happened that night and I don’t fucking want to. All I know is that you didn’t sign the tour contract, got your agent to say you were no longer available, and fucked off to do a play with your wife.” There was a pause in the rapid-fire shots piercing nails into Stede’s valves and atria but all that did was let him really feel how deeply embedded they were, how sharp the points.
“Edward did not take it well,” Izzy continued, tone wry. “At first he was just moping around, like a fucking teenage Goth.” Izzy face contorted with a lemon-twist of distaste then soured further with a look of regret. “So I decided to step in.” The acid has drained out of Izzy’s voice, leaving bland, emotionless neutrality. “Told him to stop pining and act like a professional.” The citric snarl reappeared but there was a rueful flavour to it now. “Told him to act like the star he’s supposed to be.” Izzy had sighed heavily. “So he did what stars do. He fucking imploded. Hit the booze and drugs hard. Went on a ridiculous fuckation to Cuba. Was dissociating. Acting like a complete fucking twat to everyone. Anyone who got on with you and who hadn’t yet signed the contract was booted off the tour cast. Everyone who had signed already was held to it and made to pay for your fucking mistakes. Honestly Bonnet, I’m not a theatre guy, I’m a fucking personal manager, but I reckon you’d be hard pressed to find an unhappier touring cast.”
With his years of touring experience, Stede had privately challenged that but hadn’t wanted to interrupt for something so trivial.
“Then, the night we were on our way back from Paris, we had to hire a fucking minibus and take the fucking ferry because apparently trains and planes had been fucked by that storm. We were just outside London fuelling up when Ed decided to take the wheel.” Izzy scratched at his leg, bound from toes to groin in a thick plaster cast. His lips curled like dried rind. “And here we are.”
There they were indeed.
Izzy, badly injured and staring down the barrel of a long and gruelling recovery (thank god that was the option though).
Ed, off the tour and half out of his mind. Barred from Izzy’s life, abandoned by Stede, and facing a DUI charge.
Stede, locked once more in a joyless charade with his wife and totally, utterly at fault. The cause of so much harm. A fucking hippo, ploughing through the lives of unsuspecting bystanders, trampling them underfoot. Destroyer of beautiful things.
Izzy had softened his tone to ask, “Why did you leave? Never did figure that out.”
Superb question. Really life, the universe and everything level philosophy. A concept that Stede felt wholly uneducated enough to even ponder, let alone answer.
“Because I’m an idiot.”
Izzy had snorted and reached for the water bottle by his bed. “Yeah but you were always an idiot. Right from the start. But you were an idiot that made Ed happy, and you didn’t seem to be having too bad a time yourself, so what the fuck happened?”
”What makes Ed happy is …you.”
Another shovel blow to the chest, this one with the sharp edge, and it just about cleaved Stede in half.
Fuck, had Ed told Izzy about that? When? Why?
Stede was flooded with the sticky-sweet memory of all those syrupy emotions. Dejection turning to shock and elation as Ed’s calloused hand had hooked gently around his neck and his surprisingly silky lips had brushed Stede’s. The instant spike in his blood sugar from all that sweetness had left him feeling light-headed, with a pounding heart and sweaty palms. It had been so easy to allow that wash of honeyed affection to mask the slight tang of trepidation.
Stede had remained silent as Izzy stared at him, seemingly unaware that his words had stove in Stede’s ribcage. Stede, speaking over the rattle of splintering bone, had replied that he was still trying to work that out himself.
And he still is.
Flopping back against the pillows, he throws his phone carelessly onto the bedside table and tries not to let himself get swept up in the vortex of confusion and anxiety that always happens when he tries to analyse his reasons for cleaving himself from Ed. When all he really wanted to do was cleave to him and fuse their souls together.
Yet more tears prickling at his closed eyes, Stede, exhausted beyond the point of resistance, finally tumbles into a blissfully dreamless sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~
The raucous strains of She’s a Maniac penetrate through the thick layers of foam rubber that are piled on top of Stede, pinning his consciousness down. He groans and flails around, dislodging the weight of slumber from on top of him. He manages to grab his phone, drops it down the side of the bed, swears, scoops it up and prods an uncoordinated finger at the screen to answer the call.
“Mary?” he mumbles, thoughts as scattered as packing-peanuts.
“If I were your wife, Bonnet, I’d have murdered you in your sleep years ago.” Izzy’s scratchy voice sounds amused. Stede isn’t.
“What do you want, Izzy?” Stede presses the heel of his hand into his eye, trying to rub away the clingfilm blur.
“I need a favour.”
And, okay, that’s a thing they do now. Since Izzy left hospital a month ago, Stede had maintained contact and helped out wherever necessary. Sure, Izzy has Frenchie living with him - who saw that coming?- and taking excellent care of him, but Stede wants to help. He does. He also knows that he’s using this burgeoning friendship - friendship? Acquaintance? Begrudging, respectful toleration? - to try and keep up with what was going on with Ed. He’s not proud of that, but Izzy seems to know that’s what’s going on and hasn’t stopped talking to Stede yet so it probably all balances out in the end.
“How can I help?” The implied offer, stretched out weird and wide by a yawn, is nonetheless sincere.
“I need you to go to Ed’s place and grab some stuff for him.”
And isn’t that a cold shower and a mainline of caffeine all at once. Stede is suddenly very awake and jittery. Alertness is galloping through his bloodstream, and the piquant espresso-bite of adrenalin sits on the back of his tongue.
“...go to…?” His voice stutters out, riding the jolting saddle of his heartbeat, hooves clattering against his ribs.
“Fuck’s sake,” he hears Izzy mutter under his breath before the other man raises his volume again. “Edward’s having surgery on his knee and his ribs need to heal more. They won’t discharge him for a while yet so he’s going to need some shit from home. His fucking townhouse is so full of stairs that it's a fucking Escher drawing, so I can't go. Frenchie's too scared to go in there and-what? Yes, you are. Because you fucking said so! Don’t be a twat, love. Yes, you’re very brave but I’m trying to sort shit out with Bonnet so can you just- what? Yeah, I’d fucking love one, thanks. Bonnet? You still there?”
If Stede weren’t so totally, anxiously distracted by the idea of going back to Ed’s home, he would have been intrigued by the slight softening of Izzy’s tone as he spoke to Frenchie. And had he really called him ‘love?’ Do they snuggle? Which spoon is Izzy? And, Frenchie’s so much taller, how does it work when they’re-
Stede gives himself a horrified, wet-dog shake to remove the droplets of that increasingly-unwelcome thought from his mind.
“Yes!” he squeaks. “Still here.”
“Right, I’m going to text you a list of shit he wants. Ring me when you get to his place and I’ll give you the code for the key safe and tell you where to find everything, got it?”
“Yes, um…” Stede is, of course, willing to do anything for Ed. But his skin is prickling uncomfortably at the idea of poking around Ed’s personal possessions without him present, like some overzealous fan sneaking in to look for trophies.
“He doesn’t know you’re going and I’m not gonna tell him.” Izzy’s voice is not unkind but Stede’s heart sinks a little. “Thought it was best not to rile him up. I’ll get you to drop it all off with me and I’ll take it in.”
“Yes.” It’s becoming Stede’s mantra.
He doesn’t want to ask because he isn’t sure he wants to know the answer but the rustle of ghostly pages is scratching against his brain.
“Izzy? Have you given him my letters?”
Silence. The spectral parchment begins to crackle, the edges singeing.
“No.”
And, whoosh, the paper, fragile guardian of Stede’s hopes and dreams, goes up in smoke.
“Oh.” No emotion. No point.
“I don’t reckon he’s ready for them. Not yet.” A pause, a further gentling. “I’ve saved them all.”
The fire dies away. The pages crinkle happily, unread but undamaged. They can wait, curled safely inside their bottles. They have all eternity.
“Thank you,” Stede whispers, breath sighing out, light with relief. “I appreciate that.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Back to brusque. Classic Izzy. “So, are y’gonna go over there now or what?”
“Izzy.” Stede allows a lash of mild frustration to flick over his tone. “I’m still in bed. I need to shower and dress first. Unless you think an unkempt, naked man will draw less attention when breaking into a film star’s house?”
“Par for the fucking course, mate,” Izzy mumbles, sardonically. “Right, well, I’ll let you drag your lazy arse out of bed and get ready. Message me when you’re on your way.” He hangs up without a goodbye. Despite the definite improvement in their relationship, Stede is sure that Izzy puts more effort into being rude than he does into styling his hair. And that’s saying something.
Stede takes a moment to sit in the comfort of his bed, the silky soft cotton sheets clinging lovingly around him, smelling of his familiar scents: shampoo, body wash, cologne, sweat. He allows the warmth and luxurious textures to soothe him. Ed hasn’t read his letters, which is disappointing. But, also, Ed hasn’t read his letters. Which means he isn’t Not Responding, because there’s been nothing for him to respond to.
It’s a gamble, Stede knows. He’s poured his heart into those letters - the entire suit. Completely showing his hand. He has thrown every chip of dignity, humility and honesty into the pot and he is hoping that Ed will clean up. Stede is all in and Ed holds all the cards now. If he doesn’t want Stede, Stede will fold with grace. He will. He will! He will respect Ed’s wishes. But, fuck, he hopes Ed will play the hand.
Stede takes a deep breath and makes himself get up. The shower is rejuvenating, the toast and marmalade refreshing, and the coffee is restorative. He even takes the time to shave and properly do his hair, actions so familiar he could do them in his sleep but hasn’t bothered in days.
He grabs his keys and takes the lift down to ground level and crosses the courtyard to slide into his car. He pulls out through the remote-operated gates and pauses to program Ed’s address into the satnav. He’s been there a few times before, of course, but there’s always traffic and roadworks to avoid. He presses the tablet screen and lets Radio 4 chatter amicably and informatively at him as he glides the car towards Ed’s Islington home.
When he arrives, he parks in one of the spaces that is allocated to Ed’s house. All three are unoccupied. Of course they are. Ed lives alone and his car is sitting in a junkyard, a terrifyingly crumpled heap of metal, rubber, plastic and glass that looks, for all the world, as though it has already been through the compactor. Izzy had shown him a photo. Stede cried when he saw it.
He swallows down the lump in his throat, gets out of the car, and climbs the front steps to the door. He calls Izzy, who talks him through accessing the keys, opening the door - as though Stede doesn’t know how doors work - and turning off the security alarm.
“Okay, first, go to the big cupboard just before the kitchen and get one of his backpacks.”
Izzy’s instructions buzz like mosquitoes, vaguely annoying but not enough to penetrate the trance-like state Stede fell into as soon as he closed the front door behind him.
He’s surrounded by apparitions. Translucent figures flitting silently around him. Ed, lounging in the large archway that leads through to the living room, grinning roguishly and jiggling a bottle of red wine at Stede, invitingly.
Ed’s beautiful back precedes him down the hallway towards the kitchen, his long legs loping elegantly. The air fills with the shadow of a laugh, low and throaty. It tickles its ephemeral fingers down Stede’s spine, just as its living form had. Stede shudders.
He had only been in this house a few times, having accepted Ed’s invitations to run lines or work through songs and choreo when Stede was struggling a little, but he recalls each moment with such clarity. Stede had stored every movement Ed made, logged every sound, and etched them into his memory, swirling curlicues cut with diamond into glass. Permanent and transparent. So clear. How had he been so oblivious of Ed’s feelings? And his own?
Stede had fallen in love with Ed without even noticing. Unthinkingly hurled himself over the edge, like he’d signed up for a parachute jump without even knowing what it entailed. He’d plunged headlong, stomach swooping, his heart racing, and his lips locked into an immovable smile, but totally unaware of why he was plummeting. The gravity of the situation tugged him, down, down, down, and yet he never hit the ground, though the chute had never opened. Still hasn’t. He might just fall forever. Spiralling like a sycamore seed.
Now that he knows why he’s falling, he can identify what the complicated and confusing feelings somersaulting through his body and mind actually are, have always been. It was never new-job anxiety, pre-show nerves, or even starstruck awe. It was love. It was Ed. Just Ed. Always and forever Ed. With the power to break Stede's fall - or break his heart.
The insect-whine of Izzy’s biting voice finally itches enough to regain his attention.
“Bonnet! Have you got the bag yet?”
“Just on my way.” Stede manages to land his voice in the vague vicinity of normal.
“Jesus Christ, it’s not that big a house. How’s it taking this long?”
“You’re welcome to come and do it yourself if you think you’ll be quicker.” Stede gives a little waspish sting of his own. Izzy grumbles wordlessly but doesn’t respond. Stede makes his way down the hall, glancing through the large arch into the huge living room as he passes, another ghost flitting past his mind’s eye. Ed sprawled back on the couch, all loose limbs and easy laughter. He exorcises the tempting phantom from his thoughts and carries on with his task, reaches the cupboard and digs out a bag.
He descends the short flight of stairs into the kitchen and places the backpack on the marble-topped island to check that it’s empty. “Right, got it. What do I need to get?”
“You’ll need to go upstairs but maybe crack open a few windows, let the place air out a bit while you’re there. I bet it’s a fucking pigsty.”
Stede casts a gaze around the spotless kitchen. He looks out of the side windows and sees that there are a lot of bottles in the recycling bin but that’s the only indication of what Ed might have been up to.
“Does he have a cleaner?” Stede asks as he walks back to the living room, which is also neat and tidy, to the point of looking almost barren. He suddenly recalls his ‘abandoned ship’ feelings earlier this morning. There’s a flavour of that here, a luxurious space but devoid of humanity. That feeling of an absence where a personality should be but has been swabbed away. As though someone has tried to scrub themselves out of the world.
“Yeah but she’s been away visiting family in Aotearoa. Been gone for weeks already and he wouldn’t let me hire anyone else. Why?”
“Nothing. It’s just really clean.”
A cloud hangs heavy and ominous over the sudden silence between them. There’s an oppressive stillness, the hiatus before the sky cracks open and a deluge pours down.
“He cleaned.” It’s a statement. An acknowledgement of some terrible truth.
“Looks like it.” Stede is baffled. It looks like Ed’s actually been taking care of himself, so why is Izzy reacting to this like the discovery of an empty pill bottle.
“It was a state the last time I saw it.” Izzy’s voice is soft as a eulogy. “Fuck. I didn’t realise…”
This storm-taut sense of pressure is making the skin on the back of Stede’s neck prickle, making him long for the lighting crack of Izzy’s sarcasm, the thunderous roll of his anger. Anything but this sad, quiet tension.
“Izzy, what the fuck is going on?” Stede’s words ring loud around the deserted house, bouncing off the tomb-quiet walls and slamming back into him.
There’s an intake of breath like an audible shoulder shake and Izzy sounds more like his usual pissy self when he answers. “Nothing, just go upstairs, yeah. Haven’t got all fucking day.”
With no small amount of bitchy muttering, Stede stamps up the stairs. He’s using his inflated sense of irritation at Izzy to try and smother the panicky feelings of intrusion that are rising with each step. He stops, one foot on the first landing. “Izzy, could you tell me where you actually want me to go? It might speed things up.” Snarky feels so much better than scared.
“Bathroom.”
“Great. And that is…?” Stede’s only ever used the small toilet-and-shower room behind the kitchen before.
“First floor, bottom of the next flight of stairs.”
Stede follows the directions and opens the door to an enormous bathroom. A claw-footed bath tub dominates a bay window. A huge walk-in shower takes up one whole corner, a toilet sits in the other corner. The back wall bears a double sink with a big mirror above it, and a large cabinet beside it, which Izzy instructs him to open. He gathers a selection of toiletries as directed and tries to quash the urge to rub the products all over himself and surround himself with an approximation of Ed’s familiar, evocative scent.
Next, worse, Izzy tells him to climb the next flight of stairs and go to Ed’s bedroom. Stede has definitely never been in there before. On one of his rehearsal-come-wine-and-chat evenings with Ed, he had been a little squiffy and found himself wondering what Ed’s room was like. What position Ed slept in. What he wore to bed. And he had freaked himself out at the mortifyingly inappropriate thoughts. He had practically sprinted out to the hastily-booked Uber, leaving a bewildered Ed, all warm and languid, on the couch where, Stede had realised with even greater horror, he’d virtually been snuggling up to Ed.
The room is lovely. Decorated in deep purple and soft heather-greys. The bed is massive.
The bed.
The only thing that Stede can focus on. Once he’s seen it, he can’t look away. It’s like one of those 3D images in a magic eye picture. Everything else blurs into the background, a nonsensical and irrelevant tessellation of shapes.
Unbidden, and despite his best efforts, the bed is populated with visions of Ed as Stede imagines he would look. Curled up like a prawn in kitten-soft sleep. Sprawled on his back, wearing one of the flowing silk creations from the show, and laughing his low, throaty chuckle. Lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, merperson style, wearing his tight, leather trousers and one of the cropped t-shirts he favours. A hand reaching out towards Stede, his dark amber eyes fond and inviting.
But, no! Stede has never seen that. That has never happened and Stede has no right at all to be imagining such things while standing, uninvited, in Ed’s bedroom. His personal safe space. His sanctuary.
Stede is a bad man.
Blushing, even though there’s no one to witness his embarrassment, he goes over to the bank of wardrobes and pulls out items of clothing as Izzy dictates. Loose, harem-cut, cotton trousers and t-shirts. Boxer-briefs in a range of colours and patterns, from which Stede averts his eyes, thus making his task that bit harder. A luscious velvet robe from the back of the door that is too voluminous to fit in the backpack so he hooks it over one arm.
“Anything else?” Stede can hear how breathy he sounds but he hopes Izzy will put it down to the two flights of stairs he climbed. Slowly. Like, five minutes ago. Bugger it.
“His headphones and chargers. They’ll be on the table by the front door. Better swing by the library and grab some books too. A few Terry Pratchetts maybe. He’s always happy to reread them."
“Who isn’t?” Stede heads for the door. “So, I’m all done in the bedroom?”
Izzy snorts a laugh. “He said to bring a dildo but I’m pretty sure he was just trying to piss me off with that one. Mind you, he’s in a private room and it’s boring as fuck in hospital-”
“Izzy! I will not be looking for…that!” Stede’s appalled screech is loud in his own ears, which are burning hot and probably fire-engine red. On the bed, Illusion Ed grins lewdly and begins to indulge in something so mindbendingly erotic that Stede squeaks and scurries out of the room, the tomcat of illicit lust hard on his heels.
Stede flies down the stairs, taking them two at a time, each alternating footfall pounding out the words ‘Bad’ ‘Man’. He races along the landing and down the next flight until he is back at the front door, Izzy’s scornful laughter and accusations of prudery accompanying him, an unwelcome syncopation to his thundering steps. He gathers the last few items, locks up, ends the call and gets back into his car.
He thuds his head back against the headrest and breathes deeply, eyes closed. The firework display in his chest abates. Honestly, the last thing he needed today was his libido to suddenly rouse itself, get dolled up and head out for a night on the tiles.Trying to restore equilibrium, redistribute the weight of his emotions across the scales, all the while ignoring the apparitions of Ed that are gathered at the windows, smirking as he struggles.
Some more shuddering breaths and, well, that was that. Ordeal over. The massed Eds wave to him and fade to vapour.
Would that be the last time he’d set foot in Edward’s house? He could barely entertain the thought that those long, lazy evenings of playful companionship and easy camaraderie would never happen again. But they had ended months ago. Stede’s disappearance had put paid to them. All he can do now is hope. Hope, and provide whatever help Ed needed, whether he knows it’s Stede helping or not.
And keep writing him letters. Pressing his feelings onto the page like dried flowers. Preserving them until Ed’s ready for them. If he ever is. If not, then at least Stede would have written proof of his one great love story, tragic as it might end up.
Sighing, he turns on the engine and programs the satnav to take him to Izzy’s flat.
Notes:
*Asimov’s first law of robotics:
A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
Hope you enjoyed chapter two. Chapter three is en route. I hope to post it in a few weeks. As always, comments and kudos are very welcome.
Thank you for reading
🖤💜🧡
Chapter 3: What Would You Do?
Summary:
Ed meets his support team and begins the slow process of recovery in unfamiliar and emotionally unpredictable surroundings.
Some progress is made on the path to healing.
Notes:
It's been a wee while but here she is! Chapter three has unfurled her sails and launched upon the briney deeps. Apparently you find me in poetic mood today.
I am planning to aim for a new chapter at the end of each month until the story tells me when it's done. I'm envisaging about five more chapters.
Bucket loads of fresh, delicious thanks to Zuckerbaby_1 for putting in a lot of time and effort on an elegant, creative and very necessary restructure of the middle bit.
Chapter Text
“Gentlemen!” Victoria’s voice rings out stern and clear as a Sunday morning church bell. “This is a hospital. Kindly lower your voices and, if at all possible, please reduce the swearing.”
Ed doesn’t quite manage to drop the furious glare he’d been directing at Izzy before he turns to face her. The young woman’s eyes narrow slightly, glittering a warning that she is about to pull out her full-on Sunday school teacher voice. Again. He quickly schools his face into a look of meek contrition.
“Sorry, Victoria,” he and Izzy chorus in staggered harmony. She nods, accepting the apology. Ed feels ridiculously relieved. He’s a rich, influential, badass of a hot guy but that tiny, calm nurse can make him feel like a fifteen year old caught smoking behind the bike sheds.
And, yeah maybe he was yelling and, sure, maybe ‘cunt’ isn’t a word that the recuperating masses will find calming. But, fuck it, Izzy is being totally, insanely unreasonable and Ed wants absolution. “But he’s being a dick!”
The stony schoolma’am vibe is marred by the hairline crack of a smile she's trying valiantly to patch up. “Edward, I am not getting in the middle of your argument. Having said that, from what I, and everyone else on this floor, overheard, I think your friend is just trying to look out for you.”
And, fuck, doesn’t Izzy look smug at that? Fucking Nurse’s Pet. Ed lapses into sullen silence. It’s not sulking. He’s had a hard time recently and, if anything, it seems like it might be about to get a metric fuckton worse so he's entitled to a good…brood. Yeah, that’s it. Brooding. Much sexier. Ed figures he's gonna use the time on his hands to really hone his brooding skills.
Before she leaves, Victoria checks his dressings, takes his water bottle to refill it, and switches off the muted TV. It’s almost a relief. Ed’s spent hours and hours staring at Buffy repeats, nature documentaries, comedy films. Nothing heavy. Ed couldn’t have handled anything more emotional than Hot Fuzz.
Izzy leans back into the comfortable chair and rearranges his cast on the stool, both of which had been brought into Ed’s room when it became apparent that his bossy, bitching, broken-legged visitor would be a regular feature. With it raised up like that, it's impossible not to notice that Frenchie’s drawn a lacy band with a bow around it to resemble a stocking top. It's cute. Ed vaguely wonders if he's done a seam down the back too.
Izzy's smugly eating a cherry he'd purloined from Ed's personal fruit bowl. Which, admittedly, Izzy had provided in the first place but...y'know. The principle of it! Or some shit.
"It's the only option, Edward. It makes sense," Izzy says, popping another purloined cherry into his mouth.
Sense? It makes sense to subject the extremely, profoundly, emotionally and physically damaged man to what can only be described as an exercise in humiliation and psychological torture? Fuck that noise! Ed really leans into the brood, furling his features in black leather and eyeliner, cranking up the volume of The Cure soundtrack that’s rolling through his mind. Really put some heft into his glower. Wolverine would struggle to out-glare Edward Teach right now.
Unfortunately, Izzy is basically immune at this point, vaccinated by years of Ed’s scratchy needling. “Edward, stop being such a whiny bitch.”
Oh, hell no.
“I’m not being a ‘whiny bitch’.” Ed lets all the heat leech out of his voice, plunging the room into glacial coldness. Glittering ice crystals drop from his lips with every sharp, frozen syllable. “You are asking - no, instructing - me to put myself in an untenable position. Which I will not be fucking doing. I can take care of myself.”
Izzy sighs deeply and rubs a hand over his brow. Ed suppresses a twinge of guilt. Izzy is still recovering and the slanging match seems to have taken it out of him. He looks tired and his breathing is a little heavier. “Eddie, trust me. As one guy with a fucked leg to another. You. Need. Help.”
Fuck. There’s the stinging, biting guilt again but now it’s accompanied by the distant, irritating buzz of resignation.
Indestructible little fucker’s probably right, that’s the annoying thing. Ed’s knee surgery went well but he’s going to need a lot of recovery time too. And his ribs are still kinda fucked, and combined with the sprained wrist, that could make crutches a little tricky. Then there’s the ankle sprain that hasn’t quite fucked off yet. “I’ll pay someone.”
“You’ll have to do that anyway but you can’t stay in your house either.” That tired, reasonable tone is just begging to be swatted away. Ed is going to argue his case, lay down his supporting evidence. Prima facie. Corpus delicti. Post hoc ergo propte hoc and everything.
“Shut up. Yes I fucking can.” Great job, Teach. Jack McCoy’d be so proud.
“Your kitchen’s down a flight of stairs, your bathroom’s up one, and the bedrooms are up two. Where will you sleep?”
“On the couch.”
“How will you eat?”
“I’ll order in.”
“Where will you piss?”
“Wherever the fuck I want, it’s my fucking house.” Right, okay. His case might be collapsing here. It’s a nice house, he doesn’t wanna piss all over it.
And Izzy knows. Of course he does. In Ed’s courtroom, Izzy’s fucking Judge Judy and executioner. He can always tell when Ed’s arguing for the sake of it. The placid, knowing look cuts through Ed’s sulky demeanour like an ABBA song at a Smiths gig. Unwelcome and excruciatingly effective at dispelling the vibe. It scrubs off the layers of eyeliner and performative ennui to reveal the genuine anxiety they were designed to conceal. No point trying to wrap it back around himself.
The fizzing swarm of resignation is on him now. Only way to escape is to plunge into the still, brackish lake of vulnerable acceptance. Ed sinks back into the pillows and closes his eyes, letting the water swallow him. “Iz, I’m not ready. I don’t even want to see him. Don’t make me do this.” A sob catches the tail end of the sentence and rides it to the surface.
“Edward, I don’t want to make you do anything.” Izzy’s gaze is steady and filled with more compassion than Ed has seen there in a long time. “I just want you to be safe.”
Fuck.
Like Ed deserves that wish from Izzy. For him, the messed up, selfish, venomous bastard that drove a fucking van over Izzy’s leg. He wishes Ed safety. Ed, who is not a safe person. No god in any pantheon would punish Izzy if he called up every djinn, fairy, leprechaun and demon to wish bloody vengeance upon Ed and his eternal soul.
And Izzy just carries on, as if he hasn’t just completely remoulded Ed’s entire perspective on humanity's capacity for forgiveness.
“Right now, your house is not a safe place to be. Also, I don’t trust that you're safe to be left on your own and I have good reason for thinking that, you know I do.”
He does. Ed had not been doing great before the crash. In the same way that Hamlet hadn’t been doing great. Ruled by a wild, lashing grief that he had wielded with cracking precision at the vulnerable parts of anyone who dared approach him. It made sense that Izzy didn’t trust him not to pick up the whip again and start thrashing stripes into his own flesh.
Ed is doing a little better since he’s been in hospital. The enforced sobriety of hospitalisation -regularly administered, and extremely fucking necessary opioids aside- is a step forward. And, though he’s really, really not looking forward to it, he’s big enough to admit that therapy might not be a totally fucking terrible idea. The near-permanent pressure of crushing emotions constricting around him, squeezing him into powder, really does need dealing with and he’s starting to think he might need help with that. Also, it was a condition of his conviction.
Ed hadn't actually been high or stoned when he'd crashed, but he'd definitely had a recent charge of being in charge of a vehicle while above the legal limit on his record from the nightmare events that were still costing Izzy his mobility. That charge had meant that the court, which he’d attended virtually from his hospital bed, had taken away his license for eighteen months, as well as imposing an eye-watering fine and court-mandated therapy.
But, despite his recalcitrant acceptance of these measures, Ed understood that Izzy would only believe that Ed could actually behave like a fucking adult when he saw tangible proof. Until then, Ed was on probation.
“At this moment in time, he’s the only one willing to take you in and the only one I trust to look after you.”
Fucking phenomenal. So Ed’s now as appealing as an incontinent, flea-ridden alley cat to the people he’d once cautiously started to think of as friends. And his months of truly appalling behaviour mean that the only option left to care for him is the soft-hearted sucker who, at least at first, had seemed not to even notice Ed’s mangy soul. Had petted him and told him what a pretty fellow he was. Right up until he’d dumped Ed right back in the alley with no warning. And now he’s returned to fish Ed out of the dumpster and take him back in.
How the fuck is Ed supposed to cope with that?
It’s so humiliating that it hurts to breathe. The python-press off it dulls the ache of his healing ribs to a background thrum.
Rather than trying to struggle free, Ed deflects. “It’s alright for you, Iz. You get to stay in your own place and have your boyfriend running around after you.”
Izzy gives him a flat look. “Yes, life is bliss. I’m one lucky fucker.” He knocks a knuckle against his cast. He might as well have slammed a fist into Ed’s fucked knee. Ed winces, feeling like such a fucking child.
“Right, yeah. I’ll shut the fuck up.” He fiddles with the sheets, wiping palms sweaty with embarrassment. He clears his throat of the apologies he knows Izzy doesn’t want to hear and gropes for something else to say. “This thing with you and Frenchie. I didn’t notice it happening.”
Izzy raises a brow in mock-surprise. “And you usually pay such close attention to other people’s lives.” His expression softens and his gaze gets a little distant. “Yeah, he’s a good lad. Sort of a twat obviously, and he’s made of limbs like a fucking grasshopper, but we get on alright.”
From Izzy’s lips, that’s a fucking sonnet. The gentler expression suits him. When he’s not gritting his teeth to contain his scorpion-tail tongue, he’s kind of handsome.
Ed feels a strange sensation. Invisible traction straps pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Happy for you, man.” It comes from low in his throat, where the counter weights drop further and tug the smile higher up Ed’s cheeks, stretching muscles almost atrophied back into pliability.
Izzy folds his hands in his lap and nods almost imperceptibly. “You were instrumental in it actually.”
What the fuck is that about? Ed’s always deliberately tried to have as little to do with Izzy’s sex life as humanly possible.
“How’s that, mate?” he splutters.
“If you weren’t being such a monumentally unbearable cunt and making my, and everyone else’s, life miserable, I don’t know that I'd have gone out for a drink with him and the others when they asked. Got talking. Didn’t stop.”
“Hmm. Well, you’re fucking welcome.” A treacherous and wholly out of order tentacle of envy slithers through Ed. “I’m glad you were all having such a great time together.”
“You could’ve been too. Still can. Just not yet.”
“They fucking hate me, Iz.” His voice cracks, shattering under the blow of every memory of every fucking vicious thing he said and did to his cast mates on that cursed tour. He’d been letting every demon he housed run the fucking show and he’d done his best to drag everyone into hell with him.
“They’re scared of you,” Izzy corrects. “They don’t trust you. They’re pissed off at you. They don’t hate you.” He grabs his crutches and heaves himself labouriously to his feet. “Give them time.” He snags a final cherry from the bowl and tosses it into his mouth. “And fucking apologise.” He spits the cherry stone with the accuracy of a sniper into the bin by Ed’s bed. He pivots elegantly and swings towards the door. He stops on the threshold and half-turns back towards Ed. “I’ll be here tomorrow before he is. I’ll go and meet him, bring him up.”
Ed is pathetically grateful for that concession. He can’t speak past the sudden, expanding lump in his throat so he just sketches a ‘whatever’ wave at Izzy and reaches for his phone, the notifications an Impressionist smear across the screen.
He hears Izzy’s uneven footfalls disappearing down the corridor. He swipes idly through the significantly reduced apps on his phone. After Stede’s disappearance, Izzy had changed the passwords on all of Ed’s social media accounts and handed control over to the PR team. Ed had been fucking furious at the time. Though the memory was hazy he thought he might have compared Izzy to Putin but, ultimately, the complete media monopoly was probably sensible.
Aside from dropping increasingly deranged posts, Ed had taken to cyber stalking-Stede, just to rub lemon juice into the thousand papercuts on his heart. Though that in itself was a frustrating exercise in futility. Either Stede’s PR team were total shit or Stede had no idea what social media was for. His posts were the blandest, least informative things Ed had ever seen. Sunsets, food, vaguely amusing graffiti, and occasional selfies of Stede in front of landmarks that he was mainly obscuring.
Ed had created new accounts in the name of ActuallyFuckingEdward but he had received hardly any followers as no one seemed to believe it was actually fucking him. Understandable really, since the ‘real’ Edward Teach was still posting about how fucking awesome life on tour performing this awesome show with his awesome crew was.
He doesn’t bother looking at any of those accounts. Instead, he checks his email and finds a message confirming that Abshir, one of the therapists from the private practice, is happy to offer house calls. That, combined with Izzy’s physiotherapist being willing to come to him for private sessions, means that Ed’s recuperation program is starting to take shape.
Now all he has to do is work out how to heal while in the presence of the source of his pain.
Stede’s arrow wedged deep into his breast and the ragged hole that was left when Stede wrenched it out feels like Ed might never knit back together. And what if Stede can see through it? Can look inside Ed and see all the pathetic, shivering longing and the impotent, flailing rage? At this point, Ed thinks it’s a definite possibility that this is a kill-or-cure situation and he’s not optimistic. Deep down in his secret heart though, there’s a sense of tranquility that if he doesn’t survive the treatment, at least Stede will be there this time.
With a sigh of resignation, he responds to Abshir, booking a time for the day after tomorrow and giving him Stede’s new address.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ed is nervous. Like, really fucking nervous. Squirming bellyful-of-live-eels nervous. But they’re not the only creatures trying to burrow their way through his abdominal wall. There are shrinking shame turtles, clacking anger crabs and flitting excitement bats, all battling it out inside him. And there’s not enough room left for Ed’s organs. His heart is being squeezed up into his throat and his lungs won’t expand properly in the cramped space.
There’s a moment when Ed thinks he might be granted a reprieve. His elevated heart rate and shallow breathing cause Victoria to frown as she logs what should be his final set of vitals before discharge. She’s a great nurse, she’s probably concerned that he could have a DVT. Or she’ll get the doctor to order a scan to check that his cracked ribs haven’t punctured his lung. He might have to stay in for at least a few more days and, if the sweat sticking his t-shirt to his back is anything to go by, maybe he has an infection as well. Surely, any competent healthcare professional would insist that he abso-fucking-lutely requires in-house, round-the-clock care from a team of–-
“Edward, I think you over-exerted yourself by insisting on the shower. A bed bath would have been far less taxing.” The frown transforms into a look of gentle, fond rebuke. “Please try to take it easy once you’re home. I don’t want to see you here again.” She pats his good arm kindly, the gavel dropping on any hope of leniency. He’s condemned to his fate. Well, he doesn’t have to be gracious about it.
“I’m not going home, am I?” And there’s the pissy fifteen year old back again. Ed can hear him, yanking on vocal chords in impotent frustration, but Ed can’t get him to fuck off. Can’t buy him off with beer and cigarettes. The little fucker’s hanging around and kicking rocks into the conversation.
“To your friend's house then.” Victoria blithely carries on packing up spare gauze, tape, bandages, checking his painkillers and prescription are safely in the paper bag with them.
“He’s not my friend.” A particularly sharp rock viciously hurled at a bus shelter, hard enough to crack the glass. The crack is audible in Ed’s words.
“Perhaps not, but he’s going to take care of you. That’s all I care about.” Victoria refuses to engage with the sulky, little street rat and Ed feels him slouch off to lurk in the shadows, waiting for someone to acknowledge and validate his very real pain.
And that’s that. With genuine wishes of good luck and stern pleas to do everything the physio says and nothing more, Victoria bids him a bright goodbye and glides off to administer her angelic care to another suffering mortal.
So, it’s just Ed and the gross imaginary menagerie of emotions in his chest. An imanagerie? Emotionagerie? Imagimotionagerie?
Fuck! Whatever it’s called, it’s clearly made its way up to his brain.
A familiar, irregular rhythm reverberates down the hall, approaching slowly. The squeak of rubber on tile, a light metallic clank, and a muffled thump. The executioner's drum call. Incongruously casual voices and other footfalls accompany the doom-laden tread.
Fuckfuckdickfuckfuck! Ed wants out. Can he jump out of the window? Shit! No, they only open a few inches. Plus, that’s the sort of shit that would land him in even more therapy, right? Fuck! The writhing menagerie is joined by a team of wild horses, each tethered to a different atrium of his heart. They’re pawing the ground and snorting for the off, Ed’s heart stretching taut between them.
The voices are almost upon him. Izzy’s rasping tenor interspersed with occasional interjections from Frenchie’s smooth baritone. And, trilling between both, running through the ranges, piping high and swooping low, is Stede.
Stede’s beautiful, melodic voice. Even pitchy with nerves, as it seems to be, it floats into Ed’s brain and does something to it. Prickling and tingling like static electricity while simultaneously echoing and humming with the soothing tone of an ASMR playlist.
Fuck. Ed’s not ready. He’d tried so hard to forget that voice. And, any second now, he’ll have to share a room with it. And it won’t be alone. That face, that hair, that body, those eyes, will all accompany it like a mesmerising entourage.
As the door handle turns, Ed clumsily spins his temporary wheelchair to face out the window. A last ditch attempt to give himself more space, more time before he has to face that fucking dazzling retinue.
The horses stamp with impatience, his heart strains and tenses.
“Edward, your ride’s here.”
And fuck Izzy for choosing those words.
Ed discreetly draws a deep breath, closes his eyes for a long second and then, slowly and with as much dignity as he can muster, swings the chair around to face the group by the door.
His vision practically whites out. Stede is more radiant than the desert sun at noon. The brightness makes Ed’s eyes want to water, makes him want to look away for fear of blinding himself. But he can’t. He won’t. His heart aches as the restless steeds pull it in all directions at once.
“Hello, Edward.” Stede sounds soft and warm and scared and sad. Those kaleidoscope eyes of his shimmer through all the same emotions, and Ed can’t fucking cope.
The wild horses break their traces and scream with delight as they make a dash for freedom. Ed’s heart clenches and contracts in on itself, drops shuddering to the dusty ground. He watches his dignity vault astride one of the bolting mounts as it breaks into a gallop. It kicks up clouds of dust that catch in Ed’s throat and sting his eyes as it disappears across the arid planes and over the horizon.
Ed hears a non-descript croak emerge from his throat. And Stede’s suddenly in motion, crossing to the table beside the bed to grab a water bottle. He takes two strides towards Ed and stops, just close enough to hold out the bottle. Too close. Too fucking close. Ed’s skin cracks and blisters under his solar attention. Stede had always responded with eerie intuition to Ed’s needs. Knew when Ed was nervous and needed distracting. Knew when Ed was overwhelmed and needed support. Knew when Ed was pathetically desperate and that it was time to run.
Ed ignored the proffered drink and wheeled over to grab the paper bag with his medical supplies from the foot of the bed. He didn’t even look at Stede as he passed him, left him standing there, holding the bottle and looking helpless and lost. Let him have a go at seeing how that feels. Ed’s had more than his turn.
Ed shoots a scorching, impatient look at Izzy, who, in turn, is casting assessing looks from Ed to Stede and back again. “You moving in or something?”
Izzy gives a derisive snort. “Already spent more time in fucking hospitals than I care to, thanks.”
Ed raises his brows with exaggerated disbelief. “Really? Well then fuck, should we, I dunno, go?” Sarcasm drips like venom from Ed’s lips. He hears Stede shuffling behind him and his neck almost breaks from the effort of not turning to look at him.
“I’ll get your bag.” Stede’s soft tone is sweet. Ed loves sweet things. But he knows they are actually very, very fucking bad for him.
“I can get it myself.” The words hiss between his teeth, corrosive acid melting a hole through the floor beneath him. Satisfying but not sensible. He can’t get it himself, he’s not skilled enough on his wheels yet to be able to scoop the big, heavy backpack up from the floor, and he’ll probably fall out of the fucking chair if he tries. Literally throw himself at Stede’s feet. Like he desperately wants to. But he can’t accept anything from Stede yet either. He sees with his peripheral vision that Stede has frozen mid-move and there’s a tense hesitancy to the air.
“I’ll grab that for ya, boss.” Frenchie’s bright chirrup doesn’t really dispel the tension but it at least moves things along. Frenchie stoops to collect the bag from beside the door, not quite looking at Ed. The lad’s smile looks like it wishes it was anywhere but here. Ed had texted him a brief, vague apology. He hadn’t really known how to start the process of making amends for terrifying the living shit out of the boy, then seriously injuring the man who Ed hadn’t known was his - what? Boyfriend? Lover? Partner? He couldn’t imagine Izzy using any of those.
Frenchie had replied that it was all cool but what else would he say? And, on the very few occasions Frenchie had come into Ed’s hospital room to collect Izzy, he had never looked directly at Ed. Had exhibited a wired, jittery energy like he was constantly primed to duck or run. Clearly, Ed needed to do a lot more before they actually are all cool.
“Thanks, mate,” Ed mumbles, consciously removing as much of the bile from his voice as he can. A little warmth flickers in his chest as he sees Frenchie’s eyes dart warily to his face and, just for a second, catch gazes with him. Is that a tiny, fledgling, genuine smile? Nah, too much to hope for, right? But Frenchie looks marginally less tense, so that’s something.
“Right then, off we fuck.” Izzy swings his weight away from the wall and spins nimbly on his crutches. “We’re leaving through the morgue exit.”
“The fucking what?”
Izzy throws a dark grin over his shoulder. “Still some paparazzi floating around the main entrance on and off. I thought you’d appreciate the irony, you whingy little Goth.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Ed would find it funny if it hadn’t so nearly been his only option.
“Whatever, I don’t fucking care.”
“Um.” The tremulous little noise off to his left has Ed’s spine locking tight in anticipation. “Would you like me to push–”
“No.” It’s as quick and devastating as a gunshot.
Without another glance at Stede, Ed grips the wheel rails and steers his way through the door, careful not to bash his extended leg, and glides down the corridor after Izzy and Frenchie. It’s the exertion of manoeuvring an unfamiliar wheelchair that’s making his breath quicken and his chest tighten. He’s not scared. It’s the opioids and the disturbed sleep that’s making him light-headed, not anxiety. It’s the constant discomfort and the still-healing black eye that has a lump sticking in his throat and his eyes filling at the corners.
It’s not the sight of Stede, all timid and cautious but as beautiful as ever. Or the way Ed coudn’t ignore the familiar scent of Stede perfuming the air around Ed until he was filling his lungs with it. It’s certainly not the way that every hair on Ed’s body rose when Stede approached him. How every inch of skin clamoured for Stede to touch him. How all he wanted to do was melt into Stede’s arms, weep oceans of tears, and beg him never to leave again.
Ed’s fine. He’s always fine. Because the alternatives are too terrifying to contemplate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The car ride from the hospital is tense. Ed stoically ignores everyone as Frenchie drives and Izzy tells an unusually silent Stede all about Ed’s meds regime, upcoming therapy visits and subsequent appointments. Ed tries to mask his winces every time the car eases over a speed bump and his ribs scream at him. And every time, without fail, he sees Stede’s head jerk round, just catching himself before actually checking on Ed.
The tension only increases once Ed is ushered into the flat. Having never been there before, Ed does his best not to see how the way Stede expresses himself has changed, now that he’s separated from his wife. Tries not to notice the signs of his new life and loves alongside his old passions. Tries to ignore his luxurious and very idiosyncratic decor, tries very fucking hard not to acknowledge how much the space feels like Stede.
Stede, flushing and eyes downcast, escorts Ed, Izzy and Frenchie to the room Ed’ll be staying in; gives Ed the wifi password, shows him the enormous en suite shower room, the remote controls for the TV, air con and sound bar. And then he stands in the doorway, awkwardly, shooting Ed a pleading look while Ed remains studiously oblivious. Stede finally scurries away, mumbling about making dinner, and when Ed calls out, “Not hungry!”, Izzy hisses at him that he’s a fucking twat.
The fizzing voltage suffusing the entire flat ramps up once Izzy and Frenchie leave. The suppressed energy makes Ed's teeth itch. He catches almost-silent footfalls halting outside the room on several occasions, which just about makes his hair stand on end.
Ed’s swearing, trying to figure out the best combination of crutch, support rails and leverage to get from the bed and into his wheelchair to get to the bathroom, when a soft knock at the door delivers a shock like a defibrillator straight through his chest.
“What?” he yells, voice rough with pain and tight with nerves.
“Do you need some help?” The reply warbles with apprehension.
Oh, now Stede wanted to give Ed what he needed? Fuck that.
“No.” A cornered-animal snarl. And it’s kind of true. Kind of. It takes Ed fucking ages, a ton of effort, and some serious twinges, but he makes it to the en suite, pees and brushes his teeth. All by himself. Like a big boy. Fuck’s sake.
Fuck all of this. Fuck joints and fuck bladders and fuck dental hygiene and definitely fuck this airy room that’s all shiny shades of teal and gold. It’s lovely, because of course it fucking is. Fuck how lovely it is, and fuck plump pillows and silky sheets, that smell of lavender laundry detergent with a Stede base note.
And isn’t that a bit of terrific fucking irony? Finally, finally, after months of longing, fantasising, dreaming, and flirting, he is in Stede’s bedroom. He’s in Stede’s bedroom and he’s in Stede’s bed. His actual bed. And is he pressing Stede into the mattress with passionate kisses? No. No, he is not. Is he trying to catch his breath as Stede slowly undresses him? Doesn’t appear to be the case. Is he watching Stede gasp and writhe underneath him as Ed carefully takes him apart, one exquisite piece at a time? Hmmmm, strangely it doesn’t seem so.
No, Ed is alone, and incapacitated. Propped up against the headboard, leg supported by a pillow, mildly drugged and very sore, with a black eye, a head wound, a sprained wrist and ankle, and a recently re-fucked knee. Oh, and cracked ribs. And a broken heart.
He will be living in Stede’s home, with Stede, for the next few weeks. He’s completely fucking terrified of what happens next, and with good reason, given that the brief moment he and Stede had been alone together thus far had been sickeningly charged, like ionised air before a motherfucker of a lightning storm. Stede’s timid nervousness combined with Ed's stubborn sullenness transformed them into a matched pair of electric fences, mute and crackling with volatile energy, primed to release jolting, chaotic bolts at the briefest contact.
And Ed knows that Stede knows what Ed did. Izzy had informed Ed of that during his last week in hospital, when Ed had railed against The Recovery Plan. Stede had gathered together all the far-flung pieces of the world’s sickest jigsaw puzzle from the survivor stories of Ed’s friends, and the lurid coverage on the tabloid websites. Photos capturing Ed stumbling out of bars and clubs, wild-eyed and baleful. Social media posts from shocked and appalled fans who had the misfortune to encounter him post-show and dared to ask for an autograph. Stede knows it all.
Ed feels humiliated, vulnerable and ashamed. And not in the survivable way he’s occasionally been made to feel in the past by thoughtless lovers or his own overblown hopes. This is worse. This is Ed on display, like a fucking modern art exhibition of all his terrible decisions and worst characteristics. All carefully labelled so no one can mistake the meaning of them, or misinterpret the absolute clusterfuck of bizarre and repellent shapes that make up Edward Teach.
Ugly, jagged sculptures of his broken, self-abused body splayed open and offered up to anyone who would take a slice. An audio track of every shitty, vicious, threatening, or petty thing he said to Izzy and the rest of the cast during that purgatory of a tour. Looping film reel of Izzy's face, ghost-white and haunted as the van came at him. Unpleasantly close-up photographs of Ed’s tear-streaked, ash-hued, red-eyed face as he wept and howled and pleaded with any god that would listen to such a wretched soul to let him have Stede back. To let him be good enough for Stede.
And somehow, with all of that, with Stede knowing how imperfect and broken Ed is, Ed’s supposed to heal his mind and body in this bed. Surrounded on all sides by bright, crisp, beautiful examples in stark 3D relief of what he cannot have. The pristine portrait gallery of Stede’s perfect purity. It’s barely been an hour already and he feels taut as a fucking bow string. And absolutely everything fucking hurts.
Fortunately, at least for his physical pain, Ed’s still on the good painkillers. He takes them, knowing he’ll soon sink into a blissfully dreamless stupor, rather than spending the night so electrified by the static of his own nerve endings that he could charge the phone that’s glowing softly, a tethering nightlight, next to him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ed’s been at Stede’s place for a fucking week and everything still hurts. And to top it all off, the private care assistant Izzy hired to meet Ed’s practical needs during his recuperation is a massive fucking weirdo. Like, deeply peculiar. A bug-eyed Scotsman who oscillates between ominous silence and bursts of speech which consist of some truly insane shit. He’d brought Ed his breakfast on the first morning, and then most mornings after that, because Stede had already left for rehearsals.
Ed hadn’t had much of a chance to work out whether he was pissed off or relieved about Stede’s absence because Buttons had launched into explaining his personal views on limbo, and explained how Ed was still half-dead, which was super comforting. Though as the week has gone by, Ed’s begun to wonder if there’s a very real possibility that Buttons is a serial killer and Stede will come home one day to find the man picking his teeth clean of Ed's remains.
The physiotherapist is at least marginally better. Apparently, he's called Roach. Not Mr Roach or Dr Roach. Just Roach. Like the gross bug. He always smells of tobacco smoke and has a weirdly gleeful attitude to putting Ed through tiring and painful exercises. Izzy swears Roach is the best. Ed can see why Izzy took to him. The man is brusque and direct in a similar, though less sarcastic, manner as Izzy himself. He is very matter-of-fact about Ed's recovery prospects in a way that's not entirely reassuring but seems generally positive.
The guy’s added a bunch of accessibility features to Stede’s place that remind Ed of an old person’s home, and he really fucking hates that. As though it were possible for him to feel less sexy. There are a few temporary support rails attached by suction cups beside the toilet and to the walk-in shower walls. There’s also a plastic chair with a leg support and rubber grips so Ed can wash, though unfortunately he still needs help from Batshit Buttons: the Cannibal Carer. While working out the logistics of Ed’s inaugural shower that first morning, the man had actually offered to get naked as well, “so it’ll nae feel s’awkward, ah?” Ed had been emphatically fucking clear about that very much not fucking happening.
Thank fuck for Abshir. Of all the paid help Ed was to receive, he had been the most nervous about the therapist. But Abshir is a calming, grounding presence who hasn't forced Ed to talk about anything he hasn't volunteered himself. He’s even helped by acknowledging that Ed’s trepidation and reluctance to be in Stede’s space is valid and not the reaction of an over-pampered ungrateful starlet, thank you very much.
Though it had felt like chewing glass, Ed had vaguely alluded to the situation between himself and Stede. He’d tried to pass it off as no big thing; a guy he’d thought was a mate letting him down in an unspecified way. But he suspected Abshir could hear the clinking shards of hurt lodged in his vocal chords whenever he spoke about Stede. Ed certainly could.
And Ed really couldn’t tell if it makes things better or worse that he has barely seen Stede since he’d been installed in Stede’s bed. Ed's trying to relax in a house he knows for a fact is haunted but has no fucking clue whether the spectre will every actually show himself and doesn't know what he'll want from Ed when he does.
And so the days have unfolded. Stede leaving before Ed wakes, Buttons administering his very fucking unsettling brand of care, with the addition of Roach and Abshir on alternating days. Stede returns, Buttons leaves and soon after dinner is delivered by a jittery Stede, who lists the meal’s ingredients in way too much detail. He uses a bright voice so brittle that Ed can almost see the flakes crumbling off and floating like dust motes through the fading sunbeams, all that’s left of Stede after he disappears again.
Last night, Stede had stood looking awkward for a bit too long, while Ed had stared at him, a sardonic brow lifted in challenge, silently refusing to start eating until Stede left. When he did, Ed had felt stupidly bereft. He’d eaten without enthusiasm and watched Bob’s Burgers until he fell asleep, trying to stem the increasingly severe tide of longing and loneliness caused by his proximity to Stede’s orbit.
He feels so fucking weak. Physically, of course, because he fucking is, thanks for that, Past Ed. But that's not what’s pissing him off. It’s the pathetic want that is twisting his melon. Stede had let him hope, let him believe, that something soft and wonderful and totally unprecedented had begun to build between them. A towering fairytale castle of glittering quartz, iridescent and ethereal. The second Ed had dared to touch that glittering structure, had pressed worshipful, trusting lips to Stede’s, the entire edifice had come crashing down, shattering into multi-faceted needles that had embedded themselves into Ed’s every pore. Injecting him with an impenetrable curse that had turned him into a fucking monster.
And today, those sharp little barbs are twisting and scratching, poking at Ed’s slumbering monster parts. Because today will be different from the rest of the week. Bad different. Ed is fucking nervous. Like, bellyful-of-live-eels nervous. Hello, old friends.
Today is Sunday. Sunday is a day of rest. No Buttons, no Roach, no Abshir. And no rehearsals. Just Ed and Stede. Ed can’t go anywhere. Stede has nowhere to be. And he goes nowhere.
Ed can hear him.
Since Ed woke late, as he always does these days, he has been able to hear the sounds of someone deliberately pottering. Trying to indicate their presence without interrupting. There’s a TV or radio chattering away, occasional bursts of sotto voce muttering or humming. Stede is being conspicuously around.
Ed could play the opposite game. Pretend to sleep for a full twenty-four hours. Not make a peep and live off the cloying date-and-cashew protein bars Buttons had provided for emergencies. This feels like an emergency. Ed’s heart is pounding and his palms are sweating. There’s a siren wailing in his head. He wants to break the glass and evacuate the building in a disorderly fashion.
But he knows it’s pointless. Though his wrist and ankle are loads better, his ribs and knee still need longer. He’ll never make it down the fire escape stairs. So he drags himself laboriously out of bed and into the bathroom. Now he’s better on his crutches he has, thank fuck, worked out how to shower unaided. Buttons still insists on loitering by the door, just in case, and demands that Ed sits in the shower chair, but he’s not here so fuck him. Ed will shower upright - holding on to a rail, sure, he’s not an idiot. And he'll keep his waterproof knee bandage out of the spray. But he will do all this without the litany of folklore, arcane mysticism and bird facts that have been accompanying his ablutions.
He's just managed to wrestle his way into a baggy sweatshirt and some loose sweatpants - underwear is not worth the extra effort - when there’s a knock at the door. It’s not a surprise. The enticing, salty smell of bacon has been drifting into the room on cartoon scent trails for about five minutes now.
Ed sits on the bed. “Come in.”
Stede does. He’s carrying a laden breakfast tray, filled with sumptuous offerings of bacon, eggs, mushrooms, tea, toast, orange juice. Everything looks delicious. Everything. Stede’s curls drip honey and his eyes flash caramel.
Fuck, he looks good. Like a technicolour sitcom wife, all bright cheer and warm smiles. He’s even wearing a fucking apron. But, just like a sitcom wife, there’s more going on behind his eyes. Resilience. Strength. Worry. Dissatisfaction.
“I thought, as it’s Sunday, you might enjoy a proper, hearty breakfast. Lots of protein to keep your strength up and help with the recovery. Roach tells me you might be able to switch to just crutches next week. I’m sure you must be looking forward to that.” On and on babbles the brook of Stede’s happy, sunshine chatter, irrigating the verdant landscape of conversation and leaving no space for desolate, sullen scrublands to encroach.
Stede carefully places the tray on Ed’s lap and, just for that brief moment, he’s so close that Ed can see the slight smudges under his eyes, can hear him when he swallows hard. Ed can also see all the little jewel-bright flecks in his irises, and smell the fresh spice of his skin. Ed’s fingers twitch. He will never not want to touch him. Doesn’t matter how pissed off, fucked up or beaten down he feels. Ed will always want to touch Stede.
To busy his hands, he picks up the mug of tea and swallows a gulp of the still-too-hot beverage, welcoming the distraction of the mild burning sensation on his tongue.
“There we are. Bon appetit.” Stede straightens, gives a little flourish with his hand. He hovers, smiling at Ed with the eager-to-please, puppy energy of a baby, first-class flight attendant. “Can I get you anything else?”
Ed almost laughs. It’s irritatingly sweet. He burns his tongue again instead. “Nah. Reckon I’m good, thanks.”
And Stede blossoms. His spine straightens more and his face blooms. Ed frowns, confused, before he realises why. It’s the first time he has shown any gratitude, any courtesy, since arriving. And Stede responds to it like a flower greeting the sun. Like Ed’s meagre thanks are the source of life its-fucking-self. Ed feels a tiny flare of warmth in the shadowed depths of his heart. A fragile, embryonic sunbeam, aching to shine out and feed the little bud.
Ed doesn’t know what to do. Overturn the tray and crush the delicate bloom with it? Smile back? Crawl under the bed and never come out? Try actually talking to Stede?
He stares at Stede, tongue stinging from boiling water and tumultuous, unspoken words.
“You’re welcome,” Stede whispers past the grin that’s stretching his lips. His eyes go impossibly soft and he sways towards Ed a little. Just enough to suggest he might sit on the bed. Keep Ed company while he eats. Maybe chat to him. Like they had so often before, during other breakfasts in other spaces. A cafe table, a theatre restaurant, a rehearsal room chill out area. Never in a bedroom.
But then Stede catches himself, nods efficiently, that perky steward vibe back in place. “Right then. I’ll come back for your tray in a bit.”
And with that he swishes out. Ed stares after him, unable to prevent his eyes from tracking down the tapering length of Stede’s back, shoulders broad in the casual, emerald green shirt, calves thick in the not-skinny-but-tight-enough-to-be-really-fucking-distracting grey jeans. A throb of desire thrums low in Ed’s belly. It’s shocking, almost unfamiliar. He nearly spills his tea into his lap.
What a thing to be happening to him, wrecked and overwhelmed as he is. What with the misery, the alcohol, the drugs, Ed hadn’t felt what he would call actual, legitimate arousal during the whole Monster Era. The subsequent injury, crushing guilt, and yet more drugs has not been much of a turn-on either. But it appears, much to Ed’s surprise and - what? Delight? Horror? Bewilderment? All of the above - his libido has survived the crash and is re-establishing its attention squarely back on where it had been prior to Ed’s breakdown.
Dickfuck. That’s all he needs.
Ed eats the incredible breakfast (seriously, how did Stede get scrambled eggs bouncy and creamy?) and mulls it over. If he’s honest with himself - which Ed usually tries hard not to be because ew, right? There be monsters - then he has noticed little tremors of lust already this week. Low-level, seismic rumblings, not the kind of thing to trigger the warning sirens but enough to make the local wildlife twitchy.
For example, on the evening of the third or fourth day, after a gruelling session with Roach, Ed had been in a foul mood and thought that distracting himself with a book would be a good plan. On his arrival to the flat, he had glimpsed a room filled with bookshelves but there was no way he was asking Stede to bring him a book. Thankfully, however, he didn’t have to because there's a small bookshelf in Stede’s bedroom.
The top shelf mainly held well-thumbed classics, some modern thrillers, and some poetry anthologies. All clearly favourites. On the lower shelves, tucked discreetly into the corners, are several, new but definitely well-read, erotic novels. All of which, Ed discovered after nearly falling out of his chair to grab them and flick through, are queer fiction. Scattered across two whole shelves was fancy porn.
Ed found that fascinating.
Stede has erotic novels. Of course he does. Not even e-books. Other people, baser people, people like Ed, look at porn on the internet. Functional, gratuitous images of bodies doing stuff to each other. Or themselves. Whatever. But not Stede. No. Stede Bonnet reads text-based, paper-printed, erotic literature. Some modern setting, some historical, but all well-written, super hot escapism, from what Ed could gather from his clandestine investigations.
Ed had tried to find it annoying. Indicative of Stede’s inherent fanciness. Normal porn not good enough for you, Stede. Noooooo. Yours has to be bound in calfskin. You probably have monogrammed silk handkerchiefs to wipe yourself clean with and lube made from ethically-sourced, organic, cold-pressed argan oil.
Try as Ed might to cling on to his derision, he couldn’t stop thinking about Stede, lying in this bed, reading those books. And, what? Ed knew what. Tried not to. Tried to use the old Book of Mormon trick, turning off those kinds of thoughts like a lightswitch, but Ed is no Mormon. Ed is a libertine. And naturally curious.
His curiosity had gently nudged its way into the driving seat at that point. Slipped on its shades, gunned the engine, and plotted a route for the bedside cabinet. Purely in the name of supporting his argan oil theorem, of course. His fingers were steered to pull over and open the top drawer. Tissues, interesting, blisterpack of paracetamol, mundane, USB-C charging cable, boring. Hardly worth the detour. Curiosity was not done with its road trip, though. It cranked the radio and barrelled on towards Middle Drawer: population, who knows? Turned out Middle Drawer was a ghost town. Not a soul in sight. A boom town gone bust.
Suspiciously empty, in fact. Like the inhabitants had all been rousted out of town.
Except.
One lone survivor to greet the marauding interloper. As the drawer reached the end of its runners, there was a gentle trump, more felt than heard. Ed had reached into the back of the drawer and found a two-thirds empty pump bottle of lube. Just normal, unscented, unflavoured lube. No fancy nuts or seeds in its chemistry.
But to Ed it was like striking oil.
Oh, Stede. What have you been up to?
That was the point when Ed had first felt that low quake that had made his internal seismometer needle jump and scratch a jagged line across his belly.
So, yeah. It seems his dick is alive and well. Just hadn’t been talking to him of late.
Ed finishes his breakfast, drains the orange juice and sits back, his gaze drawn to the bookshelf. There’s that same plucked string vibration shimmying through his gut again. Since his little sojourn to the Drawerlands, Ed has felt his body occasionally trying to push its own agenda. Maybe take himself for a test drive, yeah? See how everything’s doing? He’s put it down to the fact that he’s in less pain, much more sober, and actually eating and sleeping enough to feel part-way human nowadays.
Maybe there’s more to it though. Maybe it’s the effect that Stede has on him, has always had on him, rearing its slutty head. God, he’d really thought his rage had beheaded that Hydra. Guess not.
A knock at the door has him jerking his eyes away from the bookshelf like a teenager caught perusing a rack of dirty magazines.
“Yeah?” There’s a rasp to his voice that the tea should have smoothed out but hasn’t.
The door opens a crack. “All finished?” Half of Stede’s face chirps at him through the gap.
“Yeah. Um, come in?” Why is it a question? Oooh, ‘cause Ed’s not sure it’s a good idea right now.
Right.
Okay.
Right.
Ed’s still mad. Stede’s still a dick. All is as it was and should be. No need to feel all flustered. Stop it. Stop it!
“How was everything for you? Satisfactory, I hope?” Bright. Friendly. Remote. A waiter in a hotel would sound as politely distant. It’s fucking weid. It tickles against Ed’s hackles.
“It was fucking delicious, did you not have some too?” The compliment is a little serrated.
“Yes, but–”
“Well, then. What’s with the fucking silver service questioning?” Now Ed’s voice is a sharpened claw. It’s such a ridiculous argument to start but Ed can’t stand this sterile politeness. Not from Stede.
Stede looks suddenly flustered by Ed’s spiked tone, rattling the tray as he picks it up, and Ed feels satisfied at the rise he’s elicited. 'Cause he’s a bastard. “Well, y’know, I make eggs the way I like them. I don't know how you like them and I wanted to check–”
“Yes, you fuckin’ do. We’ve eaten breakfast together. Loads of times.”
Stede opens and closes his mouth, a formless creak emerging before he finds his voice. “Well, I suppose so but I’ve never made breakfast for you because…” The jaw hinge exercises itself again but the voice has already hit the showers, it seems.
Ed lets a slow, cold smile stalk across his face. “Because we‘ve never woken up together.”
Stede nods, mutely.
“Because we’ve never spent the night together.”
Stede’s cheeks flush. His eyes drop to the tray. The tray quails and clatters.
“Because you made it very fucking clear that you didn’t want that.” The malicious purr in Ed’s tone is the sound cavepeople would have heard emerging from the dark forest and known that they wouldn’t be quick enough to escape.
“That’s not what happened.” Stede raises a defiant gaze to Ed, which just causes his rising anger to flick its tail and crouch to pounce.
“Oh?” Ed’s voice is lithe, slinking danger. “So, your incredible disappearing act was some sort of come-on, was it? Talk about playin’ hard to get. Gotta be honest with ya, mate, if that was the plan, it gave very mixed signals.”
And, fuck, the Big Murder Cat is well and truly out of the bag now. Ed had not been planning to get into this. Not ever. Certainly not while he’s fucking trapped here. He’d planned to rest, let his injuries heal as quickly as possible, then get the fuck out and never look back. Maybe leave money on the bed for Stede’s trouble.
Stede whirls and slams the tray onto the dressing table so hard the crockery and cutlery jump and fall back to earth with an unholy clamour. Ed jumps too but it’s silent, though his heart rattles loudly against his creaking, groaning ribcage.
“Edward, I have tried to explain myself to you. I called. I texted–”
“After two months of total fucking silence!” Ed yells, all his cool, feline malice replaced by pure, primate rage.
“I needed time to figure things out. You wouldn’t answer. Then Izzy called…” Stede chokes the words out on a small sob. For a second, his face crumples like the hood of Ed’s car had. He gulps, then continues, in a slightly less fraught tone. “I tried to see you in the hospital. I wrote you letters.” His voice softens further. “Edward, Ed, there’s so much I want to tell you.”
His beautiful, prismatic eyes are swirling with liquid, oil-slick colour. Ed has to look away.
“Oh, now you wanna talk?” It comes out rough and low. Gravel under tires.
“I do.” A soft, high counterpoint. “But only if you want to.”
There’s a sudden quiet fervour to Stede. He looks about ready to burst like one of those puffball mushrooms on the brink of exploding into a misty veil of spores. Ed doesn’t know what those spores would grow into. More charming whimsy and implied affection? Will they seed the ground and form the white, peaked caps of a fairy ring to encircle and ensnare Ed? To enchant and beguile him, again, into believing himself a princess worthy of rescue? If Ed lets his silver hair tumble down the tower wall, if he spins enough straw into gold, will Stede be there to catch him?
But, no. Ed is done with fairytales. He’s exclusively non-fiction now.
Stede hadn’t wanted him. Or not enough, at least.
There was no substance to what they’d had. Just myth and legend.
So, there will be no fairy rings, no spinning-wheels, no kisses to transform beasts or revive cursed princesses. For all Stede’s pretty words, he’d vanished on the stroke of midnight.
“Just say whatever the fuck it is you wanna say.” There’s no heat in Ed’s words. Just a flat, resigned resolve. Say the magic words. Break the curse. End the story. Quick and painless.
Stede approaches the bed, warily, taking on the jungle cat mantle. Carefully picking his way across the room, eyes never leaving Ed, until he’s close enough to perch on the end of the bed.
“Firstly,” Stede’s voice was lullaby-low and sonnet-smooth. “I want to say how sorry I am that you got hurt.”
Pffft, so passive. And were ‘mistakes made?’ Will ‘lessons be learned?’ Ed rolls his eyes.
“I mean in the accident. And before. While you were…struggling,” Stede amends, and Ed hates how well Stede can read his gestures. “I didn’t realise how upset you were. I was selfish, just thinking about myself, and I didn't think to take better care of you. For that, I will never forgive myself.”
Ed huffs and crosses his arms over his aching chest, even though it fills his ribs with burning ice. “That’s why the whole Florence Nightingale act, is it?”
“Partly.” Stede nods and has the grace to look slightly abashed. He doesn’t look away from Ed’s face though. “Mainly it’s because I couldn't bear the idea of not being near you any longer.”
What the fuck?
“What the fuck?”
Stede shuffles a little closer. “I always love being near you. It’s nice. It feels good. With everyone else I’m always so tense and awkward all the time but with you it just felt…easy. Exciting. Fun.”
Christ, that’s good to hear. It really captures the sense of exhilarated peace, calm excitement, Ed always felt whenever Stede was beside him. But he’s not ready to relent yet. Just because Stede enjoyed his company, it doesn’t mean shit.
“Yeah, it was all just a bit of fun to you. As soon as I tried to make it serious, you fuckin’ legged it.”
“That’s not why I ran.” Another shuffle up the bed, minute as continental drift and just as world-changing. “For weeks, I thought it was just me. Just me getting too caught up, too attached. You’re so charismatic and captivating. And you’ve had this whole, glamorous, amazing life. I thought you’d just think I was acting like one of your fans. Like that guy with your face tattooed on his chest. You know, trying too hard. Assuming too much intimacy. But then you kissed me. And it was wonderful."
Stede’s face is a perfect reflection of how it had looked the moment after Ed had kissed him, all those months ago. Awestruck. Gentle. Happy. It had been a wonderful kiss. Ed had been terrified that Stede would pull away and look aghast. Or laugh it off. Or laugh at Ed. But he hadn’t. He’d melted into it. Ed had cracked open and felt all his liquid warmth, that he’d tried for so long to calcify, flood out and pool around Stede. He’d wanted to swim together through that mellow lagoon until they floated right over the edge of the world. Tipped over in amongst the stars to find their own, secret solar system.
Somehow, Stede’s fingers are now resting, ever so gently, on Ed's right shinbone. Light as honeybees and just as essential. “And it was suddenly all real,” Stede continues. "Everything I’d been feeling. I'd never felt like that before. No one had ever kissed me and just made my brain stop like that.” Stede lips tug to one side and tuck in the corner, like a confessional curtain not quite pulled all the way. “I'd never kissed another man before.”
“Fuck off, you’ve kissed at least three other guys that I know of.” And how many others? Ed doesn't want to know. That’s between Stede and his god.
Stede gives him an old-fashioned look. His fingers tap out a gentle rosary on Ed's shin. “On stage. As part of a play. But never for real. I really hadn’t felt moved to do so either. I’d thought a few people were handsome, but I was married. And my romantic life to that point sort of suggested I wasn’t really cut out for physical intimacy, so it didn't occur to me to investigate that further.” The tapping stops and Stede cups his hand around the delicate bones of Ed’s ankle.
“I couldn’t believe you wanted that from me. That I made you happy.” His hand trails lightly up and down Ed’s calf, smoothing an apology into Ed’s skin. “And, what felt absolutely amazing was that I wanted that too. I’d always loved talking to you and spending time with you, but I realised I also wanted to kiss you, and touch you and just be with you in every possible way.”
Stede’s fingers trace a delicate ring around the pointed bone of Ed’s ankle and it’s all just mesmerising.
“But, after you left, I started panicking. I’m so sorry. I’d never known I could want someone so much, and I was so, so, deeply into you. I didn't know how to deal with it. I was scared I’d let you down. And I was still married. And, I know you were being honest with me but I started to worry that your, um, attraction to me might just be a showmance thing. Just a passing whim that would burn off and leave you stuck with me.”
“Well, it wasn’t.” The Rage Cat has morphed into a nervous kitten. No rumbling threat now, just petulant mewing. Ed tries so hard not to listen, not to believe. But it’s really hard with Stede stroking soothing sweeps up and down his jersey-clad calf. And Ed had kind of known that Stede was pretty much totally inexperienced. He’d made some bawdy jokes and Stede had giggled and flushed but not reciprocated, had even alluded once or twice to the lack of passion between himself and his wife.
So of course he’d spooked and bolted when Ed had grabbed him and smothered him with yearning and passion. Didn’t matter how gently he’d done it or how it had been preceded by tentative confessions of attachment and longing and hope. Ed had blind-sided Stede. Rushed in where angels like Stede fear to tread.
Edward Teach, paragon of patience and virtue.
“I know that now.” Stede dips his head, trying to get Ed to meet his gaze. Ed lets his eyes flick up and there’s that angelic smile. Brewed from empathy and steeped in understanding. It washes through Ed and begins to bathe his stiff, sore soul. Starts to ease the aching clench of misery. Initiates the slow process of cleansing the corroded, rotting parts of Ed that he’d thought were corrupted beyond repair. The sweet, restorative feeling flows through him and a small sob bubbles in his throat.
Stede squeezes Ed’s leg, lightly. “And I know it might be too late, that I’ve missed my chance. But I would very much like to take care of you until you’re better. If you’ll let me.” Stede’s fingers slip off Ed’s leg and creep, ivy-slow up the mattress until his fingertips are just brushing Ed’s. “I don’t expect anything from you. I just want you to be happy again.” Those soft, spreading vines slide between Ed’s fingers, wrapping gently.
Happy again? Ed can hardly imagine it. It had been such a brief experience. A few weeks of flaring, brilliant joy that had lit Ed’s skies in eye-wateringly bright bursts of colour that he could still see the shadows of, burned into his eyelids. But they felt so ephemeral now. Could he ever have that again? Could he cope with it? Would it last for more than scant, searing seconds?
“And, in a very selfish way, I want to be around in case you ever feel like you might want to offer me the same chance again. This time, I won’t miss it.”
Oh, fuck.
Oh, fuck.
There it is. The ball flying back into Ed’s court at fucking Olympic-serve speed.
All he has to do is return it. If he wants to.
Not now. Not yet, He hasn’t stretched properly. He’ll pull a muscle. He’ll strain his heart.
Very carefully, Ed extricates his fingers from Stede’s. He looks deep into those ocean eyes and tries to convey what he needs. Time. Patience. Care. He has to be allowed to be a little mad for a little longer. He has to test the ground, trust it won’t crack and rupture under his feet.
“I think I need a nap.” It’s not true. He’s been awake all of one hour. But Stede doesn’t question it. Just nods and smiles and stays very fucking around.
“Of course. I’ll leave you to rest. Maybe bring you tea in a couple of hours unless- Oh!” Stede’s face suddenly brightens with an unhinged glee that seems too light for the vibe in the room. “Just a sec.” With that Stede jumps to his feet, the gentle bounce of the mattress jostling Ed’s knee and ribs but Stede doesn’t notice the wince this time, focused as he is on his apparently-delightful mission. He darts out of the room and returns a few seconds later, jangling quietly like a fucking solo-Morris dancer.
“I found this in the prop store. They said I could have it. I thought you could ring it if you need anything.” Stede is proudly offering his palm to Ed. In it is what looks like a giant cat bell. It’s on a leather strap. Ed eyes it with total bewilderment. He cautiously takes the bell and looks up at Stede’s beaming face.
“Yeah, sure mate.” It’s a sweet idea. It really is. Batshit fucking insane but sweet. “I mean, I could also just…text you?”
“Oh, yes. I suppose you could.” Stede’s smile drops and Ed wants to scoop it up and carefully replace it where it belongs.
“It’s cool. We can give this a try.”
“No, it’s stupid. Here let me-” Stede reaches out and Ed curls his fingers around the bell, a jovial, idiot jingle muffled in his palm
“It’s not. I want it.” Ed lifts his chin and fixes Stede with a determined look. “What if my phone dies? Or some unprecedented side effect of the drugs means my thumbs stop working. Or fall clean off.”
Stede’s smile is safely back on its plinth. “I suppose that’s always a risk with modern medicine.”
Ed installs a smile of his own. Smaller, more delicate, a little battered but definitely part of the same collection. “Yeah. I think there’s even a support group.”
“Are you a donor?” Stede’s grin is polished and gleaming.
“Fuck yeah. I’ve always been deeply involved with Survivors of Less Useful Thumb Syndrome."
Stede lets out a tinkling laugh that rings ten times brighter than the plump-my-pillows cat bell. “If it turns out you’re affected, you could become the face of S.L.U.T.S”
Ed swaps out his fragile smile for a wolfish grin. “Way ahead of you, bro. Check out Attitude magazine, April 2005.”
A pink tint stains Stede’s porcelain cheekbones. “I might well do that.”
“Best Google search you’ll ever do.”
They smile at each other for a silent moment, one that’s laden with drifting dandelion seeds of shared amusement, diminishing tension, and burgeoning hope. Each is full of possibilities for new growth.
Ed dares not move, not wanting to disturb the air and disperse the feather-soft seeds surrounding them. But it’s always the fucking way, isn’t it? When you’re trying not to do something, you do the opposite. His hand twitches and the dickhead bell, which Ed immediately christens The Bell-End, jangles stupidly, oblivious to the vibe.
Stede shakes his head minutely, accompanied by fuck-all little tinkly sounds. “Great.” His voice is too loud and very keen. “I’ll leave you to nap.”
He bustles around, gathering the tray and checking Ed’s water bottle is full. The whole time he sneaks glances at Ed out of the corner of his eye but doesn’t look directly at him until he’s awkwardly balancing the tray on one hip so he can close the door.
Alone again. Ed breathes out, long and slow, blowing the little seed parachutes into the corners of the room to bed-in safely out of harm's way. Harm’s a sneaky fucker though. Manages to get its gnarled, brutal fists into all kinds of unexpected places. Ed doesn’t feel like it’s in the room now though. He doesn’t feel entirely safe, his pulse is way too shaky and his breathing too trembly for that, but everything feels calmer. His brain isn’t as jumpy or clanging with formless warnings.
For the first time in a long time, Ed feels…kind of…good? Hopeful? Maybe not quite such an inveterate loser?
It was a lie before but now he actually is sleepy. He wriggles his way under the duvet and snuggles his face into the pillows. Abshir’s been talking to him about trying to take the little wins. That whole intense exchange kind of felt like one. Sure, it had combusted hot and fast as a forest fire but maybe it’s helped burn off some dead undergrowth. Left the ground fertile, ready for new seedlings to take root.
Ed yawns and closes his eyes, starting to sink into sleep. That was a lot, all in one. A mishmash of emotions. Anger, regret, suspicion, desire, vulnerability, longing. Mismatched board game pieces jumbled in a bag. Lead piping tangled in a knight's mane. The Monopoly dog chasing a Connect 4 frisbee. And they all need to be sorted out so Ed can try to play one game all the way through. Roll the dice, spin the wheel, flip the card, and see how turns out for him.
Maybe this time. Maybe this time he’ll win.
Chapter 4: Oxytocin
Summary:
As Ed's recovery progresses, Stede tentatively begins to spend more time in his company as they both try to work out where to go from here.
Chapter Text
Stede wakes and stretches, vertebrae cracking in a series of champagne pops, like his body is celebrating the birth of a new day. It feels good. His body feels looser, straighter, more flexible. He hadn’t realised how tight he’d become over the last couple of months. Every muscle had locked up, trying to create a solid, armoured wall to protect him from damage.
It hadn’t helped, of course. None of the attacks were coming from outside. They were all internal. Maybe that was it. Perhaps his body had locked down like a prison, trying to keep all those dangerous emotions from escaping and wreaking havoc on innocent bystanders.
Either way, it hadn’t been fun. That first week that Ed had come to stay, Stede had practically been able to hear the screech of his rigid muscles scraping together. But since their little blow-up, when the dam had fractured a little and a flood of honesty came pouring out of both himself and Ed, Stede had felt the pressure reduce.
The water level is still high, of course. There’s a lot more talking still to do. But it feels like it might be easier. More of a tumbling stream of conversation than torrents of boiling recrimination and guilt.
The massages have helped. Following their conversation about Ed’s rehabilitation, Stede had asked Roach for a recommendation and the therapist he suggested was incredible. She’d read his body perfectly and reduced it to a quivering, happy pulp. He’d emerged from every subsequent treatment feeling like his muscles were suspended in bags of warm oil and his bones were floating together like windchimes.
Stede indulges in another luxurious stretch and feels the warm, slinking caress of his silk pyjama pants against hot flesh. So, yes. There is still one very obvious point of tension but there’s not much he can, or will, do about that. His physical condition feels horribly inappropriate, given the current situation and all that came before it. But since Ed arrived, Stede’s body - which appears to have no sense of proprietary or respect for the injured - has reasserted its keen interest in their house guest. It's been making suggestions and presenting extremely unhelpful ideas.
And, fine. Obviously there is something Stede can do about it. But he is not going to. He will not be getting himself off while his friend -God, he hopes that they are still, at least, friends- recovers in a room mere feet away from his own. Understand, Lizard Brain? You don’t get to run the show right now.
Stede had at least had the foresight to clear his bedside drawer of his more personal items so they’re available to him in the guest room, should he require them. Which he doesn’t, thank you. His hands are also available to him, both seemingly on Team Lizard, given how they are currently resting low on the waistband of his pyjamas, thumbs tucked below the elastic.
But, no! Have they no common decency? Ed is only down the corridor, a fact that Lizard Brain latches on to and starts calculating how fast Stede can get naked and get there (under thirty seconds, definitely). And Ed is hurt. Ed is hurt. That is, in no way, a turn-on. It’s Stede’s worst fear, his biggest turn-off. Ed is damaged and Stede is the root cause.
Recalling those chilling, stomach-churning facts does have the desired effect of dumping a bucket of ice water on certain areas and sending cold-blooded Lizard Brain scuttling back under its rock, at least for the time being. It also dampens Stede’s bright morning mood a little too, a reminder that he mustn’t let himself get carried away with optimism. Yes, it seems he and Ed may have turned a corner yesterday but the road still stretches out before them. It winds through some uncharted terrain. Dark forests and blind curves could lay ahead. And Stede still needs to try to work out how - if - he can make amends. Whether they have strayed too far off the path to retrace their relationship or plot a new course to bypass the scorched earth.
Stede rubs his face vigorously and energetically hauls himself out of bed. He goes down the corridor to the master bathroom, just across from Ed’s bedroom. Technically, Stede’s bedroom. Where Ed has been sleeping. In Stede’s bed.
Fuck off, Lizard Brain! Stop giggling!
Stede gets into the shower and turns it colder than he likes. Once he’s dry and dressed, Stede ambles to the large, light kitchen area. Where he encounters Mr Buttons. Had his libido not already been chilled into submission, the presence of this clearly very kind and capable but deeply odd man in his kitchen would have flash-frozen the issue.
“Good morning, Mr Buttons,” Stede calls cheerily.
“Mornin’ Cap’n.”
That’s weird, right? A jaunty nickname from the care assistant he barely sees. Oh well, Stede doesn’t hate it. “Busy day today, I believe?”
“Aye, Cap’n. First Roach, then Abshir. Body and mind being coaxed back inta harmonic alignment, like yon celestial spheres.”
“Riiiight. Good then.” Stede claps his hands, impressed by the poetry but choosing not to engage. “I’d like to take Ed his breakfast today, if you don’t mind.” The other man eyes him, which in itself is unsettling, as though he can read Stede’s intentions in large print. Buttons gives a curt nod.
“Then I shall take Karl and Livvy theirs.” He takes a plate of raw bacon, which Stede had assumed was waiting to be cooked and served to the human inhabitants, and exits to the roof terrace. Stede stares after him, wondering whether or not to raise the issue of food budgets and which life forms they are intended to provide for, but, again, decides not to engage. It’s not like he can’t afford the bacon and Buttons does seem to be taking excellent, if weird, care of Ed.
Stede loads a tray with croissants, marmalades, jams and chocolate spread. He makes two mugs of tea, and spends about two minutes removing and replacing one of the mugs on the tray, oscillating in a Newton’s Cradle of indecision as to whether it's too presumptuous to take his own tea through as well. Eventually, he stills the anxiously clicking spheres and decides that he can always just take his tea away again if that’s what seems the best thing to do in the moment.
He carries the breakfast to Ed’s door and balances it on his forearm as he knocks.
“MMmff? Wzzit?” The deep, scratchy query skitters down Stede’s spine and tickles his Lizard Brain’s belly.
“Breakfast.” Oh dear, too squeaky? Too loud, that’s for certain. A baffled screech owl, out and about at the wrong end of the day.
A throat is cleared. “C’min.”
The sight that greets Stede when he opens the door is nothing short of sublime. Ed is midway through dragging his torso up to slump back into the pillows. Most of his hair has come loose from its night-time bun and is spilling in streaks of coal and quicksilver over Ed’s naked chest and shoulders. The rippling waves partially obscure his tattoos, making a tantalising peep show of copper skin and black ink.
Stede swallows down the sudden clamour of impish syllables that are gleefully scrabbling to escape his throat. He is certain that, were he to let them out, they would be no more coherent than Ed’s greeting, but what they’d lack in diction they’d likely more than make up for in debauchery.
Stede follows Ed’s lead and clears his own throat, fighting down the rebellious sounds. He lets a genuine, fond smile stretch his lips and is pleased to see a sleepier version dawn on Ed’s face.
“Hey.” Ed’s voice is deliciously rough. All honeycomb scratch and pecan-brittle crackle.
“I hope you don't mind,” Stede can still hear that his own voice is a teensy bit breathy and a scooch high but screw it. It’s early. Maybe his voice always sounds like this in the morning. “I thought I’d bring your breakfast and perhaps keep you company? It’s fine if you’d rather I left-”
“No.” Ed’s instant retort cuts short Stede’s words and extends his smile. Ed’s cheeks, pale from sleep, tint a shade darker and his perpetually-dark eyes slide away from Stede’s. “I mean, might be nice,” Ed mumbles and clears his throat again. As his eyes lower, he seems to realise he’s topless. Stede watches as his fingers tangle in the edge of the sheet, seemingly unsure whether to hoist them up over his naked torso or leave them as they are.
Much as Lizard Brain is enjoying the view, Stede is a fucking gentleman. (Yes, he is! Shut up, Lizard Brain!) He puts the tray down on the dressing table and then executes a sudden-realisation expression that would have caused his acting coach to drag her hands down her face in despair. “Oh bugger. I’ve forgotten the butter. Back in a jiff.” With that pantomime of a performance hanging in the air, Stede rushes back to the kitchen, giving Ed time to scoop his sleep-strewn self together. Stede’s also giving himself time to, once again, catch hold of the thrashing reptilian tail that’s making a bid for freedom and mayhem.
By the time Stede steps back into the room, emanating Austen-esque levels of calm, respectful decorum once more, Ed has pulled on a faded, soft-looking purple t-shirt and is sitting on top of the covers in voluminous, black, cotton harem pants. Stede puts the totally unnecessary butter dish on the tray and carries the whole thing over to place on the bed beside Ed.
Once Ed has helped himself to an array of pastry and preserves, Stede fills his own plate – added at the last minute under his mug – and sits in the armchair by the window, a polite distance away from the bed. They eat and chat about nothing for a while. How Ed slept, what time his appointments are, how his injuries are healing. Stede shares a couple of minor gripes about the rehearsal space they’re working in, how one of his co-stars always accepts a tea but never makes one. And it’s easy. It’s fun. It’s relaxing. It’s almost normal. Or what normal used to be.
“Thank you for letting me join you. It’s nice to have company for breakfast.” As soon as he says it, Stede hears how potentially loaded it sounds. A trebuchet with a hair trigger, primed to loose innuendo and expectation all over their lovely, civilised morning.
“I mean, to start the day with a chat,” he qualifies quickly, feeling the strawberry-jam blush smearing his cheeks in sticky blobs.
“I know what you mean, mate.” Ed gives him a small smile and takes a bite of croissant, laden with glistening, golden marmalade. He chews and swallows, holds up the pastry for another bite but, just before he sinks his teeth in, adds softly, “Been losing my mind a bit, to be honest.”
Stede’s cheeks boil cherry-red as he clatters his plate to the side table and leans forward, launching into apologies. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to neglect you. It must be extremely tedious, being stuck in one room all day. I hadn’t realised you were lonely.”
“Not lonely as such.” Ed’s eyes are firmly fixed on his croissant, as though he is counting the laminated, flaking layers. “There’s always people around. Abshir, Roach, Buttons. But not, like, someone I can just shoot the shit with, y’know?”
Stede does know. It’s been wonderful connecting with Mary and Doug, and he has socialised occasionally with some of the Cabaret cast, particularly since Ed left the show and they returned to the UK. But, with those guys, he’s had to be very wary of raising the subject of Ed, or defending him too vehemently if his name does come up. Which it always does. Stede has had no one with whom he can enjoy the easy, playful, banter and gentle, earnest soul-sharings that he had so enjoyed with Ed. Probably because he has never felt as at ease with anyone the way he had with Ed.
It’s one of the tiny daily heartbreaks Stede has been having to give himself triage for over the last few months. Every silly joke he’s thought of that he knows would make Ed fold over laughing has calcified on his tongue, making his throat ache and his mouth flood with aspirin-bitter regret.
“I do.” Stede speaks softly, not wanting to spook Ed with too much intensity. He picks up his plate again but watches Ed through his lashes. He can see Ed’s eyes flicking over to him, cautious and quick. Stede could change the subject, let those little frightened-creature glances scurry back somewhere safe, but it feels important to let Ed know why Stede’s left him languishing the way he has. With a cheery, self-deprecating chuckle Stede continues, “I would have popped in but I wasn’t sure if you’d want to shoot the shit with me or just shoot me.”
Stede’s smile has all the load-bearing capacity of tissue paper. Referring directly to Ed’s initial resistance to this whole situation could shred the fragile peace they’ve constructed into feathery strips. An ash-light coating that would cover and muffle all the new paths they’d started to find.
Ed’s tiny, responding smile is the supporting arch needed to shore up this moment.
“Maybe shoot shit at you.”
Stede laughs so hard, he chokes on some errant pastry flakes. God, he wants to play! He wants that more than he wants to explain himself and beg forgiveness. More than he wants to touch Ed. More than he wants to carry on converting oxygen to carbon dioxide.
“Or shit shoes at me?”
Ed nearly spits his tea. “That’s fucking weird.”
Stede snorts. “Well, you’re an unpredictable fellow, Ed. I wouldn’t want to be unprepared.”
“I’m so unpredictable that you think I can digest and excrete footwear when I’m pissed off?” Ed’s voice has that pitchy quality it gets when he’s trying to suppress laughter. It’s a sound that soaks straight into Stede’s hypothalamus, sending waves of endorphins coursing through him. It’s a reward. A clarion call to adventure, ’Fun will be had!, ringing through Stede’s neurons.
Stede giggles. He isn’t even thinking about what to say, or whether he should say the things occurring to him. He just lets his Joy Brain take over. His fun-fuelled Macaque Mind hasn’t been active in so long but now it’s stretching and eyeing up the terrain for entertaining opportunities.
“I seem to recall you saying something once about being able to swallow a foot.”
Ed just about screams a laugh. He collapses in on himself, wheezing and squeezing his eyes shut. Macaque Mind does a joyous little jig. One of Ed’s hands flies to his side and the breathless giggles become interspersed with creaky groans. Stede immediately sobers, or at least does his best, his eyes still a little teary but he can’t help that. He goes to Ed and takes his tea and plate from him while Ed tries to catch his breath and resettle. His eyes are twinkling with merriment but his mouth is tight with pain.
“Ed, I’m so sorry. Can I help?”
Ed gestures vaguely at the pillows. Stede leans past him to plump and restructure them so that Ed can be better supported when he flops back against them. Leaning over Ed like this, Stede can smell his own shampoo in Ed’s hair. Detects the delicate, salt-sweet smell of Ed’s sleep-warmed skin. It’s absolutely intoxicating. Exhilarating and stimulating in equal measures.
Stede has no idea what would happen if Lizard Brain and Macaque Mind formed a coalition but he’s pretty sure it would be delicious chaos. Now is not the time to find out.
Stede straightens. Ed settles back and fixes him with a strained but real grin. “You’re a fuckin’ menace, Bonnet,” he gasps.
Stede feels terrible. Partly for making Ed laugh so hard he hurt himself and partly because he’s kind of delighted that he made Ed laugh so hard he hurt himself. “Do you need me to get you anything?”
“I think it’s smack o’clock. Can you grab my meds?”
Shit! Fuck! Bugger! Stede was so engrossed in angling for a nice breakfast together, he’d completely forgotten that Ed needs pain relief at regular intervals.
“Of course! Back in a jiff.” Stede rushes into the bathroom and rifles through the paper bag in the drawer under the sink. He finds the right pills, pops a couple out and takes them to Ed.
He watches Ed swallow them down with water and nervously fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “Are you okay? I’m sorry I forgot to get them for you sooner. Have you been in pain this whole time?” Stede knows his fussing isn’t helping Ed and isn’t making himself feel any better but it’s all he’s got for the moment.
Ed drains the glass and grins more broadly at him. “Stede, chill the fuck out. The pain’s getting loads better. Just not quite ready for a fuckin’ belly laugh yet.”
It doesn’t come naturally but Stede forces himself to bend to Ed’s command and chills the fuck out. Externally, at least. Externally, he’s frozen margaritas. He’s ice cream. Internally, he’s hot with chagrin. He’s a casserole. He’s sponge cake straight out of the oven. Overall, he’s an inverted human Baked Alaska.
“As long as you’re sure.” Stede worries at his lip. Ed seems to notice, his eyes focusing on the action, so Stede stops. He glances at the clock and sighs. “I’m afraid I have to leave for rehearsals soon.”
Ed nods and begins to shift position. “Yeah, I should jump in the shower. Got a busy day of being made to do hard shit ahead of me.”
Stede hopes the physio-and-psycho-therapies aren’t too gruelling for Ed. It’s way too soon to ask such personal questions so Stede just silently vows, again, to try and make Ed’s life as easy as he can without interfering or prying.
“Shall I fetch Mr Buttons to help-”
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare.” Ed’s head whips round and he glares a warning at Stede. “Team showers are not something I will be reinstating, thank you very much.”
Understandable, thinks Stede.
Shame, laments Lizard Brain.
“Come over here and help me up though, yeah?” Ed sounds super chill and totally normal about that but Stede can see the nervous-critter-flicker of his eyes again. He knows asking for help is far from Ed’s comfort zone, so he feels truly honoured that Ed’s allowing him to assist in any way.
Stede moves to the bedside and stands awkwardly as Ed swings his legs to the floor. Without instruction, Ed simply holds out both hands, expectantly. Unsure what’s expected, Stede does the same. Ed grips his forearms and Stede grips Ed’s. Stede watches Ed’s face. As Ed draws in a deep breath, Stede braces himself and steps back slightly, gently supporting Ed as he pulls his way up to stand. Ed grunts quietly and lets out the held breath. It ghosts across Stede’s lips, smelling of sweet orange and buttery pastry.
They are very close. Like, very close. Almost chest to chest.
And Ed is looking at him. It’s indefinable but there’s something very specific about the look. The deep topaz pools of his eyes have multitudes swimming in their depths. The occasional, recognisable fin breaches the surface. Amusement. Wariness. Interest.
“Thanks, mate.” Ed’s voice rumbles through Stede like heavy traffic and all Stede’s thoughts jam. He tries to exit towards You’re Welcome, or merge with the lane for Small Talk, but ends up completely gridlocked, just staring back at Ed.
A tiny smile catches the corners of Ed’s lips and, for just a moment, his eyes go impossibly fond. But then he blinks and gives his head a minute shake, like he’s just been pulled out of a reverie. In his eyes, there’s a tail-fin flick of sorrow, which disappears beneath the surface as quickly as it arose. Stede’s heart swims down with it. Ed looks down and shuffles his feet.
“Cool. So, um, don’t wanna make you late.”
Stede takes the muffled statement for the polite dismissal that it is. And that’s definitely for the best. Probably.
No, it is. They’ve had a lovely morning together but it’s still really early days. Formative days. Let-there-be-light early.
Stede gathers Ed’s crutches and hands them to him so that Stede can step away.
“Yes, best be off.” It’s false cheer and it leaves Stede feeling blank, but it’s useful. Artificial sweetener still tastes good, even if your body doesn’t recognise it.
Stede collects the breakfast tray and is almost out the door, while Ed is en route to the en suite, when Stede turns. He has to ask.
“Ed?”
“Yeah?”
“I understand Roach will be working with you today to see if you can ditch the chair for good and start just using your crutches.” Ed shrugs another ‘yeah?’. “Well, if it all goes as hoped, and if you’re up to it, and obviously only if you’d like to, I wonder if you might want to, um, celebrate tonight?”
Ed shifts his weight, cautious curiosity slinking across his features. “What did you have in mind?” He casts a rueful look down at his body. “I’m not exactly down for hittin’ the clubs yet.”
“Oh, nothing like that.” Stede chortles at the idea. Mainly because, though he enjoys socialising, adventure and excitement, Stede is hardly a regular clubber. “I was thinking that we could have dinner together on the roof terrace.” Ed doesn’t speak so Stede gabbles on. “The weather has warmed up quite nicely and I think, perhaps with an extra layer or so, it would make for a pleasant evening.”
Ed tilts his head, eyeing Stede with another unfathomable look from those fathomless eyes. He doesn’t look angry or upset though, so maybe it’s not a terrible idea?
“Thought you might enjoy a bit of fresh air.” The veneer of Stede’s counterfeit cheer is peeling under Ed’s scrutiny, revealing itself as the forgery it is. “Never mind. I completely understand if you’d rather not-”
“Okay.”
Stede physically jolts, rattling the crockery on the tray, at the speed and certainty of Ed’s reply.
“What?” That squeaky voice from earlier is back. Maybe it only happens when he’s in this doorway?
“Yeah, okay.” Ed dips his head decisively and gives Stede an efficient smile. “Might be nice.”
“Great!” Oh, too loud.
“Yeah. Be nice to get some people clothes on for a change. Ditch the couch goblin look.”
“Oh, Ed, you don’t look like a goblin. You look magnificent. Wonderful. Like a hero from a folk tale or a dashing pirate in a… in a…” And Stede’s mouth goes dry. Not only is he gushing embarrassingly openly about how very pretty Ed is, even in his comfy relaxation clothes, but Stede just realised that what he’s picturing is a character from one of the more fantastical erotic fictions on his bookshelf.
Which is still in the room. This room. They all are.
Oh god.
Stede can’t stop his eyes from sliding down to the shelf. And, horror of horrors, when he looks back, he sees Ed’s gaze follow his own and Ed smirks.
Oh god.
“Good then.” It’s possible only dogs can hear Stede’s voice at this point. “Dinner on the terrace it is. I’ll cook. I mean, of course I’ll cook. It wouldn’t be right for you to cook. You’re a guest. Though of course you can! Any time you like. But I will. Tonight. Something yummy. No wine of course, but I’ll get something sparkly in,” Stede gabbles, balances the tray precariously on one arm, scrabbles one-handed behind him for the door handle, gets the door open, and starts backing out. “So that’s a date. I mean that’s that.” Stede has practically closed the door on himself in the vain hope that Ed won’t notice that he is now the colour of wine they will not be having. “Shall we say seven?” Stede’s voice is weak and pleading and just the worst. A deflatedparty balloon of a voice.
“Seven.” Ed nods, a little formally. A kind of ‘As you wish’ sort of nod. And what is going on in Stede’s mind? Seriously, what the fuck is going on in Stede’s brain, with the sexy pirates and enigmatic heroes? Worse still, why is Stede’s mouth colluding? He’s an actor. Mastering words is his living. Why are they all just spilling out like jellybeans from a dispenser?
Stede gives a grateful, wobbly grin and begins to pull the door fully closed. It doesn’t stop Ed’s voice, low and smoky with a teasing lilt, from reaching him.
“I’ll bring my cutlass."
“Oh!” Stede screeches.
“Ow!” Stede yanks the door shut into his own nose.
“Ugh!” Stede runs away from his own bedroom, flapping and flustered as a nocturnal bird caught marauding in daylight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stede spends the whole day meal planning. Which is impressive, given that he actually spends the whole day rehearsing. His lines are so ingrained at this point that he can deliver them from pure muscle memory. Needless to say, it’s not the day on which he delivers his shiniest, wittiest, most nuanced performance, but his director, a terrifying but brilliant woman named Jackie Spangnola, seems happy enough. Well, ‘happy’ is an exaggeration, but she’d told him during a break that it was a relief to see he wasn’t “walkin’ around with a face like a fuckin’ bulldog lickin’ piss off a nettle any more.” She really does know how to capture an image.
By the end of the day, Jackie has decided they’re going to work on the opening scene, which doesn’t feature Stede. She tells him to, “Get the fuck home. Get some rest, or get off, or do whatever the fuck it is you do to get your head straight. Jackie doesn’t wanna know. Just do it.” Stede practically skips out of the rehearsal room, calling cheery goodbyes to the other cast members, several of whom don’t bother suppressing envious eye rolls.
Stede spends too much time and too much money at a local North African grocers. He buys argan oil, fresh vegetables, spices, giant cous cous, and lamb. When he returns home, he sees Abshir’s jacket on the coat hook so he puts some music on in the kitchen and potters around, preparing the tagine. He pours himself a small glass of wine and, once the food is slowly baking in the oven, he takes the glass out onto the roof terrace. Where he encounters Mr Buttons, deep in conversation with two seagulls.
All three turn affronted looks on Stede when he steps out. He really couldn’t pick which gaze is more unsettling: the tumultuous, sea-blue, human leer, or the void-dark, brainless malice of the avian glower.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he hears himself mumbling. And what the bloody hell was that all about? This is his roof!
The stares don’t waver for a moment and Stede finds himself wondering whether birds would be susceptible to the zombie apocalypse, and whether they could pass the condition on to humans. And, all at once, the moment breaks. The birds begin grooming each other, as though they’re just ordinary Thames seagulls, which Stede now highly doubts. Mr Buttons speaks loudly.
“Nae bother, Cap’n Bonnet. Karl and Livvy were just stopping by to plan our moon bath.”
Stede has no desire to know what that means. He just prays it's not a sex thing. The birds appear to nod at Buttons and then take to the wing, diving off the parapet with silent grace.
“Cap’n Teach appears well.” The observation catches Stede off-guard and he fumbles for a response. “Oh, yes, good. Does he? Good.”
“Aye. Appears so.” There’s a tone there. Stede can’t place it but it feels a bit like…a warning? The other man locks his hands loosely behind his back and saunters towards the door, passing close to Stede. “Reckon he’s well on his way out o’ yon Gravy Basket. Still got a wee ways to go though. Got t’ get there by his self, mind.”
With that, the man ambles indoors, leaving Stede feeling mildly reprimanded. What’s he supposed to have done? He flops into a chair, a scratchy, woollen sulk settling over his shoulders. Next time he sees Roach, he’s going to ask when he thinks Ed will be self-sufficient enough not to require the daily care of The Bird Whisperer. He immediately tastes guilt and takes a glug of wine to dilute it. None of this is about Stede’s vague discomforts or selfish desires. This whole situation is about giving Ed as much as he needs, whenever he needs it, and for as long as he needs it. And Stede will do that. Even if it means he ends up living in a Tippi Hedren-esque hell of beady eyes and jabbing beaks.
Stede’s coarse sulk-blanket draws tighter around him when Abshir steps out onto the terrace to say goodbye. After a bit of perfunctory small talk, Abshir seems to consider his words carefully. “Ed has permitted me to share with you that he is doing some excellent work with me. I’m very happy with his progress and that he seems to feel much more settled here now.”
“Well, that is wonderful to hear.” Stede smiles happily. Abshir gives a polite smile in return but fixes him with an assessing look.
“It certainly is, but he does still have a lot to process. He’ll need time to do that.” And it’s another vague rebuke, Stede’s sure. He lifts his chin defiantly.
“I am very well aware of that. I fully intend to provide the calmest, safest environment possible, in which Ed can do exactly that at his leisure.” Abshir nods and turns to go but Stede isn’t done. Or rather, he is done. Done with being covertly criticised for doing absolutely nothing other than what he was asked to do. “If, however, I am falling short of that endeavour, and you have any suggestions for improvements, then I’d be delighted to hear them.”
Abshir gives him another of those calm, impassive looks that, it turns out, Stede fucking hates. “It’s obvious to me that you are intent on supporting Ed through this difficult time.” Stede drops his haughty chin a fraction and lets his defiant mouth purse into a pout of rueful acceptance. “All I would caution is that Ed himself may not even know how much time he needs. It would behoove you both to bear that in mind as your time together continues.”
Stede turns that over in his mind, trying to penetrate its meaning. He looks for the peel-away corner that will help him unwrap the statement and examine its contents in detail. But he can’t get a nail under the edge, and the instructions are obscured by a sticker.
“I’ll take that into account. Thank you for sharing your thoughts.” Stede huddles back down into the too-warm, itchy embrace of the sulk as Abshir nods in a friendly manner and leaves.
Seriously, what is Stede meant to have done? He has given Ed space and subsequently shared one breakfast with him. One. A brief, pre-work breakfast. A simple, Continental breakfast at that. Not a big, cholesterol-heavy fry-up. No sexy champagne or strawberries. Just fucking bread and marmalade. Who could object to that?
Buttons and Abshir, apparently. Stede slumps further into his seat, eyes fixed moodily on the shifting hues of the early evening sky. The fibres of the mood blanket are weaving their way into Stede’s follicles, winding under his skin, wiry and irritating. He was so looking forward to this evening, and now he has no idea if he’s allowed to. Can he enjoy it? Can it even happen? Yes, it will be good for Ed to get out in the fresh evening air but is Stede somehow dangerous for him to be around? Is he unintentionally pressuring Ed?
Stede swallows the last of his wine and decides it will be his only glass. Ed’s still not drinking alcohol and Stede doesn’t want to risk getting loose-lipped and causing some sort of inadvertent disruption to Ed’s recovery.
As though Stede’s thoughts are bellowing foghorn-loud through the flat, Ed appears in the doorway, balancing on his crutches and looking divine in a cozy, purple jumper and soft, black trackies. Stede makes a concerted effort and shrugs off the clinging, clawing hold of the sulk as he stands up.
“Ed! It’s great to see you up and about. You look lovely, as always.”
And he does. Of course he does. He looks a little tired, a little tense around the eyes. Stede assumes it’s a combination of physical effort and residual post-therapy lag. That’s certainly how Stede feels after a session. It can take ages for his equilibrium to restabilise. He has a flash of anxiety that Ed has rushed himself in order to join Stede for dinner. That Stede has not given him enough time to make sure his brain and body are up to the task of socialising.
Ed flicks a rueful smile down his body. “Yeah, well, I tried to get into my jeans but that’s not fucking happening yet. So you only get half couch goblin for dinner.”
“Nonsense. You’re dressed perfectly for a cosy, friendly dinner.”
Friendly. A dinner between friends. Just friends. Friends is good. Friends is enough.
Stede pulls out a chair for Ed. The terrace chairs are comfortable and supportive and, best of all, they come with little foot stools. Stede, following Ed’s direction, gets him settled in a chair with his bad leg resting comfortably. Stede rushes around to fetch two glasses and a jug of chilled raspberry lemonade with a spring of fresh mint, and some smoked almonds. He excuses himself to check on dinner. In the kitchen, Stede busies himself plating up the food and studiously ignoring the chorus of voices that are second, third and fourth guessing everything he thinks.
Dinner goes well. They chat a little about Stede’s day and how Roach has finally relieved Ed of the hated chair. They toast in celebration and Stede enjoys the genuine look of pride on Ed’s face as he talks about how he can feel that he’s regaining strength and mobility.
Ed raves about the food and Stede regales him with stories of when he and Mary went to Marrakesch. He alludes to the fact that they largely had separate vacations but focuses on the funnier stories. Like his first hamman, where he had found himself being practically beaten up by an enthusiastic masseur. How he had lain on a marble slab, covered in oil, and fearing with every vigorous knead that he would go flying off the table and into the wall. But, no. That’s not a safe story, he realises when he notes Ed’s expression turning carefully blank at the mention of Stede being mostly naked and slathered in oil.
Bugger!
He tells Ed instead about the spice merchant who had absolutely seen Stede coming and persuaded him to buy big bags of virtually every spice on the stall, including Moroccan ginseng, which the guy banged on about being the best aphrodisiac, unaware that Stede and Mary would have no use for it but-
Bollocks! Not a safe story either.
“Do you still have it?” Ed asks, looking up at Stede through his lashes as he takes a long swig of his lemonade.
Stede swallows a gristly lump of panic and clears his throat. “Oh, no. No, it sat drying out in the back of the pantry for a few years until I threw it out.”
“Oh.” Ed sips his drink again, sucking on an ice cube. “I’ve never tried it. I guess I’m curious to know if it works.”
Stede flushes terracotta and pours himself another drink from the jug, ice cubes rattling tellingly. “It’s probably one of those things. Just about everything’s been labelled as an aphrodisiac at one time or another, hasn’t it?” Stede replaces the treacherous jug on the table and whitters on. “All sorts of things. Oysters. Strawberries. Chocolate.”
“Almonds.” Ed joins in the game, popping a smoked nut from the bowl into his mouth. “Cinnamon. Saffron.” He wipes a finger through a streak of tagine sauce on his plate and sucks it clean. A sauce that’s a deep reddish-orange, aromatic and savoury. Spiced and sweetened with cinnamon, perfumed and coloured by saffron.
Well, fuck.
Without even trying, without even thinking, with no conscious effort of any fucking kind, it seems Stede has unwittingly been trying to seduce Ed all evening.
There’s a moment heavy with spice and perfume and sunset and companionship and promise. Stede is transfixed by the black-pepper-hot gaze Ed is levelling at him. He longs to taste the heady floral heat of Ed’s pink peppercorn kisses. He wants to plunge into fragrant baskets heaving with the invaluable little seeds and let them bring their spicy, essential heat to every part of his life.
He craves Ed's taste. He never had the chance to appreciate it properly before. One fleeting, perfect, champagne-flavoured kiss months ago had awoken a desire in him to savour Ed’s palette of flavours on his palate. His sweetness, his salt, his spiciness. His addictive, delicious blend. No amount of time has dulled Stede’s ravenous need.
Stede can’t help but lick his lips. And Ed watches. Licorice-sweet gaze snapping down to follow the movement. It would be so easy. Stede could just stand up, lean down and press a kiss to Ed’s petal-plush lips with his own.
A seagull screeches, swooping through the liquid, pastel oil-spill of a sky.
Stede jolts, mind’s eye filled with three penetrating stares. With Abshir’s assessing nod.
”Got to get there by his self, mind.”
”He does still have a lot to process.”
Stede feels the light evening breeze dispel the redolent moment between them. The air is once more filled with the familiar smells of the riverside; the earthy tang of silt and distant traffic fumes. A thousand other meals being cooked, their cuisines unidentifiable in the miasm.
“Baklava?”
Stede’s on his feet so fast that his glass tips over, a cascade of tumbling ice cubes clattering to the tiled floor. They bounce and rattle in alignment with Stede’s nerves. He rights the glass and mumbles something, possibly “butterfingers,” and what a great time to bust that phrase out.
“What flavour?” Ed’s watching Stede carefully, head tilted to one side.
Every flavour. Pepper and licorice and rose and cinnamon and champagne-on-a-tongue.
“Pistachio.” Stede’s voice cracks like almond shells. “I thought it would go nicely with the tagine.”
A slow, syrupy smile spreads across Ed’s face. Stede’s gut clenches. He feels his filo-fine grasp on his composure beginning to splinter.
“What?” He hardly dares to ask but better the devil you know. And what tempting fare the devil has to offer.
“You know pistachios are also supposed to be an aphrodisiac, right?” Ed’s teeth shine in the fading light and his voice drips with thick, golden honey. “Feel like you’re tryin’ to tell me something, mate.”
He’s teasing. He is. He has to be. But that doesn’t make it any easier for Stede to take. He hadn’t meant to do any of this. He’d just wanted to treat Ed to a proper dinner, in the Spring evening air, while Stede innocuously enjoyed his company. He hadn't planned a chemical assault on Ed’s libido, or his own for that matter, but it seems to have happened. Maybe the natural stimulants are just a useful excuse for why Stede still wants to crawl into Ed’s lap.
Stede’s blushes are spilled raspberry lemonade as he clatters the dirty dishes together, placing them on the tray and avoiding Ed’s eye. “I assure you, it’s purely coincidence. Much as that spice merchant tried to educate me, my knowledge of natural remedies is woefully lacking. I just thought you’d enjoy a sweet treat.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Ed’s honeyed smirk crystalises and crumbles. His molasses-thick gaze lowers to focus on the now-empty table and the plump curve of his lips thin to a sharp slice. “Right. Yeah.” He drags a deep breath in through his nose and then spins a brittle, sugarwork smile on his face. His stare is as dark and hard as brazil nut shells. “Reckon too much sugar before bed could be a problem though. Need my rest, yeah?” He gathers his crutches and the double, metallic click of them hitting the floor sounds like bolts slamming shut.
No. No. No. Fuck, no! Stede has ruined this. How has he done it again? Taken a lovely evening and shattered it on the rocks. Pushed it from his rooftop nest to crack open on the uncaring, ever-stoic riverbank below.
“Coffee?” It’s a last, desperate bid. An all-or-nothing, end-of-auction, please, let me still be in with a chance bid.
Ed’s crutches hit the tiles, double gavels falling. “Nah. You may not be an expert but coffee is famously also a stimulant. Not an aphrodisiac, sure, but no better for sleeping than a fuckton of sugar.”
Ed deftly avoids the puddle of spilled soda and melting ice, maneuvering his way past Stede and towards the doors, not quite looking at him. “It’s been a day. Think I’ll go back to bed and read for a bit.” He’s through the doors and turning towards the hallway to his bedroom, before he says over his shoulder, “Thanks for dinner.”
“Do you need any-”
“Nope.” And then he’s gone.
The heavy mantle settles back around Stede, though it’s a different texture now. It’s no longer a natural breathable fibre. It’s a synthetic, sweat-inducing, static-generating, skin-tight, straight-jacket of a sensation. It’s tight and hot and it makes Stede feel sick. The weft is all wrong, rubbing and snagging. A chafing, ugly blend of disappointment and self-rebuke and shame.
It clings clammily to his skin as he does the dishes.
It sticks sorely as he attends to his ablutions. He can hear Ed moving around in his room, preparing to settle in for the night. Stede wonders if he should go and offer again to help. But Ed is a proud man and Stede has clearly hurt his feelings. Again. Because that seems to be his only consistent ability. He knows Ed won’t appreciate the offer and would resent having to accept it. But what if he does need help and won’t ask?
The guilt and abasement swaddles and shrouds him even tighter. Stede contents himself with lingering in the master bathroom until he’s fairly sure that Ed has finished his own ablutions and the other room seems quiet. Stede feels like a creep, loitering and listening, but it’s the only way he feels he can keep Ed safe at this point, given his catastrophic failures at establishing an easy accord.
At last, Stede retires to his own room. It’s early but there seems no point in staying up. The flat feels cavernously empty, even though Ed has yet to set foot in the rest of it. Stede gets into bed and reads the same two pages of a book fifteen times, before he throws it aside and switches on the tv. One of the nature channels is reshowing a documentary series that Stede had watched in the first two weeks that Ed was in hospital. It had been screened late at night and Stede had become accustomed to watching it when he couldn’t sleep for worry.
After rewatching the entire series, and the one that’s on afterwards (a somewhat hokey show about the likelihood of Atlantis being a real place) Stede finally falls into a fitful sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ed is crying. Agonised sobs and whimpered pleas.
Stede is impaled by every tear. The flesh and fibres of his heart cleaved apart. He gropes blindly for Ed, fingers scrabbling against asphalt. Broken glass and torn metal embed themselves in Stede’s palms, the only soft skin in the vicinity.
And Ed is still crying, weaker now.
Stede drags himself to his feet. The floor beneath him tilts and wheels. He’s inside a fucking Rubik’s Cube and he can’t see the colours. Can’t line them up so whoever is clicking wildly through the configurations will stop fucking doing that. Will put it down so Stede can move without lurching and slamming into the walls.
The curtained walls. Draped in thick, black swathes of dense material. So dense that it's muffling Ed’s mumbled, blistering apologies.
Is it? Or is it just that Ed is quieter now? Terrifyingly quiet.
Stede tears at the cloth, slapping at it as he makes his way along looking for a join. Hazy, blue LED lights glow far overhead. Stede looks up. The lights are hanging from what look like cage bars.
He finally finds the gap and pushes through…
Into more darkness. But this has a different quality. A yawning, cavernous void kind of feeling.
And somewhere, far in the inky depths, he can hear Ed’s slurred mumbles.
“...not loveable ... never going back to land.”
Stede flings himself forward, uncaring what dangers the void may hold. He’s caught by something solid. Velvet scratches under his nails. He follows a shallow, undulating wave of wood, plastic and velvet, walking crab-wise along the ranks of unyielding, folded shapes. They jut stiff limbs out every couple of feet to thwack and bruise his thighs. He keeps moving.
Glass crunches underfoot.
Ed’s voice is weaker still, barely disturbing the heavy, dusty air.
“...miss you… you left…Please, please… come back… I’ll be better. I will. I promise I’ll try…”
A sharp lash of salt air stings Stede’s eyes. He squeezes them shut. When he cracks them open, the light is blinding. Searing white and the wind whips around him, yanking at his clothes, trying to pull him off his feet. He staggers forward, arm out in front of him, for all the protection it provides. He’s exhausted. He’s determined. He’s desperate.
Sand crunches underfoot.
He squints.
There’s a shape. Dark and small, so much smaller than it should be. Huddled, vanishingly small. Petrifyingly still. Unspeakably silent.
Long swathes of hair the colour of moonlight and midnight swirl around the shape, covering it. Entombing it.
Stede tries to scream. The wind steals the sound from his mouth.
He tries to sob. The wind forces it back down his throat.
He tries to breathe. The sand scours his lungs.
The raging hurricane shakes him.
There’s a sound. A new sound. Like a rhythmic drum beat. Urgent. Unyielding. So, so beautiful.
“Stede? Stede. Stede!”
ED!
Stede forces his gritty eyes open, ready to flinch away from the searing light, but there’s just a soft, warm glow, gentle and familiar.
There are hands on his biceps, gentle and familiar.
There’s Ed. Gentle and familiar.
Ed.
Shiny in the golden light.
Precious. Perfect. Alive.
Obsidian and pearl hair. Topaz eyes and copper skin. Onyx tattoos and rose quartz scars.
Precious. Perfect. Alive.
Stede is half sitting. Ed cups one hand around Stede’s upper arm, while the other strokes questing fingers across Stede’s brow, over his temple, through his hair.
“Stede, mate, I’m here. You okay?”
Stede blinks once. Twice. Expecting each time his eyes open that he’ll see nothing but the shadowy silhouettes of the lonely guest room. But Ed is here. He’s really here. Precious. Perfect. Alive. Fingers pushing through Stede’s hair, spreading shimmering warmth like molten bronze over his scalp, down his neck, pouring straight into his chest. The liquid comfort collects the remaining particles of sand from Stede’s lungs, carries them away, and fills the tiny scratches left behind until Stede is breathing in Ed’s touch. Inhaling his presence. Revivified, repaired and sustained by Ed’s aura.
Ed’s lips move.
“Stede, say something, yeah.”
Ed’s lips. Silky, pink opals. So close. A breath away.
Ed’s eyes. Warm, gleaming amber. So close. A heartbeat away.
Closer now.
Pink opal crescents, shining wet from the polishing sweep of a tongue, part before him.
Glittering amber rings, encircling wide, black sapphire discs, twinkle invitingly.
Stede has to touch. He's avaricious, he knows. Wants to fill his hands with treasures. Feel them running through his fingers. Wants to stuff himself full of them. Steal their lustre and keep it for himself.
“So pretty,” Stede mumbles as he finally moves. Slides his hands into that fall of hematite satin, winding strands between his fingers. He can feel a tear slipping down his face and doesn’t want its coarse salt viscosity to sully the cashmere skin of Ed’s cheek but he can’t stop now.
The greatest gift ever bestowed on the world is in his hands and Stede will watch the world burn before he ever sets Ed aside again.
“You’re alive.” The words slip like smoke from Stede lips and Ed’s soft gasp pulls them between his own.
Ed is closer. Closer still.
In the held, shared breath of the heavy stillness, Stede closes the gap.
He kisses Ed.
He kisses him like he wishes he’d kissed him all those months ago; every day, every minute, every fucking nanosecond since. No breaks for food or sleep or breathing. Just living off of the same, long-life breath of that first kiss. The one that Ed had placed on Stede’s lips, tentative and brave all at once. Right after he told Stede that he makes Ed happy.
And he will. God, he will. If he’s allowed, he’ll focus every synapse on the privilege of making Ed happy.
This time he will.
Now that he’s not overwhelmed with a whole new wardrobe of feelings and information about himself, beautiful fabrics and elegant cuts but all totally unfamiliar. A trousseau designed for an entirely new identity. A man Stede hadn’t become yet. Hadn’t even known he could be. And he hadn’t known how to wear any of it. Couldn’t fathom the fastenings, or work out which waistcoat he wanted to wear. Couldn’t gauge which garments would go well.
He knows now though. He feels more comfortable clothed in the couture of his queerness than he ever has before.
And he wants Ed to see. He wants to show himself off to Ed.
He hopes Ed will admire the lines on him. Will understand that Ed himself is the tailor who helped shape the ethereally lovely fabrics of Stede’s unrealised reality into a gauzy but durable suit that suits Stede better than anything he’s ever worn. It’s chain-mail armour that will effectively shield him from the blows of the mean-minded. It’s warm knitwear that he can snuggle into when he needs to soothe himself. It’s fine, filmy lingerie that makes him feel light and desirable. It’s leather and metal that he can stride out in, feeling bold, impressive and so, so sexy.
There’s a gossamer moan from Ed and the hand in Stede’s hair is carding through it, almost compulsively, making his scalp tingle deliciously. The hand on his bicep is a velvet cuff, clutching tight, then loosening to slide up and down the muscle.
Stede cups the back of Ed’s skull and angles his chin, relishing the plush catch and press of their lips against each other. The sugar-rush tingle against the tender skin sparks a tiny whimper in Stede’s throat.
If that was a sugar rush then what happens next is syrup onslaught. Ed nips lightly at Stede's lower lip. He gasps in a breath, reeling as his pulse careens wildly out of control. The caramel surge of Ed’s tongue-tip teasing his own virtually catapults Stede into hyperglycaemia. His heart thunders, his skin breaks out in a patina of sweat. He feels weak and parched and only Ed has the remedy for his pitiful state. And he delivers it, dropping the hand from Stede’s hair to splay wide across Stede’s shoulder blade, urging him closer.
The warmth of Ed’s palm through the thin cotton of Stede’s shirt is a heat pack on aching muscle. Stede melts into the touch, letting himself be drawn against Ed’s chest. He can feel Ed’s heart beating hard and fast against his breastbone and it’s the most fucking fantastic thing. Gentle hammer blows of a reflex test, jolting Stede’s nervous system into instant and intense reaction.
And it’s only polite to reciprocate, surely? Stede slides an arm down and wraps it around Ed’s back. Ed’s naked back. How has Stede managed not to notice that Ed’s torso is completely bare? Stede’s hand roves across Ed’s skin, trying to blanket as much area as possible, wanting to cling and cover like bougainvillea spreading over an elegant edifice.
God, Ed’s skin is soft. Petals wish they were this soft. Stede runs his fingers down the silken stem of Ed’s spine and feels him shudder under the touch and pull Stede even tighter against him, his other arm winding around Stede’s waist. Ed's tongue glides, swirls and circles against Stede's, his quiet, breathy, little moans a waltzing melody. One for which Stede provides a syncopated harmony line with his own whimpers.
Whether he knew it or not, it’s everything Stede’s longed for ever since he met Ed. Actually, fuck that, ever since he learned what kissing was. Maybe ever since he realised he had lips.
Stede clutches tight to Ed and lets him guide them both through the dizzying steps of this exquisite twirl, following his gentle prompts and mirroring every clasp, every sigh, every gorgeous gasp until his head spins and all he can think is how they have to hold tighter or they’ll fall. Maybe just spin straight off the surface of the earth. Stede groans and grabs a handful of Ed’s curls to steady himself and-
With record-scratch suddenness the song ends and the dance stops. Stede’s eyes fly wide as Ed pulls suddenly away from him. The sweet, dreamlike moment they’d shared breaks and reality floods in.
Ed is no longer pressed against Stede. Isn’t touching him at all. He’s staring at Stede, palms braced on the mattress either side of his hips, where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, good knees bent up to rest on the bed. He’s wide-eyed and panting. His cheeks are pink, his lips are kiss-swollen, and strands of hair are trailing loose to frame his face. But it’s his eyes that hold Stede’s attention. There are so many different responses appearing and disappearing. Shock, desire, joy, fear, confusion, all eddying around each other, snowflakes in a roughly shaken snow-globe. Stede breathes deeply, dismay tightening his chest, as he tries to get his own glitterball brain to stop spinning for long enough to work out what Ed needs.
He watches as the snow-globe swirl settles and Ed draws in his own lungful of heated air. Air that’s perfumed with the mingled scents of their bodies. Ed swallows hard, once, tilts his head to one side and fixes Stede with a carefully neutral gaze.
“Did you mean to do that?” His voice rolls, soft and low as distant thunder, through Stede.
Stede can’t stop a baffled little huff of breath, one that’s trying so hard to be a laugh, from escaping. His brows draw up and together. He feels dazed, and a little hurt, like he’s just received an unexpected headbutt.
“What?” It’s barely a word, more a breathy peep. Stede clears his throat and tries again. “What do you mean?” He panics momentarily that his inexperience has led him to commit some terrible make-out faux pas. Fuck! Had he pulled Ed’s hair too hard? “Did I hurt you?”
Ed shakes his head and, oh! The snow-globe whirls back into chaos and he looks so vulnerable suddenly that Stede raises a hand to cup his cheek. Ed’s chin tilts away minutely enough that Stede might have missed it if they weren’t still so very close. He lets his hand fall to the bed. Ed dips his head and lowers his lids, shielding the blizzard from Stede’s view.
“You didn’t hurt me.” Ed’s voice is quiet, spoken from beneath a pristine snowdrift. “I just wanna know if you…knew what you were doing. If that’s what you meant to do. Coz, you were asleep, and then suddenly….”
Stede’s hands come up again automatically and he has to clench his fists and burrow them against his own chest to prevent them from clutching on to Ed’s shoulders.
“Sweetheart, of course I did.” He gives a gentle smile and hopes Ed can see it. “I’ll confess it was an instinctual reaction rather than a plan, but it’s exactly what I wanted to do. I should have checked with you first though. I’m sorry.”
Ed’s voice practically disappears, swallowed by the snowstorm. “But you were so deeply asleep so I w… Wasn’t sure if you knew it was…me.” The final word is as delicate as a single snowflake.
Stede needs to find a way to thaw the icy crust of pain. Melt it away, let Ed feel the warmth of Stede’s feelings. “I did. I promise. It’s always you.”
Ed’s brows furrow a little and his eyes flick up and dart away again. “Always?”
Stede injects his voice with all the comforting heat he can muster; hot chocolate, hot toddies, and hot baths. “I was dreaming about you. I dream about you a lot. I have done for a long while now. Even before…I left.”
Ed’s eyes do another sparrow-flit to Stede’s face. “Didn’t seem like a good dream.”
A chill wraps briefly around Stede’s chest and runs frosty fingers down his spine at the memory. He suppresses a shudder. “Since your accident, I have nightmares about you, um, not waking up.” The last words crackle in his throat like breaking ice. Stede will not tell Ed about the soundtrack to those nightmares. The real-world memories of a cracked, resigned and hopeless voice on the end of a muffled phone line. Stede knows Ed doesn’t remember what he said during that trauma-shrouded call and Stede will never tell him, if he doesn’t want to know.
Ed pulls his fingers into a knot in his lap and looks down at them rather than at Stede. He looks almost ashamed and Stede cannot have that.
“That’s not your fault, though. I think it’s all part of processing everything. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said-”
“I dream about that too.” Ed speaks to the tangled digits, whispers the secret to them like they’ll weave it into the weft and warp and keep it hidden there.
Stede’s heart twists into a ligature that tightens around his throat. Of course, it makes sense that Ed dreams about the accident. If Stede does, Ed must. But it hurts to think of Ed alone and scared in the dark, when Stede is, usually, sleeping soundly just feet away.
“I’m sorry to hear that. It must be very difficult.” He can't help himself any longer. Stede inches a hand towards Ed on the mattress and lets it brush his cotton-clad shin very lightly. “If you ever think it would help to have me come and, I don’t know, sit with you or talk to you after a bad dream, I will. You can message me or just come and get me.”
Ed gives a weak chuckle. It’s not much, couldn’t hold up in a stiff breeze, but combined with the sudden raven-dark glint of mischief in Ed’s eye, to Stede it sounds like a jubilant roar. “Dunno, mate. I came to help you out, and look what happened.”
Stede snorts a laugh but flushes with embarrassment too. “I know, right. You come to console me and I molest you.”
“Fucking ingrate.” Ed unravels his fingers and places his hands on his knees. Focuses on the one nearest Stede’s, really stares at it, like he’s expecting the spider on it to run off, leaving a thready trail of ink across the bedsheets. “Didn’t mind,” he murmurs, cobweb-light.
Ropes of regret and chains of contrition fall from Stede’s shoulders. The very last thing he wants to do is drive Ed away, and he’s risked doing exactly that, first through neglect and then by being overly affectionate.
“Really? You didn’t mind?”
“Nah. It was fine.”
Stede beams. Practically levitating as the corners of his smile threaten to lift him right off the bed. “Well, I like fine things so that’s good.” Ed’s grin stumbles across his lips on wobbly, new-born legs. It elicits a protective, encouraging need in Stede to show Ed how it’s done. His own smile impossibly grows even bolder, prancing playfully.
“Although… I know I’m inexperienced, but it’s not exactly glowing praise.”
A loud, thoroughbred whinny of laughter bursts from Ed and it’s clearly going to be a champion when it grows up. “Fuck off. I’m not stroking your ego. Or anything else. You’ll take ‘fine’ and like it.”
Stede holds up his hands, white flags of capitulation. “I will. I assure you, that’s more than generous.” They sit, smirking at each other in shining silence for a moment. As the shine dips to a comforting glow, Stede finds himself mentally tracing the lines of Ed’s face. When he reaches the curve of Ed’s lips, still plump, he can almost feel the pillowy pressure of them against his own. The agile slickness of Ed’s tongue is something he’s not likely to forget in a hurry either. He wonders how long that memory will have to sustain him. Whether he’ll be allowed to return, bowl in hand, to beg for more.
“Honestly, you really didn’t mind?” Stede can hear the pathetic, orphan-boy pleading in his tone but can’t seem to give a shit.
Ed’s lovely doe eyes fix on Stede and he's snared by their tender, tentative depths. “I really didn’t. I liked it. It was, um, really nice.” Stede’s spine straightens and his own gaze locks on to Ed's, gets it in his sights and prepares to loose the arrow of all his enthusiastic agreement, when it bolts, darting away until it’s screened by the forest of Ed’s lashes.
“But I don’t think I can do it again.”
Stede’s heart sinks. His eyes lower. His hopes shrivel. Stede’s bowl will remain empty, his hunger never to be sated.
“Not yet.” The quiet qualification rings as loud as a graduation bell. Stede looks up, not quite trusting that he should throw his hat into the air yet.
Ed shrugs, swallows and meets Stede’s eye. “Think I need to take it slow. Can we do that?”
Stede can go slow. If that’s what Ed wants, Stede can move at a snail’s pace. At the speed of evolution. Continental drift, if that’s what’s needed. He can wait until each continent is laid exactly as Ed wants it. Every river mouth marked, every mountain range measured, every line of latitude precisely etched.
“Of course. We can do whatever you need. I’m sorry, I got overexcited. I’ll stop.”
Ed frowns a little at that, delicate graticules forming on his brow, sketching out the beginnings of a map. ”I didn’t say ‘stop’. I said ‘slow’.” He shrugs. “Sometimes it’s just nice to be patient and wait.”
Stede smiles, blissfully corrected. He adds a few contour lines of his own to the map with the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Slowly, he raises his hand and gently folds his fingers between Ed’s. “How about this? Is this alright?”
Ed looks at the newly formed landmass. “This? This is…perfect.” Ed wraps his other hand around their joined ones. Stede mirrors him, marvelling at the shifting and growing topography. Ed slips a finger free to place it on Stede’s knuckles. Stede does the same. Ed crooks his thumb to rest atop the stacked digits, creating the newest, highest peak.
“You win,” Stede breathes, happy to concede Ed’s victory in their world-building game. Comforted by Ed’s willingness to allow him to be part of the creative team.
“Hey, you wanna do breakfast on the terrace tomorrow?” Ed asks, voice friendly and enthusiastic. He disentangles their hands and pats Stede’s before letting them drop. Stede recognises the cue to move on from the adrenaline-soaked intensity, the tectonic shifts preceding the birth of mountains. To forgo the pendulum swing from concern to passion to vulnerability and back to concern. To embrace the solid topography of connection.
“Sure,” Stede chirps, picking up the vibe and running with it. “What do you fancy? I have some excellent smoked salmon. We could have it with poached eggs.”
Ed nods emphatically. “Love that. Sounds like a fine fish.”
“Okay.” Stede nods back.
“Okay.” Ed doesn’t move.
“It’s late,” he continues. “We should go to bed.” His eyes fly open wide, like a shutter in a high wind.
“I mean, we should both get back to bed.” He glances around at the demonstrable bed that Stede is still tucked into. He draws in a hurricane breath.
“I should go back to my bed.” He looks at Stede’s lips for the length of a lightning strike and with the same effect. He looks at Stede’s eyes, his own dark as a storm cloud. He seems to deliberate for a moment before darting forward and placing a raindrop-light kiss on Stede’s cheek.
“Night.” He twists, grabs his crutches from across the foot of the bed and, like a summer storm, he’s gone, leaving hardly any trace behind. Just the fresh, petrichor scent of him.
Stede flops back into the pillows, boneless. He’s a single-celled organism, right at the start of their new world’s evolutionary chain. It’s probably for the best that he’s an amoeba right now. If he had a fully-formed nervous system, it would be jangling out of his skin. And as for emotions, absolutely not. He’s a brand new life form. He can’t possibly be expected to identify, let alone deal with, complex feelings. And if he could identify them, there’s only a few he would dare to name aloud. Even then it would be whisper-quiet..
Gratitude. Hope. Infatuation. Joy.
And that’s as far through the alphabet as he’s willing to go. Much further and he would start veering into some very big words. Heavy, important words that, if he says them too loudly, could topple down and crush a little proto-creature like him.
So he doesn’t think about those big, lofty words. As Stede closes his eyes and feels sleep flow over him, he thinks about little, sweet words.
Nice.
Fine.
Slow.
Lips.
Kiss.
Ed.
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