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It was, Kevin thought morosely, probably all his own fault.
It would be easier to blame the whole sorry mess on Baldrick, whose primeministerly duties should not have distracted him from his far more important job of keeping an eye out for rebellious uprisings; or of course on the revolutionaries themselves, who were this very minute occupying Buckingham Palace, celebrating their victory and probably making a mess of the nice new carpets Kevin had thought were very tasteful, and which Edmund had called "almost as boring as you", but it'd been alright because he'd kissed him afterwards to take the sting out of it.
Kevin could, naturally, always blame Edmund himself. The damned man! Everything was his fault, and Edmund generally took great pride in that - and Kevin in turn saw it as his solemn duty to at least try and make him feel bad about it. Not that he managed, most of the time. Still, it would be so very easy to simply decide that Edmund was being hoisted by his own petard, that he was suffering the consequences of his own actions, that he was reaping what had been sown, and having his just desserts (which, Lord knows, Edmund had stored up a great amount of) - and, most importantly, that Kevin was not to blame for any of it.
But he couldn't. He simply couldn't. Even now that he was mainly active in government and public work rather than organised religion, Kevin had maintained a certain impulse to be honest with himself and the Lord, and if he sat down by the window and folded his hands for a good pray, all he could think was Oh God, oh Christ, oh please forgive me Lord, it's all my fault, they're going to kill him and it's all because of me.
Because, even though Edmund had started the argument - whatever it had been, Kevin really couldn't recall anymore - Kevin had been the one staying resolutely cross with him over it. And Edmund always got so distracted when Kevin was in a strop over one of their domestics. Not because he felt bad or missed his husband, mind. Oh, obviously not. No, he was just fully occupied trying to find a way to prove Kevin wrong, and, if he failed to do so, make him pay for being right. Often, they made up before that, or just made out furiously until neither of them could quite remember what they'd fought over.
This time, however. Oh, this time.
This time, a ragtag bunch of revolutionaries had managed to take perfect advantage of King Edmund III.'s preoccupation, and succeeded where so many had failed before: they'd cut off the path to the time machine, and captured His Majesty before he could grab Kevin (and, if necessary, Baldrick) and go back in time to undo the whole bloody coup.
(Kevin gathered that Edmund had been captured on his way to the library, where Kevin had been sulking, rather than straight towards the time machine. Yet another way in which this was all his fault, really.)
And now, they were going to execute "the Tyrant King", to make an example out of him. Which Kevin could readily admit Edmund deserved; and yet really, really wished he wouldn't receive. That was love for you, he supposed.
It was awful. Edmund was going to die. And it was... more Kevin's fault that he wanted it to be, at least, God help him.
Kevin wasn't entirely sure what these revolutionaries had even taken offence at, or what they were going to do with "The Republica Britannica" now that they'd achieved it. He had the vague impression that the revolutionaries weren't exactly sure, either, and that each and every one had a different idea. For instance, the chap who'd found Kevin in the library and levelled a revolver at him had been a convinced anti-monarchist anarcho-communist; though he'd been very polite about it, and made sure to inform Kevin that he forgave him for marrying into the parasitic bourgeoisie elite, and that they all thought he was a very lovely man despite technically being royal scum.
Kevin, who'd still thought at this point that, any minute now, Edmund was going to show up, smack this idiot boy over the head, and drag Kevin off to the time machine, had thanked him politely, because, well. He did appreciate the sentiment, and how much it lowered his chances of being shot in the next five minutes, before Edmund could come save him. Edmund would, of course, mock and aggravate any man holding him at gunpoint, but, by Jove, Kevin was cut from a different, more reasonable, and ultimately more long-lived cloth. If a little sucking-up was all it took to endure until this whole horrid business was over, well. He would smile and say "oh how kind" and not be a bloody idiot, thank you very much.
The girl who'd eventually picked him up from the anarcho-communist and escorted him to this guest room he was still confined in, well, she'd started out saying some very astute things about Edmund's mishandling of religious matters, which Kevin could only agree with - he was doing all he could to mitigate the damage, efforts which the girl had noticed and appreciated, but there was just no way to fix it entirely - all of which gave him an initial impression of a sensible young lady.
...but then she'd started going off on an increasingly uncomfortable tangent about True Belief and angels speaking to her and worshipping thorn bushes and turning The Republica Britannica into a theocracy, and also turned out to have some views on transubstantiation and the Eucharist that Kevin just plain disagreed with. Needless to say, by the time she said her goodbyes, Kevin no longer thought her quite so sensible.
(The guy stationed to stand guard outside his doorway had no real revolutionary opinion, and had just tagged along because someone had promised him beer. Despite this, he was confusingly immune to bribery. It infuriated Kevin to no end.)
Not that their beliefs mattered, really. Edmund would be able to catch them out on their hypocrisy, sow dissent, and turn the revolutionaries against each other; Kevin didn't have those skills. All he could do was softly shake his head at them, and hope they would catch on that he sternly disapproved.
After an hour of being confined, trying to sway the guard, pacing in circles, and staring out the window into the palace's courtyard where the masses were rather busy celebrating, Kevin had started to accept that Edmund was not coming to rescue him; which had to mean that Edmund couldn't.
After The 1917 Affair, Kevin had made him swear, on his own life because God knows that was the only thing that truly mattered to the man, that Edmund would always, always come save him if Kevin needed it. He had a dashed time machine, after all. This was not an unreasonable demand to make. Edmund had promised, and, miraculously, kept true to his word, too, so far.
And yet, here he was. Unrescued. The timeline unchanged. With the revolutionaries getting increasingly smug at the success of their hostile takeover. Even though, as Edmund would put it, "they really need to learn a lesson about the bloody Divine Right of Blackadders." No such lesson was being taught.
Which meant that something, Kevin had realised in that moment, feeling the same sort of shaky, heavy-cold nausea that had washed over him when the time machine had disappeared before his eyes in 1917, must have gone really, catastrophically wrong.
He'd not found out about the execution plans until later; but some terrified part of him had already known then, like an awful premonition deep in his heart. Something had gone wrong, and Edmund would pay for it with his life.
"You? Oh, dear god no. Of course we won't execute you, Mr. Darling!" Said the Revolutionary Leader, who seemed to be mostly invested in this for the opportunity to give the sort of rousing speeches that came so easily to them, and gave him a bright smile that seemed to carry the Promise of a New Dawn with it.
"Oh, good," sighed Kevin, who'd been rather worried. Of course, executing Edmund wasn't ideal, but even in his most soppy, smitten, devoted thoughts, Kevin couldn't see the point in following him into death when there was no need for it.
"We need to execute him because he's a despicable tyrant with no regard or care for his people, and who only ever thinks of himself," the Revolutionary Leader continued explaining.
"He thinks of me, too. Sometimes, at least," Kevin pointed out, a little pathetically. Still, this was rather important for him to make note of.
The R. L., ignoring him, prattled on: "you, on the other hand, Mr. Darling - you're a very decent sort, really. You care very deeply, the people can tell."
"I care most of all about Edmund," Kevin muttered, fidgeting with his wedding ring.
"You're the People's Darling! An inspiration! We want to keep you and have you aid our cause more than anything else! The whole country loves you ever so much!"
"Really?" Kevin squinted suspiciously. This was very unlike how people usually treated him. His old class at school had, in fact, made it very clear that if they ever got into a Lord-of-the-Flies sort of situation, they were going to kill him almost instantly. Perhaps even before. He'd been aware that his standing with the general populace had improved in the years he'd been ruling at Edmund's side, but this was still a bit of a shock. "I didn't know about that."
"And so humble," the R.L. sniffed, clearly very touched, and Inspired Towards Change by it. "Sir, if we can do anything to make your revolution experience more pleasant-"
"You could spare Edmund."
"Other than that."
"...you could let me freely move about the palace?"
"Or that."
"You could at least let me see him! One last time!" Kevin begged. "Please! Grant me that, at least!"
(Maybe Edmund would have a plan, some way they could both wind their way out of this. Maybe it was time for Kevin to mount a rescue, for once.
Maybe, if all else failed, and they were given a moment's privacy, he could at least... well... perform one last... thing. For him. After all, what husband could do more?)
"Why would you want to?" The R.L. blinked, genuinely confused, and unsure if, perhaps, a barricade should be built over it, which helped to clear matters up sometimes. "The man's horrible and selfish and tyrannical and cruel and a bastard and wouldn't throw water on someone if they were burning and he was standing in the middle of a swimming pool during a flood."
"Oh, Lord, don't you think I know that?" Kevin scoffed. "Everyone's well aware of that. But I love him. And," here, his voice went embarrassingly weak and plaintive, "he loves me too."
"No doubt he’s got you convinced of that," said the R.L., giving him a pitying look, as if they saw the grief of the downtrodden masses reflected on his face. "But the people of Britain will no longer fall for Edmund Blackadder's lies - and neither will you, Mr. Darling."
"That's not-!" Kevin closed his eyes, sighed, and went down on his knees. They protested somewhat - he wasn't getting any younger - but needs must. "I am quite seriously begging you. I want, I need to see my husband before he dies. Will you grant me that privilege?"
The Revolutionary Leader looked down at him. Their head was somehow backlit by the sun, creating a radiant halo of freedom and solidarity and wanting the best for everyone.
"No," said the R.L., all gentle pity, "and that's for your own good."
Kevin wasn't proud of what he did next. It was a very Edmund sort of thing to do, and rather beneath Kevin himself.
In the end, it wasn't even terribly effective. To Kevin's great chagrin, all the black eye did was make the bloody Revolutionary Leader look more like a brave martyr.
The revolutionaries seemed to believe, by and large, that Kevin had been cruelly manipulated. That his unfortunate love for Edmund Blackadder was the result of being at the very least lied to, more likely brainwashed, and then taken advantage of; and that it was the revolutionaries' solemn duty to "deprogram" him, so that he could join their valiant cause.
The videos they showed him, and statistics they produced, were even rather accurate - but how could Kevin explain that A) he knew for a fact that a good number of things would be worse under anyone else's reign and he and Edmund were doing their best, and B) that he liked Edmund not in spite of him being an unrepentant bastard, but, to some degree at least, very much because of it. All that this proof of Edmund's horribleness did was make him miss the man quite awfully, really, but there was no point in telling them any of that.
In the end, Kevin simply made it more than clear that he could tell when his husband was lying to him, thank you very much, that he'd fallen in love long before Edmund had any real interest in him, and that he would most certainly never give as much as the time of day to any organised rebel force that was going to make the man he loved more than his own kidney shorter by a head. Also, would they please let him see him, please, please, please, he'd do anything, just one minute together to tell Edmund he was sorry about the fight and hadn't meant to use the word that started with D and ended with -ivorce, and that he loved him very much, actually just passing on a letter might be enough, please-
All of this fell, unsurprisingly, on deaf ears. Oh, Kevin could scream - and sometimes, he did. It wasn't quite as cathartic as punching, but his hand still hurt from the last time he did it, and the various revolutionaries had gotten quite good at ducking, so.
Screaming it was.
The day of the execution was perhaps the worst of Kevin's life. Including when he'd woken up from kidney removal surgery and felt unbearable humiliation at getting pranked on top of the horrible pain, or those dark, dark days in 1917 where he'd seen things that had broken something inside him, which had never quite healed.
None of them held a candle to the final day of Edmund III.
He'd refused any offer to attend the execution. He couldn't. To see them kill the man he loved - no. No. As long as he didn't see it, it wouldn't really happen. He could still undo it, if only he could get at the dashed time machine. He could go back and save Edmund and live on without always remembering the sight of... of the blood, and... he could...
...
...he couldn't go. That was all.
Instead, he spent the whole day praying. Hands folded together, kneeling at the side of the bed, begging for a miracle, begging for the Good Lord to deliver him, deliver them both, begging for this all to be no more than a nightmare, begging for mercy for Edmund's soul, begging God to please consider that Kevin loved him before sending him straight down to Hell, begging and begging and sobbing until his voice was whittled down to a hoarse whisper by the time night fell.
There was no answer. There'd not been one in 1917 either. And that night, knowing he now lived in a world without his Edmund Blackadder in it all over again - and there wasn't even the hope that he would be born in a few decades, this time - he truly did resent God for his silence.
One of the revolutionaries told him the next morning that he should be glad that they were all free of The Tyrant now, especially Kevin, who they would manage to rid of His lingering influence soon enough.
Kevin, his eyes cried red and sore, voice entirely gone, simply rose, took up a nearby vase, and threw it at their head.
It didn't help. Nothing did.
Nothing could.
"I would like black clothes, please," Kevin rasped. It had been a few days. His voice was still not quite back. "For mourning."
"Mourning who?" Asked the revolutionary who had brought him breakfast, an older woman who'd just thought Edmund III. looked rather ghastly on coins and wanted to change that. Dear God. Had Edmund gotten rid of all the serious revolutionaries, and this was what they were left with?
"Wh- mourning my husband!" Kevin snapped, incredulous. "You people only cut his head off this Wednesday! You can hardly have forgotten about it!"
"Oh, him." The woman shrugged, taking his hand and patting it. "He was trouble, dear. You can do better, now that you're unattached. Well, not that much better, but at least somewhat."
"Better- I was married to the King, I couldn't possibly-!" Kevin spluttered, outraged in at least three different ways, tearing his hand out of her grip. "And he is- was- IS the love of m-my life, in fact! How dare you say-"
He broke off with a wince, pressing a hand to his side, breathing heavily. There was no scar there, and a kidney still in its rightful place - but sometimes, when he got very terribly upset, he felt a stab of pain there, the same way other people felt a pang in their heart. He hadn't ever told Edmund about that, knowing his husband would laugh and make endless jokes about phantom kidney pains and that Kevin was such a frightened rodent that his heart had clearly dropped permanently into his stomach.
Maybe he would never tell Edmund, now. Never get the chance. What a horrible thought.
Another stab. Kevin maybe needed to sit down before it got so bad he might pass out. The fact that he'd barely eaten probably wasn't helping.
The revolutionary - awful, awful woman, Kevin hated her, Kevin wished her only misery, Kevin wanted her to lose whoever she loved most and feel a fraction of his pain - cooed and fussed over him, pressing the mug of cocoa into his hand and trying to make him drink it.
Kevin did.
For Edmund's sake, in order to get his way to the time machine and fix this damned mess, he would need to keep his strength up.
And if all else failed, he wanted another go at the Revolutionary Leader's other eye, in any case.
The older generation was characteristically unhelpful. The full extent of their assistance took the shape of a letter expressing heartfelt condolences for his loss, and an apology for being out of the country so they could not come deliver them in person, but hoped Kevin would hold down the fort in their absence - unsubtly indicating that they had no intention of setting foot into Britain again for the foreseeable future, ever so sorry, good luck with fixing it, old chap. Maybe get on with it?
Kevin had frankly expected as much from his great-uncle, whose track record of actually substantial ancestral affection and support for Kevin in a crisis was notoriously poor, and as for Blackadder Sr... well, just the fact that he hadn't tried to take over and claim the throne for his own after his grandson's demise was probably something he considered a great personal favour. Kevin had hoped for a little more than that, but he supposed he couldn't blame them - if the revolution had already taken the head off of one Blackadder, it could easily become two, and neither of them wanted to risk it. If he could've fled the country with Edmund, he would have. They were all as bad as each other, in the end.
Still. No help from that quarter. Furthermore, the guard outside his room remained un-bribed, the other revolutionaries similarly un-swayed, and the people of the Republica Britannica seemed just fine with the current state of affairs.
(Damned ungrateful bastards. See if Kevin would argue for giving them lower tax rates ever again!)
He'd once managed to make a surprise dash out of the door, but hadn't gotten further than two corridors before getting captured again - he had long legs, but they really weren't made for speed, as P.E. class had so often demonstrated, to the delighted mockery of his peers - and unceremoniously dragged back. Humiliatingly, they'd all acted as if he was a confused child throwing a tantrum, and been horribly gracious and forgiving about the rude words he'd thrown at them, struggling and flailing and cursing them all to high Heaven, taking the Lord's name in so much vain, he rather felt he should excommunicate himself. God, if Edmund could see him...
...
...if only Edmund could see him now. What he wouldn't give for it.
They sedated him that night. Kevin was almost grateful for it. He really didn't sleep well if he was alone in bed, these days.
The attempts to "deprogram" him continued. Accordingly, throwable objects had largely been removed from Kevin's vicinity. Instead, he kept getting handed stacks of revolutionary pamphlets and essays clearly penned by the various rebels, and when he asked for books, he got only flimsy paperbacks with titles like "Getting Over Your Mean Ex In 10 Easy Steps", "Why Being Anti-Royalist Is Groovy" or "Revolution For Dummies". At least they stopped trying to tell him how evil Edmund was- is, though that may just be because Kevin started blubbing whenever they did. How mortifying. He really couldn't help it.
Kevin didn't read any of them. He sat there in his little prison, arms firmly crossed, wearing the black suit they'd finally granted him and fully intending to give Queen Victoria a run for her mourning money - and if the bloody revolutionaries came in, he gave them a choice piece or two of his mind, oh yes sir! These people had killed his husband, and he'd never forget that, no matter how disappointed and worried they managed to make their faces go when looking at him. Oh, they cared about him, did they? The People's Darling, yes? They wanted him happy and echoing their party line (whenever they'd settle on one), hm?
Well, bully for them. Kevin wasn't in a cooperative mood, and rather doubted he ever would be again, so they could sod right off.
"Oh, God," Kevin groaned, burying his head in his hands (mainly to ward off the smell), "you're still alive, then?"
"I dunno Mr. D," Baldrick shrugged. This only made the smell worse. "The doctor's once said that I was dead in the brain an' a medical mirror-cle, but... I guess so?"
Kevin didn't respond. He didn't think he had the strength for it.
"Anypath, they sent me here to do some talking, which is surprising because I'm not very good at that, really. You have to use them... them letter-y thingies for it, in the right order. How's a man s'pposed to remember how to do all that? But I said I'd try, 'cos you wouldn't listen to the others, but maybe you'd listen to me."
Kevin looked up. "I'm not listening to them because they killed Edmund. My husband! Your lord and master!"
"Oooooh yeah." At least Baldrick had the excuse of having a peanut for a brain to excuse him forgetting. "They dids done that. His Late Margery tried trickin' 'em with a pumpkin with a face drawn on, but they wouldn't fall for it. I thought it was very convincing, though! And might've been nicer. The real thing made everythin' all red and-"
"I don't want to hear it!" Kevin interrupted sharply. "Please, stop."
"Alright. But I do have other things you should be wanting to hear. Like how good the revolution is for the peoples, an' that there'll now be freedom and turnips for all. So you should stop being sad, and turn that frown downside-up."
Kevin stared.
"Are you- Baldrick, are you cooperating with them?"
"Yeah." Baldrick shrugged. "I don't know what coppers got to do with it, but I said, to them I said, 'I know I was doin' what His Margery told me to do in the palla-ment, but I didn't want any of it none, an' I was a victim of his bourgeoisie oppression of the masses', an' they said I could be Comrade Baldrick now, 'stead of Prime Mister. I'll even get extra turnip rations if I'm good!"
Baldrick beamed dumbly. Kevin considered throttling him. He finally understood why Edmund had so often toyed with the thought.
"So, really, you should be rating those coppers, too!" Baldrick, the little slimy - literally, ugh, the carpet would stain - traitor concluded. "It'll be much better for you if you do, your consortship!"
Kevin snapped.
He spent about half an hour furiously berating Baldrick, accusing him of every crime under the sun and then some, blaming him for the whole damn revolution, and how dare he offer his services to these goddamned murders, had he not a single bone of fealty or loyalty or love in his body? Was he truly such a poor, pitiful, empty husk of a bacterium that he would break so easily? God, Kevin despised him, he really did, and hoped Baldrick would go to an even deeper circle of Hell than whichever Edmund was already labouring on - Kevin loved him, but he was under no delusions where his husband was now - and regret his betrayal forever, damn him!
Baldrick listened to all this with the blank, confused look of a dog trying his best to puzzle out human language, but just not really getting there.
When, at long last, Kevin had finished his tirade and was standing there panting and shaking like a marten during an earthquake (and, perhaps, crying a little all over again), Baldrick looked him up and down thoughtfully, seemed to - wonders upon wonders - think, and then said, softly:
"Oh, I s'ppose you're right about all that. S'very disloyal of me, an' His Lordship, oh, he's definatly cursin' me for it as a ghost, just like you. But, you have to consider, your consortship - he's dead. An' you're locked up here, with nowhere to go and nothin' you can do to fix it. But me, I can goes where I pleases, an' them all trust me, an' if I only had more of the thinky-thing in my skull, why, I could go to the time machine and go back and fix things. I wouldn't know where to start, though, an' I don't think he'd want me to try if I don't. M'not allowed to drive the machine on my own. But I could. And all I had to do for it was smile..." an almost gentle touch to Kevin's cheek, with a rather grimy finger "...and tell them what they want to hear as I lock all my real feelin' and anger and sadness and the other bad ones, together with my love for my poor dead master, up in there..." a poke to Kevin's chest, on the wrong side to be his heart, but close enough "...an' lie until I gets the chance to talk to you about what cunning plan could possibly fix all this."
"...oh," said Kevin, very softly, and a little ashamed. "Oh, I see."
"You know," said former Prince Consort Kevin Darling the next day, wearing a pained, helpless grimace that was in fact not even all that dissimilar from his usual smiles towards the cameras of the press, "I suppose he really was rather awful, wasn't he? G-good riddance, I say!"
He'd looked rather sick afterwards, but the revolutionaries were very proud of him for it anyways; and even more so when they cautiously put a heavy object into his hand, and he didn't proceed to chuck it at someone. Impressive progress, they all agreed - and things could only get better from here on out.
"People of the Republica Britannica," Kevin began reading out, from a prepared script, as always. He liked the comfort of it, the reassurance, and how professional it looked - all that nonsense about speaking freely had never appealed to him, he preferred to have his speeches printed out, every word already in place. He'd tried to make Edmund read his speeches out properly, too, but, ah, there was no scripting him. It was a little endearing, but mostly infuriating.
But he couldn't think of Edmund now. Couldn't think of the wedding ring he'd made a point of removing, but then secretly put on a string around his neck, carefully hidden under his shirt. Couldn't think of the time machine, just three corridors down from the room he'd suggested would be particularly suitable as a backdrop for this little appeal to the people. He would falter if he did, and he was so, so close. It'd taken weeks of smiles and lies and pretend-condemning his late husband, but he was finally close, and he couldn't muck it up now. Edmund's ghost would never forgive him if he did.
"I s-speak to you not as a former member of the royal family, but, as I am honoured to know you always saw me, as one of you. One of the people of our great nation."
His face hurt from the effort it took to smile. He was a little glad he didn't have his great-uncle's nervous twitch, it would give the game away. A hint of a stutter, but that was fine. Meredith - the older woman who'd forced cocoa on him, he'd been making a great effort to learn the revolutionaries' names - had told him it made him seem more approachable, the nervousness. He'd thanked her, though he rather suspected it hadn't sounded at all genuine.
"The recent weeks have been full of upset, of change, both on a grand scale, and... very personal, for me."
He'd been told to wear a black armband on the broadcast to signal his mourning, for formality's sake, but his suit was a light grey that, for Kevin, was almost cheerful, plus the sort of tie the likes of George would call "spiffy". It'd been a present of his, actually... for Edmund. It was just a hint too wide on Kevin's narrower frame.
"All of which..." He raised his head, to meet the camera's empty gaze with a smile. Oh Lord, forgive me. "...positive, on reflection. We are now entering a better, brighter age, and I feel honoured to have been asked to assist the people of Britannica in this process despite... the past. The trust put in me has been astonishing, and humbling."
The various revolutionaries in the room with him were looking at him like one did when a beloved pet who'd been very sick was finally eating kibble on their own again, nodding encouragingly for him to continue.
"I hereby express my full support for the temporary interim government, and its revolutionary leaders. I fully believe that they have only taken, and will continue to take, whichever steps are most conducive to the good of this country, and for all of you."
His side hurt again, pain radiating outwards. Kevin bore it stoically.
"As will I. Thank you."
Kevin inclined his head. Bore the applause, too. Smiled and nodded and made appropriate noises, shook hands. Let the Revolutionary Leader compliment him on the gleam in his eyes, which allegedly made him look rather like "a rat, downtrodden and afraid, but with A Purpose."
Yes, thought Kevin. Quite right.
And then, finally, at the perfect time, when they were all patting each other's backs and nobody was paying attention to him anymore - he had a knack for identifying moments like these, from back in his Archdeacon days, the perfect time to slip away and hide from the congregation - he went out the door with Baldrick, and had gotten down those three all-important corridors before anybody had even noticed he was gone.
He slipped his wedding ring back on just before he stepped into the time machine.
Edmund was seething.
Bloody revolutionaries. Bloody Baldrick, not warning him in time. Bloody time machine, out of his bloody reach. Bloody Tower of London, draughty enough that pneumonia might get him before the executioner's axe even got a chop at him. Bloody ghosts of past royals executed in the Tower, keeping him up all night - he hated Anne Boleyn in particular, who told him he had a distinctly Henry-VIII-ish look in his eyes, which he resented the implications of. He had no intention to get rid of his husband, for one, not even in order to remarry someone younger and dishier and more able to bear him children, because he was, unfortunately, entirely in love with the git. So there'd be no divorcing. Or beheading. Even if Darling - Kevin, technically, but it was already enough of an ordeal being married to a man whose name was Kevin, he wouldn't call the man by it on top of that - made it tempting sometimes.
On that note, bloody Darling. By all rights, he should be incarcerated here with him, after making such a sodding fuss over in sickness and health, freedom and imprisonment, etcetera etcetera. Edmund was very put out that he was sitting in this cell all alone, with only rats of the animal variety to keep him company. Trust his sleeping pill of a husband - this was, to Edmund's own chagrin, more of an endearment than he wished it to be - to be just too boring to execute. If those revolutionaries knew him any better, they'd put Darling on the block first, and rid the world of its most horrid stickler in one fell swoop.
Not that he wanted them to execute his Darling, of course. He liked that scrawny neck intact (except for a few love bites maybe). But, really, if Edmund was going to lose first his crown and then the part of him it had rested on, then he didn't see why he had to be the only one.
They wouldn't even let him see Darling before the choppy-choppy. Not even if he put a bag over his head - not that there were any other prisoners who might get jealous of him having such a gangly and unattractive soon-to-be-widower, but maybe the rats would. Better safe than sorry. Still, no visits, which must be quite horrible for Darling - he got so needy when he wasn't being given good seeings-to by Edmund on the regular, these days.
...god, what were they killing him for, anyway? This wasn't the timeline where he'd made the - admittedly in poor taste - joke about 'letting them eat cake', they'd undone that two uprisings ago. It wasn't his grandfather's doing, or the Old Man would be busy gloating at him while wearing a crown. Wouldn't be the first gloater he'd gotten in here, either. They wouldn't let his husband visit, but bloody gloaters every second hour... Wait, was this about the tax reform? Maybe he should've listened to Darling and lowered the rate a bit further for the working class, never mind that it was already half of what it would've been in the original timeline. Ungrateful little buggers.
Ah, but, never mind why. They always found a reason, didn't they, no matter what he did or didn't do. Edmund scoffed derisively at the whole sodding concept of revolution, and instead put his mind towards finding a way out of it. Maybe, if he could just get his hands on a pumpkin, paint his own face on it, and balance it on his head...
His idle musings were interrupted by the sound of ticking clockwork and wound-up tape, and that vague ringing sound of displaced time that had become very familiar to Edmund over the past however-many subjective years since that fateful New Year's Eve, 1999.
He scrambled off his cot, on his feet before the time machine's familiar clock-face had even materialised fully.
"Oh, it's about time you showed up!" He exclaimed as the ramp dropped open with a crash. "What took you so- oof!"
He'd barely gotten halfway up the ramp, and already his arms were full of Darling, who seemed to be attempting an impersonation of the unholy lovechild of a squirrel and a boa constrictor, trying to climb Edmund like the devastatingly handsome tree he was, while also squeezing the life out of him.
Edmund staggered, but threw his arms around his husband and hugged back, anyway. Oh, he had missed the whimpering little sod, and if he was entirely honest with himself, then he would have to admit that Darling wasn't the only one who got needy when they were separated for a while.
"Oh, Edmund," Darling gasped, digging his fingers into Edmund's suit jacket (which had once been quite nice, but, after a few days in the Tower, no longer was), "oh, there you are, I love you, I’m sorry, you’re here, oh thank God-"
Edmund was just about to point out that the Man Upstairs had very little to do with this, and that all praise should instead go to Da Vinci, who'd come up with the plans for the time machine, or possibly Baldrick who'd built it, but then he was being snogged quite thoroughly, and figured Darling could thank whoever he bally well liked.
"You know, Darling, you should greet me like this more often," he smirked, when it was time for them both to come up for air. "Ideally right now, I think there's still some bits of my tonsils you haven't said hello t-” He paused. “Are you crying?"
"No," Darling sniffed, giving him a wobbly smile and taking one hand off Edmund to rub his sleeve over his eyes very quickly. How very concerning - he must be utterly distraught, to not fumble for his handkerchief instead. "I'm fine. Oh, I'm absolutely- I'm feeling splendid. It's all- oh, everything's alright now!"
"Right," Edmund said, slowly. "Did Baldrick park the time machine so violently you hit your head? Again?"
"His head's alright, your royalness," Baldrick popped his own turnip-shaped visage out of the time machine. "It's only that yours nearly-"
"We should get you out of here, before the guards catch wind," Darling interrupted, his voice just a hint too squeaky. "Come-"
"No need to tell me twice. If I need to read another bedtime story to the ghosts of those two princely brats, I'll find a way to kill them all over again." Edmund disentangled himself from Darling just far enough so they could stumble the rest of the way up the ramp in a slightly more ambulatory knot of limbs. "Remind me to get an exorcist in here once we've fixed the timeline. The place is teeming with-"
He was cut off once more. They'd made their way into the time machine, and the moment the door was pulled up, Darling was in his arms all over again. God, he hadn't been gagging for it like this in... years, probably. Not that Edmund was complaining, but it really hadn't been that long. The threat of execution must've gotten to him.
Around them, the time machine rattled, making its way into that no-when space outside of time's regular flow. Darling was making little whining noises against Edmund's lips, and this was all rather starting to remind him of...
Edmund pulled back. "Baldrick!" He barked over Darling's trembling shoulder.
"Yes, m'king?" Baldrick was beaming at him rather dumbly, like a dog with poor long-term memory who'd just discovered that his master wasn't gone forever when he went through a doorway.
"Remember, after the Battle of Culloden, when I told you to go stand in the corner, put your hands over your ears, and close your eyes?"
"Yes?"
"Do that again. For at least 15..." He locked eyes with Darling, noted that desperate, still-teary sheen in his gaze. "20 minutes."
"I can't count, sir."
"Then do it until I tell you to stop!"
"Okay," Baldrick agreed, still beaming. "S'good to have you back, Your Marge."
"NOW!"
For a good 25 minutes outside of time, Baldrick stood in the corner and saw and heard nothing, and a dethroned king was quite busy shagging at least some of that helpless, wide-eyed neediness out of his prince consort. Getting rid of it entirely would take a proper bed, good lubrication, and a few hours at least, but, well. It was a start.
"Right," said Edmund, when that was done with, and Darling had gone from "shaking with nerves and clearly five seconds away from fainting or screaming" to just "slightly trembling and a little out of sorts", though he was still staring at Edmund as if he was concerned someone might steal him while he wasn't looking. "To business. We'll have to identify the ringleaders of that little bunch of Guy Fawkes enthusiasts, and-"
"Oh, I took care of that." Darling paused in the middle of buttoning his shirt up again. "Here..."
He pulled a stack of papers out of a nook in the time machine, spreading them out on the rickety table they'd set up in here a few trips ago, and which had just been put to very different use.
"Well, someone's been a busy little bureaucratic beaver," Edmund whistled appreciatively. Ah, Darling and his research.
"I had... time. Which I put to good use." Darling pushed himself into Edmund's side. Still rather needy. Well, who was Edmund to deny him an arm slipped around his waist, and a shoulder to lean his head on. "These are all the most influential members of the revolutionary group, their names, addresses, shoe sizes, birthdays, parents' names, the lot. Some essays they wrote about their goals and motivations. I've managed to trace it all back to one key event."
"Which is?"
"Half of them, the core organisers, went to school together, and their class took in a double staging of Les Misérables and Evita in 1993." Darling pulled a grimace against Edmund's shoulder. "It... made an impression."
"Bloody musical theatre," Edmund muttered sourly. "Always thought nothing good comes of it."
"Quite," Darling sighed, and turned his face into Edmund's neck.
Edmund studied the notes in Darling's cramped handwriting for a little while. Enjoyed the little huffs of warm breath against his collar.
"What do you reckon, then?" He finally nudged Darling in the side. "How far do we need to go? Will it be enough to just sabotage those stagings, or should we make sure and erase the whole sodding musicals from the timeline? I think the world could get by without Don't Cry For Me, Argentina, though I might miss Master of the House."
"Hm?" Darling raised his head, and squinted, confused. "Oh, I thought- well, I wouldn't want to take chances, Edmund."
"The whole musicals, then?"
"The whole revolutionaries," Darling said, as if this was obvious. "I got their birth dates and parents' names for a reason, you know."
Edmund blinked. "Whot."
"Don't look at me like that! I simply- w-well, if we want to make sure!" Darling stuttered. "And it'd be easy, preventing their births, if- and it'd be effective!"
"You want to kill them!" Edmund exclaimed, halfway between stunned and delighted, and maybe a little afraid. "Good God, I didn't think you, of all people-"
"Not kill! Only... only not-born." Darling squirmed, avoiding Edmund's gaze. "It'd- it'd serve them r-right."
Edmund looked at him again. A good, long look. Thought about "I had time", about the desperation in every touch, the looks, as if Darling was setting eyes on a miracle, his very own Lazarus. The black scrap of cloth, maybe an armband, discarded in a corner of the time machine.
"Ah," he said, finally. His neck suddenly felt very tender, the phantom line of a cold axe running along it. "The buggers got me, did they?"
"Edmund-"
"Kevin." He took his husband's hands in his. "Did they?"
"Hm-mh." A curt nod. "Beheading. Public. I think it was even televised? I don't know. I didn't- couldn't watch."
"How long?"
"What?"
"How long after, until you got to the time machine?"
"A month. Maybe closer to two." Darling looked pale and miserable, tears welling up in his eyes again. "Oh, Edmund, it was horrible, they kept me locked up in the Palace, and wanted me to be glad you'd died, and I told them to get stuffed, I did, but-"
"Bloody hell," Edmund sighed, and pulled him into his arms again. "Fine. I see your point. Let's erase them from existence. But you don't get to regret it in a week, you hear me, Darling? I'm not going back and undoing it again. If you feel guilty about it and remember the whole Thou Shalt Not Kill part of-"
"It's not killing, you horrible man. Stop saying it is." Darling sniffed. "And I won't. I really, really won't."
"You know, I almost think you mean that," Edmund muttered, and pressed a kiss to Darling's temple. This was a new side to his husband, and frankly, it worried him a little. Still, if it gave Darling peace of mind, he would prevent the births of this treasonous rabble. Why not. "Which one first?"
"Brian. Guard in front of my room." Darling extended one hand to shuffle through the papers and pull one page out. "You have no idea how much I wished that he, specifically, wouldn't exist anymore."
"Brian it is." Edmund whistled sharply. "Baldrick! Set course foooor… December 8th, 1978! We have a shag to prevent!"
When this got no reaction, Edmund reached over to slap Baldrick's hands off his ears, and repeated his instructions. Baldrick obediently hopped to it, still grinning at Edmund in a way that... he now had more context for. God, he hoped Baldrick wouldn't be tempted to hug him, as well. He would need to bathe in bleach if it came to that.
While Baldrick busied himself with the time machine's controls, Edmund turned back to Darling's research, squinting at the notes on Brian-the-guard. He did not need reading glasses, it was just that Darling's handwriting was so very messy, and a bit blurry.
Darling simply carried on with his new passion of limpet impersonation, sinking into Edmund's side all over again. He wondered how long that would persist - it wasn't exactly appropriate for official functions, as Darling never ceased to remind him when he got handsy. Ah, the little hypocrite. Edmund did love him. A great deal.
"...Edmund?"
"Hm?" Edmund hummed distractedly.
"I- when I- sometimes I get pains in my side." Darling said, apropos of absolutely nothing. As if he just wanted it said, now that he had the chance. "Where the scar used to be. From- the surgery."
"I know," Edmund said.
"And you can mock me for it if-" Darling broke off. "You know!?"
"What, do you think I kiss it better every time I get your kit off, just for the fun of it? Of course I know!" Edmund scoffed. "It makes you stand differently. Even more like you've got a rod up your backside, and you distribute more weight on your left leg. Obvious, if you know what to look for. And I do."
"Oh," Darling said, softly. He sounded rather watery all over again. "You already know."
"Yup. And what, pray, do you want me to do about it? I already put the sodding thing back inside, you can't expect me to fix your psychosomatic aches, too."
"Nothing like that. I simply... wanted to have the chance to tell you."
"Ridiculous." Edmund rolled his eyes. As if he needed to be told such things. He had eyes in his head and a brain in his head, thank you very much. Who did Darling take him for? A Baldrick?
The time machine rattled to a halt. Somewhere out there were two people who were going to produce a rather disinterested revolutionary, and needed to be stopped at all costs. Maybe just throwing Baldrick into their path could disgust them so badly that they wouldn't be able to even think of rumpy-pumpy for at least a few weeks?
"Come on then." He plucked Darling's hand from where it was twisted into his jacket, and kissed his knuckles just above the wedding ring. "Let's have your revenge. And maybe we can pick a nice decade to spend a week or two in, afterwards. I think we could both use a holiday. Any preferences?"
"Anywhen is fine." Darling regarded him with a soppy look. "As long as it's with you."
And, well. Edmund could hardly argue with that.